illiteratedickgrayson

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Dick stares, gobsmacked, as Jean-Paul recites what sounds like an informational blurb about himself - which, what?! Trying to kill Tim was an actual thing?! - and tips forward in a dead faint. Leaping forward, Dick barely manages to catch the older man before he hits the ground in a clatter of armor. He's fairly certain that he actually pulls a muscle doing so.

Quickly, he puts the man in the recovery position and pays down the damn armor, trying to find how to take it off. As he dies, he hisses quietly, wary of Lilhy returning.

"Jean-Paul! Jean-Paul, wake up!"

He awoke in a cell. By the floor to ceiling stonework, rusty bars, and musty smell, he was clearly underground in an old building. A security camera was pointed on the cell, out of place with the downright medieval look of everything else.

No one had bothered to clothe him, but both his arms were bound and chained behind his back.

Minutes pass, and finally, a door is unlocked down the dark hallway, someone approaches.

Dick wishes this wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him.

His head is pounding courtesy of the wine bottle and the hangover. That he's growing used to working with the latter condition is probably one of those indicators that he's not as fine as he pretends to be.

But work he does; Dick carefully takes in his surroundings and his nudity, easily deducing who specifically he'd been kidnapped by. He even has some theories as to the 'why' and the greater 'who', considering Lilhy's preoccupation with Jean-Paul.

Being naked in front of a camera sending his image to an unknown audience makes his skin crawl, but he hides his discomfort under the chill of the cell. Attempts to manipulate the metal bindings prove to be useless - his hands are being forced to cup the elbows of the opposite arms. Any potential contortion tricks are offset by a short choke chain at his neck. Moving his arms too far away from his back impairs his breathing, essentially.

Fuck. It looks like he's in for a long stay.

Dick sits against the back wall, knees drawn up to cover himself and preserve heat. He looks up at the sound of a door opening and the steady sound of footsteps.

"Hello? Goodness me, a visitor!"

The sarcasm is biting.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Dick wonders if Lilhy is dosing Azrael's body with something to wind him up and watch him suffer for it. She doesn't seem to enjoy giving him relief, so it would have to be for some sadistic amusement of hers.

Or maybe, and this may be Dick's ego talking, maybe Azrael recognizes him on some level. Has enough memory to know that Dick Grayson is a good fuck. Thinking that way is almost reassuring.

Then the question.

Dick answers as honestly as he can.

"Jean-Paul is the child whom the Order put through the System to create Azrael. Azrael protected him, shielded his memories from the worst abuses. They shared the mortal body you now have, working in tandem and sometimes in opposition to protect people."

Dick's eyes are locked on the floor, trying to be succinct. This is not the time to go off about the annoying nerd who is as hot as he is aggravating and as sweet as he is shy. That guy who said 'love' and 'stay' so quickly. The man who would challenge him and comfort him in turn.

"I care very much for them both."

Blue eyes snap up to meet the angel's suddenly with a quiet intensity.

"Do you remember being told 'no'? Do you remember what you told me, that angels were created to serve man, that I could be the worst man there is and..."

He can't bring himself to finish the paraphrase, so disturbed still at the notion.

"Jean-Paul and Azrael were man and angel together, able to redefine what an Angel was allowed to have or do or want. They were free...just as you will be someday. I swear it."

He awoke in a cell. By the floor to ceiling stonework, rusty bars, and musty smell, he was clearly underground in an old building. A security camera was pointed on the cell, out of place with the downright medieval look of everything else.

No one had bothered to clothe him, but both his arms were bound and chained behind his back.

Minutes pass, and finally, a door is unlocked down the dark hallway, someone approaches.

Dick wishes this wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him.

His head is pounding courtesy of the wine bottle and the hangover. That he's growing used to working with the latter condition is probably one of those indicators that he's not as fine as he pretends to be.

But work he does; Dick carefully takes in his surroundings and his nudity, easily deducing who specifically he'd been kidnapped by. He even has some theories as to the 'why' and the greater 'who', considering Lilhy's preoccupation with Jean-Paul.

Being naked in front of a camera sending his image to an unknown audience makes his skin crawl, but he hides his discomfort under the chill of the cell. Attempts to manipulate the metal bindings prove to be useless - his hands are being forced to cup the elbows of the opposite arms. Any potential contortion tricks are offset by a short choke chain at his neck. Moving his arms too far away from his back impairs his breathing, essentially.

Fuck. It looks like he's in for a long stay.

Dick sits against the back wall, knees drawn up to cover himself and preserve heat. He looks up at the sound of a door opening and the steady sound of footsteps.

