okiii heres the first part of my femslash batjokes fic lol
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She wakes to a dull throbbing ache somewhere in the back of her skull. Instinctively she reaches up to feel around for the soft spot under her cowl, but her hands are tied behind her. The yanking of the ropes that bind her jolts her awake. A shark crack of pain shoots through her head when she opens her eyes to hard white light.
Concrete walls, thick with shadow and a shitty metal table, a few feet from her. Above, a single naked light bulb dangles on a grimy wire, its harsh light cascading onto her bound form. She is tied, rather excessively—she feels both rope and the metal of handcuffs on her wrists—to a chair. Not even a very sturdy chair, she is fairly certain she could break it given enough time, which makes the over-the-top restraints all the more absurd.
Breathing heavily through her nose Bryce forces herself to swallow down the instinctive flicker of panic that wants to surge and break loose. She’s woken up like this too many times to indulge in fear. She knows better. Part of her balks at the fact that this has become routine for her, that coming to, tied to chairs in dark places is something she is used to. Another part wants to laugh. Bryce shuts both off and waits for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
Slowly, slowly a figure is carved out of the darkness behind the table. Before even Bryce is fully aware of who it is leaning on the table, her skin crawls. A corpse white hand dances into the light and scuttles about on the dull metal surface. Above the spindly, knobby fingers a smiley face is crudely painted. Its smudged pinprick eyes are black and its mouth is a red gash Bryce isn’t entirely sure is painted on. It could be a cut, the glistening red almost too vivid to be lipstick. As her eyes adjust Bryce sees a strand of green hair has been taped to the thin white wrist, just above the smiley face.
The hand is still dancing on the table, shuffling to and fro, and occasionally its fingers will twitch and move almost elegantly for a few seconds before resuming its janky choreography. Suddenly it stills and its painted face turns to the darkness beyond the circle of light cast on the table, as though waiting for something. Another hand swoops in, fluttering down to rest a foot away from the first one. The second hand, the left hand, is costumed as well. Its top half is painted black, save for two white slits which rest above the knuckles. Where the wrist begins two little black triangles have been glued. It irrationally irks Bryce that the triangles are asymmetrical, one is larger than the other. She forces herself not to roll her eyes when both hands begin moving together across the table.
The hands chase each other around, skeletal fingers grabbing and jabbing at one other but never quite touching. At last the left hand, the bat-hand, and Bryce cringes at herself for even following along with the little show, manages to pin down the right hand, fingers straddling fingers. The trapped hand wiggles feebly, its smiley face faded now. The bat-hand is still and peers down at its trapped twin impassively. Then it slowly folds down so that the back of both hands are touching, black paint rubbing off on the red smile below. The bat-hand, no—the left hand, this has nothing to do with Bryce, begins rubbing itself lecherously against the right. Despite the utter absurdity (or perhaps because of it), a hint of blush creeps onto Bryce’s cheeks as she watches, the hands having graduated to performing more recognizably lewd gestures.
A tearing squelching sound interrupts the tumbling hands. A needle sticks out of the bat-hand, red oozing out through its clenched fingers, dribbling onto the table and coating the other hand. Bryce feels her stomach lurch. Both hands remain prone, red goo seeping all around them.
“Aaaand scene!” comes the cackling reply from the darkness.