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Gotham has always had darkness, they go hand in hand.
But it had a gleam that came in the shadow of a Knight.
(Or did your mind…)
What happens when that protector is snuffed out by its light.
Stephanie Brown was born a perfectly healthy baby, to a drug addict and a villian.
(It’s a..)
She was not taught to love, to sniff the roses by the road. While knowing that hope is something that you hold.
She learned how knives can find a vein even when it’s completely blown.
(Drugs make mommy feel better.)
Those puzzles have answers hidden in the corpses of children like her.
(Daddy please it hurts..)
That a hero would not save her.
Oh little love, girls aren't protected by men.
(She’s too old to still wet the bed Arthur…)
Heroes don't come down from their perch high above the street other than to gloat.
(This is my life, It was my decision, I wasn’t ready for this… )
They sit hidden in locked gates, never wondering what a hand will take so you can taste bread.
(So let him earn it, like everybody else…)
She did want to protect people, or she wanted a high that you can seek so readily.
But little girls don't get that privilege. They sit at the table, with trust funds and bedrooms with every little interest documented. New shiny weapons, suits knitted together by an old man who never would dare look at them with disgust.
Oh they wouldn't be served strawberries, her throat closing around sweetness, not a flinch around the table.
(I can’t breathe, please som…)
Silly Girl only boys get the privilege to be angry and full of vengeance.
To cry around the horrors of the world.
(You're overreacting, it’s only a little…”
Training that will protect them, taught by the best in the land.
They come home with blood stained hands and a fresh polished throne.
Tools in their arsenal? Or Daddy's precious soldiers?
(Again....Please, Get Up…)
She’s Interesting.
(I’m…Please, imsorry, God come back.)
The girl who’s a weapon.
(Born or Crea…)
Not a word spoken, at first.
Trained by the very best. She stands apart so high above.
(She, but that means…)
Fighting, so different from all.
(Dance it’s a..)
Toned Muscle, covered in thick scars.
(Torture or Train..) Not even a flinch and her thighs wrap so beautifully around a man's throat.
(She could kill.. Why doesn’t.. Choice or Privilege…)
What would they look like around hers, Would she?
(Could she stand me, Could she slit my…)
Marks would paint her skin, her throat would be riddled with bites, maybe deep enough to bleed.
(To rip open my.. I would cook it for her, Let her devour me…)
What about Kind?
(Damnyourwet.Bloodyou.rip.itopen..AnotherRound..)
Kiss her on a rooftop, so gentle like a gust of air. Arms interlocked while their hearts sink up, laying in the library belonging to him.
Her suit would fall down a rooftop, she would do anything to her, yanking her back while she clenches down on her fingers.
(They would scream into the night..)
Only stopping when the next alarm comes.
Wetness between their thighs, legs shaking only saving some nameless individual.
Could they dance around a house, a trail of clothes leading to the stove bent over the counter. Cassie taking her time, fucking into her, pressing so deep.
Belly tightening, shaking, slamming her hands on the hot burner.
Smelling pig while crying out.
(3rd degree..We need..Do it again..)
She would tie her up so tight. Wouldn’t feel anything other than dripping heat. A moan would slip out when I’ve bitten through the tongue.
Tasting the copper, staining the bedsheet. Hanging the fabric from the rafters.
Patrolling, hands lingering on every inch.
Dreaming of slipping from the roof, distracted by her touch.
Would she catch me, or will we plummet until nothing more than bones and blood remain.
Like the most beautiful of paintings she would color the concrete.
But He wouldn’t let that happen to his precious daughter, she can’t lower herself to the foot of a peasant.
His tea that is so carefully prepared each night, does much for paranoia.
(Call 911..Hes..How…)
Such a shame that for ten minutes, he was misplaced just long enough for her to rip him open. Had to check, it can’t anymore.
Oh the birds, sing so pretty in mourning.
Moving quicker to compensate, What a shame about the roof slick from rain. Blue’s spine twisted, his legs so broken the white slips from the flesh.
Blunt force, but he lived long enough to scream.
Oh poor little Red it was just too much. How depressing to find your brother in a noose. I can't imagine why you would eat your own bullet?
The littlest bat, no one left to care, only mommy to welcome you home. How could this happen?
Cut the onions, add a slight hint of garlic, season the meat, and reduce with a little wine. Red.
Set the table, light the candles, Alfred’s silver would be best.
She must be tired, a nice massage after they eat. Barely enough time since she almost forgot that he needed to defrost.
Quiet footsteps behind her, the smell of home following a lite hug around her stomach.
It’s harder to move around, at almost eight months. But sweet Cass is always ready with a hand, or a bucket. The strangest things make her nauseous now.
She hopes the baby will have her blue eyes, Tim and Cass could have been twins after all.
“Dinner almost ready? I missed you.” Moving oh so carefully down her bump to under her dress.
Smirks always follow.
“I don’t know, I refuse to burn another dinner because you are insatiable.”
“Hmm, hard not to be, when my wife is so breathtaking. It does smell good, reminds me of something?”
“How are you this forgetful? My Mom’s recipe I made for the wedding.”
“How could I forget your very amazing food.”
“I’m sure, you did.”
“Maybe how about you let me go clean up. Then, meet me upstairs?” Stealing a kiss, right as Cass disappears.
Listening for the creak of the top stair. Before speaking softly to her stomach.
“I never understood the dog thing, they taste far more like swine.”