#batshipsummer

First things first, our basic info:

These are the basics!

why should you care? because the winners get a fic 2k+ words long, with specifics decided on by the winner! i write almost anything, and if its a kink thats really out there, i might ask for details, but I won't refuse anything! this can be 2k of anything, ANYTHING, ok? PLEASE let this be enough incentive for you to care!

The deadline for submissions is August 20th, and I'll pick and announce winners shortly after. Now, i don't expect this to get a lot of attention, but if it does, i will only be picking 10 winners maximum, with tie breakers going to people with extra points. For example, if there are 10 people with 105 points, and you only have 100, you wont get a fic. so sorry, but 20k words takes me better part of a month when im grinding, so also, not sorry!

now, what everyone's been waiting for, the prompts!

Each week has a ship, and recommended tropes, quotes, kinks, and more to spark your inspiration ✨

You only need to do one prompt per week, but if you add multiple together (eg. for week one writing rough sex AND a nightclub setting) you can get extra points, with +5 for every extra prompt integrated into your piece, on top of your reward for the length/quality of it :)

so, for example, if i wanted to get the 100 points as soon as possible, i could use all the prompts for jaytim and write a 2k fic for 40 points, and not need to worry about being squicked writing something i dont want to write!

Tim Drake's lip was split, and he couldn't stop prodding at the wound with his tongue. He didn't know who had caused, if it was the man with dyed red hair or the person wearing head to toe purple, or maybe one of the countless others he'd tussled with. All he knew was the pounding of the baseline through the subwoofers, melding with his racing heart until both sensation became one, the flashing, disorienting lights, switching between neon reds, blues, and yellows, with other colors hiding in the shadows, and the bodies pressed against him from every angle.

Blood trickled down his chin, and he licked at it instinctively, almost savoring the metallic taste. He couldn't think, he needed something, he needed a break—he shoved through the thick crowd and into the bathrooms, where things were marginally quieter, the lights were less flashy, and there was no one—thank god—to press up against him.

Tim stumbled to the mirror, flicking on the tap and letting the cool water wash over his hands. The red of his blood became pink as it swirled down the sink, hypnotic in its dilution. He didn't notice the door creak open and closed behind him.

Jason settled behind Tim, gently leaning his weight into him, pinning him between the cool porcelain sinks and a hot wall of flesh. Tim resisted the urge to let his eyes flutter shut. Instead, he sighed.

"What are you doing here."

Jason grinned, lazy and familiar. "What, can't a guy go clubbing?"

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the feel of water on his hands, the sting of his knuckles. There was a long moment of silence.

"You… always find me like this." Tim eventually said, voice small.

"Like what?"

A pause. "Bloody. Broken. With a few screws loose."

Jason snorts. "Or I make you like that. I've spilt your blood more times than I can count, baby bird."

Tim instinctively bit his lip, relishing in the sharp pain blooming fresh. He didn't expect Jason's fingers to curl between his lips, prying his mouth open with a gentle force, but Tim complied. He let Jason thumb at his wound, watch the blood bead up and spill down his chin before brushing off the blood and spit on Tim's shirt. It was black, it wouldn't show. Tim's heart skipped a beat anyway.

"I wasn't looking for you," Jason hummed. "Didn't know you'd be here.

"Sure," Tim muttered, voice rough around the edges.

Jason huffed, something between a snort and a sigh. "I keep an eye on this place. When someone told me about a new guy who managed to knock the shit out of someone twice his size, I'd thought I'd have a look." Jason's head tilted. "And looky what we have here."

Tim didn't answer, just reached on hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes. Jason caught his wrist on the mid-motion.

"Fuck, you're shaking."

"Am not." Tim said, more petulant than convincing.

Jason pressed his palm flat on Tim's chest, right above his heart, and felt it rocket. It was as clear a tell as any, there was no use in pretending otherwise.

"Why do you come here, birdy?" Jason asked, voice barely above a whisper. "You get enough violence in your nightlife. And you aren't like these assholes, the ones who get off on punching people. So what is it? You trying to feel something? Trying not to?"

Tim didn't answer. He couldn’t. His throat was tight, his jaw clenched, his lip throbbing from the re-opened wound.

Jason's hand was still on his chest. Tim was sure he could feel it hammering—fast, unsteady, alive.

