lizzie 😋

(for the sake of the timeline, it's the 50s-60s. My writing, my rules)

Like most fics of this trope, Reader is the first-born biological child of Bruce Wayne, just a year younger than Dick. As they grow up, they try to get along with the rest of the family, but they don't seem to click with anyone at all, most of the Batfamily seem to actively avoid them in fact. The final straw came when the family welcomed Damien with open arms as if he were Bruce's firstborn child.

So naturally, Reader runs away. Discarding their Wayne past to start a new life on their own. But you don't exactly stay sane when you've been shunned your whole life, no?

Reader is well aware that they're not mentally stable. Ever since they ran away, they were lost, lonely, poor, and confused. Thankfully, the kind and humble Murkoff Corporation has given them a chance to get better. Reader's got a new family, and it isn't the Waynes. Sure, they had to get night vision goggles painfully drilled onto their head and have a strange metal contraption strapped permanently to their chest, but it is what Dr. Easterman said was best for them. The other reagents were like the brothers and sisters they've always wanted, getting better together after every trial.

Despite the fact that Reader was never a vigilante, they would pass every trial with flying colors, all for the sake of Dr. Easterman's praise and approval. They soon gained much more attention for being such an obedient child. The Expop, the Prime Assets, and even some of Murkoff's higher-ups grew fascinated, and soon attached to Reader.

Meanwhile, the Batfamily starts to realize that something- no, someone is missing in the manor.

I have mixed feelings about writing this thing. I regret nothing but at the same time, I'd like to apologize for writing this too, I am not a writer.

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ His performance in the trials recently has been great, and so, to encourage this Easterman, like the wonderful director he is, gifts him a pet of his own! (As well as to get him to stop moaning about "How come that half-sooked hillbilly pig gets a bitch of his own and I got nothin’”). 

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ Franco would be delighted getting his own little kitten to take care of. Unlike Coyle, who gets a dog, Franco sees mutts as too rowdy and messy for the likes of a prince like him. 

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ You’re (un)fortunate enough to be Franco’s new gift; your performance in the trials had hit a new low. You’ve gotten sloppier, inattentive, taken more damage and caused more disruptions than what was necessary. It broke Easterman’s heart to see your fall from grace. Clearly you weren’t fit to be a reagent, although, he had the pity to repurpose you into something else. 

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ You’re dolled up in a similar get up to what the kinky mannequins have going on in the downtown area, with the addition of a pair of ears and a tail. And of course, a collar with a Barbi engraving. 

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ He’d either want you to be a prissy little thing or affectionate and warm. You’re never really sure. 

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ He likes the keep-up of a pet that bosses him around, tells him where to scratch and how to pet ‘em. “Right here? Oh yeah, now my kitty’s purring.” But he also wants a clingy little thing to rub up on him and curl up in his lap. 

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ You follow him everywhere, crawling around on all fours (Franco gets you gloves so those hands stay nice and soft). On the occasions where you do wander off, it stresses him OUT. You’ll hear him yelling and crying out for you all throughout the trial environment. 

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ “Kitty?! Baby’s all lonely without you…” “Come on out and play with me, kitty. My laps all cold without you.” “You rat mother fuckers touch my kitten?! Both Fuckin’ Barrels!” 

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ You only ever eat out of a bowl, a bowl which Franco always places between his legs. Grinning and kicking his feet in delight as you lick up your meal (That he probably finished in. No wonder it tastes so weird…). “That’s right, kitty, give me a show.”

ฅ₍^•⩊ •マⳊ If he’s done bad in a trial, he expects you to be sweet on him right after - curling up in his lap, licking the fallen tears from his cheek, bury your face into his neck and leave as many love bites as you want. 

Otto and Arora consider themselves to be above things like housework. They aren’t poors, you can’t expect them to do such backbreaking labor day in and day out !! Which is unfortunate because I can see them being pretty messy, leaving trash and laundry wherever they want and expecting it to be picked up when they come back. They just don’t see why you wouldn’t want to clean up after them 24/7

If you did manage to convince them to help out, they still wouldn’t be willing to do anything too messy or difficult. They only like getting their hands dirty on their terms

They’ll sort of clean the windows and halfheartedly dust things on your shelves, but they pout the whole time and expect special treatment to make up for it even if nothing actually gets cleaned

I think if you asked Coyle to help around the house he would laugh in your face- in his mind all of that is “women’s work” and he wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole. You could get him to do things like take the trash out or mow the lawn with enough prodding, but dishes and laundry are off the table

He is, however, surprisingly good at repairing things around your house - it’s not uncommon to come home and find that he took it upon himself to fix your bathroom door that always sticks, or that light in your kitchen that hasn’t worked since you moved in

