#to think i'd be talking about potential alternate universe shit this early in

[gotham-daydreams]

Is it possible that one of the villains of Gotham to develop an obsession with the reader like batfam? Like for example one of them once attended or attempted to attack at one of their performance but got mesmerized by them and decided to stalk them instead

I am now very much thinking about and considering this anon. Thanks for the new idea, I'll be thinking about all day 🙄 (okay, first, /pos, but really- this can easily change up a few more things and add some more conflict. I love it!!! Though maybe I'll make it a sub-series if I actually write it, since the "Not [ ]" is mostly focused on the Batfam, so kind of like an alternate universe type deal? I'm willing to know anyone's thoughts and suggestions on this.)

That can definitely happen, and it makes a lot of sense too when you really think about it (at least the part leading up to where the villian runs into the reader and encounters their music), especially when the reader is not only a well known musician- but known to be the kid of Bruce Wayne.

Even if no one really knows the identity of Batman, everyone and their dog knows Bruce Wayne. You'd have to do more than just live under a rock to not know that guy — especially in Gotham.

Just that fact alone — the reader being another kid adopted by Bruce Wayne — is definitely going to paint a target on their back, especially when they're in a big industry like music. The "well-known" part is just the sprinkles on top of the "you're fucked" cake. Even if I have said before that the reader isn't well-known to the point where they'd be considered super famous or popular, but enough to where people can still recognize them on the street and just kind of say "hey, isn't that the musician who played ( ) the other night? i heard they're pretty good, y'know."

Basically, someone trying to attack them for whatever reason, or even trying to kidnap them, is very possible and highly likely.

I can't say who in particular I think the villian would be? Only because I'm not sure myself, with how flexible the situation is.

The villian could be going to one of the reader's performances simply because there are a lot of other people attending, and if they want to make a grand performance of their own, or have a grand opening to a game, one of the reader's performances seem like the easiest way to do just that. So they settle in a little, waiting for everything to be just right... then they see the reader and whatever instrument they'll be playing, as they and the other performers wait for everyone to get in and settle down.

Maybe the villian hardly notices it at first, or it immediately catches their attention. Maybe they just roll their eyes and scoff or just become curious in some way. Maybe what makes them hate it/curious about it at first is the reader themself. The villian thinks the reader is just another rich kid trying to show off their 'talent'... or notices that the reader is from the Wayne family and that catches their attention, maybe.

Or, alternatively they try to assassinate or kidnap the reader. Maybe just rob them too while they're at it.

It doesn't matter how they get in- what does matter is that they don't know much about the reader besides that they're a musician of some kind and the kid of Bruce Wayne, and maybe for whatever mission they're doing- that's all they need to know. Or all they feel they need to know, as maybe they catch the reader in the middle of a performance no matter how they try to go about their mission — either planning to take the reader out from the backstage, drop them from beneath the floor boards, or snipe them from up top — and the villian hesitates as they really listen to the reader play once their focused is centered on them.

Regardless of how it starts, once it does- they're captived, near mesmerized by what they hear.

Before the villian even knows it, they're watching the entire performance. Any compliments they have towards the reader's music turn to the reader themself, and by the end of the night... the villian is caught in a trap of their own making.

If they were looking into the reader before, that research only delves deeper as they try to figure out each and every little thing about the reader. If they weren't really looking at information about the reader before, they definitely are now.

A simple 'interest' turns into a whole obsession, and now, as you've mentioned, are stalking the reader.

Maybe the villian even dedicates certain atrocities they do in the reader's name, maybe they attend and try to ruin the reader's performances because they believe they should be the only one to hear the reader's music, or just want to be all that much closer to them.

Maybe the villian tries to kidnap the reader, but just so that they can hold them close, or have them play all the tunes they wish to hear from the reader for the rest of eternity... however long that lasts. Who knows?

Tldr: It is very possible, and if anything, more likely than you think!

I hope this answered your question! If you or anyone else has another question, feel free to send in an ask! I'll try to answer them when I can!

[chasholidays]

Happy holiday season I guess?? As always, thanks for doing these! I love your writing so much. I'd love an alternate POV of The Nature of My Game.

Original fic here!

The first time Bellamy thinks about going into Flower Hour, it’s the week The Force Awakens comes out, when the sign is, for once, not names that will never be his, and is instead something that might apply. But If your favorite Star Wars character is LEIA, come inside for a free flower! must go up on a weekend, because he didn’t see it and there’s no way they just didn’t feature her as a potential favorite. He refuses to believe Leia was just skipped.

