#the gazette fanfiction

[sekai-no-reita]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: the GazettE (Band) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Reita/Uruha (the GazettE) Characters: Reita (the GazettE), Uruha (the GazettE) Additional Tags: handjob, Shower Sex, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Some Humor, Established Relationship Summary:

Even after all the years they’d been together, showering together like this always felt so intimate.

[kaityeg]

I don’t usually post my writing here, but what the heck. Happy Halloween!

[ghost-bxrd]

Hehehehehehhehehehee

Found this newspaper template and just had to try it. New project: finish several newspaper articles and make my own little Red Hood pinboard ✨

[taka-chan]

when my readers are like you made me cry!! it's the biggest honour i ever felt. and i go aw I'm sorry but I'm actually not, i want you to imagine this: i wanted you to ugly cry. i want you to feel your heart tear from love and longing and grief and having the wound patched up. eat it up. i'm here to give you this secure way of exploring the vast, colourful range of human emotion in the safety of my words. take it from my gentle hands. i'm holding you and you're safe. feel

that's the addictive part to me

[questing-wulfstan]

I think the original thesis was that one's art will inevitably lack the character and authenticity that compels and invests people if it's created precisely to cater to people's expectation, rather than what compels and invests the artist. Which I entirely agree with and genuinely see no legit counterargument to.

But that's what has somehow mutated into the 'you should make art for yourself and yourself alone, people's engagement is simply a nice bonus' thesis that regularly crosses my dash lately. And I get the sentiment behind it, I do !! Especially in a time, it seems, of people engaging less and less with fanworks. I however have much more reservations towards this statement, and would go as far as suggesting that it is counterproductive, in a time of people engaging less and less with fanworks.

Because, writing in this very case, but that goes for art in general, is meant to be shared. Art is about making connections, it’s a conversation. It’s saying ‘this is how I see the world, is this how you see it too ?’, and it expects a response. Stories were told long before they were written, and we started writing them to ensure they would be passed onto future generations, because we wanted to share them beyond our finitude. But to our peers that were there now, we kept telling stories because it’s not simply about transmission, it’s about reaction. Why would you tell the epics of great heroes if not to galvanise your audience ? Why would you elaborate horrors that chill your own bones if not to frighten your audience ? And why would you tell these stories if not to know whether they did galvanise or frighten your audience ? Why tell these stories if not for the comfort that your peers find courage, or fear in the same things that you do ?

Of course it’s an easy thing to overlook in our epoch where stories are most often recorded, in solitude, and then ‘consumed’ asynchronously, often also in solitude. Stories nowadays are written and read much more often than they are told and heard, and I see how we’ve come to disregard the need for response. However, something I have been formally taught as a librarian in that same epoch, is that people read because they seek something, and not for sole distraction. I believe people write for the same reason.

I can promise you as a writer that I make up stories for my own entertainment entirely. I wish you could see side by side the history of my first 5 years on AO3 and the monumental amount of potential fics I have elaborated in the same timespan. The act of writing was Difficult for me for various reasons during that time, so I never gave this myriad of stories a shape that allowed to share them on the internet. Because I was content enough vividly imagining these characters and situations; essentially, telling myself these stories. I believe other writers may need to tell themself their stories in a more tangible manner so they write them out, and then do so for themself solely.

However, if I have started to write regularly as of late, to compose and shape my stories into a form to convey to the best of my ability what my brain envisioned to a reader’s brain; if we writers put our stories out into the world for anyone to see, it’s because we want to share them, we want them read, we’re extending ourselves out to say ‘this is how I see the world too, this is how I feel too’. And we want to know that we aren’t alone in seeing the world as we do, in feeling as we do. We put our stories out instead of keeping them to ourselves because we want, and need response. As have all the storytellers that came before us.

So I honestly won’t suffer seeing another post on my dash telling writers that they need to write for themselves and disregard engagement because we do !! We write for ourselves !! But we share our writing publicly because we want, well, to *share* it. Because that’s an integral part of being human.

And if you are a reader who think that commenting on a fic is solely an ego boost for the writer and that a much-less-time-consuming kudos is ego boost enough, or that a story is between a writer and themself solely and that voicing your feelings about it is superfluous, I’m begging you to reconsider, your vision and what writers are truly offering.

[diamondmeadow]

one true pairing

I'm going through some of my old files in my fanfic writing folder to see if any of the past wips can be salvaged for some kind of relatable lines and I found a 3 page long essay that explains what my OTP was and why they were my OTP and how come they were so good together. Christ. I don't remember writing that at all. But also my OTP was two people who knew each other for majority of their lives and always had the bff vibes and I keep thinking no wonder I love wolfstar and perhaps I should start reading and writing prongsfoot too. Maybe prongsfoot makes even more sense ahaha. Does anyone have recs for prongsfoot? Either way, it makes me feel nostalgic about my past OTP. I wonder how the fandom is now. Since it's a band fandom, so real people and all, and they are currently in their 40s and god, I kind of wish I would still be there, so I could write about these 40 year olds being gay for each other. The dynamics would be so delicious.

[kaguraway]

Creepy Night with the Witches - Halloween Party (on Wattpad)

Essa é a versão revisada pelo @expressofic vencedora do 2º lugar do concurso Bests National Writers. https://www.wattpad.com/832449926-creepy-night-with-the-witches-halloween-party

Quando a lua de sangue estiver posicionada na noite do dia das bruxas, os escolhidos da terra do sol nascente estarão no local indicado pela escuridão, cantando sua própria música em volta da fogueira como ritual e selando seu destino. Nessa noite a escuridão vai envolver o mundo trazendo a perfeição da morte. Um conto baseado nos bastidores de um show de halloween.

[metal-and-machetes]

The Downward Spiral

—

Jed Olsen isn’t who he says he is.

Ghostface has a thing for the young reporter.

Danny Johnson always takes what he wants.

—

This is a dark Ghostface DBD fanfiction. Content warning:

Stalking

Torture

Sexual violence

Knifeplay

Dubcon/Noncon

Blood kink

Graphic descriptions of violence

A very mean Danny Johnson

Some wound fingering

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. If the above are triggers for you, do not proceed. DBD lore does not suggest Danny is fun or nice, I wrote him as such.

Originally posted on my AO3

—

Listen, I’m not going out tonight. I’m already in my pajamas and I’m just not in the mood.”

“Oh c’mon! Look, I know you’re bummed about your boyfriend breaking up with you, but I really think a girls’ night would do you good!” You sighed. Cass had good intentions, she was just trying to help, but you were just not in the mood tonight.

“It’s not just that. I still think that call was out of character for him. He just sounded… something wasn’t right.” You sighed. “He sounded scared…”

“Need I remind you that he’s the same man who made you cry, on like, multiple occasions. He was a piece of shit, babe. He really isn’t worth your time, he’s not worth any woman’s time.”

She was right. He wasn’t very nice to you. He blew you off, he was always late picking you up for dates, and he was just a jackass. Still though, something just felt off about his message. And then he just… vanished.

“Hellooooo?”

“Sorry, sorry. Hey, and not only that, what about the curfew? Roseville PD will be crashing parties, and I don’t think an office party is an exception.”

Cass huffed. “We’re the newspaper. I don’t think they’ll shut us down. You know Jed’s supposed to be here too.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Jed Olsen. He showed up a few months ago with a stacked portfolio and a ‘winning attitude’ according to the editor in chief. Jed Olsen with his confident smile. Jed Olsen with his dark hair and deep brown eyes. Jed Olsen with the entire office head over heels for him. You weren’t any different. Jed was nice to you, if not a little flirty, Cass pointed out that he seems to hang around your desk and chat with you the most. Jed was, in every way, miles better than your ex boyfriend.

“Tell him I said hi.” You replied. “I’m not leaving my house tonight.”

Cass sighed, defeated that her master plan didn’t get you to leap into your car and speed off to the party. “Okay, we’ll miss you tonight.”

“Have fun, let me know when you get back home.”

The line cut out after you exchanged goodbye and you were once again left in silence. You opened the microwave and tossed a bag of popcorn in, leaning against the counter as the machine heated the snack up and you went through the mail. Junk, junk, junk, bill, bill, coupon. You paused when you got to the Roseville Gazette.

TWO FOUND SLAIN IN ANOTHER HORRIFIC GHOSTFACE MURDER by Jed Olsen.

The screaming ghost mask stared back at you, taunting you, watching you. Jed’s career took off when the Ghostface killings began. The exclusive photos, taken by the murderer himself, certainly helped. But so did the interviews Jed conducted, you’ve seen them, he was so sympathetic and kind to the victims’ friends and family. And he wrote like a god. No one seemed to question how Jed’s ‘insider’ gets him the photos, you don’t think anyone even cares.

You tossed the paper aside and stopped the popcorn, dumping it in a bowl and making your way to the couch and pressing play on the video you rented tonight.

Twenty minutes into the video, the phone rings. You huff and press pause to pick up the line.

“Hello?”

“Hello there.” The voice was male, albeit a little mechanical, but it was over the phone.

“Um, who’s this?”

“Who do you want it to be?”

You scoffed. Seriously? A grown man prank calling? “Okay, you’re either some random man who picked my name out of a phonebook, or you’re one of his friends being a jackass.”

“Can’t say I know who that is, doll.”

“So you just call random numbers? Or did Cass give you my number?” You found a smile pulling at your lips, starting to have a bit of fun with the stranger. Who’s to stop you, really. “Can’t imagine that isn’t something she’d do.”

“What can I say? The curfew had me bored, must’ve dialed the wrong number, but I’m not complaining. What are you up to?” Fuck it. You’ll entertain this.

“Just watching a scary movie I picked up from the video store after work.”

“Oh really? What’s your favorite scary movie?” He inquired. I was practically blushed at the smoothness of his voice.

“Halloween. Personally, I think John Carpenter makes the best horror.”

“Well, he is the Master of Horror. So, you got a name, doll?” I laughed.

“What about your name, mystery man? You called me first.”

The voice chuckled on the other end. “Well, tell me your name, I’ll tell you mine.”

You jumped up onto the counter. “Why should I do that?” A giggle rose in your throat.

A pause.

“I wanna know who I’m looking at.”

Time seemed to freeze. Your heart rate picked up and your breathing became quicker. The giggle died and became bile rising. There was a roaring in your ears and you began to stammer in fear. “Wh-what did you just say?” You misunderstood him, you must have! No one would say that, and if they did, it was just a cruel joke.

“You heard me, sweetheart. I saw you reading the front page. Do you like my work? You’re talking to Roseville’s biggest celebrity.”

No fucking way…

“I’m calling-“

“The cops? They wouldn’t make it in time, they’d find you gutted and I’d be long gone by then, just pictures of me and your pretty corpse.” His voice changed, it wasn’t flirty or sexy anymore, it was downright terrifying. It was aggressive and harsh, no more seduction. He wasn’t toying anymore, he had begun his hunt. “The only thing calling the cops would stop is how long I plan on playing with you.”

“What the hell do you want?” You growled, flinching when a flash went off out of the corner of your eye from the small window above the sink, but when you looked at it, no one was there.

“Heh. Pretty picture. But, won’t you smile for me, doll? I’ll be sending these to the paper in the morning, I want you looking your best for the obituary they write for you.” Ghostface teased.

“Quit playing around, fucker!” You pulled a knife out of the drawer and crept out of the kitchen and into the living room. “C’mon, asshole. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

The man laughed on the other end of the call, tsking at you as if you were a fool. “Well… then it’s a good thing you left the garage door unlocked.”

The dial tone blared in your ear as he hung up, leaving you in silence, the only thing scoring your last few moment was the soundtrack of Halloween 2 playing quietly. You lowered the phone, gripping the knife as your fingers began to sweat. It was too quiet. You scoffed and began to dial 911, but before you could finish dialing, you were tackled by a large figure.

“Fuck!” You thrashed as the two of you wrestled, your foot connecting with his chest and shoving him off of you. You sat up and cursed as the soulless black eyes of Ghostface’s mask bore into you before grabbing the knife and swinging at him, just missing his hand. He tilted his head as you two circled the couch, his hunting knife at the ready like yours.

“You’ve got spirit, doll. I like a challenge. I like a little fight.” His voice was distorted by a modulator, sounding the exact same as the mechanical voice over the phone.

“Fuck you!” You screamed, lunging at the killer and landing a cut on his forearm.

He yelled furiously. “You bitch! If you would just cooperate and lay down and die this wouldn’t be so bad!”

You turned and made a break for the door, hoping, praying, that you could open it and scream and your neighbors would come to your rescue. Instead, a sharp pain bloomed in your back and a scream ripped from your throat as the sharp pain was torn from your back and renewed in your flank. Ghostface’s hand tangled into your hair and your head connected with the wall, leaving you engulfed in darkness.

—

When you came to, your head was pounding. You could feel a dull pressure in your flank and something warm and sticky was running down your scalp, and was the room spinning? What room where you even in? What day is it? Shit… what happened to you?