"Hello? Goodness me, a visitor!"

The sarcasm is biting.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Dick considers resisting. He could knock the goblet away - why would Lilhy arrange for him to receive wine and not Azrael? Is this her attempts at insult, mocking him for how she'd caught him drunk? Is this a means of sedation, to keep him unbound, but drugged and pliant?

Azrael would have to deliver the punishment, though. Jean-Paul would recoil in horror at what his hands have already done, it feels cruel of Dick to add more.

His head tilts, his lips part. Azrael feeds him the wine with care, making sure that nothing spills and that Dick doesn't choke. Dick keeps his eyes fixed on the exposed face standing over him and tries to ignore how the position and the act is making his heart race.

It feels like one of Jean-Paul and Azrael's rituals. A man and an angel and accepting what's being given.

Dick's breathing is a little heavy when he finishes the last drop and licks his lips.

"Do you need relief again, Angel?"

He awoke in a cell. By the floor to ceiling stonework, rusty bars, and musty smell, he was clearly underground in an old building. A security camera was pointed on the cell, out of place with the downright medieval look of everything else.

No one had bothered to clothe him, but both his arms were bound and chained behind his back.

Minutes pass, and finally, a door is unlocked down the dark hallway, someone approaches.

Dick wishes this wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him.

His head is pounding courtesy of the wine bottle and the hangover. That he's growing used to working with the latter condition is probably one of those indicators that he's not as fine as he pretends to be.

But work he does; Dick carefully takes in his surroundings and his nudity, easily deducing who specifically he'd been kidnapped by. He even has some theories as to the 'why' and the greater 'who', considering Lilhy's preoccupation with Jean-Paul.

Being naked in front of a camera sending his image to an unknown audience makes his skin crawl, but he hides his discomfort under the chill of the cell. Attempts to manipulate the metal bindings prove to be useless - his hands are being forced to cup the elbows of the opposite arms. Any potential contortion tricks are offset by a short choke chain at his neck. Moving his arms too far away from his back impairs his breathing, essentially.

Fuck. It looks like he's in for a long stay.

Dick sits against the back wall, knees drawn up to cover himself and preserve heat. He looks up at the sound of a door opening and the steady sound of footsteps.

"Hello? Goodness me, a visitor!"

The sarcasm is biting.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

"You are innocent, too."

Dick stares down at his meal, feeling the heavy weight of this conversation and being the only one of them to remember their previous discussion about innocence and punishment. He wonders if he'll be allowed to wear a mask to the ceremony or if all the cultists will see Dick Grayson and wonder about it.

"You don't realize it right now. So I'm staying. I'll realize it for you."

He eats mechanically, finishing his portion and his allotment of water before Azrael, even with the other man's speed. The angel had never had to defend a pizza from a speedster before; that's a special life skill.

"I would rather endure this than willingly leave you alone with these people, Azrael. I know you don't understand why. Just know that this is me, making a choice."

It's the same choice he'd made with Deathstroke. It's the choice he'll always make when his loved ones are on the line.

He awoke in a cell. By the floor to ceiling stonework, rusty bars, and musty smell, he was clearly underground in an old building. A security camera was pointed on the cell, out of place with the downright medieval look of everything else.

No one had bothered to clothe him, but both his arms were bound and chained behind his back.

Minutes pass, and finally, a door is unlocked down the dark hallway, someone approaches.

Dick wishes this wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him.

His head is pounding courtesy of the wine bottle and the hangover. That he's growing used to working with the latter condition is probably one of those indicators that he's not as fine as he pretends to be.

But work he does; Dick carefully takes in his surroundings and his nudity, easily deducing who specifically he'd been kidnapped by. He even has some theories as to the 'why' and the greater 'who', considering Lilhy's preoccupation with Jean-Paul.

Being naked in front of a camera sending his image to an unknown audience makes his skin crawl, but he hides his discomfort under the chill of the cell. Attempts to manipulate the metal bindings prove to be useless - his hands are being forced to cup the elbows of the opposite arms. Any potential contortion tricks are offset by a short choke chain at his neck. Moving his arms too far away from his back impairs his breathing, essentially.

Fuck. It looks like he's in for a long stay.

Dick sits against the back wall, knees drawn up to cover himself and preserve heat. He looks up at the sound of a door opening and the steady sound of footsteps.

"Hello? Goodness me, a visitor!"

The sarcasm is biting.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

The younger hero gives a happy shiver and sucks with more focus when Clint describes a gag with a dildo. Nightwing could use that at Daddy's house. He could wear his gag and sit in Daddy's lap and be full from both ends.