He expects you to notice the fix immediately and gush about how great he is for the rest of the day at least (he also expects you to stand around and hand him the tools he needs if you’re home while he’s working on something)

Gooseberry tries to do it all for the first few weeks - she just gets so bored during the day, and she hates how anxious you are when you get home, surely a clean house would make you feel better :) (nevermind that you’re only anxious because you’re hiding a drug addicted murderer in your house-)

But after she sets the kitchen on fire making breakfast, turns all of your white shirts pink in the laundry, and accidentally makes mustard gas while trying to mop, you have to ban her from helping with the chores </3

You let her keep floor duty because she just looked so sad (she was definitely not manipulating you at all), but now you have to replace your vacuum semi regularly because she keeps letting Doctor Futterman talk her into sucking up random things with it when you aren’t around

I can see Franco helping with the cooking, but only when he feels like it. I imagine his dad probably had a private chef or two, and Franco would go and bother them for attention when he was young so he picked up a few good recipes- but he hates being told what to do, so expecting him to cook every night is a no go

When he does decide to cook, he demands a lot of very expensive ingredients- and a lot of praise for his efforts

It’s unfortunately deserved praise, his food is actually pretty good (because he adds way too much butter and salt to be healthy, you’re honestly lucky he doesn’t want to cook every night I think it would kill you-)

Liliya is willing to help out, but you have to tell her exactly what you want her to do because she won’t think to do it on her own

She likes to follow you around while you clean, watching you struggle- but she doesn’t really consider that you might want her to pitch in. You’d be doing all of this work even if you lived alone, right? Why would you need her help lol

Lonely nights lead him to yet another bar. different than his usual hang outs, but so long as they could read a drink recipe, he’s golden. 

His feet don’t reach the ground on the barstool, nor the bar around the legs meant to rest your feet on. And when he sits next to you without any thought, you notice…everything about him. His head, his stature, the way he smelled of copious amounts of cologne overtop bodily odor. And the drink he orders. Egg? Really? 

You’re not a sex worker. You’re not one of his pretty little whores. But when his lazy eye slowly drifts a little more to the side, and he gets a look at you…the way he talks to you would have you guessing otherwise. 

“How much?” He asks, and you fight the urge to slap him across his face. But you’ve heard tales of the big headed bambino. How he kills and conquers. 

Still, you turn your nose up at him, declining his offers until you feel one of those small hands on your thigh. 

And then you do slap. 

You slap him hard across the cheek, a loud crack that has the bartender wincing. 

Now Franco is no stranger to a good whooping, but something about the way you do it, the force behind your hand has him feeling some kind of way. 

“Five hundred,” he gasps, blotchy red from your hand. “Five hundred if you keep that up.”

You scoff, but the thought doesn’t immediately sour your stomach. You could use the money. It sounded like a good chunk, after all. And what’s just one night of beating the spunk out of this little guy? 

So you do. You go to a seedy little motel room with him, listen to his delighted squeals and wails when you smack him silly. He offers more if you’ll bend him over your lap. It’s the first time he’s felt genuine thrill since terrorizing some poor soul with his lupara. 

But don’t think you’ve gotten away after he hands over that money. You’ve beat him, but oddly enough, you haven’t degraded him. Just grunts of exertion and strength. Never before has he felt so normal. Like any other shmuck under your heel. 

He needs more. He’s gotta have more. He starts stalking the bar in case you return, having most trusted of men try to get any lick of info from you. And when he finds you again? Ohh, he’s not letting you go. 

What do you want, huh? Jewelry? More cash? Drugs? He’s got a lot of drugs. 

You shake your head to every thing he offers. It starts to infuriate him. What, now you’re too good for him? 

He gets rammy, asks you what the hell you want then, if you think you’re too good for him now, that he could have anyone he wanted. 

And maybe you have a short temper, maybe you’re just sick of him. But you grab his shirt and shake him around a little, tell him to knock it the fuck off. Reminds him a little of how dad used to push him around when he was little, before he was big enough to get his head smashed in. And maybe the wires got crossed, and that fear mixes with arousal, adrenaline beginning to form. 

But he gets hard. The pitiful little thing between his legs standing at attention. 

…you go with him to that same motel room. You suck him off and he cums in watery spurts on your tongue, too blissed to even care that you spit it out. He’s hooked on you. He takes you out to a 24 hour diner and begs you to make an arrangement with him. 

Reluctantly, you agree. You feel guilty taking his money when he’s so desperate like this, but he practically grovels at your feet, to the despair of the waitress. 

So a relationship is formed. You politely decline his excessive gifts in favor for smaller trinkets, which he doesn’t quite understand. But if a thrift store brooch is what gets him a handy, then he’s not complaining. 

