[Meme] Never Have I Ever Written

[runespoor]

Stolen verbatim from petra and coddled over for months. (original entry here)

If you would like to play, comment with something you have never written or drawn, and skim through the other suggestions. If someone else has proposed something you have written or drawn, write a snippet -- anywhere from ten words to a novel -- proving that you have done so. If you're an artist, feel free to scribble something and post it.

If you catch someone claiming not to have written or drawn something that you can prove they've done, you can request a snippet from them.

ETA: In an actual game, the point is to get drunk, but we're getting drunk on words, here.

For every three snippets you write, you may make another "Never have I ever" declaration. Make sure you won't get caught!

Comments

[gehayi]

I'm...not sure how this works. I mean, generally if I haven't written something, that means I don't want to. There's a plethora of things I haven't written, but if I don't want to write them, I generally don't want to read them, either. Often because I find them squicky.

So is this supposed to be confined to things that you haven't written but would LIKE to write and/or read?

[runespoor]

Presumably. It can be as specific or as general as you manage to put it, too, which can be helpful. Or you can decide to lie, because you're asking for something you'd be okay to write again as well as to read.

[silveronthetree]

Never have I ever written Steph/Tim.

[glymr]

(Oooh, definitely written this one.)

Lessee...

Steph shoved her leg harder between his, grinning at the sound Red Robin made. "Can you even hear me under that thing?" she whispered in his ear, and his shiver answered her. She licked along the edge of his cowl, knowing that his eyes were wide behind it.

"Steph," he whispered, "Why?"

She shrugged, not pulling away. "Why not?"

[silveronthetree]

Aww. Poor Tim doesn't know what to make of it.

[runespoor]

Hell yeah, Steph. Ri-di-cu-lous-ly hot. *grinning*

All the Steph/Tim all the time.

[runespoor]

“Hey,” the girl said, standing up. He was pretty sure she'd had her feet propped up on the coffee table before he entered the room. “I'm Steph. You're Tim, right?”

Tim, who'd been pondering the “Miss Stephanie” Alfred said was there, made an awkward wave. There was something in the way she was standing that bothered him, like he'd forgotten to turn the oven off before leaving home. Maybe it was just that she'd had her feet on the table. “Hello.”

“I'm Damian's babysitter,” she continued, imperturbable.

He blinked, and her face cracked into a grin.

“That... must be quite the job,” he managed, as he tried to imagine ways to pry a retelling of Damian learning he was going to have a babysitter from Alfred's discretion. “I must a little out of the loop, I didn't know.”

When had Bruce recruited her?

More to the point: why? That was a secret identity risk if Tim had ever heard of one.

“Yeah, you're out of Gotham usually, right?”

“Dick told you?”

She shook her head, sending loose strands of blond hair flying. “Damian,” she said. It sounded both simple and meaningful.

“Ah.” He grimaced. “Hum. Sorry?”

“That's okay,” she assured, plunking down. “Usually I'm the one he's ranting about, so that was a nice change.”

What was Bruce thinking, Tim wondered as he followed Steph's suite and sat in an armchair. He could read the title of the book she was reading before he interrupted her upside-down on the coffee table, a classic edition of The Graped of Wrath. For school, he guessed.

Resting his forearms on his knees, Tim leaned forward, as if for an interesting conversation – or an interrogation.

“Damian's not here,” he noted. Damian had been utterly, obnoxiously smug at the prospect of spending the afternoon with Dick, tweaking Nightwing's bike. No chance of Tim forgetting that, which of course had been Damian's goal all along. Tim wasn't proud of it, but he couldn't help but begrudge Damian's bonding time with Dick, because – Tim was in Gotham seldom enough.

Steph shrugged, and something about the movement, again, tickled at his memory. “Mr Wayne – Bruce asked me to come early. I dunno why.”

“He asked me to drop by, too.” Bruce hadn't told him why, of course, but her being here at the same time meant that whatever else Bruce intended, he'd set up their meeting on purpose. As for the purpose, that was best left for late-night speculation. Whatever Bruce had in mind, it'd only make sense when Tim was sleep-deprived and eyeballs-deep into tactical reflexion over how to dismantle a drug empire.

