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#goon is about to have a come to Jesus meeting
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Danny: you just activated my fight and flight response..
Some dumbass: don’t you mean or?
Danny, lifting off the ground: No, I did not.
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fallout4-reacts · 10 months
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How would the various companions react to like during the escape of vault 114 skinny Malone shouts out to his goons "I want that Twink obliterated" at nick
Cait : She gives Nick a nasty glare but crosses Sole's nervousness. She doesn't like this phoney detective who looks down on her, but she doesn't want Sole to feel guilty.
"Don't worry, they'll try; they'll just run into me and my bat on the way."
Codsworth : "We'd better save ourselves as soon as possible!"
Nick casts a glimpse towards the robot accompanying his saviour. "Why? They never threaten you. They're looking for me."
"However, you are Mum/Sir's only hope of finding young master Shaun. We're not going to let them get to you that simply!"
Nick can't help but smile at the robot, which undoubtedly conveys the background thinking of Sole, who rushes into position, weapon in hand.
Curie : "Doux Jesus!" she said. "This man is terrible! Shouldn't we... flee to avoid them?"
"Not a bad idea," says Sole. "However, Nick, you remain well ahead in sight. I didn't come all this way to have holes drilled in you on the way out."
"What about me?"
"Run with him, and I'll cover you."
Danse : "Tactically, it would be more prudent to abandon the synth. We already have enough on our plate without having to defend this individual against a horde of assailants."
"This synth is my one and only chance to find my son!"
Danse sighs as he looks down at Sole.
"Proceed, I will shield you with my armor. But if you attempt to do it backwards, synth, I'll get out of their way, and we'll have to find another way to find Sole's son."
Deacon : His brows appear over the rims of his glasses, but his demeanour remains unaltered as he gives Sole a little hand gesture to proceed forward. Deacon disappears into the shadows as Sole go further with Nick behind them. While Nick and Sole are walking towards the exit, they hear some dry detonations followed by silence. Deacon rejoins the two fugitives on their level.
"They're not going to chase you anymore, Nick," Deacon says.
Dogmeat : He doesn't know what it's about, but his master goes to this detective, whom he sometimes hang with, and both appear to be afraid of something. The dog's hair rises on the back, and he turns toward the fierce energy with a growl. Men approach with a sinister expression. Dogmeat will shred them all.
Elder Maxson : He dislikes Nick Valentine. He dislikes being persuaded to do this with Sole. He has no idea how this happened. (Possibly due to the fact that the Prydwen never arrived in the Commonwealth at this point 😅😉 ) But one thing is certain: he despises losing his goal to the adversary. He spins around in an instant and charges, not like a fool, but like in a true guerrilla, using the shadows to set up ambushes where raw force or gunfire are insufficient. The poor triggermen have little chance against such a smart tactician, who is equally good at conceiving and executing a strategy.
Hancock : "They don't know who they're dealing with!" he exclaims.
And before Sole or Nick can react, he leaps into the melee, dodging gunfire and splitting the stomachs with his knife without hesitation. Nick and Sole make it their business to complete what little work remained. But the mayor can become feral whenever he wants, and threatening one of his buddies brings out the worst in him.
Gage : He casts a mocking glance towards Sole.
"I told you it was a bad plan from the start!"
"I require the services of this detective. We must prevent them from killing him."
"You need that detective. I need an Overboss. But I'm not going to let a gang of triggermen kill me for this, Overboss. You'll meet me at Nuka-World when you remember what your interests are."
He walks away without saying anything else. He's a raider, you know. Loyalty is not something they have a reputation for. (After all, even if you romance him, he is the first to shoot you in Open Season)
MacCready : "It smells like bone."
"If we don't help him, I'll never find my son."
"Two or three hundred more caps and—"
"Wait, are you negotiating at this time?" exclaim Sole.
"There will never be another better time."
"150, and we have a deal."
"Are you serious?" ask Nick, becomeing irritated.
"Sold! Pointe, I fire."
And, needless to say, there is no longer a triggerman to chase a now taciturn Nick who can't believe his life has been negotiated down.
Nick Valentine : He gives Sole a look of concern. That was something he should have expected. Honor is always last on the agenda with individuals like Malone. He raises his weapon and prepares to protect his life, but to his surprise, Sole also shoulders.
"Wait, you're not fleeing? They're looking for me."
"I also require your assistance. Furthermore, there is no need to investigate who is good and who is bad."
The detective says nothing as the exchange of fire begins, but even after the final triggerman has ceased breathing, he continues to ponder about the moment when Sole, a stranger to him, risked their lives for his synthetic skin.
Piper : "Things are getting complicated," she observed.
"You can go, I'll cover your back," Sole replies.
"Don't you think about it seriously? Do you believe this is the most dangerous situation I've ever encountered? Anyway, I'm not giving up Nicky that lightly."
"Wow, Piper, I'd almost be flattered," Nick says, taken aback.
"Don't think too much," she advised. "It's only a matter of ethics."
Preston : "Who do they think they are?" He asks. "We made a deal, and we stuck to it!"
"You can have fun explaining it to them once they put holes on me like a sieve," Nick replies sarcastically.
"Who do you believe I am? We didn't come to pull you out of there and watch you die!"
Sole doesn't waste time debating and rushes into position, ready to receive the triggerman. Preston covers their back and shoots enthusiastically. When there are no more triggermen standing, he moves closer to the nearest body.
"Adhere to the terms of any deal you make. Honor is what keeps a man up when he has nothing else."
Strong : "AAAAAAAAAAARH!" he shouts.
No wondering which side he's on. Sole wants the detective; the men want to kill the detective. Strong kills the men. Strong is powerful. Strong defends Roboman. That’s all.
X6-88 : "I would strongly suggest that we abandon this obsolete model, which appears to be accumulating more and more problems, and instead utilize the Institute's resources in order to achieve your objective." "What are you doing here???!!"
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Enemy Of My Enemy - An Eddie and Billy Fic
I can’t stop writing these two omg 😭 The setup:
Takes place between S2 and S3.
Eddie and his friends have been tortured all year by Jason and his goons.
✨ For @munsons-maiden ✨ If anyone else wants to be tagged in my Billy and Eddie fics, let me know!
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As soon as Eddie got the call from Hargrove that morning, asking to meet in the usual place after school, he could tell something was up. Hargrove's voice wasn't as loud as it usually was. Hell, he sounded downright withdrawn. When Eddie hung up, he chuckled to himself, imagining all the stupid reasons the King of Hawkins High could have to be in a bad mood.
He got turned down by a girl. Or he lost a basketball game. Or both in the same weekend. Now that would fuckin' hurt. If Eddie knows anything about Billy Hargrove, it's that he can't stand losing—period.
So when Hargrove swaggers into the clearing with a cigarette in his mouth, a black eye, and a row of stitches in his right eyebrow, Eddie isn't surprised, exactly. But he still kind of is.
He sits up straight at the picnic table. "Holy shit, dude," he exclaims, then immediately regrets it.
Hargrove ignores him. Approaching the table, he sits down with a long, low sigh, the kind a man makes when he's had it up to here with people's bullshit.
"You got the goods?" he mumbles around his cig.
"Yup. Got a fresh batch over the weekend."
Hargrove fishes out his wallet and flips it open. Eddie glances down right as he's digging out a twenty.
"Oh, uh. Twenty-five for the half," Eddie says.
Hargrove looks up, plucking his cig out of his mouth. "Last time you said twenty."
"Economics, my dude. Prices go up and down with the market. I know, it's insanity."
A muscle twitches in Hargrove's jaw. With slow, measured movements, he pulls out the ragged bill and flashes it between his fingers.
"I only brought twenty," he says darkly.
Eddie glances between the money and the stitches in Hargrove's eyebrow. For a moment his survival instinct babbles at him to give in. Just give in this one time. Keep the king happy.
Then he shuts the lid of his lunchbox.
"Sorry. No can do."
Hargrove leans back, a cold gleam in his bruised eye.
"Your friends got money, right?" Eddie says. "Those rich SOBs on the basketball team? So hit 'em up and come back. I'll wait."
Hargrove closes his fist around the twenty, making it crinkle. Eddie's heart pounds, and his survival instinct starts babbling again. He's about to lose it. He’s had it up to here with the bullshit. Calm the beast before he kills you. Give in, give in!
He stymies it with a cocky smile.
"I'll even take change," he announces, gesturing expansively. "I'll sound like a jingle bell when I walk, but hey, what can I say? I'm feeling generous today."
Hargrove stares at him. Eddie tries not to wither under it, even though he knows he's being sized up, his weaknesses noted and tallied. Hargrove's good at that, making you feel like he can see every exposed artery, like they're all within reach of his razor-sharp claws.
Finally, Hargrove looks out at the woods. Eddie lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"I've got a better idea." Hargrove drags on his cig. "You give me the half for twenty. And I'll make your biggest problem go away."
Eddie frowns. Wait, what?
"My 'biggest problem'?" he asks.
"Jason Carver. His boys have been making school a living hell for your friends lately." Hargrove blows out smoke. "I'll make 'em stop."
Eddie's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "You'll make them stop?"
Hargrove glances at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
"It's that easy for you?" Eddie asks, his voice tight with disbelief.
Hargrove shrugs.
"And you'd do it for five dollars?"
"What can I say? I'm feeling generous today. Though maybe—" Hargrove licks his lip "—next time I show up with nothin' but a goddamn twenty to my name, you'll be more... charitable."
Eddie blinks, feeling dizzy, like he's standing on the edge of Wonderland. Jesus, Hargrove must be desperate. Last week he barely even acknowledged Eddie's existence. Now he's offering to change his friends' lives? The opportunity alone is worth way more than twenty percent off a bag of weed.
Eddie throws open his lunchbox.
"Shit, man," he says. "If you really deliver on this, I'll be the one getting the deal, not you."
Goods exchange hands. Eddie stuffs the money in his pocket. Hargrove tucks the bag in his jacket, springs up from the bench, and walks away.
Well shit, nice doing business with you, too.
Before he reaches the edge of the clearing, Eddie calls, "Hey, um. Can I ask you something?"
Hargrove stops and glances over his shoulder.
Eddie spreads his hands. "Why? I'm not the only schmuck with weed at this school. You could've found a cheaper price in half an hour. So—" he grins "—why the favor?"
Hargrove's look darkens to a glower.
"I fuckin' hate Jason Carver."
Shoving his cig in his mouth, he swaggers out of the clearing.
Eddie's grin fades. As Hargrove disappears into the trees, he closes his lunchbox, props his elbows on the table, and folds his hands together, thinking.
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spellbook-gayboy · 2 years
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HAPPY FRIDAY 💛 how about prompt 67?
67.
"Whaaat?" Rex scoffed, trying his hardest to pretend he was innocent. "Come on, it'll be fun, honey!"
Mark shook his head in disbelief. "Y'know the last time you said that, I got thrown across the room, right?". At that, his boyfriend just shrugged, prompting him to roll his eyes and relent "Ah, screw it, lead the way!"
The pair crept through the hallways of the GDA infirmary, moving past rows of hospital beds, some curtained off and some not, until the hero stopped at a bed opposite what seemed to be the only water cooler in the entire place. Rex looked back at Mark and whispered "Alright, he's in here!"
"Yeah, who is this guy again? You weren't exactly big on the details when you asked me to come" the half-alien questioned, opening the curtain to peek in at the man in question.
"Some old guy Cecil's goons dragged out of God-knows-where. All I know is he's old, and he's hot!" Rex answered, before going into perhaps too much detail by adding "Like, I thought I was shredded, but this guy? He's just a fuckin' wall of muscle!"
Mark couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Okaaay, moving on! Jesus, way you slobbered over him, thought I was meeting the- holy fuck! Is that what I think it is?!" his voice changed, pivoting into surprise as he suddenly rushed into the curtained space, before popping back out with a large metallic object in his hands. "Oh my god, this is the best day of my life!"
"Where'd you get the shield?! Why is there a shield in there?!"
"A shiel- babe, this is Frontline's shield!" the half-alien exclaimed, giving the name the same admiration that a Christian would give the mention of Jesus. "Oh god, I'm gonna cry!"
"F-Frontline? Who the hell is-?! Uh, Mark..." Rex asked confusedly, before trying to point to point out something behind the half-alien. Mark, however, was still too busy fanboying over the weapon in his hands.
"Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to have this, but c’mon! It’s so lightweight, too!”
“No, Mark, I mean...”
“Yeah, I’ll put it back in a second!”
“Yeah, but you should really look-!”
There was a loud tearing noise from behind him, and the half-alien turned to look at the source of the noise: Frontline had not only woken up, but had walked over, torn open the water cooler and was currently scooping water into his mouth like a parched dog. Not to mention that he was naked as the day he was born.
“Wow! Uh, Okay! Hi... Mr. Frontline!” Mark stuttered, holding up his hand to cover the huge man’s more private areas. Regardless of his state of undress, he was certainly the ‘wall of muscle’ Rex had described; sporting tree trunks for arms and legs and a torso that looked like it was made of wrought iron. He dragged in a heaving breath when his face left the water, looking at the pair with bloodshot eyes and a confused expression as droplets fell from his matted beard onto the floor.
“Wha... what year is it?” he growled in their direction, voice rumbling as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. “How long has it been?”
“Uh... i-it’s 2022, sir” Mark managed to get out, blushing at the awkwardness while Rex just stared.
The large man tilted his head at that. “What is that... twenty-five, thirty years? Lord have mercy!”. Something seemed to catch his attention, looking confused for a moment or two, before he plainly asked “Am I... naked?”
The couple looked at each other, before answering in unison “Yeah”
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gaykarstaagforever · 3 months
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Alright, you bastards. Here is Superman Vol. 1 No. 221, from November 1969.
In mylar. Because God forbid this stupid piece of crap waste away in the elements.
I should set it outside unprotected, just on principle.
People are paying upwards of $30 for this.
Don't.
PART 1. SUPER-PANCHO!
If I may bury the lead because the actual story is terrible, let's talk about the other feature in the issue, "The Revolt of the Super-Slave". Which, unbelievably, is actually kind of good. For this era, it's a masterpiece.
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I understand what you're thinking after looking at this. "SUPER-PANCHO?! WHAT KIND OF RACIST GARBAGE IS THIS?!"
And fair enough. This is the year before Lois Lane was sent by Perry White to interview Black people, and she decided the best way to prepare for it was to have Superman build a machine that would give her a Black woman's body.
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Never forget. Jesus Christ.
Once you recover from now knowing that happened and remember the Super-Pancho thing: don't worry, actually. That name alone is the only regressive thing about this. No one wears a sombrero or bandolier, no one speaks in broken English, no one eats a taco. This as racially sensitive as 1969 DC comics could get, in that everyone in this made-up Caribbean island nation (I think that's the idea) is just a white person in shorts.
...I mean, that's certainly POC erasure. But now that you've seen the Ebony Lois thing, I hope you'll appreciate how low the bar was at this time.
Super-Pancho is actually pretty cool. He is an enslaved person on an island where men are forced to tend to glass bubbles filled with flowers that are processed into nerve toxin, for sale on the black market. Pancho escaped but was recaptured before this story takes place, and he was on the mainland long enough to learn about Superman, who he hopes will come and save the enslaved people. He turns a scarecrow into a makeshift Superman mannequin, and holds nightly meetings in his hut, trying to convince his fellow subjects to bet on Superman.
Eventually he manages to tie a bunch of flower balls together and dump them in the ocean as a signal to attract Superman.
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Because, as everyone knows, 1960s Superman is drawn to representations of himself like a moth to a street light.
That isn't a joke. That happens probably a hundred times. The man builds statues and robot clones of himself at least half the week. Almost like the people making these felt they weren't paid enough to draw another guy, or something.
The signal works as intended, of course. Superman arrives and meets Pancho, just as Pancho has been dressed in his replica Superman outfit and chained to a cliff. This was done by the evil General Satanta, a character with a stupid name that I never once pronounced correctly in my head.
I was mostly thinking "Santana." Because it's a hot one.
Satanta did this to Pancho because he was making fun of Pancho's obsession with Superman. He even has his goons trick Pancho into thinking he has the real superpower of not getting eaten by jaguars. ...Which turns out to be a weird, counter-productive flex, because Pancho snaps and thinks he's actually Super-Pancho, who has powers when he gets mad. And it kind of makes him a confident revolutionary badass.
Again, Superman shows up in the midst of all this. He immediately realizes that Pancho has cracked. But also, conveniently, that Pancho looks exactly like Kal-El, with stubble. So he gets Pancho to hide in a cave with his own real Superman suit, and takes Pancho's place in his scrubby one as a real super-powered Super-Pancho.
Genuinely cool super-antics ensue.
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Yes, he eats the nerve-toxin flowers, and spits a bullet message into the side of a helicopter.
I told you this was good.
At some point Pancho, believing he has real powers, comes out of his cave in Superman's costume and starts talking shit. Superman, protecting Pancho, uses his powers to confuse Satanta about how many Super-Panchos there actually are and what they can do. This culminates with Satanta being so flabbergasted by this chaos that he and his men flee the island.
The enslaved people freed, Superman gets Pancho to settle down long enough to understand that he does not in fact have real powers. But he tells him to keep lying to everyone that he does, because most Silver Age Superman plans are 60% lying and 40% his own clone robots. He then leaves Super-Pancho in charge of the island, where his lies will keep criminals in check under a cloud of confusion and terror for the foreseeable future.
Yay, Superman! You've done it again!
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The only really weird part of this story is how Superman decides to disguise himself as Pancho, a man who looks exactly like him but with some facial hair. Fast-growing hair? Face paint? Some kind of weird fake face stubble plant that only he knows about?
No, sorry. The correct answer is "rubbery man-skin costume he somehow has, that is never explained."
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I know it seems like I'm going hard on this. But for all it's many, many flaws, this is a pretty solid "wacky 60s Superman" story. Pancho is pretty loveable, and everything generally works out well for everyone, besides the bad guy. You literally cannot expect more from the Silver Age.
...They should really bring Pancho back, if they haven't already. Superman finds out later he exploited his advantage to become a dictator himself, reverting back to selling the nerve toxin on the black market. Superman has to return and sort it out. Deep commentary on colonialism and the White Savior narrative, or something. Especially since Superman is in fact an unauthorized immigrant orphan alien creature who just passes for Midwest cracker.
I mean, that won't be fun. But it could be meaningful and interesting. God forbid we try that with a superhero comic once in awhile.
Stay tuned for Part 2, the bad Fat Superman story.
Here's General Santana and a cracker to play us out:
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alecmagnuslwb · 3 years
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But Please Don’t Bite - @doubleredweek Day 6
Read on AO3
The number one rule about the Bats is to always, always stay away from their fangs. It’s no secret that despite Bruce’s strict no killing rule they’re the most lethal of the pseudo super families.
The rule especially applies to the Arrows, wolves and vampires don’t mix; they tolerate each other at best. The years of petty bitching between Oliver and Bruce at every Justice League meeting should be proof enough of that.
Roy Harper however never found a rule he didn’t at least want to tamper with. Befriending Dick Grayson, a creature of the night not a creature of the hunt, had been his big teen rebellion, but oh boy that’s going to look like he stole a pack of gum and promptly returned it immediately out of guilt in comparison to this.
Because right now Jason Todd’s fangs aren’t just within spitting distance which he knows Oliver would consider risky enough, they’re pressed right up against his throat.
Roy’s not totally sure how he wound up here, not that he’s complaining in the slightest when Jason’s lips travel down to the base of his neck his fangs slipping out the tips just barely grazing Roy’s pale skin.
Teaming up with Jason in the first place had been an accident, a wrong place wrong time incident that Batman’s most complicated son helped him out of. From there he’d just kind of stuck, Jason didn’t necessarily need the help, but he didn’t turn it down either and Roy couldn’t seem to stop. It was fun working with someone whose style wasn’t exactly like his and Jason’s wry sense of humor and handsome face were nice to be around.
There was just something captivating about Jason that Roy couldn’t seem to step away from even though every lesson he’d ever been taught told him he should. Captivation quickly turned into a crush, a silly unrealistic crush a werewolf had on a vampire, which quickly then became something more. Roy found himself in so deep, so quickly he knew no matter what they were, no matter if Jason felt more than obvious mutual attraction to him, he was going to be sticking around for a long time.
So, here they are now with months’ worth of tension spilling out in a cold, dark alleyway with a pile of unconscious drug dealers stacked up on top of each other not ten feet away.
