#I see a man in kevlar and I act up | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 10 months

Note

First off I LOVE your writing, I’m so happy you’re taking requests again so, may I please request something with Ghost? Like the reader is part of the 141 and Ghost has a soft spot for her and is very protective of her and both having feelings for each other but not saying anything bc both think the other one deserves better or just something like that🥹😮‍💨💖🙏🏻 feel free to keep practicing smut for this one!👀✨

You’re awesome 🥰💞

Blood Was Its Avatar

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Getting close to you was never his plan, but when he can't stop his self-protective instincts from pushing you away, will he be able to repair your strange friendship? Or will his body have to speak for him? (18+)

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, wounds, stitches, death, smut, p in v, throat f-ing, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, implied pain kink, hair pulling, hate sex? but not really?, semi-clothed sex, vulgar language, fluff at the end, etc. just pure filth.

A/N: This is sub-par because I was up until 4 in the morning today and didn't have the energy to edit in-depth lmfao, but enjoy Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

All of Ghost’s problems started and ended with you. He was impressed with that fact, actually.

They call you ‘Masque’ on account of the mission from years back, ‘07 Ghost recalls easily. When you’d been pinned down and surrounded, the dead bodies of your unit all around your feet. You’d chosen to act while the others had been yelling orders over the radio—rooting around the pooling blood on the ground and slathering your face with it; your body.

You pretended to be dead.

Quick thinking, Ghost had told you with a glint in his eye when you’d gotten back, those whites of your eyes ten times more noticeable. Like the moon hanging around a crimson-drowned sky.

You’d cursed him out and said of course it was, quoting some poem from Edgar Allen Poe as a joke.

“Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.” The Masque of the Red Death. Your claim to survival apparently, as you had just read it a day before.

Ghost said you were bloody fucking crazy and found his eyes darkly watching the way you smirked at him. How the dried blood on your lips would splinter at your loud chuckle as you both entered the C17.

As he knew—all of his problems started and ended with you. Today was no different.

“Damn! Lookin’ good today Ghost, are those new gloves I spy?” You were always so…bubbly.

“Masque,” the masked-man greats blandly, not even sparing you a look as you enter the meeting room. The screen on the far wall was hooked up to Price’s computer—broadcasting its news out into the dim lighting with images of mayhem and a loop of a video containing the bombing of an embassy building in the Netherlands.

Profile pictures stain the screen of wanted subjects; captured or killed in the crossfire made no difference here, anyone could see it.

You drop down into the seat beside his own with a huff, body shed of your usual black gear, and wearing casual fatigues instead—your tags jump on your chest and Ghost sees them glint in the light.

Your face shifts into a smile, prodding with a bump of your elbow. The Lieutenant turns and glares dryly while you carry on, “I asked if you got new gloves; they’re nice.”

“Needed ‘em.” Ghost drawls, seeing no way out of this as he glances around at the multitude of other free seats. No one else was here yet, and Price had needed to step out for a moment to grab another report from his office one floor up.

A small grunt echoes from his throat before his eyes dart back to yours. Shifting in his seat, his lax posture tenses before loosening.

Raising a brow at Ghost, you stifle a laugh.

“That’s it?” He blinks at you slowly, those bright blues trapping you as they shine out from his skeletal visage; his great body hidden under layers of Kevlar and thick canvas cloth. Like some weird and deadly present. You tease him, “No attempt at a conversation, Ghosty? That hurts.”

You sarcastically put a hand to your chest.

“Then suffer.” Ghost states like he’s reading the newspaper, stretching out one of his wrists by rolling it until it cracks the joints. Where was everyone else? “I’m not fuckin’ talking about bloody gloves, Masque.”

“It’s called a conversation starter!” Under the mask, he raises a dull eyebrow. You glower at him, but the smirk on your lips shows how much you enjoy this.

“For who? Could have jus’ stayed quiet, then.” Scoffing, you roll your eyes and indulge him—pointedly going silent. Almost immediately an awkward nothingness covers the room with its metaphorical blanket and Ghost’s muscles slowly go stiff as he crosses his arms slowly over his chest. You bite your lip and stamp down a snort.

A minute spreads like molasses. Two. Three. Five.

“Alright,” Ghost growls, breaking as you pick at your cuticles, humming horribly off-tune to a point where the Lieutenant’s ears were ringing and annoyance faired. “Fucking hell stop it, just say something already to shut up that noise. Sounds like my damn brakes squealin’.”

You stop and laugh loudly, elbowing him again as he jerks away with a low grunt. Blue flashes, and his heart pounds.

“Jeez, Lieutenant, is my humming that bad for you?” The air rolls with tension.

“More effective than torture.” Ghost utters, his Manchester drawl violent and thick as it coats your ears. You take no offense—you’d been doing it on purpose, anyways; always the one to exploit cracks in the concrete. You'd found out a lot through your studies of the man beside you. Mostly, all of the small tics and unique qualities that made Ghost such a strange character.

On the battlefield, the large man was resilient and patient. He could wait in one spot for days if he had to, sitting for a perfect shot. Nothing could break the line of purpose and authority he had over the units he was placed in or his fighting spirit. Gunbattles, torture, you name it he’d survived it.

But he disliked anything below scalding hot tea, detested his objects and packs being messed with…and clenched his hidden jaw at small, repetitive, noises.

Low, horrible, humming, tapping fingers, tongues clicking over and over. You had no idea why, but the sight of making this experienced and handsome man glare at you with annoyance made your face heat up.

You chuckle in the meeting room, eyes crinkling up at him before you reach for one of the pens and notepads on the table. Clicking the bottom, you shrug and start to scribble nothing into the side margins as blue ink bleeds like foreign blood.

“What’s Price got for us today, then?” Your voice echoes, “We shipping out with the others or going Black again?”

The Captain usually paired the two of you up for Black Ops for a reason—Ghost the strategic mastermind to your reckless bloodlust. Push and pull.

Missions were rarely a failure.

Ghost sighs, finally getting the sensation of control back into him. “Black,” he begins, “least for us. Old Man’s sending Garrick and Johnny out in hopes of drawin’ a few bastards out first. Netherlands. We slip in the back—off the books, ‘course.”

He watches you from the side of his eye, gaze following your pen as you sketch out a small stick figure with a skull for a face. Ghost stifles a huff as he scratches at the side of his face.

“Well, of course,” you slyly tease, glancing at him before looking back to your pad. “Are we getting any soldiers?”

“None. Just us.”

“Ooo,” Ghost watches your lips curl and feels his body slowly still. “Sounds like fun.”

“It sounds like I’m going to have to babysit again,” you laugh again and dark blue seems to spark with some strange emotion. Ghost clears his throat and takes down a breath.

“Oh, please,” you chuckle, “I’ve saved your hide a few times before, Ghosty, be nice to me.”

“Nice isn’t in the job description, Masque.”

“Well, it isn’t for you, grumpy. I think Johnny and Gaz are lovely.” Your nose tilts up teasingly as Ghost grumbles like a cat. “But that’s alright, I like you anyways.” Winking, you go back to your pointless scribbling as footsteps echo from the hallway.

Ghost stares, his hands on the armrests slowly clenching into fists as he studies your expression. His eyes slid over scars and blemishes he’d already looked at a million times over, seeing in his mind’s eye the stains of blood and that every present smile—the burn of your presence beside him like a brand in his stomach. You never seemed to let him get too far away from you on Ops, but it wasn’t some form of obsession. It was worry; he’d seen it.

You didn’t like it when you couldn’t see his back ahead of yours. Ghost guessed it had to do with your lost unit. He never pressed it.

In fact, he’d noticed himself not eager to see you off himself. Had spent many a night in the onsite gym after missions because of it, where he’d given you the cold shoulder after. He didn’t like that feeling. That hesitation.

Ghost knew only to trust people as much as he had to…so why did he like when you said nice things to him? His jaw clenches, shoulders rolling to dispel tension as he rips his eyes away from your body as if you were fire incarnate. Your head perks up at the sound of talking voices getting closer to the meeting room.

Soap and Gaz enter a few moments later and Price shuffles in behind them. You smile warmly and greet them, shifting the notepad closer to yourself nonchalantly.

Ghost grunts and stays stationary, straightening up when he realizes he's slightly leaned toward you during your conversation. His new gloves pull taunt over his knuckles and he suddenly wants to rip them off.

—

You begin to wonder when you’ll be free from blood coating your fingers but know deep down you never will be. At least, not if this was how you’d be getting covered in it.

Sitting inside the hotel bedroom, you slowly extract a blood-coated bullet from Ghost's large thigh, grimacing when he grunts from over you. You’re in between his legs, kneeling, as the metal finally breaks free from the skin barrier—the entry wound is small but nonetheless dangerous. His pants were cut from thigh to knee, a long spit that showed pale, scarred skin.

Keeping a tight grip on the forceps, you hum under your breath in satisfaction.

“No bullet fragments—lucky you.”

Ghost forces out, “Yeah, feelin’ proper lucky.” You chuckle, moving back and dropping the bullet to a food plate you’d put on the floor. Shuffling, you take up the rag placed over your upper arm and bring it back up. Patting the gushing wound, you frown and think back on the events that got you here as the Lieutenant shifts and bites his tongue.

The intensity in his blue eyes burns into you, lungs deeply inhaling with a silent breath. Your fingers tingle, but you diligently press the fabric to the wound and try to ignore the heat from Ghost’s flesh or how his legs flinch with every trail of your nails. His muscles are pure iron around you, and you’re suddenly very aware of the position you’re in.

Swallowing stiffly, you sigh and notice him slightly shiver when your breath caresses his upper leg. You stop immediately, lips going tight.

It had been fifteen minutes earlier when Soap and Gaz had set up in a far more open and less secluded hotel three blocks away—directly across from the base location for your gaggle of targets. As planned, you and Ghost would be off the books and go in when they were too distracted by the Sergeants’ in plain sight.

Fire was supposed to be the cover story. Go in, take care of business, and set the place alight after the area was clear of civilians. But no one was counting on the targets being surrounded by three more friends.

Of course, guns lead to bullets and bullets to flesh. You can still hear the ringing in your head when Ghost had jerked you to the slide and shoved you behind the far wall—skull snapping back to look in horror as his leg exploded with gore.

Fucking bastard had been distracted by you and hadn’t had time to dodge. That wasn’t Ghost, but then again, Ghosty wasn’t quite the same, was he? Least, not to you.

“You’re a fool, you know that?” You huff, something swirling in your chest as your gloves peel the layer of cut pants farther down to see better. “You should have looked after yourself.”

“And what?” Ghost grumbles, letting you do what you wanted to him. “Let you get fuckin’ shot, Masque—you have a bloody death wish?” His last word comes off with a growl as you press tighter into his thigh.

His hand instantaneously snaps out to grasp the back of your hair tightly with an instinctual low groan. Naturally, a small whine exits your lips in retaliation.

You both freeze and the room jumps up to a hundred degrees; your lower body flips as your skin burns a million degrees. Fingers still, you feel your breath hitch when his calloused fingers scrape your scalp, your hair in his expansive palm. It was a pure reaction you knew, and when you’d asked him to let you help out with this problem you had thought this might happen—he’s a soldier after all, just like you.

But he hadn’t denied you. If anything, since six missions back, you were the only person who he wanted to work on him. He’d never said why.

You look up at him from the side, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Ghost’s heart skips beats before he clears his throat, snapping his hand back immediately and slamming it to the mattress. A second of strained silence settles where you both try to forget what the fuck just happened.

“Keep bloody going then,” He says, deep and grating to a point where you shove down a shiver. Your head feels light off of his scent, and you have to ask yourself why you’re feeling so feverish all of a sudden.

You bite your lip and nod, hand moving away to grab at the sanitized needle and thread with your forceps—dropping the rag back onto your forearm to let it hang. For once in your life you’re left mute by his actions.

Mute to the fact that you’d liked them.

Your face burns like a hidden fire; epidermis alight with the strength to rival the flames the two of you had started fifteen minutes ago. Lungs stutter and hands inside the gloves go clammy. It’s only after you were halfway done with the stitches that you mutter words.

“Shouldn’t have taken that bullet, Ghost.” He had been stone still the entire time, hands clenched beside him and his thighs like rocks. Feet firmly planted. It was like he was barely breathing, too.

Ghost blankly stares, staying quiet as you continue.

“You were distracted. That never happens.” His form was almost entirely shadowing you; great spanning shoulders from above tight like a looming statue. You dig the needle deeper with a push of the forceps, threading through yielding skin with quick punctures. He doesn’t even flinch.

Ever since ‘07, there was an obvious aversion to partners stemming from you. You distanced yourself from forming close bonds with those who you hadn’t already known. In many ways, Ghost and the others of One-Four-One were the closest you could get to people now.

Ghost, you admit, was far closer than all the others combined.

But this sentiment was known—both the aversion and the care you held. The Lieutenant wasn’t good with words, but he knew how to read you better than anyone; the way you carried yourself. He knew you didn’t like it when he got hurt in front of you.

Ghost had to ask why he even bothered to shove you out of the way, regardless. You would have been fine. So why had his eyes gone wide and his iris flared with a dead glow when he’d seen the gun swivel in your direction? The man grunts at a deep dig from your sutures but you continue to mutter to yourself as he glares at the far wall, venom-like.

His sin was that he had grown to care about you. His burden and his curse.

This couldn’t continue.

Ghost looks down at you with a sheen of distanced nonchalant-ness and when you lent back with a sigh of your lips, his body moved. You blink in surprise as you feel his muscles bunch and before you know it you’re being grabbed harshly by the arms and lightly shoved to the side.

“Ghost!” You snap, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stands to his feet—blood training down his thigh and kneecap before disappearing back under the stained cargos. “What the fuck?! I’m not done with it.”

Attempting to stomp closer, he swivels his head to you as his spine goes formal. Your feet stall from under you and your veins pump faster, forceps and slick gloves freezing mid-air.

You blink. He’d only ever looked at you like that when you’d first met.

Blue is a silent sheen of ice and cold death; black sockets behind his mask are more like voids holding chilled sapphires.

Why was he looking at you like he didn’t know you? Once more you say, confused and suddenly small, “Ghost?”

“Enough.” His voice was monotone and barky, the tone final. Your fingers tense at the sound. What…what was this? “You need to get your head back on, Masque. I can’t watch over you like a bloody Private every time you get stiff-legged, copy?”

Your jaw slackens. Inside, your heart smashes itself into your ribs in a violent pang. There’s a moment of complete and utter silence in which Ghost remains standing with concrete tied to his feet. He sees the flash of confused hurt in your eyes, the way your muscles jump for a moment.

A suffocating wave of regret strikes him, but he felt like he had to do this—keep up boundaries. Even if his throat was closing in an attempt to make him shut up.

Ghost’s accent makes him sound harsh and unforgiving. “Price’ll need us back in fifteen. Get your shit together.”

He bends down and snatches bandages with a quick hand, beelining to the bathroom and closing the door with a firm hand. Blankly, you stare at the barrier as the wall rattles; face burning—unable to speak beyond a small sound in the back of your mouth.

The two of you stay separated for the remainder of the time, not speaking, and not moving from your respective areas.

When Ghost finally leaves ten minutes after he’d pushed back the self-loathing and guilt, freshly bandaged, he finds your stuff already gone. He glances around the area slowly, taking in the wails of the fire trucks from blocks away and the neighboring rooms of the hotel as residents speak in mutters from behind walls. The air is cold and lifeless.

He grabs his things in total silence, swallowing down saliva paired with long breaths. Ghost’s eyes remain tight. Body wound and coated in rigidity that could rival a rhino’s armored plates.

Mind whirling, but still ever mute, he leaves the hotel and heads to the coordinates Price had given the two of you alone. The absence of your warm body beside his was more jarring than anything he’d expected to experience.

Ghost didn’t want to admit how many times his eyes trailed to the empty concrete at his left.

—

When you lose something in someone, you tend to lose it hard. Thus still, that was the case here. Ghost and you always jabbed at each other—it was in your nature to do so—but this was different. The Lieutenant could be cold, but…never to the extent to shove you away from helping him with his wounds.

Both of you always did that with the other, if that be physically or just being in the same room, while getting fixed up.

If Ghost didn’t want you around for whatever rage-inducing reason, you weren't going to grovel or beg. The sudden switch-up still stabbed you in the heart though.

On the second week, it got easier.

You passed by Ghost without a single comment, shifting into the meeting room once more. He grunts as you shimmy through the door right before him, his feet halting before he runs into you.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Masque, you lost your bloody eyes or something?” You don’t answer, blankly walking to the end of the table and taking the single chair with steady steps; sitting down and dragging a notepad to your general area.

Blinking, you look up at the projection and skim the small details they give over.

Ghost stares from the doorway, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he slips inside and slowly strides to the table.

The days had been difficult for him, struggling to re-situate himself to his isolation after you’d been with him for years. Sure he had Johnny, Gaz, and Price, but you were…

Ghost places a veiny hand on the back of a chair about four down from yours, knuckles white as he’d shed his gloves not five minutes ago. His eyes stay stuck to the tabletop, hips shifting. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard to push you out. Not only physically but mentally.

He found himself thinking of your face at night. Like a phantom, it would snap into his consciousness when the lights went out and the shadows got long. Your smile and your skin. How your fingers would gently press into his flesh when you were threading a needle through him—shivers of pleasure and pain intertwined by the scrape of your nails.