His warm hand moves from slowly stroking Clint's shaft to cupping his balls, rolling then gently with his palm. His tongue plays over the man's slit before broadening out to press against as much of the cock as it can. He even parts his lips so the wet muscle can lick further down, seemingly enraptured with the taste.

*Clint woke up the next day before Nightwing did. For a moment he was a little confused as to why he was curled up around another body untill he opened he remembered the, very pleasurable, night he had with the other man. He sat up and stretched his arms a bit, deciding to wake the other up in a nice way. He slowly pulled the blanket away fully from their bodies and smirked as he saw that the mess he had made while the other had been asleep was still there. He thought back on it: 5 more lovely loads of cum he had left after Nightwing had passed out. Of course he had been kind enough to untie his hands after he had passed out, otherwise they would be in pain. Clint smirked and then moved to eat Dick out slowly.*

@tired-archer

Nightwing groans softly in his sleep and slowly rocks his hips against the bed, seeking friction as his cock responds to Clint's generous ministrations. His legs, also freed from their restricted position, twitch and dig their toes into the bed.

It takes Nightwing a few more minutes for his brain to come online and there's a moment where he tenses, turns to look over his shoulder with something like fear, where there's a potent danger present in every inch of him.

And then it's gone. Smoothed away under relaxing muscles and a sleepy smile and a disheveled ponytail.

"Holy shit, Clint...did you ever stop? I feel so full, I'm surprised I can't see a bump..."

[illiteratedickgrayson]

"Tim, I feel like this is somehow your fault."

\\ oh anon you have given me a gift. this also implies possible mpreg. 10/10 no notes, lets make it happen people

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Nightwing is updating his information. 'Mae' is definitely more than she seems to be - a meta for sure, enhanced strength at the very least. He had been correct in his hypothesis regarding where the VanVillains had acquired the kryptonite to start with - lab grown stuff is a tricky mix of easier to produce and highly documented. For a lab to 'lose' four samples like this a cover-up has to be in play. A business loses its legal right to play with certain materials if those materials keep winding up in the wrong hands.

Four lead boxes of various sizes, bedazzled with surprising artistry in plastic gems that are hopefully color-coded to what's inside. Pink, Purple...possibly a white or clear variant? Yikes. Could be Opal, actually, that might explain the confused decorating choices. The last one has Green plastic stuck to it and the scientist goon hurries to explain to 'Mae'

"It's not the real green, I checked! It's a variant on the synthetic stuff-!"

Which seems to greatly upset one of the other men, Steve, judging by his loud response to having been unknowingly around an extremely radioactive material. The argument grows quickly to shouting, attracting attention from the patrolling henchmen. They start to look over at the parked van, the boxes...and the almost invisible vigilante.

Nightwing curses the lot of them for their unprofessionalism as a bullet ricochets off the girder near his ear and he fires his grapple. More shots and echoing cries of 'it's a bat!' accompany his descent to intervene with the kryptonite deal.

"Mind if I drop in to check out the rock collection?"

"He flies through the air with the greatest of ease! That daring young man on the flying trapeze~!"

@illiteratedickgrayson might be moving as slowly as molasses to Kryptonian senses as he swings from a highrise apartment building and into a series of flips. He lets himself freefall for a few stories before sitting out his grapple again to angle himself around another highrise, his blue, gold, and black suit disappearing into the Gotham night.

As showy as he is, Nightwing knows how to hide himself in the shadows with an ease that borders on the uncanny. His unknowing targets in an unmarked van, tan, plates xxx-xxxx, dent on the left rear bumper, have been good at tracking vigilantes through social media sightings. He can see them now, coming out of hiding and heading toward the docks, the opposite direction of where he's just been seen going.

The vigilante follows them stealthily and silently, all the way to the warehouse of a company he makes note of. It's likely yet another LexCorp subsidiary; who else would be making underground deals in Gotham for even a small amount of Kryptonite? He settles into the rafters to gather information and decide whether to interrupt the deal or trace it.

Supergirl is walking on the streets of Gotham in civilian clothes. Her straightened hair is ginger and she is wearing a green shirt and plain denim jeans with an envelope in the lining, along with some block heels, which might even make her seem inconspicuous around these parts... She checks the address, which she has written down in a torn-off piece of notepad paper. "Is it the warehouse on the left or the one on the right? They said it was number 801 on the..." She looks around while still only facing forwards, enabling her X-ray vision to look through the concrete wall of the warehouse. She spots the number 801 from the indent on the poorly-lit metal sign from through the wall and turns right, smiling, happy that she could actually find someone that would sell her this. And what luck that she didn't need to get lost on the way there!