“Jaybird,” Roy says just as he nips at the delicate skin of Roy’s jaw, not quite enough to break the skin and draw blood but damn near close enough. The action makes him think of the speech he got from Oliver years ago, a warning about remaining on guard whenever a Bat was around.
“Just because he’s been training them all for years to reign it in doesn’t mean they aren’t creatures of habit,” he’d said. “They’re connected to their base urges just like we are. We can’t resist the moon when we lose focus, they can’t resist blood when they do.”
He groans, he really doesn’t want to be thinking about Oliver right now, and damn if Jason doesn’t seem wholly focused anyways.
“Don’t worry,” Jason says pausing his trail along Roy’s neck in favor of kissing him once, biting at Roy’s bottom lip when he pulls back. “I won’t bite,” he pauses again placing a slow gentle kiss on Roy’s jaw. “Unless you want me to.” He winks once at Roy before gently tilting Roy’s head to the side slowly working his way down the other side of his neck.
And sweet baby Jesus Jason bleeding him dry is the least of his worries he’s gonna die on the spot from his lips alone.
“No really Jaybird,” he says making absolutely no attempt to put a stop to it when Jason grips his waist tight and pulls him in closer pressing the length of his body right up against Roy firmly pressing him into the wall. “We should,” he pauses struggling to get through his intended sentence when Jason does something particularly pleasant with his tongue. “We should talk about what’s happening here.”
Jason pulls back his face still dangerously close to Roy’s. “I thought it was pretty obvious what was happening here.”
Roy huffs a little laugh reaching out a hand to delicately hold Jason’s sharp jaw. “I don’t mean this, this. I mean this in general,” he explains waving his other hand between them.
“So clear,” Jason says flashing his fangs a little when he smiles.
“Jay,” Roy says seriously, his words may be unclear, but Jason knows exactly what he means.
Jason sighs tilting his head up into the night air the glow of the moon, just a few days away from Roy’s time of the month, catching on the scar along his eyebrow and the white streak in his hair illuminating them. The motion causes Roy’s hand to slip down to Jason’s neck still holding lightly.
“You mean how vampires and werewolves aren’t supposed to mix and how your dad fucking hates my dad and they’ll absolutely both lose it if they find out about us?” Jason says his head tilting back down to look Roy in the eyes. The usual blue of his eyes is halfway gone being swallowed up by the vampire red that only comes out in anger or desire, a strange and mesmerizing purple line across them where the colors mix.
“I don’t give a fuck what they think, Bruce is always gonna be Bruce and let’s be real your dad just hates Bruce specifically, his issue isn’t with us,” Jason continues and Roy decides not to argue it. It’s technically true, Oliver doesn’t hate Dick or Jason or any of the other Bat kids but that doesn’t mean he’ll be thrilled if one of his kids starts sleeping with one of them. “Except maybe Damian, but Damian just kind of has that effect on people.”
Roy smiles amused, he actually kind of likes Damian as brash and rude as the kid can be.
“I guess they don’t really need to know if we start fucking in alleyways anyways, huh?” Roy says somewhat defensively protecting himself. He wants it to be more than just this, but he knows Jason isn’t exactly open to emotionally complex relationships. This might be all he’s willing to give. “Unless some siblings of yours catches us and blabs.”
Jason surprises him kissing him once on the lips light and soft not at all like the kisses they’ve been sharing since he punched out the last of the goons took one look at Roy and just pounced.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says and Roy just gives him an innocent look like he has no idea what Jason is talking about. Jason clearly doesn’t buy it. “You don’t have to act like this is just fucking in an alley. Which for the record we absolutely are not doing we may be nearly indestructible creatures of the night but I’m fairly certain there are some diseases down here that could very much take us both out.”
Jason leans forward touching his forehead to Roy’s keeping them close.
“I know I’m an emotionally stunted bloodsucker, but I’d like to try and not be with you,” he says closing his eyes. Up this close Roy can almost count every single one of his thick dark eyelashes. “Well the first part, can’t really do anything about the bloodsucking.”
Jason’s skin is cool to the touch just like it always is chilly fingers slipping under the edge of his vest. Roy’s warm hands stroke absentmindedly where they still rest on Jason’s ice-cold neck, it should make him shiver, should be such a contrast to the wildfire that always runs in his veins but Roy can’t feel it, he just feels warmer than he’s ever felt before.
“I’d say let me buy you dinner and then that sounds like a great plan, but you don’t eat,” Roy says with a chuckle leaning in once to press a quick kiss to Jason’s lips.
Jason snorts pulling back just a bit, but staying close. “How about you take me to blood bank?”
Roy nods pushing himself off the wall entangling his fingers with Jason’s. “A cold, clinical blood bank? How romantic,” he says swinging their arms back and forth as he drags them out of the alley.
He knows that sooner or later the fallout from this is going to cause an absolute shitshow incident between their families, but everything before and after that is going to be so much fun.
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iphoenixrising · 3 years
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How do you think the boys will react to Dr Tim in fear gas (like full dose of it)??
Hi babe.
I’ve said it before, but ah. Be careful what you wish for, heh. 
But no, really hasn’t poor Dr. Tim been through enough? Guy has already narrowly escaped collapsing bridges, been up close and personal with the Joker, fought off Scarecrow’s goons, AND was smack dab in the middle of an honest-to-God Arkham Riot.Now we’re going to just get him all up in some fear toxin? Good Lord, can the man get a break? He hasn’t had some smut in a while tbh. (winks over to chippon)
BUT.
WARNINGS FOR: 
Mentions of child abuse 
Mentions of gore, blood, grossness 
You will be crying by the end. Guaranteed. 
Extreme mental and emotional HURT 
Tim’s fears are Jesus-Fucking-Christ level bad 
You’ve been warned :D
**
He’s not even back to work yet after that ambulance wreck, still feels the road rash, pulled muscles, and residual owfuck from a little rough and tumble time at Arkham Asylum. 
But, he’s in a convenience store for fuck’s sake because Jay wouldn’t let him have coffee this morning (nah, Sweets. Ya ain’t godda get up yet. Jus’ go back ta sleep wid’ me, yeah? We’re gonna stay here all warm n’ snug. Sshh. I gotcha, Timmy), and he’d managed to wrangle himself out of Jay’s arms when he woke up again, found out there’s only enough grounds for a shitty, weak pot, and Tim can’t even stand the thought of it.
Unfortunately, he gets a whole lot of random bad guys stopping in for those terrible hot dogs and road drinks on their way out of Gotham.
(Crane looks just as horrifying as he remembers from the hospital that one time, and Tim fervently hopes, hopes none of these henchmen recognize him in a beat-up hoodie and saggy sweatpants.)
What makes matters worse?
Crane isn’t even trying to be, you know, an evil villain.
There’s a put-upon sign behind the mask, and the fear gas comes out of nowhere, getting everyone in the store because the guy just doesn’t want to deal with civilians right this moment. He missed the break-out and decided to have a party all on his own, but he hasn’t even gotten the time to get the plan for his next evil scheme ready yet.
So he raises a hand and sprays a little gas to keep people from being lucid enough to call the cops and rat him out. He needs some time for a good getaway.
Tim, however, sees the inevitable coming and is frozen to the spot, can’t get his weak knees to unlock so he can at least try to duck. Instead, he gets it full in the face.
In a sweep, Crane sprays the small store as his henchmen drop a $20 in front of the coughing clerk and take off back out the door. Hotdogs and all.
Tim scrabbles for his phone, the noxious cloud makes his eyes water, his lungs fucking burn on the first choked, shocked breath. Even when he tries to hold his breath, he’s too terrified, knees going out just as he thumbs the screen behind his back.  
“Timmy?” is tinny and far away while he tries to at least breath shallow, eyes dart to the door, his brain tuned into the whole get out and away before the inevitable happens.
He’s got to get to Jay, he’s got to get out of here and get to someone. If he starts talking while hepped up on fear gas, he could give away everyone’s secrets. He could tell random strangers who everyone really is, he could tell anyone their weaknesses, he could put everyone in danger.
Building blocks. If he can get to a lab, to Steph’s, back to his penthouse, anywhere not here, he can probably crack the building blocks of the toxin before it takes him over completely.
He doesn’t even hear, “Baby? Ya there? Didja butt dial again? Thought I tol’ ya ta stay in bed with me, yeah?”
Not with the door right there.
All he has to do is make his weak knees fucking work, ignore the burn in his lungs, his brain, his eyes teary with the cloud still thick around him, with the abrupt slam of his heart in his chest, with the sudden shadows in the niches that hadn’t been there before.
He just has to get to that fucking door. Has to be able to run.
Tim manages to mostly get there before the screaming starts.
**
Dick is working the day shift in the uniform when word Crane struck come over the wire.
Whenever it’s one of the big bads, he gets close enough to get the details before handily disappearing to slip into something a little more comfortable.
(He knows his ass is spectacular in the Nightwing suit.)
A boop from his pocket is his Batcomm notification, and he pops it in just as he dips into the men’s room with a plan to get out one of the usual windows.
“We’ve got Crane on the move, O. Might want to drop B a line.”
“Already aware, Boy Wonder. It’s more severe than you realize.” His phone goes off as Dick is shimmying out the window and up the building where he keeps a spare suit in a nice waterproof bag hidden in the overhang.
When he checks whatever oh shit is added to a potentially deadly scene, he’s got a text from Jay and a picture from O.
Surveillance footage from inside a convenience store where Crane evidently attacked some civilians. His breath catches when one of the faces turned away to try avoiding the gas is–
Timmy.
“Fuck,” is a little breathless with a very different kind of fear, and Dick immediately turns it up a notch, throwing his suit on and slapping a domino over his eyes. “What can you tell me, O?”
Quick check on what he’s got to work with.
“B and Rob are already in pursuit. Signal is approaching to assist. As far as we can tell, this is the only place Crane managed to hit. Everyone’s mostly been accounted for by GCPD.”
“I sense a but coming–” and he checks his phone two seconds before time to fly, and the text from Jay is something about Tim and screaming, and now he won’t pick up the phone...
“O?” Because dread strikes him in the chest.
“He’s the only civilian missing. He must have already taken off before the patrol car got there.”
“He was hit with fear gas, and he took off?”
The jumpline is already in his hand before he even hits the edge of the roof at a run. It’s go time.
So, it’s a race to find Tim, all doped up on fear toxin and probably tripping out of his mind in one of the most dangerous cities in America where people like the Joker and Two-Face might hold a grudge.
Jason was already suited up before he sent that text to Dickie, was outta there when the sounds came over the line, the familiar screams. It’s a particular flavor of terror spelled out that Timmy, was probably in trouble.
He hits up O with the deets while Nightwing hits the almost-night, making the first swing fucking count.
**
The world alters and shift around him, almost throwing him off his feet more than once.
He’s already completely lost his sense of direction, trying to keep his eyes closed in a last ditch effort to keep the hallucinations at bay.
(It’s just chemicals fucking with your brain. You can beat this. It’s not real. None of it is real. You know that. You know it’s just–
Brick under his fingertips, abrading the sensitive skin. Stumbles over a curb, and the loud whonkkkkk almost rips a surprised yip out of him. Tim cracks his eyes open, heart picking up when the yellow lights look like the porch light from the Johnson’s house–
– before they brought him back.
“He’s…a special child. He needs more than we can give him–”
“He can’t get along with the other children, so I’m afraid–”
“Well, you see. Mary is pregnant! It’s-it’s a miracle, and we like Tim, really we do–“
Tim grits his teeth, hears so much wahwahwah than anyone really talking, telling him to get the hell out of the street, what is he thinking?
But instead of a shadow of a motorist that had pretty much almost run him over, all he can see is Detective Gordon, way back when he’d been the one to come to the Drake’s manor and give him the news.
His mom and dad weren’t coming back, not ever.
“N-No,” he whimper screams, slamming his eyes closed, and takes off again. It’s a full tilt run, every person he meets with someone else’s face.
Michael McCannon, the guy that beat the shit out of his foster kids.
Lilly Wright, wanted the income from having a foster in her house, didn’t care if he went to school, if he slept, if he ate, if he was dead in a gutter because he fell off a roof running after–
He smacks his palms into brick, scraping his face, turns and there’s Tony Stark back when he’d first met. Intimidating and imposing, eyes narrowed in distaste.
He runs faster, only half recognizes the buildings as he goes. He knocks into someone, eats face in an alley, panting and sweating, eyes full of tears, brain on fucking fire.
“Drake!” Hissed from the shadows, the darkness parting for red, gold, and green.
But it’s too much red, too much red.
“N-no, nonono,” and now he’s outright sobbing, scrabbling to his feet because Dami, Dami, is in a ragged, torn tunic, skin broken and blood fucking pouring out of him.
He’s got both hands on the vigilante, brain failing him, spitting out the mortality rate of being run the fuck through.
“No, no, no Dami, Dami,” he’s pressing on the worst wound, tears streaming down his face, babbling incoherently, apologizing, begging this kid, the little brother he should have had, not to fucking die and leave him too.
Robin, laying where the doctor had apparently thrown him, is staring up in shock, hands on Drake’s forearms where he’s pressing at some imaginary wound.
“Don’t die, Dami. Stay with me! Please stay with me!” Is fairly screamed in the cold night.
And Robin catches his breath at this, this, as one of Drake’s worst fears.
“D-Don’t leave me. I can’t lose you. I-I can’t lose you, too.” Tim weeps, pulling both hands back, staring down at what must see as blood and viscera.
“I am sorry, Timothy,” Robin breathes out hoarsely, frees a hand to pull back, teeth clenched against what he’s about to do, and punches their doctor with real intent.
As he hopes, Tim goes down like a stone, unconscious on the dirty ground, tears still on his face from terror and grief.
In a breath, Robin is on his feet, kneeling over Drake, tapping the comm in his ear. “Hood, N, Father. I have located him. He has been…affected. I am uncertain if the anti-toxin in my belt would do further harm, so I have not administered it as of yet.”
“Rob,” Hood’s response is immediate, “Big Wing’s with Daddy Bat takin’ care a’ the last of ‘em.  I’m headin’ atcha now.”
“Meet me at the Black Bird. Hurry,” Robin cuts off, and gently, oh so gently for his normal, lifts Tim’s upper body against his chest, points a gauntlet at the roof to fire the jump line, reel them both in.
At sixteen, the youngest vigilante has nearly outgrown the doctor, and has no trouble lifting Tim up to carry him across the roof, occasionally looking down to make sure Tim is still out.
His own vehicle, the Black Bird, is hidden close to a safe house for the Bats. Balancing Tim in his arms, he taps his utility belt, the container hiding the car folding away.
Hood is on the ground, immediately takes Timmy from Rob, looking at the scrapes on his face.
“In, in!” Robin snaps, shooing Hood in the back with their Doctor. “We must get him to the Cave immediately.”
He dives in the driver’s seat, revving the engine fast, tapping his mask for the whiteouts to slide up. He takes in the immediate area with a glance, and peels out into the night.
Jay deactivates the helmet, tosses it in the front seat, wraps both arms around Timmy in his lap, tapping the comm to listen up at Dickie and B on clean-up whiles he winds up to get all the deets outta the Demon.
“Tell it ta me straight, Lil’ D. How bad wassit?”
He’s looking in the rearview because the kid’s eyes always give him away.
He ain’t prepared to see the Demon blinking rapidly, jaw clenched tight. “He is fully effected. Hallucinations, inability to discern outside voices. I called to him. He was not able to hear me. See me, yes, but he believed I was…dying. He attempted to treat me, asked me not to…”
Robin makes a hard right turn, shoves his foot against the pedal to drift it. He shoves in the clutch, shifts the gears, biting down on his lower lip (“Don’t leave me, I can’t lose you.”).
He evens out, hitting the Robert Kane Bridge to take them out of Gotham proper and closer to the Manor.
“Dames?” Jay makes it soft because the kid is obviously shook.
Robin pushes the car to 105 mph to sail over the bridge.
“His fear was he would be unable to save me. The wound…he believed the wound made by Hush would kill me yet again, I believe.”
Jason Todd breathes in sharply, freeing up a hand to fit at the back of Rob’s neck, make circles with his thumb.
“Sorry that mighta brought ya back.” His tone is low with sympathy, empathy.
And for a moment, Damian Wayne, not Robin, leans back into that hand, lets it ground him while the night flies by the window, while he watches the darkness for everything while he downshifts, when the road starts getting less defined further out of the city they go.
“It is not that,” Damian admits, “one day, one of us, perhaps all of us, will not return. Nothing he can do will prevent that.”
“I know, Baby Bat. Let’s hope it ain’t any day soon, you feel me?” And Jay, tries to keep it gentle, tries to keep the circles going, tries to be easy about it so Baby Bat won’t try ta pull away, put it all back inna box to fester.
“Agreed. However, do not be surprised if he comes to fighting. We must monitor his vitals closely if this toxin is similar to the last batch.”
“I gotcha. S’all right, we’re gonna take care of him, ain’t we?”
Damian makes an affirmative noise and leans forward out of Jay’s grip, pressing the gas, then gearing back up.
**
Tim comes to as the restraints are tightened, Alfred Pennyworth securing several sticky discs to his chest, and a pulse oximeter to his finger.
“We’ll see you soon, Son. Be a good boy while we’re gone.”
Makes his eye fly open wide, his heart slam painfully against his rib cage, his arms jerk where his wrists are restrained.
“Boys,” a cultured voice calls the second his eyes open, but Tim can’t see anything, not with his heart in his throat, not with his Dad’s voice ghosting out after over a decade and a half.
When he glances over, horrified at the tall figure coming closer, hands raised up in surrender, and his eyes were empty, gorey sockets, black sludge from the empty cavity. Purple lips and half-rotting flesh, the last clothes he’d seen his father wearing, his best suit, the one he’d wear to Drake Industries on the stints they were home and Dad worked in the office.
Tatters and grave dirt, bone peeking out from shriveled flesh…
“Dad,” is a broken, hoarse croak, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I tried. I tried to be good,” and the closer his dead, decaying Father gets, the more he fights whatever is keeping him still, won’t let him run for his own fucking sanity, “I tried! I tried and you still didn’t come home! It wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t–!”
He chokes, gags because Dad is right by the bedside, and now Tim can see the inside of his black mouth, the tongue putrid and pale without blood, and the smell–
He’s probably screaming, even if he can’t hear himself.
Something is strapped over his face, and he fights it, knows it’s a plastic mask, pumping something into his lungs, just like the fear toxin.
A turn of the head, and it’s the reversal of his first meeting with-with
The Joker.
Harley isn’t on the table bleeding out this time. It’s the two of them standing over him, a huge needle full of green sludge right by the Joker’s shoulder, right next to his horrifically sick smile.
He’s wearing a mock head lamp and white coat, Tim’s own badge dangling from his pocket. He turns to the smaller figure of Harley, the nurse sidekick with a frightening set of tools. The orbitoclast is brown with old blood and brain matter, the leucotome wire is rusty, the plunger to send that wire into his brain almost black with old gore.
And he fucking chokes.
“Hold on to those, Nurse. If my wonderful formula doesn’t do the trick, then we’ll have options! Huh, huh, huh,” and the bastard leans into him, that sickening smile, those wide, lucid eyes.
“He’s going to be our good boy, one way or the other, isn’t he?” And the dark growl of it, the promise is what makes him start screaming again.
Hands on his straining arms, a big body right by the bed when he turns, flinches away as far as the hold could let him.
“Oh no. No no no,” is a whimper, a plea, “I didn’t say anything to anyone, Mr. Johnson, I swear. I didn’t tell anyone anything.”
The grip on his arms becomes bruising, painful, terrifying all over again.
Tim clamps down, remembers the beatings hadn’t been as bad if he could keep quiet.
“Jesus Christ, you’re such a little shit.”
It’s Mr. Johnson’s words, but Jason’s voice.
“You need a good ass beaten’, kid. That’ll straighten you right out. That’s what all you fuckers need. Lucky for you I don’t mind making sure you keep on the straight and narrow.”
He doesn’t realize he’s chanting, “don’thitme, don’tdon’tdon’t, please please,  don’t,” while Mr. Johnson backs off, the old recriminations and reprimands rolling right out in Jay’s smooth baritone.
He’s outright sobbing, arms trembling above his head where he’s trapped, trapped. He can’t move, he can’t run, he can’t hide, he can’t–
And a blink takes him to the same fire escape outside his penthouse where he’d found Nightwing bleeding out, pulse already weakening, breathing shallow–
“What–“
The whiteouts on that domino are up so he can see Nightwing’s blue eyes flutter open weakly, can see the hand move gingerly to the bleeding wound on his abdomen.