Ghost’s hand tightens on the chair, and you spare him a tense glance as he seemingly fights within his mind.

The Lieutenant wonders at your willpower and your drive. He spent the weeks hating that he had gotten what he wanted, and then he hated himself more because of that fact. It was good to keep you away from him. Not only for himself but for you.

You both were becoming too….attached. Ghost would have none of it. It had bled over into him using his own body to protect yours that was just…was just…

“...Those new tags, then?” You look away from the screen and shift your gaze to him as his voice bounces.

Around your neck, the new reflective metal of your new dog tags glint. Your heart skips when he speaks to you, but he still doesn’t look your way.

“That an apology?” Deadpanning, your unimpressed gaze glares into his face as his hand strangles the chair.

The room returns to strained silence. You huff.

“Pretty shitty one there, asshat.” Ghost’s shoulders roll under his gear, a great sigh quickly exiting him. Everyone had noticed the tension over time—it was becoming a detriment to the team.

The Lieutenant’s blue eyes darken, and in his body, a great heat was beginning to burn. Just looking at you provoked lucid and vulgar thoughts, and as the dim light from the projector makes shadows on your face, Ghost traces them with a chained desire. Being away from you was a physical pain to him, but he also knew that being around you was worse.

All of Ghost’s problems may have started and ended with you, but they also grew in his own head. They’d been there in the back corners ever since he’d given you your nickname; found out he liked the way your face was wet with spilled blood and sweat. Your body. Your hands on the hard flesh of his upper thigh…trailing up...

Ghost’s pants get tight as he stares without saying anything. Watching you scribble on your notepad. Glaring.

“Why can’t I get you out of my fucking head?” Your ears twitch at the low growl as if coming from a beast; seconds later, your brain catches up to process the words. Your pen stops its pointless scrawling just as your breath does. Ghost spits out, seeing your form straighten in the chair, “Every bloody thought, you’re right there!”

His boots stomp to the floor, and before you know it a hand is trapping the back of your head, fingers carding through hair to angle your chin up. Your breath gasps out as your wide eyes lock on Ghost’s, his hold tight but not uncomfortable; as if he knows the perfect amount of pressure to make your blood surge and your pupils expand.

You stare into volatile blue with silver flecks, a skeletal mask stained from dirt and blood. Ghost’s thumb digs into your scalp.

“Answer me, Masque,” he grunts, accent so thick you momentarily struggle to string the words together in your stupor.

Ghost’s nose is close to yours; breathing in each other’s air as the temperature rises. Your throat bobs with a swallow. Below you, you feel your legs clench together as the Lieutenant's fingers lightly pull on your roots when you don’t respond—small sparks of electricity run down your spine that make it straighten instinctually. A soft purr flies from your lips; face on fire as your lashes flutter. Your hands clench at the dull pulse in your lower body.

The Brit’s dead eyes stare down at you, glinting; studying you deeply with growing satisfaction in his heart and tension in his boxers.

You both glare half-lidded, panting, and flesh heated.

“Is this your apology?” He tightens his hand and you bite your lip, small whine meeting his ears as he represses a groan at the sound. Your voice was breathy but smug.

“You fucking wanted this, you naughty little beast,” Ghost growls, moving even closer to tower over you. “You’re playin’ me.” You mold into him as you still sit in your chair, your chin set onto his upper abdomen as the midsection of your breasts presses into his crotch; brushing against his hardened bulge firmly.

You shiver at the feeling, your core leaking out slippery fluids to stain through your pants one second at a time. Every twitch of his fingers leaves you wanting to arch into him. Feel him.

Ghost feels your hands go to wrap his open thighs, nails digging into the back of his pants as his mouth opens under the mask to force out air.

“You liked me in between your legs, didn’t you?” Your tiny, teasing, voice serenades him as he quickly begins to lose control of his composure.

“Shut it,” Ghost grunts, mind yelling at him to move away, “Shut your damn mouth.”

Those pupils were so wide his eyes were almost entirely black, feral chest moving quickly.

“I already know why you snapped at me…” One of your hands travels back to the Lieutenant’s front, skin tingling at the scratch of a belt and the rough fabric of his cargos. You leave it over his crotch and add a tight amount of pressure; mouth lightly opening at the weight and size of him as Ghost grunts deeply, thighs jerking forward.

Blinking at his glassy eyes you breathe out into thick air and the veiled threat of something more. His hand in your hair is so tight that you feel your pulse under the tendrils—you enjoy every second of this cat-and-mouse game.

After all, no one knew who the mouse was yet.

You rub your hand up and down and watch Ghost’s clothed dick, feeling his muscles straining to keep himself in control. He lets you continue as he watches with a clenched jaw, his pants getting gradually wet with precum; hips twitching.

“...You can’t get enough of me touching you, can you?” Your statement ignites something immediately, and you’re being grabbed by your shoulders and forced to your feet.

Staring wildly, you cringe at the soaking patch under your clothes but let Ghost place your backside on the table. He presses into your hips to keep you there—legs opened and feet planted to the floor below on their tip-toes.

The man breathes like a lion, nose in front of yours. You slightly smirk at the far-off haze in his eyes, lust and pleasure blending and bleeding into the almost bruising hold he uses to press you down.

He watches you for a minute or two—taking in your scent and the rabid instinct that infects the both of you now that everything was on the table.

You knew you were right; he knew you were right. Licking your lips you look down and stare at his blatant hard-on hungrily. Your brow raises slowly.

“You going to let me take care of that, Ghosty?” He’s up and locking the door after he slims it shut.

“This is it,” Ghost grunts, “one time, Masque. That’s fucking it, you hear?”

“Awe,” You cue, swishing your legs as he stomps back over, hand grasping his belt and whipping it off with a flex of his forearm. Your core tightens, hips trying to press back into the table. “That's so cute. You think once is enough.”

A hand captures your jaw, “I said,” he breathes, the other hand going to shift up the bottom of his mask up to his nose. You gasp at the sight of blond stubble and milky scars. A strong jaw wound like a spring. Ghost’s musk invades your nose and you feel your palms so clammy. “...Shut it.”

Hard lips slam into yours.

Like some game between the two of you, your mouths fight one another with aggressive grunts stuck in your throats, sharp inhales of air between partings. Ghost’s lips mold and conform to yours, clinging around the supple flesh—there’s a deep-rooted intensity, a hunger, and a desire mixed with sweet stubbornness. The tang of metal and old canvas opens to you just as your mouth does when his teeth bite down at your skin.

Quickly sucking down breaths, you feel his tongue push past layers and slip into your awaiting clutch; Ghost groans lowly and explores as his hands bare down into your hips, one making its way to grip at your hair again. Your own dig into his waist as he leans over you.

He latches onto your hair and peels you back from him, tongue sliding out of your mouth as he moves to nip at your chin—angling your head whichever way he wants to. Your skin burns as the man bites down at your neck, hot saliva stuck to your lips as your chest pants fast with a low whine at the mixture of pain and bliss.

Below you, your legs are wide to allow Ghost to stand between you, his firmness leaving your hips canting at every hickey he leaves behind and how he shivers into you as you move against him. It was addicting to him—your taste and how your flesh yields to him as he clamps down on it ruthlessly and rapidly. In no time he’d traveled the length of the area behind your ear and down the swell of your shoulder; shirt pushed back by his nose.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, eyes glassy as you blankly stare into the far wall over the Lieutenant’s shoulder; your panties are soaked through and the evidence can be felt. A long whine exits your chest when Ghost licks at the deep marks he left behind, blown eyes coming back to stare at you head-on as if in a trance.

His lips are red and swollen, mouth open with silent, fast, breaths. His large chest moves quickly over yours. He orders you in a hoarse voice; strained, “Get on your knees.”

Licking your lips your widened gaze stays locked on his, the hand in your hair tight and keeping you away from slamming your mouth back to his. The air is electric, both of your bodies yielding to one another's even if you don’t realize it.

As much as you wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at the comment, to make him apologize to you for what he’s done, you realize that your body has already complied with the request. Slipping off the table, Ghost watches like a hawk and backs up two steps—feet splayed as you move for him. Your knees slowly lower you down to the floor, connecting with the carpet as you sag, fists clenched and shaking.

There’s a small, heart-pounding, pause. “...Good girl.”

Your jaw drops at the smirk on Ghost’s face and those flashing dead eyes of his, blood thumping with a newly ingrained need. You swallow and feel your throat bob; legs shifting to push back the inner-body itch that grows by the second.

“Now you can listen to me, yeah? Such a slut for it.” Ghost’s hands slowly trail to his pant’s zipper, sliding the piece down the teeth with barely audible metal on metal. Your fingers twitch at every small pop; how the zipper itself had to move forward with the strain of his sizable erection. You can’t even look away from it—how his pants are stiff against tense thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rucked up to show the black ink of tattoos.

Ghost had tattoos.

When the teeth had run out and the man’s hands grappled for the waistband of both his cargo and his boxers, you’d found out you’d been staring the entire time, pupils so wide they matched Ghost’s and the black stain of his face-paint.

“Fuckin’ hell, Masque,” he grunts, knuckles white and going still, “bet your pretty little cunt is soaked and I ‘aven’t even shown you my bloody dick yet, eh? Well, the thing’ll ‘ave to wait, I’m puttin’ that mouth to good use first. Teaching it who to listen to.”

You startle back, blinking away the burning heat on your cheeks that leaves you uncharacteristically stuttering at the vulgar degradation. But Ghost doesn’t notice, doing what he can to move the various straps along his thighs and his upper hips to be able to free himself quickly—eager and dripping to be down your throat.

The throat and mouth he’d fantasized about for ages.

Stiffing down a whiny moan, you finally see the veiny girth of Ghost’s cock as it comes free over the top of the tight white cotton of his boxers; a happy trail extending up his visible abdomen when his wrist snatches it out.

“Put to good use?” You breathe out, “Christ, you’re going to make me fucking mute, Ghosty.”

“Well, Sweetheart,” he breathes a sigh of relief as he plays with the leaking tip with his thumb. Your hands itch to brush against your achy clit, the pressure in your chest almost enough to make you sob at the sheer nothingness. Sweat glistens over your forehead. Eyes glare at you as you watch thighs tense and loosen. “That’ll be fine by me. Don’t need you speaking when I’m paintin’ your damn cunt with my cum, do I?”

Jesus, you both were in the fucking meeting room. Going to fuck in the meeting room.

You lick your lips and stare as Ghost stalks close again, gripping your chin and opening your jaw with his thumb and first finger. His dick was right in front of you, and you can smell sex and sweat like an animalistic aphrodisiac as it coats your brain with lust as you moan out.

Your arms tense with a want to reach and touch it, watch as Ghost falls apart below the twist of your wrist. It was so addictive you feel yourself clench at the visual, your body shivering violently.

“Oi, fucking focus.” Your tongue sneaks out and licks Ghost’s finger and he feels his grip tighten on you with a puff of hot air. “Little brat.”

He stares into your mouth and breathes deeply as a smirk peels the edges of your lip. Blue swirls with anticipation.

“Keep it open, then.” Ghost’s hand drops from you and you easily keep your mouth open as his hand goes back to his cock, grasping it firmly as the other finds the top of your head. You shiver and shift your thighs under you, your body striking like a drum to oxycontin and adrenaline. “That’s a girl…” The Lieutenant growls, and the tip of his dick slips into your saliva-dripping mouth with hidden fever. “Fuck.”

Your eyes flutter at the taste, letting him maneuver your face closer to the base as your hands snap to his thighs—nails digging in and eliciting a sharp inhale as you press into the two-week-old wound under his pants. Ghost curses under his breath but watches in flooding pleasure at the image of his cock disappearing farther and farther into you. Inch by inch you tell yourself to breathe through your nose; feeling the make of his veins and the mushroomed tip traveling farther and farther back.

Moaning in the base of your neck, Ghost instinctually jerks his hips at the sound, feral grunts trapped in his chest. Your eyes go wide with the prickle of tears, not from pain but from the surprise as you gag. His hold on your hair tightens and you mewl as he continues to lose himself to the feeling of your wet heat.

He was so big it was like your throat was ripping new sinews just for him, and you reveled in every moment of the feeling of his predatory gaze.

“So bloody tight for me—can’t wait to be in that cunt of yours…can’t be better than this. Have to test it.” He talks more when he’s horney.

Slightly gagging again at the sheer size, his palming hand presses you deeper and you take him as well as you’re able, still space between your nose and his pelvis as your knees dig harder into the ground. Ghost groans gutturally, head slightly lulling back and panting like a dog, looking down at your red eyes and far-off gaze. Your hands kneed his upper thighs and he smirks slowly.

Without another word and with sweat staining him under his uniform, bits and bobs from his gear start to clink together and dance as his hips set a rough pace; you find your head being puppeteered back and forth with his thrusts as your scalp flames from his hold. Tears burn immediately.

“Yeah, that’s it—such a good little slut for me, Masque. Gettin’ it down, fuck,” Ghost pants, as you hollow your cheeks, back arching into you and leaving your nostrils flaring to take down air for your spasming lungs. The sight above you was sinful.

Your Lieutenant in full gear, pants and skin-tight boxers stretching and shoved down just under the clutch of his crotch. With every back-and-forth motion, the zipper grazes the underside of your engorged throat as every vein can be undoubtedly seared into your esophagus like a brand.

Ghost’s eyes flutter and flinch, but never once does his hazy gaze leave your mouth as he continues to jerk your head back and forth. Saliva drips drown your chin and the nearly painful burn in your navel lets you know how true this was a relief not only for Ghost but for you as well. You wanted to touch yourself, but you can’t stop touching the Brit—not for a second. Shit, you think you could fall apart just by looking at this; you were sure Ghost was thinking the same thing.

“Look at that, makin’ such a fucking mess of you.” His abdomen tightens and rolls with every jerk and rut, and your eyes roll back with a deep whine in the back of your throat when he hits the back of your throat. Sweat splatters down your temple as the air is steeped with animalistic desperation. Ghost whines thickly in answer and seems to speed up as your hands claw at his thighs. “You like that, pet? Huh? Being my little cock-sleeve.”

Your nails dig deeper into his flesh and he shivers wildly; eyes flash at the sight of himself disappearing into you and exiting just after as the slap of wet skin reverberates. The tension in his chest increases and he starts to desperately kneed at your hair.

“If I’d known you’d take it down like this, I’d-I’d have made you hate me sooner, yeah?” Tension fizzles up his jaw and you know he’s close by how he bites down into his lip and tilts his head back.

Instinctual tears travel down your sweat-slick face, the thought of being used like this vulgar and as dirty as the sounds that echo in your throat and strike down your spine.

“Fucking hell,” Ghost gasps, and his pace stutters as he twists your locks. Your teeth graze along his flesh as you dig your thumb into his wound to steady yourself. Whining loudly, the action seems to get to the man using your mouth for his pleasure, as not three rough thrusts later the warm feeling of his cum splatters the back of your throat in thick, hot, spurts.

Choking for a moment, the widening of your eyes meets Ghost’s fluttering lashes from above. His free hand goes behind you to slam onto the tabletop; back curved over you as he shakes and sputters as he rides out his high.

Cum drips out of the seams of your stretched lips, and with a deep breath through your nose, your hand lowers from Ghost’s thighs as you carefully pull your face back from his pelvis. The sensation of his cock leaving your mouth and bringing saliva and his fluids with it was animalistic at best, they spill to the floor and off of your chin like a small river.

Licking your lips, you swallow what you can and try to catch your breath as your chest rages. Blinking rapidly, your eye twitches as you bring a hand up to your sore and ragged throat, Ghost’s heaving body stiff and hunched as he stares at the table blankly. Sweat dribbles down the side of his nose, sneaking out from under the top side of his mask.

There’s a long minute of nothingness as you both try to breathe and understand the gravity of what you’ve both done. And then you both lock eyes and stare.

The air stills over as Ghost’s large pupils stare at the mess on your face—seeing it drip down your throat as you tilt your chin up to him. His chest purrs like a cat and you don’t even think he realizes that he does it.

Two seconds later you’re being manhandled up to the top of the table, backside hitting it as a hand goes to your belt. Lips connect with yours and groan at the taste, the clinking of metal hitting your ears as you submit to his prodding tongue as it licks along your inner flesh.

Your fingers snap to trail around Ghost’s neck, moaning into him as he slips his hands into your pants, pulling back and ordering, “Up.” Eager and filled with lust, you raise your legs and he rips them down to your knees, dragging you closer to the edge.

“Good girl.” He smirks, black-smeared eyes creased. If you could speak you’d tell him to shut up and fuck you already.

Your slick skin meets the air and you gasp, Ghost’s hands waste no time trailing up the flesh of your hips, pitching to make you jump. Glaring, you try to drag him back into you but he’s built like stone, clicking his tongue. When his fingers collect the fluids that drip out of you, you whimper at the stimulation—two calloused fingers getting entranced by that as they stop at your clit. You stare desperately into amused blue eyes as he pressed deep, your thighs tensing as they jerk.

“Any more of this and you’ll stain the table, won’t you, Sweetheart? I get you this worked up, yeah? Bloody hell.” You pant, and lines form on your forehead at the indecent circling of his fingers; not being gentle as he sees your mouth open and your lungs gasp. Sharp spikes form in your thighs, and they move in tandem with Ghost. “Look at that…”

Deep chuckles mock you, but you both know this has to be fast—and with how worked up you were, it would be.

