Batman Porn Story: The Evils of Alcohol Chapter 1

Haha…as promised (if
you read my profile) I’m here with my little Batman one-shot. This
was spawned from a story I made up to amuse my twelve-year-old
niece…and I thought it might amuse you guys as well. Just for fun. This was typed in a hurry, so please forgive any typos.

Richard Grayson slid down
the banister at top speed, keeping his balance with ease on the
highly polished and pleasantly winding surface. Alfred hated when he
did this, fearing that the boy would fall off and crack open his
skull on the marble flooring several feet below. Bruce hated it
because Alfred hated it. And so, if he was caught, he’d be banned
from all things enjoyable from that day in mid-July to Christmas.

Despite, or perhaps
because of, this risk, Dick continued to use and abuse the banister
as his own personal roller coaster.

When at last the ride was
coming to an end, he pushed off the banister, was airborne for a
split second, and landed gracefully on his feet. Acrobats didn’t
fall…unless the equipment malfunctioned.

Shaking his head jerkily,
Richard forced the thought from his mind and raced back up the marble
stairs for another go.

This one he took on his
feet, which was slightly more challenging, and thus, a lot more fun.
He was panting and laughing by the time he reached the bottom, and,
deciding he wanted a snack, headed for the kitchen to see if Alfred
had made anything good.

He was not disappointed
in his quest; the warm, gooey smell of freshly baked cookies hit him
the instant he stepped through the door. Grinning eagerly, Dick crept
forward and snatched a cookie straight off the hot tray, burning his
fingers on the metal.

A loud “ahem”
directed his attention to the doorway leading into the living room,
in which Alfred stood, eyebrow cocked. “You could have waited,
you know. They aren’t going to get up and run away, Master Dick.”
His voice sounded agitated, but a small twinkle in his kind gray eyes
revealed the truth.

Richard grinned
sheepishly as he ate the cookie in two bites, licked the chocolate
from his red fingers, and reached for another.

This proved to be pushing
it, as Alfred whisked the cookie sheet out of reach, muttering, “Keep
that up and eventually you’ll have no fingers left to burn.” He
chuckled, and Dick knew that all frustration was just part of the
game they played togehter. Giving Alfred a quick hug from behind, he
shoved open the living room door, wondering if Bruce had gone to work
yet.

A faint, “I wouldn’t
go in there if I were you,” reached his ears, but he ignored it
in a truly nine-year-old fashion. Generally anything that he was told
not to do was something that needed to be done hard and frequently.

This hope drooped as he
saw nothing in the room but a lump of fuzzy black bathrobe on the
couch. Maybe this was one of those times when Alfred had been giving
him a helpful tip, not attempting to take away his fun. All the same,
curiousity would not allow him to leave until the situation had been
thoroughly investigated.

A groan from the bathrobe
made him jump slightly, now almost certain that Bruce was about to be
in a very bad mood. The fact that he was late for work and still not
dressed said that pretty plainly.

Dick was just attempting
to sneak back out of the trap he had bounced right into when the
black lump stirred, groaning threateningly. He froze in his tracks,
siezed by a fit of nervous and completely silent giggles. Oh boy…he
would get it now.

With a grunt, the lump
pushed itself off the couch, slowly materializing into his distinctly
blood-shot guardian. Bruce rubbed at his temples, grimacing in pain,
then raked a hand through his already ridiculously messy hair.

Dick remained frozen,
laboring under the delusion that if he held still long enough, he
would disappear. Needless to say, this approach failed.

“Dick…?”
Bruce grumbled, squinting in his direction. “What the…what are
you…?” He glanced at the grandfather clock, then tensed.

“Dammit all to
Hell!” he roared, making Dick jump a good twelve inches in the
air. He almost let out a hysterical laugh. It would have been funny
if Bruce wasn’t so…damn scary. He grinned, satisfied with
himself for correctly using the word.

Bruce leapt to his feet,
stumbling slightly and holding both his head and his stomach
simultaneously. Dick only just managed to leap out of the way before
Bruce plowed on through the kitchen.

Dick faintly heard Alfred
putting in his two cents as Bruce stormed through the kitchen. Good
morning, Master Bruce. You’re certainly looking chipper today.”

No longer able to control
himself, Dick burst into giggles, laughing until his sides burned. It
never ceased to amaze him, the way Alfred smarted off to Bruce. Here
he was, the Dark Knight of Gotham City, and a little old man was
telling him what for. Alfred did the dishes, but it was quite clear
who was really in charge.