“I can help you,” he yells out, hoping to make those eyes look at him, to get the vigilante to come to him, “I can save you, but you’ve got to get here.” This time his hands, his arms, his whole body is straining to get free, to reach the vigilante that needs him, that’s dying on him while he fucking watches.
The vigilante half-smiles at him, finger stripes more dark than blue, and his head goes back, visibly slumping.
“Nightwing, Nightwing, look at me! Open your eyes!” He knows he’s begging, fighting, but there’s bands around his chest, around his wrists, his ankles and thighs.
“I need, I need sutures, gloves, blood bag, and-and, I need, I need–“ but Nightwing’s head flops and his chest stutters, “LOOK AT ME! You can’t die like this, you can’t. I’m right here, I can save you!”
He sobs out loud, whole body jerking to get free.
“Ssshhh, baby doll, ssshhh,” makes him open his eyes even though he can barely see through the tears streaming down his face, his sobbing, his heart pounding copper in the back of his throat.
And there’s Jay, lying on his chest, all soft and sweet, with a post-sex grin. He’s too beautiful to be real.
“Jay?” He croaks.
“Yeah,” all soft and sweet.
Until he tilts his head, and the horrific smile below his chin leaks rich red down his throat.
“J-Jay?!” His eyes go wide and horrified because there’s his vigilante boyfriend bleeding out all over his chest, far gone enough to be silly and loopy with blood loss.
“S’okay, yeah? When s’time, s’time. Don’t gotta be sad about it, Timmy.”
“N-No, no, put-Jay, listen to me, put pressure on it, okay? Put both hands and press down. You-you’re loosing too much blood. I need you to–“
“That ain’t what’s happening here, Timmers.” Slurry and low, Jay’s face getting pale, eyes fluttering. “Like I tol’ ya b’fore. One day…one day I ain’t gonna come back. S’ just gonna be my time.”
And Tim’s shirt is wet with it, Jay’s blood staining him, soaking through his clothes, the weight of his big body heavier as his strength goes, as his eyes get dimmer, the jade flecks all but gone.
“You can’t. Jay, babe, you can’t. You have to fight. Please fight,” his hands are straining, but he’s so tired, weak, isn’t strong enough to get to them, to save them from their fates. "I don't... I can't be the last one left standing again. I can't. Please, fight. Please!"
'"Nah, Baby. Small right now. Love ya. Love ya s'much."
"I love you too," he sobs, can't breathe, can't think.
(He’s never been strong enough, has he? He’s not strong enough to be what they need.)
He finally can’t fight anymore, just stays pinned under Jay’s weakening body to cry and shake apart.
**
“Do something,” Dick yells, tears running down his face where he’s pinning Tim’s legs down so he stops hurting himself fighting the restraints.
Alfred, eyes narrow and wet-looking, huffs and turns on his heel abruptly. He fishes out supplies from the cabinet, uses a clean hypodermic to puncture the sedative.
Master Jason is staring up at Master Tim’s face, trying to be that boy in the Robin cape from all those years ago. Trying to be strong in the face of such horrors.
“Master Bruce, account for general anesthesia,” Alfred calls briskly and injects carefully into the IV.
“Understood,” the quickly working vigilante calls back from the lab, running the number a second time, darting looks at his children doing one of the hardest jobs he’s ever asked them to do.
He can tell by how Damian’s shoulders are shaking, Dick is opening crying against Tim’s hip, Jay’s lower lip trembling, eyes wet where he’s keeping Tim’s forearms pinned around the IV in his arm.
He add the variables, taking deep breaths, makes mental notes all over the place to look into Tim’s past foster parents.
Johnson. Right.
And the hardened bat can’t say his heart isn’t thundering in his throat watching Tim’s struggle, scream, cry out in grief, trying to use his reasoning and logic, having the fucking Joker of all people as part of his perpetual nightmares…
Bruce takes a calming breath, forces himself to be the Bat while he aches for the kids.
**
Twelve hours later, he comes to somewhere not his Penthouse or Dick’s apartment.
It’s chilly wherever he is, but for some reason his whole body just aches, hurts like he’d been in another damn car wreck or something. It’s too much effort to lift his head and look around, not when he’s pretty sure he’s in Dick’s lap, recognizes the smell of Dick’s jugular.
He hums a little, glad someone at least gave him a blanket because he’s at least mostly warm. His nose is pretty cold, but he just snuggles into Dick’s neck and sighs.
He tries to raise his knees to fold in, get warmer, but his heels bump into legs, and cracking his eyes open, he realizes Jay is sitting by Dick on the floor of the Cave, Tim laying over their laps.
He’s got a cotton ball taped to the inside of his forearm, and no idea why. He blinks a few times, lifts up enough to see Dami on Jay’s other side, head nudged against Jay’s shoulder. A hand is still on Tim’s ankle.
The sudden need to go to the bathroom drives him from their huddle on the cold floor, but at least he spreads the blanket out over them after he manages to pull out of their arms without waking them.
From their faces and expressions, whatever he isn’t immediately remembering couldn’t have been good.
But first, bathroom. Then, maybe coffee? Because that? Would be absolutely stellar at this juncture. Maybe some ibuprofen.
Luckily, there’s swanky digs in the Bat Cave, a set of lockers, showers, nice hot tub for long soaks after a night of kicking bad guy ass.
All the vigilante amenities.
He’s bleary and sore, staggering to the bathroom, noting B is asleep on the big computer, and Alfred sitting back in another chair, tea cup and saucer on the hard drive next to him.
He smiles a little, wonders if he can find a few more blankets somewhere.
A glance in the mirror as he was washing his hands shows him a bunch of road rash city. Man, he must have been caught up in the middle of something again.  
Seriously.
He splashes cold water on his face, works out the low throbbing ache of his bandaged wrists.
He’s shuffling back, thinking about just waking everyone the hell up to send people to bed, like themselves because his ass is numb, and there’s warm beds upstairs. When there’s pounding footsteps, skitters, and slides, whoosh of air, and Dick is right there up in his face, panting like he’d just sprinted all the way across the Cave in a quick hurry.
“Timmy?!”
He blinks up, still bleary about everything, his throat and voice wrecked as fuck, “hey honey. How was your night fighting shitty bad guys?”
He has no idea why Dick’s expression crumples, his eyes getting teary out of nowhere. He’s not prepared for Dick to start crying, to see his beautiful boyfriend hold a hand over his eyes and break down.
“Dick? Dick?”
He goes from holding himself, shuddering with the cold and ache in his bones, to up in Dick’s face, hand on his shoulder, looking for some injury, something to tell him how to help–
But Dick takes a few shuddering breaths under his hand, and Tim just wriggles his arms around Dick’s chest to hold on for a few long seconds before he gets full-on octopus hold right around his everything.
(Okay, that’s a relief.)
“…was it bad?” He asks softly, making circles with his palms as wide as Dick’s hold will let him.
“Y-Yes. It was bad. You don’t remember?” Dick sniffles against the side of his head, rocking them both gently.
“Not yet.” He shrugs an unconcerned shoulder. As someone who’s had a concussion (okay, okay, concussions), and has worked in the medical field in one of the most dangerous cities on the fucking planet, he knows there are plenty of bad guys with chemical weapons that don’t always leave short term memories in tact.
Dick shakes a little and holds him tighter.
“Fuckfuckfuck. Didja find 'im??!” As Jay rounds the corner and almost slams right into them.
He skids to a stop as Dick swiftly shifts them around out of the way. Jay doesn’t do anything to dislodge Dick’s grip, but palms the sides of Tim’s face, his eyes a hard, icy blue.
“Hey, Sweets, hey,” low in a dark way, not the usual, fun dark way. Tim has a strike of fear, takes stock of himself, of Dick, of Jay, wonders who else in the Cave might be hurt! That’s why they’re here. Someone got hurt coming after his ass, didn’t they?
“Dami? B?” He interrupts, eyes going from Jay to Dick and back.
“Fine, everyone’s fine,” is curt, short with him in a way that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t have enough evidence.
“O-kay. You both are fine. B and Dami are fine. Alfred?”
Over his head, his boyfriends exchange a look that is really starting to worry him.
But the next twelve hours are virtually impossible to escape. The sordid details come out once Tim remembers being in that convenience store. He gets snatches of half-lucid memories, probably never will remember the entire things. The brain is the most fascinating part of the body for a reason, not only as the control center, but also as the decision-maker on what things to blot out to protect itself. 
By the time Dami starts out, they’ve migrated up to Wayne Manor, parted ways to shower and wash off the night. Dick and Jay bracketing him in, being absurdly gentle, consistent soft touches, fingers wrapping around his, hands on his back, kisses pressed into his hair.
There’s some scrapes on his forearms along with the ones on his face, washed gingerly in the shower where he finally feels warm again. Alfred leaves a special bled of his healing goop and has set out pajamas for all of them before he left, requesting them to please come have breakfast.
Tim’s stomach rumbles while they’re getting dressed, and he’s pretty much picked up, and carried down the massive staircase.
(Ugh, this is after the bridge fiasco all over again.)
But the end result: food and coffee in Wayne Manor, so bonus?
Dami is looking at him like a kicked puppy. A perpetual pissed off kicked puppy, but he tilts his head to the side inquiringly, raising his eyebrows in invitation.
“I found you almost at Sheldon Park,” Dami starts softly, but at least everyone’s eaten first.
He flinches a little when Bruce tells him what he’d said about his Dad. When Alfred tells him about the Joker and Harley Quinn either going to inject him with some crazy sauce or lobotomize him.
(Yup. Pretty horrifying either way.)
Dami tells him about seeing everyone die around him while Dick has a firm hand on his knee under the table, their chairs closer together than necessary. Jason gives no shits keeping his fingers wrapped up tight, squeezing occasionally. Alfred keeps the mug in his free hand full, stands just by Dick’s other shoulder.
“I mean,” he finally starts after everything is out in the open, “it’s literally a toxin that fucks with your brain chemistry. Not shocking I’d see pretty awful things. I see awful things...a lot, so,” he shrugs a little helplessly in the face of the whole family looking utter raw and split open. “I...I’m...sorry, really sorry I worried everyone. I’ll try to stop getting into trouble so much, you know? But, um. It is Gotham.”
The family crowds around him, bringing in rank around the table. 
And if he doesn’t have to stay at the Manor for the next week, geeze, and get coddled as fuck by the Batfamily, and get picked up from Mercy General every. single. night. for a while, and get wrapped up against two incredible vigilantes that whisper soft things against his throat, his ear, his mouth, his, well, his everything. 
If he doesn’t get Bruce herding him into the study where the fire is burning, and it seems like the Batman is the most patient person ever to let him–let him talk about some of those old pains when he was in the system. 
If Alfred literally can not make him eat enough food to be satisfied. Ever. And gives him a side-eye when he starts to push away a plate that has even a bite left.
(Alfred pizza is god-level, and you’ll never convince him otherwise. But if he eats anymore, he’s going to die. Please stop killing him with your tasty love.)
If Dami doesn’t make him watch NatGeo Wild with popcorn and boxes of candy, then grudgingly plays Mario Kart with him until Rainbow Road is like theirs. No questions asked.
If he finally doesn’t go back to his penthouse, breathes in the familiar smells, gets absolutely destroyed in the Best. Possible. Ways for the next five straight hours. If he isn’t a boneless pile of I can’t possibly come again, for the next week at least. 
If Baby Bird, Timmers, Sweets, Timmy, and Baby aren’t wrapped around him with arms and sweet kisses pressed to his forehead and hair every time he leaves for work or they leave for patrol.
If he was before this, in the slightest bit uncertain he belongs with them, as part of their family–
–he sure as hell knows better now.
At least that’s one less thing to be afraid of.
**
Note:
In Tim’s fear fueled delusion, the Joker is Alfred, Harley is Dami holding equipment to treat him. His dad was really B taking the blood samples from Alfred to analyze. He’s horrified once he realizes what Tim is seeing.
Mr. Johnson, the abusive foster parent is Jay, which Tim kind of associates because of the accent.
Dying Nightwing is Dick bent over to hold his legs down, and the next switch is really Jay laying over him upper body to keep him from hurting himself more.
(Congrats for making it to the end. *Hands tissue*)
168 notes · View notes
pandoraimperatrix · 3 years
Text
Cockblocked by Batman’s son
BatCat | Humour/Romance | 1,4k
The fucker was on her for a while, and as much as their cat and bat game was fun, it was beginning to get in the middle of her business. There was this tiny small Brazilian island with her name on it, and unfortunately it was hard to steal whole islands than jewellery, so, of course, to steal some of the latter to get her island. She was calling it her retirement plan.
She was so close to her goal 12 million goal, only 10k to go, the job had been a god send, a rich collector had just acquired an Edwardian aquamarine and diamond brooch that have been on her client’s list for ages, thank goodness it was not her style at all, so she wouldn’t be tempted. It was easy enough, the security system was not what she expected from her research, but it had been fun to crack it, it was good to be surprised sometimes, she thought, kept her on her toes.
Her prize was already safely inside her bag, and Selina was ready to leave, when he appeared dark and broody, cape flowing behind him like a vampire on a silent era movie.
“Put it back.”
“Oh for Bastet’s sake!”
She ran, he went after her, and to be fair she was having fun taunting him, but there was something odd about that night, usually he gave her a little more of work, he seemed to be lagging. She even looked behind a few times to see if he was still following her, because there was nights in which would just leave to take care of an actual life threating crime. Selina thought that was the case and stopped to look, as much as the danger of him actually catching her and taking her prize back was not null, it almost felt like a let down when he’d just leave like that without a proper goodbye. He had no manners! Have no one taught him how to treat a lady?
Not that she was one.
She turned away and head back small rooftop apartment on East End, she had just entered her home, and pulled the cowl off her head when she felt a massive weight smash against her back throwing her on the floor. Fear struck her even harder, had the celling just fallen? She screamed for her cats to find safety before she managed to wiggle her body around enough to get an idea of the situation.
“What the actual fuck!”
The celling was intact and what was currently pressing her to the floor was the wall of meat known as the Batman.
“Put… it back.”
And then his eyes closed. She had never been close enough to notice before, but they were blue.
Read on AO3
It was embarrassing. She was tied up to a bomb. Heist gone wrong, well, it was good that he appeared since it was his fault that there was a heist at all. After leaving her flat while she napped after playing his personal Florence Nightingale all night, he repaid her by stealing her brooch!
Can you believe it?
The ingratitude?
The disrespect?
It was entirely his fault that she was obligated to break into that stupid warehouse to steal her new mark – an art deco diamond bracelet with an asscher cut, totally her style, she was already planning how to get it back, for free, of course. It was not her fault that the intel that got forgot to inform her that it was the same warehouse that had been used by Don Malone to hide drugs. And that when she broke in the place was no empty and Malone’s goons thought she was working for Falcone. Of course, no one believed her when she told them that she didn’t have anything to do with that.
You know, that’s why Selina had no trouble lying, because the truth hardly matters when someone wants to fuck you up, they will just do it for good measure, for fun, because sometimes you bloody deserve it for being the fool that nursed the fucking Batman back to health and were robbed by him.
But then, just as was she was about to accept that was how she’d meet her maker, a little leprechaun fell from the roof and said in a squeaky voice that she’d be okay.
“Geez, freaks are getting younger every day!”
Until Batman appeared and started defusing the bomb she thought she had already died and was having a very weird afterlife.
“He’s not a freak.”
“Oh… he’s with you!”
Maybe she was having a very weird afterlife. But why the hell her afterlife included the fucking Batman?
“He’s my… hmm… son.”
Wait, that was too weird for an afterlife.
“Your son? And his mother is okay with that? Jesus, isn’t he afraid of falling down?”
The boy had limbed a rope hanging from the roof and was hanging upside down by his pixie booted feet.
“He doesn’t have a mother,” Batman muttered as he still worked on her bomb, well, not hers. She owned no bombs, your honour. He was awfully talkative that night, that Batman. “Robin, behave!”
Oh my god, he was the leprechaun’s father! The information was just too good and at the same time she had no idea of what to do with it. It was the kind of prize she’d keep for herself.
“I’m behaving!” the high pitched boyish voice shouted back, but he did a flip and landed on the floor. She could say she was impressed. How old was that kid? Less than ten, she’d bet.
“Poor kitten, is she…”
“She died” he said so devoid of feeling that she raised an eyebrow. Of course Batman tended to be stoic, but, that was cold even for him.
“I’m sorry for your lost” she tried lamely.
He sighed. Batman actually sighed. What the hell was happening?
“I didn’t know her. He’s adopted.”
That night was one shocking revelation after another, wasn’t it?
“So… There isn’t a Mrs. Batman, then?”
What kind of lame line was that? Urgh. But was he… Nah. She was imagining it. He had not, in fact, sniffed her neck.
Of course, she couldn’t see, he was behind her, and although she could see Robin at the entrance very well because the light coming from outside reflected his little yellow cape as he amused himself by doing what looked like very dangerous acrobatics, where she was sitting, tied to a chair that was chained to a bomb, was completely dark. She could only hope he was really some sort of vampiric meta that could see in the dark otherwise letting him disarm the bomb was not the best of her decisions.
“It’s done.”
He released her. Selina rotated her wrists and stood up, relieved.
“Robin, let’s go!”
She watched as the boy let out a happy yelp and ran ahead, they could use that one as a limitless energy source and end climate change.
“Wait” she said walking around the chair to meet him in the dark “let me say thank you first, you just saved my life.”
“There’s no n-“
He couldn’t end the sentence when Selina blindly pressed her lips against his.
She meant to be a small playful peck, but Batman’s gloved hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her close and before she could think clearly about what she was doing, her arms were around his neck, hoisting her body up to fix their huge height difference issue. He parted her lips and slid his hot tongue against the roof of her mouth, the hard pointy part of his mask that protected his nose biting into her cheek.
“Ewww,” they broke the kiss to look at Robin’s small face wrinkled with disgust, but still remained in each other’s arms for a moment. And then, slowly, they turned their faces back forward.
Selina swallowed down, she still could taste him. And he was not letting her go, she had to be the one to pull her arms back, her hells touching the floor again.
She never thought she’d ever see Batman acting awkward but there was no other word to describe the way he grunted and stepped back before nodding to her and left, taking his little killjoy with him.
She stood there for a while.
She almost died.
She kissed the Batman.
Was cockblocked by Batman’s son.
Batman’s son??
What the fuck!
------------------------------
The rain made the power go out and I was looking through my WIPs. I really don’t remember writing this story lmao. But now It is finished and you can read it!
Please tell me what you think of it.
Kisses, see ya.
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moldisgoodforyou · 4 years
Text
the fire alarm
warnings: cursing & sex - just pure smut. this is (kind of) for those of you that asked for taking control with charlie - i tried my best! 
wordcount: 2.6k
“I have a surprise for you.” Charlie mentioned offhandledly as they both laid on the bed in his room at Beta, just finishing up their studying. “Yeah? Did you bring me cookies or something?” JJ replied, glancing up from his textbook. She grinned and tugged down on the hem of her t-shirt dress. “Or something.” 
He shut the book, pushing it aside. “Is that why you’re all dressed up? Do you have a date planned?” She shook her head. “Nope.” 
“Hm.” He looked her over, trying to figure it out. “Want me to show you?” She offered as she stood, trying her best to hold back a smirk. 
“I get it that easy? Normally you make me work for this kind of thing. Whatever it is.” He leaned over and grabbed his water bottle, completely clueless. Charlie grinned and took the opportunity, pulling her dress over her head just as he took a sip. JJ choked on his water immediately. 
She wore a sheer, lacy, black bustier with a matching lace thong and gave him a little twirl, proud of his reaction. “Jesus Christ, Charlie.” JJ coughed out, his eyes trailing up and down her body. “You like it?” She had a smug smile and giggled as JJ reached out, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her down to the bed. “You’re so fucking pretty.” He murmured before meeting her in a heated kiss. “How long have you had this on?” 
“Um...since I came over? Three hours ago?” She went to unbutton his shorts straightaway, wasting no time. He leaned back slightly to pull his shirt over his head. “And we’ve just been sitting here studying?!” He exclaimed before crashing his lips back onto hers. She laughed against his lips and rolled them over so she was on top, then nipped at his lower lip with her teeth teasingly. “Kind of a waste of time, right?” 
