Hi there, I'm Ida! I write fun little fan-fiction of whatever currently holds my interest. I'm not the most active on socials, so if you want mutuals who are, I'm not it! I mainly write SFW, but that doesn't mean NSFW is off the table. Due to this, I ask for no minors to engage with me personally.
Interests: crossovers, cartoons, video games, anime, web comics, manhwas
warnings: Bruce-centric, angst, batfam, case fic, Danny is Bruce's bio-son, Al-Ghul Danny, murder mystery... or is it?
wc: 3.2k
A/N: this is part of a larger au that's been in the works for a whileee. I posted this on AO3 a few months back, but cross-posting it here while ch.2 is halfway done :p
As Bruce stares at the screen, the surrealness of what’s been revealed has yet to abate. His initial shock still permeates his body, causing him to float away bit by bit—everything definitely hasn’t processed, then.
It’s been several minutes since he opened the email—or has it been way longer than that? God, the passing of time has felt both incredibly fast and agonizingly slow—and since then, he’s been glued to his seat, eyes haven’t strayed from the face now engraved in the depths of his mind.
The recording he has watched for the nth time is of a boy resembling Bruce to the point of it feeling like he's looking at a teen version of himself, one that someone plucked from the past. Other than the sun-kissed skin (dulled by an ashen undertone; is it the camera quality or due to something else?), slim body build, and a familiar slope of the nose, everything else is all him. Even without a test, there’s no denying it. That’s his son.
He asks himself how this could’ve happened under his nose? Again?
With a newfound weight added to his heart, Bruce knows with great certainty he won't be able to wade in the dark sea of lifelong grief. He can already feel himself on the brink of drowning once more.
He presses play.
After clearing his throat, Danny glanced around his surroundings and behind the camera; from his first viewing, Bruce knew whatever he'd disclose next was highly sensitive. His body lost most of its tension once he confirmed he was alone, but any trained eye can tell he was still on high alert.
“Hello, Bruce. I don’t expect you to recognize me, let alone be aware of my existence, yet I had to reach you anyway. My name is Danny Fenton… but what it would’ve been is Abdan. Abdan Thomas Tate, or I guess more importantly, Wayne. A few years back I found out I was adopted, given to my parents by a woman named Miranda Tate—a name that might ring a few bells. I figured she must’ve decided it best to keep me a secret, otherwise I’d probably be living in the manor with your other children. Right now, I’m sure you’re thinking ‘Even if this is all true, why now?’—why am I contacting you after all this time? The answer is simple: I need your help. It's pretty bold of me, I know, but please hear me out. I have a feeling you’ll offer the help I’m asking for once I finish.”
“There’s no easy way to ease you into this, so I’m just gonna break it down as best as I can. To not jeopardize your safety, I have to be vague about Miranda Tate's other identity; a rather dangerous one. It might sound crazy, but please believe me when I say she’s part of a murderous cult run by her father. I can’t exactly tell you the name—the less you know about it, the safer you’ll be—but I know you have ties with someone who more than likely does. Even if you’re merely funding Batman, I believe you two are close enough to call in a favor this important. His choice on whether or not he’ll accept will make or break this whole ordeal, so I beg you to convince him on the off-chance he declines. And as much as I hate springing up more surprises, you need to know that I’m not Miranda’s only son. He’s younger than me, and I believe he’s still with our mother—which finally brings me to the main reason I'm reaching out. I need Batman to save my little brother. Please. I’m aware blood relations don't mean shit without a bond to go with it, but I'm begging you to send help for him. I’m not sure if he’s also yours, but in the face of an endangered child, I think we can agree that's not important. He deserves to live a life outside of endless bloodshed like how I was able to. I don’t know why I was spared and not him, or the difference between our mother from sixteen years ago and the one now, I can’t say. But please… please help save that boy.”
Danny then took in a breath and wearily sighed, casting an apologetic look to the camera. It’s obvious Danny didn't want to trouble Bruce, however, the determination shown through his crystalline eyes clearly pushed him on.