“Alright, then, brat,” Ghost takes his hand away and you whimper before he grunts and grips you by the shoulders. Your lust turns to confusion. “Suppose you did well. Let’s make this quick, eh? Got work to do.”

Flipped around, you squeak as your clothed chest meets the table, ass presented as your feet scramble to connect with the floor. Surprised, you whip your head to the side to stare back at a highly smug Ghost as one of his hands goes to grab onto your supple flesh, massaging it before it sneaks to your hip.

“Easy with it, I’ll take care of you, Masque.” In little to no time he’s lining himself up with your dripping pussy, so wet it’s easy except for the fact that he’s huge enough to make you mute by a blowjob. Your back arches into the table with a long moan as the length slowly spears you open, instinctually widening your legs as best as you’re able.

Closing your eyes, you press one of your hands to your mouth to stifle your noises, thighs spasming as Ghost curses under his breath; gear clinking into each other.

“So bloody tight.” With a swift thrust and a knock of your pelvis to the edge of the table, your eyes burn with the feeling of holding Ghost in your most intimate area and the knowledge that he would completely wreck it for anyone else. Your lungs fight for air, but a long mewl exits your fingers as the man shakes over you with restraint. “Christ.”

Tight wasn’t the way to describe it—you were like a fucking noose. Your sensitive walls know every vein and bulge, the scrape and dig, far more intimately than your throat ever could. Like a carved stamp, they’re reforming to Ghost’s dick every second.

Tapping the side of your forehead to the table, the man can’t help himself anymore and starts to thrust into you; feral squelching and fluids staining the top of his pants. Your face burns, the rocking of the table hypnotic as your toes fight to stay on the ground. The sensation of being so full truthfully made your mind go blank, fingers twitching as Ghost continued to palm at your hip—his other hand going to press into your spine, keeping you stapled to the table.

His gear slammed and rubbed into your ass, bruising it no doubt, but you found you didn’t care at all. Pleasure rocked down with every ruthless intrusion.

“Can feel ya ‘round my cock,” you keen at the words, tears dribbling down the side of your face as you try to hold back sobs of pleasure. Ghost increases his pace, rabid slapping echoing off the walls as he feels his sole focus on your mind-shattering bliss. “Can’t have ‘em hear how loud you are, now, can we? Can’t let ‘em know I’m shagging you in their meeting room like a little fucktoy, eh?”

He angles his hips higher, pushing your farther up the table as his hands only drag you back. Every moment leaves your core tightening even more; molten heat pooling as the edge gets closer.

Footsteps echo down the hall outside, but both of you are too focused on the other and the ache that only increases like a pair of cuffs. Your mouth lets loose insistent gasps and moans while Ghost breathily groans at every other interval of his ravaging cock as it brushes your cervix.

You whine loudly, spine arching and legs desperately trying to close. Ghost chuckles and your reaction spurs him on—hitting that same spot over and over again as you sob.

“Right there, yeah? That it, Masque?” You nod rapidly, and the Lieutenant's grip tightens with a loud grunt, “Fuck, that’s it, bloody slut.”

The coil in your gut gets tighter, shining with desperate shakes of your body and the numb way you try to meet Ghost’s thrusts before you entirely lose the plot of reality.

“You’re close,” he breathes, feeling your pussy trying to keep him in, slick trailing down the insides of your thighs and transferring to the Brit’s clothes. His boxers were soaked. “C’mon, then. Don’t disappoint me, Masque. Lemme see you cum on my cock before I fill you up like the good girl you are, yeah?”

Your body spasms, thighs tensing and toes curling at the floor; fingers scratching down the table as you press over your mouth harder in a last-ditch effort to remain in control of yourself. The coil snaps and suddenly you’re digging your forehead into the wood below you, orgasm ripping through you like a knife as cum paints Ghost’s dick as he continues his relentless chase of his second release.

“There it is, fuck, look at all that, Love. Paintin’ me like a naughty fuckin’ portrait.” Ghost gasps, a hand coming up to connect to the table by your head, feeling you completely flood his pelvis—he doesn’t stop even when you whine in overstimulation, fucked-out eyes wide and mouth dripping drool into a small pool. The milky ring at his root grows and grows. With a loud moan, he looks down and watches the vulgar sight rabidly, pounding into your heat as his own end gets closer and closer.

“Shite,” His forehead hits your spine, taking the skin into his teeth and biting hickeys as his open mouth leaves trails of saliva. “Took me so bloody well, cunt was made just for me.”

His body shakes and with one last shove from his hips, he spills into you with a loud whimper muffled into your flesh. Teeth biting down so hard that you moan in turn, the spent releases dribble out of you like a stuffed bird. You feel his chest atop you as he places his weight slowly down; the fast-panting mirroring your own.

Sweat connects the two of you as it bleeds through your clothes, the smell in the air and the scent of delirious sex staining your bodies.

Your mouth remains open and hoarse, scraped dry. Ghost above you moves delicately as he pulls back up, moving back to peel your messy hair away from your blown eyes. After a moment his small voice hits you—the accent deep.

“All good?” Your eyes slowly rove to him as he kisses your forehead, shivering violently as he slips out of you; the wet drip of cum hits the carpet in the still silence as you whimper at the feeling. “...Masque?”

Dull concern emanates from his tone and you blink back. You clear your throat and utter in a torn voice, “...P-pretty good apology, Ghosty…S…shit.”

Smugness burns in his orbs, but the roll of his eyes hides it quickly. The puff of his chest couldn’t be hidden from you, though.

His hands reach down and hike up your panties and cargos—both items completely wrecked. The large splotch on Ghost’s own clothes showed you that you weren't alone in that aspect.

As he carefully flips your limp form back over and pulls you up by your arms, you groan in annoyance but shut up when his hands go to zip your zipper and clip back your belt.

“Couldn’t have had a revelation in your barracks room?” You huff, itching at your throat. “You’re buying me cough drops, you ass.” The state of your voice was laughable. Anyone would know what happened if they spoke to you.

Ghost sighs and begins with his own clothes, stuffing himself back into his boxers and growling at the chilled fluids on his pants as he pulls them back up. He goes and retrieves his belt before walking back.

“Acting like you weren’t beggin’ for it.” He slides you a smirk before he grabs onto his mask and begins to cover his jaw.

Your hand snaps out and stops him. Ghost startles, eyes flashing before his muscles stiffen. You raise a brow and he slightly calms.

Scoffing, you lean in and place a final kiss on his lips—a tinier and tender kiss. Gaze wide, the man stares off as his heart starts to beat fast again at the firm press. After you’re done your hand goes up and grasps the fabric yourself, carefully re-shrouding the mystery of a man with a smile.

He watches blankly.

“We okay?” You ask, tilting your head as your lower body aches when you shift on the table. “I miss my annoyingly gruff Ghost. This new one’s a jerk.” A small laugh graces your ears, and it makes you beam. “I know why you did it,” you admit, and hold out a hand between your bodies. “But pushing me away will only hurt the both of us. Let's try this, Ghost. Please.”

“...You’re makin’ it seem like a good deal, Love…is it?” He holds out a hand of his own, large and scarred hands that had gripped you so tight before utterly loose and awaiting.

“No clue,” you admit with a smirk, “Wanna figure it out?” Ghost watches as he always does and always will, searching into your eyes for any hint of hesitance or denial.

“Always liked a challenge.” He grunts and encompasses his hand with yours. You squeeze it and nod, chest light as your normal breath comes back.

“You know what a real challenge is? Trying to take down your fucking dic—” The meeting room handle jiggles and you both snap into action.

Ghost tosses you your notepad and you slide a shoved-away chair his way on shaky legs, slipping into a free seat with failing knees. You both sit side by side on the opposite side of the table, shoulders bumping and faces hot not three seconds later. Ears twitch at the sound of a key entering the slot.

You try to act normal and begin messing around with your notepad, stealing a pen from Ghost’s gear as Price opens the door. At the sight of the two of you, he pauses and stands in the doorway.

“Ghost…Masque.” With a squint, Price looks around the room slowly, confused at the rod-straight spine from his Lieutenant and the way you awkwardly scribble nothing onto your pad.

“Price,” Ghost utters as you look up and fake smile, waving as you tighten your hips under the table in an attempt to hide the evidence spilling out of you.

The Captain continues to stare, scrutiny in his eyes, for at least a full minute.

“Problem, then?” The Lieutenant asks. Price’s lips thin and he gains a sheen of deep annoyance. You groan under your breath and knock your head to the table at the next comment.

“In the fucking meeting room?!”

TAGS:

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fluentmoviequoter · 4 months

Text

Confessions of a SWAT Team

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: You and Deacon fell in love with each other, but didn't tell anyone. When officers closer to your age begin flirting with you, Deacon grows distant and won't tell you why.

Warnings: angst, fluff, age gap (not specific but I imagined ~15-20 years, so reader would be late 20s?), Deacon is protective, some arguing, mentions of insecurity, reader is somewhat shy, I used the term "suicide bomber" once in passing. Luca, Street, and Hondo meddle. I think that's all!

Word Count: 2.9k+ words

Requested Here!

Picture from Pinterest

Falling in love with Deacon Kay was easy. Telling anyone, including the man himself, is not so easy.

Deacon Kay never considered the idea of skydiving to be scary… until he found himself falling head over heels for you, the newest recruit. When you walked in on your first day, confident of your skills yet willing to learn your place in the team and receive feedback, he felt something new. You were quiet and reserved, willing to learn, and each time he complimented your skills or offered an idea to make something easier or for improvement, you opened up a bit more. More than attraction, there was a deep need to get to know you, to protect you, to stay close to you, and, later, to hide his biggest secret from you and everyone else. Deacon Kay was falling in love but knew it was wrong.

At the end of your probationary period, you and Deacon have a deep connection, secrets and all. His need to stay close and protect you has only strengthened with time, but every time he looks at you, sees your youth, and pictures the bright future you could have, he tries to silence his heart and listen to his mind. You’re too young and could do so much better, he thinks.

Two months into working with 20 David, you were trapped face-to-face with a suicide bomber. With no protection and no escape route, you maintained a brave act while hoping, praying, that your gear would keep you alive. With three seconds left on the detonator countdown, you feel someone wrap their arms around you as their shoulder blocks your face. The force of the explosion knocks you backward, twisting in your savior’s arms to land on top of Deacon. You feel the pressure build in your eyes as you yell at him never to do that again. He can never know, but his protectiveness scares you because it puts him directly in harm’s way.

After the bombing incident, Deacon gets closer. He puts himself between you and gunfire, taking several shots to his Kevlar while leading you to safety. During a raid with narcotics, a cartel leader jumps on top of you, and you struggle for the upper hand until Deacon hauls him off of you, finishing the fight on your behalf. After Deacon protects you, he always takes you back to the station, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back as he leads you somewhere private. He tends to your wounds and reminds you that he’s always there if you need to talk.

You want to talk to him more than anything, but Deacon is a Sergeant II, and he’s older than you, and, most importantly, he likely frowns upon inter-team relationships. So, you bottle everything up. Forever.

“You think he’ll ever tell her?” Street asks as Deacon walks out, close enough to you that your hands brush with every step.

“He hasn’t even told us,” Luca points out.

“Maybe we should do something.”

“Their relationship is theirs, guys,” Hondo interjects. “We shouldn’t interfere. Yet.”

Street and Luca smile at the thought of intervening in the future and seeing their teammates happy. They know Deacon is single-handedly responsible for breaking you out of your shell, but they’d like to see it go one step further.

✯✯✯✯✯

“She’s gorgeous,” someone says.

Deacon’s brow furrows as he hears voices grow louder. He tries to focus on the computer before him, looking for blueprints for an entry raid.

“Care for a friendly bet?” a second voice asks.

Several young officers dressed in street clothes stop beside the door where Deacon is working. He can see them, but they haven’t noticed him yet. His focus wavers when he thinks he hears your name.

“Of course, we’re still talking about her,” the first guy answers.

Deacon’s focus shifts completely, turning to face them. They’re close to your age and attractive, but what bothers him most is how easily they discuss their attraction to you.

“If you suggest a ‘first one to get a date with her’ bet, I’m out.”

“I was thinking more we see whose pickup line lands better, then we let her choose. She’s not a prize, she’s a person.”

Yet you’re planning to use her as an object in a bet, Deacon thinks.

“Were you at the range yesterday afternoon? She was there. I can’t believe how good she is. 20 David is lucky.”

“For more reasons than one.”

Deacon clenches his jaw as they walk away, still comparing what they've seen of your shooting and fighting skills. He watches you in awe, too, but they have a shot to get close to you.

“Focus,” he whispers to himself, facing the computer.

“Hey, Deac,” you call as you enter. “Hondo wanted to know if you found the property record? Although, I’m still arguing that this is a waste of your talents.”

You stop beside him, leaning against the desk and smiling at him.

“Uh, yeah,” Deacon answers, trying to look anywhere but at your beautiful eyes. “I got it.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m great. Let’s go.”

You nod slowly before following him out. Two men call your name, and you look over, tilting your head as they beckon you over.

“I’ll be right there, Deac,” you tell him, tapping his shoulder twice.

He nods, watching silently as you walk to them. They smile as they say something quiet enough that he can’t hear. There’s a small smile on your face, and Deacon thinks you’re introducing yourself.

Pointless, he thinks, they know more about you than they should. Not as much as me, though.

The thought catches Deacon off guard, and when he looks back up, the taller officer is openly flirting with you. You laugh and push a stray piece of hair behind your ear. Deacon missed his chance. He walks away while you continue smiling at them, seemingly enjoying their flirtations.

✯✯✯✯✯

You’re uncomfortable; these officers are 1) flirting with you while you’re still working and 2) way too young and immature for you. Forcing a laugh and moving your hand to your hair nervously, you glance over and only see Deacon’s back as he leaves.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” you blurt out, interrupting the worst pickup line you’ve ever heard, “but it was nice to meet you.”

“Oh, okay. We’ll see you around?” one asks.

“I’m sure we will, we work in the same building,” you answer before realizing that it sounds a little too much like an invitation to come talk to you again.

Rushing to follow Deacon, you enter an office behind him, and Hondo immediately starts talking. You stand by Deacon, but he doesn’t look over and roll his eyes at Hondo’s bad analogies like usual. Fiddling with your fingers, you try to focus but wonder what happened. He could have a lot on his mind, or maybe you did something wrong. You decide to give it some time and hope that it passes.

20 David spends the afternoon training, and when you get in the ring with Deacon, you expect it to go as usual. Typically, you throw a few punches and have to beg Deacon to fight back and make it fair. However, today, Deacon has no problem immediately giving you a full-force hit. You step back and catch yourself before returning the hit. You lose the sparring round, and Deacon climbs out without a glance in your direction.

When you see him later while preparing to go home for the night, you stay quiet. Part of you hopes he’ll yell at you or something - anything to acknowledge you, but nothing happens.

“Goodnight,” you say as Deacon leaves the locker room.

He nods without looking at you. Your heart feels like it’s in pieces on the locker room floor, and you take a deep breath before gathering your things to go home.

“Heading out?” Luca asks as he walks in. You nod, and he adds, “We’re going out for a little bit, want to come?”

“No thanks,” you say quietly, closing your locker gently. “See you tomorrow.”

Street opens the door from the other side and holds it, his smile falling as you duck your head and rush past him.

“What happened?” he asks Luca.

“Deacon,” he answers.

“Want to tell me why Deacon is slamming doors?” Hondo asks when Luca and Street exit.

“Is it just Deacon?” Luca asks knowingly.

“Should we do something now? That distance isn’t safe in the field and if she’s nervous around him…” Street trails off.

“We may have to. She’s not the only emotional one, though. Deac looked a little green on his way out,” Hondo responds.

“What now?”

“Let’s see how tomorrow goes. We have the gala tomorrow night, so something needs to happen. And soon.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Sitting on your couch, you replay every event of the day. Obviously, you did something wrong, which is why Deacon is so eager for space between you. The only ‘bad’ thing that happened before he changed was the officers flirting with you, but you were still on time, so you didn’t do anything wrong.

If Deacon wants space, you’ll give it to him. It’s the least you can do.

The garment bag in your bathroom catches your attention, and you cross your fingers that the gala is enjoyable and not an evening spent avoiding and being avoided by the one man you’d like to dance with.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Hey, brother, you clean up nice,” Hondo taunts as Deacon approaches.

“You don’t look half bad yourself,” Deacon replies, a small smile tugging at his lips. He glances around but doesn’t find what, or who, he’s looking for.

“She’s not here yet,” Street says.

“What?”

Hondo shakes his head, and Street takes his cue, excusing himself to let Hondo and Deacon talk.

“What happened between you two?” he inquires.

“Me and Street?”

Hondo rolls his eyes before looking pointedly at Deacon. “You’re jealous.”

Deacon’s eyes stray from Hondo, locking on something behind him. Turning his head, Hondo laughs when he sees what is more worthy of his friend’s attention.

✯✯✯✯✯

Stepping into the large ballroom, you barely have time for a full breath before the officers from earlier sidle up to you and begin talking. You smile politely and nod, not listening to what they’re saying, as you scan the venue for Deacon. When you find him, he’s standing beside Hondo. Hondo steps away, and Deacon’s eyes lock on yours, his brown eyes wide as his jaw clenches. The eye contact doesn’t last long; Deacon turns his back to you and disappears into the crowd. Your heart and smile fall, so the men surrounding you switch tactics, openly complimenting you, though most of it doesn’t affect you in the slightest.