Most days, he checks the sign out of idle curiosity. He knows, with absolute certainty, that he will never walk past and find that his name is on the sign, but he still finds it kind of fun to what they have put up. There’s generally some cool letting and decoration, and it’s not like it’s hard to see the sign. It’s just this idle thing. He doesn’t expect to ever interact with it, not unless they do another “if your favorite X is Y” kind of deal because, again, Bellamy is never going to make it onto whatever random name generator they’re using for this. And he doesn’t ever plan on needing flowers, so, yeah. Just a weird diversion.

But then, one morning in February, he’s going to school early to do retests, and he sees a cute girl in a knitted beanie doing touch-ups on the sign, which has been on a Hamilton theme all week. And, okay, he’s not completely shallow, but he was already curious, so if he can strike up a conversation with a cute girl and find out more about the sign, that’s definitely a win.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t actually have a plan for the conversation, which is how, once he gets back to the store after work and finds the same cute girl behind the register, he ends up saying, “I have a complaint about your sign.”

She cocks her head, frowning a little. “Which one? I have a lot of signs.”

“The one outside. If your name is Angelica–”

“That was my first guess.” She straightens up, becoming visibly more professional as he watches. “What’s the complaint?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I like the Hamilton theme. But you know how much those signs suck for people who don’t have common names? Or, even worse, people who have common names, but don’t have common names in the US.”

She thinks this over for a second. “My name is Clarke. With an e at the end. So I get some of that. Not the non-US names, but still. Did you have a suggestion, or do you just like complaining?”

It’s a valid question. “I do like complaining. How do you pick the names?” he asks, mostly to make conversation. “I know it’s not Hamilton every week.”

“How long has this been building?”

“You’re on the way to the train station.” She seems more annoyed than upset, so it feels fairly safe to add, “And I named my little sister and then spent my entire childhood getting blamed for how she could never find anything with her name on it at souvenir shops.”

“What’s her name?”

“Octavia.”

“Oh, wow, yeah. That one never hit my radar, honestly.”

“I bet you’re out of Bort license plates too,” he says without thinking, but she gets the reference and laughs. Which is nice. Clarke-with-an-e is getting cuter by the minute, and she might not even find his attempts to make conversation completely awful. Weird names apparently isn’t as terrible a conversation starter as he thought.

“I don’t think there’s any natural way I can use Octavia for my giveaway without looking like I’m specifically targeting your sister. Is she local? Is she cute? Would she appreciate it?”

He makes a mental note that she seems to be interested in women, which doesn’t mean she can’t be interested in him, but he shouldn’t assume she is. Not that he’s really expecting it to go anywhere anyway, but it’s a good thing to keep in mind. “She’s got a boyfriend, so I don’t think there’s much point in you trying to lure her in with a free flower. But if they ever break up, I’ll let you know.”

“So your outrage is theoretical,” she says, and he nearly laughs.

“You haven’t hit my name yet either. I doubt you’re going to.”

“What is it?”

“That would be telling.”

She gives him a somewhat patronizing smile. “That’s exactly what it would be, yeah. The general response to asking is telling.”

The normal, logical thing to do would be to just tell her. She’d probably put his name up, if she has any control over the whole thing, which would be kind of cool. He wasn’t lying; he never has seen his name anywhere.

But they’ve been teasing each other, so it feels a lot more right to say, “If you find it, I’ll be sure to get my flower. But, like I said, there’s no way.”

“Well, thanks for that useful feedback, then,” says Clarke-with-an-e. “I’m looking forward to continuing to not putting your name up on my sign.”

“Me too,” he says. “Definitely the highlight of my day.”

He isn’t really expecting anything special on Monday, the start of a new theme week at best, but when he passes by late after his department meeting on Monday, he sees the name, written in the usual clear, bold hand is Rumpelstiltskin, and it feels like that has to be personal.

There’s certainly no harm in stopping by to check.

Clarke is behind the counter, looking a little bored, but she perks up at the sight of him, straightening up and grinning as if she’s been waiting. “Did I get it?” she asks.

“So close.”

“Getting warmer?”

“Much closer than any of the Schuyler sisters. Did you get anyone?” he can’t help asking. He’s sure most of her names get at least a few hits a day, but sacrificing a whole day of it to a joke seems ill-advised. Even the Hamilton names were pretty common, except for maybe Angelica and Peggy.

