#catwoman shipverse tbt

[ironchosen]

@criminallyfamous

alana’s never bare in front of anyone but on occasion, with daphne, she’s capable of it. it happens once every ninety years when the stars align where she’s not either immediately shrugging back into the binder or pulling her shirt on swiftly. not that daph’s supposed to come over, but if she’s keeping track of where her best friend is and she always sort of is (what? catwoman is a dangerous thing to be!) she’s going to. most nights the stark heir assumes she’s going to have company. she keeps beefing up security and daph keeps getting past it. alana’s definitely come close a few times but the only way to win is with excessive force and she doesn’t want to succeed so bad she’d blow catwoman to bits. this fine night the estate’s chilly because it always is and there’s enough scotch in the man of iron that the cold barely matters. even if she’s only wearing gucci boxers. there’s a snaking, dark series of schematics squiggling around her chest, out from blinky’s slow pulse. that’s toxicity, poisoning, you know. and what you’re trying to do is fix it.

mhm. sir, catwoman is here to see you. bedeals keeps daph’s identity air tight, too. this is a team effort. the internet fucks call it ‘ironfam’ but when has the internet ever been knowledgeable or good at names. but this is an element in a chamber— the little ball of something that looks mercurial is moving and shifting, fluid, and she’s watching it go. late night science without an appetite, alana finds, is annoying. she keeps watching the element— unpronounceable and alien without a translator— react to the pressure she’s putting on it and wondering if it’s wise to shove something that inexplicable in her chest to power her own body. alana finally looks up, pushes glasses (no even safety goggles, why would she ever?) up into her hair.

she doesn’t have the breath to holler but she endures, “heeeeere, kitty kitty!”