“Excuse me,” you mutter quietly, pushing between them to follow Deacon.

You deserve an explanation, and you’re going to get one. It takes a few minutes, but you find Deacon standing in front of a fireplace in what appears to be a private office off the back hallway.

“Deac?” you ask, wringing your fingers in front of your stomach.

Deacon doesn’t turn around, but he can see you in his mind (not that you ever leave), with your hair styled beautifully, an outfit that flatters you in every way, and glassy eyes and glossy lips. No matter what you’re wearing, street clothes, your uniform, or formal wear for a police gala, you always look perfect to Deacon. Tonight, though, you’re practically begging to be kissed breathless, to be adored, and if he looks at you, he won’t be able to restrain himself.

“What did I do?”

The question presents your insecurity and shyness, which take Deacon back to your first month when you could barely look him in the eye, and your answers had a five-word maximum. He rubs his hand down his face, hearing you shift behind him.

“Please tell me what I did to make you do this,” you plead.

“You didn’t do anything, I’m just working through some things,” he answers carefully, his back to you. “No big deal.”

“If it’s not a big deal then why am I losing you over it?” you snap, your growing anger overpowering your sadness and nervousness.

“You’re not losing me,” Deacon says, sighing.

“It sure feels like it, David.”

You never use his first name, and the moment Deacon hears it, he turns around. He sees you and loses some of his jealousy and anger but says what he needs to anyway.

“I just needed some space to think,” he replies. “Is that wrong?”

“Needing space to think and avoiding me are two different things.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you-“

“Then why did you leave? Why haven’t you said more than fifteen words to me in the last two days?”

“Why didn’t you talk to me at first?” he asks, his voice rising slightly. He regrets the question immediately but can’t apologize before you speak again.

“If this is what talking to you is going to be like from now on, maybe I never should have started,” you admit, dropping your head as tears gather at your waterline.

“You don’t mean that,” Deacon says quietly.

“Just tell me why. Tell me the truth.”

Deacon doesn’t say anything, and you bite your bottom lip as you think. Deacon wants nothing more than to grab your face, tug your lip free, and kiss you until you don’t talk to him, not because he created a rift between you but because he steals your breath. You’re all he’s ever wanted and more, but the idea still terrifies him. The rejection alone could kill him, but having to see you at work would be worse.

“If you want me to join another team or something, tell me,” you demand. “But I deserve to know why you decided I wasn’t worth the lack of space.”

Deacon’s eyes race to find yours. “This is not about your worth,” he answers, anger spilling through. Not at you, though; at himself, at the situation he put you in, and at those officers who have a chance at what he craves most.

“Then why are you acting like you hate being near me?”

“Because I cannot lose another person I love!” he yells.

You freeze, unable to form a reply. Deacon takes a deep breath when he realizes what he confessed. Your silence is worse than yelling at him.

“I’m sorry,” he begins.

“I love you too,” you whisper, a single tear breaking free when you smile. “I’m in love with you.”

Deacon steps forward, closing the physical and emotional gap. Taking your left hand, he raises his to wipe your tears. His hand lingers by your face as you smile up at him.

“I was jealous,” he explains. “Those cops were flirting with you yesterday and you looked happy. They’re closer to your age and you have more in common. It made sense for you to go for them, not me.”

“Deacon, I was uncomfortable, not happy. I turned around to find you and you were gone and then you just kept getting further away. I want you, Deacon Kay. No one else.”

“Care to dance with me?” he asks quietly.

“I’d love to. I’ve been wanting to all week,” you answer.

His smile grows, drawing your attention to his eyes as he leads you back to the ballroom. You don’t see any members of your team as you walk onto the dance floor. Deacon leads, letting you lean on him again, something you missed in the short time it was gone. The song ends, and you straighten, preparing to pull away.

“I want you too,” Deacon says. “But I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

“Then don’t,” you encourage, smiling as you tap his hand twice.

Deacon smiles and pulls his hands from yours, cupping your face and kissing you without hesitation. You slide your hands up his chest to rest under his lapel. Deacon feels your heart race, his thumb against the pulse point below your jaw, but his beats steadily below your hand. With each of Deacon’s movements, more of your breath, more of your life, more of you becomes his.

“Aye, Deac!” Luca yells from the crowd. “Way to go!”

“About time!” Street adds, leading a round of applause from the entire LAPD.

Deacon pulls back from you, smiling when you hide your face against his neck. He sees the flirty cops from earlier awkwardly clapping with the crowd. His hand rubs up and down your back, glad that everyone, you included, knows that you’re his and he is yours.

“Told you,” Hondo teases as he walks to Deacon’s side. “Green ain’t your color.”

“He only means figuratively, you look good in everything,” you mumble against his skin.

“Want to get out of here?” Deacon asks, his hands still on your back as he holds you against him.

“Please,” you reply, tapping his chest twice.

He leads you out, stopping you after you’re outside.

“Why do you tap me twice?” Deacon asks gently, his arm around your waist and his jacket over your shoulders.

“It’s the only way I could tell you without actually saying it,” you say with a shrug.

“Say what?”

“That I love you.”

Deacon smiles, tapping your waist twice as he moves you to stand closer to him.

His lips meet yours again, and when your hands reach his jaw, you’re not sure where you end or Deacon begins, and it’s perfect. Deacon Kay was easy to fall in love with, easy to be in love with, and he was absolutely worth the wait.

#david deacon kay x reader #david kay x reader #deacon kay x reader #deacon kay fluff #david deacon kay #david kay #deacon kay #swat cbs #requests

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kryptonian-bat-thing · 4 months

Text

The Calm After The Storm

(a short fic heavily inspired by frownyalfred's post)

Clark rushed out of work as soon as he could. There was a single message on his phone from an unregistered number, but he already knew it probably came from one of his secretive friends in the next city over.

"Mister Kent,

It is with a sense of urgency I invite you to pay a visit to Gotham. The details will be discussed in person, but as you may guess, this does concern our friend in common.

- My sincere gratitude, A."

Alfred. Something had happened with Bruce, he knew. Flying through the clouds, he already had some idea of what the situation was: Jason Todd. The boy was declared deceased not more than a week or two prior, and both Bruce Wayne and Batman seemed... off.

The socialite wouldn't appear as much on events and interviews, and when he did, he acted like everything was fine, but never stayed long enough to prove. Batman wasn't showing up to some of the Justice League meetings, leaving most of the leadership to Wonder Woman and Superman. They didn't even hesitate to allow him some time away from his duties. The criminals of Gotham began getting more bruised when caught, more scarred than usual.

Clark's only regret is that he didn't get to it sooner.

Arriving at the Manor's grounds, he paced to the door, glad that the nightfall hid his figure from any prying eyes. Alfred was already at the door.

"He's underground." The old man cut the chase, a thank you rushed his lips. A single drop of concern showed in between his wrinkles. Clark put a hand to his shoulder and shot him with what he hoped looked like a comforting smile.

Heading inside, behind the grandfather clock, down the spiral staircase, into the dark cave. He'd been there before, but not unaccompanied. It feels more eerie than ever.

The man in black was turned away from him, facing many screens at once. Every time they'd start a conversation, Bruce would acknowledge his friend first, even when he tried to sneak up on him. However, Clark beat him to it.

"Bruce," the man of steel kept his voice soft and reassuring. "I heard about what happened. Listen, B... If you need anything, you know the League and I are here for you."

No response. Bruce's heart had the same rhythm as always, steady and calm, like the ever lasting beat of a sad song. The dim light kept the kevlar cape and the removed cowl glistening, creating such an abnormal ambient. Clark sighed before continuing the speech he heartily organized on the way.

"I understand that you may be sad right now, but... no matter what, I--" Clark's thoughts and voice were cut off by a dry laugh that came out like thunder. It sounded almost masochist, a single "hah!" from the deep pit of Bruce's lungs.

"Sad? I'm not sad..." the suffering chuckle gave away to a Batman low and static voice, turning into a growl as he grit out of his teeth:

"I'm furious."

The response left Clark with furrowed brows and wide eyes. He almost took a step back, before hovering around to the side to better see his friend. Bruce's eyes were puffy and red, as wide as his own, furrowed brows in concentration and a deep scowl. His hair was stranded and oily like he forgot to wash it and he could use some shaving too. Wasn't looking much like a celebrity right now, his friend thought with ache.

Following his eyes, he saw what was on the screen: Joker sightings, evidence saved from a blown up ware house, what was once a crowbar but now is burnt and bent like a pretzel. Pieces of the Robin's suit with DNA scans all over, as well as... blood.

Bruce's hands weren't typing anymore, they were turned into fists. A huff or two came out of his lips, soft enough that only enhanced hearing like Clark's could have picked up on.

His heart rate hadn't changed at all. It didn't speed up as the scowl burned with anger and pain, those baby blue eyes filled with vengeance to the point of burning.

"He won't do anything like that again," Batman almost whispered. "he won't get the chance to." And rushed a turn around to his Batmobile. Before he could reach for his cowl, though, a soft and warm hand caught up his wrist.

"You don't want to do this, Clark." a threatening growl. "You know it must be done."

"I know you, B, and this isn't it." his frown was still present as he didn't let go when Bruce struggled to pull his hand out. Even as Bruce took his hand to his belt, he didn't budge. They stayed like this until the older man gave into the touch.

"Fine. Fight me, then. I'll still try, I'll try until you have to kill me. And you will," he spat words unlike his alter ego would do, pushing his voice louder and louder. "You might get it to happen, but I will not let this man go! So end it, Kal, end it here and now! Do it!"

Bruce's face was close to his own now as he yelled. If he was wearing his glasses, this would be much more uncomfortable than it already was. Bruce stared into the sapphire eyes that shone willingly upon him until he exhaled the rage out of his body.

"Please..." his voice almost cracked as it came out of his breathless self. He couldn't hold back the tears anymore, and he hated it. Bruce hated everything about crying, from the running nose to the vulnerability it puts him in. He looked down so that his best friend wouldn't see what a mess he was.

"Bruce, listen to me..." Clark finally let go of his wrist and lifted the older man's chin towards his own so he could look him in the eye. "We can't let our lowest moments define us. You were the one to teach me that, remember?"

Avoidant of his glance, the dark knight furrowed in response. The broad man grasped his shoulders and pursed his lips before speaking again.

"How many times haven't I lashed out and wanted to fix things my way, and you convinced me to use my brains for once?" a shine crossed Bruce's eyes in a second as he reminisced such moments. Kal could be such a hot headed person in battle he would often launch himself into trouble without planning. And he'd get hurt, because he was fighting for the wrong reasons. Many anger issues born from his habit of never leaving matters unresolved could sometimes take the best out of him, but luckily Batman and Wonder Woman would always be there to rescue him.

"This... this is different, Clark." he shook his head twice and took a step back, turning around from a pitiful glance.

"It might be, but still." taking a step forward, he embraced Bruce's shoulders from behind. They didn't display so much affection in front of others, but Clark knew he'd accept it. "Don't shut me off, please. I don't want you to lose yourself to that thing, B."

That thing. That mound of darkness that lured in every corner, the thing that kept him awake after completing every single one of his duties, what made him fight until he could no longer stand and would still come back crawling if needed. It wasn't driven by any heroism or narcissist policy, but born from rage, grown in vengeance and flourished in madness. He sighed and leaned into Clark's touch, allowing a single sob to come out.

"It was my fault, Clark... I wasn't there when he needed me and now..." another sob. He pulled himself inwards to hide from Kal but the man only snuggled him closer.

"You did all you could, B. I'm sure Jason wouldn't want to see you like this."

Turning around in a swift move, Bruce returned the hug, half of a sobbing noise escaping his throat. His legs trembled as Clark reached under the cape to rub his back in comforting motions.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, his knees giving in. Kal held him with no problem, lowering them to the floor so he wouldn't be hanging. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Words turn into sobs, that slowly turn into exhales. Fingers buried in both capes as this embrace holds something sweeter than honey and stronger than steel, a bond so deep they drown in each other's touch.

Bruce feels the weight in his shoulders lift off as he drifts to a light sleep in the current position, holding onto the red cape as hunky forearms lifted him and he rested against biceps covered in blue. He hadn't slept in days, just like Clark had thought.

On and off consciousness, Bruce didn't fight being carried into his bedroom. His friend didn't use his superspeed, only carried him carefully and used his cape to cover his eyes from the brighter lights. Laying him against the bed, he removed the cape and armor from the bat suit and left them hanging on a chair, leaving Bruce in his under armor, which wasn't much comfortable, but at least he could sleep in it.

"I'll go now... Call if you need anything, okay?" Clark whispered, not to disturb the almost asleep man. As he pulled away, a hand grasped his cape with laziness.

"Don't," Bruce's voice still strained out of his throat. "I can't sleep. I keep dreaming of him and I feel so..."

He didn't finish the phrase. He didn't have to. Clark took off his own cape and sat down beside his buddy, looking at him in the heavy lidded pearl eyes that blinked slowly, a silent thanking as the rest he craved approached him.

"Don't worry, B." he smiles, letting a hand slide through the one's hair, who sighs and snuggles into the feathered pillow. Clark pulls the sheets over Bruce as he feels the man starting to snore.

"I'll make sure you're okay."

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meaninglessblah-writes · 5 months

Note

☕️🦇🤫📸

Thank you for helping me work towards my Nanowrimo goal 💙

Bruce leans his chin on his fist, looking the picture of refined ease leaned forward in his armchair. "I don't see the appeal."

Tim adjusts the focus, bringing the cape and cowl into clarity. "It's about the artistry," he says. It's not entirely the truth, but it's not entirely a lie. He shuffles through a few settings until he can really bring Bruce's cheekbones into focus. "Capturing you in a light not many people get to see."

Bruce's lips twist like he doesn't believe Tim for a second. But he shifts back into a more comfortable lean, thighs spreading wide to invite the eyeline of Tim's camera.

He follows the slope of Bruce's stomach down, tilting the camera on its tripod and flicking through a few quick snaps. Tim leans into the eyepiece when he instructs, "You can undo the belt now."

Bruce doesn't move, and after a moment Tim pulls back, flushing a little in his sheepishness.

"Can you take the belt off, please," he amends to, and Bruce smirks.

His fingers slip down to flick open the buckle one-handed, in a brilliant show of competence Tim wishes he was fast enough to catch on film. He doesn't mention how it leaves his throat a little dry, seeing a man so intimately in-tune with his own body. It's a little intimidating, and more than a little arousing.

"You really get into a headspace when you do this," Bruce observes, and then clarifies at Tim's blank expression, "Directing."

"Oh." Tim's directed a few home movies, but he more prefers still life photography, trying to encapsulate the perfect split second of a moment eternally. "It's a passion project."

"A passion project," Bruce repeats, like he's tasting the words. The yellow belt falls to either side of his hips, the long curve of his waistline prominent without the belt to intersect it.

Tim buries his embarrassment behind the eyepiece. It's easier to say his next words when there's the distance of glass between them. "When you're ready, start touching yourself."

Bruce doesn't wither under the direction. Maybe it's the benefit of not being able to see his eyes, but Bruce usually exudes calm. Tim doesn't know why he expected any less when it came to the unrufflable Batman.

One large, gloved hand slides up his thigh — tantalisingly slow beneath the gaze of Tim's camera — to grip himself through the front of his suit. He's done away with the jockstrap and cup at Tim's request, and now the thick curve of his hardening member is all too visible through the kevlar.

Tim adjusts his zoom, ensuring the triangle of Bruce's crotch is perfectly framed as he snaps a few photos. "That's perfect. Take your time. The slower you go, the more I have to work with."

"I do have one question," Bruce interjects thoughtfully. His hand doesn't stray from where it's slowly stroking his cock through the kevlar.

It takes Tim a few beats to realise he's spoken, and a few more to remember what was said. "What's that?"

"What do you get out of this?"

Tim chews his lip, memorialising a few shots as he puts together his answer. "It's... arousing. Knowing you're putting on this act for me; knowing I'm the only one who's allowed to see you like this. I'm the only one you'd let photograph you like this. It's trust, I guess? Like I said, it's a passion project."

Bruce is smirking, just the finest curl in the deep corners of his mouth. He's watching Tim intently; he can feel it. It's hard not to squirm under that gaze.

"Anyone could tell it's a bit more than that," he rumbles, gently accusing.

Tim swallows. His pants feel a tad tight in the front, and he shifts his weight surreptitiously. "Can you touch your chest?"

The lack of breastplate had been another request of Tim's, the under armour stowed for the evening's session. The suit still looks tight where it stretches across Bruce's pectorals, that bat emblem doing nothing to hide the peaks of his nipples where they protrude through.

Bruce's thumb circles one of the buds, hips shifting in their seat. It pulls the muscles of his thighs tight, pulls everything tight, and Tim forgets to breathe for a few moments as he collects a few shots.

His voice comes out husky when he directs, "Can you come like this?"

Bruce's breath whistles through his lips, the only break in the otherwise stoic mask of the Batman. "Possibly. How about you touch yourself behind the camera, and I'll get off to the sight of you enjoying this more than you let on."

Tim's cheeks feel hot when he pulls back to meet Bruce's gaze above the camera. But he wastes no time in sliding a hand past his waistband and palming his eager cock. "Deal."