“For what?” she asks, confused.

“I guess any of it,” he admits. “It’s a cute gimmick, but I’m wondering how much it works.”

She leans in close, a smile lurking around her lips. “Want to know the secret?”

He mirrors the movement. “Sure.”

“It can’t fail. It creates business because it’s cute and people like coming in to talk about it,” she says, which makes him feel a little less special. Apparently he’s not the only one. “I don’t check IDs or anything; it’s worth a few free flowers.” But then she adds, “Okay, I’d check yours,” and he’s back to feeling special.

He snorts. “Hey, I haven’t been lying to you. I’m telling you things aren’t my name.”

“I’ll still want proof.”

“Yeah, okay. If you ever find my name, I’ll give you proof. Seriously, how many Rumpelstiltskins?”

“Eleven. It was a good day for me. They all thought it was hilarious. The sign is great for foot traffic.”

“Glad it’s working for you,” he says, and before he knows it, he’s a regular. He goes in once a week, chats to Clarke, finds out what the most popular names were for the week, and, when she asks, starts giving her hints about his own name.

Which is actually really fucking difficult, as it turns out. He’s never put much thought into the name Bellamy before, and now he feels as if he has to learn absolutely everything about it, which mostly just teaches him that, to the extent that Bellamy is a first name, it’s usually a woman’s first name, and Clarke is definitely never going to figure it out.

If she didn’t seem to be the most stubborn person in the entire universe, he’d consider just telling her, but he thinks if he did, she’s just be pissed at him for not giving her the chance to guess herself. Still, with the information she has–his year of birth, the etymology of the last name Bellamy, and his ethnic background–he thinks she could go for thirty years without even coming close to figuring it out.

So it’s probably good that she gets a little help.

It’s a fairly unremarkable day, just a random Sunday in March. In theory, he knew that Clarke closed early on Sundays, because he’s seen her hours in the window, but it’s not the kind of thing that he considers relevant to his life. He still hasn’t ever interacted with Clarke outside of the shop, after hours, or over the weekend, and he has no idea how to start. It seems weird to ask someone out when, after five months, she still doesn’t even know his name.

So he was not expecting to run into her at the park, especially not with Miller.

Miller only knows about Clarke because alcohol exists and Bellamy has been lamenting a little about how there is this smart, gorgeous, funny girl he’s definitely into, but does not know how to interact with further. Miller’s response to the situation is always, “I really can’t tell you anything about how to flirt with women.”

Which makes him a deeply unfortunate witness for their first non-store interaction.

It is, at least, in part Bellamy’s own fault. He’s the one who throws the frisbee in deliberately the wrong direction, and he’s the one who sees it hit the water.

They both run over to survey the damage, but Bellamy gets there first; he has to admit, he’s kind of proud.

“I got it really far, right?” he calls over his shoulder, and Miller glares.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Blake!”

“Takes one to know one, Miller,” he shoots back.

Miller catches up to him at the lake shore and shakes his head. “Dude. What the fuck.”

“It was an accident,” he lies.

Miller scowls at him. “I’m not getting it.”

“You want me to get it? I’d rather just give it up for dead. Buried at sea. Viking-style.”

“It’s my frisbee.”

“I’ll buy you a new one. It’s fucking fifty degrees. That water would give my hypothermia. You’d miss my junk if it froze off.”

In theory, he knew that other people were around, and he even noticed there was a person on the bench. He’d just sort of assumed that he didn’t know them and that they weren’t paying attention. No one is supposed to care about his shit-talking.

But then he hears Clarke says, “You’d have to stay in pretty long to get hypothermia.”

He jumps and turns, hoping against hope that he’s wrong, that he won’t actually see her there, but of course there she is, sitting on a bench with a sketchpad, smiling smugly in his general direction.

Miller loves it, of course. “Thanks for the medical advice, bench girl. See? It’s fine.”

“That’s Clarke,” he says, and adds, “She doesn’t know my name,” because that should clear it up. And prevent Miller from calling him Bellamy, as a bonus.

“Wow,” she teases. “I always wondered how you’d introduce me. That was even more awkward than I thought it would be.”

He focuses on her because he knows if he looks at Miller, he will probably just throw himself in the lake. He knew the whole Clarke thing was weird, but it was so much easier to pretend it wasn’t before anyone else was witnessing it.