He'd meant to talk to Bruce anyway. Over the past few days, he'd found signs of a new costumed vigilante in town. So far they'd restrained themselves to breaking up muggings, but clearly something would have to be done. He'd studied the map of where they'd been active, and sprinkled their most common routes with cameras; the footage he'd recorded showed that the person – the girl – while unlikely to commit crimes or to cross the line, was painfully amateurish. Someone had to be done before she got herself killed.

“He didn't tell you?” Steph asked, but she didn't sound like she expected him to say yes. She couldn't have been working for Bruce for long, and she already had his number.

“No, not really.” His lips quirked, embarrassed.

“That's okay,” she said, flopping back into the sofa. She eyed the book on the coffee table. “Hum, you mind if...” She gestured at the book.

“Not at all.”

“Thanks,” she reached over for the book, explaining, “I've got an essay in two days and I'm not the greatest at time management.”

As she settled to continue reading, sprawled on the monstrous sofa, she crossed her legs, right ankle propped on her left knee, displaying violet Converse. Tim watched her foot moving up and down, to the rhythm of a song only she could hear. In the back of his mind, something was – bothering him.

He was still staring when a remark in the book made her snort, the exact sound his recording devices had picked up, and he knew at once why Bruce had arranged this meeting, why he'd picked her for Damian's babysitter.

Her foot was dancing like purple spots in the night.

Re: All the Steph/Tim all the time.

[silveronthetree]

Yes! Steph needs to be in the reboot. She's so good at unsettling Tim and I love the idea that she's Damian's babysitter. He won't know what hit him and nor will Tim.

[moetushie]

Never have I ever written Bruce/Jason, hooker!fic.

Though not for lack of trying. I just really hate Matches Malone, and I think Jason would call Bruce out if he tried to use that persona to get close to him.

[runespoor]

...how do we define hookerfic.

[moetushie]

... Undercover shenanigans!

tw for ...underage prostitution?

[runespoor]

I guess this sort of counts.

*
Punting Batman in the stomach and dashing off didn't work the first time. It probably wouldn't work the second, not that Jason wants to. There's more than one way of getting out of trouble, Jason's known since the first he's been called smart-mouthed by a cop with sleazy eyes.

And Batman, well. All kind of rumors about him. Jason's heard about his boy.

The one with the – he's not going to say panties. Sure, Batman thinks he's self-destructive; stealing tires off the Batmobile, and going after the car again when Batman let him go once. But he's not that damn stupid.

Not until he knows for sure that--

He makes himself look up into Batman's eyes, the white lenses. Fucking eerie, but a couple inches lower, the cowl gives way to skin, and that's human. Jason can see the stubble.

Batman doesn't move, doesn't step back, as Jason props himself against the car, licks his lips. And steps forward, closer. Batman's tall, and built, and unless the cowl is a big fat liar, the lower half of his face promise only good things about his bone structure. Not exactly a hardship. And even if Batman turns out to be what they call not conventionally attractive, he's Batman. That's more than enough hot right there to make what Jason's contemplating totally all right with Jason's hormones.

“I was thinking, Batman,” he says once he's slid into the personal space of the man inside the Batsuit, close enough that if he reaches he could touch the man's skin. He can see a thin white line through the stubble, tiredness or scar. “I could show you a good time.”

He's close enough that he can see Batman's nostrils dilate.

“What are you saying.”

But Batman doesn't push him away or get him into an arm's lock to drop with the cops. Doesn't disappear, even, just stands there like the Everest, radiating cold disapproval. Like it's gonna have an effect on Jason.

“That you look like you could stand to have some fun, big man.” Daringly, he grabs Batman's hand and puts it on his hip, and Batman lets him, as he sidles closer yet, until their toes are almost touching. The gauntlet's texture rubs against his skin as he does, cool and thick and—dangerous. Powerful Batman punches people with these gauntlets. He fights, he picks locks, he makes incredibly precise forensic experiments with these on. He'll touch Jason with these. “Cm'on,” he mutters. “Lemme help you with that. However you want me.”