“Oh look, you live.” You groaned and turned your head towards the mechanical voice. Ghostface was lounged in a plush chair, legs spread as if he were right at home. “You know, you’re a tricky one! Who knew you’d put up a fight!”

Oh right… he caught you…

“What do you want from me…” You slurred, trying to focus on stringing your words together. How concussed where you? Ghostface tilted his head. “Are you going to murder me?”

“Aw, don’t be scared, sweetheart, that part will be quick.” He stood and casually made his way to the side of the bed, gripping the knife that was still jammed into my side. His unoccupied hand clamped over my mouth as he slowly twisted the blade, my muffled screams having little affect on his sympathy as I thrashed and began to cry. Ghostface chuckled. “The part before however, I’ll be taking my sweet time.”

“Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you!” You barked, squirming as he ran his leather clad fingers down the column of your throat.

“Sucks that your boyfriend broke up with you, huh?” He teased. “Maybe you wouldn’t have been alone tonight, huh?”

“Wh-How do you know that?”

“Speaking of, have you heard from him lately? I think I saw somewhere in the paper that there were two bodies butchered beyond belief.” Your eyes widened. “Maybe you should’ve gone to the Gazette’s party, but I was counting on you being a recluse instead. You’re so predictable, doll. And a dumb bitch too. You really shouldn’t just go around telling people so much about yourself. That’s dangerous, you never know who exactly you’re talking to.”

“How do you know all of this? The party, the break up, who the hell are you!?” Tears spilled out of the corners of your eyes as Ghostface stroked your hair and stared at you, seemingly taking in your pathetic, half dead state. “Why are you doing this?”

Ghostface remained silent, but his hand rose up towards that mask and you knew what it meant. It meant whatever chance you had of getting out of this alive. It meant you were doomed to end up on the front page of the Gazette. You could see it now, ‘The Ghostface Killer Strikes Again, One Dead’. What you couldn’t foresee was the face behind the screaming plastic mask, because you would have never guessed that Jed Olsen’s brown eyes would be staring back at you. “Hey there, sweetheart.”

“No… No, no, it’s not y- it can’t be you, Jed!” You sobbed as he ran his fingers through the blood on your cheek and examined them. You thrashed against the restraints on your wrists and ankles, desperate to run from him.

“You’re even prettier when you bleed.” You groaned and shake your head as he cleaned the blood away from the leather with his tongue. “Way more satisfying than the look on your ex-boyfriend’s face as he made that phone call to you with a knife to his throat, thought I’d let him go too! Hah!”

“Jed… please don’t do this, please let me go, I won’t tell anyone!” You felt so pathetic begging, but it was all I could do. Jed looked back down at you, a short laugh escaping his lips.

“You won’t tell anyone, huh? I can’t risk it, sweetheart, you’ve seen my face now.” You yelped when he grabbed the knife and ripped it out of your side, examining the way your blood dripped from it. “But our fun is just beginning.”

“Please… I- I’ll- I’ll help you cover up the murders! Please Jed!”

He shushed you softly, stroking your cheek with a gentleness that was almost cruel while his other hand pressed against the wound on my flank. “The more you fight, the harder this will be. You’re going to do everything I tell you, you’re not going to fight, and you’re going to be a good pet. Do you understand?”

“Fuck- Fuck you!” Jed scoffed and jammed his fingers into the wound while holding his hand over your mouth, pulling a weak scream from you. “Jed! Stop! Stop, it hurts!”

“Do you understand now, bitch!?”

You nod reluctantly, gasping when his fingers left the wound. This was it, you were going to die and there was nothing that you could do about it. Worst of all, you liked Jed. He was always nice to you, he was gorgeous, he was smart, he was everything you wished you could have in a man. And even now, even as he played around with you in the cruelest way, he looked ethereal with the eye black and the hood of his outer layer pulled back just enough to let his hair peak through.

“Good pet.” I winced as he patted my cheek a little too aggressively.

“Why are you doing this? Why me? I thought you liked me?”

“Oh doll, I do like you! I think you’re interesting and fun to be around. Why do you think I would hang around you so much at work?” Jed circled the foot of the bed, looking eerily similar to a wolf stalking its prey. “And you were so eager to have my attention.”

“I was being friendly!”

Jed scoffed. “Give me a break, sweetheart. You think you hid it so well, but I didn’t miss the way you blushed, or smiled, or pressed your thighs together when I would lean down over your shoulder to look at what you were working on, my breath on your neck as I praised you. You really enjoyed that.” You gritted your teeth and spat in his face, earning a flinch and an unamused chuckle as he wiped it off. “You’re a lot dumber than I thought.”

He moved like lightning, throwing himself over you and straddling your hips, his buck knife pressed hard against your throat as your eyes went wide in panic. One pull on the knife and you were a goner.

Except there was a part of you, some sick and disgusting part of you, that fucking liked this. Liked the cold, sharp steel biting your skin, liked his weight holding you down, and really liked the press of his bulge against your body. And even more fucked up, you rolled your hips up against it.

“Oh my fucking god. Are you really into this?” Jed leaned down, nearly nose to nose with you. “You little slut, you are into this! Rolling your hips up like a needy little bitch. Want me to take care of that little problem down there for you?”

You whimpered at his cruel words, or maybe you were whimpering because that damn leather felt so good as it glided up your shirt. There was a loud rip as he sliced it off of you, a sadistic grin lighting up his face as he slowly raked his eyes down my body. “Jed I-“

“Danny.”

You cocked an eyebrow. “S-sorry?”

“Name’s Danny. Not Jed.”

This gave you pause, you had so many questions. What else had he lied about? How did he wind up here? Why Roseville? Why choose the Gazette? Why you? “I’m scared… Danny.”

Danny smiled softly and traced your jawline with his knife before stabbing it inches away from your head. “Fear makes pussy taste better.”

You didn’t even get to think before his hand was in your hair and ripping you upward to crash his lips to yours. You whimpered, but didn’t fight, instead you opened your mouth when he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip. You were sick in the head. You had to be. But it felt so good when his fingers slid down your body and pinched your nipple between them.

You let him grope you, you let him run his tongue over yours, you let him do whatever he wanted. He lied to you, he tricked you, and goddammit, he was still the single most sexually appealing person you’d ever laid eyes on. He parted from you and pushed you back down, grinning as he rips the knife out off the pillow and cuts your underwear.

You blushed as he raised it to his nose and inhaled before laughing as his knife slipped back into its sheath. “Pretty fucked up that you’re turned on by a stalker with a knife. I’ll be keeping these.” He stuffed them into his pocket before removing his hood, the shroud, and finally his shirt. Your breath caught in your throat as he stretched and ran his fingers through his hair, locking eyes with him. He was lean, not overly muscular, his chest had various scars, scars from when victims probably fought back. He clearly worked out, you presumed he had to with his… line of work. Danny sighed and leaned down. “You gonna be a good pet for me and be still?”

“Yes…”

“Good.” He nipped your earlobe before he began the torturously slow descent down your body. “I’ve been pining after you for months, sweetheart. But that damn boyfriend of yours…” he sucked a harsh bruise onto your neck. “Always getting in the fuckin’ way. It was so annoying.”

You gasped as he reached your breasts, running his tongue over your nipple, the softness briefly interrupted by the coolness of a ball. You looked down to see a silver ball, a piercing. Because of course he would have one.

Danny continued his descent, kissing and biting your hips until he got where he wanted to be. “And what do we have here, hm?”

Your breath hitched as he slid his hands out of the gloves by his teeth and dragged his cold, bare fingers up your thigh until he was just shy of brushing your vulva. Danny watched your legs tense and your body twitch as he finally ran his fingers between your slit.

“I wouldn’t have guessed being strapped down by a stalker would get you so wet, it’s adorable.” You whimpered as Danny leaned in close to your face and circled you clit slowly with his index and middle fingers. “Such a pathetic slut.”

“N-no!” you protested.

“Oh? You’re not a pathetic slut? Is that why you’re trying to grind on my hand?” he taunted.

“Danny please… I won’t tell anyone, we can be done here!” You felt pathetic begging him for mercy. It was weak and pitiful. “Please.”

“Oh do I love hearing you beg. Tell you what, doll, you play nice and cooperate, and I’ll consider… other options. Deal?” You swallowed, biting back a moan as he pressed a little harder on your clit. That was still Jed’s face hovering above yours. You could pretend it was still him. But pretending would involve ignoring the dull ache in your head from when Ghostface slammed you into the wall. Pretending would involve acting as if the pain from the stab wound on your flank from when Ghostface impaled you didn’t exist. And pretending would involve you looking up at the man with eyeblack and Jed’s face was truly Jed. Jed and not Danny. Jed and not Ghostface. “Tick tock, sweetheart. I’m getting an itch, and I don’t think you want to know what kind of itch it is.”

Danny pulled his fingers away from your clit and pressed them into the stab wound, grinning as a scream fell out of your throat. “Okay! Yes! Yes! I’ll cooperate! Please stop!”

He pulled them back out and shoved them knuckle deep into your pussy. Your eyes widened as your blood mixed with the wetness between your legs, a soft moan falling from your lips.

“You like that don’t you, baby?” He grinned in a way that would have been charming, but with all the eyeblack and blood that splattered on his cheek, it was simply sinister. “Maybe you’re sicker in the head than I thought.”

“That’s- fuck- that’s a lot of talk coming from the man who- mmh- who stalks people like a pervert!” you snapped, back arching as he stroked his fingers in that delicious come hither motion.

“I know I’m sick in the head.” Danny leaned in close, breath ghosting over your lips as he growled. “But you’re the one loving every second of this pervert fucking your hole with my fingers.”

“Shut up!” you snapped, gasping as his fingers spread into a v-shape and stretched your walls.

“You act so prim and proper at work.” Danny kissed your jaw bone with a laugh. “You put on this facade of the young and perky reporter with a great boyfriend and a great life. But I know what you need, Princess.” You cried out as his fingers left your pussy. “You need it filthy. You need it rough. You need me.”

Your breath heaved in your chest as he spread his fingers, streetlights gleaming against the juices that webbed between his long fingers.

“Open.”

“Wh-“ he shoved his fingers into your mouth with so much force you gagged. Danny laughed like a maniac.

“That’s it. Lick them clean and I might give you what you want.”

Fuck. His fingers tasted like your pussy and the copper of blood. This was unhinged. What the fuck were you thinking?

“That’s a good pet.” Danny’s fingers slipped from your mouth and he smiled. “Keep it up, maybe I can find a new use for you besides adding to my body count.”

“Danny-“

He ignored the weak cry of his name as he pushed apart your legs, groaning at the slick folds of your pussy, spotted with blood from his handiwork. Speaking of…

You cried out in pain as he brushed the stab wound. “Fucking hell! Stop!” Your cries were only fuel to his desperate longing and lust as his fingers played around in the wound. How long had he dreamed of this? How many days had he gone home, jacked off in his chair, went and killed, only to be back in the shower beating his cock again to you. He was obsessed.

“When I’m through with you, doll…” Danny growled, “I’m going to have you screaming my name, I’ll infect your brain like a parasite. You won’t be able to even comprehend what happened to you. I’ll have you completely cumdrunk.”

You felt breathless when he finally stopped digging around in the wound, your vision was fuzzy, your head was pounding, and yet still, fucking still! Your pussy was soaking.

“Pathetic, really, how wet you get when I play with my marks.” His dark eyes rose to yours. “I think it’s time I get to taste that sweet pussy.”

You whimper as he pressed his lips to your knee, trailing his tongue and that piercing down, down, down until he bit down on your inner thigh. “Fuck! Ow!”

Danny let go and pressed and open mouth kiss to the bite mark. “How I wish I could feel you pull my hair but… I wouldn’t want you thinking up any ways to start fighting.”

He laughed at your anger before his tongue was running up your slit in the blink of an eye. Oh god it was so warm. You gasp and let out a long, low groan as Danny focused his attention on your clit. You moved your hips best you could as his bloody hands gripped them, leaving red stains on your skin. His eyes lifted and he smiled wickedly.

“That’s it baby…” he lapped as your clit. “Make those pretty noises for me.”

You sighed and arched as tears formed in your eyes. Why did you like this? He was a murderer, a psychopath, he was a liar who created this persona to charm and hypnotize. And you fell for it.

Danny growled and nipped roughly at your clit. You look down with a yelp, locking eyes with him as he slightly lifted an eyebrow in a silent warning before fingers slipped in as he circled and massaged the tongue piercing over your clit.

“You,” he began, looking down at his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy before resting his head on your thigh. “better keep your mind from wondering. I’m all you should be fucking looking at.” He punctuated his point with a deep shove of his fingers. “Understand?”

“Fuck! Yes…” Danny grinned and nodded.

“You wanna cum don’t you?” You didn’t respond, just moaned as he stroked your G-spot. “I asked you a question, bitch!”

“Yes… fuck, yes I wanna cum…” Your cheeks burned as you admitted it. He was hot. This was hot. This was gross. He was gross. You reached that point, your legs began to shake and your body tightened as you exploded, cum flowing out onto his fingers. Danny grinned like a wolf, leaning down as his fingers withdrew.