11,582 / 50,000

Help me reach my goal!

#meaninglessblah answers #meaninglessblah conquers nanowrimo #anonymous

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aries-writingblog · 1 year

Text

Enemy Fire: 17

Summary: There's a new kid in town, and she's got a city to usurp.

Pairing: Jason Todd × F. Reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: language, violence, threats

AN: photos are from Pinterest

Jason stared down at the scene before him.

Riot vans were hastily parked halfway on the sidewalk, the streets swarming with police and SWAT teams.

“Oh, shit.” He murmured.

YN looked furious— hell, she was acting feral.

Not only had the police placed her in meta-cuffs, she was being transported in a case. The glass and metals had to have been forged with her in mind, or at least with someone who had her power in physical strength.

With her arms cuffed behind her, she used her shoulder to ram into the sides. Attempting to break the glass.

When none of her attempts phased the guards surrounding her, she shouted colorful taunts and jeers at them. Trying to bait them into a slip up. He could see an automatic temperature gauge on the side. It was down to fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Her body was steaming in the frigid air of her cage.

He supposed that it was a good idea, to lower her internal temperature. Perhaps it could prevent her from conjuring any rogue flames.

Or it could cause her entire body to seize and she would go into hypothermic shock.

Fear paralyzed his lungs. He couldn’t just march out there and tell them the dangers of changing her temperature without knowing what would happen. He couldn’t have connections to her at all.

Not if he wanted her to be able to get out.

Jason tore his eyes away from her steaming fury. He had to work fast. He and Roy had spent the entire day brainstorming a plan and now, even those frayed ideas were falling apart.

He needed to find Roy, they needed to regroup. Figure something else out.

He cursed under his breath; He should’ve told her when he found out. He could’ve prevented this by letting her prepare herself.

He looked up; Nightwing stood at the top of the buildings. Watching the process from above. As soon as he saw that Red Hood had spotted him, Dick melted back toward the shadows.

That didn’t stop Jason from abandoning the scene to find his way to the rooftops.

Dick was still there, waiting for his arrival. A frown etched into his features. Jason never lied about a lot— sure, his feelings, his general well-being, the occasional fib about having somewhere to be, escaping family activities.

But this one felt like a punch to the gut.

Jason ripped his helmet off, the moment he arrived at the roof. Loud, heavy boots colliding with the concrete slabs, echoing in the cold air with his breath. Escaping in clouds of anger.

“Is that Arkham’s SWAT team?” Jason demanded, pointing down to the swarming groups of black Kevlar below.

Dick leaned back against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest. His eyes were whited out by his domino mask and for once, he was glad. Thankful Jason couldn’t see his whole face.

Because his jaw was set into a stern frown, but his eyes… he couldn’t be sure what they said. And Jason would know. He would know and he would twist his emotions to work in his favor.

Jason huffed, irritated by his brother’s silent treatment. He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaked in warning.

“Dick, you know what people do in Arkham— she hasn’t done anything she didn’t have to do.” He insisted, stepping closer to his brother.

He resisted the urge to dominate over the shorter man— to loom over him and attempt to intimidate him with stature. It wouldn’t do any good, Dick was much too confident in himself to fall for that trap.

“She burned people alive, Jason. Committed arson and extortion.” He spat, lunging from his place. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, pacing for a moment. “I don’t see any of that as necessary.”

“Dick—“

“Jason.” He spun around, his face stern. Jason felt taken aback by the voice. His father voice. Even though Dick wasn’t a parent, sometimes it felt like he could easily assume the role. “You’re lucky you weren’t charged with aiding and abetting.”

His heart thudded, skipping beats.

Fuck.

Fuck— panic swelled in waves, quickly drowning his rationality.

He knew his family was trying to catch her, and that they found her. He just didn’t know how they found her— he thought he had hidden her well enough. And she followed his instructions and her instincts.

All that was left was them. The people hunting her down.

The people he had trusted.

Like a switch flipping, Jason felt all his panic simmer down into pure rage. It thrummed in his veins, settling like poison and stretching cloying fingertips to every last part of him.

“Were you…. You were using me to catch her?”

His voice was soft. Too soft. His eyes gleamed— a dangerous little spark Dick had seen directed at Bruce, and anyone that happened to get in his way. Dick clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. Steeling himself against the onslaught that was inevitable.

“We were doing what we had to.”

Jason scoffed, adjusting his stance; A disappointed grin stretched his lips, sharp teeth showing. His hands falling to his hips. His eyes stung, but he swore he wasn’t going to cry. Not now, not in front of Dick, who would immediately break down into tears himself and try to hold him.

Then the whole ‘incident’ would be talked through and the whole family would be involved. Nothing would be solved— Jason would still be angry, YN would still be in custody.

So, no; He didn’t want to talk it through. He wanted to give in to the fire burning against his sternum.

Because somehow, out of all the shit he had seen, things he had done, this was it. This is what stung and made his stomach queasy.

Like a baseball bat to the abdomen.

It felt so familiar. This is what could have happened to him. If it hadn’t been for Bruce and Dick, finding him and stopping the Knight, cleaning up his mess; Jason could have been the one in chains. Being carted off to Arkham.

If they could catch him, at least.

And now, here they were again, only this time, Jason was on the other side. Seeing the same, tragic storyline from the opposing team.

Because she wasn’t as fortunate.

Because she wasn’t a Wayne.

“So, all of this bullshit about giving people a second chance, that only applies to adopted children of billionaires, then? You only cared because it was me.” Jason determined, his tongue sticking into his cheek.

Dick froze, his eyes widening.

Just as he had assumed: Jason had taken his words and twisted them around.

“That’s not fair.” His voice hoarse. Emotions caught in his throat, choking him.

Something in Jason’s chest snapped.

“Yeah, well, look around, Dick. This city isn’t fair!” He shouted, his arms shooting out to reference where they stood.

“The best place for her right now, is where she is.” Dick replied, attempting to keep his voice steady.

Jason swallowed his laughter, though he couldn’t prevent the deprecating smile from tugging his lips. He turned around, facing the various flashing police lights. They had began to pack up and leave— YN was already gone. The SWAT trucks gone as well, leaving behind the police department to canvas and take care of her apartment.

“Would you have said the same of me?” Jason asked, softly.

Dick clenched his jaw. He wasn’t being fair.

They had different circumstances, different backgrounds. They were not the same.

He had fought so hard to save Jason because he knew he could be saved. Jason was a bright kid, with a blindingly bright future.

YN had been raised under the strict hand of a New York crime lord. Used her powers and abilities to harm those around her. So, no; No matter how many gift baskets he saw her give out to the homeless, it didn’t change the facts.

She attempted his brother’s life, several times. Endangered the lives of civilians, lit people on fire, destroyed and damaged properties, just to... to what? Gain power?

Take Red Hood’s network away? Kill him?

Or was her plan to entrap him; Laying all the blame to trace back to Red Hood.

Because if Jason had been caught with her, he would have been in the same predicament. And Dick didn’t know if he could have gotten him out of it.

Jason seemed to understand what the silence meant. He nodded, biting down on his bottom lip. Leaning down, he snatched his helmet and shoved it back over his head. Yanking a grappling hook from his belt, he secured his escape, and got away fast.

As soon as his feet left the roof, Dick felt his heart sink further— if it could go any further down.

He hated this.

Sure, he and Jason fought a lot— small, petty arguments that didn’t mean anything. ‘Who ate the last cookie?’ ‘Why are you in my apartment at three AM?’ ‘Could you stop holding Damian by his ankles over the balcony?’

This? This was a fight.

Something of this caliber hadn’t happened since the Knight’s reign over Gotham. Since Jason had Dick by the throat, pinned to the ground, spitting and snarling at Bruce.

Dick exhaled, shakily, leaning back against the wall.

This was ending in bloodshed and disappointment; For one, or the other.

“You ever get that blood stain out of your cape?”

Stephanie groaned, dramatically. Her sat her coffee cup down heavily; Barbara’s hand shot out in precaution, aiming to prevent a spill.

“No— it didn’t come out and I’m pissed.” The blonde complained.

Barbara hummed in commiseration, keeping an eye on the screens as she typed.

“You try lemon juice?” She suggested. Steph’s face screwed up, her lip raising.

“What?”

“Lemon juice. Let it sit for like fifteen minutes and then scrub it out with cold water.”

Stephanie frowned, her eyes narrowing. The way Barbara was sat, staring forward and busying herself seemed suspicious.

And Stephanie had pulled enough pranks on the other members of the Wayne family to know when she was being taken for a ride.

“Now I think you’re just making things up.” She declared, crossing her arms. Barbara scoffed.

“I’m not! Look it up—“

The door to the stairs blew open and footsteps pounded down the metal stairs. A flash of a leather jacket and red accents told them exactly who they were dealing with.

“Hi, Jason?”

Jason barely spared them a glance, anger evident on his face, as he posted himself beside the elevator. Waiting with his arms crossed.

“Fuck you people.”

The elevator doors opened with a quiet ding and Bruce stepped out. In the next moment, Jason was right back to pestering him. Practically begging at this point; It definitely left him bruised, but he would nurse his ego later.

“Bruce, this isn’t right. She was only doing what she had to.”

The Batman stopped, fixing his son into place with a blank stare.

Jason had tracked him down, staying on his heels, fussing and berating his adoptive father about LN.

There hadn’t been a moment’s peace or silence for an hour. At least.

“This whole time, you’ve seemed to know more than you let on.” Bruce stated, finally approaching his elephant in the Batcave. “Give me good, undeniable reason and I will talk to Flash and get her transported to their meta security.”

Jason swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing uncertainly. YN would forgive him if he told Bruce… she had to. She would see the logic. It was for her, after all. To get her out of the trouble he put her in.

He blinked. She wouldn’t forgive him. It was her information, her background. The things that she had scrubbed so throughly from the internet they didn’t even exist anymore. And that had taken hard work.

He couldn’t.

The less the Bats knew, the better. He would just have to take his chances.

“She isn’t looking for any more trouble. She was just on the run. Doing what she had to do.” Jason repeated, sticking by his original statements.

Bruce sighed, his lips pursing.

Jason knew immediately; It wasn’t enough.

“She still did them. She is still required retribution.”

Jason pushed his hands through his hair, heaving out a sigh. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, forcing his emotions back. Angry tears would help no one. Especially not himself.

His hands dropped and he let them fall to his sides as he shifted his weight over to his opposite side. Staring at Bruce’s feet for a moment.

“Do whatever you want, just don’t put her in Arkham. It’ll only make things worse.” He decided, shoving past Batman and making his way to the stairs.

Bruce called his name; Jason paused, hesitating by the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t turn. That message was strong enough.

“Is there a reason you’ve taken so strongly to this woman?” Bruce asked.

Jason’s chest seized. Anger flooding his veins again.

Of course. Of course Bruce thought he was sleeping with her. Because that’s the only way she was redeemable to him.

“I haven’t. I just know that she doesn’t deserve to be in that damned asylum.” He spat, climbing the stairs before he could be pulled back.

Bruce exhaled through his nose.

Jason had fallen in love. And he didn’t even know it yet.

“Are you changing her arrangement?” Stephanie asked. Barbara turned her chair around to face him, to listen to the conversation.

Bruce tugged the cowl from his head, his hair sticking up in different directions. Sweaty and disorganized.

He brushed a hand through his dark locks, slicking it back into a somewhat respectable style. His eyes still had the blackout makeup smeared around them.

“I can’t. I doubt Gordon would even entertain the idea.” He admitted. Guilt chewed at his stomach, though his mind was convinced he did the right thing. No matter how certain Jason felt about her. “The public is in a frenzy over LN and trying to shift the influence now would only cause hysteria.”

Stephanie’s lips parted, her mouth halfway open.

“This is the only thing Jason has ever asked you for. The only thing he’s even remotely felt, deeply, since he came back.” Barbara spoke up. Bruce clenched his jaw. “You’re taking that away.”

The whole team was slowly turning on each other. In the beginning of the hunt, most of them thought Bruce was right. Hell, even Bruce thought he was making the right decision.

But now… doubt was creeping into his mind. Jason was clouding his reasoning. His morals.

Barbara was joining Stephanie and Jason’s side; Dick and Tim seemed to be straddling the fence, the last he spoke with them. Damian was only with Bruce because he never disagreed with his father— too bent on his approval than the right thing.

The woman was dividing them at a time when they needed to be a front. A United team.

A family.

Bruce just wanted his family back together again. And as usual, he was managing to shove his foot into his mouth and destroy it all over again.

“I can’t sacrifice the public for one person.” Bruce finally stated.

His words were met with silence, until a sigh broke from the blonde before him.

“Y’know… sometimes, it’s alright to be selfish. To damn this city because all it ever does is take.” Stephanie frowned, picking up her phone and coffee cup from the desk. She began walking away, muttering back to them: “These people will always find a moral high horse to climb and look down on everyone else.”

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x f!reader #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #enemy fire

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savterifuckedup · 2 years

Text

haha these dudes again :))

of course it's red that's the first thing he sees in the evening. to be completely honest, frank doesn't have it in him to even act surprised, really. and of course the blind shithead has his usual, non-kevlar pyjamas on him. frank tries to ignore the whole debacle, but then he hears gunfire, and just can't.

it's also not surprising that mere minutes after he is helping red to get home which is ridiculously close (not if you ask red's shot leg, though).

red's smiling, and frank's initial reaction is to wash away the blood on his face, not because he's not used to it, but because red looks fucking nuts.

"remem' the ship? blacksmith 'n all?" frank has to make an effort to comprehend what red's saying. he nods and a moment later grunts out a silent "yeah".

"i said i'd make an exception, 'ight? i mean..." red takes his time to spit out some blood. "i know what happened with that rawlins man. russo, too. don't judge, f' real. i-"

"ain't need your approval, altar boy. never did. so shut up and move your legs."

"not approval. just... could help you, is all. was serious back then, too. sorry it's come t' that, really. sorry you were 'lone."

"weren't," frank is seriously considering dropping the bastard near the dumpster.

"oh," is all red responds with.

they keep silent the rest of the way, save for red's laboured breath and his own grunts. it's only in the prick's flat that frank realises the guy needs stitching. badly.

***

it's a nice morning. would've been nicer, were he in his safe house, but red has good coffee, so frank doesn't complain.

at least he doesn't until he hears this horrible scream from red's bedroom. he's there in a second, and boy it looks strange. red's on the bed, seemingly having a panic attack and, well, screaming at the top of his lungs.

"what the fuck, red? red?"

a-a-and nothing. it takes some time to process the view to come to any conclusions. frank doesn't know what to do with a panicking blind guy who's temporarily (let's hope) lost his hearing but he thinks skin contact will help, so he does exactly this.

red flinches when he feels hands on him, but the screaming stops, and he quietly asks, "frank?"

frank places red's hand on his chin and slowly nods. then the hands travel to his mouth, and once again frank does what he thinks is logical. he mouths "it's frank", and somehow it works. red is not that tense and the fear on his face is wearing off to a mild concern with a pinch of consideration, if the knit brows are any indication. and then, a minute or an hour later, red whispers a broken "hold me, please."

they are no friends, didn't even serve together, but at this moment, with this frightened man that frank used to see getting up after every massive blow, this extra catholic man who was willing to sacrifice his principles to help frank get his revenge, frank can't say no, just can't.

so he holds him, and his heartbeat is a lullaby under matt's hand.

#im still not over them #fuck #matt murdock #daredevil #frank castle #the punisher #fratt #red castle #svtr writes

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usaclinic · 1 year

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Kevin Conroy, who died at 66, was maybe the greatest performer of Batman ever Actor Kevin Conroy has died.

Kevin Conroy, who died at 66, was maybe the greatest performer of Batman ever Actor Kevin Conroy has died. He was 66. Conroy voiced the Caped Crusader on Batman: The Animated Series from 1992 to 1996, as well as in 15 films, 15 animated series and two dozen video games. To several generation of fans, including mine, he simply...was Batman. That's because Conroy understood something very fundamental about the character that no other actor to play Batman ever has: Batman isn't a disguise. Batman is the real guy.

youtube

It's Bruce Wayne that's the put-on — the pose, the performance, the face he shows to the world. Conroy got that. Embodied it, really. But every other actor who's slapped on the bat ears over the years inevitably adopts an overtly theatrical, affected voice when they play Batman. For most of them, it's a whispery rasp meant to seem super-butch, super-intimidating. It's Clint Eastwood's stoic Man With No Name in black Kevlar. There have been a couple exceptions. Adam West went big, comically stiff and stentorian: "Careful, chum! Pedestrian safety!" Christian Bale went even harder, punishing evil-doers (and his vocal folds) with a throaty, if weirdly adenoidal roar: "SWEAR TO ME!" A bullfrog with laryngitis, over here. But Keaton, Clooney, Kilmer, Affleck and Pattinson all Eastwood-whisper their Bat-dialogue, as if they think they can save Gotham via ASMR. All of them see Batman as the role to play, and convince themselves they need to create a separate, menacing persona to do so. Conroy started from a much different place. His Batman was more natural, less forced, less false. He basically used his usual speaking voice. It's something you can just sense immediately, and I think it's one reason so many of us responded to his take as deeply as we did. We could see it: He's not play-acting, he's just acting. The creators of Batman: The Animated Series have said that's exactly what they were looking for. As they were auditioning people for Batman, actor after actor came in and did the Keaton/Eastwood whisper. It was everything they didn't want their cartoon show to be — it was cartoonish.