Batman's gauntlet twitches on Jason's hip, but it doesn't retract. Jason cocks his head, and gives the towering shape his best seductive smile.

“Jay--”

“Just tonight,” Jason cuts him off with a finger on Batman's lips, before Batman can get into the details of his life. “One night, you can let go, right? Hey, if you want me bareback, there's no extra. Not for you, Batman. We Crime Alley punks know who's looking after us.”

There's an instant of silence, the time for Jason to take and keep a breath.

“What,” Batman asks, as his other hand comes up to mirror the first, his voice ground-up like rock or coffee. “Not all free of charge? You could be more thankful.”

A thrill shoots through Jason, victory and trepidation mixed, that Batman gives in into the game. As Batman leans in, his mouth hot on the side on Jason's neck, Jason finds himself gripping at him, but his bare fingers can't find a hold on the cape, or the armor, so he clutches at Batman's shoulders and tries to keep breathing while he lets Batman devour him alive.

He only opens his eyes again when his back hits the car.

“I gotta-- gotta give the man his cut. If it were up to me--” He's babbling. He knows he's babbling. It doesn't matter; what matters is Batman's hands, that have popped open his jeans' buttons without his realizing, and Batman's hand down his pants.

“Your pimp.” Batman's breath against his skin is hot. Damp. He doesn't stop moving his hand around Jason's cock. “Who is he?”

He's still crowding Jason like it'll make a difference. Or maybe he doesn't know how to stop, maybe he can't turn it off. That's okay; when Batman gives that tug with his wrist, and Jason whimpers, caught between the hard car and Batman's harder shape, one of Gotham's buildings come to life, Jason doesn't want him to turn it off. He's—if he's gonna fuck Batman, he fucking wanna get fucked by Batman. Batman's that thing where you don't know where it stops, you don't know if it stops, and Batman's just-- Batman's just too much for a man, that's how you know it's not just a man, not just a guy in a high-tech suit.

“Matches,” Jason pants. “Matches Malone.”

The Batman smiles.

Jason's thighs jerk open just a little bit more. It's not really terror drowning his brain. But it feels like it should be. If Jason-- if Jason wasn't a fucking dumb kid who'd picked up Batman.

It's not terror even when Jason's lust-foggy brain picks through the words Batman breathes in his ear. “Matches and I have an... arrangement. He'll understand.”

It's a promise: Jason can't escape. He shivers and gives himself over, to the creepy blank lenses of Batman's cowl and the harsh gauntlets and Batman's teeth, but the truth is, he doesn't want to escape.

[moetushie]

Never have I ever written Dick/Jason.

Kisses Like Kicks (One sided Jason/Dick)

[silveronthetree]

This is the only pairing I've written more than once!

It's Jason's first visit to Titan's Tower and when Dick wakes him on Saturday morning and offers to give him some tips on his gymnastics, of course Jason's going to agree. Sure the set up in the Batcave is pretty sweet but the Titan's gym is attached to a pool, plus there's the prospect of hot girls. It sucks when he discovers that Dick's woken him so early that no one else is around.

He doesn't bitch too much because he's having a good time. Dick's helping him with the new flips Jason's been having trouble with and Jason's sure he's getting better at them. He managed to land less awkwardly than usual, which is a start. He'll never be anything like Dick, though but it's fun to flip and fly through the air.

The best bit is watching Dick demonstrate moves on the trapeze. Jason's lying in the safety net, still catching his breath after a missed catch as he watches Dick spin on the bar above him. He feels something clench inside. He could watch all day.

The spell is broken as Dick drops into the other side of the net with a laugh. He rolls neatly off the side and gives Jason a hand to help him down.

Jason collapses in a wide sprawl on the maps. He's used a few muscles that he didn't know he had and that's saying something after Batman's training. "That was so cool!" he says, smiling up at Dick.

"Tired, Little Wing?" Dick asks him and Jason sits up immediately.

"Nope." Jason grins. "I'm ready for more."

"Hmm." Dick eyes him closely. "Feel like a bit of sparring?"

"Oh, man." This was going to be fun. He knows that Dick will hold back but if he can just get a few hits in, today would be perfect.