“In all honesty, I wasn’t going to bring you into this. Regardless of our relation, you and I are strangers; I could’ve handled living out the rest of my life with no contact. The only reason why you’re even seeing this is because the likelihood of me either being dead or M.I.A in the near future is extremely high. Sounds seriously messed up, huh? I wish I was kidding, but I’m, like, ninety-percent positive I’ll be on some obituary or missing poster by the time this message gets to you. I won't get into detail—whatever happened on my end isn't the point of this message—but I feel like I owe you at least this much. A lot went down that caused me to gain several enemies who'd stop at nothing to get their hands on me—dead or alive. I don't wish for anyone to get caught up in it, so the only takeaway I want you to get is that this was simply a case of a guy that had to step up for the town he loved; nothing more, nothing less.”
It’s this part right here that has Bruce’s heart cracking. Logically, he knows Danny is right, he knows, yet it still hurts to be called a stranger. That’s his blood, and he knows as much of this boy as he does a person he could’ve happened to talk to in passing. It pains him to have lost so many years of Danny growing up. He was robbed of them, just like with Damian.
It isn’t fucking fair for Bruce to have to go through this again.
To make matters worse, Danny had somehow followed in his footsteps. He wasn’t even there to inevitably fuck up with him and Danny still managed to take up this endless crusade. Not only did Danny resemble him, but it seems their similarities run deeper than the superficial ones. The apple truly didn’t fall far from the tree.
After a moment, panic flashed in Danny’s widened eyes at some realization he came to—like an important thought had suddenly struck him.
“Sorry, I… I shouldn't have even said that. It really wasn’t an invitation to do any digging, I promise. I only wanted you to know why I won’t be available in the future, not for vengence or—I'm not even looking for justice! I’ve made my peace, and I hope that you'll be… sorta… okay? Maybe?… ha, who am I kidding? Nobody sane would be after hearing that. Dude, I'm—this is stupid of me. I’m all over the place right now. Just… be careful, okay? Let whatever you end up finding be enough for you, Bruce. Don’t get wrapped up or force Batman to take up my case, not when you both have constant matters to deal with in a city like Gotham.”
Danny's hand ran through his hair as he inhaled a shaky breath. In the background, cicadas began to sing as the falling Sun set in the horizon—its golden light casted a warm glow over Danny.
“Whatever ends up happening to me, happened. Sometimes it’s best to let dead dogs lie. My living brother is the priority, and I wouldn't have it any other way.”
If he were any less composed, Bruce would’ve barked out a half-rattled laugh. Danny might’ve had a good read on him, but he didn’t know (couldn’t have known) how he could get. He’s definitely not going to let this go anytime soon.
“At the bottom of this email, there’s a file linked there. In it is all the information Batman will need about the cult that I think would be helpful. When my brother is saved, he’ll need a lot of help undoing the brainwashing he was subjected to—this is where my request that directly requires you comes in. It’ll be a lot of work, time, and above all, understanding to properly care for him… and I’m hoping you’ll be the one who takes him in. Or if that’s not possible, then to help Batman house him and be an active part of his healing. With your resources and care for those not even biologically yours, my brother can have a fighting chance of adjusting. Please give him that chance. Allow him to learn how it is to feel cared for outside of what could be gained from him. I’d be there to help, but well… the circumstances didn’t allow it.”
He then checked the watch on his left wrist (it doesn’t look like a name-brand one, but it’s well-worn; sentimental item or just well-loved?) and his eyebrows slightly pinched before immediately smoothing out.
“Shit… I don’t have a lot of time. I’m gonna have to wrap this up, but before I go, I have some words for you and the people you’ll likely show this video. You’re free to end it here; I’ve said all that I needed. You're not obligated to hear what might very well be my last words. If this is where you stop, then let me give you my thanks. Thank you for hearing me out, Bruce. Thank you for all the hard work you’ve done and will continue to do. And thank you for making it possible to do the very thing I wasn’t able to do while alive, even if it’s only by asking for help from a notorious hero. It’ll be more than I ever did.”
His eyes sting as Danny's sheer amount of gratitude weighs itself over his heavy shoulders; there are enough barely-formed tears to blur his vision. Pressing pause, Bruce takes a second to collect himself and casts a quick look at the expression he paused on. He feels undeserving of such a soft, compassionate gaze.
Not when he failed Danny—the boy bound to Bruce by nothing but their shared blood.
With a gentle exhale, he resumes the video.
