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drgnflyteabox · 4 days ago

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daddy cool, side B ⋆˙⟡

simon riley x fem!reader (background price x reader) summary: you make a movie with simon. ↪or, john produces. tags/warnings: making a porno, rough sex (p in v), oral (f + m), please forgive my dialogue i'm trying my best, degradation / slut shaming, squirting, a little dubcon, size kink, a little pain, unnegotiated kink, john is mostly in the background but he's there

“Alright honey, move a little to the right.”

“Like this?”

“Just like that, sweetheart. Spread those legs a little.”

John had been your fluffer earlier, licked you until you were rarin’ to go, wet and soft and needy. He can probably still taste you on his mustache.

You’re taking photos now, leaning back on the bed, bare wet pussy spread for John and the camera. Your two fingers create a perfect V, showing him your winking hole, your pert clit.

He really wasn’t lying about producing– you hadn’t deeply suspected him, but there was a niggling little thought there that he was maybe putting it on to get you in bed. It had worked either way, but nice to know he’s honest.

Ghost, the masked man. Cheesy, but popular with women, John says. They like the mystery.

“Touch yourself a little,” John shifts the camera as you do, lightly petting your clit with two fingers, “that’s good, that’s real good.”

You dip two fingers into your hole, wet from John’s earlier attention, biting your lip in what you hope is a seductive manner for the camera. John chuckles low in his chest, cock pushing against his tight pants. The view makes your mouth water, but you aren’t here for John today.

You’re here for the giant of a man that walks through the doorway, wearing scuffed blue jeans and big black boots. The mask isn’t what you’d imagined, but it fits over the tight white t-shirt he’s wearing. A skull.

“Ah, Simon,” John turns to greet him, “there you are.”

Simon’s cock is already chubbed up in his jeans, long and thick against his leg. For a perverse moment you imagine what it would look like for he and John to push their bulges against each other, groaning, pec squeezed against pec, and your pussy clenches.

You wish John would perform, if only just to tag team you with this meaty specimen of a man.

Add it to the spankbank.

“John,” Simon greets him back, stepping into the room. He’s not even looking at you, which is hot for some reason you don’t care to parse. He lifts a boot and steps onto John’s stool, “fresh meat?”

John laughs, which seems to be the only answer Simon needs before he turns towards you finally and pins you to the bed with his gaze.

Your fingers pause, still dipped halfway inside, clit pulsing against the heel of your palm.

“Pretty,” he says, and just as you’re about to say thank you, “nice, Cap,” a pause, “picked a ripe one.”

He walks until his shins hit the bed, looking down at you and your spread legs, where your hand is still and your pussy drips onto the sheets. His eyelashes are pale, ghostly, strangely beautiful against his brown eyes.

You wish you could see his face, his expression, but John was right– they do like the mystery.

There’s a little hint of a scar that pokes up from his cheekbone, pulling the skin of his bottom lid a little, but there’s no time to examine him in detail.

“Right then,” John interrupts, “let’s take a few pictures.”

The first pose he puts you in is on Simon’s lap, explicitly directing you to press your pussy against his jeanclad thigh and make a little wet spot for us, will you, love?

It’s honestly humiliating, but you’re so tuned up that the heat of your embarrassment only adds to the tension.

“That’s good, that’s real good,” John murmurs, instructing Simon to put a heavy hand on your lower back, pressing you further into his leg.

Your clit drags against the fabric, and the camera snaps your open mouthed gasp.

“Pull her shirt down,” and Simon does; pulling your tanktop down until your tits fall out, soft and peaked, pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt.

You’re looking over your shoulder, hazy, bottom lip between your teeth. John snaps a few more before he places you in the next position.

All you can stare at is the dark patch on Simon’s jeans.

“This one’s for the cover,” he says, getting Simon to lay down and pull his jeans a little down– showing off the line of hair leading to the biggest tease; the beginnings of his bush, trapped under just his jeans.

He’s gone commando. All you can see is the little pudge of his pubis as it’s squished by his waistband, a tasty little tenderloin you want to bite.

You’re next; standing over Simon, legs wide open, looking down at him with your tits out and your thighs wet. It’s a movie-esque kind of pose, and in another universe maybe you’re decked out in cheap sci-fi costumes for a blockbuster.

Then he’s ready, and you have to re-dress. Tanktop goes back on, shorts get slid right back up your legs, and he puts you on top of the covers.