Her heart starts pounding as she walks around to the pull-up metal door and rings on the buzzer. A human would be sweating by this point, so in the blink of an eye, she zooms away and back, getting some spray from the ocean (luckily we're near the docks) on her face and clothes, knowing that the salty water could be mistaken for sweat due to the salinity. She probably set off a few speed cameras and accidentally gave some poor drivers speeding tickets, but, having done far too much research into the speed cameras available in the area, at the speed she went she would have been flagged but not detected by them. She thought to herself, "Speed cameras are getting far too advanced." and exhaled nervously, her breath visible in the cold air.

Supergirl stood in front of the door, not able to see through the door and expecting lead anyway, because, well, it's Gotham... The buzzer sounds and the door clicks open, in what her mind is convincing her to call a sultry manner. Someone on the other end, a bald man with a number of pallid tattoos and an old-fashioned beanie, opens the door for her. "Who is it?" Supergirl, not thinking properly, said, in a clueless voice, "I'm Mae. You know who." "Ya could be anybody, doll! The code!" Supergirl, now known as "Mae", recites the code, feigning ditzy-ness in her voice and body, "The fish is here to stop the sunrise?" The man sighs, gets off the wooden stool he was sitting on and lets me in. She can see a closed door behind him, a side-door to her right and an enclosed staircase that probably leads to an upper level for maintenance. Looking through the closed door behind him, she sees that it's triple-locked and leads to a downstairs area, the contents of which is shielded by Gotham's signature lead piping, as expected! Mae turns to the man as she switches visions back. He has a cancer spreading throughout his chest which affects his breathing slightly. Mae wonders whether she should tell him. He grabs a key to open the side-door and lets her in, taking a while to find the right key. Upon entering the warehouse from the side-door, Mae sees that it's a big shadowy room with skylights, the entranceway didn't just look completely enclosed in concrete, it was enclosed in bulky concrete, and that a van is parked in the main room with the back closed. The man who greeted Mae, whom the others greet as Steve, says, "As you can see, the buyer's here. The buyer." They look at Mae. They're all taller than her. The two of them that Steve refers to personally are sitting down on two camping chairs with a wooden box between them, facing the door and the back of the van. That Mae can see normally, without looking up at the ceiling or switching vision, there are 5 armed people with guns near the van. Three extra people are at the back of the warehouse, and at least one has crutches of some kind. Mae thinks that they must all need the money. Steve says heavily to the sitting duo, "Show some composure."

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Dick takes the time to shrug into an alb, frowning at the plainness of the clothing before joining Azrael again. The food doesn't appear to be tampered with, but the portions make it clear to Dick that he needs to be more careful with his energy. The calorie expenditure for an active man like him, even when taking out the hours of crime fighting, is going to be a problem.

He has a brief thought about how many blowjobs he would need to give to make up the difference before shaking his head.

"I would have looked for you too quickly. She came to my apartment with a story meant to drive me away and I could only be convinced to keep my physical distance. I was going to try to contact Jean-Paul and Azrael, probably as soon as she left."

The food isn't even seasoned well. Dick stoically continues through a meal that reminds him of his time in Juvie.

"She must have realized I would be too much trouble if I was left behind, and she says she finds me attractive. This must be her idea of compromise."

Dick gets to see Azrael all he wants and Lilhy gets to have a new toy to play with.

He awoke in a cell. By the floor to ceiling stonework, rusty bars, and musty smell, he was clearly underground in an old building. A security camera was pointed on the cell, out of place with the downright medieval look of everything else.

No one had bothered to clothe him, but both his arms were bound and chained behind his back.

Minutes pass, and finally, a door is unlocked down the dark hallway, someone approaches.

Dick wishes this wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him.

His head is pounding courtesy of the wine bottle and the hangover. That he's growing used to working with the latter condition is probably one of those indicators that he's not as fine as he pretends to be.

But work he does; Dick carefully takes in his surroundings and his nudity, easily deducing who specifically he'd been kidnapped by. He even has some theories as to the 'why' and the greater 'who', considering Lilhy's preoccupation with Jean-Paul.

Being naked in front of a camera sending his image to an unknown audience makes his skin crawl, but he hides his discomfort under the chill of the cell. Attempts to manipulate the metal bindings prove to be useless - his hands are being forced to cup the elbows of the opposite arms. Any potential contortion tricks are offset by a short choke chain at his neck. Moving his arms too far away from his back impairs his breathing, essentially.