“First, to Mr.Pennyworth and my would-be siblings. It’s—It’s kinda embarrassing, but oftentimes when I felt my loneliest, I'd wonder what it’d be like to be apart of the whole flock. I’d dream of all the ‘what-ifs’ and questioned if we’d be anything like the way I imagined, but unfortunately, it's not in the cards for any of them to be a reality. A large part of me still mourns the lost chance. It would’ve been an honor to know the family Bruce had chosen and who, in turn, had accepted him back—I wish you all well. Now, I’d like to address you, Brother. There may be a chance Mother told you about me, but if she didn’t, then I’m sure this must be a huge shock for you. I’d know because it was just as big of a shock for me to learn about you.”
A wry smile graced his face, fondness in his eyes as he stared directly into the camera—it was as if he could perfectly imagine Damian regardless of not knowing what he looked like.
“I don’t know why Mother gave me up or why she most likely kept me hidden from everyone she knew, but whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that she had given me a secret blessing, and it's something I wish for you to have. Living as someone’s weapon, never seen as anything more than the role given to you, is no life at all. No matter how well it was sugar-coated, you would’ve been bound by the invisible shackles Mother and Grandfather placed on your ankles—you wouldn’t have recognized that heavy weight for what it was until it’s too late. And I’m… aware… I’m probably some nobody bastard who’s the cause of you being ripped away from everything you knew, but I swear, all I want is what’s best for you—even if it doesn’t feel like it. What you’ll come to understand in time, little brother, is that the dead have a way of coming around when you’d least expect it. That the way Grandfather’s cu—organization conducts itself has a high price. Maybe I’m not making much sense to you right now, but I don’t want that for you. Your youth shouldn’t be wasted being molded into an instrument of Death under a cause you had no real choice in. Even if Death has already been dealt out by your hands, you still deserve the chance to learn that the grass is truly greener on the other side. If there is one thing I dare to ask of you, it’s to be open-minded. Question if what was taught is actually a better way of living your own life than this new alternative. Most of all… try to see a future where a version of you can be genuinely happy. Which path will be the one you'll find yourself laughing whenever you please? Where there’s no major repercussions for not meeting unwanted expectations? I know the answer, and over time, you’ll see that I’m right. I just wish I could be there for you. As your elder brother and the one who caused everything to happen, I am so sorry I can’t take responsibility… I hope one day you’ll forgive me.”
His deep remorse bled into a more melancholic expression—his eyes aged him by several lifetimes. They look like what stares back at Bruce when he looks into a mirror; the same tired, heavy blue eyes.
“And finally, to Mr.Wayne—my father in nothing but DNA. It was a huge risk, me doing this. So many bad-case scenarios constantly played in my mind as I willed myself to sit here before this camera. Would it be too late? Would my request be fulfilled? Would you even bother to open the email? I initially didn’t want to reach out because what I’m asking for is a lot for a civilian; it’s something I’m very much aware of. Even I had to ask myself if I’d be able to give what my brother would need once I learned of his situation. But what ultimately had me pushing the record button was one thing—Faith. Faith in you, me, and that things will work out. I don't need to know you personally to know you’re a good man. You pour so much into Gotham, the city every outsider and probably a good chunk of Gothamites deem as hopeless, but what they don’t realize is that even the hopeless deserves a fighting chance. All things worthwhile are hard; I recognize that just as much as you do. It’s due to this—to the fact that you don’t shy away from challenges if it means it’ll at least help someone—that made me believe you’d help me. Maybe you can’t take my brother in—which is completely understandable, you have other kids to worry about—but I hold the faith that you’ll do your damndest to make sure that little boy is with someone who can. I hold faith in my decision to entrust you with this… and I deeply hope it’s proven true.”
No matter how tentative the small smile grew on Danny’s face, it did nothing to dampen the hope he had for his single wish to ring true; he genuinely held those views on Bruce. The next words are spoken so softly, said with such tenderness, that makes Bruce’s jaw clench hard enough to hurt.
“I wish you well and goodbye… Father.”
The video ends.
Putting his head in his hands, Bruce pushes down the strong urge to destroy everything around him. With no little amount of difficulty, he calms the surge of volatile emotions. Letting them take over won’t help anything, so for now, he’ll compartmentalize them in order to focus on the more important matters. The tears and inevitable spiral can be put off for a way later date.