Simon prowls like a panther, graceful in his movements despite the sheer size of him. You’re leaned back, elbows on the bed, breathing harder the closer he gets.

“Felt that wet little pussy,” he says, voice low, “she’s more than ready for me, isn’t she? Probably soaking those slutty shorts.”

“Uh huh,” you murmur, legs outstretched and straight before him.

John had told you a little bit of the ‘script’ beforehand, a loose skeleton to follow outside of improv, so you aren’t shocked when he pulls the button open on your shorts and pulls them down in one fell swoop.

“Look’it that,” his lips move under the mask. You wonder if he’s licking his lips, looking at your pussy like that.

He takes you by the ankle, dragging you across the mattress until you’re flat on your back and looking up at him.

“Haven’t even seen my cock yet,” he laughs meanly, his other hand reaching to take a big squeeze of his cock through his jeans, “and look’it that. Slag if I’ve ever seen one.”

Your face burns, breath stuttering. This wasn’t a part of the little warning John had given you, but you’re not that mad about it. Hot, humiliated– but not opposed.

Simon looks at you for barely another second before he’s crawled up to your face, knees on either side of your head.

Oh.

“Gimme a kiss.”

You lean forward, lips pressing against his rough jeans. He smells good, a little like cigarettes but there’s that musk you love so much. You mouthe against him until he pulls your head back to the mattress by your hair.

He pulls down his jeans, freeing a mostly plump cock that flops onto your cheek. Oh man, it’s weighty. The nestle of curls at the base of it is like a magnet for your eyes, too.

“I can take it all the way,” you look up into those inscrutable eyes.

“Yeah? Prove it.”

You take the tip first, licking it lewdly, turning to the camera every so often like John had told you to– just let them see those eyes, honey. Show them how much you like it.

So you do. You give big, wide eyes as Simon gets impatient and starts tunnelling down your throat, shoulders trapped beneath his heavy thighs.

When you gag, he laughs lowly, keeping you there. He runs a rough thumb over the taut stretch of your upper lip, down to your lower lip, palm cradling your jaw.

“That’s a good girl,” he slides backwards, jeans scraping your nipples through your tanktop, hardly giving you but a moment before he's pushing back in. Rinse and repeat.

It’s like with John, only Simon’s cock is a little different. Longer, and curved where John’s is thicker. The tip pokes you in the back of the throat, sometimes at the roof of your mouth from the awkward angle.

You feel crushed underneath him despite your entire lower half being free, legs coming up and thighs squeezing together as the camera pans towards them and John murmurs, “show me that pussy, honey.”

So you spread your legs, humiliated at the gluk-gluk-gluk sound coming from your throat but gushing impossibly more under the camera’s lens.

“That’s a pretty picture,” Simon grunts, sliding out of your mouth to tap the head against your lips, letting you stick your tongue out and drool drip down your chin, “yeah. Keep your mouth open.”

This is mostly for the camera, the way he rubs himself on your face, the way you lay there and keep your mouth open. You don’t have to fake the desperation, but still.

Simon’s a pro.

He leans back, fingers finding your bare cunt and sliding a finger along your slit. Slippery, swollen, the contact is like drinking water in the desert. Like the satisfying pleasure-pain of pressing down a bruise.

His finger slides up and down shallowly, never stopping where you need it while you kiss the underside of his cock.

“This cock-hungry pussy’s soakin’ my fingers,” his eyes squint, like he’s grinning under the mask, “reckon I could solve a drought with this,” he lifts his finger to your mouth, slipping them in for you to taste yourself.

Where the fuck did John find this guy?

You play along, face burning, sucking his fingers with a soft moan.

After a moment, he leans back and gets off you, pulling your tanktop down as he does so your tits bounce back out. Hello again, ladies.

There’s a small moment of stalling where John sets the camera up on a tripod near the end of the bed and Simon drags you so your head is towards the headboard, and then it’s 3 2 1 action again.

“Hands on the headboard,” Simon gruffs, then slides onto his belly and presses his mask to your cunt. Your hands fly to the headboard, hanging on for dear life as he inhales through the fabric.

Jesus. He rubs the knit on your swollen pussy, up and down, spreading you open with his covered chin and then pressing his nose to your clit.

You don’t have to exaggerate your sounds. They come naturally, rising in pitch when he pushes his mask up just enough to see his pink, scarred lips wrap around your engorged clit.