* * *

After a few rounds, Jason really is getting tired and it's a shock when Dick flips him onto his back and pins him to the floor with one easy move. He struggles and struggles but he can't get out. Ugh.

"I don't think you know how to get out of this one yet." Dick beams at him, which adds insult to injury. Jason's been training with Batman; he knows lots of things. "Give me your best shot at getting out. Try anything."

Anything? Jason's frustrated by the close contact and remembers something from an early lesson; sometimes the completely unexpected is the only way to go.

Jason kisses Dick.

It's an awkward kiss. He isn't trying very hard. As Dick really isn't expecting it, his mouth is open and there's a jolt as Jason's teeth hit Dick's. After the brief shock of that has faded, Jason instinctively tries to deepen the kiss.

Dick jerks back a fraction of a second later than he should. And that gives Jason the perfect opportunity to get free. He takes it, giving Dick a shove that leaves him sprawling on the mats with uncharacteristic lack of grace.

"What the hell, kid?" Dick is scrubbing his mouth with his hand and he's gone kind of red. Jason would be mad about the scrubbing; he's not that bad a prospect. However Dick's got that amazing girlfriend and it isn't as if Jason'd planned to do it.

"It worked didn't it," he says with a touch of defiance.

Dick's glare fades at that. "It sure did. And you certainly took me at my word. But I wouldn't try that on the villains in Gotham. You don't know how they'd react."

"I'd spit in their face - not try to swap spit with them," Jason says. That's a crazy thing to ask. He pauses. "Unless it was Catwoman. She uses that technique on Batman all the time."

Dick gets a really odd look on his face. "You haven't done that to Bruce, right?"

Jason blinks. It honestly never occurred to him. "It'd never work," he says. "I'd never surprise him."

Dick laughs. "Yeah, point." He reaches over and ruffles Jason's hair and chalk dust flies in all directions. "Come on kid. Let's go see the others."

[salinea]

Never have I written a High school A/U fic

[salinea]

Never have I written a threesome.

Have I ever written threesomes.

[runespoor]

Years after Barbara quit Batgirl, she tells him that what she loved best about the job was leaping above the streets, from building to building. She calls it flying. Bruce watches her describe the sensation, notes the words she uses - “wind”, “free”, words with no mention of the city under or around her at all. He remembers her dancing on high heels, the obvious relish she took in wearing the costume, cooler clothing for a party. He remembers her kicking small crooks and outwitting the Riddler, her excitement and her satisfaction. He wouldn't have thought she'd miss leaping the most.

When she speaks of it, her smile is Dick's.

Dick is movement, and touch. Physical contact is important to him. It's a realization that takes Bruce no time at all, but which he fails to take fully into account time after time. Years after they first met, he thinks he will never truly understand the extent to which Dick lives through kinetics. To Dick, touching, moving, breathing, are the exact same thing.

That Bruce watches is no kind of secret at all, not to them; that he can only permit touch through Batman's untainted violence is a principle since long self-evident. Dick's tactile warmth is as much a stranger to him as Barbara's casualness touching Dick. Hugs are things of another life, handshakes accessories to Bruce Wayne's attire. Kisses, forbidden.

Today Barbara is Oracle, the one who watches. Bruce isn't a fool, he can guess how it is between Dick and her.

Oracle wields cameras like they were caresses; if there's a language between Barbara and Dick, Dick's body is the alphabet, and Barbara coaxes it into specifics, orders him into words, paragraphs of close-ups, the punctuation of Dick's moans, epics kept in Oracle's files, the saga of how beautiful Dick is when he loves her.

Or more lyrical: Dick's body the concerto – the instrument – and Oracle she who orchestrates. There are symphonies to be heard in Dick's sighs, how sweet a sound, and in the softness of their love-making.

“Call for him,” she says, and Bruce's breath catches as Dick does.

In the morning, footage and recording are forwarded to him, showing different angles from his own. Dick grins at him over the breakfast table.

[q99]

A Little Confusion: DC: Cass/Steph/M'gann. Deception

"Oh Cass, YES!"

"AHHHH!"

