#halloween fic 2022
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Eddie Diaz Ain’t ‘Fraid of No Ghost, chapter 13
I’m so going to be late for work but I felt guilty about that cliffhanger.
Title: Eddie Diaz Ain’t ‘Fraid of No Ghost, Chapter 13 of 16 (I think)
Fandom 911
Pairing: Buddie, Ghost/Buck (noncon)
Fic Summary:
Eddie has long suffered his Abuela’s supersitions and practices. A fallen tortilla doesn’t mean someone’s coming to visit. Tuesdays are not inherently more unlucky because they fall on the thirteenth day of the month.
After this October, Eddie might have to be more careful about what he does and doesn’t believe. Especially if it’s hurting his best friend and partner.
Alternatively, Evan “Buck” Buckley’s Haunting. A Buddie Halloween fic for 2022.
Chapter Summary: Eddie fights for what’s his.
Read Chapter 13 here on AO3
#eddie diaz ain’t ‘fraid of no ghost#the haunting of evan ‘Buck’ buckley#eddie diaz#evan buckley#buddie#buddie fic#halloween fic 2022#ghost story#911#911 fic#chapter update#whump#hurt/comfort
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i rly want halloween to come sooner so ive been thinking abt spooky stuff these last few days and i thought: i might as well post my vampire and vampire hunter au... lord luigi (turned by antasma) and vampire “hunter” peasley
#been working on this au since 2022#i have so much lore for it you have no idea#i wrote 50k+ words for a fic of it during nano last year#never got around to editing it#maybe i will for halloween season this year?? who knows#id be happy to share snippets though if people are interested#btw u might be wondering what happened to mario#hes fine (im lying)#luigi#peasley#mario#smb#luisley#prince peasley#superstar saga#au
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like dead-eyed sharks, Gotham watches (battinson x f!reader)
Note: This takes place pre-movie and you can find the rest of this series. (Part 1 here) (part 2 here)
Safety notes/Warnings: The Kinktober prompt was "blood kink/i just wanna see a man all beaten up and bloody" I have never written for that before and honestly...i think this fic got like away from me tbh. so im sorry if this isn't want u wanted lmao
Additional notes: No use of Y/N. established childhood friends with Bruce. confessions. secret identity revealed. canon-violence. cursing/explicit language. explicit consent during sexual content. smut. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. (and yes, dr. crane is absolutely cillian murphy/nolanverse dr. crane sue me)
prompt: blood kink pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes. bonus: on ao3, i split it into two chapters for ease of reading. the first half is plot, the second half is smut. ;) enjoy.
( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list
You lean on the railing of your small balcony and watch the streaks of red and white lights below. The cool night air kisses your skin and tousles your clothes. Gotham’s air has a burning singe to it too malicious to be reminiscent of a campfire. It’s more akin to a cigarette lit by the gas stove combined with cheap perfume. You toy with the invitation between your fingers. The swooping, gilded text is embossed across the creamy card stock and you rub your fingers over a specific sentence: This invitation a courtesy by Johnathan Crane, M.D.
Arkham hospital is having a charity auction.It’s an opportunity. One you maybe wouldn’t have gotten while working at the paper. But what’s the catch? What purpose would Crane have to invite you?You replay your short interview with the enigmatic, intelligent doctor. The man has secrets but who in Gotham doesn’t? This charity provides an opportunity to snoop around Arkham and talk to Dr. Mercer’s co-workers who refused to meet with you earlier. Below, several cars beep at the same time and it creates a strange, dissonant melody. Youcan’t pass this up.
You wonder if Bruce will front you some cash. It’ll be easier to blend in if you can pretend to try and buy a piece of artwork or maybe a little stone statue to use as a door stopper. You chuckle to yourself at the idea and brush the idea aside. You won’t use Bruce’s money to spend on frivolous artwork and sculptures that you cannot possibly fit inside your one bedroom apartment. That settles it. You have to attend. The soft pitter patter of fresh rainfall tings against the high rise windows, railings, and roofs. From high above, Gotham is shiny chrome and long dark shadows.
You wonder if Vengeance is in those shadows tonight.
You haven’t seen Batman since your failed chemistry experiment. Your lower stomach clenches at the memory and you willfully push the lustful thoughts aside. You and Vengeance have little reason to see each other right now. It’s been nothing but dead ends since Falcone avoided arrest. According to Gordon, the evidence locker was recently flooded due to a pipe burst and the analysis of your blood samples—containing whatever Falcone did to you—were destroyed.
So, you’ve been busy working on re-writing your Arkham article under Bruce’s employ. Your time as a vigilante journalist has dwindled. Yes, there are other stories in Gotham that need your attention, but none are as urgent as reviving the Arkham story. Plus your instincts keep telling you that it’s connected: Falcone. Dr. Mercer’s death. Arkham. The mysterious drugs.
There’s a thread here. You just have to find the right one to pull.
You flick your thumb against the card’s corner. You should tell him. Batman needs to know about this. If you want your plan to snoop around Arkham to succeed—you’re going to need Batman’s gadgets. You bend down, the wind and rainwater tickling the delicate skin at your temples, and click on the multi-colored lights that frame the balcony window. Your own secret call to the Bat.
You return inside, leave the sliding door unlocked and wait.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bruce gets a call from Alfred while driving down fourth street. His voice crackles warmly over the headphone inside Bruce’s ear, “she’s got her lights on.” Alfred knows to periodically check the security cameras they installed across the street of your apartment and Bruce is grateful for his vigilance.
He pivots his motorcycle and takes a sharp turn through an alleyway as a shortcut. Someone on the sidewalk shouts profanities at him.
The rainwater ricochets off his helmet and spins like a hyped-up Ferris wheel around the tires. He’s seen you a handful of times for coffee dates or short walks in the park. Never lingering. Never doing more than kissing you. No matter how badly he wants to. It’s stupid. He’s fucked you twice as Batman, felt your walls quiver around his fingers and cock, listened to your sweet cries and watched your pretty eyes roll back into your skull. And yet...
It’s Batman who you call for in the middle of the night. He suspects that Bruce—in your mind—is at home, maybe asleep, maybe pacing his study, maybe watching some black-and-white foreign film. He wishes he could invite you over, sleep next to you, show you how he feels about youwith slow kisses buried between your thighs, but he can’t. The night is for him. For Vengeance. Gotham never sleeps so why should he? He needs to be awake and on the prowl. He needs to be ready for anything and that includes answering your silent and iridescent call.
He stows his motorcycle in the usual safe spot within the alleyway and uses his grappling hook to ascend to your floor without entering the building. His heart pounds as it always does when you’re in close proximity. Like his heart is trying to escape his chest and offer itself to you.
He sucks in a breath before sliding open the door. One of your downstairs neighbors is boiling cabbage, there’s a pair of wet socks on your radiator, and a candle on your coffee table flickers with the influx of air from the balcony door. The sight and smells of your apartment are achingly familiar. He prefers it—this tiny, homey space—compared to his large and extravagant penthouse. But then again, he prefers anywhere where you are.
He wishes he could remove his cowl and lay his head in your lap, but he folds his arms across his chest and says, “what did you find?”
“Take a look.” You toss a card onto the coffee table and the laptop illuminates your face in a blue-white glow. “I’m rubbing elbows with the right people it seems.”
“Crane?” He mutters to himself while examining the fancy, expensive card stock. A charity at Arkham. It’s strange that they’re hosting at the hospital instead of a fancy hotel. He makes a mental note to check the guest list.
“Several of Dr. Mercer’s co-workers talked to me before Mercer died. And now they won’t talk to me. That means someone or all of them are dirty and in someone’s pocket.” You explain and your eyes are lit furiously from within, “I hoped I could use Dr. Crane to reach the other employees of Arkham and this is my chance.”
“Do you think Falcone is involved?”
You shrug, “if not him then it’s another one of Gotham’s criminals.”
Bruce considers this information. It’s a decent lead. You aren’t looking at him. Your eyes are glued to the computer screen as your fingers move across the keyboard in quick, precise strokes. He could watch you for hours but those are hours he doesn’t have. Gotham needs him. As much as he wants to linger in your presence and kiss you—those are luxuries he cannot afford despite his generational wealth. He sets the invitation back onto the table.
“What’s your plan?” He asks.
“It’s simple. I go to the charity, talk to anyone that I think is involved, then we meet up during the auction itself.” Your eyes flick up and down, but he gets the distinct sensation that you’re not sizing him up in a flirtatious manner. Your expression, your tone, and body language is cool and professional. It reminds him of the early days working together...before he kissed you and pressed you against the windows of the Wayne penthouse.
“I assume you’ve got a way to enter Arkham without being noticed.” You return your attention to the screen, “we can snoop through their offices.”
“They’re likely to increase security during the event.”
You wave a hand, “that’s why I’m telling you now. It gives us time to prepare.”
He clenches his jaw. You are an unstoppable force when a story is involved. Your safety might not matter to yourself, but it matters to him. He can do this alone. He can visit Arkham while the charity takes place and discover whatever Crane or Dr. Mercer’s associates are up to. You don’t need to put yourself at risk. Even the small risk of arrest makes his heart squeeze painfully inside his chest. He can’t protect Gotham and you at the same time.
He says, “I’ll go alone.”
“And do what?” Your nostrils flare, “punch some confessions out of doctors? No way, Batboy. I’m not letting you try and take this one from me. This is my story.”
“All you need is evidence.” He counters, “I can get that for you.” You stand from the couch and place your hands on your hips. You’re shorter but you glare up at him with the heat and intensity of a car lit by a Molotov cocktail. He holds your gaze and cherishes the burn he feels prickle across his skin.
“I need firsthand accounts.” You say, your voice firm and unyielding, “you could rifle through their paperwork and take pictures of every record available and it would take us months to find what we’re looking for. And who knows! Maybe Arkham will smarten up and wipe everything clean before I have the chance to publish.”