He’s greedy, eating more to taste you than to please you.

When he lifts his head, mouth wet and tongue poking out to lick the remnants of your slick, stopping at the cusp of your orgasm, you give the camera at the end of the bed your best wounded animal look.

Simon doesn’t take his jeans off when he gets back up to his knees, shuffling to kneel between your legs.

You notice all too late that he hasn’t fingered you, not even a little dip. He’s licked you, sucked on your clit until you were keening, but there’s a deadly focus in his eyes as he puts the fat head of his cock against your hole that tells you you’re in trouble.

“Got a good look at this?,” he grunts, tilted towards the camera, “this is the best part.”

Oh fuck, he pushes in and it feels like a hydraulic press; crushing pressure, a sting, stretching taught around him as you gasp–

“Pinching me,” he curls his lip, abdomen tensing, “Jesus.”

“Oh god, fuck,” you shiver, trying to keep your knees spread, wincing and gasping in deep breaths for air as he carves a space inside you for himself.

“Relax,” he squeezes in further. Stretching, painful, intensely delicious, “relax that cunt for me, sweetheart. Let her get what she needs. ”

You try, only noticing John as he palms his bulge, watching your pussy struggling to take Simon’s cock.

It takes a few see-sawing movements of his hips before you finally loosen a little around him and he really lets loose. Doesn’t let you take a breath, just starts pounding like he’s getting a bonus for it and you shout with surprise.

A vision of an adventuring viking comes to mind, beaten and lashed by storm, the only respite to hang onto the mast in the middle of a ship… that’s the headboard for you.

He fucks like animal, but it’s still as graceful as the way he moved when he first entered the room. How can a man that looks so rough, is so big, roll his spine and slap his hips into yours in such a dancerly way? His pace is inhuman.

His cock spears into you like he’s digging for gold, tilted just so that you’re loud with how good it feels and almost wincing every time he pokes a little too deep.

You think maybe it’s on purpose, what with the way he stares down at you, big hands coming to hold your midsection and dig his fingers into your skin.

Yeouch, that feels good.

“There she is,” he fucks you deep, unrelenting, groaning when he feels your hole start to squeeze, “doesn’t even need a hand, then,” he laughs.

He’s right. You don’t. Your abdomen squeezes, orgasm building, the first of its kind– without any kind of contact on your clit, that is.

You try to hold back for as long as possible, try to make eyes at the camera again, but you’re lost to the feeling of getting fucked so good and so deep. The feeling builds and builds and steamrolls you, legs shaking where they’re spread, ears going deaf with the blood rushing in them.

A scream bursts forth from your throat at the same time as you literally spray, slick soaking Simon’s jeans and the bottom of his t-shirt.

There’s no time to be embarrassed with the hard, punitive thrusts he gives you as he rides his orgasm out behind yours, filling you up with hot come.

You’re boneless, after. Laying nice and still for John to get closeups of your creampie’d pussy, for Simon to rest his spent cock between your pussylips and grin under his mask, tucking himself back into his soiled jeans as John dismisses him.

He’s damp everywhere, but he strolls over to John’s little minibar area and pours himself a whiskey like it doesn’t bother him.

John doesn’t give you a break, either. He pans the camera to the mess on the bed, the wet spot you’d caused by squirting all over Simon’s cock.

John grins at you from behind the camera.

“You’re a natural, honey.”

#drgnfly writes #i got a B on my first midterm so #this was a reward to write #cw dubcon #just in case #cause where did john get this guy lol #simon riley x reader #simon riley/reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #kinda rushed ending too but #dont mind that...

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luxaofhesperides · 1 year ago

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Soulmark AU + Sleeping Beauty ; requested by @candeartist422!

For the last few years, Duke’s been waiting for his soulmate to die.

It sounds cruel to say it that way. But the waiting is more painful, he thinks, than just mourning a lost love. It’s not like most people ever meet their soulmates anyways; his parents weren’t meant to be, but they still loved each other and had a life together. He wishes he could turn his focus away from his soulmate, but Duke is a romantic at heart and has always wanted to find the other half of his soul.

But since he was fourteen, his soulmark has dulled, fading in and out of color. What was once a vibrant blue crystal star, with eight points and a swirl of watercolor hues around it, dimmed more and more until Duke was sure he was watching his soulmate die slowly.