You whimpered as his tongue touched your asshole, dragging all the way up to catch what dripped out. “God fucking damn, you taste so fucking delicious.” His fingers smeared your cum down your chest as he tweaked one nipple, then the other to illicit cries out of you. “I’m going to fuck you so good, you won’t be able to think straight.”

He stood and slowly unzipped his black pants before working it all down and narrowing his eyes at you. “If I take off those restraints, are you going to behave?”

The black around his eyes made them more intense as he sent that threat to my core. “Yes…”

“Yes, what?” he growled.

“Yes sir?”

He smirked and found the knife again, slicing your restraints off your legs before stealing you and cutting the ones from your arms. You hesitated then brought your arms to his shoulders. How could he look so good with your blood splattered on him? You couldn’t deny it any longer, you were grossly into this. You were into him. Even if he wasn’t Jed. Even if he was Ghostface. You were into everything about this. Sure, the blood loss made it easier, but you accepted your fate.

Danny leaned down and pressed a kiss to your lips. It was softer, more chaste. His hand drifted down your torso, lifting to grab his cock in his hand, pumping it before he teased the head against your slit.

“Please…”

“Look me in the eyes and try again, sweetheart.” he whispered.

You sighed, lifting your eyes to his and murmured “Please fuck me, Mr. Ghostface.”

Danny laughed then thrusted deep into you. You cried out as he began a brutal pace, your legs instinctually wrapping around his waist and your nails digging into his chest. “Fuck, so tight… god dammit!”

You whimpered and arched your back. The wound in your side still bled, you could feel it smear as his hand passed over it to pull a brief cry of pain from you. He grabbed the knife again and pressed it against your throat.

“You’re so lovely, covered in blood.” He purred, pressing harder, eyes darkening as he grinned. Your own eyes widened as he pumped faster, fear taking over as you. Danny groaned. “God, you slut. You just clenched at the thought of his knife slicing you right open.”

Danny moaned as you clinched again, then his eyes sparkled with an idea. He pinned you down at the elbow, exposing your inner bicep, the soft flesh exposed as he brought the hunting knife to the skin.

“No! Danny no please don’t cut me again!” You screamed when the blade bit into the skin, a sob wrenching from your throat as he carved at your arm. Each scream drew a moan from him, for every cut forced a squeeze from you. “Stop! Please! It hurts so fucking much! Fuck you!”

“Aw baby. But you’re squeezing me- fuck- so good.” He thrusted unevenly, clearly close to an orgasm. “Fuck, c’mon sweetheart…”

With one last deep slice, he came, cumming inside you as he practically roared with relief. You started sobbing, blood pouring from your arm and side, that headache that you forgot about coming back with a vengeance. The room was getting fuzzy. It hurt. You didn’t know exactly what it was that hurt the most, but it all hurt.

Danny smiled, slowly pulling out of you, sitting back on his heels and looking down at his handiwork, almost admiring it. He stayed straddling you, then started laughing again. “You know sweetheart… I think I can make a deal for you.”

You gazed up blearily, vision going in and out. “Deal…?”

“I’ll keep you alive… but not here. No… no Im taking you with me.” Danny’s breathing picked up. “It needs you. It needs a survivor. A sacrifice…”

Your brows creased as he raised the knife. “No… you… you said I’ll live!”

“I’m taking you where I’m going. We’re you will be mine forever.” He stabbed down and pierced your heart, ripping the knife out to slash your throat. Blood filled your lungs as you coughed and choked. Your eyes widened as your head lolled, eyes registering what he marred into your arm. ‘MINE’.

As the world faded, Danny’s fingers stroked your hair. “I’ll see you real soon, sweetheart.”

[2goldendarkness]

I usually reblog, rather than make my own posts, but seeing everyone in the gaze community deal with their grief by writing things down has given me some courage to do the same. I hope it will help me in my grieving process and i hope to help everyone who does relate to what i write. So this will be my farewell letter.

Dear Reita,

I got the news seven days too late, like how it usually is for me coming into a fandom.

I became a fan about 8 years ago, i was doing a creative education as a designer, listening to random music on Youtube with autoplay. Suddenly i found Red, the first song that got me into the Gazette, i was glued to my screen and intrigued with the looks of all members. But why the hell was that one guy wearing a band around his nose? I needed to get into it. So i did.

The gazette then became my first and favorite Visual kei band, i’ve been trough a lot in my life and whenever hardship struck me, there was always an interview that would make me laugh. When i had boring days in school we even played a game, my friends would ask me “why is he covering his nose?” And i would make up the weirdest stories on the spot. That resulted in some charms with titles like ‘reita and the smelly drummer.’ And ‘reita the drugs dealer.’ It varied from poking fun and making up the stupidest thing, to making you some cool guy who fought bad guys. It would always make us laugh, even though, i was making up these stories to friends who weren’t even necessarily in the fandom, because everyone who saw you once, knew your name and so knew who you were.

I wrote fanfiction, many in where you play a big part of the story, not as a love interest, but as a brother of a character based off of me. All because you once said in a radio show that you feel like you’d be a great older brother, hell did i take you up on that one.

I never got to see The Gazette live, i used to curse you all for skipping my country and forcing me to travel for 5 hours to see you all. In 2018 i was almost at that point, but i couldn’t go because of my exams and because i had no friends who wanted to come with me. I always promised myself: one day, i will see them.

It hurts me to realize that day will never come, at least you won’t be there anymore. I accidentally open instagram, and find a grief post written by Hiroto of Alice nine, in the hashtags your name. Shock, that’s the first thing i felt. I must be going crazy. But next up was Miyavi’s post and as i read that it slowly starts downing upon me, my heart sinks to my stomach and a lump forms in my throat as i rush to jrocknews to confirm they aren’t just playing a sick joke.

I start crying like most of the sixth guns, but only after i start reading the members messages. Why am i crying? We’ve lost a talented bass player who inspired so many people to also start making music. The world lost ‘the world’s Reita’ who was always poking fun at the drummer. The bookstores lost their most unexpected romance buyer. Many lost their source of love and joy. I’ve lost my fictional brother.

But most importantly, your actual family lost a loving family member who bought his mother an entire house to repay her for raising him well. The Gazette lost a member. Kai lost his fear during interviews of whatever you are going to say next. Ruki lost being in your personal space no matter how big the dressing room. Aoi lost the person who’s jokes he could laugh the hardest about. Uruha lost his longtime best friend, and now can no longer feel your heart racing before the show, nor can he feel your hand searching for his heart.

I hope everyones feelings reach you, i hope that whichever way you passed, was peaceful and without pain. I hope that whenever it is our time, you come in your mustang to pick everyone up. Usually as a driving instructor i call shotgun, but i’ll leave that space to your close relatives. That way i can’t judge you for turning around while parking, rather than using your mirrors.

Thank you for everything Reita, you will never be forgotten. Once my grief is gone, i promise to remember you with a smile rather than cry. I also promise to be a fan of The Gazette no matter what they decide to do now you’re gone.

And to whomever read my entire message, thank you for reading this unhinged post.

[slytherinyourrpants]

Reita,

I'm so sorry I'm just now finding out about your passing.

Thanks to you, I discovered the magic of The GazettE during the age when I felt most alone. I fell in love with the style, the rhythm, and the balance you created.

A big part of me is unable to believe this is real. Even though there is an official statement and thousands of memorial content, I cannot grasp the reality of it. I recently thought of you, wondering if I've missed an Instagram post that was lost in my dashboard. Sadly, I came across a post of an article about your band members bidding you farewell. Lord knows I was hoping you had decided to leave the band to take a break and live life...

My eyes were opened to the world of Visual Kei all because the universe introduced me to you. I came across "Filth in the Beauty" and immediately started searching for the identity of the man wearing a bandana on his face. The need to know more about you, the band, and your music was intense, no one could stop me. It was then I fell in love with wearing masks or any face covering all because I wanted to be as cool as you.

You meant so much to me when I was young. Around that time I was having difficulty finding myself, the youngest of a big family who struggled silently with depression and self-harm. I didn't know who I should be, what music I wanted to claim mine, or what style of clothing to adopt. Back then I didn't have anything or someone that was mine to discover. If I think back far enough, you were probably a MySpace theme.

During my first year of fanfiction, I found some VK writers asking for people to submit artists and prompts. Of course, I sprinted and asked for some of the reader and you. I wanted to read about Suzuki Akira being doted on and loved like he deserved. (And to also imagine I wasn't as young and to be your partner like all fangirls do) It was probably then that I realized not only did I admire you, but that I loved you.

I admit I had grown apart from the VK scene by '07 when I got into K-Pop. But even so, I always came back to you and blared your bass part in "Cockroach" on repeat to give me the edge I search for. Time was the only thing to change, my love and admiration for you was on in the same.

Reita, I loved you when I was age 9, I love you at age 27, and I will love you in the next life.Without you, I wouldn't have discovered all the things and people I love today. I wish you peace wherever you are and to please watch over your brothers until you all meet again.

Sayonara, my love.

[sekai-no-reita]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: the GazettE (Band) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Reita/Ruki (the GazettE) Characters: Ruki (the GazettE), Reita (the GazettE) Additional Tags: Consensual Somnophilia, romantic sex, Established Relationship, Top Ruki (the GazettE), Bottom Reita (the GazettE) Summary:

Often he found himself admiring Reita’s sleeping form, not being able to tear his gaze away. There was this certain innocence that glowed from the other man as he slept. Innocence that was hidden from the others, something that only Ruki was allowed to see during these nightly hours.

[summercourtship]

stay to burn (only to drown instead): chapter three: all that for this? [part I]

masterpost | ao3 link

jonathan crane x reader; bruce wayne x reader; edward nashton x reader | warnings: canon typical violence, sexual content | word count: 8244 words

DISCLAIMER: these chapters are not meant to be read alone. not every chapter has content for one of the three pairings listed. this is an ongoing fanfiction that I am cross-posting here on tumblr, not a series of one-shots.

chapter one

A black dress with the tag still on was draped over the back of your couch, a pair of heels thrown haphazardly on one of the cushions. You were sitting at the tiny kitchen table squeezed into your space, a desk mirror in front of you propped up with a stack of books. Your hair was, for all intents and purposes, cooperating with you tonight as you pinned and placed it exactly as the smiling woman on your phone screen was showing you- the tutorial had been labeled as easy although you were finding it anything but. Turning your head to the side, you tried to view your profile but the mirror simply wasn’t big enough. Sighing, you swiped the video off, deciding to just wing the rest of your hairstyle.

But your attention was soon drawn away from your hair to the TV you had playing in the background even though you weren’t watching it. You turned to look back at it from your chair. You had put the news on even though you wanted to cultivate better vibes for the night than the depressing 24/7 news cycle of Gotham City. Putting it on must’ve been a force of habit, you supposed.

“...new reports of the criminal dubbed the Scarecrow by the Gotham Gazette have been coming in after an alleged robbery at a pharmaceutical warehouse last night where the criminal was spotted on CCTV. He was allegedly first spotted in November, although his actions have escalated from small break-ins to terrorizing city officials…”

As you watched the news broadcast, eyes roaming over the grainy figure of the Scarecrow, something lit up in a back corner of your brain, an itch that you couldn’t locate and couldn’t scratch. But maybe you were just uncomfortable with the idea of another masked criminal running around the city. Your experience with the last one was enough to put you off of them for the rest of your life.

Breaking yourself out of the trance-like state you’d been staring at the TV with, you got up and turned it off. You didn’t need any of that tonight. You could learn all about Gotham’s newest villain tomorrow. Tonight your only job was to enjoy yourself. Maybe even have fun.

Scoffing, you plopped back onto your seat, resisting the urge to run a hand through your half-done hair. You turned back to your mirror to continue working on your appearance, opting to listen to music instead of the news. Queueing up a playlist of party jams, you skipped every song until you found one you knew, immediately bouncing your head as you began to dance along in your seat.

You decided then to make a quick promise to yourself, a mantra to get you through the night without losing your mind: this is going to be a fun night out and I will not spend any time worrying about silly little things.

When your hair is complete, you moved to pick up the dress you’d bought two days ago. It had, admittedly, cost more than you had been expecting to spend for the night but it had looked good on you and when were you going to have the opportunity to attend a gala again? You might as well go all out.

Zipping the back of the dress up, you cringed when you realized that you couldn’t get the last stretch closed, even with the awkward angle you had your arms at.

Well. You could just ask Dr. Crane to finish zipping it up for you.

You imagined the way his hands would caress your back, holding you steady as he slowly closed the dress. And then you started to imagine his hands moving the other way, unzipping and pulling the dress off of your body-

Your face burned at the thought, the skin of your back tingling in anticipation for his imagined touch. You cursed yourself for thinking about this ten minutes before he was due to arrive because of course, he’s driving you to the event.

Contorting yourself, you managed to zip the dress up. See? You don’t need to embarrass yourself. You don’t need Dr. Crane.

You were stepping into the pair of heels (that were maybe a bit too tall for you to comfortably exist in but you’d apparently been feeling yourself on that shopping trip) when a text lit up your phone.