“You think people will talk to you at the auction?”
He watches your chest rise a little with your inhale. The way your eyelashes flutter close. You always closed your eyes before saying ‘yes’ to him. He wonders if you ever notice this little tell of yours—if it ever registers that the boy you scraped knees with and the man standing before you in black armor are the same.
“Yes,” You reply while opening your eyes, “I do.”
“Fine.” He bites out. Arguing with you is akin to arguing with a brick wall. “But, I’m not sending you in there without protection.” He won’t let what happened with you and Falcone happen ever again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You toy with the little black bracelet on your wrist. A gift from Vengeance. It’s simple and straightforward. All it takes is one little press of a button near your wristbone and it releases an electric shock more painful and debilitating than your average taser. He explained that he wanted you to have something in case anyone got ‘too close’. Honestly, you hope you don’t have to use it.
Arkham’s charity event is being held in the new wing of the hospital. There are currently no patients, but it’s the perfect location for the chairmen and board members to show off the latest technology, the new rooms, and convince Gotham’s rich and powerful to make donations.
You let out a small breath of relief as you take in the freshly painted walls and large windows covered by thin, latticed metal. At least it’s spacious.Some of the other wings within Arkham State Hospital tended to trigger your claustrophobia. The murmurs of conversation float through the circular room above the music of stringed instruments by the door. The windows within the high ceilings look down at you like large black eyes as they reflect Gotham’s dark skies.You think, they should’ve made this a daytime event. It would’ve been more remarkable.
The pamphlet in your left hand boasts about the ‘benefits of natural light while providing safety, comfort and security for our patients’. In other words—Arkham has patients that can’t go outside due to the security risk and this newly built wing is their solution.
The two other exits lead into hallways but those doors are closed and guarded by security. A sign is posted nearby that reads: For Private Tours – Inquire with Director Susan S.
“I was wondering if you received my invite,” a smooth voice says from your right side. You turn to see Dr. Crane wearing a tuxedo, his brown hair slicked away from his angular face and shining beneath the warm florescent light bulbs.
“Did your secretary not pass along my RSVP?”
“She didn’t,” His sharp blue eyes drop to your shoes and then rise to your face, his look appraising and yet distant, “but she’s new and you look gorgeous so I’ll let it go.” Dr. Crane offers you his elbow and you politely take it, sliding your hand into the crook of his arm and allowing him to lead you through the swarm of well-dressed and perfumed bodies.
Youdon’t know how Bruce stomached these events. His parents were socialites and humanitarians who believed in a brighter future for Gotham.Youwonder what they’d say about Arkham's recent addition.
Crane passes you a flute of champagne and you use the opportunity to ask him how he’s settling into Arkham. His lips tug into a smile that feels secretive. He bows his head toward you and his breath ghosts along your cheek and neck.
“Some of my co-workers dislike me,” says Crane, “but I don’t take it personally. Every place has their hazing routines, their cliques, and established loyalties.”
You notice the discreet looks being tossed your way. Bored, inquisitive, jealous, and others are outright scandalized. You suspect that someone’s told Crane who you actually are by now which means he invited you for a reason. Time to find a thread to pull, you think.
You ask, “did you invite me as your plus one to disrupt those routines and loyalties?”
His eyes glimmer, “I did.”
“I’m honored.” You press the rim of your champagne glass to your lips, then lower it, watching Crane’s gaze as they follow your every movement. “Why me, though?”
“I see myself in you,” Crane guides you to the middle of the room where some of the guests are dancing in slow waltzes and whispering business deals to each other. The dark sky of Gotham—light pollution never allows for twinkling stars—peers down at you like the eyes of a shark. You can guess where this is going. The music and conversation provides enough white noise to muffle your conversation as long as you and Crane continue to whisper. You set your champagne glass on a nearby tray.
Crane gently takes your hand and your black bracelet slides on your wrist. “I’ve done my homework after our first meeting.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t do research prior to our first meeting.” You chastise as one of your hands settle on his slim shoulder, “I gave your secretary my real name.”
“A mistake I intend to never repeat.” He leads the dance. It’s a simple box step that doesn’t require much effort nor skill, “thank you for that lesson.”
You smile. “The first one is free.”
His hand slides to your lower back as he nudges you closer, “you really are determined to uncover Arkham’s secrets, aren’t you?” He whispers into the shell of your ear. You glance around the room, ensuring no one is watching—and if they are—well, all they’ll see is Dr. Crane getting close to an attractive woman. He’s good at this. Something in your gut urges you to be careful and play it safe.
“I’m here for the auction, Crane.”
��You’re here for more than that.”
You avoid his keen perception and change tactics.
“You said I remind you of yourself. That’s a bold statement considering we’ve spoken once.” You narrow your eyes over his shoulder at a familiar face. A part-time nurse named Jessica who refused to speak to you after Dr. Mercer’s death. The color of her dress washes out her complexion and the necklace around her throat sparkles like freshly fallen snow. Crane pivots and you lose sight of her.
“I’m a good judge of character,” he replies without missing a step. “In fact, you and Dr. Jacobs...”
Dr. Jacobs. He was on your list as one of Dr. Mercer’s associates, but you never had the chance to interview him. In fact, you planned on following up with Dr. Jacobs after Mercer’s death, but the man wouldn’t return any of your calls. You chalked it up to grief. But now...
Crane continues, “you both have an inner fire that cannot be understated.” He slows his step and tilts his head back to meet your eyes—steady and true. Dr. Crane looks at you as if he’s gazing into a house fire. You swallow.
“They called you ‘quicksilver’ didn’t they? At the Gotham Gazette?” You sense his questions are rhetorical. “I found that fascinating. They named you after a chemical element, a Roman God, because you--” he says your name “—are a force to be reckoned with.”
He leans in, speaking low, “and I pity anyone who underestimates you.”
You comb through his compliments, his lingering looks, and piece together your response. His hand on your lower back threatens to burn through the fabric of your clothing. What will Crane gain by helping you? Does he know that Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer knew each other? And if he’s not helping then he’s...merely pointing out that he sees your ambitious nature...and signaling that he’s the same.
You reply, “maybe I’ll talk to Dr. Jacobs tonight and find out if we’re as similar as you say.”
“I’m afraid he’s not here.” Dr. Crane sighs, “I believe he mentioned a family obligation conflicted with this event.”
Good. His office will be clear to search.
“That’s too bad.”
Dr. Crane smirks lightly, “indeed.” He leads you to the edge of the circle, “I believe I’ve monopolized enough of your time tonight.” He took your co-joined hands and pressed a polite, chaste kiss against your knuckles. Your gaze darts away from him. “I need to speak with a few of my colleagues.”
Finally! The sooner you can snoop the sooner you can leave Arkham.
“Of course,” You step aside and try to not let your eagerness show on your face, “I should go to the ladies room before the bidding begins.”
“I’ll save you a seat.” Dr. Crane says.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Arkham’s security is not without its flaws. He and Alfred decided it would be more useful and less disruptive to hack into the system and program the cameras to play a loop of footage rather than try and disable the system from the outside. Thankfully, you needed access to the doctor’s offices which were far less patrolled and monitored than the area where Arkham housed its full-time patients.
An alert pings on his device. That’s his cue. He cuts through the skylight with a thin, blue laser. Then, using a handle with a glass-safe suction cup, he pulls the glass free and carefully sets it aside. Ideally, he’ll return through this skylight once the job is done.
He stands from his crouched position by the window and tests the tension in his repel line.It feels good, secure. He drops into Arkham State Hospital with a faint ‘zzzziiippp’ sound and lands behind you.
“You made it.” You whisper, relieved.
“Worried I wouldn’t?”
“More worried someone would catch me wandering the halls.” You smile a little and his heart squeezes, “I can only use the ‘I’m drunk’ excuse so many times before it gets suspicious.”
“We’ll be quick.” He checks the time, “Alfred said the camera feed will give us an hour, but we should plan for less.”
You set off toward the offices while holding up the flashlight on your phone, “we need to check out Dr. Jacobs’ office.”
The wood-paneled hallways are dimly lit and the only light source is the exit signs glowing red above doorways. The thin dark green carpet helps to muffle your footsteps. He takes a moment to appreciate you walking in front of him. He loves how efficient you are, how fearless, even when it threatens to give him a heart attack. And your ass looks incredible.
You stop in front of the metal double doors. A key card reader glows a muted yellow on the wall.
“Okay, your turn.”
“Why Dr. Jacobs?” He asks while approaching the key reader. He inserts a featureless key card into the slot. It’s attached to a device in his hand by a wide and thin wire and several numbers rapidly scan across the screen and illuminate his jaw in a greenish glow.
“Crane mentioned him.” Your rub your hands over your upper arms, “he said that Dr. Jacobs and I are similar because we’re ambitious. I don’t know. Crane doesn’t strike me as the type of person to say something without it meaning anything. He’s too smart for that.”
Bruce ignores the twinge of jealousy in his stomach. You aren’t interested in Crane. He knows that. You’re using Crane. But it still feels strange to hear you mention another man with a hint of admiration in your tone. He clenches his jaw. Crane isn’t that smart.
Bruce doesn’t look up from the device. “And you think he’s involved in Mercer’s death?”
“Mercer and Jacobs worked together and I never had the chance to interview him before Mercer died.” You lean in to watch the gadget in his palms, “I figured we would search the most likely suspects instead of digging through everyone’s desk.”
You continue, “we start with Jacobs, then Crane, and lastly Haywood.”
He mentally reflects on your files and notes. He should have known that you wouldn’t remove Crane from your list of suspects. Just because Crane wasn’t at Arkham at the same time as Mercer didn’t mean he was off the hook. You regarded everyone at Arkham with a low-level of suspicion. It didn’t matter if they were a groundskeeper, security, or head of the boardroom. Falcone’s payroll is the greatest mystery and it served to err on the side of caution when dealing with a dangerous criminal.