His soulmate didn’t die then. Whoever they are got better, his soulmark gaining color, but it never went back to the way it was. For years after, Duke would check at the beginning and end of each day, keeping track of when it faded and when it regained its color.

He thought his soulmate was sick. In and out of hospitals, fighting to stay alive.

And then it went nearly colorless.

Duke doesn’t remember much about that day. He knows he woke up, brushed his teeth, the lifted up his shirt to check his soulmark in the mirror. The blue was almost completely gone, the star on his left hipbone nearly gray with how colorless it was. He started at it for a moment, shocked, and reality slid away from him as he retreated into the safety of his mind, fully dissociating.

Bruce had found him when Duke didn’t show up for breakfast. He held him and offered quiet words of comfort that Duke couldn’t understand, but just having someone with him lessened the hurt of losing his soulmate.

Seeing the color come back the next day, faint as it was, hurt even more.

A year later, Duke still can’t break the habit of checking his soulmark twice a day. It hasn’t changed at all, still faint and dim, but carrying just enough color to show that his soulmate was still alive. At the very least, they were still breathing, but his chance of ever meeting them is basically zero. Still, he can’t help but hope, wishing that he could meet them even once before they die and leave him forever.

“Same as ever,” he murmurs to himself as he brushes his thumb against his soulmark. He’s terrified that he’s forgotten how beautiful the blue of it was when his soulmate was healthy.

Duke doesn’t let himself think on it too much anymore. Though his thoughts often turn to his soulmate during quiet moments like these, the busy nature of Gotham is usually more than enough to pull his attention back to the here and now. There’s no use in obsessing over his soulmate anyways; they’re just going to die, sooner or later, and Duke knows he’ll never get to meet them. They’ll just be another empty space in his life, right next to his parents.

“Come on, Thomas, focus,” he tells himself firmly, then gets dressed and heads down to the kitchen for breakfast.

The manor is quiet. It usually is in the mornings, with everyone from the night shift dead asleep and trying to get as much rest as they can before they have to start their day. Not that many of them stay in the manor these days; Duke and Damian are the only permanent residents at the moment, but Steph usually stays half with her mom and half in the manor during the summers when she’s home from college, and the others drop in whenever they feel like it.

Bruce lives more in the Batcave than the manor, so he doesn’t really count. It’s also why Duke is surprised to see Bruce awake and dressed like a normal person, drinking coffee in the kitchen as if this is a normal occurrence.

“Morning,” Duke offers.

“Good morning, Duke,” Bruce replies. “Sleep well?”

“Well enough. Alfred out or something?”

“He may have kicked me out of the Batcave to clean it up a bit,” Bruce answers tiredly. “Want me to make breakfast?”

Duke has heard the horror stories of Bruce’s attempts to make edible food in a kitchen. In the interest of not dealing with food poisoning, Duke shakes his head quickly and says, “Nah, it’s fine. I was kinda wanting to eat out for breakfast. Get out there as me, and not a mask, you know?”

“Mind if I join you? Alfred may forgive me for not sleeping if I willingly go outside.”

Duke laughs. “Sure man, as long as you pay.”

“I’ll drive, too.”

“What, don’t trust me behind a wheel?”

Bruce gives him a tired look, eyes dead and dull. “I have taught all my children how to drive. The day I willingly let them take the wheel when I am not actively dying is the day I’ve been replaced by a robot clone of myself who doesn’t know better yet.”

“That is… very specific. Is that a thing you usually worry about?”

“I’m Batman. I have to worry about everything.”

Yeah, that tracks. Duke wouldn’t be surprised if he has at least five contingency plans for that scenario, should it ever happen. “Well,” he says, “Right now, all you need to worry about is having your wallet and driving us down to The Foodie Nook. I’ve been craving their breakfast plates for ages.”

Bruce doesn’t object to his choice of restaurant and follows Duke down to the garage, grabbing a random set of keys and pointing it out to the many cars he owns. One near the front blinks its lights as it unlocks and Duke cheerfully tosses himself into the passenger seat as Bruce opens the garage door.

The drive into Gotham is smooth. They don’t hit traffic until they reach the bridge that leads into the city proper, taking them away from the quiet of Bristol. The morning is busy, but not enough that Duke worries about being out as the Signal to help keep the peace. It’s a normal type of busy, one borne from people going about their lives, feeling safe enough to go out.

