Down Bad In Distress - Part 2

Down Bad in Distress - Part 2

Part 1 | Masterpost

The many—MANY—instances of Bruce's bodyguard being terrifyingly brutal for him and his family and how that turns Bruce on.

Bruce isn't stupid. He knows Danny knows. It’s obvious—damn obvious—considering the way Danny just knows. There was that one time, the alley, Bruce barely holding himself together after 50-something hours with no sleep. He could barely stand, muscles sore and head swimming. And then, like some kind of twisted serendipity, Danny shows up.

Takes one look at the mess Bruce is in—Batman—and doesn’t hesitate. Not even a breath. Just pure, unfiltered instinct.

Danny moves like a blur, swift and terrifyingly efficient. A punch to the throat here, a knee to the gut there. A quick, brutal twist of a wrist. The next thing Bruce knows, the guys who dared lay hands on him are unconscious, twitching, moaning on the ground.

God, Bruce is so turned on.

Danny doesn’t even break a sweat.

"Bruce," Danny hums, voice steady despite the adrenaline. It’s a casual thing now—calling him by name, no more “sir” or formalities. It’s just Bruce.

Then, like it’s nothing, Danny looks at him with that grin—sharp, dangerous. “Ah, Batman,” he corrects with a wink, scooping Bruce up like he’s weightless.

Bruce can’t stop himself from groaning as Danny effortlessly pulls him into his arms. “I should get you a mask,” Bruce rasps, more out of breath than he should be. “Makes you less... noticeable...”

Danny just chuckles, the sound low and throaty, almost predatory. “I wouldn’t worry about that for now,” he whispers, brushing his thumb across Bruce’s cheek—the cowl was a bit damaged then— gentle for a moment before his eyes harden. He turns to the Batmobile, his gaze narrowing as he finds it.

Bruce doesn’t remember much of the ride after that. Just that Danny shut the door, locked it from the inside with an ease that makes Bruce’s head spin. Then, Danny was gone—just for a couple minutes.

And in that short span of time, Danny makes sure every bastard who dared lay a hand on Bruce pays.

Bruce tries not to think about what that means. But the sound… the crash of broken bones, the sickening snap of necks twisting the wrong way, the gurgling sounds of blood, the wet, gut-wrenching thud of bodies hitting concrete—

Danny’s movements are terrifying. Almost animalistic. Every strike, every slam of a fist into someone’s jaw, every bone-crushing hold, speaks of an intense, controlled fury. Danny is a blur of muscle and violence, one second here, the next there, and then there’s another man crumpling to the ground in a heap of broken limbs.

None of the blood on him is Danny’s.

Bruce should be terrified. He should be scared, heart racing with the realisation that this man—this force of nature—has just torn through half a dozen people who hurt him. Hurt his boss.

But instead, Bruce just feels fascinated. Mesmerized.

And when Danny finally returns, grinning with blood splattered across his face like some deranged warrior, his eyes are wild—alive in a way Bruce can’t explain. He slips into the driver’s seat, that same grin still there, as if nothing had happened at all.

And Bruce? He’s too exhausted to care. His body aches, but there’s a strange comfort in knowing Danny’s got this, got him. That no one can get to him.

Danny's here. Danny's always here. And Bruce can rest. He can finally—finally—breathe.

Another time Danny made it painfully obvious that he knew about their vigilantism—and didn’t give a single damn—was with Tim. Tim, who’d gone off on a mission for Young Justice, thinking he could handle it alone.

Only, it didn’t go well. Not well at all.

Tim ended up cornered, a stab wound slashing through his side, blood pouring out fast, dark, and sticky. He could feel it, the sharp sting, the coldness creeping in as his vision blurred. He was surrounded, and the world seemed to close in.

Until it didn’t.

Until something shifted. A glimmer of blue, a flash of eyes that—holy hell, they looked like Jason’s. But no, this wasn’t Jason. Not by a long shot.

Tim’s breath catches as he watches Danny step into the scene.

And then—shit.

Shit.

Tim can’t look away as Danny rips through his attackers like they’re nothing. A fluid, terrifying motion as he dissects each man with brutal precision, a graceful violence that makes the blood freeze in Tim’s veins. The way Danny moves—it’s like he knows exactly where to strike. One punch to the ribs and a sickening crack. Another knee, this time to a face, and the crunch of bone sounds like it could split the air. The men go down, every one of them, but not dead. No. Danny doesn't kill them.

Danny makes sure they’re never the same.

Tim swallows hard, fighting the tremble in his limbs. This—this isn’t just violence. This is... art.

Danny doesn’t leave any of them in one piece. They’re crippled. Broken. Their bodies are alive, but their spirits—those are shattered, scattered across the ground like so many forgotten things. It’s agonizing to think about, the kind of agony that Tim can feel deep in his bones.

And that’s what makes Danny so fucking terrifying. Because he doesn't leave bodies behind—he leaves wreckage.

"Hey, little red," Danny hums, a voice that cuts through Tim’s foggy mind. The next thing Tim knows, he’s being lifted, cradled with a tenderness that shouldn’t exist in a situation like this. Tim winces at the wound, trying to hide it, trying to do something—anything—but he’s too slow. Too weak.

Danny sees it instantly, those eyes of his—green and blue—zeroing in on the bleeding wound like a hawk.

Tim’s breath catches, but he doesn’t fight. He can’t. Not when Danny is already lifting him up, his hands gentle, soft in a way that feels so wrong against the violence.

And then—everything shifts.

In one second, they’re in the middle of nowhere. The next, reality seems to tear apart. Like it’s nothing to Danny, like he’s just walking through a door no one else can see. Tim watches in awe—horrified awe—as the fabric of the world bends around Danny, as he steps into that tear and pulls Tim through with him.