“Jessica Haywood?”
“Mhm.” The device beeps, the light turns green, and the doors click unlocked. “The jewelry she’s wearing tonight is well above the pay grade of a Per Diem nurse.”
Bruce unhooks the device from the reader and opens the door for you. You slip past him and for a brief second—the air lingers with your scent. His eyelashes flutter. It’s getting harder and harder to be this close. He pushes the thoughts from his mind and follow you into the personal offices of the doctors.
He says, “if Haywood is a part-time nurse, then she won’t have an office.”
“We’ll check HR for pay stubs and the nurse’s station log to see which floors and patients she’s worked with.”
Bruce grunts.
“You’ve thought of everything haven’t you?”
Your smile threatens to topple the walls inside his heart and drag his loyalty Gotham into the ocean.
“Mostly.”
Dr. Jacob’s office smells like cigarettes. Together you meticulously comb through his files, check under seat cushions, and search for false walls. Bruce plugs a USB into the ancient computer desktop. In ten minutes, he’s obtained the contents of Dr. Jacobs hard-drive and sent it to Alfred for decryption.
On the way to Crane’s office, he asks, “are you still going to re-interview Mercer’s patients?”
“Assuming my relationship to Crane allows me access then yes.”
His heart ignites, burning hot inside his chest, and he exhales sharp through his nostrils.What happened tonight between you and him?He clears his throat and says, “relationship?”
You laugh quietly. “Professional relationship, Batman. Like us.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You realize how silly your words are the second they leave your mouth. Batman stops short and pins his steely blue gaze on you. You shouldn’t have compared you and Crane to you and Batman. They are completely different. Your relationship to Batman almost borders on friendship. Or maybe it’s more like...co-workers who never dated, but did hook up and now have underlying sexual tension.
“Okay, not like that.” You lift your hands, “I’m not out fighting crime with Dr. Crane.”
Some of the tension in Batman’s jaw lessens. “We don’t fight crime together.”
“Well, that’s because you haven’t taught me to fight.” You wiggle your bracelet wrist, “and honestly you’ve been overprotective lately.”
“You’re a civilian.” He counters gruffly.
“So are you.” You lean your shoulder against the wall as Batman crouches at Crane’s door to pick the lock. “Unless you’ve recently been hired by the PD?”
Batman looks up at you and all that dark makeup around his light blue eyes highlights their color and depth. Your skin prickles, hot and sharp and painfully—painfully aware of what those eyes look like during the throes of desperate and sweaty sex. You want to kick yourself. You’re loyal to Bruce, you want to be with Bruce, but that doesn’t erase the attraction you feel towards Vengeance. His eyes drop back to the doorknob and he leaves your question unanswered.
Dr. Crane’s office doesn’t smell like anything which is a relief to your nostrils after the toxic and cloying scent of stale cigarettes in Dr. Jacobs. There isn’t a desktop in Crane’s office which leads you to assume that he takes his laptop home with him. You start with the filing cabinet that Crane glanced at during your interview with him. Batman searches his desk. And you work in comfortable silence. The anticipation gnaws at your stomach.
Come on, Crane.You need something tangible so you can start putting pressure on the doctors and nurses who are involved. Yourfirst article proved that the corruption within Arkham travels all the way to the administration. Mercer said they were powerful which means other doctors are involved. They have to be. So what did Jacobs do? Why did Crane mention him?
You step from the filing cabinet and pace the small office with your arms crossed.
“Dr. Mercer was afraid. He didn’t want to keep giving the police drugs and administration told him to stay quiet. His patients spoke highly of him. His co-workers liked him. Mercer dislike how the administration ran things.” You repeat the story to yourself in the hopes that you’ll find the piece you missed.
“Then, he dies two weeks after I present my article and the Gazette fires me. That’s not a coincidence.”
Batman opens one of the filing cabinet drawers. You let him continue his work as you talk yourself through the file details. There were plenty of co-workers of Dr. Mercer that have issues with Arkham but they were typical standard labor complaints—not enough holiday time, staffing issues, or personality clashes with other doctors. Who else could you talk to?
“I can try Jessica. She stopped talking to me after his death, but I know she idolized Dr. Mercer. Maybe I can appeal to her. Find the humanity.” You pause and press your fist against your lips.
There’s no way she could afford that necklace. Either she has a very wealthy partner or she’s accepted a bribe to stay quiet. But why? What does she know? Or are they just afraid of anyone who MIGHT talk?
A low ‘thump’ noise comes from Batman’s corner of the room.
Batman asks, “what’s Dr. Jacobs title?”
“Chief Psychiatrist.”
You hear him move closer and you turn to meet his stormy eyes. “Quicksilver, you need to see this.” The filing cabinet drawer is open, but a hidden inner compartment is unhinged and Batman grips a thick manila folder.
He opens the folder on Crane’s empty desk. Your heart bottoms out into your shoes and you clamp your fingers over your mouth to muffle your gasp.
“Holy shit!” you breathe.
The file spills out with evidence of experimental trials on patients. Experiments aren’t uncommon at Arkham. Sometimes drug companies and Arkham will partner up to test treatments, but it goes through a whole process of licensing and legal clearance. But this--? You steady one palm against the desk and your knees threaten to collapse from under you. The experiments involved sedating the patients with experimental manufactured opioids and then exposing them to high-stress situations—like torture—to see if their bodies and minds could withstand the pressure while on the experimental pain medication.
“Dr. Mercer…” His name glares in black ink like a gallows noose tightening around your neck. He was involved in this?!
You recall his final words to you before his death, “The guilt,” Dr. Mercer said, his expression pained, “I think it might eat me alive, Silver. I can feel it’s teeth in my heart.”
Your fingers tremble as you lift your phone to take photos of the files. The tests, the results, the sign offs of two prominent doctors: Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer. Your eyes scan through the dates. Eventually, Dr. Mercer’s name stopped appearing. The files shift into another direction. The pain medication is no longer the focal point. Instead, the abstract of the experiment is: ‘To discover the effects of hallucinogens on recovery and behavioral control.’
“Wait,” you flip the pages and count the dates, “what happened to the pain medication trials?”
“It looks like they started a new project.” Batman’s hard and armored shoulder brushes against your body and you tremble for an entirely different reason. You bite your lip and refocus your attention.
“Why didn’t Dr. Mercer tell me? He said he was giving drugs to cops not--” You let out a frustrated sigh, “subjecting mentally ill patients to torture and experimental off-market drugs.”
Gotham, even on her worst days, manages to surprise you. Youbelieved Mercer was one of the good ones. He wanted people to get better. He wanted to help. How could this get so twisted?
“Why does Crane have all this?” he grumbles.
“What do you mean? It’s obvious.”
Batman turns his head toward you, his eyes questioning, and you close your eyes.
“Dr. Jacobs has some big skeletons in his closet. There’s no saving his reputation from this. Arkham will have no choice but to fire him to save face and claim they knew nothing about this. And an internal investigation will likely take place after Jacobs is fired.” You gesture to the files on the desk. “That means Crane, the new blood of Arkham, has the perfect opportunity to apply for his position.”
You recall Crane’s secretive smile, his perceptive gaze, and deliberate and careful words. His glances at this cabinet during your first meeting were planned. He curated this moment from the start.
“He doesn’t want to be the one to blow the whistle on Arkham.”
“Because it would impact his chance at the job,” Batman guesses. It’s a fair enough assumption. You’d bet money on it if you were a betting woman.
You reply earnestly, “no one likes the person who reveals the truth.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Batman places his gloved hand over yours and gently squeezes your fingers, “Gotham needs people like you, Silver.”
Your lips shift into a grateful yet embarrassed smile.
“I know.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ARKHAM’S CORRUPTION BROUGHT TO LIGHT. The bold text slams across the headline with a grainy, colored photo Dr. Jacobs being arrested outside the hospital.
Every news outlet whether newspaper or television is reporting the story you wrote. The story secretly bankrolled by Bruce Wayne. Your childhood friend and sort-of boyfriend (you haven’t discussed labels yet). The article was published with an independent paper outside of Gotham. It spread like wildfire online and took Gotham by storm. The rest of the media vultures were forced to scramble to keep up.
And—it wouldn’t have been possible without Gotham’s caped crusader. Vengeance. The Bat. He cross-engineered the pain medication and it matched the drugs on the streets. Then, in a surprise twist, he revealed to Gordon that the ongoing hallucinogenic trial had components that matched your blood sample from your time with Falcone. Was it a little weird knowing Batman had your blood samples somewhere? Yes. But it led to the greater good so you chose to accept the weirdness.
The complied evidence encouraged Gordon to look into it. He obtained a warrant to search Dr. Jacobs home and office. His hard-drive contained copies of patient medical history and backups of all of his unethical experiments. ‘Sadly, the documents we found at his office were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Jacobs little pet projects’, you think.
However, the search for his co-conspirators is in process. It’s likely that Dr. Jacobs provided Falcone with the drugs he used on you and the other girls, but you’re doubtful Falcone will face any justice for it. Falcone is too slippery and influential. It’ll take something big to take him down.
Everything was connected just not in the way you imagined.
You click away from the news article.
Arkham’s official statement is “we are saddened to hear that our chief psychiatrist took advantage of our patients and staff. His actions were never sanctioned by our hospital and our thoughts are with the families of the patients at this time.” A rather magnanimous statement considering they’re scrambling for any good PR coverage lately.
You grab your coat from the edge of the couch and check your phone.
The text from Bruce reads: I’m outside.