Fuck. It looks like he's in for a long stay.

Dick sits against the back wall, knees drawn up to cover himself and preserve heat. He looks up at the sound of a door opening and the steady sound of footsteps.

"Hello? Goodness me, a visitor!"

The sarcasm is biting.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

"He's a man."

Nightwing's fists are clenched tightly in his gloves and he doesn't bother to deny that he's afraid for Bruce. For Tim. For Alfred. There's a new monster in the darkness and he needs to protect his family.

"You keep calling him 'the Bat', but you're leaving out half of him. He's just a man, Bane. You say you've seen him in the day, sleeping. Did he inspire fear like that?"

And Nightwing hates that he has to say it, but damn it he's seen too many villains with homoerotic fantasies about Batman in his life to not notice the freaking pattern.

"Are you certain that hurting him is truly what you want? Because to conquer fear...your people just took off to destroy who knows how much fear gas - you could have gone a practice round."

Magic Anon: you have been infected with fear toxic. You do not have an antidote on hand

((Gonna shake up the prompt a little (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)))

Nightwing has a lot of regrets in his life; a lot more than the average nineteen-year-old. He regrets how he'd treated Jason at the start of their brotherhood. He regrets when his weakness harms the people around him. Some days he even regrets not throwing himself off the platform to fall with his parents the way a better son might have.

Right now, he regrets falling for a trap and winding up strapped to an examination table in an underground laboratory. He regrets the comms unit that has been pulled away from him and destroyed. He regrets that he doesn't really have anyone to even realize he's missing.

The grinning mask of Scarecrow's subordinate moves out of his view and the pinch of the needle ceases. It's a little funny, Nightwing thinks, that the person under that mask presses a bit of gauze to the injection site. Maybe they're a phlebotomist or a nurse when they're not drugging vigilantes and recording the results.

There's a camera in front of him, the red light indicating active filming. "Streaming", he'd heard the goons say. The one in charge is behind it, already taking notes from the machines hooked up to Nightwing; heart rate, blood pressure, brain activity, more that he can't identify at the moment. He's really tied down, he can't even turn his head.

Which makes things worse when the fear creeps in and he can't run. Nightwing struggles silently at first, trying to escape the restraints, then with growing desperation and soft gasps. He needs to go. He needs to run, to climb! People are going to fall and he needs to be there to catch them!

He doesn't remember when he starts screaming, but his cries don't drown out the hallucinated sounds of bodies hitting the ground.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Dick holds back a derisive snort and doesn't say anything about how he must be very high-ranking now to be assigned to Azrael. His fingers smooth lightly over the sheets as he's lost in thought.

He'll have to track down that Seal. Possibly destroy it? If it takes an entire mass to reset Azrael he won't be able to convince the cultists to free their weapon. But maybe the Seal is a macguffin, a placebo, a hypnotist's watch. If he can get to it he might be able to use it without the need for the elaborate ritual.

Bed remade to his satisfaction, Dick straightens up and stretches, bending backward until his spine gives a satisfying pop that makes him grunt. He turns around to look at Azrael, still standing there, watching him.

"Is there a clock in here, big guy? I don't even know what day it is...or where we are. I don't think it's Gotham anymore, though. Do you know?"

He awoke in a cell. By the floor to ceiling stonework, rusty bars, and musty smell, he was clearly underground in an old building. A security camera was pointed on the cell, out of place with the downright medieval look of everything else.

No one had bothered to clothe him, but both his arms were bound and chained behind his back.

Minutes pass, and finally, a door is unlocked down the dark hallway, someone approaches.

Dick wishes this wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him.

His head is pounding courtesy of the wine bottle and the hangover. That he's growing used to working with the latter condition is probably one of those indicators that he's not as fine as he pretends to be.

But work he does; Dick carefully takes in his surroundings and his nudity, easily deducing who specifically he'd been kidnapped by. He even has some theories as to the 'why' and the greater 'who', considering Lilhy's preoccupation with Jean-Paul.

Being naked in front of a camera sending his image to an unknown audience makes his skin crawl, but he hides his discomfort under the chill of the cell. Attempts to manipulate the metal bindings prove to be useless - his hands are being forced to cup the elbows of the opposite arms. Any potential contortion tricks are offset by a short choke chain at his neck. Moving his arms too far away from his back impairs his breathing, essentially.

Fuck. It looks like he's in for a long stay.

Dick sits against the back wall, knees drawn up to cover himself and preserve heat. He looks up at the sound of a door opening and the steady sound of footsteps.