The Foodie Nook is entirely local and very popular, so the parking lot is nearly full. But they expanded their space last year, which means he and Bruce don’t have to sit outside while they wait to grab a table. Bruce keeps conversation light and casual, well aware of the many listening ears around them, and it’s nice, feeling normal for once.

Well, as normal as life can be with Bruce Wayne™. The server who comes to lead them to a table realizes who she’s talking to after she gets a proper look at them while holding open the door and promptly stutters over her words.

“No need for any special treatment,” Bruce laughs lightly, “We’re just here for breakfast. Nothing special.”

“Of course,” she replies, cheeks red. “Um, right this way! We’ve got a table by the windows for you. Just two, yeah?”

“Yup! Just two. Thought this was a good day to spend some time with Duke. He’s a great kid, you know, I’m glad I was given the opportunity to foster him.”

The sunny, cheerful Bruce Wayne persona is so different from the usual Bruce he works with that it feels like he’s standing next to a stranger. But his words are sincere and warm his heart, filling up the gaps that his soulmate has left.

“Here you are!�� their server announces, showing them to their table. “I’ll be right back with some menus.” She’s gone in a rush, and other customers glance over before quickly averting their gaze.

It’s one of the unspoken rules of Gotham: give the Waynes their privacy while they’re out in public. Questions and conversation are for public events only, but if they see a Wayne out and about during a normal day, everyone leaves them be unless spoken to first. Duke used to follow those rules as well when he was just another Gothamite. It’s strange being on the other side of that now that he’s in with the Waynes.

Duke barely has to look through the menu when it’s handed to him. The breakfast plates are his favorites and he gets one every single time he comes to The Foodie Nook; stacked full with breakfast foods from around the world. As a kid, he loved the Mexico Plate, but these days he’s craving either the Brazilian Plate or the Vietnamese Plate.

He can’t decide on which one and thinks about tossing a coin to decide, but seeing how that’s Two Face’s whole thing, he decides to hold off and settle the matter with eenie-meenie-minnie-mo.

He gets the Vietnamese Plate.

Bruce, on the other hand, reads through the entire menu like it’s a novel, then leans over and says rather loudly, “Duke, what’s a tort-illa.”

The pain he feels hearing that is only worsened by the amusement in Bruce’s eyes. He’s doing it on purpose, playing up the Brucie act for the public so he can psychologically torment Duke. A few nearby customers choke back laughter, turning away to hide their smiles.

Duke shakes his head and says, “Don’t worry about it. It’s just food. Don’t ask any more questions, I just want a peaceful breakfast.”

“Well then,” Bruce replies, “I suppose I know what to order now.”

As if she was summoned, their server reappears before them, cheeks still looking a little flushed. “Hi! Ready to order?”

She writes down their orders quickly, valiantly keeping a straight face at Bruce’s mispronunciation of tortilla, then heads off to deliver their orders to the kitchen.

Rather than draw out a conversation with Brucie Wayne, Duke settles for playing a few idle games on his phone; his current favorite is one quiet cat cafe game where he directs cats into fulfilling cafe orders.

Bruce, despite being out in his civilian identity, is working. He’s on his Batman phone, which looks the same as his other cell phones except this one has a bat symbol sticker just barely hiding a Superman sticker on the phone case. His brow is slightly furrowed as he reads whatever file he’s accessing from the Batcomputer. It’s a little worrying but it could be anything. Bruce makes the same expression when he reads one of Tim’s snarky comments getting quoted in the news.

But that’s not Duke’s problem! He’s here to enjoy his breakfast and it will take the end of the world itself to remove him from his seat before he’s done eating.

The game takes most of his attention until their food comes out, and by then Bruce has tucked away the smallest of his Batman mannerisms. They enjoy a normal, peaceful breakfast. Bruce ends it by asking their server if she has any debt that’s weighing her down, then giving her a tip that’s at least five thousand dollars above that.

She does cry and Bruce hugs her. It’s very sweet.

As soon as they get back into the car, his easy going smile drops and Duke knows some superhero nonsense is about to take over his day.

“Duke,” Bruce starts, seriously, “I received a message from Zatanna.”

“Don’t drag this out,” Duke says, “Just give it to me straight. What terrible thing is about to happen to us?”