You haven’t processed everything that’s happened in the span of a week. Gotham Gazette offered you a job with a pay raise and corner office. Dr. Crane mailed you a thank you note for attending the charity auction. The words were typed, concise, and polite. But you see it for what it truly is—Thank you for taking out the competition. Dr. Mercer’s involvement in the experiments is a tender sore on your heart. You never uncovered if Falcone or someone else killed him and now it’s over. You wish you could have put Falcone and his associates behind bars. But you’re forced to settle for shutting down Falcone’s drug connection.
It’s a victory. Victories are rare in Gotham especially for those on the side of justice. You try to remember that.
Arkham will move on. Gotham will move on.
And you have to move on too. There are other stories to be written, truths to bring into the light. You have a date tonight with Bruce and you’re determined to enjoy it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You loop your arm around Bruce’s elbow as you walk down the sidewalk toward his car.
“I appreciate that you came out, you know.” You say with fondness laced through your tone. “I know you prefer staying in.”
He’s a recluse, but he comes out to meet you every time you ask. You’re grateful the paparazzi are too swept up in the Dr. Jacobs story to care about the enigmatic Bruce Wayne. You know how he feels about being in the public eye and you don’t want any unnecessary strain added to this new, budding relationship. Life feels almost normal when you’re like this…There’s no lead to chase, no witnesses to interview, no late night sleuthing through the library archives.
His lips twitch upward. “I don’t mind it.” His clear blue eyes glance sidelong toward you, his sooty eyelashes flutter against his pale cheeks, “as long as it’s with you.”
“Hmm?” You lean closer into his side and let the expensive woolly warmth of his jacket seep into your elbow and arm. “Sounds like you’ve got a soft spot for me, Brucie.” You use the nickname from your youth and Bruce reflexively cringes.
“Maybe,” he teases, “but can you blame me?” He suddenly draws to a stop and cradles your cheek with one hand. You lean into the familiar mounds of his palm, the curve of his fingers. The chilly air of Gotham drifts through your legs and curls around your ankles. Every nerve in your body sings with joy at his closeness. Who knew you’d go from childhood friends, to strangers, to this? The tender display of public affection is enough to send your heart into overdrive and your pulse throbs inside your ears.
He gazes at you, pupils dilated, lips softly parted. You think he might kiss you at any moment. Bruce tends to get this look before kissing you—like he can’t believe it, like he thinks he’s dreaming. Your faces draw imperceptibly closer as if pulled by an invisible string. His breath is warm on your lips. It’s a delightful contrast to the chilled wind that tugs at your coat and sneaks cold kisses behind your ears. Your eyes slip shut.
“Oof!” Bruce exclaims. A blunt pain ricochets into your side. Your eyes spring open. You have barely enough time to throw your hands out and catch yourself as you’re knocked sideways and onto the hard and uneven asphalt. You wince as your skin scrapes against the ground. Bruce is on his hands and knees, his eyes wide, hair falling in dark strands in front of his face. A masked assailant towers above him with a wooden baseball bat. Oh God. Oh God.
“Story should’ve stayed dead, bitch!” Someone shouts before their boot stomps into your lower spine and pins you to the asphalt. Instinct takes over. Fear overrides logic. Your breath comes out in haggard puffs. The dark bracelet from Batman glimmers in your peripheral vision. You just need to get close enough. The boot lifts from your back. Someone grunts. The sound of shoes scuffling on the pavement reverberates in your head. Now is your chance! The boot returns with a swift, hard kick into your rib cage.
The air is forced from your lungs in a pained exhale. Everything feels raw. Your throat constricts. Another kick. The world blurs with tears. Your body instinctively curls like a wounded creature. One arm wraps around your stomach and the other to your head. The bracelet dangles like a cherished heirloom in front of your eyes. Batman showed you how to use it, but you can’t activate it from this position, can you? You need your hands free. The next kick hits your shinbone. The pain is acute and travels up your knee. You squeeze your eyes shut. What about Bruce?! You hate this stupid parking lot. You hate that no one is stopping to help or intervene. You hate that you can’t think and that your body is tense and trembling in preparation of the next blow. You hate the helpless feeling that’s building inside your chest and shaking salty tears from your lashes.
Someone is laughing. A slurred, drunk sound. “This one’s got some fight in him!”
“Whadda you think we should we do with him?”
“Just knock him out!” The one above you yells, “we’re here for her. Not him.”
Three. Three voices. There’s three of them. The next kick hits your shoulder and your forced onto your back. There’s no time to prepare, no time to cry out, as the boot presses into your throat. Fuck! You glance quickly to where Bruce was and see that he’s fighting—you gurgle as your assailant applies pressure to your neck and glares down at you through the holes in his ski-mask. A ski mask? What a cliché. An unexpected, hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. You flail and scratch your nails against his denim covered leg.
“This is what happens to nosy journalists in Gotham,” he sneers from above, “you should have just kept your pretty mouth shut and wrote stories about missing puppies and shit.” Several white dots dance around your vision.
Bruce grunts in pain. Your worry for his safety abruptly overrides your fear and hysteria. You don’t care if these guys are here to kill you or scare you, but you aren’t going to let them keep hurting Bruce. His only crime was being close to you. If he wasn’t here with you...then this never would’ve happened. You aren’t powerless. You aren’t helpless.
You release your hands from the thug’s leg and grab your bracelet. Muscle memory takes over. You presses into the spot near your wristbone and the bracelet hums to life. Two prongs like a spider’s fangs eject from the edge of the bracelet near the back of your hand. You slam the fangs into your assailant’s leg. They easily bite through the fabric of his jeans. The electric shock throws him off-balance and he convulses with a screech of pain. Your lungs rapidly expand as if to greedily swallow the air you were denied. You roll onto your stomach, onto your hands and knees, before pulling yourself upright. The scene comes to you in broken, jagged pieces.
The leader in the ski mask is on the ground sprawled out and twitching. If he’s dead then good riddance even though you’d like to know who sent him. The other two thugs are on the ground and Bruce is standing over them—chest heaving, his dark hair in disarray, his bloodied fists clenched at his sides, his chin smeared with blood from a split lip.
You exhale, “Bruce.” It’s unclear who moves first: you or him. Your arms encircle his middle and he clutches you to his chest like you’re going to fade into smoke.
“You’re okay?” His voice is raw and trembling, he strokes the sides of your face, your arms, your shoulders with desperate and careful motions, his eyes roam every inch of you, “you’re okay?”
You manage to nod. It’s surreal. You’re no stranger to violence in Gotham. You’ve run from drug dealers, used pepper spray on someone trying to steal your car, veered off the road due to a high speed chance, and not to mention your time with Falcone—your investigative journalism is a high risk occupation. But you’ve never been scared like this before. You can’t help but wonder if it’s because Bruce was involved. You feared for his safety. You refused to entertain the thought of losing him.
“Let’s go—let’s go.” He urges, pulling you by the elbow to his car, “c’mon, Silver.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, “I’m so sorry.” It’s your fault. Bruce paid for the story, but you’ll pay the price of exposing Arkham for the rest of your life. “I’m sorry...”
Bruce shakes his head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You don’t recall the drive to Wayne Penthouse. You sat in the passenger seat with your eyes closed, your hands cupped around your head between your knees, forcing air into your lungs and exhaling slowly until your heart regulated. Bruce is painfully quiet. You don’t register anything until the purring car engine shuts off.
“Bruce,” you begin, lifting your head, “I’m so sorry.” Bruce is staring straight ahead at the concrete wall of his garage, raw knuckles clenched around the steering wheel, his eyes closed. His expression pained and closed-off. Your feel your heart drag across razor blades. He fought for you, bled for you. You’re relieved he could hold his own and grateful that the thugs didn’t bring any weapons besides wooden baseball bats and bare fists. You don’t want to think about what could’ve happened if any of them had a gun.
He rasps, “Don’t.”
You unbuckle and angle yourself toward him. Your bruised skin bristles with pain at the twist of your spine and shift of your hips. You need to explain. You need to help him see. This is an unfortunate part of the life you lead. He once joked that you were a ���journalist with a death wish’. It’s not true, of course. You have no desire to die. But you have and will continue to suffer for the sake of Gotham’s truth. When you pursue influential people and start airing their dirty laundry, they will use their power, wealth, and any illegal or legal resources to try and scare you away.
Unfortunately for them, you aren’t easily cowed. What was it Falcone said? You’ve got Gotham in your blood. Gotham raised you. She taught you how to read people, and be resourceful, and hungry for truth.
“Bruce—they wanted me. They wanted to punish me for the Arkham article.”
“I know.”
“If you weren’t with me…” You trail off and look at the center dashboard of his expensive designer car. The guilt gnaws at your bones, threatening to break them. Bruce grabs your chin. His grip isn’t painful—it never is—but it is pointed, urgent, and he yanks your face toward his.
His lips press into yours without warning. Your mouth opens for him and a faint taste of copper bites your tongue. You’ve kissed Bruce more than a dozen times. But never like this.
His tongue moves in desperate, messy strokes and each movement sends a hot and powerful spark to your core. He groans loudly into your mouth, cupping the back of your skull, keeping you close, not even allowing you to break away to breath. You inhale raggedly through your nostrils and push your fingers up along his chest. Something fragile and tenuous shatters between you. He’s alive. You’re alive. It was a harrowing experience—but you are here. Together.
“I need you,” He gasps, “please.” He presses his forehead against yours and his sweet blue eyes bleed into yours. Up close, you can see the reddish-purple swell of a bruise forming on his cheekbone. His lips are raw, bloody, the split lip likely re-opened and aggravated from kissing. You close your eyes to collect your thoughts. You know Bruce. You know him like the lines on the sidewalk outside your childhood home. You know him like the curved handle of your favorite coffee mug. You know Bruce isn’t lying when he tells you he needs you and you know he’s not exaggerating either. You’ve wanted him for years. Ached for him. And this moment might not be perfect, it might not be what you imagined, but God—you’re not going to turn him away. Not when you need him just as desperately as he needs you.