"Hello? Goodness me, a visitor!"

The sarcasm is biting.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

'The medallion'

'A moldable state'

'Other parts of me could reassert'

Dick drops the laundry at the door and gets out the fresh sheets, his body on autopilot as his mind sorts through information and plans. It sounds to him like witnessing this process would be helpful in figuring out how to undo it, but he's not sure if Lilhy would allow him that chance. Maybe if she were truly certain that Azrael could not return to who he'd been before with Jean-Paul she would allow Dick to watch so she could gloat.

And she had mentioned having him between her legs during mass, hadn't she? Maybe that was just fantasy. He hopes it was just fantasy.

"What medallion do they use? Is Lilhy the one to use it on you?"

He awoke in a cell. By the floor to ceiling stonework, rusty bars, and musty smell, he was clearly underground in an old building. A security camera was pointed on the cell, out of place with the downright medieval look of everything else.

No one had bothered to clothe him, but both his arms were bound and chained behind his back.

Minutes pass, and finally, a door is unlocked down the dark hallway, someone approaches.

Dick wishes this wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him.

His head is pounding courtesy of the wine bottle and the hangover. That he's growing used to working with the latter condition is probably one of those indicators that he's not as fine as he pretends to be.

But work he does; Dick carefully takes in his surroundings and his nudity, easily deducing who specifically he'd been kidnapped by. He even has some theories as to the 'why' and the greater 'who', considering Lilhy's preoccupation with Jean-Paul.

Being naked in front of a camera sending his image to an unknown audience makes his skin crawl, but he hides his discomfort under the chill of the cell. Attempts to manipulate the metal bindings prove to be useless - his hands are being forced to cup the elbows of the opposite arms. Any potential contortion tricks are offset by a short choke chain at his neck. Moving his arms too far away from his back impairs his breathing, essentially.

Fuck. It looks like he's in for a long stay.

Dick sits against the back wall, knees drawn up to cover himself and preserve heat. He looks up at the sound of a door opening and the steady sound of footsteps.

"Hello? Goodness me, a visitor!"

The sarcasm is biting.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Nightwing stays tense, teeth bared in a daring grin. Bane is dangerous. Bane is so dangerous. He wonders if Batman even knows about this guy yet. He wonders if Bane looks at Robin with this same level of murderous, possessive desire, jealous of a child vigilante for having Batman's regard.

What the man says chills Nightwing to the bone.

"You've what?! You've been at his bedside, what, like in his house?!"

The vigilante's face is growing pale, almost as stark as it had been when he'd been strapped to the examination table and screaming.

"You won't get the chance. I won't let you. You're an intelligent guy, Bane; what you're talking about isn't some higher calling - it's messed up!"

Nightwing's seen Batman broken before. He refuses to allow another rogue to sacrifice his other little brother on the altar of their obsession with Batman.

Magic Anon: you have been infected with fear toxic. You do not have an antidote on hand

((Gonna shake up the prompt a little (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)))

Nightwing has a lot of regrets in his life; a lot more than the average nineteen-year-old. He regrets how he'd treated Jason at the start of their brotherhood. He regrets when his weakness harms the people around him. Some days he even regrets not throwing himself off the platform to fall with his parents the way a better son might have.

Right now, he regrets falling for a trap and winding up strapped to an examination table in an underground laboratory. He regrets the comms unit that has been pulled away from him and destroyed. He regrets that he doesn't really have anyone to even realize he's missing.

The grinning mask of Scarecrow's subordinate moves out of his view and the pinch of the needle ceases. It's a little funny, Nightwing thinks, that the person under that mask presses a bit of gauze to the injection site. Maybe they're a phlebotomist or a nurse when they're not drugging vigilantes and recording the results.

There's a camera in front of him, the red light indicating active filming. "Streaming", he'd heard the goons say. The one in charge is behind it, already taking notes from the machines hooked up to Nightwing; heart rate, blood pressure, brain activity, more that he can't identify at the moment. He's really tied down, he can't even turn his head.

Which makes things worse when the fear creeps in and he can't run. Nightwing struggles silently at first, trying to escape the restraints, then with growing desperation and soft gasps. He needs to go. He needs to run, to climb! People are going to fall and he needs to be there to catch them!

He doesn't remember when he starts screaming, but his cries don't drown out the hallucinated sounds of bodies hitting the ground.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Dick nods, hoping that the other understood his unspoken apology. He gets to his feet with a wince and moves to the bed.

"I'll change the sheets and clean up the sick, first. D'you have a laundry chute in here or a hamper? Does the angel of death do his own laundry?"