Stephanie Brown and Cassandra Cain cried out near simultaneously. Both gasping for air, Stephanie more so, they laid on the bed deep in Cass's batgirlcave, limbs intertwined.

Cass turned her head towards Stephanie and cuddled, nuzzling Spoiler's much more ample bosom, which she was now somewhat jealous of, having experienced them in action, "How'd did you... know?" she asked.

"Know what?" Steph asked, lazily.

"Know I was interested."

"Cass, you started this. I didn't 'know' anything until you kissed me when I walked in the bedroom. I just came to hang out." Stephie asked, slightly confused.

"But earlier..." Cass look confused, a look that was more than matched by Steph by this point.


"Hey Cassandra! I was wonder if you had thought about what I asked before?" A figure that looked just like Spoiler, hood down, Steph's face clearly visible and her hair bobbing with the bounce in her step, entered the room, Cass and the real Steph looking on from the bed.

"I... I.... oops." 'Oops' failed to properly convey M'gann M'orzz's emotions as she shifted back to her Miss Martian form before their eyes, mortified at having been caught, and having tried the deception in the first place.

"I.. I'm sorry! I was just interested in learning about how humans handle sex, and Batgirl seemed like she'd be good at it with her abilities, and you were just the natural choice Steph, so I..." her red-on-green blush finished the though for her.

"I shouldn't have done this, I shouldn't have taken your form without permission, I shouldn't have tried to trick you," she addressed Stephanie and Cassandra in succession. "If you don't want to speak to me again, I'll understand," M'gann said.

Cassandra and Stephanie looked at each other, and without a word, they spoke, and agreed.

"You really... aren't good at reading minds," Cass said to M'gann with a lopsided smirk.

"What? OOh!" M'gann tried to hide her new blush as Cass and Stephanie both reached forward to pull her onto the bed, and shortly a red and blue costume joined an eggplant and a shadow colored outfit on the floor.

[runespoor]

Never have I ever written happy Nightwing, to my great embarrassment.

[q99]

(Should've posting this here instead of the lj side to begin with, in case anyone else has one...)

Never Have I ever written genderswap fanfic.

a great leap in the dark

[moetushie]

Beatrice Wayne doesn't need to work hard to get people to underestimate her.

After all, she's just another socialite, burning through her inheritance like it's funny money. Never mind that Waynetech's stock has doubled in worth since Beatrice took over. Forget about how the company is landing government contracts right and left.

The credit surely belongs to someone else.

Anyone else.

Beatrice Wayne belongs on the covers of Gotham's tabloids (though sometimes she's carried in the nationals too), dyed blond hair in disarray and arm in arm with a pouting array of arm candy, her red-tipped lips pulled up into a predator's grin. She knows how to live, that one.

She disappears from Gotham (and from the face of the planet) during her early twenties, purportedly to find herself.

But she's not without troubles, of course. Living in Gotham won't allow for that. Even the untouchable can be brought down, in Gotham. And this poor little rich girl's got a sad story, all right. Her parents, pillors of the community kind of folks, were gunned down in front of young Beatrice. She was only eight years old, found almost catatonic in the pool of her parents' blood.

(Beatrice Wayne never wears pearls. Not even on the rare days she deigns to wear a cardigan, to the shame of her WASPy for-bearers.)

In any case, the Waynes' death marks a turning point in Gotham's history. Things darken. Things shift. Things change.

And twenty years to the day, something moves in.

Criminals are running scared. There's something in the dark, something inhumane. Something unforgiving. Something that won't let you do wrong in this town.

(It doesn't kill. No. But it doesn't have to.)

It has a name, carried from mouth to mouth, in hurried whispers.

The Bat.

And when the police -- that is to say, Commissioner Gordon, sets up what everyone jokingly refers to as the bat-signal -- and well. It's a symbol, all right. A challenge, one meant to shake Gotham out of its deadly indifference.

It's too bad then, that it also encourages the crazies.

And Gotham's got a lot a crazies.

+

When the intrepid reporter and Ms. Wayne's sometimes paramour, Vic Vale asks Beatrice Wayne what she thinks about Gotham's new masked vigilante, she shrugs, eyes hidden by a gigantic pair of sunglasses.