“I can’t even - holy shit.” JJ mumbled, his hands going to her waist. “Can I take a picture of you or something? I don’t want to forget this.” She pressed open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, then sucked at a tender spot on his neck. “Absolutely not. Don’t worry, I’ll wear it again.” 
“Thank god.” He breathed out, his grip on her waist tightening.
Just as Charlie was about to slide one of the straps off her shoulders, the sound of the fire alarm rang out through the house. “Fucking hell.” JJ cursed, dropping his hands from her waist. “Is that real?” She asked as she rolled off him, crossing her arms across her chest to cover up. 
“Yes, it’s real, it’s probably some idiot pledge - god, I’m gonna kill whoever it is.” He grumbled, then grabbed a large shirt out of his closet and tossed it to her. “Put this on.” He grabbed his robe for himself, the only thing that had enough fabric to hide his obvious boner. Charlie pulled on the shirt, hesitating, then took out a pair of her shorts that she kept in his dresser and pulled those on too. 
Someone knocked on their door as they passed. “We’re coming!” JJ called back, annoyed, then took her hand and they headed outside to the parking lot with the rest of the boys. Elliott noticed them immediately - it was 11pm on a random Tuesday, and Charlie was unfortunately the only girl out in the group. “Whatcha up to, Walker?” He asked with a shit-eating grin. 
JJ flipped him off in response, wrapping both arms around Charlie from behind. “Who pulled the alarm?” Elliott shrugged. “Not sure yet. Might be real though, someone probably fucked up their microwave popcorn or some shit.” JJ groaned in response, pulling Charlie closer. 
Charlie smirked, resting her head against his shoulder and pressing her ass against his hips. “You good, Maybank?” He grit his teeth, keeping his voice low. “Don’t try it, Charlie.” She only grinned, turning to whisper in his ear. “So hard for me, baby. Are you thinking about what I have on, under your shirt? Barely covers a thing.”
He rested his forearm across her waist, pinning her in place against him. “Charlie, stop.” Elliott wandered over again. “Guess we gotta wait for the fire truck to came, typical protocol. Were you guys awake?”
“What do you fucking think?” JJ bit back, with zero patience. Elliott nodded in recognition, then laughed. “Were you - oh, damn, that’s unfortunate.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “We weren’t doing what you’re thinking. We were just about to fall asleep.”
“Yeah, sure.” He grinned, clearly not believing it. “Hey, Charlie, did Joe ever text you? This pledge, I gave him your number because he had questions about kinesiology.” She nodded, about to speak until JJ curled his fingers around her hip.
“You’re just giving out my girlfriend’s number?” He asked Elliott, frowning. “He’s just asking about my major, that’s it, J.” Charlie reassured him, slipping her hand behind her back and slowly trailing her hand down against his stomach (and further). JJ jerked his hips back, tightening his grip on her hip. “Just like Jacob was asking about the group project?” She laughed and retracted her hand. “Not quite.” 
Thomas strolled over, hands in his pockets. “Hey, Walker. Did you come over for a house tour at this fine hour?” He teased. JJ groaned. “Great, we got the whole goon squad over here. Can we just go inside?” Thomas shook his head. “Nope. President’s orders. They’re doing the fire inspection now, should be soon though.” Elliott eyed him curiously. “Why are you in such a mood, Maybank?” 
Charlie grinned, glancing up at her boyfriend - her shirt falling off her shoulder as she shifted, exposing the lacy strap of the lingerie. “Yeah, J, why are you in such a mood?” JJ clapped a hand over her shoulder to hide it, grimacing. “Just tired, is all.” 
She tilted her head up to whisper in his ear again. “You didn’t seem tired earlier. But if you really are, I guess we can just go to bed...” 
“Hell no.” He replied lowly, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. A couple firemen came outside, gesturing an all clear, and all the boys shuffled back inside in a line much too slow for JJ’s liking. 
He practically sprinted after her up the stairs, immediately locking the door shut once they got into his room. “What was up with that stunt you pulled?” He growled, trapping her against the wall.  
“Uh uh, I want to be in charge.” She argued, reaching up and grabbing his wrists. He twisted them out of her grip easily. “Not fair when you tease like that.” 
“Not everything is fair, Maybank. Sit on the bed.” She pointed, giving him a little shove. He grumbled but did so. She grinned. “I can’t take you seriously in that robe.” 
“Well are you gonna strip for me or not?” He raised his eyebrows, challenging her. “I don’t think you deserve it, with that attitude.” She shot back, crossing her arms. “C’mon, Charlie, I can’t take it.” He pleaded, shrugging off the robe. 
Charlie smirked, reaching for the door and turning the knob. “No. I think I’m gonna go get -” She was cut off with a squeal as JJ sprung from the bed and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her backward. “Don’t you fucking dare, Charlotte.” She scowled as he dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed, knowing exactly what the use of her full name meant. “Maybank.” She warned. 
“No. You took too long.” He tugged her shirt over her head, tossing it aside, then leaned down to hover on top of her. Charlie kicked off her shorts too, revealing the lingerie once again. “Let me.” She argued, trying to roll them over. “No.” He pinned her wrists to the bed in one hand above her head and she took a sharp inhale, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. 
“Come on, JJ, play along.” She protested. “I had a plan and everything.” He laughed, trailing a finger across her collarbone. “You can never take yourself seriously when you try to be in control.” 
“I can! The fucking fire alarm ruined my plan, because you wouldn’t come to my house to study.” She complained, flinching under him as he traced his finger along the side of her bra top. “We never end up actually studying at your place.” He countered with a grin, then ducked his head down to skate his teeth along her collarbone, keeping her wrists pinned in place. 
“I study better at the library. You just get too distracted.” Charlie retorted, only for JJ to glance up with a smirk. “I wonder why.” He made a point to scan his eyes down her body. She scowled. “If you’re gonna be in control, you have to do something.” 
“With all due respect...Charlotte,” JJ started, loving the way she slightly wrinkled her nose at the name, then the way she gasped as he pinched her nipple hard. “Just shut up.” He cut off any sassy retort of hers with a deep kiss, threading his fingers through her hair. With her hands free, she wrapped an arm around his waist, pressing her hips against his. 
“So hard for me, Maybank.” She teased, running her tongue against his lips. “Think of how many times I could have come by now without the stupid fire alarm. Under you...moaning your name...” He groaned, reaching behind her to undo the bustier. He fumbled with the long clasp. “How do I get this fucking thing off?” 
Charlie grinned, amused. “I thought you liked it.” 
“Yeah, I like seeing your tits better. Sit up, I can’t figure it out.” 
She rolled her eyes and reached behind her, undoing the clasp in a couple quick pinches. “Not really in charge if I have to be the one undressing myself, hm?” She challenged, lifting her chin. 
He huffed and tossed it aside. “Watch your mouth, Charlotte.” She grinned and reached down, palming him through his boxers. “I want these off.” He nodded and pushed them down and she took advantage of the moment to push him onto his back. “Walker, I -” 
“Shh.” She replied, ducking her head down to lick a small circle on the head of his cock. “Fuck.” He hissed out, gathering her hair aside. She then took her time teasing, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses up his inner thigh, anywhere but where he really wanted it. JJ shifted uncomfortably underneath her for a moment. “Charlie, please.”  
“What was that?” She asked with a smirk, running one finger down his length. “Come on, you’re not going to make me do this.” He protested, pushing his hips up against her hand. “You make me do it. Ask for it, J.” She encouraged him with a smile. 
“Walker. Please.” 
“Please what?” 
He sighed, frustrated, before giving in. “I want to see your pretty lips on my cock.”  
“There, that wasn’t so difficult.” She grinned before taking him completely in her mouth, hearing JJ’s strangled cry out. He tugged on her hair gathered in his hand as she hollowed out her cheeks, starting to bob up and down on him. JJ pressed his head back into the pillows, a string of curses falling from his lips. “Fucking hell, Charlie.” 
“Look at me, Maybank.” She told him before going back to work on his cock, not being shy in any sense. She gripped his hips to try and pin him down as he bucked them into her mouth, mumbling a quick apology. He kept his eyes trained on her, his lips slightly parted as he panted out. “God, you’re so beautiful.” 
His breathing quickened as he neared his release. She could tell and drew her lips off of him before he could come and he groaned, tugging at her hair still in his fist. “Really?” 
Charlie smirked. “Yeah, because I can tell you’re not gonna last and I want to fuck you.” She kicked off her panties and he grabbed her wrist once they were off. “But you didn’t - I want to make you feel good.” 
She raised her eyebrows. “Then let me on top.” 
He grinned, gesturing for her to come closer. He reached over and pulled a condom out of the nightstand, rolling it down his cock. “You gonna complain about walking tomorrow?” 
She rolled her eyes - but blushed all the same. “Shut the fuck up, J.” She straddled his hips and slowly sank down on him, letting out a soft moan at the feeling. “Fuck, you feel so good.” JJ praised, hands going to grip her waist. After taking a couple seconds to adjust around him, she started slowly rocking her hips, biting her lip hard. 
“So fucking pretty, sweetheart.” He told her, thrusting up his hips to match her pace. She could hardly think enough to get out words, focusing on him instead. He reached up to roll her nipple between his fingers as she reached her hand down, rubbing slow circles on her clit. He groaned as he watched her, committing every inch of her body to memory. 
“Charlie - I’m -” he warned through pants, eyes fluttering shut as he kept jutting his hips up to meet hers. “I know.” She nodded and steadied herself with two hands on his chest to quicken her pace. It only took a few more rolls of her hips for him to come undone. “Holy shit - fuck, pretty girl.” He groaned out, his fingers digging into her hips. 
She got off him, whimpering a little at the loss of contact. “Did you..?” JJ trailed off, frowning when he realized. “No, it’s fine. Wanted to surprise you.” Charlie excused it, moving to lay down by his side. “No, wait. Come here.” He grabbed her waist, pulling her back up. 
“J, I can’t just -” 
“Sit on my face.” 
Her eyes went wide and she blushed red, hesitating. “You’re sure?” 
He grinned and hooked his hands under her thighs, pulling her forward. “Don’t be all shy now.” He teased before licking a flat stripe up her pussy, loving her moan. “So wet for me, Walker.” 
Charlie gripped the headboard for stability, slowly starting to rock against his face - he only pulled her closer as he buried his face into her cunt. “Oh - fuck, JJ, right there -” she got out through high-pitched moans. He kept tongue-fucking her, nose occasionally nudging her clit. “J, please.” Charlie whined, pushing her hips against him more. 
He lifted his head a little and took her clit between his teeth, then sucked hard. She gasped in surprise, finally feeling her orgasm wash over her. “Fuck, J!” She whined a little, hips flinching away as he continued to lap at her pussy, unable to  handle it. He slid his hands up to her waist, setting her aside with a smirk. 
She let her head fall back against the pillows, breathing hard as she came down from her high. “How have we never done that before?” He laughed and nudged her side with his elbow. “Dunno. Liked it?” 
“Liked it - JJ, I think the whole fucking house heard me.” 
He chuckled, tracing a finger across her stomach and grinned when she shied away. “As they should.” 
“It’s embarrassing.” She countered, knocking his hand away lazily. He only wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close and resting his chin in the crook of her neck. “Nah. Need the whole house to hear that you’re mine.” 
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the--blackdahlia · 3 years
Text
Safe & Sound Chapter 2
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Title: Safe & Sound Chapter 2
Summary: Shane McMahon was not made to live in the Capitol, to just sit by and watch his father’s reign. After running away, he sees the true product of his family’s greed, and with his newfound family, he decides to undo what has already been done.
Warnings: Language, angst, violence, more as I write it
One week later
A tall, thin man stood at the black market, watching as the woman and her goons examined the goods he had to offer. One of the nice things about being one of the lucky ones in this district, he always had good things to offer. Fresh meat was rare unless you owned the animals, or were willing to pay the price. And he always had the good stuff.
“It’s always a pleasure doing business with the Heartbreak Kid.” She smirked at him as one of her boys handed him his basket of goods. She knew how much he hated being called that. That’s why she did it.
“See you later...Sensational Sherri.” He grumbled before turning around and leaving. He could hear her cackling laugh as he walked away, but he tried to ignore her. It would be for the best if he did. Something caught his eye as he left. Something running in the fields. PRobably some damn wild animal running around. Lord help them if they got caught.
The soft rustling of the wheat fields and wild grass was almost drowned out by the sound of the ATV going down the road. There were only a handful of people who had vehicles in this region. The few that were lucky enough to have some of the wealth, the Peacekeepers, and Shawn Michaels.
He had just come back from a very important meeting at the district border. Basically, he had made allies with many of the Peacekeepers, and for small gifts and favors, he could get the good stuff over the border. Perfect to drown his sorrows in.
His long hair tried to flow behind him, but he had a hat firmly on his head. He was just anxious to get home and enjoy the fruits of his labor. He had just passed a cornfield, one that fed some of the cows the district raised, when something darted out in front of him. Shawn hit the brakes hard.
"Shit." Shawn grumbled. He was about ready to start yelling at whoever ran in front of him when two Peacekeepers came out from the field.
"Stop running." One went to grab the kid, who ducked. Shawn sighed. 
"Where have you been?" He spoke up. "Cows aren't gonna milk themselves and the pigs need to be fed."
"You know him, Heartbreak Kid?" One of the Peacekeepers asked. Shawn gritted his teeth. He hated that fucking name.
"Of course I do," playing it off. "He's my nephew. Went off with his friends and slacking on his chores. You know how kids are, Pat."
"You got lucky." The one named Pat spoke up. "Get home. Don't let me catch you out here again." He shoved him towards Shawn. “Don’t let me catch him running around like that again, or I’ll send him somewhere worse than this shit hole district, you hear me?” 
“Loud and clear.” Shawn told him. He waited until they were gone back the way they came before he turned to look at the person he just saved.
“Thank you.” he whispered, looking at Shane.
"Jesus kid, they beat you to hell." Shawn got off the ATV. "What's your name?"
"S-Shane…" He coughed a little bit.
"Where are your parents?" Shawn asked, but he was afraid he knew the answer. The fear that passed over Shane’s face would've broken Shawn's heart if it hadn't been destroyed years ago.
"I...please don't report me. I can't go back." Shane told him.  "Please!"
"Ok, ok. Jesus kid, you're gonna hyperventilate. Deep breaths." Shawn patted his shoulder. “Look, let’s get out of here ok? Not exactly the best place to chat.” Shane nodded. “You look like you haven’t ate or slept in days.”
“I haven’t. Not really.” Shane admitted. Shawn shook his head.
“Well, I’m Shawn. Guess in public you’re supposed to call me The Heartbreak Kid, but we’re not big on the arena name formalities around these parts. So just call me Shawn.” He led Shane back to his ATV. “Get on.”
After he was sure that Shane was on and safe, Shawn took off back to his ranch. It was in the middle of nowhere, which was just the way he liked it. It was close to town, but not too close that he wasn’t expected to be sociable or neighborly all the time. He was honestly kinda surprised that he had even offered to take this kid in instead of leaving him to fight the Peacekeepers. But this was the district of orphans, outcasts, runaways, and loners, so it seemed fitting to help this runaway for a bit.
“Here we are.” Shawn told him as they pulled up at the ranch. “It ain’t much, but it’s home.” Pulled up in front of the house. Shane was clutching his bag the whole time. “Well, come on in.” Shawn headed in with Shane following behind him. “I don’t get many guests here.”
“Oh.” Shane nodded. Shawn eyed him again before leading him to the guest room.
“You can stay here for a couple nights.” Shawn told him.
“Thank you.” Shane smiled a bit. God, he was so tired. He missed his bed, but not the life that he had to live to have one. As he headed into the room, Shawn caught a glimpse of the bag he had.
And the crest of the Capitol on it.
His heart stopped for a second. This kid was a fucking spy. He had to be. PEople from the Capitol didn’t willingly desert. Shawn grit his teeth as he watched him get settled. When Shane looked back at him, Shawn gave him a small smile. He’d let him rest for now.
But tomorrow, he was going to get his questions answered.
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octalove · 4 years
Text
VI: The Dotted Line
(Batgirl/Red Hood)
Description: Jason extends an offer. Part one, two, three, four, and five.
Note: someone said Batgirl and Jason mission, and i am but a humble servant of the people. also, i almost named this chapter “Carolyn Crawford”. Hope you like❤️
TW: Decription of sex work (barely), very light gore
Being back at Batman’s side was a peculiar thing these days. Soothing and suffocating all at once; like returning home after a long, liberating trip. It felt easy, and safe. I was reminded of the first time he brought me up to a towering building top. I clung to Nightwing like a life preserver.
Once I found my footing, the building tops were the only place I felt safe. The taller the skyscraper, the higher and farther from the grim city that raised me. I wondered what would happen when I outgrew the skyscrapers, too.
November was settling like an icy blanket over Gotham. My breath wreathed around me as my chest heaved from scaling the office building I was settled on, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gray dawn as 2am turned to 3am. I could see Robin’s breath too, as he crouched like a gargoyle on the balls of his feet. Even when I pushed his arm lightly, he glared, but didn’t move. The kid had incredible balance.
“I was beginning to enjoy your absence.” He muttered.
I smiled at him. “Are you kidding? Patrol is boring without me.”
“Patrol is boring without brainless plebeians to subdue. I can make due without you.”
“So you’re saying you don’t consider me a brainless plebeian?” I replied.
His lip twitched. He liked this game. It was the birthplace of many of his preferred insults.
“Closer to a bumbling fawn.”
“I like that one.”
Damian’s disinterest in all things regarding my thoughts and feelings was a good distraction. I’d been using him for the past week since my latest brush with Red Hood. Well, Jason. It was still hard to wrap my mind around.
I knew him. He knew me. I shouldn’t have been worried; he knew nothing about me. Nothing other than who I was, anyway. I wanted to ignore whatever residual feeling was left from fighting him on the docks, and I really wanted to say I hadn’t thought about the last thing he said to me. But in truth, I’d thought of little else. The large gaps of time between our meetings left time for that.
We were looking for him tonight. More specifically, Batman and Nightwing were. Robin and I were sent to the quiet apartment rows of Crest Hill, watching over nothing in particular. Sent to keep us away from the fray. Even Robin knew it. When Batman said we’d be patrolling here, he looked like he could rip the head off a puppy.
“Movement in Coventry.”
“On it. Thanks, Oracle.”
One of the better quirks of Damian Wayne was that in the case he was spurned by his favored allies (Bruce, Dick), he quickly formed new alliances (me, Tim). Bumbling fawn comment aside, I could tell I was in his good graces tonight by utter happenstance and Batman’s shortcomings. I was nothing if not opportunistic.
“We can get to Coventry before they can.” I said quickly, keeping the nervous excitement in my voice to a minimum. He eyed me cautiously.
“Batman may be trying not to take risks, but we can handle a couple of goons. Besides,” I added. “Red Hood will probably be gone by then. He always is.” I was overselling it; Robin was already standing, eyes roving over the city scape in search of the best route to Coventry. I stood with him, then let the free-fall adrenaline send exciting jolts through my stomach as we grappled toward our destination.
I could see him, in my mind. His face on the docks, bathed with the flame of his lighter. Hear his voice, full of purpose and noble fury as he promised revenge. I understood his cause, but didn’t understand him, and that was the mystery that poisoned my mind and stole my ability to sleep. Not Red Hood. Jason Todd.
*
Robin and I perched over a factory compound on the water’s edge, Sprang River’s lower fork rushing by at the end of the factory court. A handful of men moved like ants in the flooding white lights that lit the exterior. The wind distorted the sounds of their voices. Robin must have had the same thought because he moved soundlessly to a lower roof panel, advancing on the building. I followed. One man began shouting.
“I’m going to the Northern pylon.” Robin whispered. Divide and conquer. I wasn’t going to argue. I kept my eyes on his silhouetted form to ensure he didn’t encounter any resistance on his way, then worked by way around the court, hoping I could get a good idea of the place before he reached his vantage point. The sky was lightening, and we were losing time.
Just as I was about to check the lot on the opposite side of the factory, a metal door swung open, scraping against the metal parapet. Red Hood walked out, accompanied by a man in a factory jumpsuit. I couldn’t make out their conversation.
I crept along the high factory railing as they meandered across the court, deep in conversation. I kept it up for around six minutes before his companion departed, heading for the lot.
“Robin,” I whispered into my comms. “There’s a man heading toward the parking lot. Trail him.”