The bedsheets reek of sex and sweat and blood. Dick strips them quickly, glad to have a task to focus on. This set of rooms is pretty bare, but he shudders to think about what he might be tasked with if he asks Lilhy for a source of entertainment. This cult seems to like their reward system way too much.

"Is being Reset going to hurt you?"

He awoke in a cell. By the floor to ceiling stonework, rusty bars, and musty smell, he was clearly underground in an old building. A security camera was pointed on the cell, out of place with the downright medieval look of everything else.

No one had bothered to clothe him, but both his arms were bound and chained behind his back.

Minutes pass, and finally, a door is unlocked down the dark hallway, someone approaches.

Dick wishes this wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him.

His head is pounding courtesy of the wine bottle and the hangover. That he's growing used to working with the latter condition is probably one of those indicators that he's not as fine as he pretends to be.

But work he does; Dick carefully takes in his surroundings and his nudity, easily deducing who specifically he'd been kidnapped by. He even has some theories as to the 'why' and the greater 'who', considering Lilhy's preoccupation with Jean-Paul.

Being naked in front of a camera sending his image to an unknown audience makes his skin crawl, but he hides his discomfort under the chill of the cell. Attempts to manipulate the metal bindings prove to be useless - his hands are being forced to cup the elbows of the opposite arms. Any potential contortion tricks are offset by a short choke chain at his neck. Moving his arms too far away from his back impairs his breathing, essentially.

Fuck. It looks like he's in for a long stay.

Dick sits against the back wall, knees drawn up to cover himself and preserve heat. He looks up at the sound of a door opening and the steady sound of footsteps.

"Hello? Goodness me, a visitor!"

The sarcasm is biting.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Wild, violent protective desire surges through Nightwing as he sees the demented obsession in his rescuer's face. The red eyed mask does nothing to hide the covetous expression, the possessive entitlement.

Nightwing's seen it so often that it would be pathetic if it weren't so dangerous.

Socialites and gossip columnists and social climbers look at Bruce Wayne with that expression, and to a lesser degree at Dick Grayson. The rogues, yes; there's always a bizarre sense that they consider Gotham's vigilantes to belong to them as much as any other part of the city.

Most recently though, Nightwing sees Miriam's face as she reveals herself from Kori's image. He sees his own twisted leer as Deathwing grows obsessed with his former lover's unborn child. He sees Deathstroke. He always sees Deathstroke.

"How disappointing; you're just like everybody else, after all. A common stalker obsessed with a celebrity. A man with power who hates someone for what they represent. Just another selfish person who takes things that aren't to be taken."

Magic Anon: you have been infected with fear toxic. You do not have an antidote on hand

((Gonna shake up the prompt a little (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)))

Nightwing has a lot of regrets in his life; a lot more than the average nineteen-year-old. He regrets how he'd treated Jason at the start of their brotherhood. He regrets when his weakness harms the people around him. Some days he even regrets not throwing himself off the platform to fall with his parents the way a better son might have.

Right now, he regrets falling for a trap and winding up strapped to an examination table in an underground laboratory. He regrets the comms unit that has been pulled away from him and destroyed. He regrets that he doesn't really have anyone to even realize he's missing.

The grinning mask of Scarecrow's subordinate moves out of his view and the pinch of the needle ceases. It's a little funny, Nightwing thinks, that the person under that mask presses a bit of gauze to the injection site. Maybe they're a phlebotomist or a nurse when they're not drugging vigilantes and recording the results.

There's a camera in front of him, the red light indicating active filming. "Streaming", he'd heard the goons say. The one in charge is behind it, already taking notes from the machines hooked up to Nightwing; heart rate, blood pressure, brain activity, more that he can't identify at the moment. He's really tied down, he can't even turn his head.

Which makes things worse when the fear creeps in and he can't run. Nightwing struggles silently at first, trying to escape the restraints, then with growing desperation and soft gasps. He needs to go. He needs to run, to climb! People are going to fall and he needs to be there to catch them!

He doesn't remember when he starts screaming, but his cries don't drown out the hallucinated sounds of bodies hitting the ground.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

"You don't know that. You don't know that!"

And now they're trapped in this place with this person who will hurt them both. Who has hurt them both. Dick splashes the water angrily at Azrael's departure before finishing cleaning himself up. Spiteful, he hopes that the semen clogs the damn drains. Maybe renovations on an old church undercroft would alert heroes to their plight.