Hidden bakery shop sweets, second hand jewelry, hell, he’s even given you sea glass and river rocks. And eventually, he notices that…you aren’t asking for things in return. You still seem happy to touch him, to put him in his place. And you accept the gifts, but you aren’t demanding them. 

Insert mushy feelings here. Franco begins to refer to you as his partner more regularly, and you’ve even kissed him on the mouth! A couple times! 

Life is good. At least for a little while. 

Because murkoff will eventually come knocking, and if you’re in the picture then Jenny is never disemboweled. 

***

Your heart was beating in your throat as you desperately tried to smother your labored breaths.

Franco was dogged this trial.

He seemed only to target you, leaving the younger boy they’d pushed you in the shuttle with virtually alone. Which was good for him, you supposed— because then he could hide the heroin on his own.

Not great for you, though.

You’d been spotted from across the train depot (by the grace of some malevolent god, because that overgrown man had the eyesight of a bat caught in a lampshade) and you’d turned tail and ran before he could finish whatever he was saying about how much fun you and him were about to have.

So, the wicker cabinet was your sanctuary.

You pressed both hands to your mouth and held your breath before exhaling slowly.

Your throat clogged with the smell of wood glue and dust, and you began to consider exiting the cabinet for a little fresh air when the door whipped open.

“Room in here for two?” Franco stood before you, chest heaving with exertion.

How the fuck had he found you?

His gaze raked over your form, a grotesque appreciation dawning on his maimed features.

You immediately froze and considered your options.

Your jammer rig was no good— with it strapped to your hip, there was no way to grab it without Franco seeing. No bricks, no bottles, nothing except the risk of running and getting tooth buckshot to the ass.

Shit.

He didn’t wait for your answer and instead of pulling you out like you’d expected, he stepped in with you, his shotgun pressing uncomfortably into your stomach.

The sharp scent of sweat immediately filled the cabinet, poorly covered by a mysterious cologne (because how had he gotten ahold of that) and the pomade you supposed kept what little hair he clung to in that stupid swoop.

Green apple, is what it smelled like. Not what you would’ve expected.

Not that you ever fathomed you’d get close enough to him to be able to smell his hair.

His breath was hot on your neck and you shuddered. “Um—”

“You’re pretty when you’re scared,” he murmured, sliding the muzzle of his shotgun between your tits to press against the underside of your chin.

You watched him with wide eyes, noticed his gaze flickering between your lips and chest.

Maybe…

“‘M not scared,” you said softly, trying not to jostle the gun.

“No?” He stepped even closer. You were taller than him— by a scant few inches, but still taller. “Your heart’s beatin’ loud enough to hear. Like a rabbit.”

It was easy to blush, what with the intense way he was staring at you. “Well,” you began, fiddling with the buttons on your shirt.

You really, really hoped this was going to work.

Franco frowned, shotgun wavering where it was digging a welt into the underside of your jaw.

“What’re you—”

You finished with the last button and let your blouse fall open.

He shut up pretty quick.

It made your head feel fuzzy— this was too easy.

“Didn’t you…” you swallowed, mustering the will to get through this interaction without vomiting. “Didn’t you say we could have some fun?”

Franco’s eye twitched like he didn’t quite believe you. He gingerly leaned his gun in one corner of the rather cramped space he occupied.

His hands slowly came to cup your tits and you fought the urge to jerk away.

This man wasn’t sweet, no matter how gently he pushed aside your bra and tilted his head to take your nipple in his mouth with the gentlest sound you’d ever heard come from his throat.

You sighed, half relief and half pleasure, head lolling back against the hard wood of the cabinet.

It was sweltering in here, with Franco clinging to you like the world was going to end within the next five minutes. In a horrible way… no, it wasn’t sweet.

Even with whatever was wrong with him, you couldn’t deny that he was good with his tongue. He was relentless to the point of being nearly overstimulating, especially when his cotton-gloved fingers rubbed your neglected breast but fuck, it felt… it felt good, better than your own hands at the least.

It wasn’t sweet even when he clumsily fumbled his pants open and whined at his half-flaccid cock, murmuring a low assurance of, “Just.. just gimme a minute. I can take care of ya,” and you found yourself clenching your thighs together at the thought of taking his cock.

It’d been a long time since— longer than you wanted to think about.

He was getting comfortable, though, a little rougher than you liked.

Your patience snapped when he bit too hard one too many times and you impulsively slapped him away despite the little voice in your head screaming that that was good as signing your death certificate.

His head snapped against the back of the cabinet and he let out a shocked grunt, one hand coming to cradle his surely stinging cheek.

You met his wide eyes with conviction you only half possessed as you wrapped a tight fist around his twitching erection, and he swooned forward almost involuntarily.