Here.

Stomach swooping, you stood up a bit too fast causing your legs to wobble slightly on your heels (which you were now certain were definitely too tall for you). You’d given Dr. Crane your phone number a week ago, in between classes where you’d done your best to minimize the amount of contact you’d had with him as you had still been reeling from your earlier conversation in his car. You’d had a lingering bout of anxiety that had lasted the entire weekend, simmering low in your stomach and you naturally connected it to the nerves from being in the car with him.

But this was the first time he had texted you since you’d given it to him and seeing his name show up on your phone was like a straight shot of caffeine into your heart, more effective at energizing you than any early 2010’s club hit. Even if the text itself was lacking in any personality (who uses periods in a text when they aren’t pissed off? Dr. Crane, apparently) it was still an overwhelming reminder that Dr. Crane had pulled his phone out, found your name, typed out a message, and sent it.

And also that he was currently outside your building, waiting.

Checking yourself one last time in the tiny mirror, squinting to make out your form in the small glass, you nodded in affirmation that yes, you looked as good as you were going to tonight. You grabbed the tiny purse you’d bought just for this event and after making sure your keys and pepper gel were in the bag you left your apartment.

The light flickered as you briskly walked down the hallway to the stairwell, building your confidence with each step. You passed the old elevator that no one used even though it was technically in working order. But anything that dusty wasn’t being used for a reason and at least the stairs won’t break down on you.

As you opened the door to the stairs, you caught a glimpse of yourself in a stained hallway mirror. Seeing yourself outside of the tiny mirror that seemed to hone in on your biggest insecurities squashed any lingering doubts you had about your dress or your hair or your body. You looked good.

And damn it, you were determined to have fun tonight.

With renewed vigor, you hurried down the steps, purse swinging behind you as you circled around the switchbacks. Your heels clicked satisfyingly against the tile flooring, loud enough that anyone else in the stairwell must have known you were rapidly approaching.

Taking a deep breath you pushed your building's door open, stepping into the cold February night. Luckily for you, the forecast said it would be a clear night, a decidedly rare occurrence in Gotham. And sure enough, the stars were out and the moon was bright and full in the sky. Not a cloud in sight.

And there he was, waiting outside his slick black car like he said he would be, leaning against the driver’s side door. His normal clothes had been replaced by a formal three-piece suit, tailored to accentuate his frame. He’d forgone the glasses for the night, leaving no barriers for you to see how his gaze swept over your body.

“You look lovely.” Dr. Crane pushed off the car, taking a step forward to meet you.

“Thank you.” You were aware that you had, perhaps, gone a bit overboard with your appearance and you were honestly afraid that you would arrive at the gala and see knee-length skirts and khakis. But with the way Dr. Crane was looking at you right now, you decided that you couldn’t care less if people thought you were overdressed for the event.

You moved to walk over to the passenger side, wanting to get all of the awkward pleasantries out of the way as soon as possible. Maybe it would make you seem more confident to not linger too long outside his car, to get straight to the punch and take control of the night.

“Wait-” He stopped you as you turned away from him, pulling something on the back of your dress. “The tag is still on.”

“What?!” You turned your head back to look at him and sure enough, he was holding the price tag between his thumb and index finger. There goes any chance of seeming cool and confident tonight. “Oh. That’s embarrassing.”

And it was even more embarrassing when you realized that meant he saw how much you’d spent on your dress- and it wasn’t cheap. After all, all you had thought about when purchasing it was the way it had hugged your curves and hid the parts of you that you were insecure about. The price, at that moment, hadn’t mattered. But it was still frivolous and you didn’t want him thinking that you normally spent your money so recklessly.

“Don’t worry.” He put a hand on your bare shoulder, steadying you before he cleanly ripped the tag off. “It’s taken care of.”

“Thanks.” God, you were trying your best to not cringe yourself into oblivion.

Wordlessly, he moved past you to get into the car and you took another moment to follow suit.

The same style of music was playing in his car, the warmth still as inviting as before. You sighed in relief, already starting to regret not bringing a jacket with you. It was a stupid decision but you’d thought your dress looked better without it and you’d wanted Dr. Crane to see you for the first time without any barriers to your complete outfit. Certainly not a worn out rain jacket.

But still.

You could have at least bought something that matched to go on your arms because they were bare and shivering, covered in goosebumps. Who would have thought that February would be cold? Now you were starting to think that maybe your desperation for Dr. Crane to notice you in a very specific way was going to get you killed.

“You look nice tonight, too.” Your voice was quiet, like you hadn’t been sure if you were allowed to speak to him yet. His face turned to you, quick, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly. He blinked once at you before a soft smile graced his features. Though he didn’t say anything in response, you knew that your compliment had meant something to him.

“I appreciate you coming with me tonight.” He didn’t speak until he had started driving, merging into the traffic hell that was Gotham on a Saturday night. The gala was held at one of the university’s fanciest buildings, right next to the bay and across the city from the main campus. With this traffic, it could take thirty minutes to get there.

“I’ve always wanted to go to a gala.”

“They’re not very exciting.”

“For you, maybe.” You laughed, your carefree attitude toward the night apparently extending to your conversation with Dr. Crane. It was like you had decided to not be intimidated by him for one night and miraculously you were actually doing it. “I like an excuse to get dressed up.”

He hummed, switching lanes. It was like he was saying “Oh, I noticed.”

“Anyway, there’ll be free food and-” You gasped, remembering the best part. “Alcohol!”

“Right, the college student’s two motivations. Free food and alcohol.” You scoffed in response to his incredulous tone.

“What, you aren’t excited that it’s free? And readily available for you?”

“I am financially secure enough for free food to mean less.” He paused. “And I’m not much of a drinker. I prefer to be fully aware of what’s happening around me.”

“You’re no fun.” You laughed. “Don’t you like to just… let go?”

He gave you another look, equal parts surprised and amused. You were a bit surprised at yourself, too. It seemed that the confidence you felt tonight had indeed extended to your conversation. You weren’t normally this outgoing or talkative with him (sure, you talked but not in this… casual, bubbly way). It was like you were a completely different person, like you were one of the girls who had no fear about the city’s crime rate as she went to parties and clubs for a good time.

“I can be fun.” He said, his eyes focused back on the road.

“Oh yeah? How?” Your question was pointed, and you didn’t miss how he worked his jaw back and forth slightly. Thinking. Again, you got the feeling that he was debating whether or not to say something before he ultimately decided not to, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes away from yours.

You weren’t really one to talk about having fun. This was the first night in months- if not a year- where you were allowing yourself to go out for no reason but pleasure and it was all because he invited you. You opened your mouth to apologize for teasing him when he cut you off.

“I’m a busy man. Between the university, the asylum, attending court cases, I barely have time for my research. Let alone fun.” He sighed. “I’m lucky enough I’m able to come to this tonight.”

You looked down at your hands, now unsure of how to respond.

“I’ve really been looking forward to tonight, thank you for inviting me along.” You felt like you had been going through the same few comments about how excited you were for the night but it was all you could think of to talk about. Your attempt at asking him what he did for leisure backfired, so it seemed any small talk would need to be initiated by him.

Was it frustrating to be aware that he knew significantly more about you than you knew about him? Very. But when he shot down every attempt you made to change that, there was little else you could do but allow it to happen.

He didn’t respond, and the only thing you could think about now was that you had ruined the night with your unintentional prying.

You watched his hands as they moved on the steering wheel, guiding his car into the driveway for the venue. The street was lined with trees adorned with fairy lights, creating a magical glow over the damp road, their light dully reflected.

As soon as the building was in sight- the exterior lit up with spotlights, valets waiting outside, the whole nine yards- Dr. Crane turned to you.

“You won’t be expected to talk to anyone tonight. I, however, as someone whose research is partly funded by the school which is in turn funded by the donors, will be speaking to some of the wealthy sponsors there tonight.”

You nodded, even though he probably couldn’t tell. You could grin and bear it through some boring conversations as long as you were able to enjoy a few drinks and the aesthetics of it all. Though you were interested to know how Dr. Crane would describe his research because he’s never talked about it with you, or rarely mentioned it in his classes. You knew it had something to do with fear and the human psyche but that was it, really.

He pulled up to the valet, climbing out of the car. You were just opening the door when he appeared, offering his hand to help you out. You almost refused him on some sort of half-formed principle (something about being independent) but then you remembered your heels and decided that you could abandon your principles for one night. More so, you saw it as a reassurance that no, you hadn’t ruined the night by being awkward in the car. After all, he was notorious at the university as being hard to get along with and it was a miracle you managed for as long as you had.

Really, you should be giving yourself a pat on the back for even getting this far with him.

Gently resting your hand on his own, you placed one heel out onto the pavement which was still glistening from the rain earlier in the day. You looked up at the building, smiling at how picturesque everything was now that you were sure Dr. Crane wasn’t upset.

The Martha Wayne Memorial Hall was the most ornate building on campus and it was the one that was used the least by the school. Conferences, career conventions, and this, apparently, were the only things it was used for. You’d been inside once before during your college orientation’s tour of campus and it had been a very brief visit. Unlike a lot of formal event venues, it was styled like an old opera house, fitting the Gothic style favored by most of Gotham’s architects. There were even some gargoyles hanging out on the eaves.

As soon as you were steady on your feet, Dr. Crane let go of your hand, handing his keys to one of the valets who had come up to the pair of you.

Inside the building it was no less ornate, with marble floors and small chandeliers lining the ceiling. The atrium had three rooms off of it, a large ballroom, the banquet room, and the theatre. Occasionally, touring Broadway shows would come here for a few nights but you’d never been able to afford tickets, even with a student discount. In the center of the room was a grand glass staircase, leading to the upper levels of the building.

However, even more impressive than the interior was the people. Any fears you had about being overdressed were wiped away when you saw what the other guests were wearing. You were surrounded by Gotham’s elite, wearing their best jewlery and furs, things they would never dare wear out on the town. You could also tell who the people from the university were from the way their skin seemed more lived in, the way their hair wasn’t completely perfect. They had more important things to do than sit in front of their mirror making sure they were perfect before leaving the house.

“Somehow, I feel underdressed,” You were staring at a young woman in a sequin-covered floor length gown, tiny pearls woven into her complex hairstyle. You made brief eye contact with her before she looked away, her facial expression blank.

“Then don’t concern yourself with other people.” You looked over at him, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was right, though. What did it matter if people spent a thousand dollars on a dress for this event (which made the two hundred you spent on your own seem like nothing) if you were here to have a good time?

Before you could respond, a voice came over the loudspeaker, effectively drowning out the mindless chatter of the guests. The lights flashed once in the lobby, slow enough that you knew it was deliberate and not them simply flickering. The universal theatre signal for ”get in here, the show’s about to start.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please make your way into the auditorium for tonight’s presentation. Thank you.”

Like one being, the crowd began shuffling towards the theater.

“Looks like we arrived just in time.” Dr. Crane hadn’t started moving yet, watching the crowd amble away. You turned to him when you started walking, raising your eyebrows.

“Did you plan it so we’d be here right as the presentation began?”

He smiled, his eyes sliding to you. “Yes.” You caught me, his face seemed to say. But I wanted you to.

And you smiled back, more from relief at seeing him relaxed again than what he’d actually said. You knew you had a bad habit of overanalyzing every encounter you had with him, searching for clues of his true feelings in the minimal amount of words he used to communicate with you. But just because you knew you had a habit of doing it didn’t mean you were going to stop anytime soon.

Ushers- who were definitely students making a maximum of eight dollars an hour- stood by the double doors leading to the orchestra level seats, making sure everyone got one of the programs outlining the order of events for the presentation as well as informing them that there were no assigned seats (with a few exceptions for some of the extremely wealthy guests in the boxes. Of which you were not so it didn’t matter to you).

Dr. Crane walked close to your side, and as you passed through the double doors into the auditorium, the back of his hand brushed yours, just for a quick second. Though your heart skipped a beat at the sudden contact, you quickly told yourself it was an accident on his part, born from your close proximity as you moved into the theater.

Which was huge and you racked your brain trying to think of the last time you were there. Maybe freshman orientation? Either way it had been a long time since you stepped into the theater and it was even more ostentatious than you remembered it being.

Red carpet ran down the length of every aisle, the seats upholstered with a matching color of crushed velvet. The house went up three tiers, gold filigree covering the black walls, hiding the lighting fixtures in their details. And at the very top of the painted, domed ceiling was a large glittering chandelier.

“How much money do you think they spent on this?” You whispered to Dr. Crane as your gaze roamed around, who chuckled low in his chest.

“A couple million, at least.” He responded, his voice matching yours in its volume.

“I feel like I’m at an opera.” You were staring at the chandelier,

“The presentation-” his voice was dripping in sarcasm and you hid your smile by ducking your chin- “will kill that, don’t worry.”

You liked this side of him. Humorous, not worried about his classes or what was happening down at the asylum (you assumed that’s what he worried about, he didn’t disclose that sort of thing to you). He seemed so much more at ease here in his well-pressed suit than he ever was giving a lecture. You would almost think he was in his element, if you didn’t know him better.