But Vic is nothing if not sharp. "Is that shiner, you got there, B?"

Beatrice shifts in her seat. Then she leans in, movement deliberate and studied.

In a stage-whisper, she says, "That's right, Vic. Off the record and all? I am the Bat."

Vic laughs long and hard at that. He doesn't even notice when Beatrice doesn't laugh along.


Instead, she smiles thinly and rings for Alice to come and show Mr. Vale the door.

Another. Because you posted here and I got ~inspired

[runespoor]

There's a thin line between respectability and matronliness, and Jay counts herself lucky that Beatrice never comes close to crossing it. Respectability is nothing but a mask that's more convenient for Beatrice to slip on when Jay accompanies, anyway, as is the faint aura of scandal that clings to Beatrice's skin like heady perfume when she goes out without her adopted daughter.

But even when Jay is with her, there's always something - the flashes of paparazzi, perhaps - to remind that "the Wayne heiress" (that's so fucking ridiculous, a woman in her late thirties and they're calling heiress like it's not hers) has been rumoured to have liaisons with more men than is fashionable even in this day and age. Even in her best long classy black dress, Beatrice is more Hedy Lamarr that Loretta Young.

At fundraisers they mostly wear long dresses, and gloves. Mostly long opera gloves that go up their elbows, half for the bruises and half for the drama. Beatrice's always are black velvet, coiled snuggly around her arms. She clenches a heavy diamond bracelet around her wrist, and wraps a flimsy gauzy shawl around her shoulders like it's a tease or for modesty, when in fact it's to cover the web of scars on her skin.

"Y'know, you could probably get them to think they're a new kind of body art. Newest trend. All the rage in Japan," Jay told her once, as she regarded Beatrice getting prepared.

"I do have Japanese business partners who'll know there's not a word true," Beatrice replied dryly, not taking her eyes away from her reflection.

Jay made a deliberately rude gesture. In the mirror a girl in a pretty if modest frock was pulling an unladylike face. "Your guys don't know jack about that. I'm talking pretend it's from Harajuku, not straight-laced Tokyo."

"No," Beatrice had said, and that was the end of it.

Then there's the days where Beatrice goes to work. Her wardrobe is filled with an army of powersuits - often pants, sometimes skirts - in fabric that Jay loves to rub against her cheek. (She's sure about the army of suits. Beatrice's wardrobe is only slightly smaller than the apartment Jay and her mom inhabited for three years.)

When she can, Jay watches B prepare herself then, too, pretending not to out of the corner of her eye. She gets behind Beatrice, all casual-like, and as Beatrice gathers her hair or touches her make-up, tugs on locks of hair, until the classy bun Beatrice ties her hair into comes undone, and Beatrice's hair rests on her shoulders.

She smiles, satisfied with her handiwork, and ignores the way Beatrice's eyebrows arch in the mirror as Beatrice starts fixing her hair again. The second time she attempts to loosen the hairdo, Beatrice's hand closes around her wrist. Without turning, Beatrice meets her eyes. “Stop that.”

“It's criminal, what you're doing with your hair,” Jay informs, again. Sometimes she swears, which Beatrice takes much less lightly than Jay's ruining of her hair-brushing efforts.

“If I don't pull them up they'll get in the way,” Beatrice says, level. “And the people I work with won't take me seriously.”

“It won't get in the goddamn way,” Jay retorts. “It doesn't get in the way when we're out together, does it?” Together, out, on the town; it all means the same. The Bat and Robin. A much truer persona than the dull woman whose clothing Beatrice puts on for the office.

“Beatrice Wayne pulls her hair up for the office because it gets in the way if she doesn't. Or because she wants her hairstyle to always look perfect.” Beatrice's let go of Jay's wrist, by this point, and she's started again arranging her hair how she sees fit.

Jay lets her hand fall back down. “I like you better when you're just Beatrice.”

The trick is to time it so Beatrice isn't completely done a-fixing her daytime mask.

“I know, honey.” Her hair is still thick locks being smoothed under the palms of Beatrice's hands, and her voice is only half Beatrice Wayne's. Half something else. Something true.