First things first, he needs to thoroughly re-check what Danny had disclosed. Then he’ll have to share with the others what has been discovered; fresh eyes and clearer minds are advantageous in case Bruce, in his shocked state, glazed over something. Lastly, depending on what they find, will be to solve Danny’s case and give him rightful justice (that, Bruce can promise).
… He… he should call down Tim. Tim and Damian.
Oh, Damian—
With a sharp inhale, a pang of deep, raw hurt guts him and leaves him hollow. How will his youngest handle it? To know that he had an older biological brother?—or has, he's not forgetting the potiential cover-up Danny implied is possible. Not for the first nor last time, he curses Talia. She has hurt him so irrevocably that he can hardly believe she had ever loved him; the knife she long lodged in his back twists once more.
After a few shaky breaths, the years-long pain ebbs away and allows him to think more clearly.
He’s well aware the news of Danny will no doubt stir up complicated thoughts within his youngest, but what about the others? What would this mean for the family to learn of the fact Danny is the child he believed to be gone? Outside of Dick and Alfred, nobody knew of the child he had thought he lost all those years ago—the child Talia had led him to believe she miscarried.
For years, it'd leave a small block in his throat when he thought about it for too long. But now? it’s downright devastating to learn he could’ve spent those years he mourned with his fucking son. Pure hot anger and hurt flare in his chest, though he immediately stamps it down. He’ll need to have it suppressed as best as he can if he wants to get through the upcoming meeting with a relatively clear head.
Reaching for his phone, he doesn’t bother to check the time when both boys are still awake, and sends them a text that he has something important he can't say over text. With them currently serving their week-long benching and are well-aware he’s in the bat-cave, Bruce is sure they’ll come down fairly quick.
With a heavy sigh, Bruce leans back in his chair and rubs at his eyes as the gravity of everything starts pulling him down. It’s yet to be seen what the domino effect this entire situation will cause, but regardless of the outcome, he knows his family will pull through—this is just another tragedy they’ll heal from together. No matter what they’ll uncover, what new enemies they might make, they’ll make things right for their missing family member.
We won’t let what happened to you go unpunished, Danny… I swear it.
a/n: I co-wrote this with @idabegone on Saturday because there's straight coke in melon and we're both addicted....
warnings: implied dom/sub dynamics, sadomasochism, bondage, gags, fingering, cunnilingus, thoughts of consumption and violence (he wants to eat and kill you, but he doesn't act on it.), degradation.
If he were prone to actually feel arousal, Melon can admit the sight you make is an erotic one; gagged and bound with your cunt spread out for his viewing pleasure.
Prodding at your clit—it twitches as he circles the sensitive bud—Melon grins.
"It's disgusting how eager you were to be here. Haven't you learned by now you don't do anything to me? Look at how desperate you are for my cock. You don't make me hard, prey."
There's a sense of foolishness about you. Lunacy even he can't wrap his head around. You're stupid to a point that's downright moronic. Pathetic in a way that's almost arousing. The word prey seems to strike a chord in you because you whine, hips bucking into his hand. He tsks and lands a harsh smack on the inside of your thigh.
“Quit moving.”
Your eyes are glazed over. Wide and dumb. You look like a deer in headlights, entranced by danger. Ensnared by death. Melon rakes his nails down the softness of your stomach, leaving beads of blood in his wake.
"You're so pathetic, so helpless. Letting me do whatever I want. I could kill you." He says as he pinches your clit. You jolt like you've been burned, a distorted whine leaving you. You shudder. Your thighs flex.
He leans forward to lap at the blood, pulls back to spit it out onto your cunt. It’s still fucking disgusting; he can't help but be bitter despite him not expecting anything different.
The last part of what he said was faint, but he knows you hear him because you gurgle around the gag. Your cunt clenching around nothing. Opening and closing; mouth-like in its desperation. He sinks a finger in.
“And you’d let me.”
He then bullies in two more, not caring of his claws or your virgin-tight cunt. In and out; the repetitive motion draws out blood-tinged slick that soon gushes with each push. Distantly, Melon can feel something trying to stir, but it dies a quick death.