“Be nice,” you ordered, trying not to let the tremor of your body infect your words.

Franco’s astonished expression collapsed immediately into one of raunchy devotion. “Ooh, mommy,” he whimpered, rolling his hips forward as best he could. “However you want it.”

His words sent a wash of heat through your guts and a wave of revulsion down your spine. There was absolutely no singular way that this half-baked leper was going to teach you anything about yourself.

Nothing you’d own, anyway.

You squeezed tighter and he buckled to his knees.

There was a part of you that wished you had a Polaroid camera, just for the proof of the moment.

Pushing him away, the cabinet doors swung open against his weight and he fell back against the carpeted floor of his… workshop, landing hard on one elbow.

You had to admit, he looked a lot more appealing when he was desperate and disheveled.

Unfastening your pants was nothing but a tribulation as your fingers kept fumbling on the button fly.

Franco had managed to work himself to full hardness and his expression begged haste until you straddled his hips, rubbing against his cock.

His back arched off the floor and you were lost in awe of how perfectly needy he was. It made you feel ill, and hot and cold at once with the desire to strip him bare and use him until there was nothing left but blood and spunk.

Maybe you’d been spending too much time around his trials (around him), if that was the way you were thinking now.

But your mouth watered at his broad, heaving chest, his soft stomach where his dress shirt rode up and revealed a swatch of dirty blond hair and his big arms and thick fingers that you weren’t sure whether you needed in your mouth or around your neck or in your cunt first.

Maybe you’d been too quick to judge.

You guided his cock to rub against your clit, sending sparks of arousal flying through your trembling thighs.

“C’mon baby, I’m ready,” he begged, fingers scrabbling fruitlessly against the threadbare carpet. “Jus’ sit.. sit down and lemme thrust, I’ll show you.”

Fuck. That tone was something you could get used to.

And you couldn’t really argue with it, despite the only functioning logical part of your brain telling you that now was the perfect time to get hell out.

But you were so wet you were nearly dripping, and you never knew when your next meal was going to come.

So.

Franco gripped your hips as you finally sank down on his cock. It wasn’t spectacular— you knew better than that— but it was enough to feel good and that was all that mattered anymore.

You set the pace fast enough your thighs quickly began to burn and your knees scraped against the rough carpet, fast enough that Franco began to realize he wasn’t really in control.

He seemed to be okay with it, though. Not that you particularly cared. He was flushed with a hunger anyway, a light pink all the way down to his neck like a fresh bruise.

You wondered how far it continued.

Curiosity prickled at your fingers until you gave in and clumsily opened his shirt to see that it extended all the way down to his…

“Nice tits,” you muttered, grabbing at his chest harsher than how he’d treated you earlier. His flush deepened and he failed to stifle the moan you pulled from his lungs. He looked humiliated.

Something wicked raised its head at the sight.

He was sensitive, quivering under your ministrations and your mind began to wander towards the future, towards images of him face down with your fingers in his ass, something stretching his nasty mouth, a heated kiss or two or three in an entirely inappropriate location because he simply could not control himself when…

You shook yourself of the thought. You needed to find some other solution to your lonely nights.

Franco remained oblivious, his brows drawn in absolute concentration.

You wondered how lonely he got. How long it’d been.

Asking was off the table, though. No personal stakes, because this meant nothing and it was really only due to there being no other choice other than dying.

You watched a bead of sweat track down his temple and Jesus Christ you wanted to lick it up.

He babbled dazedly about how you were the perfect broad, how good you were, how he wanted to fold you in half and make you a proper mother until your free hand found his face and squeezed his cheeks so hard he couldn’t get a coherent word out and even then he made his arousal clear with whimpers and moans that you were sure would burn for the rest of forever in your memory.

They would, you knew it now, even though you internally railed against any residuals of Franco clinging to you like recollection— anything that couldn’t be washed away in the communal showers.

God. You didn’t want to think about afterwards.

You rode him raw and until you were gasping for breath and until he came with the most pathetic sob you’d ever heard, his cock throbbing and twitching so awfully (wonderfully) in you that a very insane part of your reckless mind wasn’t so averse to some of the things he’d been rambling on about before you’d shut him up.

He went boneless underneath you once he was through, eyes half-lidded and calmer than you thought they could ever be. Less wide, electric blue-eyed crazy and more of a subtle instability.

Or maybe you were projecting.

The only thing you knew for certain was that you had to get the fuck back to hiding drugs before the doctors failed you for “inattentiveness”.

You didn’t have time for the guilt.

FIN!!!

lord forgive me, but is it obvious that I want him so fucking bad

me versus writing porn without an over-abundance of psychoanalysis challenge: 1, 2, 3, GO!!!