“I see him.”
With Robin in the Southern parking lot a safe distance away, I watched Red Hood slowly pull away from the lights and people, heading toward the darker exhaust plants East of the court. It became a struggle to keep and eye on him and my footing at the same time, but I did it. He stopped at a motorcycle parked behind an electric turbine about a klick from the factory. The sky was a pale gray now, ever-lightening with the dawn, and the shadows were burning away with it. I lowered by self behind an electrical box attached to one of the turbines.
“We’re en route- wait, Robin-“ The comms rang in my ear.
“I gave you a direct order.” Batman growled.
“It was a stupid order.” Robin clipped.
“Where’s Batgirl?”
Red was about to replace his red helm with a motorcycle helmet, but paused. He seemed to stall for a moment, before calling out.
“Come here, little bird.”
I was more annoyed than anything. I was ready to be a step ahead of him for once. But then, I couldn’t resent him for giving me what I wanted. I stood, and took in his empty hands before approaching. He’d leaned against the metal turbine, arms crossed as he regarded me with an unreadable expression.
“They’re here, you know.” I warned.
“Call ‘em, then. I won’t move. I know I’m good, but I’d be outnumbered. Bad odds.”
I scowled. “I’m not gonna do that.” I said it because he already knew it. We both did. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.
“You thought about what I said.”
“Of course I did.”
He glanced around, then pulled himself up straight and moved toward me. I took a few steps back, prompting him to flash me his empty hands, raised in surrender.
“Relax, darlin’.” He said. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I don’t want you to be. I want you to understand.”
“How? How do I understand?” I’d been trying for a month. He pulled a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, holding it out and letting me take it, keeping a safe, considerate distance. Inside, was a number.
“Come with me. One job. Nice and easy.” He said.
“I’m not killing anyone.” I said sternly, voice dropping.
“I’m not askin’ you to.”
“And I’m not standing by and letting you kill anyone.”
“You drive a hard bargain. Fine. We’ll do it clean.” I didn’t even know if I believed him. But I was tired of trying to understand him from a safe, considerate distance.
“We’re almost at location. Four minutes.” Nightwing’s voice almost made me jump. I lifted my eyes.
“You need to go.”
He was already turning on his heel.
*
It was two days before I texted him. I got a glorious three hours of sleep over the course of them, and I kept running down either respective fork in my road before turning around and running back. In the end, I subsided to the fact that I was raised by two business-women, and Jason’s offer was at worst an opportunity. If it all went to shit, and he tried to kill me, I’d at least have some information to present to Bruce, notwithstanding the lifetime of punishment that would get me.
Our rendezvous point was in Lower Gotham Proper. By the time I got there, it was midnight, and a rolling mist had blown in from the harbor, mixing with the smog that hugged the streets and making it nearly unsafe to drive. I silently hoped Batman and Robin were okay.
As I worked my way down a narrow street, the moisture in the air was choking; causing the fabric of my pants and jacket to cling to my skin. I’d almost prefer rain to the way the mist stood still, forcing me to muddle through it. It was dark. The lights and signs on surrounding buildings didn’t seem to be able to preserve through the fog.
I saw a figure pressed against a building that looked tall enough to be Jason. As I approached, we regarded each other’s forms apprehensively. When he tilted his head, I knew it was him. I drew close.
“Jesus.” I mumbled. “Could you have picked a spookier place?”
“Don’t tell me you scare easy.” He said through a cigarette. His helmet was in his hand, but it could’ve easily been mistaken for a motorcycle helmet. The whole get-up was kind of biker-esque. I didn’t answer. Just glanced around.
“Come on.” He said. “It’s not far.”
As we began walking, it struck me how much more relieved I felt to hear his footsteps alongside my own. I was capable; willing and able to fight just about anyone Gotham could conjure up. But still, walking with him was comforting. Like I had someone to watch my back.
We even eased into a bit of conversation. Small things- things we agreed upon. Rich society, and Gotham’s war on the poor. Politicians we wouldn’t mind going missing. If you had showed me his picture next his crime scenes, I wouldn’t have pinned him.
Jason wasn’t unpleasant; it was just that his disposition was highly aloof and somewhat irritable. He had rich bronze skin, and full lips that I was sure made for a charming smile when he decided to do so (not a grin, a smile). The composition of his face was very sharp and neatly symmetrical, but still held some gaunt exhaustion, revealed by the constant tense of his jaw. His attentive dark eyes were almost always narrowed in some fashion of distaste. He never once looked at peace.
It seemed to me that he was disinterested in most anything having to do with my life, other than that he wanted me with him. His entire being was an oxymoron; a juxtaposition of unexpectedly soft and startlingly sharp and there wasn’t a way to tell which it would be.
Finally, we approached a small, industrial building with a neon sign of red, blue, and green.
The Lion’s Den
Burlesque and Drag
I raised my eyebrows. A bit on the nose if you asked me. If the name didn’t give it away, the posters and marquees adorning the brick exterior did.
“We need to talk to someone here before we go.” Jason said, pulling on his helmet, and unzipping his brown leather jacket to showcase the bat.
“Lead on.” I said, pulling up my own mask.
The music was so loud, I could barely hear myself think. The led lights lining the ceiling were cycling warm colors; red, pink, orange, yellow, the glow burning through the smokescreen that was nearly as thick as the mist outside.
Women were dancing, in lace or topless, spinning on poles and otherwise moving gracefully to the heartbeat of the place. But that wasn’t the main event- a stage lit with marquee lights, the centerpiece of which was a table, where three women sat. Their outfits were something out of Marie Antoinette’s personal wardrobe. And that’s where Red Hood was headed.
We walked up onto the stage, and while it all sort of mingled with the dim neon in the rest of the building, I still felt oddly seen. I placed myself behind Red Hood, inserted between him and one of the women. They appeared to be playing cards.
“Well, well.” Said one of the queens, with blonde hair curled and blown out like something out of the 70’s. Her exaggerated, colorful makeup was a work of art- Picasso, perhaps. “Gonna stick around for the show this time, sugar?”
Red sat down, leaning so that his arm rested along the back of the chair, lights glinting off his helm. His relaxed composure made me nervous- but perhaps it was the lack of information.
“Not this time, Trixy.” He answered.
“Pity,” Said the broad redhead beside me, her voice a low, soothing timber. “You neva’ do.”
“Don’t be rude, Sasha.” The third woman scolded, throwing down an Ace of Spades, to the visible dismay of the others. “He’s a busy man.”
“Who’s your friend?” Trixy asked.
I glanced at Red Hood before answering. “Just a little bird.”
“How delightful. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty, shall we?” Trixy said. “Did Dominique get the message to ya?”
“Refresh my memory.” Red Hood said- for my sake, I’m sure.
“Bout a week ago, a bunch of girls from the Row went missin’. Ain’t unusual,” Trixy said darkly, “Most don’t got no family or nothin’. Just us lookin’ out for ‘em. When we run outta beds here, that’s when they go missin’. But it’s different this time. Buncha girls all at once- including one ‘a the queens.”
“Tiffany Spice.” Sasha said, a solemn look on her face. “She was just comin’ into herself. Lord, I’d be devastated if somethin’ happened.”
“Some a’ the row girls been talkin’ about this real shifty fella- Baron Haus. New guy. Used to pimp out girls from the Narrows.”
“And the girls disappeared when he showed up.” I said quietly.
“Bingo.”
“How many?” Red asked.
“About eight, Tiffany included.”
“And you know where he was working from?” I inquired.
“Sha’ do. China Town. Club there called the Moonlight.”
Red Hood nodded. “Anything else me and my little bird should know?”
Trixy thought for a moment. “Baron’s got some friends in GCPD. Had some uncles in the force, or somethin’ of that nature. He’ll be missed. More dead.” She spit the term bitterly.
“They always are.” He responded, getting up from his chair.
“And Hoodie, sugar!” She called after us. “You’re a doll for this.” He didn’t reply. As we worked our way back toward the front, he spoke quietly.
“I thought it’d be better if you met ‘em yourself. Always makes it more personal.”
Batman never did that.
“Do you always make it personal?” I asked.
“It’s not fun if it isn’t.”
The freezing moisture in the air bit fiercely as we pushed open the metal screen door.
“Right.” I said. “So, the Moonlight. How are we getting there?”
“How do you think?” He said, stopping short of a rusted yellow fire escape on the side of the building. He surveyed it, then looked at me.
“Race ya.”
With surprising speed and grace, he scaled the fire escape, no sound in his wake.
“Oh, it’s on.” I fired, rushing to the bars and climbing like they were monkey bars. He disappeared over the edge of the roof, and as I made my way up, I saw him several years away, already conquering another building. I raced toward him, leaping over exhaust pipes until we were high above the fog. The city below looked like an illuminated ocean, twinkling lights just below a pillowy white surface.
I felt like a child again, overwhelmed, nearly brought to giddiness with excitement. Was this how Bruce felt, scaling rooftops with Catwoman? The small, but sure thrill of consorting with the bad guy- knowing that they were consorting with you in return?
I wasn’t a sidekick. There was no line to fall into. No predecessors, no successors, no beginning and no end. I moved like Batgirl across the shingles and concrete and metal scaffolding, but I was weightless without the Bat legacy on my chest. There was something deeply, shamefully freeing about that.
*
We were greeted differently in the Moonlight; a stark contrast to the warm welcome by the queens in the Lion’s Den. It was set up more like a smoky, refined gentlemen’s club. We drew attention from every walk of life inhabiting the bar- men in suits, women in silk, and slimy looking characters that grated offensively against the debonair theme.
Most leered for a moment, then cast their eyes away, like they’d seen something they shouldn’t have. Maybe you could consider Red Hood one of those such things.
“Mr. Hood!” There came a voice, cutting above the orchestral music- Nessun Dorma, if my musical sensibilities were still honed from my piano lesson days. “Welcome, welcome. I can only hope,” The man gave gritting smile, wound tight with visible anxiety. “That you’re here on peaceful business tonight.” He cast his nervous, monolid eyes to me. He was handsome, no older than thirty and wore a tight black vest. I didn’t let my body language give anything away; frankly, I was as in the dark as he was.
“Oh, you know me, Baron Jun,” Red Hood drawled, slowing to a halt at the bar, and leaning on it. “I don’t decide whether things stay peaceful or not. That depends on you.” I stayed standing, near his back, studying the security. Two lumbering men at the entrance, one behind Baron Jun. I wouldn’t put it past curvaceous bartender in red to have a gun, too.
“Lookin’ for Baron Haus. I heard a little rumor he works outta this quaint establishment now.”
When I’d considered the Red Hood’s contacts before, I pictured something like Batman’s relationship with Commissioner Gordon- figuring he had to have some corrupt cops or lowlife sleuths packing him with all his vast information. I never would have guessed it would be three drag queens playing cards.
A conflict passed over Baron Jun’s face, seconds long. “You… heard correctly. Word does seem to travel fast.”
“I need to pay him a visit. Remind him about some of my rules.” He admonished. It was a dripping warning, like the salivating jaws of an animal, teeth bared and pointed.
Baron Jun swallowed. “I see. Well, he um- he’s not actually here, at the moment. Maybe I can tell him you dropped b-“
“You know, Jun,” Red continued, ignoring him. “I got this really funny feeling you know what rules I’m talkin’ about.”
The look on his face was something to behold. I’d seen fear, briefly, on the faces of criminals before I subdued them and went on my way. But this was different. Fear induced by nothing but a conversation. Call it hive-mind, a power trip perhaps, but I felt this pesky sense of camaraderie that prompted me to take a few steps forward, shoulder to shoulder with Red Hood. Who was this vile little shitstain who made his living off men getting laid to play games with us? I thought about eight women, scared and abused. It was Baron Jun’s fault. Baron Haus’ fault. Everyone in this stupid bar, decorated to the taste of the men who abused them.
Baron Jun’s eyes dashed back and forth. Deny or ask forgiveness? I could see him running down those cross roads.
“He… he’s been running some shit I didn’t know about until last night. I swear I didn’t fuckin’ know.” He broke at last.
“Where are they?” I piped up.
“Who the fuck are-“ He was cut off with a bang and a scream as Red shot his knee. I was startled by the noise, but no one seemed to notice. It rang in my ear.
Give a girl a warning next time.
“Be. Fucking. Polite.” Red snapped, now advancing on the Baron. Only one of the three security guards decided it was worth the risk and stepped forward. Electric with the building energy of the whole night, I bolted forward and swung my fist into his throat. He made a choked noise and stumbled to the ground.
“Answer the question, Jun.” Red continued, this time in a taunting, sing-song tone.
“Oh, fuck,” Jun whimpered, cradling his knee. “Jesus- you- you shot me.”
“Always were a sharp one. I got a couple more bullets, and you’ve got another knee. So why don’t you sing before I get really impatient.”
“Christ.. they- they’re in the back. R-room fourteen.” His breath was labored with pain. I didn’t feel bad. Trusting that Red would handle the front and keep his promise of not killing anyone, I went to the back hallway, counting the doorways before reaching room 14. I made short work of the lock.
Some scuffling noises could be heard from the front room- but no further gunfire. I opened the door to reveal a velvet lounge, with red settees and satin curtains, along with fearful eyes looking back at me. I counted eight heads, including Tiffany Spice, who’d since abandoned his wig and gaudy attire. His make-up was streaked with long-dried tears.
“Tiffany Spice?” I asked, subservient to standard protocol despite my evening of rebellion.
“What’s going on out there?”
“Trixy sent us. You’re safe now.”
“Are the Barons gone?”
“They’re being dealt with.” I answered.
After finding them, the rest fell into place quickly. Red had indulged in some property destruction, and Baron Jun now reckoned with what appeared to be a shattered hand and some extra facial bruising.
I nodded briskly to Red and he, in turn, nodded to the bartender, who ushered the girls around.
Before departure, he knelt down in front of the Baron.
“You’re alive,” He said lowly. “Cause I’m doin’ someone a favor. If someone breaks the rules again,” He reached over and patted Jun’s pained face. “You be a good boy and come right to me. Okay?” Jun didn’t respond, nor take his bloodshot eyes off of his mangled hand, but Red straightened anyway and ushered me to the door.
Outside, we withdrew safely and quietly to a rooftop.
“Why did we leave them?” I asked.
“Trixy’s not my only contact. The bartender’s mine. She’ll get ‘em where they need to be.”
A beat.
“You knew Baron Haus wasn’t gonna be there.” I said quietly.
“Yeah.”
“That’s the only reason you promised me you wouldn’t kill anyone.”
Hesitation. “Yeah, it is.”
“Are you gonna track him down?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “Seriously.” I tried again. He sighed, then looked at me. I was seeing his eyes clearly for maybe the first time all night. It was sobering, and he held my gaze.
“Yes. Yes, I’m going to kill him.” He said firmly. I looked away.
“He’s got a track record.” He explained. “Does shit like this, gets caught, and then uses his friends in blue to get a lighter sentence. Three months, maybe. Then, he’s back. I’m not the first one to catch him. But I promise you, I’ll be the fuckin’ last.” His vitriol was oil on concrete, and I decided it was better not to light any matches. The rest of the walk was quiet, neither of us making the catalytic initiative to part ways, coming down from the adrenaline the way we’d built it; in each other’s uncertain company.
*
We settled on top of St. Luke’s Hospital, towering defiantly amidst the smaller, crowded inner city neighborhoods below. It was 4am, but I wasn’t tired. Quite the opposite; I was awash with energy, by grace of the night’s feat and the biting cold. Jason had pulled his helmet off, and was leaning against the steel exhaust pipe, myself nestled at his side.
“I have another place I need to go. Three days- Mafia business in Little Italy.” He said.
“And you want me to come?” I asked. He tipped his head.
“What can I say, doll? You’re good at this.”
I looked over the city, brow furrowing.
“Unless,” He added in a low voice, wry and challenging. “You think it’s wrong. I am the bad guy, aren’t I?”
I didn’t look at him, because I knew he was wearing a darkly arrogant expression, and I didn’t want to see it. No, there was nothing wrong about what we did tonight. Even if there was; I’d do it all again for the relief on Tiffany’s tear-streaked face.
“I’ll go.” I said. “But you have to tell me something. Honestly.” I said firmly, bringing my eyes to meet his. He cocked an eyebrow.
“Ask away.”
“Why me? Why don’t you hate me like you hate them?” Them. My family. Our family. Hate seemed a harsh word, but only after I supplied it, was I reminded of its truth. Jason studied me for a few agonizing moments, allowing only the sound of wind and distant, crying sirens.
“Carolyn Crawford.” He finally said.
“What?”
Carolyn Crawford.
I’d forgotten all about her. My life was sort of divided by this giant, barbed wire fence between before adoption and after adoption. Evidently, my brain decided that anything before adoption would be better of folded up, sealed with wax, and filed away. Traumatic memory suppression, the shrink Bruce sent me to called it- even though the only traumatic thing was the night my parents died, not everything that came before.
Nonetheless, Carolyn Crawford was somebody I hadn’t given any particular thought to in a long time. She was a woman of forty (at the time I was thirteen), and she had that snooty, Diamond District disposition that you only find in women who marry into wealth, but aren’t born with it. She was beautiful; pale skin, thin, with an air of 1950’s suave, accentuated by the auburn bob of artificial curls she always wore. Her husband was an investor in Wayne Enterprises, and she was sleeping with Bruce.
I had no reason to know, or care about this. But Jason did. When he found out, he was uncharacteristically devastated. I could imagine, in retrospect, that when you’re a boy of fifteen and you find out the man who adopted you- a man who was a holyfigure in your eyes, the good guy- was sleeping with a married woman ten years his senior, you may experience a bit of devastation. He had something, some virtuous perception of Bruce, ripped away from him, and he was given a concept that his father, too, had vices. His one vice; women.
Jason was angry. He wanted the world’s perception of Bruce to crumble alongside his own, and so he took all the valor in his teenage body and enacted his own justice.
An anonymous email was sent to just about every company partner or investor, including Carolyn’s husband, and my parents, disclosing a picture of Bruce in some secluded room at a gala, with his arm around Carolyn’s waist, leaning intimately into her ear. She had a wry smile on her face. Above the photo was a single tag line.
“Carolyn Crawford is fucking Bruce Wayne.”
My parents gossiped about the email, of course, when they thought I wasn’t leaning against the office door. But that was all I ever knew about it. Apparently Carolyn’s husband didn’t divorce her, but he did cut her off financially, which may as well have been the same loss.
That was all I heard of it, up until a charity event on a particularly cold January night. The January before Jason’s death. I was waltzing around as per usual, a cup of punch in my hand. Waiting for the clock to tick its way to eleven o’clock- when I knew my mothers would want to depart so they could get up for work the next morning. The music was lovely; fluttering strings.
“You!” It was a harsh sound, like a shrieking banshee, or the whining note of a violin when all the bow hairs are frayed.
Carolyn Crawford was marching right toward Jason, fury on her beautiful face. I didn’t catch the beginning of the conversation as I tried to make my way through the bodies, of which a few were also alarmed by the sound.
“...you’re the only one who could’ve done it, you little- don’t lie to me!”
Jason was defiant there, with his arms crossed and his lip slightly raised, but I could tell by the nervous look in his eye that she was pointing her bony finger at the right suspect. I’m certain it was Bruce who figured it out.
“What the hell are you talking about, lady?” He said.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. I know you sent that email. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“You’re outta your mind.”
“You’re going to regret this, I promise. I’m going to make sure that this follows you-“
“He didn’t send the email!” I said, pushing past a man who was eagerly watching, like it was the best thing he’d seen all night. I’m not even sure what possessed me to offer up the statement- maybe the way she was throwing her venom in his face and jabbing her finger at his chest.
“I did it.” I said. I didn’t look at Jason, but from the corner of my eye, I could see his mouth fall open. Carolyn Crawford turned on me.
“What?”
“I sent the email.” I said. We’d drawn more observers now, a small, hushed crowd of people too polite to intervene, but too curious to look away.
“Who the hell are you? And why would you do that?” Up close, I could see that she looked like she hadn’t slept. Other little things too; a pearl out place, stray hairs. She’d probably been through hell since Jason sent that email.
I leveled my gaze on her. “You really need to ask? What kind of wife-“
Slap.
Her open palm swung across my cheek so hard that I nearly stumbled into a donation table. There was a pressure in my ear, and then a stinging sensation. I put my hand to my cheek, and when I looked back up at her, she was eyeing the shocked crowd. Then, she turned, and walked briskly toward the exit, heels clicking on the marble.