So far away, that feeling. A phantom limb that constantly itches, no matter how long he’s lived without.
“... A shame I wouldn’t even enjoy that.”
Shifting to get more comfortable, Melon starts to fuck into you faster—your warbling moans aren’t completely muffled. He sees the moment you lift your head; he’s sure you wanted to check if he’s any semblance of turned on.
As if being “allowed” free use of you would’ve changed anything. It’s laughable as much as it is presumptuous on your end.
That part of him, forever petty and annoyed, finds joy in the hope shattering in your disgustingly clear eyes.
Honestly, you should be grateful he's even here—that somehow, in some way, he does enjoy it. Just a smidge. Not in the way you’d like, but that's unimportant. He likes the warmth of your insides. How they pulse and seize, squeezing around him like it doesn't want to let go. A pitiful physical manifestation of your need.
In a way, it's like prostration. Actually, it may be worse.
A revolting act of vulnerability. A death wish that he should fulfill since you're so unbelievably willing. It's like you're aching for it. He can't comprehend whether you're suicidal or just plain dumb. With the way you're trembling, it might be both.
If he could enjoy it, Melon would kill you—he imagines it often. Your throat split in half, blood oozing from your mouth and clogging your trachea. The sound of your waterlogged gurgles and pathetic wheezing filling the air. His hands wrenching the life out of your lungs, blood vessels bursting like fireworks in the whites of your eyes. Right now though, he thinks he’d tear you apart. Shred right through you as you scream and thrash, tugging at your restraints, trying to get away.
But he's not going to do that. Not yet, at least. So your hips keep edging closer to him, trying to get more instead of pulling away. The sounds coming out of your mouth are blissful and shrill. If he closes his eyes, it almost sounds like a pain. He opens them, and your back is arched off the bed, your thighs straining with the effort of not being able to close around his hand.
You're a tableau of pure elation; carnal pleasures drowning you in their intensity.
He wonders if it’s really as maddening as you make it seem.
Glancing back at the sloppy mess he’s creating of your cunt, a stray thought floats to the forefront of his mind: Would it be any different if he were to taste you there? Probably not, but maybe your reactions will outweigh the brimming filth that’ll be on his tongue.
“Say… how’d you feel if I finish you with my mouth?” His lazy grin grows a tad wider—teeth, razor sharp and glistening, more on display—at your vigorous nodding. He even laughs at the eager canting of your hips, as if it’ll further serve up your cunt on its metaphorical platter.
Melon’s sure you’ll enjoy having him eat the shitty fucking meal you made of yourself.
He can be giving… when there’s something to be gained. The things he can do to you after his little experiment inevitably fails will be worth it, he thinks.
Getting directly between your legs, he watches you as he lowers his head closer and closer to your cunt. He notes the rise and fall of your chest getting faster—pupils blowing out further, arousal stinking up the sheen of sweat on your body—as he’s finally face-to-face there.
The amount of slick is obscene. His marks of needed violence can be seen in the cuts and thin streams of blood dribbling from that needy place. It must’ve hurt. It had to have hurt, from the way you thrashed and brayed, even as the heady rush of finally having him like you wanted tangled with the pain.
Had he been any other predator, this sight alone would’ve had him battling the instinct to consume. If he were, Melon wouldn’t have fought it; he’d gladly cave. To fuck and tear into you—flesh on flesh, blood boiling as carnal passion calls for the violent meeting of two bodies—until your essence cloys his senses.
For the briefest of moments, he imagines you being at your happiest then. A swell of jealousy emerges from his chest before he swallows it down; he’s getting distracted.
Parting his mouth, Melon licks a single swipe up your folds and your clit—there’s nothing but a bland taste. It’s not disgusting, for once. That alone has him dipping down for more.
Your squirming renews as he licks and prods at all your most sensitive spots; you make it easy for him to learn what makes you tick. The slippery warmth is pleasant to the touch, velvety and nice when he runs his tongue over it. He can feel each flutter of your hole, of your thighs straining when he leisurely grabs hold of them.
Melon is beginning to understand why some people take enjoyment in doing this. The repetition of it all is soothing, in a way. A few flicks to your clit, some variations of how he lavishes on your cunt; it’s all about learning what your prey responds to the most.
And, my… you are very receptive to everything he gives.