“Okay,” You swipe your thumb across his bloodied lip, “yes, Bruce. Yes.”
Bruce’s expression crumples with relief and he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is slower this time. You take a moment to savor it. Your fingers card through his silky, dark hair and he sucks your lower lip into his mouth with an appreciative hum.
His cool and calloused hand pushes along your upper thigh.
“Right here?” You guess.
“Right here.” He adjusts and grabs your hips to pull you over the center console and into his lap. Your ass bumps against the steering wheel. At least it’s private, you smile at the thought. No one is going to come wandering into Wayne’s personal garage. Except for maybe Alfred? But you assume the old man has enough sense to give you and Bruce plenty of space. Bruce’s lips travel down your jaw to your throat and you angle your neck back to allow him more space to explore. His kisses are light and exploratory, slightly roughed by the dryness of his mouth and gentle scrape of his stubble. It feels better than you could’ve imagined.
Bruce exhales, his voice pitched low and gravely, “I’ve wanted you for so long,” his mouth closes over your collarbone. Your heart leaps at his words, at the implication, at the idea that maybe...just maybe...you weren’t the only one yearning and hoping for years on end.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His body is sore. He forgot how much things can hurt when he’s not in the suit. But nothing is going to tear him away from this moment with you. He’s careful where he touches. He knows that low-life got more than a few kicks onto your perfect body and if he had been alone then he would’ve broken every bone in that man’s body as recompense. His anger threatens to boil to the forefront of his mind, but Bruce wrestles it back. Now isn’t the time.
He tugs your dress off your shoulders and his cock twitches at the sound of your pleased sigh. Your breasts are perfect. Perfect shape. And at this angle? The perfect height for him to bury his face between them and trail kisses across your skin. He’s never had the opportunity to worship you like this. To press his lips and tongue against your skin, taste your sweat, feel your heartbeat against his nose. His lips enclose around one of your nipples and you cry out, your fingers entangling in his hair to pull him closer, and he flicks his tongue against the hardened nub.
“Fuck,” he moans, his hot breath pants against your skin, before he cups the breast in his hand and holds it while his tongue and mouth lavishes across your nipple over and over again. Your hips cant into his, seeking friction and release, and he trembles as your clothed cunt grinds into his hard cock.
“I’ll give you what you want, Quicksilver.” He promises and you whimper in reply to his words, “Shh.” His bloodied knuckles shine in the light as he kneads your other breast beneath his palm. “I’ll take care of you.”
He wants to make this memorable. He wants it to mean something. He’s outside the shadows with you for the first time. He isn’t hiding behind the cowl, behind his loyalty to Gotham. He is raw, and bloodied, and trembling with anticipation. Your fingers fumble with the hem of his long-sleeved dark shirt and yank it upwards in a graceless motion. He winces as he leans back, his arms overhead, and the shirt is tossed to the passenger side.
“Oh, fuck, Bruce!” You blurt and place your hand above his right pectoral. He winces again at the pressure, but gently places his hand on your wrist. His heart swells with pride and appreciation at his bracelet dangling from your wrist. It saved you when he couldn’t.
“It’s okay,” He looks toward the cut. It’s shallow. Superficial. It likely won’t scar. “Hey, hey, look at me.” He guides your chin, meeting your eyes, and his heart capsizes at the concern pouring from your gaze. “I’m okay, Silver. I promise.”
He holds your chin and kisses you before you have the chance to apologize again. It’s not your fault. It’s his. He got complacent after the article was released. He made a grievous error through his lack of vigilance. He should’ve been more careful, should’ve had Alfred checking the footage to see if you were being tailed, should’ve suggested you stay at the penthouse for a few days until the dust settled. People at Arkham and people connected to Jacobs and Falcone are going to try and settle the score.
He won’t let that happen, though. He feels you relax beneath his touch, feels your lips move urgently against his, how your body arches into him and your hardened nipples press into his bare chest. Bruce shivers. God, it feels so good to be skin to skin with you. He is wholly without armor in both the physical and metaphorical sense and it’s terrifying and electrifying.
He wonders if you know how you affect him. His hands cup your backside, squeezing, pressing you closer into him and pressing his agonizingly hard length between your legs. You make a sweet, soft sound and Bruce swallows back his groan. Everything you do is intoxicating to him.
“I’d like to do this again after we’re inside,” he says to the hollow of your throat, “properly.”
“Properly?” your laughter runs like a vein through your voice, “like with candles and roses?”
“Something like that,” he bunches the bottom of your dress until its hiked up in a ruffled heap around your hips and his gaze snags on the bruises on your ribs. “I’ll leave it to your imagination.” He says with a small grin.
“Ohh, a surprise.”
“Mm.”
He pushes his hand between your legs and discovers the dampened fabric of your underwear. Fuck. You’re always so wet for him. Bruce’s eyes roll back into his skull and he hisses through his teeth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You were worried the sight of Bruce’s injuries would be a deterrent, but it isn’t. His bloodied lip, swollen cheekbone, and the bleeding cut on his chest are proof that he lived. A little scuffed up, but whole and alive and touching you with comfortable ease. You whimper at the first touch of his thumb across your swollen clit. Your body thrums with frustrated desire. He’s already made the tempting promise to continue once you’re inside the penthouse and quite frankly—you want to two things: for Bruce to be inside of you and then to see what he has planned in the comfort and luxury of his home.
“Bruce, please,” Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, “don’t make me wait.”
He buries his face between your breasts, his kisses sloppy, and mumbles, “I want you to come first.”
Always a goddamn gentleman!
He arches his neck, leaning his head back against the headrest of his seat, and gazes up at you with fervent adoration. You open your mouth to quip at him, to tell him the car is cramped and you’re feeling impatient, but then the concentric motion of his fingers tightens, adding pressure, and the effect is dizzying. Your mouth lets out a garbled “please” instead of articulating any of the other thoughts inside of your head. You lean forward to kiss him, feeling his nose press into yours and the coppery taste of his kiss blossoms on your tongue. Your hips thrust and chase the movements of his hand.
Your hands glide across his chest, his arms—which are surprisingly sinewy—and your fingertips catch along ridges and bumps that can only be attributed to scars. But scars from what? Before the thought can form, Bruce’s index and middle fingers plunge into your wet cunt and your spine convulses and your walls clench around his digits. The world goes muted and soft. Gotham narrows into two souls in an expensive, black car within a private garage beneath a penthouse.
You pant into Bruce’s mouth, sweat collecting on your temples, as he strokes and coaxes the fire burning low and hot in your lower belly.
Bruce says, “you’re so beautiful.” His words are quiet, bashful. And your neck prickles at the compliment. It means more coming from him than anyone else in the world. You hide your face in the crook of Bruce’s warm neck and pepper kisses along his jaw and the side of his face. The windows fog. The sound of his fingers moving slick and fast between your legs fills your eardrums. Your thighs shake.
“F-fuck.” You choke out, “close.”
“That’s it,” he whispers, “that’s my perfect girl. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The orgasm hits you slow and serene and drawn-out. Your neck arches and your chin rests on Bruce’s forehead as the quakes tremble through your body in throbs of heat and euphoria. Bruce keeps his hand there, poised within as your walls rhythmically squeeze around his fingers, and he doesn’t pull away until your head drops against his shoulder and pant onto his damp, bruised skin.
He kisses your temple. “Are you ready for me?”
“Yes.”
It’s awkward. You lift your hips and your arms tremble as you hold yourself steady. He struggles to unzip his pants. You only get a brief glance of his cock before he positions himself between your legs and motions with his other hand for you to lower yourself. You brace yourself on his shoulders and Bruce looks up, holding your eye-contact, and is unwavering as the tip of his cock slips between your folds.
His teeth bare into a snarl, “Oh, fuck.”
The blue of his eyes are nearly swallowed whole by his pupils. He moans your name like it’s being ripped from his soul. You let out a breathy chuckle, allowing yourself to close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you as Bruce sinks into you inch by inch. It feels so good you don’t want to move. You rock your hips back and forth instead of thrusting and it creates a deep and wonderful sensation that travels from your head to your toes. He fits perfect. His mouth travels hungrily across your chest and neck and jaw. His tongue licks glistening stripes of sweat from your skin. His hands knead and squeeze your ass. You feel as if Bruce is trying to melt your bodies together, consume you, and you find yourself copying his motions. You kiss him, bloodied lips and all, and drink in his low and deep groans. Your hands, even as they smear with the blood from his cut, travel across the muscled expanse of his pale chest and your fingertips occasionally dig in when he thrusts up into you. You’ve passed the threshold of your earlier desperate frenzy to touch and be touched, to feel alive and safe together.
These movements, these gestures, speak to the deep cavern of tenderness that is shared between you. Your throat tightens. Bruce’s fingertips trail along your spine and he turns his head to whisper your name into your ear.
Time doesn’t move. It melts. It shapes condensation on the windows. It pools at the dip between Bruce’s collarbones. It glistens where your bodies are joined.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Afterwards, you cradle his face between your hands and touch sweaty forehead to sweaty forehead. Your heart is pounding. Your dress is crumpled around your hips and stuck to your skin. Your bruises pulsate with muted pain. Bruce’s dried blood peeks between your fingers. And yet you’ve never felt more at peace.
He says, “stay with me.”
“W-what?”
“Stay with me,” he repeats, unfazed by your confusion, “for a few days. Maybe a week.”
You swallow. Okay, stay calm. He’s not asking you to move in. Your smile breaks across your face and Bruce’s eyes widen at the sight of it. As if bearing witness to your joy is a privilege and not something he’s earned.
“We’re having this conversation now?”
“Silver,” he chuckles dryly and your smile widens. It’s so wonderful to hear Bruce laugh. “Someday, I’d like to ask you a question and get a straight answer.”
“I’m a journalist.” You roll your eyes, “asking follow-up questions is my forte.”