He placed a hand on the small of your back as he pointed to a row of seats that had two empty and wasn’t too close to the stage (the fronts and center rows were reserved for potential donors) and gently guided you over to it. You could feel the texture of his hand through your dress, surprisingly rough fingers separated from your own skin by a single layer of thin fabric. It was an innocent gesture, you told yourself, just to make sure you knew where he was going.

Either way, you followed his guidance, shuffling into the row after him. You sat in the seat, the plush cushion as comfortable as it had looked from the aisle. You allowed yourself to sink into it, so much more comfortable than the wooden lecture hall seats you were used to. It wasn’t comparable, honestly.

“How long will this last, anyway?” You turned to Dr. Crane, the program unopened on your lap.

“It will feel like forever but-” He paused when you laughed, throwing another curious look your way. Maybe he hadn’t meant it as a joke, but you were amused by his blunt delivery. “It should only be thirty or forty minutes.”

Internally, you groaned. You never were good at sitting through boring programs.

Opening the program, you scanned past the thank yous and ads for shows that were coming to the theater and local businesses, looking for the order of events.

Yeah, it looked pretty boring.

The lights dimmed and the President of Gotham University stepped on stage, her hand raised in a still wave to the crowd, who was clapping politely at her entrance. There was no cheering, no whooping. This was a civilized event. She had one of those obnoxiously big TED-talk style microphones taped to her cheek and you knew you only had a few more seconds to steel yourself before the masturbatory worship of the university began.

You loved your school, of course. But you didn’t know how anyone bought into the blind loyalty that colleges demanded from their students, alumni, and donors. From the tone that Dr. Crane had used when he mentioned talking to potential sponsors or the presentation, you would hazard a guess that he at least somewhat agreed with you. Maybe you could make fun of this after, laugh about it during the ride home.

Once the applause (quickly) died down, the President began speaking, outlining why it was so important to support the school. She highlighted some of the professors’ specific research topics (Dr. Crane’s was not included and you wondered if he was upset about that but you couldn't bring yourself to peer over at him, not so soon at least), emphasizing all of the good the university was doing. You could barely keep yourself from rolling your eyes, knowing that most of the money given to the school tonight would probably end up in someone’s pocket and not anywhere near the students.

The bitter thought surprised you, but it was hard to believe that the millions of dollars people gave to the university were used for good when your own department was severely underfunded and wasn’t even unpopular.

You wondered how much Dr. Crane received for his research.

You were trying your best to focus on the presentation but he was so close to you, your thigh just barely touching his own. (Couldn’t they have made these seats a bit farther apart, with the millions of dollars they spent on furnishings?) You shuffled your feet, slowly starting to pull your leg away from his, shrinking in on yourself slightly to give him more space.

Only for his leg to just take up the space you had created, your bodies once again connected at a single point on your thighs.

You told yourself it was a subconscious action on his part. That he somehow didn’t realize he was chasing you.

You peered over at him from the corner of your eye, watching as he seemed to concentrate on the President’s speech. Then his eyes flicked over to you and back to the stage, a small smile ghosting across his mouth.

He knew what he was doing.

But what did he mean by it?

On your other side was an older man, engrossed in the presentation. You didn’t want to be close to him at all, didn’t want to give him any funny ideas about what you were doing. So there was only one option for your legs.

You squeezed your legs together, moving them once again next to Dr. Crane’s. At the same moment, he moved his hand from the armrest to his thigh. You stared for a moment at how close his hand was to your leg- on which the slit of your dress was laying in such a way that your bare skin was exposed.

Wrenching your gaze away from your legs, you forced yourself to watch the presentation again. Which, honestly, had to be at least halfway done by now. It wasn’t dragging on as much as you had feared, but it was still not how you wanted to be spending your time.

You wished you had at least gotten a drink before you’d been corralled into the auditorium.

You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the seat for a moment. The presentation wasn’t even for you, who would care if you weren’t paying attention?

Then you felt it, and your head snapped back up.

A small brush against your exposed skin. And without even looking down, you know exactly what it was.

Dr. Crane’s fingers were warm on your thigh, not moving, just resting against you. When he doesn’t move his hand away, when he doesn’t do anything to suggest that this action of his was an accident, your heart rate goes into overdrive because you had fantasized about him touching you since your first class with him three semesters ago and now, in a darkened theater, he was. It didn’t feel real- it couldn’t be real.

But more importantly, what did this small action of his mean for your relationship? Because this had thrust it far beyond professional, or even the platonic relationship that you had resigned yourself to.

His hand remained there for the rest of the presentation, a grounding presence that did little to actually ground you to the present because you were occupied with worrying about how to go forward from this moment. (There you go again, overanalyzing and worrying about everything.)

And then the lights came back on.

He stood up and pretended like he hadn’t just kept his hand on your bare thigh for the last fifteen minutes. You remained in your seat, barely registering that the crowd was leaving or even that the presentation was over.

“You look hungry.” He stated, pulling you out of your mind. He looked down at you and you jumped up, smiling tersely at him.

“Sure, that’s fine.” Your response wasn’t quite aligned with his statement but you didn’t care as you led the way out of the auditorium and back into the atrium. If he wasn’t going to bring up what he did, neither were you.

Being back in the crowd woke you up, bringing you out of the stupor that his touch had induced.

The chatter was louder than it had been before the presentation, the guests clearly ready to finally enjoy the refreshments and music- you could faintly hear a string quartet from the ballroom and a piano from the banquet hall. Peering into the latter, you saw crowds of people around the buffet tables and decided that you would wait until it died down to try and get any real food.

Sighing, you turned back to Dr. Crane.

“Is there anyone specifically that you want to talk to tonight?”

Then you realized that Dr. Crane was looking past you and you followed his gaze behind you. A young man, only a few years older than you, was walking through the crowd. A bit awkward, smiling tersely at everyone trying to speak with him. And people were clambering to speak with him, smiling and laughing when they saw him. He looked over at you briefly, then seemed to do a double take as he looked back.

Leaving his current conversation, a bit unceremoniously if the looks his previous conversations partners gave each other was anything to go by, he came over to the pair of you.

“Mr. Wayne.”

Dr. Crane was the first to speak, reaching across you to shake Bruce Wayne’s hand. You watched as they exchanged greetings and introductions, content to stay silent while they talked. After all, Dr. Crane said you could and you’re not even sure what you would say to Bruce Wayne, of all people.

“Nice to see you out tonight.”

“I needed some fresh air.” You couldn’t help but notice how tense the younger man was holding his shoulders. Dr. Crane, in comparison, was relaxed, not even batting an eye at the sudden conversation with the Prince of Gotham.

“I’m sure.”

There was a brief, awkward moment of silence as you looked between the pair. Bruce Wayne, though he was certainly better looking in person than in his pictures, was clearly out of his comfort zone, and you couldn’t blame him. He’d been a reclusive figure for many years, really only becoming social (which, for him, meant leaving his house every few weeks to attend an event) in the past year. Without him saying it, everyone knew it was because of the Riddler’s attempt on his life.

It was almost funny how the Riddler made the once anti-social Bruce Wayne social and you, someone who used to enjoy going out at night, into a shut-in who only left the house for school and work.

“My teaching assistant.” Dr. Crane gestured to you, and you nodded. Until you remembered that you could actually speak. You held out your hand to Mr. Wayne, giving him your name, and he grasped your palm with a firm handshake that he must have learned before he could even attend events like these. But there’s something else that his touch reminds you of, the roughness of his palm inviting and grounding, but you can’t place what it is aside from a lingering sensation of safety.

“It’s very nice to meet you.” He smiled at you, his eyes crinkling. You didn’t know if you’d ever seen a picture of him smiling like that. Not a polite smile, reserved for business partners or cameras. But a genuine smile. You couldn’t help but return it, beaming at him as you continued holding his hand.

Dr. Crane cleared his throat and you dropped Mr. Wayne’s hand, smiling nervously over at the professor. He’s looking at you strangely, in a way you’ve never seen him look at you before (and there are many strange looks he has given you). It wasn’t angry, per se, but there was certainly some unpleasant emotion simmering in his chest.

“Have a nice evening, Mr. Wayne.” He said curtly before guiding you into the other room, his hand on your shoulder, his pace quick.

“It was nice meeting you!” You spoke over your shoulder to Bruce Wayne, still smiling despite Dr. Crane’s odd behaviour.

As you walked, you resisted the urge to ask him what the hell that was all about, reminding yourself about the promise you’d made. This is going to be a fun night out and I will not spend any time worrying about silly little things.

Starting a fight with Dr. Crane would certainly ruin the evening. And besides, his answer would most likely be mundane, right? He probably hadn’t even realized that he was coming across as possessive- or dare you say, jealous- with his sudden dismissal of the younger man. Even if you were in a weird gray area relationship wise now, he didn’t own you.

You could shake other men’s hands.

He led you into the ballroom, stopping once or twice on the way to talk with colleagues that he came across. Those conversations were always short and stilted, his desire to be anywhere else clear on his face and in his language. If the other professors acknowledged you, it was with a simple nod. But they never spoke to you which was fine. Considering how Dr. Crane had acted with Bruce Wayne, you didn’t exactly relish the thought of speaking with more men, especially ones he knew professionally.

They always asked the same questions- how his classes were doing, how his research was going, how his work at the asylum was coming along, if he met any new “crazies” that he could gossip about. His answers were always good, good, and good. He declined to answer any questions about patients at the asylum, and you bristled at the language the other men used to describe them.

They’re still people, you wanted to say. Even if they killed and maimed others. But you weren’t in the mood to be accused of defending them and their actions (which you weren’t), so you kept your mouth shut.

Finally, he had no one else to speak to and you reached the ballroom.

The large windows that had covered the walls in the atrium continued in here, the ballroom overlooking the garden. You could faintly make out some people walking down the well-lit walkways outside. The string quartet that you’d heard playing earlier was set up on a small platform in the corner and quite a few couples were swaying to the music in the center of the room.

On the other side of the room was a cluster of small tables, most of them occupied. A few caterers walked around with plates of fingerfoods and trays of drinks, and you were about to grab something when Dr. Crane spoke up from beside you.

“Dance with me.”

You whipped around, staring at Dr. Crane, afraid you hadn’t heard him correctly.

“What?”

“Dance with me.” He repeated, smiling at you. “I’m bored.”

You looked down at his offered hand.

“Okay.” You returned his smile, allowing yourself to be swept onto the dancefloor. It wasn’t ballroom dancing, certainly not something out of a period piece at all. Dancing with him was really just a glorified verison of swaying back and forth. But you didn’t care because all you could focus on was his hand on your hip, your hand on his shoulder- the points where your bodies were connected.

Even though there were layers of fabric between the two of you, you could swear you felt vibrant electricity from his touch, sparks coursing through your veins as you tried to focus on everything at once. You didn’t want to forget how it all looked and felt when the morning came. You wanted to keep it in its own little bubble in your memory, preserved for all time.

“I’ve never really slow danced before.” Sure, you’d gone to school dances growing up. But you never went with anyone and slow dances were the perfect time to escape to the bathroom.

“Neither have I.” He smiled and your heart fluttered.

Maybe this would be a good moment to ask him just what his intentions were for the night, to pinpoint exactly what he wanted from you. It was forward, yes, but you were slow dancing together. It warranted questioning, especially if any prying eyes from the university saw and recognized the two of you.

He was playing a very dangerous game and you had no choice but to play with him.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you-”

“May I cut in?” A newly familiar voice broke the spell that had fallen between you and Dr. Crane, the isolated bubble you had been dancing in popping. You turned to look over your shoulder, smiling politely at Bruce Wayne.

“Of course.” You let go of Dr. Crane’s hands, speaking before he could. For a moment, the hand on your waist flexed and tightened against you like he wasn’t going to let you go but then he let go, releasing you to take Bruce Wayne’s outstretched hand. You spared one more glance at Dr. Crane, smiling as reassuringly as you could. “We can talk about it later.”

You placed your other hand on Bruce’s shoulder and he swayed you in a different direction, leading you away from Dr. Crane.

You were, admittedly, a bit starstruck. Sure, you had spoken to him earlier, but this was intimate, not something he had to do for pleasantries or to maintain face (not that he had to introduce himself to you for that. You weren’t important enough to need to meet the richest man in the city. Or for him to care how he came across to you).

The string quartet transitioned smoothly into their next song, the tempo the only thing changing. A few couples left with the change, and a few more walked onto the dancefloor. Once you were in rhythm with one another, you took the opportunity to speak with him.

“Well, Mr. Wayne, it’s nice seeing you again.”

“Please, call me Bruce.”

It had felt a bit odd to call a man who was only a handful of years older than you ‘Mr. Wayne.’ You smiled, nodding your ascent.

“Alright. Bruce. How are you enjoying your night so far?” In your ears, your voice didn’t sound like yours. It sounded too much like the other socialites there tonight and you cringed internally.

“Well, one of the last times I was at a public event like this a car almost hit me, so I think comparatively, it’s going good.”