But when Conroy slid into the booth, he just read the lines. He took his natural voice down only slightly, and inched closer to the mic. But it wasn't a pose, it was just him. He was cool. He underplayed. His Batman hangs back, he's wry, even a bit sardonic. Mostly, though, he's natural. Plus, not for nothing? The guy had real pipes. In an episode of the animated series Justice League Unlimited, Batman is forced to sing a torch song in order to rescue Wonder Woman from the clutches of the evil witch Circe. And Conroy nailed it, while maintaining the character's abiding Batmanishness.On the other hand, it's Conroy's Bruce Wayne that was a bit. An extended performance. He nudged his voice up a skosh, made it slightly softer. The result is the sound of privilege, of comfort, of a life of ease and unconcern. What he was actually doing, of course, was talking like all the other privileged jerks Bruce Wayne hangs with.

Basically? He was code-switching. (Is it too much of a stretch to wonder if maybe Conroy was so good at it because he was gay, and perhaps knew a little bit more about code-switching, was more practiced at it, than other actors to play Batman? Okay, it's a stretch. But I'm just saying: It factors, maybe.) In the years since Batman: The Animated Series ended, he never shied away from the role that would come to define him, as many other actors have done. He continued to voice the character in other shows, movies and games. He was a fixture on the Comic Con circuit, where he loved engaging with fans. He even got to play an elderly version of Bruce Wayne on the CW show Arrow. But it wasn't his whole life. He trained at Julliard alongside Christopher Reeve, Robin Williams and Frances Conroy. He played Shakespeare, he played Broadway, he had long runs on Another World and Search for Tomorrow. He's survived by his husband, a brother, a sister. By all accounts, Conroy was a sweet guy who relished his Batman role and his fans, which is why there's so many of us out here feeling a deep pang of loss tonight.

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grambini · 6 months

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"Clinic Memoirs" - a short story (part 2)

"What do you think I should do about these pages? They're clearly ripped out. This has to be something like withholding information or something with a protocol built up against it, right?" Cooper lightly tapped her fingers in staccato on her mentor's desk, papers placed haphazardly in front of her. At this comment, her mentor abruptly stopped typing at her computer and slowly swiveled her chair to face her.

"I would recommend you not bring those up." She said flatly and calmly clasping her hands together.

"Why? What if these pages are holding some kind of information that is detrimental to his treatment?" She retorted before quickly fixing her tone. "I mean, what if these ripped pages have some kind of information compromising the operations, or even the entire base?"

"I doubt it's anything like that. A mercenary wouldn't compromise their piggy bank, especially one that he's getting from working with us." Her mentor quipped and then swiveled back around and resumed typing.

If it wasn't such a big deal, then why had her mentor acted like that? There wasn't much that could phase Dr. Babcock, especially not some mercenary. She dealt with mean scary big men all the time. Some she couldn't even put a face to. The men of the 141 were no small matter and could get quite vicious if pushed. Yet she always held her ground. Sighing she leaned back in her chair and wondered what was so different about this measly mercenary? What about him had broken the resilient shell of her mentor and caused her to stiffen up at the mention of torn journal notes?

Now face first into Kevlar, she had some inkling of an answer to some of her earlier questions. The height alone had caught her off guard. Seeing 6'5" written on a dossier compared to experiencing it in real life had stark differences. She could practically feel his overwhelming presence as she unstuck her nose from his vest and craned her neck towards the ceiling. What she saw for a face was even more shocking.

A face, if you could even call it that. She thought by now she would have gotten used to seeing men with masks, especially the ones who liked to be extra in wearing skull masks. However, none could have prepared her for this kind of mask. It didn't look like one someone could buy from the store or off some sketchy online website, nope this mask looked real. Like it had once been a living, breathing person, brutally killed, skull smashed so only the front upper half remained. It looked to be decaying and cracked, with pieces missing and degradation starting to happen in areas. The only artificial aspect of the skull seemed to be its black color and runes roughly etched into the material. Oddly enough, the mask wasn't the most unsettling part. It was the two empty pale green eyes staring down at her. Heavy lids slightly downturned accompanied by deep creases from many sleepless nights whose color was concealed with a layer of black grease paint making the green even more stark. Everything else from the top of his head to his boots was covered in dark dull tones making it unclear as to what he looked like underneath.

"You must be the new shrink." A deep and gravelly tone broke her analysis. The words were slow and drawn out sounding like much thought went into each syllable.

All she could do was stare up at where the voice had originated from. Still in shock, she numbly nodded her head and took a giant stride back towards the desk. He easily matched the distance in a short step.

"I wasn't expecting you to come," she stated trying to hide the torpor in her voice that his man's very existence caused. "I mean, I am glad that you did decide to come. It's just-" Her mind finally came back to her and she shut it before sounding even more unprofessional. "Please, take a seat and we shall begin." She said before stiffly back into her seat and placing her bag back on the ground beside her.

A slight exhale sounded from where she expected his mouth to be underneath his mask as he shifted into one of the seats across from her, knees nearly touching the edge of the top of the desk.

"From now on I will be in charge of assessing you. My name is Reese Cooper." At this, she slightly stood and extended her hand towards him. He didn't have to shift much forward to be able to grab her hand in his, totally engulfing her hand into his gloved one.

"Let's see, where to begin," she quickly unzipped her bag and took out the thin stack of papers. "I guess we'll just start with some basic diagnostic questions. How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Anything you want to talk about that happened on your last operation?"

"No." A short quick answer again. How was she supposed to get anything out of this guy when he hadn't even spoken in a full sentence to her yet?

She sighed and leaned back into her chair, the leather squeaking softly at the pressure. "Very well, let's just skip the diagnostics and go right into your journal. Got it on you?"

Without a word, he simply reached into one of the many pockets on his vest pulled out an orange field journal, and placed it on the desk before her. She tried not to seem too eager as she swiped it off no sooner than he had placed it.

Each entry was dated with when it was written and how far along into the operation the entry had taken place. The letters matched up with the photocopied papers in the file with their abrupt and short strokes. Much like the copies, there were traces of pen scribbling out words or entire sentences. She continued to flip through dedicated to not giving a face whenever the offensive drawings directed towards her mentor appeared or when a page was clearly torn out.

"Seems like this one ran a little long, huh?" She looked up for a split second only to realize that his eyes were boring into her. Her gaze swiftly shifted back down.

"Seems so."

Her face scrunched in a tad of annoyance. This man was either very stubborn or he was just really dry. This wasn't going to move anywhere if he didn't start talking... or maybe she just wasn't asking the right questions. "I would recommend you not bring those up." Her mentor's voice sounded in her head. Screw it. If she was going to be able to get her license and deal with difficult clients, now would be the perfect opportunity to practice.

"Why are some of the pages ripped out, Mr. Torvik?" A feeling of unease filled the small office space. She took a dare, looked up, and froze. His gaze had shifted into something dark and was fixated on her even more than before.

"Made too many mistakes." His voice sounded a tad lower.

"Are you hiding something from us, Mr. Torvik?" She pressed. Maybe pushing his buttons would get him to open up about something. Anything! She was beginning to become desperate.

She watched as his eyes narrowed and he sank lower into his chair, spreading his knees apart and folding his arms.

"Your fellow shrink asked me the same question. 'Don't know why you two are so hellbent on finding out where those papers went."

"It's because we need to know if they held classified information," she said as her voice was a pitch sharp. "It's as simple as that."

"I used it to shit. Simple as that." He spat back at her.

Her eyes went wide, her face reddened slightly. Her mouth parted slightly at his remark. This was going to be a difficult case. Especially with this kind of answer. There was no way she was going to ask him to prove it, especially since the suppressed glint in his eye seemed to almost dare her to do just that. She would have to think of some other way to get him to talk. She needed to do more homework on this man that went beyond blindly searching through a thin stack of empty information papers.

"That should be enough for today's session... I will see you next week Mr.-" Before she could even finish his name the chair he sat in slightly tipped back at his quick escape out the door, barely making a sound despite his large frame. Puffing out a breath she once again gathered her things stopping when her eyes caught the presence of the orange journal forgotten on her desk. Could she find more clues with this?

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incorrectbatfam · 2 years

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If you could change the batfam's costumes how would you change them?

Dick

Bring back the finger stripes

Man needs something other than just spandex. Maybe a thin kevlar or some other equally light and flexible armor

I've literally only seen him with his grapple and sticks that shouldn't be as versatile as they are. Give him, like, a small pack of bandages. Or at least someplace to hold money or a phone.

At least on less strenuous days, a version of his suit with knee braces

Jason

We've sees his helmet outfitted with stuff like comms and cameras, but I'd like to see some hearing protection because do you have any idea how fucking loud guns are?!?! IRL one close-range gunshot without hearing protection is enough to cause lasting damage.

Also: heat resistant pockets and holsters. I keep seeing both canon and fanon material where he fires a gun then shoves it right down his pants or shirt. And holy frickin' ouch. For those of you who don't know, a bullet can reach up to 500ºF right after it's fired, so you can imagine how hot the gun itself gets.

I know too much about firearms but I won't get into it

Also a pouch of fruit snacks for kiddos

Tim

Wingsuit wingsuit wingsuit

I personally prefer the domino mask over the condom cowl

Fun add-ons: enamel pins with his friends' logos. Also I see him being the only bat who doesn't carry kryptonite around their Kryptonian

What if he pressed a button on his bo staff and a spike popped out

A layer under his tunic where he can store documents and flash drives

Damian

The new Robin costume is cool but I always saw green as more of his color, I guess because it sorta harkens back to both sides of his family (yes he acts more like a Wayne than an Al Ghul but you can still see bits of Talia in him)

Give him a second sword just 'cause

Better grips on his gloves

A tracker on his weapons, because if someone disarms him then something is definitely wrong

Duke

Two commlinks: one for the batfam, one for the W.A.R. team

The comics mentioned how Nth metal can enhance his ability to see across the electromagnetic spectrum. Not sure if canon's already elaborated on that, but I'd love to see it worked into his lenses

His bat-logo should capture and store light that he can use later

What if his suit was a little more yellow

Cullen

He's not on the field but give him some batarangs and a domino so he can at least defend himself

Also a hand grenade disguised as a baseball thank you Hollywood

Stephanie

Hair tie

Since her mask already covers her face why not build in some extra protections against toxic gasses

Have multiple costumes in slightly varying shades of purple to confuse people

Cassandra

Give Cass a Rocket Launcher 2k22

A domino mask for something that doesn't cover the bottom half of her face so she can use lip-reading to supplement sign language when communicating

Hidden wrist blades

Night vision lenses

A flaming skull on her motorcycle

Barbara

A mask or something to protect her identity even as Oracle

Remote access to the Batmobile weapons system

Build a router into her wheelchair. She has her own WiFi wherever she goes

Drones and holograms

Wheelchair decorations that can be turned into a shield

Harper

I'd change her costume color scheme to create a more even balance of blue, black, and violet

She has these giant taser guns but they don't show how she stores them, so adding that holster could give it more realism while also showing that she's a self-made hero without the sleekest tech

Bullet-deflecting gauntlets

Carrie

Pick a fun color palette that isn't an assault on the eyes or out-of-character for her *glares at canon*

More durable slingshot, and maybe adjustable for speed and trajectory

A mold or cutting tool to create evenly sized projectiles out of the materials around her

Prescription domino lenses

Kate

Give her cape the same shield qualities as Bruce

Collapsible motorcycle

Batarangs that can directly combat Bruce's in the inevitability canon makes him turn evil again for god knows what reason

Lipstick laser. That's such a classic why have we not gotten on that

Bat ears that can pick up radio frequencies

Alfred

Pressure-activated shoe spikes

Fountain pen with poison

Ballistic shield umbrella

Dart-launching wristwatch

Ring that can electrocute

Yes these are all from Kingsman

Selina

Claws made of self-repairing material so she doesn't have to worry when she breaks one

Anything that's purely for sex appeal is getting scrapped in my mind. You can be attractive while dressing practically

That said her ability to fight in heels is badass and I'd give her wedges that she can store more stuff in

Lockpicks built into her gloves

Bladed whip

Bruce

Harnesses that go around the hips and thighs because stupid fucking writers don't understand that a harness around the waist will only sustain injuries and screw up your center of gravity

A cowl that can calculate possible batarang trajectories

I like the Battinson costume because there's enough armor to make him look intimidating but he's not an entire fucking tank

A pouch with Robin's favorite snacks

#ask #anonymous #batfam #batfamily #batman family #dc comics #tw gun mention #tw weapons #tw swearing #personal

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pyrokinesis · 2 years

Text

Current comics Dick Grayson comes into room, singing "Where is my baby~," and you expect him to say that to Haley, Damian, maybe even his partner, but no,

Jason Todd, wearing the original discowing suit comes in the room, holding a mug of tea and looking as annoyed as expected, "Shut up Dickie, I look like a Saturday Night Fever promotional poster,"

Dick pouts, which looks weird on someone as adult as him, and acts as if he's been hit in his heart, "You promised!"

Jason fixes fabric bothering him on his left hip, "I lost a bet and I still can't believe you wore this thing for years, what fabric is this, I washed it and it still feels like I'm wearing fabric soaked in mosquito toxin, I'm gonna have a rash by tomorrow morning,"

Dick approaches Jason, slapping his hand and fixing the suit himself, "It's polyester and some other poly-fabric B and I used before we switched to kevlar,"

Jason looks ready to murder, and some of his tea spills on the floor, "You're clothing me in the hell-damned polyester older than Regan and his atrocities,"

and oh, no, that's unacceptable, especially since,

Jason accusingly points at Dick's outfit, original adult Robin suit, in all of its headlights glory, "You're wearing a preserved leather onesie, but I'm supposed to be accept decades old polyester disco suit," absolutely unfair,

"TT," comes the sound from another room, and Damian al Ghul Wayne and Jon Kent appear, both wearing obviously matching outfits,

Dick wipes a nonexistent tear, "Sherlock and Watson, really Dami? I thought you guys will be Superman and Batman,"

Damian adjusts his hat, glacing at Jon for a moment before returning his gaze to his brother, "Now, why would we do that, Richard? Hmmmm, TT,"

Jon procures a thick notebook from one of his pockets, and a fountain pen, and starts writing in it, "We thought it'd be too obvious, and we couldn't agree on any another matching characters,"

Jason yearningly stares at the high quality fountain pen, then looks at his youngest brother and his best friend, "I will gift you children a batmobile if any of you two wears this ugly polyester suit,"

"I want batmobile as a Halloween present," everyone familiar voice says, and Stephanie Brown appears, wearing short brown wig and also familiar suit, followed by Kara Zor-El, Cassandra Cain, and Cassie Sandsmark, all wearing also similiar suits as Stephanie,

Jason almost starts crying as soon as he sees the quartet, "You four are not going as Lanterns, please tell me B's seen you,"

Cassandra smirks, leaning on Kara, "Of course he hasn't, but his reaction is crutial,"

Damian stares at Stephanie's wig, "I suppose you're going as Jordan, and you three are Gardner, Scott, and you... are going as Red Lantern, Cassandra,"

Cass points at Kara, then picks at her own blonde wig, "I asked her and she gave me permission to go as Red Lantern version of her,"

Dick mutters under his breath, "Girls, man,"

Jason tries scratch his hip, but gets his hand slapped again by his older brother, "Can you not ruin my precious first Nightwing uniform for one second,"

Cassie stares at Jason in the original Nightwing suit, and says, "that thing looks like the cheapest fabric ever, Dick, how did you even fight in this without ripping it in pieces,"

Jason laughs, "I love how we're successfully on our way to make a grown man in his thirties cry,"

Dick sighs, checking hidden pockets of his old costume, for what is to find out, "It takes more than making fun of my old suit to make me cry, I think you have mistaken me for someone else here," he says while not so subtly glancing at the man wearing his old suit,

Jason just ignores him, making a face while sipping his tea, "This is cold, ew,"

Damian looks around the room, "Where are Drake and Duke?"

Cassie laughs, "Tim is with Bernard, Kon, and Bart, they're going as the original Ghostbusters after I said I'm not doing Seinfeld with them," and there's something to be said about her orange wig,

Jon looks away from his little notebook, biting the cap of the fountain pen, and definitely not noticing disgusting looks from Cass, Jason, and Damian, "You four could've gone as The Wizard of OZ characters,"

"Yeah and then we would've have to see Tim as a Dorothy, and I don't think he can pull off such look," Jason mentions, still holding his tea and pointedly staring at the Lantern quartet, ignoring youngest Superfamily member in the room, "And also, Duke's doing several parties tonight, he'll come back after his reunion with the We Are Robin crew, I think he managed to get matching costumes with Birds of Prey or something,"

Dick tears his gaze away from his costume, "Why do you know that?"

Infamous Red Hood finishes his cold tea, putting the mug on Damian's head, who doesn't even flinch, "Because I'm Red Hood, why do you not know? Also get this shit off me before I turn it into plastic cup,"

"Jason, what are you wearing?"

Kate Kane, dressed as a flapper, is here, and the show can begin.