Bruce takes your hand between his and intertwines your fingers, “and you’re the best journalist Gotham has.” He meets your eyes, “so, will you stay?”
You should tell Bruce ‘no’ from time to time. It’ll be good for his pride. Today, however, is not the day.
“Yes, Bruce. I’ll stay.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You wake during the night. Bruce’s bedroom is cozily lit from the bedside table lamp and you reach across his back to shut it off. Your hand freezes in mid-air. They are scars. After you and Bruce left the garage, you meant to ask him about it, but his hands and mouth were...too distracting...and you lost all train of thought. You sit up and analyze the serpentine shape of his spine, the moles totting his skin, the curve of his shoulder blades, the cream colored sheets wrapped around his slim waist.
You resist the temptation to trail your fingers across the scars. You don’t want to wake him.
You hope that those thugs didn’t leave him with any scars. He claimed the one on his chest would heal fine. But, how does he know? He isn’t a doctor. You shift and sit upright. Your instincts flare. A gut reaction hits you like a punch to the throat. There’s blood in the water. There’s bones under the soil. A story. Another thread to pull. You carefully climb out of bed and grab a few pieces of blank paper from Bruce’s desk.
You start with today—it’s fresh in your mind.
The bracelet. Bruce didn’t notice or make comments when you first began wearing it. He didn’t ask any questions after seeing the bracelet electrocute someone into unconsciousness. Okay. A little odd, right? But there’s a few possible answers. Maybe he didn’t see it happen. Maybe he assumed you used a standard taser.
You write ‘why didn’t Batman come for me?’ on the page and stare at the letters. Batboy always has a knack for knowing when you’re in trouble. He didn’t show today. You know you aren’t his first priority. You know he’s got an entire city to look out for. But…
You write ‘Security’ on the page. Alfred told you that the Wayne home has ‘top of the line’ security. How the hell did Batman break-in without tripping any of the alarms? You’re certain that Bruce or Alfred would’ve mentioned something if they were worried about the security of the home.
You write ‘Falcone’. You sketch out the timeline out of instinct. Falcone is well-known around Gotham, but when you and Bruce reconnected, you never explicitly told him you were investigating Falcone. It was better to keep that sort of thing under wraps. It’s safer that way.
After you were released from the hospital, Bruce said something like ‘Falcone can’t hurt you’ right? You rub your hand over your jaw and frown. This is a long shot. You grab your phone and text Gordon the following message: ‘Hey, did you tell Bruce that I was drugged by Falcone?’
You scribble onto the page and let your mind wander. You doodle a little flower. And the memory hits like a freight train. Bruce’s flowers. They said ‘to my perfect girl’. Never in your time together had Bruce used that nickname. Batman, however, did. Your heart leaps inside your throat and your phone buzzes in your hand.
Gordon replies: God, kid. What are you doing awake at this hour? To answer your question, no. When I called Mr. Wayne, I informed him that you were caught in the middle of an active investigation and dosed with an unknown drug. I might have mentioned Falcone while ya’ll were together in the room, but I never directly stated that Falcone harmed or drugged you. Now get some sleep!
You reply a quick thanks and set your phone down. This is crazy. Bruce is Batman? He’s Vengeance? You press your fingertips into your tired eyes and your thoughts circle like sharks. And if he is then why didn’t he tell you? You huff and stare at your quick notes scribbled on various pieces of paper scattered on the carpet.
It isn’t so unusual, is it? He’s grossly wealthy, intelligent, and without a social life which gives him lots of free time. And you recently learned that Bruce can fight! Those scars of his aren’t from kitchen mishaps or car accidents.
“What’re you doing?” Bruce’s groggy voice lifts from the frumpy bed sheets.
Well, it’s now or never. There’s no way you’re going back to sleep with this question hanging like an anvil over your head.
“Are you Batman?”
Bruce sits up.
“Or Vengeance? Whatever you like to go by, I suppose.”
He rubs his hand down the length of his face. His shoulders are stiff. You watch as he swings his legs and clambers off the bed with clumsy grace. His boxer briefs hang low on his hips and as he stands before you in the light of his bedroom you can’t help but notice the scars on his chest.
His eyes scan the disorganized and chaotic papers on the floor. His expression is unreadable. You lay your palms on your knees and wait for his reply. Although you think his silence is answer enough.
“Silver…” He says with a minute shake of his head, “can this wait until morning?”
“No.” You deadpan, “I won’t be able to sleep without knowing.”
Bruce slowly lowers himself to sit across from you on the floor. Suddenly, you are eight years old again and having a sleep-over party at the Wayne’s. His mother is downstairs making popcorn. You both won’t stop arguing over which movie to watch. Your heart clenches. You blink away the memory. Once upon a time, you called Bruce Wayne your best friend.
He sighs.
“Bruce,” you wait until he meets your gaze and you hold it, “I want the truth.”
“I know.” He drags his fingers through his messy dark hair.
“Is that something you can give me?” You swallow the lump in your throat. If he can’t be honest, if he brushes it off or refuses to reply, then you know this relationship—hell, your rekindled friendship—is dead in the water. Even your partnership to Batman will be forced to end. He peers at you through the strands of his hair falling in front of his forehead. You wait. He can agonize over his response all he wants. The truth, as always, is the only thing that matters.
He finally says, “yes.”
“Yes as in you’re Batman? Or yes as in you can tell me the truth?”
“Both.”
You tap two fingers against your papers on the floor, “ha! Knew it.” You scoot closer to Bruce and his eyes widen.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” You gaze up at the high ceiling, your brow furrowed in thought. You slept with Batman—Bruce – twice and he never thought about revealing his secret? Would he have just continued to live a secret double life while dating? Did he seriously expect that you wouldn’t figure it out someday?
“I wanted to keep you safe.”
“After today,” you chuckle, “I think I have more enemies than Batman does.”
Bruce says your name softly, “This is only the beginning for me, Silver.” His hands curl into a fist, “Gotham needs me.”
“Gotham needs me too, you dork. You said so yourself!” You smile. “None of these other freelance journalists have the courage to take down the big fish. We both are driven by our love for this city. We both take risks. If you can continue to do your job and I can continue to do mine then I don’t see any issue.”
He stares at you and his lips part in awe.
“I thought if you knew...” says Bruce quietly, “you’d leave.”
You reach out and wrap your fingers around his curled fist. “Bruce, I – well—I endured several years without you and you know what? Those years sucked.” You smile, a timid and gentle smile, and more vulnerable than you’ve ever given him.
“I’m not going anywhere, Bruce. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
Bruce leans in and rests his forehead on your bare shoulder.
He murmurs, “I don’t want to be anywhere else either.”
“Then it’s settled. We stay together and fight crime and change Gotham for the better.”
Bruce lifts his head and levels you with a serious look, “you are not fighting.”
You tease, “okay, you say that now, but I’m already work-shopping costume ideas and team names.” You cup the side of his face, “The Silver Bat? Mercury and Vengeance? Batboy and Journalist Gal?” You ramble off your ideas until Bruce’s serious expression melts away and his lips twitch in a begrudging smirk.
#bruce wayne x reader#battinson x reader#happy halloween#battinson imagine#batman x reader#batman x you#dc fic#the batman fic#bruce wayne x you#battinson x you#fic: from above gotham glows#kinktober 2022
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Where’d You Get Those Peepers
When the power of incredible violence is ineffective Lord Hater and Commander Peepers use other means to get the mad scientist dictator of Nyxeon to join their empire. But something’s off about the whole deal…
#wander over yonder#commander peepers#lord hater#woy oc#reposting my Halloween fic for the occasions#btw I saw someone refer to a fic from 2022 as an old fic a few months ago#huh#guess one year is ancient enough for a rerun#body horror
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Summary:
After a difficult first year at Nevermore, Wednesday agrees to attend the Halloween Ball with Tyler.
Rating: General Audiences
Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Additional Tags: Halloween, WydayThe13th, Phantom of the Opera references, Soft Wednesday Addams, Wednesday Addams is Soft for Tyler Galpin, Wednesday Addams is Trying, Hyde Tyler Galpin, Soft Tyler Galpin, Tyler Galpin Needs a Hug, Minor Ajax Petropolus/Enid Sinclair, Fluff, Comfort, Cheesy, Musical References, Oneshot, Author is a Tyler Galpin Apologist
SO I FINALLY FINISHED IT!! I honestly feel like i kind of hyped it up too much LOL but i'm just so happy and grateful I wrote it all, especially since I've been having a writer's block for months now. Thank the fact that I've been looping Phantom of the Opera for days now for the existence of this fic! I admit I might be a little out of practice writing Wednesday and the other chars, but better a little OOC than nothing imo!
Also I hope u don't mind how cheesy it gets LOL. It is a fluff fic after all!
Thank you again @bithablu for organizing this!! It was so much fun to join even if I was really late LMAO. Thank you @nouklea, @thee-antler-queen, @wednesdayandherhyde, @nonamemanga, @broken-everlark, @gardenoblues and @rhysthomas02 for encouraging me as well!! (whether it be directly or through likes LOL)
Also if anyone wants to draw Tyler and Wednesday in their costumes (or even Ajax and Enid) pls feel free and pls tag me if u do it would be so beautiful
#wydaythe13th#my writing#partially inspired by me listening to Phantom of the Opera on repeat#wednesday#wednesday netflix#wednesday 2022#wednesday addams#tyler galpin#wyler#weyler#wyler fic#weyler fic#wyler fanfic#weyler fanfic#fanfiction#halloween 2023#netflix wednesday
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Title: these walls come tumbling down
Chapter: 4/?
Pairing: Jade Claymore/Kit Tanthalos
Tags: Werepanther!Kit//Vet!Jade//Jade brings an injured cat home and it never leaves//This is my hallmark fic//Only a little bit of angst I swear//Kit/Cardboard box OTP
Summary:
Veterinarian Jade Claymore hits a panther with her truck one night, only for the panther to turn out to be a very attractive girl who needs medical attention, a place to stay, and maybe something more.