Once, Beatrice Wayne is going on a date. With Vic Vale, of all people. Jay hates when Beatrice goes on dates.

Usually, it's not an issue. The main if not only interest Beatrice finds in the men she has been frequenting is the good – or bad – it does for her reputation, which is the lowest priority on the scale Jay had been able to work out. At the top of the priority scale, there's the Mission. When it comes to saving someone, everything takes a step back. Just beneath it, there's Jay.

All Jay needs do is voice disappointment for Beatrice to sigh and call off a hot date with the suitor of the month.

It turns into dates for the two of them more often than not; sometimes as Beatrice and Jay, going to the movies or to root for the Gotham Knights (Beatrice has the best tickets, of course, but Jay shows her the place where Jay used to stick out before, cramped and smelling frankly awful and no-one looking at them).

Sometimes as the Bat and Robin, and Jay loves that almost more, because they have to pretend they're not the Bat and Robin when they're Beatrice and Jay outside, but when they're the Bat and Robin they know they're Beatrice and Jay. The differences between them – Beatrice's voice, mostly – it's just even more of a kick for Jay. She knows something no-one else does. She knows the Bat breaks bones and makes bad guys piss themselves, and when they're waiting for the cops, the Bat pats Robin's head with her gauntleted hand, and tells her, well done, honey.

There's nothing above the Bat and Robin. Except saving people, and that's why tonight Beatrice is going out, even though Jay has been sulkier about it than she feel okay with being.

Beatrice has suspicions that Vic Vale got himself involved in all manners of shady business. Possibly he's being blackmailed by a drug-lord. Perhaps he's dug too deep into Penguin's affairs. Maybe they're particularly lucky and he'll turn out to be a robot implanted by hostile aliens to act as a spy before the invasion, and Jay will get to shoot his head off.

In any case Beatrice thinks he's involved in something, and for all that Jay thinks the only thing he's managed to get involved in is the office politics of his current job, she's learned that on things relating to the job, she's got to step back and listen to the expert. Which she does. Sort of.

Jay's going out tonight as well, as Robin, to cover for where Beatrice can't be, and she's already donned her outfit before she goes to Beatrice's room.

She flops on Beatrice's bed, the cape rumpling under her and the obscene thread-count of the cheets smooth like silk against her legs and her cheek, and twists until she's settled in a more comfortable position to look through the pack of photographs she's stolen from the archives. Sneaks a glance to the stool where Beatrice is putting her Bea Wayne on, Beatrice looks fucking gorgeous.

“Why the hell did you ever go blond, that's what I can't figure out,” she comments, flipping a photograph, a big, full-colour one where Beatrice is wearing a dress barely longer than Robin's shorts. “You ever think about switching back?”

“No.” She glances at the mirror to check what Jay is studying, and Jay, obligingly, uncrosses her legs and pulls up a photograph where Beatrice has one arm around the neck of Harriet Dent, and the other hooked through the arm of her date – probably a model or something like that. Beatrice's head is thrown back in a laugh that's got to be more than eighty percent faked: no woman laughs naturally by throwing her boobs forward. “Looking through these old things? I'd thought you'd find it boring.”

“Nope, I find it instructive.”

Silence falls over them. Robin's cape has been specially treated so that it doesn't rustle, so even when she shifts as well as she can, it goes almost quietly. If either of them was in the habit of breathing more loudly, it would go entirely unnoticed.

One of the pictures is a portrait of Beatrice, smiling provocatively at the viewer. The photo is black and white, making her then-fair hair look aggressively bleached, and her deep eyes look burning like ice in her make up. Jay calculates quickly. In the picture, Beatrice is closer to Jay's age than to her current age.

“Is it okay if I wanna dye my hair?”

Beatrice asks none of the parent questions, is is because of the photos? or why? “It'll be complicated, for Robin.”

“Oh.” Jay kicks at the end, in idle bitterness. “Right.”

“But it can be done. I don't see why Robin couldn't dye her hair. Or we can adjust the costume.”

“Costume's fine,” Jay says, fast before she takes leave of her senses and tell Beatrice how much the costume isn't fine, and she spreads to show how fine the costume is and she with it. She goes back and forth on that one anyway.