#inspired by today's wfa episode #explanation why everyone hates discowing suit #batfam #batman #bat family #jason todd #discowing #dick grayson #damian wayne #jon kent #kara zor el #cassie sandsmark #cassandra cain #cass cain #stephanie brown #kate kane #batfam au #wayne family adventures inspired

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regrettablewritings · 2 years

Note

Hello there, may I request Bruce Wayne with the letters B-F-G-X if you don't mind? 😊 (But if you are starting to hate his existance, ignore this, no problem. I'm happy to see you are in the mood for writing again!) And happy belated birthday!! 💓

Hello, Anon! I first wanted to say thank you very much for the belated birthday wish; you're too kind, too kind! 😊😊😊

I would then also like to thank you very much for taking into consideration my feelings regarding Bruce at this time. It was extremely kind of you. That being said, I did want to try and fulfill the entire request. I really did. But the more I tried, the more I realized I was feeling very burnt out when it comes to Bruce. Nothing was coming out right, let alone in a way I approved of.

It sorta occurred to me that I've been writing this guy since the blog's creation five years ago, and I kinda feel like I've said all that could really be said for now, at least with regards to Batfleck. I've decided that for the time being, I'm going to have to put Bruce in hiatus. But before I do that, I thought I could at least fulfill one part of your request . . . It's not much, but I really do hope that it's at least a pin-drop worth of something, all things considered.

Once again, I'm really sorry. But I'm also really thankful to have gotten the request from someone as thoughtful as you. Thank you, dear Anon. ☺️☺️☺️ I hope this suits you . . .

X (XOXO - how do they kiss?): Inconsistently and dependent on the mood and situation. Just as it would with any other partner. You know, one whose day started with a cup of coffee before work and ended with a nightly routine of brushing teeth and reading another chapter in, like, War & Peace. Instead of starting and ending at some godforsaken hour, either before or after shoving himself into a skin-tight Kevlar-grade suit.

And even though this may initially seem unimpressive to you, it’s one of the best things someone like Bruce could hope for. especially considering that you’re one of the only normal things he’s got going in his life.

If it all only came down to money, it would’ve been no problem: He could so much as sneeze and that three-story house encircled by a white picket fence in the ‘burbs would’ve been yours. But, of course, this wasn’t a matter of money. The irony of being someone who could have anything, being unable to obtain the one thing he needed. No, it all came down to choices. But if that were the case, then the least he thought he could do was at least choose to act like normalcy was something that he could have.

And that’s why his kisses in the early morning were applied to your temple. Almost as though he were afraid to wake you up, even though he knows you probably would prefer to see him off in spite of the forsaken hour.

Or why his kisses are pecks as he adjusts his tie, ready to assume the image of the average owner of an enterprise. He doesn’t mind it if a crumb of your breakfast makes its way onto his lips.

Or why his kisses feel warm against the smooth skin on the back of your hand during a private dinner. (Or maybe that’s just your face warming as he locks his eyes with yours in a suggestive manner.)

Or why his kisses against your neck bleed with lust, powerful and nearly bruising as they leave fiery memories in their wake as he uses your pliant body as a canvas.

Or why his kisses are cheeky when they are, fitfully, pressed against the soft hillock of your cheeks. He knows you find their softness silly, but he adores them for being everything he doesn’t have on his own body, sturdy and stiff as it as.

And why, when he departs for the evening, his final kiss for you is always reserved for your lips. Why that kiss burns quietly yet smolders only for you, only within you.

They are the kisses of a man. And for as mythical as his alter ego has become over the decades, a simple man is all Bruce could ever hope to be for someone as deserving as you.

Thank you an extraordinary amount for your patience and understanding...To quote my great-grandmother: Bless ya, bless ya bless ya!

#once again REALLY SORRY ANON!!!!#my brain is just failing me lately...#but thank you so much for letting me try...#bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #dceu x reader #batman imagine #bruce wayne imagine #regrettablewritings #character x reader #character ship meme

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ive-tumbled-down-a-rabbit-hole · 3 years

Text

Stories of Paris

Part 4

Part One Part Three AO3

Masterlist

................................................................

Damian was unhappy with the fact that with ‘strangers’ in *his* house their nightly activities would have to carefully navigated. His father nor Pennyworth had not explicitly said anything about it, but he assumed it was because they all knew what was expected. So, being told to line up in the entrance hall by his father went down like a lead balloon.

His pout turned in widening eyes of shock as he witnessed the tall wiry young woman (and a large man he supposed) exiting the car. SHE was his father’s babysitter. This was who oversaw the European branch of W.E. The person who owned the largest portion of shares of W.E (after the Wayne family that is). He was doomed. Damain watched as his father soften as he saw the woman.

“Mari! You never seem to age!” he exclaimed as she gracefully walked up to him and into his embrace.

“Mon cherie! It’s miraculous isn’t it,” she drew back slightly to look over his shoulder, “I see you have taken found family comment to the extreme, but I suppose you were never one to do things in half measures. It’s good to be back here after so long”

Looking at her like he was a child with pleading eyes, “You are staying here, right?”

With a gentle smile with a smirking edge, “Yes. If I tried to leave for a hotel, I’ll end up having the shadows watching me all night. Plus, this place always did feel like my home away from home.”

Damian glancing at his supposed siblings to see that they were also in shock. Probably not for the same reason. Panicking with it all, as he saw his father turn to introduce them to the woman, Damian drew his katana and aimed it at her.

“YOU were fathers' babysitter!!! But... what... you’re younger than him!!!! .... You’re the Grand Lady Guardian... I *refuse* to return.”

Damian vaguely recognised his name being shouted at him, but all his attention was on the Grand Lady Guardian of the Miraculous who stood, rolling her eyes, before him. He could feel her power radiating off, surrounding them all.

“Petit Tresor. I’m not taking you back there. Did you not learn anything from my teachings? Did you not learn to read between the lines? About looking deeper than the surface. You are with *your* found family. THEY are what is important. Bruce may have picked up a lot of my unhealthy habits about vigilantism, but he made a point of understand a good support network and the importance of chosen family. Despite how he enacts the teachings.”

The Monkey with her came to her shoulder and raised his eyebrow at Damian. He finally understood why he was always her bodyguard now rather than the Cat, being that he was her husband.

“You can stand down Petit Tresor. League and Court business will *not* be found here. The League know what will happen if they cross the Court, and I made it very clear after our last encounter when they tried to manipulate us to their advantage.”

Damian assessed the woman before him as he withdrew his katana from her and starting to become aware of the others around him again.

“Why has he got a chaos shard within him Bruce?” The monkey growled looking at him with a dangerous glint in his eye.

Everyone in the entrance hall was frozen in shock and panic. What was meant to be a happy reunion had been derailed but now, suddenly, somehow gained an even sharper edge. Marinette and her husband were aware of their nightly capers, and they also knew of the League, they were involved in something similar and aware of chaos shards.

Damian watched as his father gulped as he looked at the Monkey and the Guardian. It wasn’t often his father showed fear, but it was clear on his face as she arched her eyebrow at him. His siblings all looked on in surprise and uncertain of what to expect. Only Pennyworth and Todd seemed to be handling the situation with any sense of calmness. Surprising for Todd...

“Mari... his mother... the league...”

At the mention of the league the Guardians eye twitch so subtly you’d hardly notice it if not trained and with a minute flicker of her hand, the Monkey flipped his phone out and was walking out back outside to call someone... Damian straining his ears heard Peg and plan 42c being mentioned by the Monkey to whoever he had called.

“They were warned. Tsk, Assassin’s bullheadedness. Kim will sort this out for me for the present moment and we will discuss healing at a later point. Anyway, mon cherie, you were about to introduce me to your children. Petit Tresor I know, and I believe that that is Jason, mon rêveur, in the background though he has grown so much since our last meeting. So, I could guess everyone else, but why don’t you continue?”

The Guardian stated as if the topic of what just happened was over, much to Damian’s surprise. He sheafed his katana but still was wary of the woman and slightly in awe. He had a feeling that the chaos and downfall of his grandfather may have due to her in some way. Slight fear and dread for his mother was building as well. He finally starting to understand the reason for her over protectiveness when she taught him in the league now.

“Right. Mari, this is Dick, Jason who you already met in person? Cass and alongside her Duke, Tim who you meet briefly in the W.E. meeting the other month, Steph who has wormed her way into the family and Damian you who’ve also already met?”

With a polite cough drawing attention to himself, Alfred spoke. “Perhaps, instead of having a mother’s meeting in the entrance hall, we retreat to the drawing room where we can have some refreshments. I am sure that Ms Marinette and Master Kim are exhausted from their travels. It is most unbecoming to stand around loitering, wouldn’t you agree Master Bruce?”

Bruce muttered something as his ears started to tinge red, Marinette turned to Alfred and smiled as she drew him into a hug while Bruce collected himself.

“Yes, right, that sounds like a fantastic idea Alfred. Mari, shall we?”

Bruce offered her an arm which she elegantly took as the took off in the direction of the drawing room delving into conversation with Bruce leaving behind a shocked collection on children in the hall. Alfred slipped off to prepare the refreshments.

Damian cringed as Dick exclaimed, “YOU GUYS KNOW HER?!?!?!!” which echoed around the manor as he finally processed what had just happened.

______________________________________________

Alfred smiled as the atmosphere within the Manor shifted over the last few weeks. It now had a different air about it. Master Bruce became less sullen and slightly less repressed under Marinette’s watch and the Manor started to feel lighter again.

Alfred had found great amusement when he stumbled in on Master Kim lecturing Master Bruce on being dense especially the “I know I’m dense but kwami Bruce! You’re worse than me realising all the competitions I got Mare rigged into was because I wanted to impress her! Let’s start at the beginning, ok?!”.

He hoped that Master Kim might be able to knock a bit of sense into his wayward charge. He knew Ms Marinette, though full of good intentions wouldn’t be able to with Master Bruce’s strange ability to pick up on the wrong message being given.

The highlight of the week was when he entered the family living room to find all his grandchildren looking pale as Master Bruce acted semi child-like in front of Ms Marinette. It was a delight to see Bruce act like the child that he knew he was reawakened again. Even if it terrified the grandchildren.

The whole family discovered that Bruce had been very selective of the stories and information that he had told them about Marinette. She had taken great delight telling them all about what teenage Bruce really was like.

About the time Bruce had a fan induced panic attack on meeting the Jagged Stone. Alfred was slightly aware of something happened but not the details.

About the time Bruce decided to practice parkour in the Manor gardens and ended up stuck halfway up the side of the Manor unable to climb up further or climb down. Alfed was positive he was unaware that Marinette joined him and had to coach Bruce down.

About the series of times that Bruce attempted to prove to Alfred that he had ‘outgrown the kitchen ban’ and had ‘observed Mari’s baking skills sufficiently’ to be able to try again for only the attempts to go south fast. Alfred grimaced at the memories that that bought up. He was glad that he’d got a good working deal with local kitchen fitters and suppliers given the number of fires.

It became a daily breakfast occurrence that Bruce mortified Marinette in his outfit for the day. The breakfast entertainment became watching Marinette tear into his fashion choice of the day, drag up some past clothing or costume disaster. She ended up moaning that he had learnt nothing from her rantings about clothes over the years and stare forlornly into her coffee cup. It was providing the bat boys a wealth of black mail material that Alfred had to on numerous occasions reel Marinette from her tangents.

The only time he let her completely go to town with was letting her regale to everyone about Bruce’s dramatic and insistent argument on fighting crime in Lyca, wearing pants on top of tights and with a cape, that he really insisted that he didn’t need to use Kevlar (that decision didn’t last beyond a few training sessions and one patrol night). Alfred was pleased with her ability to rein that disaster in quickly.

It was in the comfort of the kitchen away from the antics that happened Alfred mused and reflected on his notional niece's visit. Alfred wished he had thought to bring Marinette over sooner as he witnessed that fraught relationships between the Waynes soften. Issues didn’t disappear but Marinettes presence, and ability due to dealing with Akuma, helped mitigate situations which typically would have blown up. Kim always by her side would help soothe, distract, or explain to the puzzled Bruce the techniques Marinette was using to stop the escalation.

She’d slowly began charming and connecting with his grandchildren. Be it by giving Tim pointers on how to manage W.E board members effectively and playing video games. It was eerily like how she warmed Bruce up to her.

By Sitting quietly reading with Jason or playing chess and talking in metaphors about life, death and balance. Slowly having ‘healing sessions to calm the pit madness’ with meditation and grounding sessions.

With Damian she seemed to remind him of alternate grounding techniques which she’d shown him in the league. They seemed to spend time talking in hushed whispers about other stuff that Alfred wasn’t currently privy too.

Duke was with poetry and music. Cass with dance and gymnastics, silent subtle conversations occurred but seeing Cass smile and edge towards being more tactile made Alfred glow with warmth inside. Steph and Marinette commanded the kitchen numerous times baking pastries, waffles and other treats.

Dick took the longest to warm up to the woman, having heard and known about her for over a deacade but never met it was understandable. Alfred wpould never knew what Marinette had done but one day the hostility and coldness disappeared. A joy, childlike smile appeared on Dicks face every time she was in the room, and he’d follow her round like a loat puppy. Watching and mimicking her techniques to calm his brothers down.

How his grandchildren acted with Marinette in the activities brought echoes of memories of her with Bruce to the forefront of Alfred’s mind.

Sighing, in the short time the Manor felt warm and like a family, a home should feel like. Much like before his friends’ death. Schooling his emotions, Alfred set about to serve the family and Parisians last dinner together.

______________________________________________

Bruce tried not to sulk. Tried not to revert to the mind set of when Marinette originally disappeared physically from his life. Especially in front of his children but it was hard. She somehow always managed to take the overwhelming pressure away from him, like he could breathe and be.

Alfred was his father, in all the ways that counted, but the burden of death and saving the world was something Marinette understood at a deeper more personal level. Having her here made it feel safe to feel, that he would always be caught. That she would save him from the consuming darkness. She was the light in the world shining out in the Gotham gloom.

As expected, his children adored her in their unique ways. Following her around like little ducks scrabbling for crumbs of knowledge and titbits of information. Bruce lips twitched as he witnessed them behaving much like he used to. Taking the gems’ she passed on to them and ferreting them away much like he did.

“Master Bruce, I expect better behaviour this leaving gathering than our previous party, please.”

With Alfred’s comments Bruce gave into the feeling of pouting. Why deny how he felt toward the situation where he wasn’t in control. He pointedly ignored the stares that his children were giving him. Again.

“Mon tresor! It’s not like you aren’t going to see or speak to me again. We speak regularly as it is. It’s not the same as it was last time. You know this.”

“But Mari, it's nice having you here. This is your home.”

“Is he always like this Mare, Cupcake? How is it that all the kid’s you’ve looked after end up demanding you live with them?”

Bruce choked at Kim’s statement and the Wayne clan burst into laughter. Alfred let a small smirk grace his face.

“Oui, Mon Amour, He wasn’t happy last time I left at all. Be grateful I learnt to resist kitten eyes or we’d never have reconnected. Manon doesn’t count. She’s practically family as well with how close Maman and Nadja are.”

“What about Elle, Etta and Chris? What about Ivan’s and Mylene’s sproglian? Fang? Jagged’s second round of terrors? Luka and Jules too really.”

“Hush, Mon Amour, circumstantial evidence.”

Bruce observed Kim stare at his wife in disbelief before waving his hand around the room.

“What about these then. Don’t give me that look Cupcake. I’m gonna end up needing to fight the whole batclan at this rate to get you on a plane with me! Maybe I should give Peg’s the heads up that I’ll need his help.”

“I can assure you Master Kim that you *both* are free to leave. The young master's understand that they cannot kidnap you. It would not be becoming of them OR look good for the company for the family to kidnap its own workers.”

Bruce and his family guiltily ducked their heads at Alfred’s comments. When Alfred turned away to start talking to Kim, Tim leant in close to Bruce to whisper to him.

“Do you think we have the power to move her to being director of North America rather than Europe? Mari would be closer then? Plus, the guy in charge isn’t all he’s cracked up to be so the board would likely approve it.”

Bruce stared at his son at the ingenious and simple solution and smiled, before ducking his head when Alfred pointedly looked his way.

“We’ll discuss that concept later.”

Bruce gave Tim a subtle nod as if he was approving the idea. Technically he was but Alfred didn’t need to know that. Nor did Kim really, as he would fight him if he found out and he’d rather not deal with an ex-olympian superhero, even when he pulled his punches they hurt far more than the average persons.

Bruce sat back into his seat and smiled as the conversation and chaos flowed around him. His whole family finally together and he cherished it. He knew it wasn’t going to last much longer with the impending flight looming but for now he had a potential and creative plan to work on. If he framed it right it could also become the prefect family bonding activity that both Marinette and Kim thought he needed to do more of outside of vigilantism. And if the end result was that she moved closer, well, that’s just an added bonus in his eyes.

With that in mind, Bruce joined in with the choas enjoying the moment with his complete family. Nothing could take this away from him.

Tag:

@neakco @corporeal-terrestrial @jayjayspixiepop @lady-bee-fechin @prettylittlebutterflie

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danny-chase · 2 years

Note

Wasn't the last laugh all about how even when the Joker was dying he decided he still wanted to kill people. Then Dick killed him and Bruce brought him back to spare the boys conscious. But the Joker still wants to kill people so it seemed like to the story Dick's feelings and status as a perfect hero who never kills is more important that the people we know the Joker is going to kill in the future.