Everyone stood there, looking at me. I flushed, shrinking under the weight of their eyes, feeling like an animal in a zoo. My mothers were nowhere to be found, and neither was Bruce.
In a swift movement, Jason grabbed my hand, shooting angry glares like daggers toward anyone who was looking, and ushered me into a secluded corner.
“Why did you do that? What the hell is wrong with you?” He whispered frantically, obviously battling whether he should touch my face or not. He decided not.
I gave him an insulted look. “I was helping you, jackass!”
“Well, you didn’t help!” He said, before adding, more exasperatedly. “You just got hurt.”
I shrugged, taking my hand off my cheek, probably to show him some modicum of strength, or defiance. “It’s not that bad.”
It was that bad. It was the first time I had ever been hit, by anybody. I actually wanted to cry. But I was dedicated to my tough girl role, so I didn’t.
“I’m sorry.” He said, surprising me with the fearful apologeticism in his voice. “I’m really sorry- you shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve said something. I just fuckin’ stood there like-“
“Hey! It’s okay. I did it because I wanted to. Besides, it really doesn’t matter who did what. She’s just mad she ruined her own marriage.”
He shook his head and slunk down beside me on the cold marble. The AC was offensively imposing for the middle of January, and I hugged my knees to my chest as we watched the guests disperse, dragging back the events of the night to gossip about later, like foxes carry prized rabbits.
*
“Carolyn Crawford?” I repeated. “That’s what this is about?”
Jason gave me a wiry look, a lopsided smile, then threw his head back and laughed, contagiously so. I let out a disbelieving chuckle.
“I mean,” He added, “Not all of it. A little.” There was residual laughter in his tone, and it made me want to lean into him.
“A ‘little’. Okay. Should I be getting in touch with Carolyn Crawford and thanking her for rekindling this little partnership?”
“Yeah.” He said. “Send her an email.”
I laughed again. “Seriously, Jason, what the fuck are you talking about?”
His grin lingered, and his eyes fell over the city. I could see the gears turning as he considered his response. Then he just shrugged.
“You covered for me.”
“Yeah.”
“And...” He leaned back, not taking his eyes from the sprawling lights. “Somethin’ tells me you still are.”
I looked at him for a while, trying to wait him out and make him elaborate. But he didn’t. I resigned with a sigh.
“Yeah, well.” I mumbled. “Carolyn Crawford was a giant bitch.” His lips fought a losing battle against another smile.
“Personally, I’m still a little impressed she had the gall to slap you.”
“Haha. Hey- did you actually take that picture?”
He shook his head, hesitating before adding. “Dick did.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious.” He chuckled.
“So I took the fall for both of you.”
“Yeah, you did, Princess.”
He had this familiar, juvenile grin stuck to his face. And for the first time in a long, long time, he was Jason Todd.
145 notes · View notes
duhragonball · 3 years
Text
Hellsing Liveblog Ch. 62-67
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I guess this image sets the stage pretty well.   This is the first part of the climactic Alucard vs. Anderson battle, featured in the story arcs “Hundred Swords”, “Might and Magic”, and “Psyoblade”.
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So yeah, most of this is just action shots of Alucard and Anderson fighting.  The main story beats here are the different forms they take on through the course of the battle.   Alucard starts out in this Dracula form, which I assume is meant to depict how he used to look 500 years ago.  He’s got armor and big sword and a mustache.  
Anderson’s big idea here is that Alucard is vulnerable in this form, because he unleashed his horde of familiars to destroy the 9th Crusaders and Millennium troops.   Now that he’s temporarily separated from those creatures, Anderson thinks he can finally kill him once and for all.  
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And it seems like Alucard isn’t opposed to the idea.   He calls Anderson his “beloved rival”, and seems to enjoy the prospect of meeting his end at the hands of a worthy human adversary.   But he’s also under orders from Sir Integra to destroy all of the invaders, and I’m pretty sure that includes Anderson.   Soon enough, Alucard reverts to his default appearance, trading in his sword for his handguns. 
This only makes sense, because way back at the start of this story, Alucard asked Walter to build him the Jackal, an even bigger, more powerful version of his original handgun, the Casul.   I mean, why wouldn’t he try it out?  Its bullets shatter Anderson’s bayonets with ease.  
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And Alucard still has his horde of familiars, the absorbed souls of all of his victims.  There’s Ottoman soldiers, Wallachians, even those Brazillian cops that tried to kill him in his hotel room that one time.  
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Okay, so we know what the Catholics are doing while this is going on, because Anderson told them to retreat while he faced Alucard alone.  But what is Millennium doing during all of this?    Not much, actually.   The Major just lost his entire invasion force down there, but he’s chilling out in his airship, enjoying the duel between Alucard and Anderson.  He orders Walter to make him some hot chocolate.   He seems pretty pleased with all of this...
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And here’s a cool shot of Seras Victoria watching the fight.  
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So now Anderson has to fight his way through Alucard’s familiars to get at the monster himself.  The odds are steep, but he’ll do it anyway, which pleases Alucard to no end.   He’s thrilled to see another human daring to challenge him this way, just like Abraham van Helsing a century ago.   Well, he doesn’t name names, but come on, we already saw him revealed as Dracula, so there’s no point dancing around this anymore.
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Anderson’s arm gets badly injured, to the point where he has to carry it in his mouth as he fights on, but then his Iscariot colleagues show up to help.   Anderson is pissed because he told them to clear out for their own safety, but Heinkel and Yumiko are just as fanatical as he is, and just as eager to die for what they see as a righteous cause.    Anderson can’t talk them out of it, so he accepts their help.  
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This guy kind of looks like Anderson with black hair, but he’s not.   He’s just some rando Iscariot dude.   As they get overpowered by Alucard’s minions, or fatally wounded, they set off explosives to take out as many enemies as they can.   So I guess they were just... carrying this stuff on them the whole time?  I think I see now why they lost so many of their guys defending Integra from the Millennium soldiers.  
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At last, Anderson clears a path to Alucard, and he finally whips out his secret weapon, procured by Vatican Section III, the Matthew Organization.    In the Hellsing-verse, the Catholic Church seems to have 12 sections that handle their business, each named after the twelve apostles, with Iscariot as the secret 13th section that does all the black ops murder-y stuff.   Fun fact: After Judas Iscariot’s death and Christ’s ascension into heaven, the 11 apostles had a meeting and picked a new member, Mattias to round out their group.   So I assume Section XII is the Mattias Organization, and they handle... I don’t know, maybe making those little communion wafers.    But Section III handles ancient relics, like the one Anderson is holding in his hand.  
Alucard recognizes this at once as the “Nail of Helena”, one of the nails used to crucify Jesus.   I’ve heard of the others that Alucard mentions, but not this one.   The Holy Shroud was the burial cloth used to put Jesus in the tomb, and widely believed to be the Shroud of Turin, although this is disputed.   The Holy Grail, or “Holy Chalice” is supposed to be the cup Jesus used at the Last Supper, and was the subject of “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.”   The Lance of Longinus, also known as the “Spear of Destiny” was the spear that the Roman soldier used to pierce Jesus’ side when he died.    This got a lot of play in DC Comics, which used the Spear as a plot device to explain why the Spectre couldn’t intervene in World War II. 
The “Nails of Helena” refer to Helena, the mother of the Roman Emperor Constantine, who converted the Roman Empire to Christianity.   Helena went on a quest to find the cross used to crucify Jesus, and she supposedly succeeded.   And now Alexander Anderson is holding one in his hand like Wolverine.  
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And this development takes all the wind out of Alucard’s sails.   Not because he’s worried about losing, but because he wants to fight Anderson as a man.   He knows that if Anderson uses the nail on himself, he’ll become some sort of miraculous creature, but give up his humanity in the process.    In other words, he’ll just be another monster like Alucard. 
But Anderson doesn’t care, because he’s not interested in such details.    Alucard wants to die to a human adversary, but Anderson just wants to destroy Alucard, period.   If the nail can make that happen, he’ll gladly use it.
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And he does, and this leads to Anderson regenerating his damaged body parts with some sort of thorny tendrils.   One of the Iscariots, probably Heinkel, likens this to the crown of thorns placed on Jesus’ head at the crucifixion.    Alucard shoots Anderson in the face, but he just grows thorns in place of the wound.    Anderson cuts off Alucard’s head, but we already know that won’t stop him.   
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Meanwhile, the crew of the Major’s airship are freaking out, because the ground forces have all been destroyed.    The captain asks the Major for orders, and he tells him to arm the crew and give hand grenades to anyone who can’t walk.   If they run out of weapons, then they can use steel pipes or whatever’s handy.   The captain objects, arguing that the battle has been lost and there’s no longer any point in fighting, but the Major scolds him for missing the whole point of this.  
This doesn’t really get explained in full until the end of the story, but I think it was already made clear that the Major’s sole purpose was war for the sake of war.    Now that the battle is turning against him, it seems like a lot of his own goons don’t understand how far he was willing to take this.   
One thing that confuses me is that the airship is apparently staffed by German naval officers.  Presumably these guys were Nazis turned into vampires too, but the captain seems to have different sensibilities than the SS guys that died on the ground.    It’s weird, because they’ve all been planning this invasion for the last 55 years, and so many of them still don’t understand the Major’s plan.   Maybe he just never saw fit to share it with them, or he’s been intentionally deceiving them so they’d cooperate.  
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Anyway, the Major summons a pistol from his chair, and there’s this whole sequence where a mechanical arm hands it to him, but when he shoots the guy for insubordination, he misses.   Then he orders his loyal men to do the shooting for him.   Wait, so does Millennium have anti-vampire weapons too?  I mean, we’ve already established that ordinary bullets don’t work on vampires, so why was the Major trying to shoot this dude in the first place?  
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Back to the fight, this is what Anderson looks like now, and he’s becoming less human as these thorn tendrils grow over his wounds.  
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And he finally gets the drop on Alucard, running him through the neck with one of his bayonets, and getting all that thorny stuff into the wound, which seems to do a real number on Al.  One way or another, his army of familiars starts to burst into flames, so he’s in deep trouble.  
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thanksjro · 4 years
Text
Dark Cybertron Chapter 5: the Issue that Made Me Stop Reading MTMTE for Three Years
So, Megatron’s still getting space-bridged in the torso. That’s still happening. Nova Prime and Galvatron are coming through the rift, as Shockwave, who seems to have lost most of the mass in his lower body, thanks Megatron for his service.
Robert Gill’s on art for this issue alongside Ramondelli, and this is basically the only place we’ll be getting a taste of his style. Let’s see what he’s bringing to the table.
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JESUS CHRIST.
WHY DO YOU HAVE GUMS.
Nightmare Murder Death Ravage, the Decepticons, and the Autobots just broke into Shockwave’s underground lair, and are ready to kick some ass. Shockwave was expecting this to happen, because he is a very smart boy, and also apparently genre savvy. Soundwave tackles Shockwave to the ground, and gets insulted for his troubles.
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Sir, your eye's been turned into a silver-dollar pancake.
Shockwave calls in Metalhawk to handle these goons who’ve broken into his domicile, and Metalhawk, who legitimately looks like he’d snap in half if the breeze blew the wrong way, gets to work. Bumblebee tries to reason with the man- ripping off his whole-ass face to reveal... his face... in the process- but it’s useless. Metalhawk is just too het up about politics.
Over in another part of the room, Ironhide and a couple of buddies are going to lay the smackdown on Nova Prime and Galvatron, who are still coming out of the space bridge. They’ve been at this for like ten minutes now. Ironhide starts trying to shove Nova Prime back through the bridge, punching him in the face as he does. Megatron, at this point, has lost his arms. They’ve simply disappeared from the scene at hand.
The art isn’t great this issue, if you couldn’t already tell.
While this is happening, Skywarp is busy messing with the medical equipment Megatron’s hooked up to, and losing his corporeal form, because that death wave from a couple issues back did, in fact, hit him a little.
This is the Rattrap issue, by the way.
Over with Arcee, it would seem as though we’ve given up on even pretending to give a shit about size continuity, as Rumble and Blitzwing are the same height now. These three are on a mission to grab some of the resurrection ore and bring it back to base for the wounded, which is nice of them.
Shockwave shoots Soundwave, then calls Waspinator over, as Skywarp sticks his little hands into the ore that’s growing out of the walls. This makes him better, I guess? Because it’s resurrection ore? Even though he’s not dead? Also, his mouth looks like it’s full of wood pulp, and I don’t like it.
Bumblebee is trying to make a breakthrough with Metalhawk, but there’s no time for that, as Shockwave’s up to some weird nonsense involving Nova Prime.
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The same could be said of this entire comic event.
Waspinator meets up with Shockwave and hands him his “staff”. I use quotations because it super isn’t a staff, but that’s what it’s called in-issue. What it actually is… well, it looks like a gun with a stinger for a barrel. I know he had a gun that looks very similar in Beast Wars, and he whipped it out on the regular, but I guess it’s a staff now? A staff that isn’t even remotely a staff? TFWiki makes the claim that it’s his stinger, which makes way more sense, but I don’t know that I’d want to hand the rump roast portion of my own ass to the purple science gremlin, even if it did mean cool stuff was going to happen.
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Look, I don’t know, okay? I think someone fucked up the script.
Shockwave pops off his gun hand and attaches the “staff”, claiming to know how to handle the Titan way better than Waspinator ever could, because he’s just that smart. Then the Titan comes to life and bursts through the ground. Ironhide, who is still straddling Megatron as he punches Nova Prime into submission, gets his shop wrecked by a giant fist.
Meanwhile, in the Dead Universe, we’re finally getting back to that whole Nightbeat thing. Everyone is very surprised to find him here, and sort-of, maybe alive? Dead Universe complicates things.
Back in Spotlight: Hardhead, Hardhead and Nightbeat went on an adventure together to Gorlam Prime, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to Nightbeat’s brain in Spotlight: Nightbeat, where he was brainwashed into being a sleeper agent for Nova Prime, who was still in the Dead Universe at the time, and are you beginning to see why I sort of just gave up on following the plot and stopped reading? You have to have read essentially all of Phase 1 for any of this to make sense. Between that and the art, I was just sort of over the whole thing.
Anyway, Hardhead had to shoot Nightbeat in the head after the dude got his… brain taken over. There were some little tiny guys involved, Jhiaxus was there, it was weird. Because Nightbeat died at the edge of a portal to the Dead Universe, it took his body and dragged him inside, both trapping him and keeping him alive.
Rodimus isn’t too keen on this turn of events, and Hardhead feels really awkward about the whole thing. Nightbeat seems to be taking being an off-brand zombie in stride though, as he immediately makes himself a nuisance to Cyclonus, by way of cold-reading the guy. Because he’s a detective, he’s pretty good at it.
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Nightbeat, you fool! It’ll be another 22 issues before Cyclonus is ready to even acknowledge his feelings!
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Orion Pax breaks it up before we can see what Cyclonus considers a good punishment for putting him through the ordeal of being known, and we finally get back on track.
Back on Cybertron, I guess there’s been a bit of a time skip, as Megatron is back on his feet and carrying Ironhide to safety. Also, his mouth has gone AWOL. He tries to ask Bumblebee what the plan is, only to be interrupted by Galvatron ripping him in half.
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God, I wish you hadn’t found your mouth, Megatron. This is awful.
Galvatron throws Megatron on the ground, and things just keep getting better, because now the Titan’s up on its feet, and Shockwave just told it to go ham.
Back in the Dead Universe, things are getting complicated, and I don’t think we’ll be getting answers any time soon.
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Oh, well, I’m glad Nightbeat is as lost on this whole thing as I am.
Hardhead wants to know what was up with all that cryptic bullshit Nightbeat was spouting off earlier, and Nightbeat reveals even more details about Cyclonus- his forcefield generator was damaged when they got to the Dead Universe, and now he’s infected with… I dunno, bad vibes, I guess. That’s why he got sick a couple issues back, and also why the Cyberwraiths ran away from him; the Dead Universe is assimilating him back into its fold.
Even though it’s been established to want literally everything inside it dead.
Though Cyclonus did spend six million years hanging out in the Dead Universe, so maybe it’s fine, actually.
You know, truth be told, I’m not sure exactly how it works, and neither does anyone else, it would seem.
Anyway, Nightbeat tells the fellas to hold tight while he goes to grab somethingaaaaand he’s trapped them in a magic box.
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Ugh, whatever, Orion.
Turns out getting shot didn’t fix Nightbeat’s sleeper agent issue, and now the boys are going to pay for being so chatty.
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And that’s a series wrap on Team -Imus! Let’s give ‘em a hand, folks!
At this point, Nova Prime reveals that he did, in fact, get shoved back through the space bridge, and is still in the Dead Universe. Sucks to be him, I guess.
...Man, this Rattrap issue was great! Loved the part where he was in it.
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sadistmichael · 4 years
Text
criminal
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word count: 4,221
rating: mature
content: lovers to exes to enemies to hostage situation to lovers, shady dealings, a broken heart, bodyguards, dark!michael, angst, longing pauses, getting walked in on, face riding, fingers (in sex and in mouth), oral sex, multiple positions, a little softness, and sexual situations. 
A/N: I had an idea about dark!michael and what that would look like in a setting where anything was possible, this was the result. please know that there is entrapment and dubious consent present in this fic (met with light elements of stockholm/lima syndrome) so don't read this if you aren't comfortable with that. This is a dark!fic, which means that elements of crime and angst are prevalent, so consider this your blaring warning. please let me know what you think, as i would love to produce more content like this. enjoy!
home to all of your kinky 5sos needs
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masterlist
*
Empathy is rare. 
The world is cold, people are selfish. The actions of others are what you investigate for someone to be proven trustworthy over time. It doesn’t come naturally, unless you’re naive, or willing to believe that someone could be more good than unfavorable within ten seconds of knowing their face. 
You had gotten used to bad people in decent places. Avoiding everyone that could be a threat—dodging vulnerability like passing cars on a four way street. You turned the world down to exist safely. It was easier to ignore everything than live in the radius of harm’s way. 
It was learned behavior. Six months of picking what you wanted made you aware, it made you strong. You learned how to live based on your own desires. Living through someone else’s wants made you resent life in general, transforming into the worst breakup that you ever had to weather alone. 
Michael made an impact on you. He still lived in the front of your mind, smiling in color with the bittersweet memory of what you were. You knew him. Michael was predictable—always 5 minutes early. He brought you flowers, he never forgot to call, he was never too forward when he leaned in to kiss you. He was an angel with no wings. 
“I don’t want to lose you.”
You remembered the night that Michael wanted to commit. You could see it in his eyes—longing. A desire to be next to you, a preoccupation with the way he was when he was with you. Michael was yours before you asked him to be. He wanted to be there for everything, texting when he had an extra minute on top of asking if you could come by.
“I’m trying.”
Michael pressed his forehead to yours, locking his gaze on your apprehension. Your conscious mind replayed the sensation of his lips on your collarbone, the pressure of his hands on your waist when he went to lift up the hem of your shirt. He wouldn’t tell you everything. It was frustrating because Michael regularly boasted that you had ‘all of him’. It wasn’t true due to the many secrets in spare rooms and a second phone. You had one part of Michael, the part that made you weak in the knees and fucked well. 
You tried to ignore it. 
You saw strange figures walk in Michael’s house at leisure while you were there. They interrupted tender moments, times when you needed him. 
“I’ll be right back.”
It stung. Michael would return to you sleeping on his side of the bed. He kissed your shoulder after he got under his sheets, sliding back into the role of boyfriend. It was hard to dismiss him because he seemed so genuine. He kept you satisfied, he sent you gifts. Yet, the nagging fear that something was going on drove you wild. 
You followed him once. 
You knew Michael, it wouldn’t hurt to follow him on a night he wasn’t with you. What you found was your boyfriend at a nightclub, unfazed by other women topless around clients. 
You adjusted when you got back to your apartment. Michael lied. Your eyes stung when your back was hard against your front door. Your phone flashed with Michael’s contact right at ten o’clock, the time he always called. You remembered how good he was at leaving no trace of his other life in yours. He had an affair with business—chasing the mistress that put out hundred dollar bills. 
Near the end, you left notes when he was busy. You wrote ‘I’m at home’ with no heart, no indication of softness. Michael had driven you away bleeding, unable to tell which offenses hurt you the most. 