Jason shifted closer, pressing against him, hips to hips to porcelain, chest to chest to hand, and the pressure made Tim dizzy. He wanted, more than he had words for. He was waiting, silently begging—for a kiss, a blow, something with teeth, anything.

Jason stared at him through the mirror, his hand not on Tim's chest snaking around to grab Tim's chin, forcing him to keep looking.

"You like it, don't you." He murmured. "Getting knocked around like this. Hurting."

He said it like it was something he should have figured out sooner.

Tim gave a sharp breath, half laugh, half pain. "Maybe I like it more when it's you."

Jason's grin returned—slow, hungry. His hand on Tim's chin slipped down to his throat, not squeezing, just resting there, heavy with potential.

"You want me to break you open?" Jason asked, low and foreboding. "You come here looking for punishment, looking for me?"

Tim swallowed. A nod.

Dick Grayson always knew his reaction to Bruce's compliments of him wasn't strictly appropriate—not when Bruce was supposed to be his dad.

He knew that early, when he was twelve and first captured a mugger on his own. He swooped in, pulled the zip ties around the guy's wrists before he hit the ground, and looked to Bruce, already vibrating with pride.

Bruce's response of "Nice work, chum" set his blood aflame.

Even a glance—stern but ever tinged with pride—made his stomach heat. He got in the habit of hiding embarrassing boners, and spending long nights pressing knuckles to his teeth and jerking off chasing the memory of that heat.

He always figured it was… wrong. Dirty. He never expected that Bruce would find out, figured he'd take this secret, if not others, to his grave.

The jab of the needle into his neck barely registered, the dread in his heart overwhelming it. Ivy had rambled about some pollen-derivative this that or the other—"It doesn’t create desire," she'd said with a smirk, "just… turns up the volume.”

"So there shouldn't be any problem with you waiting out the side effects with Batman," she teased, eyes glittering. "Unless you're hiding something?"

Dick grit his teeth around the wad of torn fabric that served as his gag. She knew. He didn’t know how, but she knew—and now she wanted Bruce to know, too.

His only real hopes were that:

A) Bruce wouldn’t notice (unlikely—he was a detective, and Dick was in a skintight suit),

B) The drug wouldn’t be activated (Dick still thought about him at night, so... bad odds), or

C) Bruce wouldn’t care (fat fucking chance).

Or maybe there was another option? Being dragged bound and gagged into a goddamn dungeon didn’t exactly help him think clearly.

The heavy latch clanged as it opened, and the henchwoman shoved him inside a space barely larger than a public restroom stall. He hit the ground face-first, rolled, and caught the blow on his shoulder.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Dick sat up, shaking the stars from his vision, and tried not to look at Bruce.

He failed.

Bruce was gagged. His ankles were tied together, wrists shackled behind him to an iron ring in the stone wall, but otherwise free of restraints. He looked more annoyed than panicked. His face seemed to say "You too? Really? I thought you were better than this."

Or maybe that was just Dick's internal monologue talking.

Bruce kicked his boots together. A blade popped from the side, like some twisted Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.

There’s no place like home, Dick thought bitterly, inch-worming his way over to saw through the rope binding his wrists together. Honestly, he felt more at home here—in some villain’s dungeon with Bruce—than he had at the manor in months. At least like this, Bruce wouldn’t argue with him. Probably.

Once his hands were free Dick cut through the ropes around his ankles and face, peeled the damp rag of his gag out of his mouth and flung it across the cell.

“Jesus Christ, that was fucking disgusting,” he muttered, wiping his mouth, turning to the side to spit up the dirt and dust flavored spit in his mouth.

Bruce gave him a classic "language" look. Dick rolled his eyes and moved on to cut Bruce’s gag loose.

It was only because he was so focused, trying not to nick Bruce’s cheek, he noticed the flush high on his mentor’s face. He ignored it.

“You get hit with the same…” Dick waved a vague hand in the air. “Aphrodisiac drug or whatever?”

The last strand of rope snapped, and Bruce spit out the gag with a grimace. “Yes. You too?”

“Yeah,” Dick said, frowning. Bruce sounded a little off. Clipped, sure—but there was a strain under the words. “Well, at least I know what’s coming. Better than playing guess-the-symptom while your pants get tight.”

“Untie my legs,” Bruce said, as direct as ever, “then see what you can do about the cuffs.”

Dick obeyed wordlessly. “Triple lock,” he reported. “Mechanical, electronic, and biometric. I can do the first two. Third’s gonna be a pain.”