Tim can’t breathe. Can’t think. This isn’t possible.

Danny isn’t human. The family has known that for a while now.

But right now? All Tim can do is bask in the warmth Danny gives, listening to the soft hum of his voice, the way he whispers words Tim can’t even hear as they step further into the rift. The world warps with every movement Danny makes, every step a new layer of reality bending under his feet. And Tim? He’s safe. Safe in Danny’s arms. Safe in the strange, dangerous embrace of a man who would tear apart the world just to keep what is his from harm.

And for a moment, Tim can’t find it in him to care about anything else.

Jason’s been saved by Danny a couple of times now—he’s basically Jason’s emergency contact at this point. But it’s not just about the saves. Hell, it’s not even always about the blood and the violence (okay, mostly it is). It’s the fact that Danny won’t hesitate to fuck someone up—no hesitation, no second thoughts—just because they laid a hand on him.

Jason’s seen what Danny can do with his bare hands, and that’s impressive. Fucking terrifying, even. But there’s something else, something better, when Danny takes Jason’s guns and uses them. Every time Danny picks one up, it’s like the gun becomes an extension of him—like it was him. Jason’s watched him shoot with the precision of a trained gunslinger, every shot landing exactly where it needs to. It’s flawless. It’s beautiful.

And every time, Jason can’t help but feel this sick kind of gratitude.

His aim? On fucking point. And Danny—Danny’s so damn sure of himself, so sure that the bullet will hit its target, that Jason can’t look away. Can’t stop being in awe of him.

“Kid, you good?” Danny’s always smiling when he turns back to Jason, handing him the gun after the fight. That smile—there’s something about it that Jason just... wants to hang onto. He almost doesn’t want to take it back.

But he does. Because Danny always says the same thing.

“Take it back, kid. I ain’t using it anywhere without you. I know to not use guns around your dad.”

And fuck, that makes Jason flinch.

Danny. Danny.

For all the violence in the world, Danny’s the one who always holds back around Bruce. He’ll go feral, he’ll tear through anyone who dares hurt Jason—but never, never around Bruce Wayne. There’s no gun, no weapon anywhere near Bruce when Danny’s around. Even when it’s needed. Even when it’s called for. Danny won’t break that rule. He just won’t.

Jason once saw someone give Danny a gun during an attack at a Wayne gala. What did Danny do? He didn’t even think about it—just aimed it right at Two-Face’s head and then fucking beat the shit out of Dent with a fucking chair. Like it was nothing.

“Hey, kid? You know I ain’t as human as most should be, right?” Danny’s voice pulls Jason out of his thoughts, like he’s trying to make sure Jason’s still listening.

Understatement of the fucking century.

“Yeah?” Jason mutters, glancing over and blinking when he sees not the usual sharp blue eyes but glowing green.

“Wanna know why?”

Jason pauses, the weight of Danny’s words hitting him. He nods.

Danny ruffles his hair, that fangy grin still stretched across his face.

“I died at fourteen and came back different.”

And Jason? He freezes. His heart drops, confusion slamming into him like a fucking truck.

What the fuck?

Danny Fenton, what the fuck?!

Dick Grayson is instantly reminded of Clark the first time he meets Danny. All smiles, sunshine, and that whole "I’m here to save the day!" vibe. But then Dick hears about all the crazy shit Danny’s done for his family, and—okay, maybe this guy isn’t just sunshine and rainbows after all. He can tear into people with detached precision if they touch Bruce. He tracks down Tim like a bloodhound, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake just to make sure Tim doesn’t get into trouble. And, hell, he looks at all the carnage around Jason and just dives right in, getting himself bloody for the guy like it's nothing.

Yeah, Dick wasn’t entirely sure about Danny at first. Too sunny, too good-natured, too... weirdly capable, you know? But then, one day, he gets the chance to sit down with the man during an outing—on a beach, of all places. Danny’s on duty, of course, but he’s hanging back under the shade of an umbrella like he’s chill about it. Not that anyone in the family needs to be guarded at the moment, but Danny’s still there, staying alert like a hawk.

And it’s… well, it’s amazing. And a little unnerving how dedicated he is. He just sticks around, no complaints, never asking for a break. Like, this is his life now—keeping them all safe, no matter what.

“You should go on vacation sometime,” Dick suggests, sidling up to where Danny’s lounging. He’s trying to be casual about it, but honestly, the guy works too much.

Danny raises a brow, his grin widening. “Are you trying to get rid of me, Boy Wonder?” he laughs, tilting his head like it’s some kind of joke.

Dick feels personally offended by that. “Ugh! How dare you think I’d get rid of our amazing bodyguard! What would we do if Damian can’t reach a kitten in a tree? Call Superman?” Dick presses a hand to his chest, dramatically swooning like Danny’s just committed a capital offense.

Danny’s grinning back, but he sighs. “You could. But honestly, I’d appreciate the vacation. It’s just… I can’t get a good night’s sleep if I leave any of you alone. It keeps me awake. Thinking about you people.”

Wow. Just… fuck, Dick has never heard someone say that about their family. Heroes and vigilantes, they’re supposed to be competent, right? It’s expected. But Danny? He looks at all that competence and still chooses to protect them anyway. He doesn't need to, but he does. What a fucking gem.

“Not that I don’t want to go home! My sister and kids keep nagging me about it, actually,” Danny adds with a huff, fond and amused.

Dick freezes.

“You have kids?”

Danny blinks, clearly confused. “Yeah? I have two. A son and a daughter… Erm… My son, Dante, is around Jason or Cass's age. And my baby girl—Janelle—is… a little older than Damian, I think.”

Dick blinks.

“Wait, you’re a father?!”

Masterpost