“It’s nothing too big. They just recently defeated a magical being who had been tearing apart secret government facilities in Illinois. He had both magic and a high tech weapon, which they confiscated and are delivering to me. The government agency he was fighting was suspiciously interested in the weapon, and based on their behaviors and newly revealed work, Zatanna made the decision to turn the weapon over to us so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Bruce smoothly merges into traffic as he speaks, getting them onto the road back to the manor. There’s a look in his eyes that means he’s keeping a lot unsaid, and Duke knows without a doubt that whatever this government agency was doing is bad if Zatanna needs Batman to act as extra security.

He’s not sure about her decision to trust the weapon to be safe in Gotham, either. Sure, Batman will keep it as safe as he can, but with their luck, it’ll end up in the hands of a Rogue and lead to a lot of death and destruction.

As soon as they cross the bridge and return to Bristol, Bruce steps on the gas and the car tears down the road. Without any other cars to worry about (or traffic laws), it takes barely two minutes to reach the manor, when the gates open for them and let them into the garage.

Alfred waits for them by the door, looking them over with a critical eye. “I see you have managed to go outside, Master Bruce. What’s the special occasion?”

“Just breakfast,” Bruce answers. “I’m heading back down to the Batcave. Zatanna will be here soon to deliver a weapon.” He’s gone before Alfred can say anything more, hurrying down the hall and turning the corner, disappearing from sight as he heads towards his office.

“I see we have yet to break that bad habit of his. Did you enjoy your morning out, Master Duke?”

“Sure did, Alfred. I’m, uh, also going down to the Batcave. He’s definitely not telling me a lot about what’s going on, so I’m just going to read about it over his shoulder. I’ll be back up for lunch, though!”

“And perhaps you’ll be able to drag Master Bruce away from that cave of his,” Alfred comments wryly as he walks with Duke towards the office. He gives Duke a nod, then splits away from him, returning to the kitchen where Duke can hear Damian speaking to someone, probably Tim by the annoyed tone of his voice, and mentally wishes Alfred luck in handling them.

Duke sets the correct time on the clock in Bruce’s office and heads down to the Batcave, taking the steps two at a time.

Bruce is already at the Batcomputer, shoulders tensed, when he arrives.

“More bad news?” he asks as he makes his way over.

Bruce doesn’t bother looking away from the screen as he says, “More details about the fight. It seems the magical being called himself a ghost and was going on a rampage due to a betrayal. He says they nearly killed his son.”

“Oh, yikes.”

“And two of the scientists working with the government agency said that he stole their son and is keeping them from saving him.”

“Yikes,” Duke says with more feeling.

He doesn’t get to hear anymore details about JLD’s fight with this ghost when he catches a flicker in the corner of his eye. Duke turns and stares at the empty space in the Batcave near the medbay and watches as colorful magic gathers and swirls in dizzing circles. The portal opens a moment later and Zatanna steps out, looking exhausted and lightly singed.

“Batman,” she greets, holding a white gun that looks like it belongs in an early sci-fi movie from the 60s. “The GIW is trying to arrest us. Constantine keeps burning their badges and documents so it shouldn’t be a problem, but they are determined to get this back. I wouldn’t be surprised if they came after you next. They’ve got some way of tracking things, but I didn’t have time to get any details before I had to leave.”

Bruce takes the gun from her hands carefully, looking it over with a sharp gaze. “Why would a ghost want to use a gun?”

“I don’t know. He had a variety of powers, too.”

“What does this do?”

“Shoots ice. He never let it go and nearly burned me alive for taking it before we subdued him.”

“We’ll keep it locked up,” Bruce promises.

Zatanna sighs. It looks as though a physical weight fell off her shoulders. “Thanks. I’m going to head back to stop Constantine from getting into a fistfight with the GIW agents.”

She opens another portal with a waved hand and a muttered spell. Bruce is already walking away to set the gun down on a work station, so Duke is the one to wave Zatanna goodbye.

By the time he reaches Bruce’s side, the gun is already dismantled, all pieces neatly set aside. Sticky notes denote which pieces go together and in what order. It looks the same as most guns, save for the aesthetic, but the heart of it is a glowing blue orb, large enough to cover the entirety of Bruce’s palm, and it brings a chill to the air.

Duke stares at it and feels his soulmark burn ice cold.

“Duke?”

It’s in his hands. He doesn’t remember reaching out to take it, but it’s in his hands. He can’t take his eyes off of it, cradling it gently and bringing it closer to his chest.