Heart sinking, you realize he’s talking about the former Mayor’s funeral. So suddenly too and you’re not sure if he’s poking fun at it until he smiles softly. You smiled back but it faded quickly as you worried your lip between your teeth. You waited for another moment before bracing yourself to resond. “I was there, too. At the funeral.”

Well. At least the fake-socialite intonation was gone from your voice.

Genuine surprise flickers across his face before smoothing out into an empathetic but distanced frown. He doesn’t say anything, which you’re grateful for. You’re so tired of people apologizing as if they had anything to do with what happened. There was only one man who could do that and he was currently locked away in an asylum.

“Mhm, I was writing a stupid paper and when all that started happening it was… Well, it felt important to document it.” You chuckled. “As if a paper like that would be important to the historical record.”

“You never know.”

“Anyway, I had just managed to make it through the crowd of normal people-” You flashed a quick smile at Bruce, trying to show him that your comment was just a playful jab- “to the upper balcony above the main chapel when the car came crashing through, so…” You sucked your teeth, trailing off. What an absolute downer of a conversation. “Not as bad as you know… almost being hit.” Oh god, please stop talking.

His hand on your hip moves to your lower back, pressing you closer.

“So, why are you here tonight?”

“Enjoying the scenery.” You don’t miss how his eyes remained on you, and you certainly don’t miss how your cheeks heat up.

“And here I thought you were a shut-in with no social skills.” Like me.

“A lot has changed over the past year.”

The song you were swaying to ended, scattered applause moving throughout the room from those who were even aware that music was being played. The violinist of the quartet announced they were going on a break.

“What do you m-” You started to ask, but another well dressed man came up to Bruce, murmuring something to him. You overheard a snippet about donations and sighed. This event was not about you and certainly not being held so you could have a lengthy chat with the Prince of Gotham. When the man looks at you, raising an eyebrow like you were something he found on the bottom of your shoe, you sighed. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Wayne. I’ll leave you to it.”

You turned and began walking from the dance floor, not looking back at Bruce as you began scanning the crowd for Dr. Crane. You weren’t really sure how long you and Bruce had been dancing but it couldn’t have been long enough for Dr. Crane to completely disappear, right?

You took a full wine glass off a tray from a passing waiter, taking a sip of the dark liquid as you continued walking through the crowd in search of Dr. Crane. The wine was just okay (you’re sure they could’ve afforded something better for this event, but you were also the farthest thing from a wine connossiuer) but drinking it gave you a purpose. Or at least, something to do with your hands as you weaved between well-dressed couple after well-dressed couple, searching for the man who was the reason you were here tonight. You had no one else to talk to, no goals to achieve for the night. You weren’t even sure you knew anyone else at the event.

Instead of letting your anxious thoughts take control, you took a deep gulp of the wine.

And another.

And when you realized the glass was empty, you just grabbed another one off of a different waiter, not even blinking when you took a sip and found that the drink was a different one from before. Maybe champagne.

You shrugged it off. You weren’t driving tonight, you could drink as much as you wanted.

Halfway through your current drink, you felt (or at least, acknowledged for the first time) the tell-tale twinge in your core that meant the alcohol had really started to seep into your bloodstream. And, combining your lowered inhibitions from the drinks and this sudden bout of horniness, you decided you really should look for Dr. Crane so you could do or say something you would definitely regret in the morning.

With renewed vigor in your search, you entered the large banquet hall off the side of the ballroom, tables lined with snacks that you knew wouldn’t crave your hunger. Still, you wandered closer to the food, remembering that free food was also good, if not better than free alcohol.

It was amazing, actually.

Because now you had a small plate with finger foods and desserts and a new drink and your search for Dr. Crane had morphed into a search for a place to sit. After wandering the room, you finally found a small empty table tucked away in the corner, perfectly secluded for you to enjoy your food.

And you did. But then you realized that you got too much food and you didn’t want to eat anymore, so you got up and searched for the trashcan and boy, were you wobbly on your feet now. Taking a gentle step forward like a newborn fawn, you made your way to the trash cans lined against the wall. Maybe you were more tipsy than you had realized before.

With a flourish, you dropped your half-eaten plate into the garbage. And grabbed another wine from a different waiter. (This will be my last of the night.)

A voice by your side said your name. You turned, unable to immediately place the voice to a name, finding an old professor and your previous advisor by your side. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight updo pinned to the crown of her head and her outfit was simply an upgraded version of the suit she normally wore to work. You smiled, a bit too wide. You’d always liked her- had even aced her class and had been sad when it was announced that she would no longer be the advisor for your major.

“Hi Dr. Hall!” At least you weren’t slurring.

“What in the world are you doing here, and looking so pretty?” She was smiling, her thin lips painted red and stretching over her teeth. You couldn’t help but think of a skeleton, and then immediately felt bad that you had made such an unflattering comparison in your mind.

“I’m here with Dr. Crane! I’m his assistant.” You took another sip of your wine. The more you drank, the better it tasted.

“You’re a TA? For Dr. Crane? The Dr. Crane from the Psychology department?” You were too tipsy to pick up on the disbelieving- almost incredulous- tone to her voice, the way her smile was slowly fading from her face.

“Yeah!” You winced when you heard how loud you were being, taking a moment to pull yourself back. At least you could try to seem sober around your professors. You cleared your throat before beginning to speak again, intentionally lowering your voice (probably too much). “Yes, I am. For his class on the psychology of fear.”

“I didn’t know you studied psychology.”

You nodded, a bit too enthusiastically, but you were already at your maximum focus in controlling your vocal level so you couldn’t be expected to also control your physical movements. Really, you should just be grateful that you didn’t also move your hands and spill your drink at the same time.

“Mhmm, I have a minor. Dr. Crane’s been very helpful.” Amongst other things, you barely stopped yourself from tacking on to the end of your statement. Or winking, which would have been worse. You didn’t need allegations leveled against you and Dr. Crane’s relationship, which was strictly professional.

Right?

You thought back to all of your encounters with Dr. Crane that had left your heart racing, the number of which was steadily increasing. You thought about his hand on your thigh. About the look in his eyes when you’d danced together, the possessiveness when you’d spoken to Bruce Wayne.

Your cheeks grew hot and it certainly wasn’t from the wine.

As you were pondering the true nature of your relationship, Dr. Hall gave you a concerned look and pat on the back, leaving you to your thoughts. It took you a few more moments to realize that she had left you in the first place, but then you shrugged and moved on.

You walked through the crowd, smiling at everyone you saw. It was so different from your normal behavior in Gotham’s crowds (which was to duck your head and ignore everyone) but it felt right. Like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders and thrown into the sun, far away from you.

Looking down, you saw that your glass was empty, and instead of getting another you kept your promise to yourself and put the glass down on a nearby table. And you had the sudden undeniable urge to pee.

Next item on the to-do list: Go to bathroom.

part II

[unrestrainedbalderdash]

Queerplatonic Riddler x Reader fanfic

Disclaimers:

I am not a good writer. I am simply making this because I am an aroace who loves the Riddler and and desperate for fanfiction that isn't romantic or sexual and I want it to exist in the world.

This is a bit out of character because I am simply not smart enough to write a genius and I am also not very good at riddles.

Some of it is very contrived, in particular the "worldbuilding" had to be crammed into fitting a pattern for reasons, so it is very janky.

Allos are allowed to interact but PLEASE BE MINDFUL THAT THIS ISN'T FOR YOU.

Also I'm English so there may be a couple of covert language differences if you're American (eg: saw a post where apparently in the US "quite" means very whereas here it's much less intense than that)

Rating: Probably teen

Warnings: Swearing (S and F word), whump (hurt reader), violence and injury, implied ableism, near-death experiences, robberies and hostage situations (not very dangerous)

Reader insert info: Oriented aroace, quoiromantic, autistic (hyperfixating on Riddler)

Word count: 5022

Please don't give me loads of criticism I'm not releasing this to improve at writing I'm releasing this because there's no representation.

You sit in your room, reading the Gotham Gazette. A small smile appears on your face; the news keeps talking about the new crime spree, courtesy of the Riddler. You’re lying on your green bedcovers, kicking your feet and giggling. It is quite sad that his latest bank robberies are going to severely affect the economy, but… look at him. He looks so happy in the CCTV footage. His smile is the most precious thing you’ve ever seen. You love the newspaper, as long as you don’t read the articles. There’s a lot of speculation about his mental state, and, while you do agree that his mental state is probably not great, some of the speculation… it wouldn’t feel out of place on an Autism Speaks advert. You use permanent marker and doodle question marks to hide the more offensive articles. With everything that’s left, you cut it out, glaring at the scissors that are leaving jagged edges even though it is probably just a skill issue. You use Blu Tack to stick it onto the board with all of the other articles and pictures, and pick up those which fell off. Five crimes so far. You scan the articles. The names of the locations… there must be something… Classy and Elegant, a store for wedding clothes, with lots of money… House-Dealing Special Princesses, the estate agents for posh people… River Bank Tower, a tower that was a historic location for money laundering and was converted into a tourist attraction… Worshipping Mr Batman, a Batman fan club with a large following, as well as founders who got very rich… and Rose Petal Association, a very wealthy gardeners’ club. The letters… they feel… familiar…

You quickly open Wikipedia. Hands shaking – you don’t know if it’s from nerves or excitement – you search for Elgar’s Enigma Variations. Your eyes widen. Classy and Elegant – C.A.E! House-Dealing Special Princesses – H.D.S-P! R.B.T! W.M.B! R.P.A! His crimes are all after Elgar’s Enigma variations! You’re stimming, at having solved this riddle. But where will he strike next? The next piece… Ysobel…

You open Google Maps. This isn’t simple initials, the piece is named after a full name… You search around, trying to find something that fits Ysobel…

It’s the next day. As usual, it is raining. You’re carrying a green umbrella, and hoping that, if he does show up, he won’t realise that you carved the handle into the shape of a question mark. Anxiety fills you – the establishment which should be the next target, is very… suspicious. Why So Bell, a supposed bell manufacturer which everybody knows is really a front for one of the Joker gangs’ hideouts. You glance around, nervously. There are legitimate shops next door, it should be safe, it should be safe…

You’re hiding in a bush, shaking. It hurts, there are probably lots of bugs, but… you can’t just loiter in the open next to a Joker-affiliated operation, but… you have to see the Riddler’s next crime. Your umbrella is hidden with you in the bush. You’re getting uncomfortably wet. You don’t think your glasses will ever recover from this experience. Half an hour passes, and you watch as people come and go from the buildings. An obvious gang member leaves Why So Bell. You are shaking in the bush as she walks towards you. Does she see you? She’s coming closer. Closer. Closer.

She yanks you out by the tip of your umbrella. You look up at her sheepishly, trembling. She responds by punching you in the face.

You wake up, and your heart leaps as you see your favourite colour, green. Your heart is then filled with terror. The green isn’t from your many pictures of the Riddler, the green is from a massive vat of acid, and you’re dangling right over it. “Who the fuck d’you work for?!” the gang member asks. “N-N-NO-ONE! I’M N-NOT A GANG MEMBER! PLEASE! TH-THERE’S BEEN A TERRIBLE MISUNDERSTANDING!!” you squeak, terrified. The gang members – three of them – laugh at you. “Why were you hiding in that bush?!” a Joker goon shouts at you, as you feel yourself being lowered towards the acid, “You’re a spy, aren’t ya?!” “PLEASE! PLEASE! I W-WASN’T SPYING! PLEASE! I W-WAS… I WAS JUST HIDING IN THE BUSH, W-W-WAITING FOR SOMEONE!!” “Yer lying!”

Your vision is being consumed by green, and not in the usual Riddler hyperfixation way, but in the way that you are about to die. You are whimpering, trying desperately to stammer out an explanation, but there is no way to explain anything in a way that does not make you look like an alloromantic stalker…

Suddenly, the power cuts out. You scream, thinking that this the end. The Joker goons are shouting, confused. There are sounds of a scuffle, and one of their panicked yelling is cut short. The other two are fighting something. “B-Batman?” you shriek, terrified. Every time the Riddler goes to Arkham, he seems to come back worse. If Batman is here, he will surely arrest the Riddler and send him to Arkham yet again. The sounds of the scuffle stop. You wait, hyperventilating. This is very bad, as you are starting to breathe in the fumes of the acid. It’s rather funny that you solved the riddle, and now Batman came here to save you but will surely arrest the Riddler. You can’t help but laugh at the fact that you solved it for Batman, it’s so funny, he’s going to rot in Arkham! Ha! You’re being lifted up, taken away from the green, just like how your hopes of ever seeing the silly green man have gone away! Now you’re being picked up! It’s funny, Batman’s arms seem nowhere near as muscular as they should be! Isn’t it funny that you’re still in the dark, the Dark Knight hasn’t turned the light on, because dark! Ha! Get it? “Ha… I’ve already done the work, Batman!” you laugh. “Don’t compare me to that pathetic man,” your saviour replies. It’s hilarious, you’re such an idiot, you’re stupid! You’re a fool! You’re just as pathetic as Batman! What even is a Bat Man meant to be, anyway? And now, this man is holding you! From what you can see, the glow of the acid is turning his outfit green! Oh, what’s that silly symbol on his outfit?! Haha! The little question marks in your brain, and now there’s a big one on this man’s spandex! Hahaha! You’re an idiot! An idiot who didn’t realise you finally got to meet your hero! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! He thinks you’re so stupid! He can hear you mumbling about how stupid you are, you’re really not helping things, this is so funny, he’s going to hate you! And now, everything’s going dark like your future! Ha! Ha… Ha… Ha…………..