So he gives her a sheepish smile and says, “Hi. Sorry about–everything about this.”

“Dude,” says Miller.

“Shut up. She runs that flower shop by the train station,” he adds, mostly so Clarke won’t think he’s been talking about her.

But this is Miller, so of course that just makes it worse. “Oh, you know he’s obsessed with your signs, right?”

Clarke grins. “Yeah, I was getting that impression.”

There’s nothing to do but try to get the conversation back on track. “So, uh, what are you doing here?”

“The correct line is Do you come here often?” says Miller.

“Go jump in the lake for your frisbee and leave us alone,” he says, glaring, and Miller actually listens. At least to the extent that he leaves, even if he doesn’t jump in the lake. So apparently his massive crush on Clarke is just as massive and obvious as he thought, and probably just as hopeless, given Miller is trying to help, for once “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I just–I didn’t think you lived around here.”

He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for, except for his entire life, but Clarke doesn’t call him out on it. “Why would I ever live close to my work? Makes no sense.”

“Assume I’m really bad at thinking through basically every interaction I’ve ever had with you.”

“I got that impression too. I’m drawing and pretending it’s warmer than it is,” she adds, scooting over on the bench in clear invitation, and he joins her.

“Yeah, we were playing frisbee and pretending it’s warmer than it is.”

“Until you threw the frisbee in the lake.”

“By accident,” he protests. That’s his story and he’s sticking to it. “Miller’s the one who didn’t catch it.”

She grins. “Clearly entirely his fault. I don’t think your junk would actually freeze off, by the way. You’d come out relatively unharmed, with all your, uh. Vital organs.”

He’s pretty sure his entire body flushes, including all of his vital organs. “I’m still sorry, by the way.”

“I’m not. It was funny.”

“I guess that’s about the best I could hope for. What are you drawing?” he adds.

“Nothing special. Just some sketches.”

“They’re really good,” he says, truthfully. “Not that I didn’t–you do the signs, and those are good, so I knew you were good.”

“You know you don’t actually have to feel weird, right?” she teases. “I’m happy to see you.”

“Yeah?”

“If I didn’t like talking to you, I definitely wouldn’t encourage you. I would have just told you I didn’t care what your name was and told you to leave.”

“That seems like bad customer service.”

“Okay, not in those exact words.” She drums her fingers on her sketchpad. “I definitely scared away the guy who gave me the idea for the if your name is sign.”

“Really?”

“He was a douchebag! Just a douchebag with a good idea. In his honor, the featured name will never be Chad. So if that was your name–”

“Definitely not Chad, no.”

She hums, noncommittal, like she doesn’t totally believe him, which he doesn’t understand until he passes the store on Monday and sees her sign: If your name is BLAKE OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT, come inside for a free flower!

Miller did call him Blake, now that Bellamy thinks of it. He doesn’t always, but whenever they’re doing anything even vaguely resembling a sport, Miller switches into jock mode. But she couldn’t think that’s his name. It’s so normal.

He’d been booking it to make it before she closed, and from the way her whole face lights up when she sees him, she must not have been expecting him to show up.

“I should have said, the play is kicking into high gear, so I’m going to be scarce this week,” he explains. “Probably the whole month. Play then spring break. I’m going to be a mess until April.”

“So you’re not just running away because I finally figured out your name.”

She sounds so smug, he feels bad correcting her. “Yeah, uh–that’s my last name. Sorry.”

There’s a pause as she thinks this over, finally settling on, “So, your first name is some obscure French last name, and your last name is–Blake.”

“Yup.”

“Wow.” She cocks her head. “You ever consider switching them?”

“I like my name.” He wets his lips. “You know, last name is really pretty good. That basically counts as–”

“Nope. I got a taste of power. I’m going to figure out the first name.”

“You know, I honestly believe you. Even if I’m not sure Miller calling me Blake counts as figuring it out,” he can’t help teasing. She’s so competitive, it’s impossible not to bait her.

“You didn’t tell me. So it counts. Blake,” she adds, thoughtful. “Something Blake.”

“Something Blake,” he confirms. “Getting closer and closer.”

She waits until the play is over before she does a French last names theme week, which is so hilarious he can’t help stopping by on a Saturday, for the first time ever, just to see what she throws up. It’s busier than it usually is when he comes in, not shockingly, and Clarke doesn’t even notice him until he’s been browsing for ten minutes.