Trouble crept into your life under the guise of artificial sunshine and fearing nothing. You had to get away from Michael because he made you question your own desires. You ignored how sad his eyes were when you cut the ties he had to your life. Michael was thinking of you long after you left his door open, not looking back at the damage. 
You didn’t give him a choice in the matter.
You chose yourself to survive. 
*
Your recollection of personal history with Michael was profound as you traced the edge of the wallpaper in his room. Flashing lights were on every edge of the windows that faced outwards. Sensors, probably to detect motion outside (or anyone trying to get out). 
You were trapped. 
It was easier to digest with expensive decor and the luxury to have whatever you wanted. Yet, a prison is a prison. No matter how nice Michael made it. You assumed that he was lamenting in another part of his house, ignoring you. You walked towards the door, only to see two sets of shoe prints on the other side. 
Michael doubled up on security since the first day. You were able to pick the lock to his door with a pin and a half hour. It was a game of cat and mouse until one of his goons grabbed you by the legs, locking you inside a room with no handle.
Twelve hours passed since then. 
You were counting because you had nothing else to think about, restless in the midst of the situation. 
“I’m keeping you here for your safety.”
You wanted to punch him in the face when you were tied to a chair at the dining room table the night before. Michael looked harmless compared to the muscle he kept in his house. The faces of those men had nothing to offer but soulless glances, looking at you as a threat. 
That’s what you were to the ‘business’ he conducted on the side—an illegal ring of laundered money and illicit travel. 
The pieces popped in place one by one with things you overhead from outside the door. Transactions, movements, and ‘handling difficult situations’ were theoretical until they were said in this house. 
You tried to forget about it while you let hot water rush over your skin. Cleaning yourself was the one thing you could do without being watched. You relished the fact that Michael had a steam shower and turned the faucet as far as it could go. The heat reminded you that you were still alive and able to take control, blocking out the rest of the world with a wall of vapor. You closed your eyes for as long as you could stand it so you could daydream about being on your own. 
It was useless being afraid of what could happen. 
“You okay?”
Your eyes rushed open to Michael’s figure behind the glass. He looked at you blankly, not reacting to your attempt to cover up. 
“Jesus Christ, Michael.”
He raised his brows when you turned off the water. You noticed how tired he looked before you could say anything. His eyes were puffy, complimented by a two day stubble and a red bottom lip. 
He was stressed. Something had to be wrong. 
“It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”
He was right about that.
“You had my permission then.”
Michael backed out of the room when he noticed you hunching over to cover your naked body. You grabbed a towel and went to meet him in your holding cell, exhaling at the sight of him. It was frustrating that Michael could still make you feel. He was wearing a black t-shirt and black sweatpants, mussing hIs hair with his eyes on you. You felt a familiar tingle at the base of your stomach—accompanied by a warmth between your legs when you heard Michael speak. 
“I wanted to check on you.”
He was different. The night before, Michael reeked of arrogance, he couldn’t stop smirking at the sight of your frustration. You remembered him enjoying it. Here, he was somber in front of you. He couldn’t keep his eyes on the bruise you got from trying to escape. 
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
You pointed towards the door when you noticed a puddle of water forming under your left foot. You wanted to change—in a hurry to do nothing but find a bad show to pass the time. 
Michael wasn’t done.
He shuffled to the end of the bed and sat. You moved towards the closet in the corner and sighed, decidedly changing while you listened to whatever Michael had on his metaphorical chest. 
“I want to talk. I invited you here with the intention of a conversation we never got to have.”
The vibrato of his voice made you shiver. You slid on a pair of underwear, unpacking the pain in his phrase. 
“Then talk.”
You responded softly. You turned your head to make sure the door was closed enough that Michael couldn’t see you. A thought crossed your mind of him watching you quietly—observing how your nipples were still hard even when they were covered. You couldn’t deny that you were thinking about Michael more. He was down the hall, doing whatever he did. The thought process of him coming in his dark room and finding you then was intoxicating. You wanted him to touch you, smell you. Find the little wet spot on your underwear and have his way with it, making sure that he put his fingers around your neck to keep you quiet. 
Tender, loving, sex.
You could feel your body tense as you went to find a pair of socks to put on. You checked for a wet spot as Michael gathered his thoughts from a distance, looking out at his backyard with flat lips. 
“We ended things abruptly,”
You walked out of his closet with a twisted face.
“Now?”
Your feet stopped right before his. Michael turned towards you. Anguish was drawn all over his face. He didn’t blink when he answered you. 
“Someone is dead. A client of mine is dead. I don’t expect you to understand why I’ve been so paranoid. It’ll make you hate me forever, I’m sure. This is serious shit that I’ve gotten wrapped in, and unfortunately, you’re wrapped in it too,”
You couldn’t find anything to say. Michael was a bad liar, he was even worse at trying to explain himself if he didn’t want to tell the truth. This was him being honest, so real that you didn’t want to believe it. 
“I’m keeping you here because I know you wouldn’t want to stay on your own volition. I love that about you, you’re damn stubborn. I didn’t want to risk it,”
Michael’s eyes searched yours when he rose to standing. They were a pale green, standing out against the royal blue wallpaper.
“The thought of losing you is enough of a motivation to keep you safe. Even if it means you can’t leave right now.” 
A genuine explanation flooded you with relief. You assumed the worst—dying by Michael’s hand as if he had been inspired by Silence of The Lambs and wanted to experiment on you first. 
Instead, he walked towards the door.
“If it’s okay with you, I want to visit a little later. No guards, no locks, just us. I can arrange for us to meet in the sitting room.”
You nodded. 
“Don’t try anything funny this time, please.”
Michael looked away from your shoulder. 
“I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
Michael walked out of the door without looking back. One of his guards nodded at you before closing the door, leaving you alone. 
You flopped back on Michael’s bed with a feeling. 
It stirred inside of your chest. It made you want to get up and be free of him, shake off the dust of what was certainly more than a bout of lust. Michael cares, he never stopped caring about you. You convinced yourself that he was using you as a hole to get off in—that every sweet nothing he said was a way for him to get past your defenses. That version of your relationship made it easy to hate him. 
The complexity of your lives made things difficult. 
Michael was fluid, transient in the way he dealt with clients and his own top secret list of priorities. You were on it. Clearly marked as someone willing to protect. You swallowed the intensity of his statement with a promise of dissecting it later. You had more pressing matters to deal with. 
You still loved Michael. 
And you knew he would be able to tell. 
*
“You look nervous.”
You had been sitting across from Michael for the better part of an hour. You dressed up in decent clothes you’d left there from an occasion that required multiple options, sitting with your hands in your lap. There was an impressive spread of food and entertainment between you—full of alcohol and fruit you were sure you had never seen before. 
Neither of you touched it.
You observed that Michael trimmed his beard down to a stubble, the kind that left a handsome shadow on his face. You loved when he kept a little facial hair. He must have remembered.
“I am, a little. It’s kinda weird not being in the room.”
Your conversation so far consisted of what he did that day in detail. He didn’t leave anything out, occasionally playing with the dagger earring on his right. You were trying to hide the passion you held for Michael while you were listening. 
Trying to stop yourself from moving from your couch to his and finding an excuse to touch him. He looked sharp in low light. You thought about him coming in your room several times before you had to meet, laying on your back and thinking about how deep he could fuck you over the bathroom sink. You closed your eyes every time you had a thought of his naked body. It wasn’t right to feel so much at a time like this. 
That’s what you told yourself, at least. 
“I’m happy you’re here.”
Michael leaned over the table to give a reassuring hand on your knee. It drove you to new heights of what you thought you could handle—nearly drooling over a waft of his cologne when he sat back. To an untrained eye, it would seem like conversation was dying out. 
Yet, Michael knew it was the opposite. 
He had watched your face right before you orgasmed, knew the way your top lip quivered when you were close to the peak of your arousal. He saw you adjust in place several times while he had been talking—pulling at your clothes to find something to do with your hands. He had felt similar feelings earlier that day, finding a reason to take a long look at the photos he had of you on his phone. 
He had an excuse planned to break the tension.
“Do you want to see my battle scars? I figured it would make you feel better about your shoulder.”
You broke the train of thought you were on to witness Michael standing over you. You met him halfway, gripping his forearm on the way up. He started to unbutton his shirt with one hand, watching your reaction closely. It was like a badly written sitcom—matched with you running your tongue over your bottom lip when you saw Michael’s shirt open. 
“I got these the day before you came here.”
He opened one side of his shirt to reveal an angry bruise crawling up his side. There was a scuff on his skin below a small cut on his collarbone. Michael winced when you went to touch him, grazing your fingers along the side of his injury. The severity of his situation came back with a blow to your subconscious, drawing you close to Michael’s body. 
“Jesus.”
Your chest was on his when you wrapped your arms around his torso. You held him with just enough pressure for him to know you were there, anchoring yourself with the black fabric of his shirt. Emotions stirred inside of you when you pulled back. Michael’s face was steady. He watched you with intention when you moved, meeting your energy with peace. You held the top of his shirt with care when you pulled it off his shoulders. Your eyes were on Michael’s when you let his shirt fall to the floor. He reached for the hem of your shirt, pleading in a silent message when he moved closer. 
Neither of you said anything. 
It was a game of one piece moving after the other, clothing falling on the floor between you in a heap. You didn’t stop until his skin was bare, your hands preoccupied with Michael’s softness. You missed his body, the way he touched you like he knew what you needed. You sidestepped when Michael guided you back to the couch—sitting back so that he could watch you follow. 
He was so delicate when he helped you. 
Positioning you over him with ease as he held your hips. You could no longer hide the drive of your actions when your legs were open. Michael had gotten accustomed to knowing when you needed him. It was like he could smell your sex, heightened to the aroma of your desire. It made it easy to want him because he gave you what you needed, putting you first with every touch. 
“I missed you so much.”
Michael kissed you after he spoke. His lips were firm when he opened his mouth to yours, intensifying your embrace with his tongue. You grinded your hips on his, waking up his length with the stimulation you wanted to give him. You dreamt of his cock long after you were together. It had a way of filling you that you knew you wouldn’t get over—meeting your sex in a delicious mixture of pleasure and pain. That was your focus until Michael tapped your backside. 
It was his way of letting you know he had an idea. 
“Move up.”
You did as you were told, letting your legs fall over the back of the couch when your crotch was in Michael’s face. 
He wasted no time.
Michael’s mouth went from your inner thighs to your sex in seconds. His mouth was fixed on your sweet spot. The one place you didn’t know you liked to be licked until Michael did it—teaching you things about your own body. You had forgotten how good his mouth was. His lips were focused on pleasure while his hands gripped your backside, spreading your cheeks while he worked. You could feel the beginning of an orgasm swelling between your legs when Michael pulled away to suckle on your skin. Your moans bounced off the glass in the room, making them seem louder as you pushed yourself on Michael’s face. He moved one of his hands between your legs to make a variety of sensations. 
He nearly made you tip back when he nipped your skin, tapping you again to let you know it was okay to move. You found his lap, wet and sensitive. Michael’s fingers were on your lower back when your sex met his. You grinded on his lap as a way to let him know you needed stimulation, trying to push his cock inside of your hole. Michael moved under you every time you tried to slip him inside, drawing out the tease.
You tried to move your legs to the side to get on the floor. If Michael wasn’t going to appease you, the least he could do was fuck your face. It was something he liked, and you wanted the taste of him in your mouth just to feel something. 
He stopped you before you could get in position. His hands were on your thighs. He took the skin of your neck between his teeth before speaking, leaving a mark after a twinge of pain. 
“If I’m going to come anywhere, it’s going to be inside of you.”
You whined when his teeth pulled on your earlobe. Michael moved you from his lap to the empty side of the couch, straddling you with a hard length. You watched him observe you. It turned you on to see him thinking of ways to tease you in real time—parting your legs when he saw you tense. His right hand traveled from your knee to your hole, grazing it with his fingertip. Michael pulled your legs so that they would rest behind him, moving your right leg over his shoulder. That position was one of his favorites because he could open you up and see you. 
Michael liked watching your reactions. 
You whimpered under his touch. He wet his fingers in his mouth before touching you. You could feel the warmth of his fingers at your opening, barely pushing inside before pulling out. You bent the leg that rested on his shoulder when he leaned forward to kiss you, pushing his fingers inside of you when he pulled your bottom lip between his teeth. 
“That feel good?”
Michael spoke into your mouth when he found a steady pace, scissoring his fingers in your hole as he moved back. Two of your fingers seemed weak in comparison to what Michael could do to you, making you curl your toes as he grazed your sweet spot. Your moans were repetitive whenever he got close to making you cum, saying his name like a mantra when he pushed deep inside of you. His middle fingers made a mess of you in no time—making you hollow your stomach as you arched your back into his touch. You gripped the couch cushion with your eyes squeezed tight, unable to form a sentence when Michael stopped. 
“Mmm.”
Michael hummed when he saw a sheen of sweat on your torso. Your pleasure seemed to dance through your body, making your skin hot when Michael positioned himself between your legs. He let your shins rest by his waist, letting you push your sex into the tip of his cock. You closed your eyes while Michael took a survey of your body, running his finger over every mark and crevice that used to be his on demand. 
You were everything to Michael—someone he needed—someone he loved. 
Michael thought about how much he liked to make your brow furrow when he fucked you. He liked to watch your eyes flutter when he pushed his slick cock inside of you, holding your hip as he felt you for the first time in a long time. You were trying to keep up as your head rolled from the pleasure centered in your hole. Michael knew how to move, he focused on stretching you out in just the right way. 
“God yes.”
You muttered for him when he sped up. His moans fell out of his mouth when he pulled you close—angling you upwards as he held you. You held Michael’s chest as he tried to focus his energy on your sex, pressing his forehead on yours. Michael closed his eyes when he got in a stride that he couldn’t get enough of, hitting a spot that made his tip feel like he had reached a point of desire that both of you wanted to ride out. He hit a high that made you cry out, causing a collision of sensations that brought you close to the orgasm that was on your mind all day. 
You could feel Michael everywhere. He was on your neck, in your sex, in your head. You couldn’t escape how good he made you feel. Another place made its way into your conscious mind when your orgasm fell over the precipice of impulse. You curved into him when you came—gripping his skin as a drop of sweat rolled down your brow. Michael reacted to your sex tensing around him. He let you lay back, fucking you through your high with intensity. 
“Fucking cum for me.”
Michael’s thrusts were sloppy when two of his fingers pressed on your bottom lip. You opened your mouth to accept them, sucking on his digits while he watched. Your saliva coated his fingers while your moans followed, leaving the taste of sex in your mouth. You could see stars on the ceiling when he groaned. He slowed his thrusts when he emptied himself inside of you, filling you with his cum. He slumped next to you as you blinked in slow motion—trying to catch your breath. 
Even though the smell of your embrace barely dissipated, you had a desire to feel him again and again. 
That’s what satisfaction felt like in your eyes. 
*
Michael held you after he helped you clean up. 
He sleepily wrote a note on your side, pressing his lips to your neck. You thought about the progression of that day, how he went from the biggest monster to the man you wanted next to you at any given time. It was complicated, messy in the way you told yourself you liked to avoid. Every good thing you had came with terms and conditions. 
Michael came with an instruction manual that was never written. 
And there you were, trying to find out how you could get up to get both of you a glass of water and a takeout menu. 
“Are you trying to get rid of me already?”
Michael lifted his head to watch you stretch in front of him, enjoying the view. 
“No. Just wondering how much your security detail heard.” 
*
did you like it? hate it? let me know.
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anika-ann · 4 years
Text
Errare Humanum Est - Pt.10
...and Drink It with Gusto
Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)   x Supernatural
Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 3400
Summary: Steve’s a bit difficult (poor baby), not that anyone blames him. Sam Wilson makes a confession – sort of.
Warnings: mentions of violence, blood and death, alcohol, unhealthy coping mechanism, sad sad Steeb
A/N: dropping the chapter early, because I won’t have time to post for a bit
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The mission hadn’t been a shitshow, surprisingly enough, but the reports to Fury had been. Natasha had spent the rest of the day, whole night and a better portion of the next day at the SHIELD HQ, having to deal with everything, because Stark had quite literally fled. To be fair, he had at least taken care of Steve’s still unconscious and very much muscular (read ‘really fucking heavy’) form.
Tired and annoyed, Natasha finally landed with small jet at the Tower, making her way to her room, wishing nothing more but to shower and get some fucking sleep.
Of course, walking through the common room, she should have known she wouldn’t be that lucky.
She heard his icy yet somewhat cheery voice before she even saw him and it made her stop in her tracks, dreading facing him. She was too tired for his reproaches now.
“AH! There she is!”
Natasha took a deep breath, closing her eyes and mentally counting to three.
“Here’s ‘ur soulmate ex-pert!” Steve howled again, making her heart clench.
Black Widow was not a coward, but neither her nor Natasha liked dealing with feelings too directly – the jet was enough to get her fill for several years prior. She scanned the room before she would settle on him – and sure enough, she and Steve weren’t alone.
Bruce was standing indecisively by the door, torn and helpless expression on his face, his eyes one big question mark, asking Natasha how the hell he was supposed to deal with that.
Good question, Bruce, good question.
The smell of booze and Steve’s demeanour were unmistakable, but she silently asked anyway.
“Is he…?”
“Yeah. He… uhm… he found Thor’s stash,” the scientist answered her in equally hushed voice, inconspicuously pointing towards the counter where three flasks lay, emptied. Jesus.
Steve apparently heard and saw them anyway, because his voice bellowed again in reaction to their conversation. His words were slurred.
“Goooood friend Thor. Thou’ he t’ied to take my g’l. Nooot a g’d friend. Baaaad, bad friend.”
“Oh bozhe moy…” Natasha whispered under her breath and Steve turned to her, looking almost excited to see her.
Which didn’t mean he didn’t look like absolute shit. He had a t-shirt stained with the alcohol, his eyes red-rimmed, bruise-like dark circles under them as if he hadn’t slept for a year.
She hadn’t thought he could get worse than in the quinjet. Clearly, she was wrong.
“’tasha! Greeeeat ‘dvice you gave me,” he exclaimed, trying to rise from his spot on the couch where he had been half-lying like a dead fish casted ashore.
Natasha resisted the urge to massage her temples as the headache started to build. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach at the audible edge to his voice, the accusation glaring at her from his eyes.
“Steve…”
He finally stumbled to his feet and she noticed another flask secured in his right hand. He held it out as if he was pointing at her.
“Tried wat’ you s-said. Hurts,” he hiccupped, the sound blending with a sob. He cleaned his nose with the back of his hand hastily. “S-saw her grave. Fuck it hurts…  ‘dis thing’s good ‘ough.”
Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, her mind racing. She didn’t need to call anyone for advice now. Her friend was shitfaced. The only thing she could do was to get him to bed and try not to antagonize him or trigger something worse than… whatever this was. She wasn’t sure if moving on from being snowed under work – voluntarily – was more or less healthy than drinking himself into oblivion. But she counted any change that wasn’t a step towards a suicide (possibly assisted by the last of Hydra goons) like a progress.
“Is he drunk?” Tony’s incredulous voice ringed from the doorway and Natasha didn’t even bother spinning on her heels to him, hearing him enter and close the distance between them as he stopped at her side. “Cap?”
Blood froze in Natasha’s veins and she was swift to call out, but it was too late. “No- don’t call-!”
So much for not triggering him and making it worse. She could see how he suddenly stood straighter as if he swallowed a wooden ruler, and an indefinable expression appeared on his face.
She gulped in anticipation of a storm.
“Cap!” he called out, mimicking Tony and the billionaire realized his mistake, judging by the silent dammit that left his lips. Steve raised the flask in a mock toast, turning around and nearly tipping over his feet. “Captain ‘merica! What a heeero! Cheers to him!” He took a long sip before continuing, his gestures animated. “Swin’ in, safe th’m all! Kill his g’l, why ‘ven care… hero, murd’r, potato, tomatho…” his voice slurred into a murmur, until he spotted a newcomer and came to life again. “Ah! Hey, Clint!”
Clint was quick to understand the situation and it took one glance at Natasha for them to agree what needed to be done. He approached Steve cautiously with his features emotionless.
“We should get you to bed-“
“Nope! No!” Steve howled instantly, taking several steps backwards to get out of Clint’s reach. His expression was dark, tears welling in his eyes. “Smell like h’r. Not ‘nymore. Hurts!” he sobbed, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, his figure swaying dangerously as he closed his eyes and lost the visual control of his balance. “Hurts!”