#Tanthamore#Tanthamore Fic#Jade Claymore#Kit Tanthalos#Willow#Willow 2022#Hallmark fic is back#It's still Halloween but the Christmas vibes will be there eventually
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Is There A Ghost
Pairings : Elvis Presley x Austin Butler
Tags : Spooky, Halloween, Ghost sex
🎃👻❤️🔥
“Ouija: Mystifying Oracle,” Austin mumbled to himself with a chuckle that held far more annoyance than mirth, turning the box over in his hands, “two plus players.”
Well, if Austin had a ghost in his new house —Which he didn’t — he supposed there would be two players.
-or- Austin falls for the ghost haunting his house.
#elvis 2022#elvis x austin#elvis presley x austin butler#halloween#spooky#spooktober#elvis presley#austin butler#my fic#ao3 fanfic#fanfiction
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Additional Tags: Story: The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge, Fix-It of Sorts, Crack Treated Seriously, Dreams, holmes is a bit uncharacteristically mean at first but i assure you by the end all is well
Summary:
It was all a dream.
No, really.
~
if you have ever thought to yourself “god i wish Wisteria Lodge wasn’t a real story in the canon” then boy have I got the fic for you
#red writing#acd holmes#sherlock holmes#john watson#with this i have BARELY managed to continue my 'publish at least one fic a month' streak since November 2022!!#i would say happy halloween but this fic has absolutely no relevance to the holiday
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as my first act of 2023 im gonna expose myself: yes i did snap and wrote a vocaloid fic a while back, here it is
#my art lol#vocaloid#vocaloid fanart#oliver vocaloid#vocaloid oliver#halloween#candy#stars#pumpkin#THIS DOESNT COUNT AS THE FIRST DRAWING OF 2023 B/C I STARTED IT IN 2022. WAY BEFORE DEC 31ST#i just decided to finish it up on new years eve b/c why not. so the actual first drawing of 2023 remains to be seen#ugh i wouldve done better drawings like little scenes from the fic itself. that wouldve been fun#but at the same time its like... lowkey spoiler? idk. so this is an abstractish thing. looks like phone wallpaper material bruh#idk why anyone would have my art as phone wallpaper but. im just joking around#IF YOU CANT TELL IM VERY COMMITTED TO THE HALLOWEEN THEME JOKE. YES I KNOW ITS JANUARY. BUT LOOK AT MY BLOG BRUH#can you believe it guys? halloween! just a week away. halloween is in a week! woohoo! i am so happy about this information#listen its the horror holiday so its instantly the best. fck da xmas bullshit halloween where it at 😩#as you can see i get more insane in the ungodly morning hours so. yeah. my sleep schedule's been fcked so there's been more of this lately
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Beboptober Day 31: Pumpkinhead
Thanks, as ever, to @thestarlightsymphony for the prompt list…of what may as well be called Bebop-une at this point! I want to FINALLY finish all the Beboptober prompts—as out-of-season as this one may be!—so I can turn my energy to the lovely @bebopcrew’s 30-Day Writing Challenge for the month of July.
Fittingly enough, this fic is inspired by the work of @aldreantreuperi, one of the lovely admins of the Bebop Crew server—specifically, by THEIR final fanfic for Beboptober, taking place during Cowboy Bebop: The Movie—Knockin’ on Heaven��s Door and detailing how Jet carved Ed’s pumpkin mask and watched Ed construct her Halloween costume. I wanted to write some of that same scene from Ed’s point of view! Their fic, in turn, was inspired by @jetspikepub sharing the pictures from the brochure that came with the movie!
Also, tomorrow I’ll probably publish my collected Beboptober fics on AO3 and publish a link to them! (Update: Here’s the link!)
And with this, and after far too many months, I bid a fond farewell to Beboptober…
Ed strode into the Bebop’s storage bay decisively, Ein following closely beside her. They took a look around the area, piled high with sealed boxes, baskets, and crates, then immediately began searching through whatever was readily accessible. The two of them were on the hunt for anything that would make Ed the perfect Halloween costume—paired, of course, with the jack-o’-lantern that Jet, back in the kitchen, was carving out of the great big pumpkin he’d procured and that she’d already resolved to wear over her head. What was Halloween without a mask, after all?
She had carefully sketched out the design she wanted for the jack-o’-lantern’s face, and as Jet carved it, he’d sent her off to find other supplies for a costume. She was exultant with joy, already imagining running out into the streets of Alba City to trick-or-treat, snack on deliciously sweet candy, and see the big parade that filled the streets with big balloons and costumed revelers—a Halloween celebration the likes of which Ed had never before experienced.
But before she did all of that, she’d need a proper costume.
The first thing she gravitated towards was a huge sombrero with a wide brim. Ed liked the colorful pattern around the inside, but when she plopped it down onto her head, it promptly slipped right over her eyes. It took a bit of blind groping for her to get the thing off. No way would that work with the jack-o’-lantern mask she was planning. Farther into the storage bay, she discovered a pair of ruby-red stilettos that had probably belonged to Faye at one point. The heel of one of the shoes had broken off, and now the pair lay broken and discarded. But this didn’t stop Ed from slipping her bare feet into the shoes anyway and taking a few tentative steps, wobbly and uneven. However, it didn’t take long for her to kick the shoes off her feet, sending them sailing back into the oblivion of the storage bay. They probably wouldn’t have been much fun to trick-or-treat in, anyway.
She rifled through a few more boxes, some of which produced interesting finds—including a tie that looked like one of Spike’s, ballpoint pens that still had a bit of ink in them, some wires and cords that she’d have to remember to plug into Tomato to see if they fit, and the old holographic chessboard (she thought they’d lost it after her week-long chess game with the old chessmaster, Hex!)—but none of which were promising as supplies to use for her costume. She was about to give up and look elsewhere on the ship when Ein began sniffing at an old cardboard box, then barking at what he found. Ed bounded over and pulled out the object at the top of the box, and her face immediately lit up. “Great find, Ein!” she said, and the dog barked in appreciation.
Ein had uncovered an old piece of cloth, possibly some scrap material from an old blanket or jacket. Ed knew immediately what she could use it for: a cape! It was a dark turquoise color and would reach down to just past her bottom when worn on her back, and it was the perfect article to pair with her jack-o’-lantern mask to make practically any kind of costume she could imagine. And as a bonus, if she slung it across her back, it worked well for carrying the pumpkin when she wasn’t wearing it! She wasted no time in tying it around her neck and imagining its endless costume possibilities. Her imagination ran wild.
First, she drew the cape closely around her, grabbed one of the pens, and pointed it off in a random direction, shouting “Abraaaaa-cadabraaaa!” and “Alakazam!” in her most mysterious, commanding voice. She was Edward the Great, Edward the Mysterious and Powerful, master of the arcane magical arts, commander of the universe, bending the world to her whims….
But she quickly abandoned this idea, tossing the pen aside. The cape wasn’t quite long or dark or imposing enough to belong to a proper wizard or warlock; she was pretty sure real magicians wouldn’t have their skinny legs poking out from the bottom of it. Besides, while having magical powers would be fun, she wasn’t really sure she wanted to bend the whole wide universe to her whims. That would get pretty boring after a while. It was more interesting to see what life would bring her, where it would take her next. (Although having a bit of magic certainly wouldn’t hurt!)
Next, she adjusted the cape to flow behind her, clambered up to the top of one of the stacks of crates, and perched precariously on the edge, her fist poised high above her in a triumphant gesture. She was Super-Ed, defender of justice, savior of…uh, people who needed saving. There had to be a lot of those out there, right? And she could be the superhero they needed. “Up, up, and away!” she yelled out at the top of her lungs as she leapt off the top, feeling for a moment like she really could fly, like she had powers flowing through her veins.
Luckily, she was able to break her fall without hitting anything else in the storage bay or knocking over any of the crates. From there, she ran around the storage area as fast as she could, her cape flapping and fluttering behind her as Ein—her loyal superhero sidekick?—followed as fast as his stubby corgi legs would take him. In her imagination, she was flying across a bustling city, rescuing civilians, fighting bad guys—kind of like what Spike, Jet, and Faye did, but flashier. Not to mention more fun. “Shazam!” she shrieked as she leapt over boxes of random odds and ends. “To infinity…and beyond!”
At one point, she had the bright idea to grab the tie she’d found earlier and secure it over her eyes, just like the mask a real superhero would wear. She shut her eyes tight as she tied the knot in the back of her head; then, giggling madly, she set off in another run—and immediately crashed into one of the stacks.
Right. Real superhero masks had eyeholes.
After rubbing her lightly bruised shin and doing away with the makeshift superhero mask (it wouldn’t have worked with her pumpkin mask anyway), Ed pulled off the cape and sat for a bit in thought, going through her mental catalog of other suitable costumes—until, finally, she had it. She once again tied the cape securely around her neck, pulling the knot closed with a decisive, confident tug, and let it flutter behind her on her back. “Spooky, spooky vampire! A-ha-ha-ha-ha!” she said under her breath.
Then, she loomed over Ein—her face menacing, her hands with claw-like fingers poised on either side of her head, and pretending her teeth were long, pointy fangs. “I vant to suck your blooood!” she said in her best, slightly warbling, Dracula voice. Ein drew back and whimpered a little, his ears low on his head. Ed quickly snapped out of character, then gently pet his head to let him know she hadn’t really meant to frighten him.
The costume was perfect—perfectly spooky, for Halloween—and would fit right in with the masses of people trick-or-treating on Alba City. It was bound to bring in tons of candy, too. With this cape, she was fully equipped for what was sure to be the best Halloween celebration in the whole Solar System—or, at least, the best one she’d ever had.