Bruce nodded tightly. “Get started.”

Dick pulled his lockpicks from his glove compartment. The mechanical lock fell in under a minute. The second took longer—he had to manually trigger the redundancy—but after some fiddling, it sparked open too.

He inspected the last one and groaned. “Got acid? Plasma cutter? Giant middle finger?”

“No,” Bruce said, deadpan. “but good work, Nightwing.”

That was all it took.

Just three simple words, said low and approving, and Dick’s knees went soft. His stomach twisted sharply, blood roaring in his ears.

The normal warmth accompanying Bruce's praise was gone, replaced with white hot heat in its place.

It rushed straight to his groin like a match dropped in oil. His legs nearly buckled, and it was only a bracing hand on the stone wall that kept him upright.

His whole body suddenly felt flushed, oversensitive, hungry. The floor was cool against his knees, but it did nothing to stop the arousal pooling deep and fast in his gut. His cock throbbed, suddenly hard beneath the armor of his cup.

He looked at Bruce—wide-eyed, mortified—and Bruce looked back, still as a statue.

“…Fuck,” Dick breathed.

Bruce’s expression didn’t shift, but something changed in his eyes. They sharpened. Assessed. Tracked every twitch of Dick’s face like he would prove a threat.

“Dick,” he said. Quiet. Careful. “What are you feeling right now?”

Dick tried to laugh it off, but it cracked in his throat. “What, you want a list?”

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The silence stretched. Dick felt like he was being dissected with nothing but that gaze.

“Ivy’s drug,” Bruce said finally, “amplifies latent desire.”

“Yeah,” Dick snapped. “I got the memo.”

His voice echoed, too loud in the stone-walled room. He clamped his mouth shut. His hands fisted on his thighs, trying to ground himself, but everything ached. His skin felt too tight, breath caught somewhere in his throat. And Bruce—fucking Bruce—was still watching him like he was trying to solve a puzzle instead of seeing what was right in front of him.

Dick's whole body was flushed, hard in his suit, and endlessly humiliated by it.

"Is it reacting to me?" Bruce said, voice unreadable.

Dick exhaled sharply through his nose and turned away, gripping the base of his thigh hard enough to leave bruises. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m gonna fall apart. I’m not a kid anymore.”

That did it. He heard the slight shift of chains, the smallest clink of metal as Bruce sat up straighter. His voice came low. Measured. Controlled.

“I know you’re not.”

Dick looked over his shoulder. “Then stop acting like this is just some chemical accident.”

“Isn’t it?” Bruce asked, still maddeningly calm.

Dick paced, agitated. His head spun but he powered through, stalking towards the door out and starting to inspect it. “Don’t do that,” he hissed, fingering the lock to the door, refusing to look back at Bruce. “Don’t pull the Bat-voice on me like you didn’t see what happened with your own eyes. Like you haven’t noticed what your compliments do to me. Like you're dumb."

“I’m not ignoring it,” Bruce said. Quiet. But the words made something in Dick’s stomach twist all over again, this time in a less pleasant way.

“You’re enduring it,” Dick said bitterly.

Bruce looked at him. No mask, no armor. Just the man underneath. And his voice when he spoke was rougher than before. Frayed.

“You want me to do more than that?”

Dick didn’t answer. His throat was too tight. His cock throbbed against the inside of his suit, and the heat building in him was unbearable. He’d spent years fantasizing, years stuffing those thoughts down into something dirty and broken and small. He didn’t know how to answer that question without giving up some last part of himself.

He turned around, and stood over Bruce, biting his lip, trying to see the 'gotcha' in Bruce's eyes.

Bruce looked down, then up. His gaze dragged slowly over Dick’s chest, his throat, his mouth. No shame. No hurry. When he spoke it low and soft. "You did well, Dick. You always do. Quick thinking, steady hands. You look out for people. You try. That matters."

Dick whimpered.

He couldn’t help it. His legs buckled again, and this time he didn’t catch himself. He dropped to his knees in front of Bruce, panting, humiliated, and so fucking hard he could barely breathe.

Bruce didn’t reach for him. He didn’t need to. He couldn't, not with his hands chained up.

“You’ve always been capable,” he said, as if that wasn’t the cruelest thing he could’ve done. “Even when you were younger. But now…”

He trailed off, and Dick’s fingers twitched against the stone floor, his heart racing.

“Now you’re not a kid anymore. You’re a man.”