“Come on, Steve…” Clint coaxed him gently, attempting to close the distance between them again. His gaze flickered to Bruce and Tony and they took few steps towards Steve as well.
“Nope! Gotta-ta sssay sm’thin’!” Christ, Natasha had never seen him like this and she wanted to bleach both her eyes and ears. He pointed the flask at Clint resolutely. “You knew. You warn h’r. Fuck-fuck up. Shouldva told- I ain’t gettin’ killed. I kill h’r.”
“Steve…” Natasha approached him as well, grimacing when she saw the flash of emotion on Clint’s face.
Steve spun to her immediately, this time accusing her. “And you! Gooood job. Pushin’ us togthe’. You kill h’r too.”
“Hey! Watch it!” Tony snapped at him, running out of patience, but Natasha knew Steve didn’t quite mean it. Pushing them together wasn’t her fault – the fact she had tranquilized him was her sin and she was aware he had the right to be mad at her.
“Your friggin’ ‘stem! You too- n’t fly fast ’nough!“
“Steve, you’re wasted. You’re going to bed before you say more things you regret,” Bruce said calmly after Steve managed to finish his roll and blame another person.
Bruce speaking up gave the captain a pause and he looked like his brain froze. His brows knitted together and he nodded, another sob erupting from his throat, his inhale shaking his whole being as he crossed the distance to Bruce, murmuring.
“Regert. Her. My folt, no yours. Kill h’r. Miss her. Shouldva s-s-saved her. Pick h’r… love h’r. Hurts. Hurts s’much…”
Steve’s large frame enveloped Bruce, resting his whole impressive weight on him. The scientist was nearly tripped over – except a hint of green flushed his neck, Hulk coming to rescue before the other men and Natasha rushed to help. Steve went completely limp, the flask falling to the ground, the little liquid remaining in it spilling and staining the carpet. No one cared as they tried to support the supersoldier’s goo-like body, exchanging desperate glances.
“Well, that was… enlightening,” Tony summarized, his poor attempt at joke that not even he apparently believed in barely gaining any reaction.
Clint sighed. “Please, this is hardly any news. We knew he blamed himself.” He readjusted Steve’s arm he had slung around his shoulders and Tony’s right side of suit came to the rescue, taking most of the weight off from the billionaire. “I hate this, but I think he needs this.”
Natasha wasn’t so sure about that, but yeah, Steve definitely needed to start accepting the reality. It was probably a natural reaction to want to dull the pain with something else when work was off limits. She pressed her lips together as their whole grouped slowly made their way to Steve’s room.
“Let’s just get him to bed.”  
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Not many people could probably brag they had Black Widow’s number. Well, probably no one could, because if they told a living soul, they’d meet their end. So Sam Wilson didn’t brag. And he sure as hell didn’t call her first.
That said, he did not hesitate when she called him with location and time to meet, no greeting, no goodbye. Rude, but he’d take it. He had more than one reason, not that he would advertise it.
So there he was, sipping coffee from a take-away cup as he sat in Central Park with Black Widow, both of them having the best super-spy disguise; sunglasses and baseball caps.
The silence between them was getting awkward and Sam couldn’t take the tension anymore.
“Well, this is much more… civil than our last meeting,” he noted casually, hating to admit he was… nervous.
“I’m not gonna say sorry,” Ms.Romanoff hummed back, sipping her latté.
“Guess I wouldn’t expect that…”
He didn’t expect her to face him either but she did, a reminiscence of a sad smile gracing her lips. The warmth around his heart was familiar and not entirely unwelcomed. He found himself longing after seeing her whole face.
“I’m saying thank you, though.”
Huh.
“Didn’t expect that either,” he admitted and one corner of her lips rose higher in a smirk. Sam had a hunch she loved surprising people – or rather shocking them.  “How did it go?”
She huffed out a sound that could only mean frustration and Sam grimaced. Confrontation usually didn’t go very good, but this sounded awful.
“That well, huh?”
“No, no…” she shook her head, red curls swaying around her head elegantly. “He’s… an asshole. He fell asleep on a mission. In a cockpit. When he was piloting. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but God bless Stark’s inventions and auto-piloting,” she grunted and removed the cap of her cup before taking a long sip of her coffee.
She seemed to be gathering thoughts. Sam might not be able to see her eyes, but he did learn to read people. She didn’t like talking about feelings, but she was making an exception. Whether it was because of him, because of his job or because she wished to help her friend so badly, that remained a mystery. Either was pleasing though, the action itself intriguing Sam.
He had given her a lot of thought after their first unconventional meeting. He could not get her out of his head and for a good reason, of course.
He came to a conclusion that… despite her manners, she probably wasn’t a bad person. There were rumours about her past, but everyone had one. She was with the Avengers now, getting clean and the present and willingness to fix mistakes often mattered more than what had been done – especially when it came to a past like her own. Sam had made living by helping people dealing with their past actions and failures; judging her would be a hypocrisy and as far as he knew, he was a killer too. And if it came to it, he would punch, sliced or shot his way out again.
“It’s just… he’s… he’s really at the bottom,” she Natasha spoke softly, emotions lacing her voice. Regret. Compassion. Helplessness. Sam knew all those too well. “Seeing him going from one mission to another just to pass out in exhaustion was bad enough, because I knew it was wrong, but… seeing him drink himself into oblivion? One time only, but it was a nightmare. And seeing Steve doing nothing? Struggling to find a purpose, himself… that’s just…”
“It sucks. But he has a good friend in you. He needs time.”
“I know that, it’s… I wish there was someone hurting him so I could just punch them in their face and call it a day. But that one guy blew himself to hell and the others just… don’t really matter, getting them doesn’t do much help to Steve.”
Sam couldn’t help but smile softly as she said Captain’s name. It held a meaning – he was clearly dear to her and it went way beyond professional relationship. Not that the fact alone that she had shown up at Sam’s apartment the way she had wasn’t enough of an evidence. Not to mention her surprising openness.
“It’s a long way to recovery, Natasha.”
Her first name just slipped past his lips unwittingly, but he didn’t feel like apologizing. The informal space they found themselves in, the honest open conversation… first names suited it better. He was aware he sounded like he was speaking from experience on top of that, but it wasn’t like she didn’t know. She had done a thorough research on him.
As if she agreed with him feeling his surroundings and the atmosphere, she put away her glasses, her green eyes burning with honesty when she met his – he automatically lost the barrier too, because it felt unjust for her to be left… vulnerable like that.
“I’m truly sorry about poking at your past, Sam,”
Sam felt the last remains of hostility towards her resolve. That apology meant more than he had realized it would.
“Thanks. I get it, you know. Being worried for someone so much… he’s gonna be okay, eventually. Scarred, but okay.”
“He could be better than that…” she sighed, leaning onto the backrest of the bench tiredly.
“What was that?”
“When I confronted him on the plane… he told me he had another words,” she revealed hesitantly as if she wasn’t sure if it was her secret to tell.
Sam’s heart positively stopped. Was she telling the truth or was this a game? Did she know about his own too? He swallowed the panic when he saw her resigned gaze.
She wasn’t playing no game.
“Two soulmates. That’s rare,” he remarked, a lump growing in his throat. His palms started sweating and he hated it. Fortunately, Natasha didn’t seem to notice – or she politely ignored it, her voice dry and laced with a bit of irritation.
“He never wants to meet her.”
“That’s not rare.”
Sam would know. He had struggled with the same feeling, after all. He wanted to forget the world existed. He wanted to live peacefully and alone. It was probably no coincidence fate sent him Black freaking Widow as the one – if she was willing, Sam would not be alone. And definitely wouldn’t get ‘peace’.
If he was being truly honest with himself, he wouldn’t be able to say he minded.
“He thinks… he thinks he doesn’t deserve her or something.”
Sam sighed, mentally chuckling at the irony of fate once more. The Universe did have a messed up sense of humour, didn’t it?
“Because he thinks he blew his chance. Because he thinks that he will mess it up again and fail her. And it feels like being unfaithful,” he offered, venting his own feelings for the first time.
He had never told that to anyone, ashamed of the set of words sitting on his other collarbone, appearing shortly after Riley’s death. Why did he tell her of all people? He wanted to question his own actions, he barely knew the woman, but… there was a significant but, wasn’t there?
Her emerald eyes were searching on his face, recognition lighting them up. She fidgeted, something he hadn’t seen her do before and he was sure not many people had either. It was a privilege and while his heart started racing, seeing her nervous eased his own nerves the tinniest bit.
“…yeah. I guess. You… uhm, you dealt with someone like that too?” she asked, looking away, seemingly intrigued by something in the distance.
Sam didn’t buy it and swallowed loudly.
“Just one case in my whole carrier.”
“What did you tell them?” she queried gently, her shoulders tense.
Sam shrugged. He told himself a lot of things, but he wasn’t certain they were all presentable.
“Never figured it out. First, the meeting with his other soulmate was a bit unconventional. He kinda hated her,” he admitted, glancing at her with the corner of his eye. She gave almost an inconspicuous nod, her gaze casted down. She took it as a rejection, he realized. “Then he started thinking and realized she wasn’t too bad. He’s still struggling to make up his mind – whether he should try. Whether she would want to. She would be a catch though, no doubt,” he lighted it up, biting the inside of his cheek right after.
Was he really trying to flirt now?  
One corner of her lips rose in a smirk. “Somehow I doubt that. Sounds like a bitch.”
Sam wanted to chuckle at the joke, but then her eyes lifted to him and his heart just… stopped, the amused sound stuck in his throat. He had to clear it to be able to speak up, but it did nothing under the intensity of her gaze.
“Not to me. Not anymore.”
Natasha licked her lips – and Sam would lie if he claimed he did not mirror the motion instinctively – and finished her drink.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, huh? That must have been a pleasant surprise when it appeared,” she stated, a hint of amusement along with relief that the secret, the whatever that had been hanging between them, was finally addressed.
Sam snorted, not necessarily because he found his next statement funny.  
“Yeah and I bet growing up in Russia and have an English soulmark must have been walk in a park.”
Good, there was so much sarcasm in his voice he might even feel ashamed. But the redhead – his second soulmate, holy shit, it really happened – didn’t seem to be offended.
“Wow, this almost beats the way Steve met his and that was some story….”
“Yeah, I bet.”
Silence fell on them then, both of them unsure how to continue and where to go from here. They found each other – their other half, supposedly, but no one could tell the outcome.
She was an Avenger. Sam was a therapist, a veteran at ridiculously young age, because he had lost his partner. They had a perfect example of how wrong it could go, served on silver plate – it was how they had met for God’s sake. But once again – Sam would lie when saying he didn’t miss some of the adrenalin. He did. A lot, actually.
The reason he had left the field was his soulmate. Was there any better reason to get back in when the need would rise, than another soulmate?
“Do you want to explore this?” Sam broke the uncomfortable silence, lacking the courage to look at her expression. The tension in her shoulders he could almost feel told him enough. He didn’t want to see her rejection. Did he want to see her agreement though?
“Do you?” she hummed back, staring ahead just like him.
“That’s the million dollar question.”
Riley had been… his everything. But could he ignore something like this? Could he ignore the opportunity, a woman who was no doubt fabulous and he was already finding interesting and that apparently was matching his sense of humour? Did he believe in fate? Did he have the right to try again?
Deep down, Sam knew he had already made his mind about it. Now it only depended on her.
“But I keep telling everyone to move on,” he mused out loud, catching her gaze. “Try to live. Some do. Neither of them had the… advantage of having another soulmate if we can call it that.”
Small smile appeared on Natasha’s lips, new twinkle lighting up her eyes and Sam knew he had made the right decision, no matter the outcome.
He didn’t complain when she rose to her feet to clearly leave though – they had enough to deal with today, they needed more time to think of how to approach this.
“Okay. Okay then… You have my number. Call me,” she offered simply, saying goodbye only with a nod and spun on her heels.
“Oh, I will!”
She casted a flirty grin over her shoulder and Sam found himself smiling.
“Hey, you bowl?” he blurted out the first idea that came to his mind and this time she stopped in her tracks, her smile turning almost wolfish. It might have done a thing to his crotch.
“I do, but you can’t run crying when I beat you!” she smirked and gave him a wink, hips swaying as she left him behind.
His laughter sounded like a soundtrack to her catwalk.
Cheeky lady. Sam kinda liked her.  
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Part 11
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Thank you for reading! 
We’ll be leaving Stevie next time, coming back to our wayward sons and daughter (...that’s a spn reference, if any non-fan is confused). We’re getting closer, y’all!
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chelsfic · 4 years
Text
Accident Forgiveness - part one - Bucky Barnes x Reader
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Summary: All you want is to enjoy your latte. Is it your fault you happen to live in a building owned by a super hero? In which the reader continually gets caught up in the Avengers’ fights and it starts to get old. Especially when a certain broody, ex-assassin refuses to admit when he’s at fault. Featuring Hawkeye and the tracksuit mafia!
A/N: This fic will be multiple chapters (probably 2 or 3). It is primarily based on the Hawkeye comics by Matt Fraction and Tales of Suspense: Hawkeye and Winter Soldier by Matthew Rosenberg. You might notice one line is directly lifted from Tales of Suspense (Hawkeye talking about letting the bad guys keep their teeth). I just love the sarcastic, punchy humor of Hawkeye in the comics as well as the friendship dynamics between the two of them in Tales of Suspense. If you guys enjoy this I’d love it if you could comment, like or reblog! I thrive off positive reinforcement, thank you!!
Warnings: Fluff and crack, some violence, language, short reader
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One minute you’re walking back to your apartment in Bed-Stuy, enjoying the warmth of the caramel latte cupped in your hands.
The next minute you’re sputtering with a facefull of spattered milk foam as your coffee cup is impaled by a bright purple arrow.
Hawkguy!
You love your landlord. You really do. But how many times have you warned him about target practice on the roof?! 
“Oops!” Clint Barton’s chagrined voice floats down from the top of your building. “My bad! Hey, you might wanna--”
OOMPH!
It feels like you’ve just been hit by a speeding car. A blur of leather, muscle and metal zooms through your peripheral vision and slams into you, sending you sprawling on the sidewalk. You throw out your hands to catch yourself and hear a decisive, sickening snap as your right wrist meets the concrete. 
“...duck!” Clint finishes.
Frickin’ super heroes.
Cradling the injured limb to your chest, you crawl away from the street, huddling in the shadow of a front stoop as the two Avenger rejects do battle with a...well, you can only describe it as a goon squad. A group of about twenty guys in tracksuits carrying automatic weapons. You watch the two men’s fluid, brutal movements as they take down their opponents with professional grace. You’d be really impressed if you weren’t so pissed off.
“Thanks, for helping, Buck. I’m gonna call in the--Jesus!,” Clint’s standing over the last guy Bucky took down, staring at the guy’s pulverized face. “...I let my guys keep their teeth, man!”
Bucky rolls his eyes. He flinches when his gaze lands on your stormy face as you rapidly hop over fallen tracksuits, hugging your broken wrist to your side.
“Hey, Hawkguy!” you barrel up to Clint, kicking him in the shin. “You owe me a latte!”
You barely come up to Clint’s chest and yet the archer shifts nervously on his feet and his shoulders slump down. He looks like the human embodiment of one of those dog shaming memes and Bucky snorts in glee. But his merriment vanishes when you round on him with narrowed, storm cloud eyes.
“And you!” you screech. “You broke my arm!”
Bucky’s eyes widen for an instant but he shrugs and tries to play it off, “Not my fault you have shitty balance. You broke your own arm!”
“I--WHAT!??”
Just as you’re gearing up for an epic scolding with some vicious chest-poking thrown in, Clint jumps in between you with a placating look on his face.
“Hey, hey, hey! We’re all friends, right? What’s a broken bone between friends?”
You level a deadpan look at your landlord as you say, “I’ve never met this man before in my life, Clint.”
“And I don’t need to defend myself to civilians who insert themselves into dangerous situations,” Bucky adds helpfully.
“Insert myself! I was just getting a coffee--!”
“His name’s Bucky,” Clint interjects, “he can be a little broody...a little murdery at times...but he’s really a good guy when you get down to it…”
Bucky snorts and runs a hand through his long, dark hair. You have to crane your neck a little to look up at the six-foot-something assassin and when you do you find him looking down his nose at you with a bland smirk. Insufferable! You move to put your hands on your hips in preparation for a renewed scolding but the sudden motion reminds you that your wrist is definitely broken and you wince against the pain.
The haughty look in Bucky’s eyes flickers for just a second as he watches you hiss and clutch your arm. 
“Whatever--Clint, call me an ambulance, will you?”
---
A few days later Clint throws a pizza party on the roof and invites the whole building. He claims it’s in your honor, to make up for what happened, but there’s a potluck party on the roof almost every weekend so the gesture isn’t all that impressive. Still. He does hand you a steaming latte from your favorite coffee shop as you walk into the party. When you reach out to take the cup his eyes light up at the sight of your cast.
“Purple!?” he gushes, gently taking hold of the cast.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah...don’t flatter yourself, Hawkguy. I just like purple is all…” you assure him, not wanting to give him any ideas. Look, you’re human. You won’t deny that your landlord is a tall, blond, beefcake with an adorable dog and...occasional funny jokes. But you also live in the same building and you’ve seen the stream of different women in and out of his apartment. You’re not interested in this particular train wreck.
“Hey, Buck,” he calls out, and your eyes widen in alarm as you notice the dark-haired super-spy lurking on the edge of the party. “C’mere and say hi to your favorite traffic cone.”
Clint turns back to you as Bucky’s walking over and nudges you in the side, “Get it? Traffic cone, because--”
“Got it, Clint,” you roll your eyes.
Bucky slinks over to join you. His long hair is pulled back in a messy bun at the nape of his neck and the sharp line of his jaw is dusted with stubble. He looks over at you and you realize his beautiful, long lashes perfectly frame his blue eyes. Okay, so when you said you weren’t interested in train wrecks--
“Hey, Bucky,” you greet him, looking up at him through your lashes. Your lips curl upward involuntarily. How come you hadn’t noticed how handsome he is before? Oh, right. You’d been distracted with chastising him for BREAKING YOUR ARM. 
Bucky nods silently in greeting, seemingly immune to your wiles. 
Clint isn’t. 
“Hey! Am I--,” he gestures between the two of you with a wide grin on his lips, “Am I sensing something here?! How wild!”
“Clint, you’re delusional,” you snap and start to turn away toward the food table but he skips in front of you to halt your progress.
“Wait, wait, we have to sign your cast!” he pulls a Sharpie out of his back pocket and grabs for your arm. 
“Ouch! Be gentle, dipshit!” you grouse, but you’re a little pleased that he’s apparently thought enough about this little “I’m Sorry” party to bring a Sharpie with him to sign your cast.
“There ya go!” he says with a final flourish, giving you back your arm.
You look down to see that he’s drawn a little bull’s eye with an arrow sticking out of it next to the words, “Sorry my reckless friend ran you over. HawkEYE.” He’d bolded and underlined the “eye” in Hawkeye as if you’d ever give up teasing him about his superhero identity. 
You laugh and give him a little hug, “Thanks, Clint. Well, I’m gonna get some pizza--”
“No!” he cries, reaching over to drag Bucky forward and shoving the pen into his hand. “Bucky has to sign too.”
You squint your eyes at Clint and he smooths his face into a look of bland innocence, shrugging and frowning at you as he mouths, “What???”
Bucky sighs through his nose like he’s being severely put upon and you scoff, “Don’t worry, Bucky, you don’t have to--”
“Lemme see,” he says and his voice is a soft, deep drag along your nerve endings. Holy Hell. He reaches for your arm and cradles the wounded wrist in his metal hand, letting the pen hover over the cast as he considers what to write. He takes his time and you just stand there like a fish on a hook, staring at his beautiful lips as he darts out a tongue in concentration and starts writing. You can feel Clint watching you watch Bucky and you blush to the roots of your hair.
“There,” Bucky says, releasing your arm and capping the Sharpie. “Hope you feel better soon.”
He’s looking into your eyes and you’re falling under the spell of his gaze. His lips curve in a sexy grin and you mutter, breathless, “Thanks!”
You stumble over to the pizza boxes and surreptitiously glance down at your cast. His handwriting is old-fashioned and elegant. You bite your lip to keep from squealing in anticipation as you read his words.
“You should be more careful. XOXO. -Bucky”
You turn back to find him bent over with laughter. 
Frickin’ Superheroes.
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