“C’mon, Ein!” she exclaimed, and together the two of them ran back to Jet in the kitchen, crashing into things as was their wont. Ed was laughing, brimming with holiday excitement, ready to take this costume to the streets of Alba City. She couldn’t wait to find out what happened next.
Since she’d joined the Bebop crew, since she’d made these new friends that she loved with all her heart, she’d had so many adventures that she felt like they would never end. The world, in her eyes, was brimming with possibility and promise. Anything could happen.
Anything was possible.
#cowboy bebop#beboptober#beboptober 2022#beboptober2022#bebop crew#anime#radical edward#edward wong hau pepelu tivrusky iv#ein#cowboy bebop the movie#knockin’ on heaven’s door#halloween#holidays#halloween costumes#pumpkinhead#textpost#fic#my fic#maya’s musings#maya’s masterpieces
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Eddie Diaz Ain’t Afrain of No Ghost, Chapter 15
Chapter 15 aka where we make good on the rating. Please note i’m going to be on hiatus for most of December from a writing standpoint. (Aka if i get something written it’s a christmas miracle).
Title: Eddie Diaz Ain’t ‘Fraid of No Ghost, Chapter 15
Fandom: 911
Pairing: Buddie, past Ghost/Buck
Fic summary:
Eddie has long suffered his Abuela’s supersitions and practices. A fallen tortilla doesn’t mean someone’s coming to visit. Tuesdays are not inherently more unlucky because they fall on the thirteenth day of the month.
After this October, Eddie might have to be more careful about what he does and doesn’t believe. Especially if it’s hurting his best friend and partner.
Alternatively, Evan “Buck” Buckley’s Haunting. A Buddie Halloween fic for 2022.
Chapter summary: the boys earn our rating.
Other tags/warnings: the boys think they’re being funny, too many puns and jokes for a sex scene, buck has great tits for a guy per Eddie, unrealistic sex
Read chapter 15 here on AO3
#eddie diaz ain’t ‘fraid of no ghost#the haunting of evan ‘Buck’ buckley#eddie diaz#evan buckley#buddie#buddie fic#chapter update#halloween fic 2022#we’re almost done#911 fic#ghost story
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"No fishnets!"
It was Halloween And, today, she can be anyone Today, she'd dress "saucy"
She had the idea To wear a leather jacket With a red blouse
And cheetah print boots Completed with red lipstick
As far as she knew, The blouse was enough To cover her rear end
The initial thought Was to wear black or red fishnets But Big Sister wasn't having it
No, she'd have to wear bottoms Halloween is where she can be anyone Dress "saucier" than usual
However, Sis allowed to her have her fun But not too much
It would be chilly out, clearly But she would be unbothered by that However, Big Sister had some other objections
That she didn't state Little Sister was already dressed "saucy" And that was enough
By Big Sister's standards Otherwise, she'd have been immodest.
#completed 11/2/2022#poem fic#fanfiction#dressing saucy#ryuko matoi#kill la kill#based on a conversation#poem with a pic#halloween#nendography#nendoroid#short poem#subtle humor#satsuki kiryuuin
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Super incredibly late to the party, but here's the first of three(two?) of my works for this year's Clextober. And I mean, it's never too late to get on the halloween spirit right? 🎃🍁🍂
Hope you like it, and happy holidays to everyone ❤️
#clextober22#clextober#clextober 2022#31 nights of halloween#31 days of halloween#Idea 4 creatures of the night#creatures of the night#vampires#werewolfs#clexa#clexakru#clexa fic#clexa fanfiction#clexa fanfic
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"I'm going to write tomorrow" I tell myself, and then don't write a single thing.
#fanfic writing#ao3#fanfiction#writing#im never going to finish this god damn fic#this was supposed to be a fun little one shot for fucking halloween 2022.#how am i still not done?#cries in writer
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I want to make a list of my favorite writers on here! This will be the author’s whose writing speaks to me the most! To add, just because I didn’t add someone doesn’t mean I don't like them, I will try my best to update this because i haven't used Tumblr as much recently so I'm still finding all the pages. And i want to write something about each author so I'll take time <3
@jawllines - I’ve read her writing for YEARS and subbed to her Patreon, I love all her tropes so much, especially Grumpy Harry! She is definitely and Og for me, I haven't read fanfics as long as I've been a fan, and I've read like the 1D preferences, but my first full out one-shot was the one where Harry and Y/N pick berries as a summer job.
@moonchildstyles - I love all the AU she chooses to write Harry in, I found her a bit more recently 2022, which now writing that looks so long ago but feels recently 😭 I love how she has so many blurbs/checkups too! i am subbed to her patron as well! I love the gentleness of how she writes harry, especially in citrine, he is so soft and i love it
@jarofstyles - Not only do they have mouthwatering smut, but I love how they have a bunch a shorter AU blurbs, sometimes I don't want to read a full one shot, and they have so many blurbs. One writing love in particular is Braking plates, I love some good angst to fluff. I am also subbed to their Patreon
@erodasfishtacos -I absolutely love her work and it's so upsetting how she was treated on this app. I'm glad she was able to move over to patron to continue her passion, I have subbed, and her work is phenomenal. She introduced me to one of my favorite underrated tropes, Deaf!H. I love how she writes her ABO tropes, that's another one of my favorites.
@harrysbabycherry - The first fic I read from her was the one when Y/N was a vampire and the was a kinda unique topic for me because I've always read Fics of Vampire!H, one of my fav tropes, But I loved the switch up. And I've just really e njoyed her following works. I also love the few Halloween writings she did, i love spooky H.
@gurugirl - The first thing I read of hers was the Stepdad!H, and I was hooked her smut is divine, absolutely amazing. I love how she portrays dark harry and forbidden/taboo relationships. I would love to sub to her patron, but unfortunately, I can't fit it into my budget as of now, but I will be subscribing one day. I love how she specifically says no sad endings because i also get too attached and cannot handle it.
@harryforvogue - It's been a bit since I've read her work, so I'm excited to catch up. She is actually the account that got me into reading books with OC. I previously only read reader insert Fics, but her writing was so good, and I noticed that OC writings give me different emotions than Y/N Fics. if that makes sense.
@watermelonlovershigh - I absolutely love how she writes soft Harry. She writes him so gentle and caring. It’s a nice contrast for the mafia stuff I read😭. She was also the first person ive read a sickfic from and I don’t see many of those, so it was different than what I’ve normally read and I loved it! She’s an amazing writer.
As i said i will be adding to this as time goes on! If anyone has someone the want me to check out lmk!
(Sorry for typos)
#harry styles#harry styles one shot#harry styles blurb#harry styles fanfic#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles x reader#harry styles fic#masterlist#harry styles au#harry
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🕯️ October Special Fic List 🕯️
(Mystery until released ofc spooky smut but very fun)
🔗 The Chase (Benny Cross) 10.19 available Benny Cross chases you through the streets on his motorcycle but once he catches you the fun really begins.
🔗 Obsession (Feyd Rautha) 10.25 available
Betrothed to Feyd-Rautha, the dark and terrifyingly handsome Na-Baron of Giedi Prime, you should be filled with fear, instead you are obsessed with him.
Harkonnen wedding traditions are brutal and cruel, a series of tests meant to prove your undying obedience yet you find yourself giving everything on your wedding night to ensure you are his one true Baroness.
🔗 Blood Bound (Austin) 10.30 Available It had been this way at every event, hadn’t it? He would watch you, and you would watch him, always at a distance. You told yourself it was just an infatuation, some silly attraction to a movie star, but deep down, you knew it was more than that. There was something about him, something magnetic and dangerous, that had always kept you away.
🎃 BONUS 🎃 🔗 Sweet as Pie 10.31 Available It’s Halloween night, and you surprise Gale with your costume of choice—a seductive black cat, complete with ears, and a tail. He’s so riled up upon seeing you wear it that he affectionately starts calling you kitten, and instead of heading to the party as planned, he tries to keep you as a sweet treat all to himself.
🔗 Master List 🎃
🏷️ Always tag me List @burnthheparaphilia @purejasmine @butdaddyilovehim99 @lindszeppelin @austinbutlerfly @abswifey @ausssbutlershortstories @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @faegoddessog @jessica987 @oh-my-front-door @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @elvismylove04 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @aust-een@ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @jkdaddy01 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @feralgodmothers @finley-08 @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @majestyjade @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @umika @ifuckindontknow @kaelatargaryen @omrs-hardy-hunnam-butler @darknightmareobject @psycheetamore
🏍️ Benny Cross Tag List (will tag onfic) @landlockedmermaid77 @jvanilly @oceanablue @12joeywheelerfangirl @autumnleaves1991-blog @presley1992 @rose-deathman @sillylittlethrowaway @lillypink @faephoria @fallout-girl219
⚔️ Feyd Rautha Tag list (will tag on fic) @rougegenshin @maloribarnes1999 @moony-artemis @xxxstormyninixx @prettypinkblogger @thegabbyh @aoi-targaryen @austinswhitewolf @skinny-baby-4eva @mimsie95 @the-wanderer-2022 @jakesullyissopookie @francis-writes @shiranai-atsune @berlinalv @everyonelovesavalet @dacreshoney @caroline334 @szapizzapanda @berlinalv @moonsoulk @sophroniaclark @emeraldsgirl@aaaaaaamond @cooliosthings@mcmisbehaving
#austin butler#austinbutler#austin butler smut#austin butler fanfiction#smut#austin butler x reader#austin butler fic#austin butler x#austin butler one shot#austin butler x you#Benny cross#benny cross x#benny cross the bikeriders#benny cross smut#benny cross x reader#the bike riders x#the bikeriders#feyd rautha#Feyd Rautha x#feyd rautha x you#feyd rautha smut#feyd rautha harkonnen#dune part two smut#smut x reader#breeding smut#corruption kink#kinktober#🎃
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