Strugglign to catch his
breath, Dick collapsed on the couch, still grinning. The familiar
smell that accompanied such mornings as these snuck up on him, making
him cough slightly. It wasn’t necessarily a bad smell…just powerful
and invasive. Swinging his legs, he glanced around the room in search
of the remote, having already missed most of the morning cartoons.
Before he found it, however, something else caught his eye.

A squarish glass bottle
sat on the carpet next to the couch, the lid nowhere in sight. AN
empty bottle lay beside it, a few dregs of amber liquid lingering in
the bottom.

With a guilty glance
toward the open kitchen door, Dick tiptoed over to it and shut it as
silently as possible, then turned his attention back to the bottle.
The curiousity was far too strong to resist.

“Jack Daniel’s
Tenessee Whiskey,” read the label in fancy, old-fashioned hand
writing. Dick once again glanced toward the door, considering what
Alfred would do if he discovered him… Somehow, any punishment
seemed well worth it at the moment.

Flicking on the TV and
turning the volume up, Dick took the bottle as though it was a can of
soda and took a swallow, imaging what it would taste like; it must be
good, if Bruce liked it so much. In his eagerness, he left himself no
back door option.

Instantly, Dick’s throat
burned and clenched, causing him to cough violently, blue eyes
watering. When the coughing at last stopped, Dick promptly stuck out
his tongue, whiping away the taste with his sleeve and gagging. Why
on earth did Bruce like that stuff? You could lick a tire and get the
same taste! What made it so…

Dick rubbed his head,
bewildered at the warm fuzzy feeling somewhere in his brain. He
tingled all over, feling slightly shaky as though he’d pushed too far
in training, but he didn’t really feel sick.

Eying the bottle
suspiciously, Dick drew the obvious connection between what he just
did and how he was feeling. There must be something seriously
impressive about this Jack Daniel’s stuff, if it made it worth
suffering through the taste. Feeling an incredible surge of
adrenaline at the intrigue of sneaking so incredibly bad, Dick made
up his mind and took another sip–smaller, this time. It still burned
way too much, but for some reason it didn’t bother him as much this
time. He giggled for absolutely no reason as warmth tingled from his
head to his wiggling toes.

The harsh sound of
Bruce’s voice in the kitchen brought his happy moment to an end.
Dick’s eyes shot open to their full capacity. “Dammit all to
Hell!” he said quietly (in his own mind that is), watching in
slow motion as the bottle slid from his fingers and hit the cream
colored carpet, releasing a cascade of amber liquid. “I’m dead,”
he whispered.

Stupid move number three
hundred seventy-two.

The sounds from the
kitchen immediately ceased, footsteps tapping on the wooden floor,
coming closer with every second. Dick remained frozen, eyes popping
out of his head, mouth dropped open. There was no way out of
this one.

The door opened. Bruce,
clean-shaven and dressed in his suit, stepped inside. He stared at
Dick. The carpet. The empty bottles. And Dick’s stomach got very
sick.

“RICHARD GRAYSON!”
roared Bruce, a look of complete shock on his face. “What are
you doing!”

Dick opened his mouth to
explain. A bad choice, as it happened, since explanation was the last
thing that came out.

Having puked all over the
cream carpet, making the amber stain look completely innocent, Dick
sat shame-faced and comtemplating the sad loss of the cookie he’d
hardly even gotten to digest.

Seeming about ready to
explode, Bruce started several approaches. “What on earth made
you… Do you have any idea how… I ought to…” He growled in
frustration, raking his hands through his hair. “Don’t drink
what doesn’t belond to you!”

Dick’s lip quivered
slightly, feeling distinctly emotional, and he bit it.

Bruce was biting his lip,
too…but as it turned out, for different reasons.

He burst out laughing,
shoulders shaking and eyes reduced to slits.

Dick started at him
indignantly, getting the definite impression that he was the butt of
the joke. What was so darn funny? He’d never felt worse in his life!

Laughing even harder at
Dick’s glare, Bruce got to his feet, ruffled his charge’s hair
(earning a growl of frustration) and made his way towards the door.
Dick could barely make out his parting words.

“What in hell have I
gotten myself into?”

Judging by his continued
mirth, it was nothing he regretted to fiercely.

Alfred, however…

“Master Grayson,
come here this instant!”

Dick winced, feeling
extremely unprepared for this little confrontation. All the same, a
grin krept onto his face as he contemplated the sheer nerve of what
he had just done. Damn.