You’re in a hospital bed. Next to you is your umbrella. “You’re awake,” the nurse says, looking at you with concern. “Wh… what happened..?” “Someone found a note leading to you. You were passed out… Joker chemicals…” Your eyes widen. “J-Joker?! Is… are there gonna be lasting effects?!” “You might be more prone to fits of laughter, but that’s all.”

In the evening, you’re released from the hospital. You walk home, holding your umbrella. You feel an irregularity on the handle, and carefully take your finger away from it. Your heart leaps; there, on the handle… a small question mark, engraved into the wood. You stand there for a little while, shaking, your mouth open in what could be a smile. What could this mean?

You return home, giggling. You walked past Troyte Bank on the way, Troyte being the next piece in the Enigma variations. There also seems to be a pattern to the timing of the robberies – the next is going to be at some point between 1 and 1:30. You’re shaking. You could go to the bank at 1. You… you could see him… you could be in the bank while it’s being robbed… a bank robbery would be very scary, but you could see him! Being an innocent bystander in one of the Riddler’s very own crimes… the thought makes you giddy with excitement. You’re giggling again; the exposure to the fumes of the Joker chemical has evidently given you this new habit. You sound like a teenage girl talking with friends about a cute boy. Your laughter turns more nervous. What will people think when they hear your giggling? They’ll think you’re weird…

They already do, though…

It’s 1PM. You step into the bank from the rain of Gotham, clutching your umbrella, biting your lip to stop yourself from giggling. You loiter near the side, doing your best to not look suspicious, waiting for him… After three minutes, the door opens, and five goons holding machine guns enter the building, along with him. The Riddler, wearing his iconic green spandex, with the purple belt, and the large black question mark on the front. There are little question marks in lines down the sides of the arms and legs. He’s wearing his mask and gloves, of matching shades of purple. The spandex… doesn’t leave much to the imagination. You can tell that he is quite muscular, although not nearly as muscular as people renowned for strength, such as Batman. “I’m tough and elastic, but you have left! O! What am I? A robbery!” he exclaims, gleefully. You can’t help but smile at his wide grin. He twirls his cane as the gunmen usher everyone in the bank to the side. The gunmen tell everyone to kneel, and you kneel down, clutching your umbrella. An old man grunts from having to kneel. The Riddler looks at the group. “Tell you what. Anyone who can answer any riddles will be allowed to stand up!” he says, taking out some cards from within his belt and giving them to one of his goons, whispering instructions for the order they get distributed in. He and two of the goons walk into the vault, and are presumably taking the loot, while one of the goons points his gun at the bank staff, one points his gun at the group, and the last one is handing out the riddles. You receive your card with the riddle on it. You read the riddle: What can be gentle as the wind, or as all-consuming as fire, as strong as a mountain, as beautiful as a sapphire? “Is it love?” you ask shyly, before he has even finished handing out the riddles. He walks over to you, and reads the riddle. After a little pause, he grunts and nods, and walks off. You start to stand up, and glance at the old man next to you who is struggling. “The answer’s water,” you murmur in his ear. He rereads the riddle, and then gives his answer to the goon, who has now finished handing out the riddles. He is allowed to stand, and you wait for the goons to glance away, then give another person an answer. “My, my, you’re very good at solving other peoples’ riddles, aren’t you?” a soft voice says in your ear. You squeak. It’s him. You can feel yourself trembling nervously, he’s so close, he has a smirk on his face. The Riddler gives you a wink, and moves away. He leaves with the goons and the loot he has stolen.

That night, you go home, shaking. You’re filled with emotions, and they’re scaring you. You… you think you might… love him… you’re not sure what kind of attraction you feel… and it’s scary. He means a lot to you, and you want him to know how you feel, but you don’t even really know how you feel. You go and print out the page for Oriented Aroace on the LGBTQIA Wiki. You get out a pen and paper, and start making a diagram, with some bars, each corresponding to a different type of attraction, the main ones you can think of. For the bar about sexual attraction, you can easily put NO in capital letters. For sensual attraction, you fill it quite high. You pause, and decide to write definitions for the types of attraction. You reach romantic attraction, and hesitate. What is romantic attraction? Romance is entirely a social construct… how does one define it? After a minute of trying to think, you just fill it with question marks and print out the wiki page for quoiromantic. You start writing: “I don’t know what romantic attraction is meant to feel like. I don’t feel it usually, but you make me feel something I’ve never felt before, and I can’t tell if it’s a cross between hyperfixation and alterous attraction, or if this is what romance feels like.” You glare at the paper. You genuinely can’t tell if it’s you finally feeling romantic attraction for one person, or if it’s internalised amatonormativity and you’re just hyperfixating and have tertiary attractions. All you know is… that you love him…

The next day – another rainy one - is here. You’re loitering inside Without Nines, a casino, when he comes in, with several gunmen. There are also two women, dressed in spandex with question marks – Query and Echo. The Riddler is wearing a very dapper green suit with black question marks, along with a purple and blue waistcoat with question mark shapes. His light green tie is embroidered with purple question marks, and he wears a green bowler hat with a purple ribbon and a black question mark, the colours matching the rest of his outfit. His shirt is black, and he wears purple gloves and his purple mask. A little smile plays upon his face as everyone in the casino immediately panics, at his mercy. Guards immediately try to fight him, but the gunmen fire some warning shots. “Ah ah ah! I’m going to take a hostage! And if you don’t let me take the money, you’ll find yourselves riddled with bullets!” he says, smiling smugly. Your heart leaps as he starts walking straight towards you. You let out a little squeak as he hooks his cane around your arm, and pulls you towards him. You’re shaking, and do a little giggle, nervous. This is it. He’s noticed you. He’s taken you hostage. And all you can do is giggle like a lunatic. The Riddler is giggling slightly, as he unhooks his cane from your arm, and puts his arm around your shoulders, pointing the cane under your throat threateningly. You can feel the cold metal against your neck. With some of his goons following, he walks through the casino, holding you close to him, letting everyone know that he could kill you if they don’t let him rob the place. And yet, he gives you a gentle squeeze, and something tells you that he isn’t going to hurt you. Query and Echo force a staff member to open the vault.

He lets out a giggle as the group walk into the vault. You let out a little gasp as you see how much money there is. The Riddler chuckles. “Impressed?” he says in your ear with a low voice. He walks in front of you, and looks at your awestruck face. You’re trembling, he’s looking at you, all you can do is stare at the money like an idiot. He giggles. “Alright, then. Looting this place might take a while, so we may as well get comfortable,” he says, a smile on his lips. The regular gunmen start taking the money, while Query and Echo stay on guard at the vault’s entrance. The Riddler puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes down to make you sit on the floor. You let out a little giggle. He sits down, facing you, and holds his cane, resting it against your neck, presumably to establish some threat. “Well, then. Riddle me this. Why hasn’t Batman caught me yet?” he asks. You squeak delightedly when he says it. He laughs a little, a laugh that makes your heart feel so light. He looks happy. “Go on. I’ve seen you three times, now. You’ve solved my riddle…” he says, leaning in. “Not just anyone can do that.” You start giggling uncontrollably. You feel light. He leans back a bit, waiting for you to regain your composure. “Are you always this giggly? Is it from the Joker chemicals? Or… maybe… just maybe… is it only when you see me?” he asks, winking. You giggle more. “Ha! Ha! Hahahahaha! It’s J-J-Joker… ha! Joker chemicals! Ha ha!” you laugh. He looks at you, sympathetic, and puts a hand on your shoulder. Your giggling gets worse, and you feel yourself blushing, and he immediately pulls his hand away. He waits quietly for you to calm down, as his men continue emptying the vault. He pulls you to your feet, and whispers into your ear. “I only have two more robberies in this plan. That’s the… initial… idea…” he whispers. He’s so close to you, you can feel his breath on your ear. He gives a flamboyant twirl of his cane, and holds you menacingly again, putting his cane back to your throat. “Well then, my little hostage, it’s soon time for me to set you free,” he says, giving his handsome smile. You giggle, and blush slightly. You’re looking up at him, and he looks down at you. He lets out a little laugh. “You’re rather adorable,” he says. You squeak, and blush much more. He giggles. “Well, I’ll give you some time to regain your composure, haha,” he says, backing away slightly. You take deep breaths, and eventually calm down. He holds you again, and the group leaves the vault. He places you back with the other civilians, and moves away, his demeanour much more menacing… “Alright! And, just to seal this wondrous little robbery, everyone will give me one of their valuables!” he says, laughing. He looks so happy… you can’t help but smile… He takes peoples’ necklaces as they tremble, a pair of earrings, some fancy brooches… he reaches you, and smiles. You already know what he wants, and you shyly hold the umbrella. Your eyes meet as he wraps his hand around the handle, your grip lingering. He takes it from you, giggling, and continues taking other peoples’ valuables.

The next day, you’re walking through the streets of Gotham, giggling excitedly. Today is going to be the day you come out to him. You spent yesterday evening getting ready to tell him, getting ready to speak. You’ve simplified your explanation considerably. You can’t help but giggle at the fact that you’re going to see him, and tell him everything… maybe… maybe he was impressed by your ability to predict his crimes when even Batman couldn’t… “Hey, what’s that dumb smile on your face for?!” a menacing voice says. A gang of thugs surrounds you. You go pale. “Well? Why you giggling? You think you’re the Joker or some shit?!” he shouts. You look around, desperate for help. Citizens are walking away, only glancing for some spectacle. A furtive woman in a green coat opens her phone and points it at you – is she going to record this?! “Uh, heehee, I, I d-don’t wanna f-fight… it’s… ha… I inhaled some Joker fumes… p-please… haha… don’t h-hurt me…” “You won’t be smiling when we’re done with you!” a thug says, elbowing you in the abdomen and sending you staggering back. Tears are streaming down your face. You’re missing the Riddler’s robbery, surely he’ll think you’re an idiot, he’s going to hate you- you’re punched in the face, and sobbing. They keep punching you, keep kicking you, keep kicking you. Whack. Whack. Whack. It hurts. You feebly try to hold up your arms to block their blows, but they easily shatter your defences. You’re bleeding now. It hurts so much. They kick your legs, and you crash down to the ground, crying. They get their weapons out… one of them has a hammer… You can hear the crunch of your bones as your legs shatter. You can only whimper as one gets out her knife, and stabs you in the abdomen. You’re screaming. “PLEASE STOP! I D-D-DIDN’T DO ANYTHING TO YOU!!” you cry as they keep hitting you. Your vision goes black. This is it, you’re going to die… “LEAVE THEM ALONE!”  a voice shouts. They stop, tense. Your head is bleeding, you can’t think straight, but… it sounds… familiar… Your vision is lit up with blue, as something fires electricity at the thugs. They shriek, and run away, leaving you. There are murmurs among the onlookers. You can feel hands slide underneath your body, as your saviour picks you up. He’s walking quickly. “Hey… hey… please… please talk to me…” he says. Your vision is starting to return, and you can see the Riddler, tears streaming down his face. “Sorry…” you say weakly. “It’s alright, it’s alright, none of this is your fault, please don’t apologise for anything, you will be safe,” he says, voice cracking. “I w-was gonna be there… I… I promise I’m not stupid…” “Oh… oh, baby… I already know you’re not stupid. Shh… everything’s going to be okay…” he says, holding you close as he walks. He is thinking. “Alright… you need me on the fairway, you need me for luck, but when you have me you’re well and truly fucked, what am I?” “Uh… uh… uh… a… a stroke?” you answer. He strokes your hair with his soft hands. He’s wearing a green suit, this time with a purple shirt that’s only buttoned 2/3 of the way, showing off his chest and collarbones. His hat is at a jaunty – no, messy – angle, and his mask is streaked with tears.

He enters a building. You can’t read the sign, but you can tell the initials are E.D.U. It’s dark, this building must be a repurposed warehouse. It’s quiet, except for your whimpering, and his heavy breathing, and quick footsteps. He continues stroking your hair, his hands shaking. He sets you down, and rolls up your shirt, and you can hear his sharp intake of breath. “Uh… okay… this looks bad… I’m going to have to stitch your wound…” he says. You shudder, and he picks you up. “It’s going to be okay… I promise.” He rushes into the bathroom, lays you into the bathtub and turns the tap on, rinsing the wound under the water. He gives your hair a pat, and starts preparing his first aid equipment, sterilising a needle and thread. He holds your hand, and cleans your wound as you whimper. He takes you out of the bathtub, and lays you down, using a towel to dry you. “Listen, you’ll be okay, I promise,” he says. He starts rubbing some cream around your wound, and you feel yourself going numb. He starts stitching, and you’re crying. “Shh… shh… uh… what’s so fragile that saying its name breaks it?” “S-s-silence…” you respond. He nods, and keeps stitching. “You’re a smart cookie, you know?” His words make your heart leap. He keeps stitching. “I do mean it. I really do… I’m almost done with the stitches…” After what feels like an eternity, he finishes, and smiles at you, taking his gloves off. “The worst bit’s over,” he says, stroking your hair. He bandages the area. Now that the worst part is over, you start to appreciate the softness of his hands. You realise he is wearing green nail polish, with a purple question mark on each finger. He finishes bandaging you. “All done!” he says, giving you a headpat, making you giggle. He gives you a warm smile. Your giggling dies down as the exhaustion starts to really hit you. You pass out.