It’s the same blue his soulmark once was. Before his soulmate began to fade, before every day became a waiting game to see how long his soulmate will last before they die.

This has something to do with his soulmate. He’s sure of it.

He won’t let anyone take it from him.

“Duke. Give that to me.”

He doesn’t feel like he’s in his body. He’s detached, floating somewhere outside his body, puppeteering his limbs, making them move without feeling the motion. Shadows condense around his feet and Bruce takes a step back, wary.

“Duke,” he says again, but Duke can’t find any words, can’t draw on his voice, can’t even look away from the bright, bright blue of the orb. It pulses lightly in his hand like a heartbeat.

Bruce reaches a hand out.

He’s pulled back by shadows before he can get close, and Duke holds the orb against his chest, right against his heart, and feels the cold seep into him.

“Duke. I need you to look at me.” This time, Bruce’s voice has Batman’s growl in it, a heavy command that he can’t help but instinctively follow. He looks up and meets Bruce’s eyes, but he can’t focus. All his awareness is in his hands and the heartbeat of the glowing orb.

“I have to protect this,” Duke manages to whisper. “I… I think it’s alive.”

“Okay. Let’s get you to the medbay so you can sit down. We’ll figure this out, Duke.”

Bruce slowly, carefully, sets his hand on Duke’s shoulder. He keeps his attention away from the orb, so Duke allows it and lets Bruce guide him to the medbay and onto one of the medical cots. Bruce leaves him after a minute of quiet fussing, muttering about calling Zatanna.

Whatever. None of that matters when the heartbeat of the orb grows stronger, steadier, and Duke feels it match the beat of his own heart.

Time slips away from him. Distantly, he hears people move around the cave, speaking in low tones. A hand presses against his shoulder, warm, then moves away.

The orb in his hand moves.

Duke blinks slowly, then claws his way back to awareness, pushing past the haze that’s fallen over his mind. The orb turns over in his hand, then cracks right down the middle. The glow grows stronger, washing the medbay in blue light and a symbol appears on the orb.

It’s his soulmark.

Later, he won’t be able to say why he did it. There were no thoughts, no reasonings, no explanations. Duke simply moved on instinct and lifted the orb up to his face and pressed a soft kiss against it.

One moment, the orb was still.

The next, it had burst in a flash of light that blinded everyone in the Batcave, and then a thin, injured teenager had fallen into Duke’s lap.

Hands immediately grab him, pulling him away from Duke. The teenager puts up no fight, eyes barely open, but he reaches for Duke weakly. On his wrist is the bright blue snowflake, the color strong and vivid.

“That’s me soulmate,” Duke whispers as he watches Bruce and Tim set the boy down on another medical cot.

“What?” Tim says, turning to face Duke, concern clear on his face.

“That’s my soulmate,” he repeats, louder. Then, panicked, he pulls up his shirt enough to see his own soulmark; the color is still dull, weak, barely there, but it’s more blue that it has been in a while. He doesn’t need to say anything. Tim sees the dullness of his soulmark, looks at the boy, and puts the pieces together on his own.

“I’ll call Doc Thompkins,” he says, already moving to fix everything. Bruce remains where he is, making sure the boy is tucked in and breathing steadily before he returns to Duke.

“Are you alright?”

Duke swallows roughly, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy. He’s pale and thin, as if he’d been starved, and there’s frost beginning to spread on the bedsheet from his fingers. “He’s my soulmate,” Duke manages to say. “He’s been dying for two years.”

Bruce’s eyes a hard, a determined light in them. “We’ll save him,” he promises.

If anyone can, it’s Batman.

If anyone can, it’s them, Batman and the Signal, and their entire network of family and friends.

Duke’s been waiting for his soulmate to die all this time. Now, he’s going to save him.

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #prompt fill #my writing #i dont really know much abt jld so they are not really in here #just duke trying to live his life and have a nice day with bruce #when his soul mate gets thrown at him in the form of an ORB #(ghost core but they dont know that yet)#dannys gonna have to answer so many questions once hes awake bc not many know abt realms beings #its gonna be rough for him bc he's been asleep for 2 years in his core bc he was never safe enough to recover #until duke gave him a boost (plus the power of soulmates really helped him) and he woke up #in a cave with his soulmate and a whole crew of superheroes #what a thing to open ur eyes to. rip danny lol #thanks for the prompt!

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