“You're so…vivacious,” he snickers, drawing back to thumb lazily at your swollen clit. It throbs under his touch, engorged by arousal. All that blood converging in one place. You're still blubbering some muffled gibberish; he's sure you're begging to cum by now, “So incredibly sensitive.”
He leans back down, widens his jaw and flattens his tongue over your cunt, feeling the heat of it. But now he’s not mindful of his teeth; they press into the meat of your mound. There's blood there, beneath the thin expanse of your skin, and by extension under his teeth. He could bite. He could tear you open, let it all spill out of you.
All the blood that’d pour out, to stain the sheets and mix with your sweat. Canines ripping through flesh, jaws crushing bone, tongue cleaning blood off jagged incisors. Your muffled screeches as he consumes you in your entirety; a true union compared to whatever this is.
Well, it would be if he could get an ounce of enjoyment— if he could reach that euphoric high that any other carnivore would get.
A surge of resentment claws at him, and he growls into your cunt, low and guttural.
It's your piercing squeal that wrests him back into the moment. He can't keep getting carried away like that, letting his wretched emotions obstruct his experiments. Although, that's a problem for another day, so he focuses on you. He hums against your cunt, and it pulls out a whimper. You're already staring at him when he glances up to drink you in. Your eyes are like marbles; round and lacquered. Fat tears rolling down your cheeks, drool trailing down your chin in ropes.
There's something tantalizing about you—not arousing. No, never that, but there's something alluring. Something about your reactions, your malleability. The way he can configure you in any way he (sort of) likes.
Which is to say, Melon might be enjoying this more than he thought. He keeps humming into your cunt, liking how it makes you twitch, the way he gets to dig his nails in you as a warning to be still. It's not long before he has you sobbing, wailing around your gag; your stomach clenching as you try to keep still.
“Don't cum yet,” he murmurs. Just to tease, just to be mean. He pivots all of his attention on your clit afterwards, circling his tongue around it, with some flicks and a few nips. It's amusing how your sobs rack through you, and he allows it because he can't help but soak in your agony. Your obedience would stir something if he were anyone else—anything else, but he's not—and it doesn't. But it does please him, which is gratifying in its own way.
You cum with an ear-splitting shriek, your cunt gushing on his tongue. Your body trembles under the weight of your orgasm, and you throw your head back, baring the thin column of your neck; an offering that Melon wishes he could accept, he pushes it away with another swipe of his tongue.
Soon enough, you ride out your orgasm as the afterglow renders your body useless. Only then does he part from your lower half. You're quite a sight; completely fucked out, messy, and still bound and spread for him. It causes a small war of conflicting emotions, and he’s slightly astonished you’re even evoking them.
There’s that long-held maelstrom of rancor, envy, and something else—an aged feeling that’s hard to pin, but has always been there since young—in the pit of his chest, but it doesn’t completely sully the satisfaction gained from this. It leaves him less disgusted than earlier… maybe this is but a smidge of how it is to enjoy sex.
If you behave accordingly after this, Melon can see himself bestowing this privilege again. A chuckle slips when he imagines your sad display of desire at getting another offer.
After wiping his sullied hand on your sheets, he stands up to sit where he’s closest to your head; you marvel at his crescent-eyed smile when you tilt your head up. You may be a pathetic existence—Melon slowly unclasps the gag, revels in the gasp you make as he takes it out—but there’s something about this constant need that’s some sort of endearing.
“Thank you,” All the moaning and crying have made your voice hoarse—it’s raspy, but that submissive reverence you have for him is as clear as day. Always has been, from the time he was forced to know you. He traces a bead of sweat down your temple, letting his nail leave a trail of red in its wake.
You shudder, yet you still close your eyes and lean into the less-than-gentle touch; you’ve somehow found comfort in his viciousness. He doesn’t let himself think much of it.
It is almost funny how Danny Phantom is one of those rare cases that the fans don't want the creator to be involved in new sequels or entries not even with a 200 foot stick because they know that he would probably mess it up one way or another
I know I've said it before but I'm saying it again, I just absolutely adore how Danny's eyes glow green in human form when he's getting particularly mischievous, not just when he's especially angry
Like this boy has a built in warning signal for when he's about to be a little menace to society and I love that for him