He towels off and walks into the bedroom to stand over Azrael as he kneels before his altar. Dick's still angry. Angry and helpless and he knows that he should be doing something more useful. He should case the room, or check to see if the door is locked, or even clean up the mess on and by the bed. He should rip that rosary out of Azrael's hands and incite a fight.

Instead, he huffs and sits behind Azrael, pressing his injured back against the angel's blood red armor. The low murmur of the angel's prayers is frustratingly soothing.

"Next time you bathe, let me help you. Your hair needs to breathe more often and I might as well be useful."

He awoke in a cell. By the floor to ceiling stonework, rusty bars, and musty smell, he was clearly underground in an old building. A security camera was pointed on the cell, out of place with the downright medieval look of everything else.

No one had bothered to clothe him, but both his arms were bound and chained behind his back.

Minutes pass, and finally, a door is unlocked down the dark hallway, someone approaches.

Dick wishes this wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him.

His head is pounding courtesy of the wine bottle and the hangover. That he's growing used to working with the latter condition is probably one of those indicators that he's not as fine as he pretends to be.

But work he does; Dick carefully takes in his surroundings and his nudity, easily deducing who specifically he'd been kidnapped by. He even has some theories as to the 'why' and the greater 'who', considering Lilhy's preoccupation with Jean-Paul.

Being naked in front of a camera sending his image to an unknown audience makes his skin crawl, but he hides his discomfort under the chill of the cell. Attempts to manipulate the metal bindings prove to be useless - his hands are being forced to cup the elbows of the opposite arms. Any potential contortion tricks are offset by a short choke chain at his neck. Moving his arms too far away from his back impairs his breathing, essentially.

Fuck. It looks like he's in for a long stay.

Dick sits against the back wall, knees drawn up to cover himself and preserve heat. He looks up at the sound of a door opening and the steady sound of footsteps.

"Hello? Goodness me, a visitor!"

The sarcasm is biting.

[illiteratedickgrayson]

💬 Eleanor

Eleanor's bossy, isn't she? Just because she's older, she thinks she knows everything! And she's just as nosy as Bruce is, she's just better at hiding it behind emotional competency. She always wants to make sure everyone's okay and safe...like a big sister would, I guess.

She reminds me of Donna that way; the ultimate Big Sister team up. Kinda scary that way, too. I don't know her too well yet; I'm avoiding healthy affection unless I stumble into it by accident, but she seems kind. Brave. Resilient. Intelligent. Gentle.

Sometimes I look at her and think that I know her from somewhere. As if there's something about a redheaded older sibling I'm not remembering correctly...

(( @eleanor-wayne ))

[illiteratedickgrayson]

Arkham's shitty security strikes again. He knows Bruce had been bolstering it with the Wayne fortune whenever he could, but somehow the place continues to be a nightmare in most dimensions.

Bane's disgust for the Joker is a relief, honestly. Learning that Killer Croc is sporting broken arms is a mix of concern for the guy and a small, guilty bit of schadenfreude from all the times the massive man had put him in a sling over the years. As for Catwoman...

"You've got good instincts there - she's not one to risk upsetting. But it sounds like you're after the Bat. Aren't you going to try to recruit him, too?"

Magic Anon: you have been infected with fear toxic. You do not have an antidote on hand

((Gonna shake up the prompt a little (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)))

Nightwing has a lot of regrets in his life; a lot more than the average nineteen-year-old. He regrets how he'd treated Jason at the start of their brotherhood. He regrets when his weakness harms the people around him. Some days he even regrets not throwing himself off the platform to fall with his parents the way a better son might have.

Right now, he regrets falling for a trap and winding up strapped to an examination table in an underground laboratory. He regrets the comms unit that has been pulled away from him and destroyed. He regrets that he doesn't really have anyone to even realize he's missing.

The grinning mask of Scarecrow's subordinate moves out of his view and the pinch of the needle ceases. It's a little funny, Nightwing thinks, that the person under that mask presses a bit of gauze to the injection site. Maybe they're a phlebotomist or a nurse when they're not drugging vigilantes and recording the results.

There's a camera in front of him, the red light indicating active filming. "Streaming", he'd heard the goons say. The one in charge is behind it, already taking notes from the machines hooked up to Nightwing; heart rate, blood pressure, brain activity, more that he can't identify at the moment. He's really tied down, he can't even turn his head.

Which makes things worse when the fear creeps in and he can't run. Nightwing struggles silently at first, trying to escape the restraints, then with growing desperation and soft gasps. He needs to go. He needs to run, to climb! People are going to fall and he needs to be there to catch them!

He doesn't remember when he starts screaming, but his cries don't drown out the hallucinated sounds of bodies hitting the ground.