“Your name isn’t actually Mercier, is it?”

“No. But you know I don’t always come by on weekends, right? You could get it and we’d never know.”

“I was going to tell you on Monday.”

“I feel like it doesn’t count if I don’t see it. What’s tomorrow?”

“Lefevre.”

“I can confirm none of those are my name. Have you gotten any Merciers? Are people still coming in?”

“I’ve mostly gotten last names, and I’ll give flowers for last names.” She leans on the counter. “Almost recovered from the play?”

“Almost. Just in time for spring break.”

“Which is a bad thing.”

“It’s going to be fun, we’re going to Italy. But I’m going to want to murder the kids after about six hours.”

She hums, thoughtful. “I’d probably put up with a bunch of kids if I got to go to Italy.”

“Yeah, that’s basically what I’m telling myself.” He sighs. “I know this is pointless to say, but if you ever want me to just tell you my name, I will.”

“I can just call you Mr. Blake, right? That’s part of your name. It’s close enough.”

“That’s what students call me, please don’t.”

She laughs. “I’m going to get it. I keep telling you.”

“You do keep telling me.” He wets his lips. “So, I’m here, I want to relax. Anything I can do?”

“Your idea of relaxing is asking me if I have work for you?”

“I hear a lot of people use gardening to relax,” he says, with a shrug. “If there’s anything you need–”

To his relief, she looks pleased, not weirded out. “I think I can find you something, Mr. Blake.”

He very nearly screws up and says, Call me Bellamy, but he remembers at the last moment. Somehow, he doesn’t seem to have fucked this relationship up yet. There’s no reason to start now.

On Friday, she asks if he’ll be in on Saturday again, and he tells her, regretfully, that he’s got to get ready for the trip.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, have fun. I’ll see you when you get back?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Have a good week.”

“You too.”

He does, of course. He complains to his sister non-stop about everything, but that’s how he and his sister prefer to communicate, and he wishes he’d asked for Clarke’s number so he could send her pictures and tell her stories, just so he could talk to her.

His crush might be bigger than he thought, and he already thought it was pretty big.

When he gets back, he for once has nothing to do after school, so he can actually go right over to Clarke’s and say hi. It’s hard not to feel like he’s maybe making too big a deal of it, missed her more than their relationship really warrants, and then he sees the sign: If your name is BELLAMY BRADBURY BLAKE, come inside for a free flower!

He takes a picture, just for posterity, and heads inside to see Clarke rearranging rows of potted flowers. She perks up at the sound of the bell, breaks into a brilliant smile and, yeah.

He definitely has a shot.

“Were you stalking me while I was gone?” he teases, leaning against the wall next to her.

“Yup,” she says, unrepentant. “Did you know Bellamy doesn’t make the top one thousand last names in France? I was never going to figure it out.”

“Nope. I did try to warn you.” He frowns. “How did you?” Now that he thinks about it, it is kind of creepy. Maybe she tracked down Miller.

“Found your sister.”

That probably should have been his first guess. “So, actual stalking. Nice. I guess did give you her name.”

“I just put it on the sign. For three days,” she admits.

“I think it would have been easier to just ask me.”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t really excited to see your name on that board.”

He’s going to make the picture his new facebook profile picture, probably, so he can’t deny that.“Yeah, okay, I was. Is it weird if I say I missed you?” he asks, looking her up and down. Her hair’s kind of frizzing out and she looks tired, but gorgeous. “When I was gone.”

“I put out a beacon for your sister,” she points out. “I think it’s pretty safe to say I missed you too.”

“Awesome. Can I get a free flower, or do you need to see my ID first?”

“ID, definitely.”

He hands it over without complaint, watches her check it. “So, yeah. I’m Bellamy. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Bellamy.”

He swallows hard, but–she’s not going to mind. She can say no. “So, this might be too soon, since we just introduced ourselves, but I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner with me sometime.”

She smiles, bright and beautiful. “Yeah?”

“Maybe Friday. If you’re free.”

“I’m free, yeah. Dinner would be great.”

It is great, and she comes home with him after, which is even better, and the next year, on their anniversary, the sign’s out again: If your name is BELLAMY, come in for a free flower!

“I’m probably going to be your only taker for that one,” he tells her, leaning down for a quick kiss.

“That’s okay,” she says. “I figure it never gets old, seeing your name on the sign.”

She does it every year for their anniversary, and she’s right. It never does get old.