When you open your eyes, you’ve been tucked into a soft, green bed, covered in purple question marks. “You’re awake!” he says, reminiscent of a puppy who just saw a friend. On top of his outfit from before, he’s wearing a knitted jumper, green with purple question marks, it looks so soft. You’re still in pain, but you blush a little, as he reaches out with his hand, then pauses. “Um, would it be comforting if I held your hand?” Your heart leaps, and you nod, giggling. He gently takes your hand in his, and smiles softly. It’s so soft, it distracts you from some of the sharp pain you feel all over your body. “Um… th-thank you…” you mumble. “Hey. I had to save you, you’re like a good luck charm at this point. It… it’s not right when you’re not there,” he says softly, stroking your hand gently. You squeak, giggling. He looks at you, a little smile on his face. “So why do you keep following me? Is it gratitude for me saving you from Joker’s gang? Are you trying to prove your intelligence against the smartest man in Gotham? Or maybe… something else?” he asks in his soft voice, winking at the end. You giggle nervously, trying to collect yourself. “I… I… heehee… hahaha… you’re… hahahahaha…” You’re shaking, nervous, and he can tell. He gently strokes your hand, a comforting smile on his face. “It’s okay… take your time…” “Ha… ha… haha… YOU’RE MY SPECIAL INTEREST!” you blurt out. His eyes are wide, and he looks very surprised. You laugh nervously. “Like autism?” he asks, his smile widening. You nod, cursing yourself for being so blunt and probably making a fool of yourself – he’s smiling wide and crying tears of joy. His leg is bouncing. “Hahahaha I need to come out hahahahaha I’m an oriented aroace I hahahaha don’t feel romantic or sexual attraction but I’m feeling other types of attraction to you,” you say, shaking. He has a little pause of processing this, and smiles. “Hey, you’re valid! So, uh, what other types of attraction do you feel?” he asks, giving a good-natured smile. “Hahahaha I feel sensual attraction where I want to touch you and I feel alterous attraction which is uh it’s an emotion attraction that isn’t exclusively romantic or platonic haha and maybe I feel aesthetic attraction hahahaha,” you say, trembling. He grins, and giggles. “You’re quite the riddle, aren’t you? I’ve taken quite a liking to you,” he says, his smile lighting up your world. The way his eyes light up fills your heart with joy. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re so precious. Seriously, you’re one of the most adorable people ever. Seeing you during my crimes… well, now I know how Ozzie feels about seeing birds. You’re like… a little friend…” You let out a squeak, and he laughs. “You’re so cute… may I put my hand on your face?” he says. You nod, giggling, as he cups your head in his hands. “How do you feel about eye contact?” he asks. “Haha! I’m okay making eye contact with people I like!” you respond. There is a pause, as he slowly moves his eyes towards you.

“And… do you… like me?” he asks.

You look into his eyes. Both of you giggle. He gently strokes your hair. “Is this okay, d… may I call you dear?” Your heart leaps, and your mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Haha! I, ha, uh, haha it’s okay! Ha… uh… haha… what… w-what’s… what… what are we?” you ask, blushing slightly. There is a pause, as he thinks. “You seem to be my biggest fan, and I find you simply adorable. I’ll do anything to make you feel comfortable. I’ll look after you… Batman almost caught me last time, so I have plenty of free time…” “What… what happened? Wh-what did I miss?” You feel a little sting at the memory. The pain is coming back, and you can feel tears forming. He wipes the tears from your eyes. “I started the robbery… everything was in place, I had the plan, but… it didn’t feel the same, without you. What takes deep hold and becomes every day, and without it the tree will fall?” “Uh… root… routine?” “Exactly. Seeing you, it’s become part of my routine… you hold a place in my heart… I… my plans, I started planning for you…” You look at him, in awe. Somehow, the biggest genius ever, your hero… has been thinking about you. “Wow…” is all you can say. You’re not even giggling anymore, you’re just repeating the word. He ruffles your hair. “We Rogues, not many people like us. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a devoted fan… and you solved my plan faster than Batman… you can understand how much that means to me, right?” he says, seeming… nervous? The confidence is gone, he looks… anxious… like he needs reassurance. “You’re… haha… my… ha-ha-hero…” you say. His eyes light up, and he nods his head rapidly. “Um… is it alright if I give you a kiss on the forehead?” he asks. You nod, and start giggling again, as he gently puts his hand behind your head. He gives you a soft kiss on the forehead, making sure to avoid the bandage which you finally notice. He’s so gentle, and the tender kiss is taking away the pain you feel. He lets go, and looks down, into your wide eyes. “With skill, I am paid to save. What am I?” “… Protect?” He nods. “I want to protect you… you’re… you’re too precious. I’ll find the people who did this to you…” he says, wrapping his arms around you, looking into your eyes to gauge your reaction. You have a tired look in your eyes, as you lean into him. “I… I have something for you…” He reaches down, and holds your umbrella. Your crude attempt of carving the handle into a question mark shape has now been greatly polished, but most importantly, it has been covered in vibrantly-coloured question marks. “It’s… beautiful…” “A beautiful umbrella for a beautiful mind, from an even more beautiful mind,” he says, as you relax in his arms and make a contented little humming noise. He gently strokes your hair, and you fall asleep in the Riddler’s arms, your head buried in his chest.

[taka-chan]

tw it's love and porn

[tracidant]

I'm a sucker for Jason & GoodDadBruce stories. ❤

(From the batman fanfiction group on Facebook) Writing prompt: After getting taken in by Bruce, street kid Jason Todd has trouble in school.......AND GO!!!

Bruce got a call from Gotham Academy. Jason was in the principal's office, and Bruce needed to come immediately. He was just leaving WE, so he was only a few minutes away. He got to the principal's office to see Jason sitting on one side of the room with his head down, and three older, larger boys sitting on the other. Two of the boys had black eyes and the third was holding an ice pack to his likely broken nose. Bruce practically ran to Jason and knelt down in front of him.

"Are you okay, Jaylad?"

Jason almost smiled. "Pssht, of course."

"What happened?"

"They f**ked around and found out."

"Jason..."

Just then the principal walked in. A tall man in his early 60s, well-dressed, with an authoritiative air.

"Mr. Wayne. I'm Principal Skinner. Thank you for coming. We have a zero tolerance policy here at Gotham Academy for fighting. Your...son...attacked these boys with no provocation during third period. Now, Jason is an excellent student, but I'm not sure I can allow him to continue attending here."

Bruce stood up and walked over to the three other boys. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen, why?"

"And you?"

"Seventeen, sir."

"And you?"

The boy with the ice pack glared at Bruce. "None of your business."

Bruce turned to the principal. "Are you seriously asking me to believe that my fourteen-year old SON, started a fight with THREE boys all at least two years older and thirty pounds heavier?"

"Well..."

"Where's the video? I'm assuming there's video evidence corroborating this?"

"Not exactly, but..."

"Ok, witnesses?"

"No..."

"Then what evidence do you have?"

"These boys have all sworn to me that Jason was indeed the instigator."

"Jason, were you?"

"No way! I was in the stacks in the library when these three cornered me and started calling me street rat and saying sh...stuff about my mom. Those two," Jason pointed at the two boys with black eyes, "grabbed my arms and the other one tried to punch me in the face. I was defending myself!"

"Do you swear that's the truth?"

"Absolutely!"

Bruce turned back to the principal. "So we can't really go by who says they're telling the truth, now can we?"

"But Mr. Wayne. These boys are from good families. They wouldn't..."

Bruce slammed his hand on the desk. The principal and the three boys all jumped. Jason smirked. "Here it comes," he thought happily.

"So what you're implying is that MY SON is at fault because he wasn't born rich?"

"I...well, he did live on the streets and I'm sure he only did what he had to to survive the rough streets of Gotham."

"Ok. Let's take a different tack. Perhaps we need to study this a little further to find out if there's a connection between being a homeless orphan and being a bully OR if spoiled rich brats are more likely to be bullies. I have a friend who is great with research. Let's call her."

Bruce pulled his phone from his pocket, dialed a number, and hit the speaker button. It rang twice.

"Gotham Gazette. Vicki Vale."

"Vicki, hi. It's Bruce. I'm at Gotham Academy right now and need your research skills, if you don't mind."

"Of course, Bruce. I'm actually leaving an interview, and I'm about two blocks away. Need me to come by?"

Bruce looked at the principal, who had suddenly become very pale. "Do we need her to come by, Principal Skinner?"

"Well, perhaps we can chalk this up to boys being boys, and let everyone go back to class."

"With no punishment for these three?"

"Uh, Bruce?"

"Yes, Jason?"

"I think they got enough punishment already. If they promise to keep away from me, I'm good with that."

Bruce knew that Jason really wanted to gloat about beating the three boys, and he was so proud of him for not doing it. He was equally proud of him for kicking their over-privileged butts.

"Well, if you're alright with that. I don't want you to feel unsafe." As if.

Jason nodded and smiled the sweetest, most innocent (and fakest) smile at the principal.

Principal Skinner looked relieved. "I believe this will be an acceptable solution."

"So Bruce, am I coming by to do an exposé or a feel-good piece?"

Bruce had an idea. "How about a piece about the dangers of bullying? I have three boys here who would be glad to assist you. Principal Skinner will help as well."

"I like it. It's a big topic that needs more coverage. We'll be right over."

Bruce ended the call. "I'll be taking my son home for the rest of the day." He didn't wait for any agreement or even a goodbye. He put his arm around Jason's shoulders, and they left the building.

"You're the best, Bruce! That was AWESOME!! The principal is a total snob, and those three are the worst! They always pick on the small freshmen. They just aren't used to anyone fighting back. I wanted to beat them up way more than I did."

"I'm proud of how you handled that, Jason. How about some lunch? You pick the place."

"There's a new place that opened up over by the Tower. They're supposed to have killer onion rings and burgers and shakes too."

"Sounds good. What's it called?"

"Red Robin!"

"Perfect."

[kookieswan]

Tagged by @parkdatjimin aka my amazingly creative and beautiful wife 🌸

Profile Tag Game ♥️

Name: Candi 🍭

Sign: Aquarius

Height: 5’3

Time: 3:48PM

Birthday: February 9th

Fav Bands/Artists: BTS, DIMLIM, Joji, BIBI, the Gazette, Utada Hikaru, Toru Kitajima (TK), Doja, Deftones, Gorillaz, Motionless in White, Bring me the Horizo, Dance Gavin Dance. I tend to like a song or two but many different artists.

Last Movie: The Strangers. Watch it, piss your pants, have fun ♥️

Last Show: House

When I created this blog: June of 2021

What I post: My senseless ponderings, BTS fanfiction that’s either fluffy as hell of horror content lmao, other BTS content, lots of tidbits about my stories and info about my characters.

Other blogs? None 🌸

Do I get asks? Yes, but it’s spotty. Some days I get a lot and then I’ll go days without any. Sad Candi 🥹

Followers: We’re homies 😌

Average hours of sleep: 6-7 on days I work lmao. Maybe more on my days off 🤡

Instruments: I am talentless lmao. I have a guitar and want to learn I just can’t find the time 😭

What I’m wearing: To be super detailed! Black skinny jeans, red sweater, chelsea boots, a bandana to keep my hair back, chain necklace, earrings, all my facial piercings, and my glasses. AKA my work attire as I am at work currently lmao.

Dream trip: I’ve always wanted to go to Japan! I especially want to go to Tokyo and visit both Shibuya for the fashion and Akihabara for all of the nerdy things I like lol. BUT I would also love to visit some of the more scenic areas and the onsens ♥️ (I’d also love to visit Paris, South Korea, and a few other places!)

Favorite Songs: Black Swan - BTS, RIJIN - DIMLIM, My Apocalypse - Escape the Fate, Undying - the Gazette, Sextape - Deftones, Andromeda - Gorillaz, Say So - Doja Cat, Daechwita - Agust D, Middle of the Night - Loveless, Moonchild - RM, BAD SAD AND MAD - BIBI, White Ferrari - Frank Ocean, Flower - TK from Ling tosite sigure, Arson - jhope, Sad Gurlz Luv Money - Amaarae, SLIDE - Chase Atlantic

Tagging @pamzn @sugarflywme @bebejungkook @vvh0adie and anyone else who wants to 🌸