Beatrice's nod comes a fraction of second too late. You've got to know her as well as Jay does to notice. Then she resumes stroking her hair; “What color did you have in mind?”

It's not easy to shrug when you're laid down, so Jay props up on her elbows. “Dunno. It was just an idea. I think I'd like to dye my hair.”

Beatrice acquiesces again, then stands up. Gorgeous. Designer dress looks amazing, but Bea Wayne wearing the clothes of a famous designer does more for them than the clothes for her. “Come now, hon, we don't want to be late, hihi.”

The perfectly-made sheets don't resist Jay rolling down the bed, crumpling satisfyingly. She grouches, “you know I hate when you call me that. I'm Robin, goddamn it, and you're not that bimbo Bea Wayne.”

The thin smile curving Beatrice's lips is one hundred percent foreign to Bea Wayne.

“Let's get going, Robin,” she says, extending her hand, and she brushes Jay's cheek with her glove when Jay walks past her.

All in the suit that you wear (Female!Dick, Barbara, Alfred)

[silveronthetree]

"I can't do it. I'm not him." Dixie says. She is pacing in front of the case holding one of the older versions of Batman's armour and Barbara can see her clearly through one of the cave's cameras. Dixie stops moving and stares at the empty shell of a suit. Barbara angles the camera so that she can see precisely what Dixie is looking at. Dixie's positioned herself so that the reflection of her face appears to be surrounded by his cowl. "I'll never convince anyone I'm Batman."

Dixie releases the catch of the case and removes the cape to drape it around her shoulders. She's tall for a woman but it dwarfs her slim, muscular frame; the hem pooling around her ankles in a sea of black.

"It can always be altered," Barbara says. But she doesn't like the idea any more than Dixie. Dixie had tried once before and it had all been wrong. But -- "Someone has to -- Jason…" Barbara trails off.

Dixie nods and starts pacing again, still wearing the cape. It trails along the ground behind her, slowing her down. "Ugh. It's like a Kevlar version of my wedding dress! I can barely move, let alone fight."

Barbara doesn't want to remember Dixie and Kor's failed wedding. That puffball monstrosity haunted her dreams, mixed up in so many horrible memories. "You must, Dixie. Tim's too young," she snaps in response.

Dixie recoils at that, but she turns towards Barbara's image on the screen. "Gotham needs a Batman." She runs her hands through her hair in frustration. "I just -- I can't be Batwoman either. There's already a Batwoman. I don't really know who she is but that would be confusing and I don't think it would help."

"You don't have to be Batwoman just because you're a woman," Barbara points out. That first glimpse of Helena wearing the Bat symbol still hurts but she has to mention it. Even after all these years, and after everything Cass had done in the uniform to paint over it. "As much as I hated it at the time, Helena had the right idea. When Batman was needed she became the Bat. Woman didn't come into it."

"But that's not me. I can't just damp down who I am. I am a woman. Hiding, night after night, it would kill me, Barbara."

It's true. Dixie lives and breathes her femininity. A dangerous, powerful femininity, but femininity none the less. Nightwing's body may be covered in Kevlar from head to toe, but the skin-tight costume, the flirting, the acrobatics, and her astonishing grace, shout out woman. It’s impossible to forget.

Alfred, who's been so quiet that Barbara had almost forgotten that he was in the cave, walks over and puts his hand on Dixie's shoulder. "Dixie, my dear, it isn't all lost. You can be Batman, or The Bat." He acknowledges Barbara with a nod and she smiles faintly in return. "If that is what you choose and you will do it well. You come from a performing background, so play to your strengths. Make it a performance. Hide yourself in the shadows, swoop down like dark vengeance, be the darkness in the night and show Gotham that the Bat is still there to protect her."

Even under the cape, Barbara can see that some of the tension has left Dixie's shoulders. How does Alfred always know the right thing to say? "You're right," Dixie says to Alfred. She lifts the cape from her shoulders and holding it high, she twirls around, letting its bulk fan out around her. "I'll give them the best show in the world."

[runespoor]

Never have I ever written sex pollen.

[q99]

Hm, must remember to write a sex pollen fic at some point...