Okay pause, hold, timeout. Sure that's an interpretation of the story but I think it's kind of a shallow one.

Let's remember what the inciting incident of Last Laugh was.

Joker: Last Laugh #1

So we have the inciting incident as this, Joker is told that he's dying. Spoilers, he isn't. The brain tumor was faked by this guy

Joker: Last Laugh #4

And who wouldn't? After all the pain and suffering, who wouldn't want to hurt the joker? Who wouldn't want to make him grieve, feel the same way he made so many others feel? So this man acted in hate.

And what happened?

The Joker got end of the life privileges, and was able to hang out with the Slab's general population. He started rampaging and killing on mass. Of course Joker is responsible for that. But even the joker who DC's pretty much deemed as a being of pure evil was able to be contained, if not for one small act of violence meant to cause him pain.

Now on the flip side we have Barbara and Dick debating throughout the issues. Barbara keeps asking the questions that a lot of us have when it comes to the joker, why they can't stand aside just this once, bringing up she'd feel safer if he were dead, how many lives they would save, etc. And Dick plays the "we aren't soldiers or cops" role, that it's not about revenge, how long would society accept killing heroes, etc. All these questions are raised, but the story doesn't really answer them. You're left to think and decide what you think would be right for yourself. In a way, Last Laugh asks a lot of the questions about the way the DC universe operates and how it would feel to live there.

Now Dick who's been anti kill Joker learns that Tim has "died" due to the Jokers violence. And to some extent, his change in demeanor is a reflection of how easier it is to compartmentalize and separate ourselves when the situation isn't personal. Dick's family has been hurt by the joker in the past and Tim "dying" reopens wounds the never really healed. In the past he's had a lot of friends and family die (Joey, Raven, Jason, Danny, at the least) and everytime he's gone back to trying to be as moral of a hero as possible. Now suddenly Barbara and Dick switch positions in their arguments. The crux of the argument is if one of them kills the Joker out of anger, the joker wins - that is what he wants, he wants to break the moral hero, it's been his goal all along.

Jokers goal is stated: "See, I was planning on having Batman kill me... suicide by super-hero, see? I'm dying anyway, right? So why not get a little blood on his cape in the process? But revenge once removed is sweeter. It'd really put a twist in his kevlar if one of his litter did the dirty deed." In issue #6.

In this, the jokers goal was to die. He thought he was going to die anyways, and he wanted to hurt Bruce as much as possible in the process. And he almost fails. There's a moment where Dick backs off, then Joker brings up Jason and Dick absolutely looses it and murders the joker in anger. And the joker wins

Joker: Last Laugh #6

The idea that Bruce brought the Joker back to spare Dick's feelings is pretty much a fanon invention. Iirc I've never seen any reference to that, Bruce's stated reason is "We don't do that. Not even to him."

Another thing is Dick isn't all that much affected by the decision to bring the joker back to life. He still sees himself as a murderer and in a later comic he has a discussion with Wally over what do do next. Even if the joker did get brought back, Dick counts it as a failure. And to some extent so does Bruce "Let him go, Robin. He has to face what he's done."

For Dick it's a story that deconstructs his morals and pushes him to the point of murder. For Barbara it's somewhat of a journey of her letting go (she spends a lot of time at the beginning obsessively watching him and by the end doesn't monitor him personally at all). And to me it's the story of the cycle of violence and how personal vengeance can go wrong.

Anyways I actually think the end of last laugh is the ending the joker deserves. He ends up in complete isolation, only tracked by heating sensors, which alert if anything goes wrong. There's no guards to manipulate, just him, in a little cell, wasting away for the rest of his natural life. Not going out with a bang, or because of hate, just left to die in obscurity with no one watching.

If dc had balls, this would have been the last we'd seen of him (minus flashbacks). Because let's be real, without an audience the joker is powerless

#the end #but you're open to your own interpretation of course i would recommend reading it though #alas dc sucks #last laugh #asks #anons #momo don't look #image in alt #idk how Barbara fans feel about her portrayal in this tbh because she'd already grown past her feelings of the joker iirc #so it feels like they took her back a bit to make the story work #I'd have to look closer at where in canon it falls #like time wise #dick grayson #barbara gordon #joker

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mochegato · 3 years

Text

Heroic Deeds

Thanks to @boldlyanxious and @ive-fallen-down-the-rabbithole for the idea

Marinette was going to kill her roommate. Because that’s why she was in this situation in the first place, her roommate was too busy to pick up his own damn paperwork. And she was just too “nice” to say no. And puppy dog eyes should be illegal. In fact, that was the next house rule. No puppy dog eyes. She has never in her life been able to say no to puppy dog eyes and mean it. Manon, Etta, Ella, Adrien… no more! Hence forth they were banned. It was already a rule with the kwami. It would just have to be instituted as a rule with humans as well.

But until then, she had to deal with this ridiculousness. This thief that sounded like he was bored out of his mind, like she was inconveniencing him by being held hostage. Is it too much to ask for him to be more invested in this than she is? I mean, she may be the one with the gun pointed at her, but he’s the one that’s pointing it and he’s the one that broke into the office to steal whatever documents he was halfheartedly looking for during the day instead of at night when NOBODY WOULD BE THERE.

But noooo, this jackass had to do it during the day and at the exact moment when she would be there. Really, what was her luck? Was this punishment for not wearing Tikki constantly anymore? She was only supposed to be in this office for a total of a whole ninety seconds. Walk in, grab the documents that were supposed to be ready and waiting for her, and walk out. But instead she was stuck here critiquing this idiot’s ransacking skills, because that ninety seconds is exactly when this blasé thief decided to strike.

At least Kate was safe, she huffed to herself. Kate had been lucky enough to have gone to the backroom for the documents just a few seconds before Idiot Man came in. Hopefully, she had escaped through the backdoor and had contacted the police already. Because apparently Kate hadn’t pissed off the kwami of luck like Marinette somehow had. She and Tikki were going to have a very long, very hissy discussion when she got back home.

And this guy wasn’t. Even. Paying. Attention. To. Her. The gun was pointed in her general direction, but it was like she was the furthest thing from his mind, like she held the same threat level as a kitten. But that was his mistake, underestimating her, because this kitten had claws. God, she’s been hanging out with Adrien too much. She’s beginning to think like him. She let out a breath and banged her head against the back of the chair she was sitting in out of frustration and disappointment in herself.

It wouldn’t be so bad if he was ignoring her to focus on his search, but he wasn’t really paying attention to that either. She would think he was high on something if there were any other signs of it. No, this just was just bored, like he was wasting time, waiting for the police to show up. Maybe it’s the ski mask he was wearing that was annoying him. Who wears a ski mask in the summer? And… did he just check his phone! Oh, Hell no! That was the final straw.

She moved before she could overthink it, sliding over the desk she had moved behind when he came in. She plowed into his chest with both feet, catching him completely off guard and knocking him back into the filing cabinet.

“Hey, get off me!” he yelled, sounding more affronted than worried.

She twisted around and kicked the gun out of his hand with one leg, following it up with a punch that would have broken his nose if he hadn’t blocked it with his forearm, redirecting her hit. She stopped her momentum before breaking her hand on the filing cabinet. She pulled her arm back instead striking her elbow directly into his cheek.

“What the fuck!” he yelled, holding his cheek and looking up at her like she was crazy.

He reached for his gun, but she kicked his arm and raced for it herself, kicking it under a nearby cabinet. “That was my gun!” he gritted out, rounding on her. At least he finally looked invested in this.

“I noticed,” she smirked at him, delivering a roundhouse kick to the face. He dodged at the last second and shoved her leg, changing her momentum and sending her flying toward the edge of the table. She squeezed her eyes shut as she braced herself for the impact. If she timed this right, she could use the table as a springboard to go back at him. The table was solidly built from thick, heavy wood and metal. It had to weigh several hundred pounds. It would be able to take her weight without moving even a centimeter. She took a breath to prepare, but the impact was significantly softer than she had anticipated and didn’t give her the bounce back she expected, causing her to end up sprawled on the floor instead of springing back at the thief.

Before she had even registered what happened, she heard a grunt in front of her and the sound of the table scraping against the floor as it moved. She looked up to a red helmet looking back at her. Her eyes flicked down quickly to his chest as if she needed the confirmation the bright red bat there gave her. He stood up quickly, rubbing his shoulder as he approached her. He knelt down in front of her. “You okay?” His voice was considerably softer than she would have anticipated from the vigilante considered to be the most dangerous of the bats.

She stared at him for a few seconds, shocked by the tone and to see him there in the first place. She had been expecting the police not a bat. It was daytime, everyone knew they didn’t come out during the day. The bat signal didn’t work during the day. “Miss,” he tried again, his voice taking on a concerned edge.

“Oh! Yes. Yeah. I’m fine.” She nodded rapidly and reached down to rub her leg where the thief had pushed her, more to relieve anxiety than because it actually hurt.

“You’re hurt.” It was a comment, not a question.

“It’s okay, really,” she tried to assure him, but he was already up and stalking toward the thief who had started edging toward the door. Marinette mentally scoffed at his stupidity. She understood underestimating her, she was an unknown and looked tiny. But Red Hood was a known entity. His threat level was well established. Why on Earth wouldn’t the thief have run as soon as he appeared?

“Hood…” he started nervously, holding up his hands as though trying to placate him.

Whatever other argument he was going to try to make died on his lips as Hood picked him up and threw him through the large, plate glass, front window. He stood at the window for a few seconds, watching the thief run away. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned back to her. “How badly are you hurt?” He approached her slowly. He rolled his shoulder a few times, almost imperceptibly. If she hadn’t been familiar with trying to hide an injury, she might have missed it.

Marinette smiled at him. “I’m not. Are you? Did I hurt your shoulder when I slammed into you?”

“Are you sure?” He stopped a respectable distance from her. He seemed to eye her leg suspiciously, but backed off questioning it. “I mean emotionally too. An incident like that can be stressful for some people.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Please, that wasn’t stressful. That was annoying. And you didn’t answer my question. How is your shoulder?”

Red Hood paused for a few seconds watching her. “It’s fine. You weren’t afraid?”

Marinette scoffed. “No. The most stressful part of this is I’m supposed to be picking up some important documents for my roommate and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to get them now.”

“If you didn’t feel afraid of what he would do, why did you attack him? You could have provoked him into doing something he wasn’t going to do before,” he gently chided her.

Marinette let out an annoyed sigh. “You sound like my roommate.”

“Sounds like a wise man. Why didn't you listen?” He cocked his head to the side.

She mumbled something into her feet, not making eye contact with him.

He arched his head closer to her. “What was that?” She mumbled something again, slightly louder this time, but still not loud enough for him to understand what she said. “What?”

“Because he pissed me off. Okay?” she finally yelled in exasperation.

“What did he do to piss you off?” he asked carefully, because if the guy did anything to hurt her, he was going to hunt the asshole down and kill him.

“He was bored,” she growled. “He was holding me at gunpoint and acting like I was the one that forced him into the situation and it pissed me off, okay. I mean the audacity!” Red Hood fought laughing at the adorable scrunched up face she made as she talked. She waved her arms around agitatedly as she spoke. “You don't want to be here? Newsflash, asshole! Neither do I! I mean, if you’re going to threaten me, put some effort into it, you know? Am I not worth the effort?”

“You are.” Red Hood answered instantly. “I mean, you seem like you are… from what I can tell.”

“It’s just disrespectful,” she groused, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting as she leaned against the table.

“Extremely,” he agreed absently, staring at her pouting lips. “Lucky for you though. Seems like he underestimated you. I don’t even think you needed this knight in shining leather to rescue you.”

She huffed out a laugh. “I already have a knight in shining leather. Two, actually, if you count my roommate, which I do. I don’t really need another.”

He motioned like he wanted to take his helmet off but stopped himself. He positioned his arm on the table she was leaning on, supporting his weight as he leaned closer to her. “But are they heroes?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “I mean… to me,” she added quickly. She didn’t need anyone making any kind of a connection between her and Chat.

He seemed to contemplate her for a moment before responding. “You must be quite something to have so many knights willing to fight for you. But, maybe you can use another, after all they’re not here right now and I am. I can be your knight in shining Kevlar instead.”

She chuckled, looking down shyly. When she looked back up, it was through her eyelashes. “Yes, you are here and during the day too,” she smirked at him. “I didn’t think you guys could come out during the day. I thought sun repelled you.”

“You’re thinking of vampires.”

She pretended to study him carefully. “So you’re stating for the official record that you are not, in fact, vampires then? Just regular bats. Interesting.” She looked away nodding as if in thought. “I’ll have to let my friend know you’re refuting that theory. She runs a superhero blog. The vampire Bats theory is one of the more popular posts.”

He chuckled and she could hear the smile through his words. “We aren’t. Well, I’m not. Can’t vouch for Robin though. He’s definitely some kind of cryptid.”

Her face was starting to hurt from trying to contain her smile. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. “Although… you could be lying. After all, you are entirely covered right now… in the middle of the day… in the summer. That’s a lot of leather for a hot day. It kind of looks like you’re hiding from the sun.” She shrugged her shoulders innocently.

Red Hood stared at her a few more seconds and she was cursing the helmet for an entirely different reason than she usually did. Right now she was dying to know what kind of face he was making. Was he smirking? Was he frowning? Was he blushing? Did she make Red Hood blush! Was he enjoying the interaction or was she annoying him? He moved over to the window he had thrown the thief through earlier and stopped a few feet from it. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal his forearm and exposed it to the sun. “Happy?”

Marinette looked at his forearm for a few seconds, struck by the muscles that were so defined even in his forearms. The things that man could probably do with his hands… She walked closer and started to reach out to touch his forearm only to snap her hand back at the last second. Her cheeks blazed brightly. She cleared her throat lightly. “For now,” she nodded as casually as she could manage, looking everywhere but his eyes.

“Don’t feel shy, P… rincess,” he smirked at her. “Feel free to feel freely.”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest, as much to stop herself from reaching out to touch him as embarrassment. “Probably not a good idea to go around groping people you don’t know so….”

“So,” he started quietly, moving closer to her, “you’re saying you want to get to know me better and then you’ll grope me.” He quirked his head to the side as he took another step closer. “How well do we have to know each other for that? ‘Cuz, I’d let you do it now, so it’s all up to you.”

Marinette’s cheeks blazed a deep red. She looked away to collect herself. While this was fun and Red Hood’s body should be as illegal as his actions, she wasn’t looking to be another notch for him and considering the speed he was moving with someone he just met a few seconds ago, that’s all she would be. She took a breath and looked back up at him. “I’m saying… I should find the papers I was sent here for and get them back to my roommate.”

“Let me walk you home. Make sure the guy doesn’t come back. I can check the security of your place too to make sure you’re safe,” he offered in a tone that sounded sincere.

“Okay,” she nodded.

“Okay?” He sounded surprised at her answer. Most women must not say yes to him, which frankly she had a really hard time believing.

“To the walk, not the apartment check,” she corrected him firmly. “My apartment is safe.”

“Are you sure? I can…”

“My roommate made sure it’s safe and I trust my roommate more than I trust you,” she cut him off. “No offense.”

Red Hood was silent for a few seconds before nodding. “Okay.”

<><><><><>

Marinette laid down on the couch for a while after getting home replaying the events in her head. No matter how many times she ran through them, they still didn’t make any sense. The thief didn’t make sense. Red Hood being there during the day didn’t make sense. And Red Hood hitting on her… didn’t not make sense, but it definitely dampened the crush she had on him.

After a little while, her stomach reminded her she had planned to pick up something to eat after picking up the paperwork, which means she hadn’t eaten since the croissant she had at breakfast and it was now dinnertime. She let out a groan and forced herself up off the couch. Maybe chopping some vegetables would make her feel better anyway.

She had already started sautéing the onions when the puppy dog eyed man himself finally made it home. “That smells great, Mari. Were you able to get the paperwork?”

Marinette blinked at him a few times before narrowing her eyes and pointing the knife she was holding at him. “You’re not allowed to do puppy dog eyes anymore!”

“What? Why? I mean… I don’t… do that,” he trailed off quietly at the glare she was sending him.

“Yes, you do,” she glowered and went back to cutting vegetables for dinner a little more forcefully than she had originally.

“So what happened that was so bad?” he asked carefully. He moved to sit on the counter, but made sure to keep a fair distance between him and Marinette, or more specifically, her knife.

“The office got robbed!” she exclaimed loudly, waving the knife wildly. “While I was in it!”

He jumped down off the counter and ran to her. He grabbed her shoulders and looked her over carefully for any signs of injury. “Mari! Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

Marinette scoffed. “No. I just started trying to take him down when Red Hood interrupted.”

“Red Hood, huh?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Yes, Red Hood,” she rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it quickly and took the knife from her hand first. Once he was fairly safe from getting stabbed, accidentally or on purpose, he continued. “Did you flirt with him?”

“What?” Her cheeks flared brightly. What the hell! Why was he asking her that? That was not a conversation she wanted to have. It was hard enough to have normal conversations with him and his tight shirts and charming smile and piercing eyes, but him encouraging her to flirt with other people was really not a conversation she wanted to have.

“Well you… you like him, right? You said he was your favorite and he was a dilf, even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any kids,” he said nonchalantly as he swirled the onions in the pan.

“Yeah, because he could be my daddy,” Marinette muttered to herself, but apparently not as quietly as she thought she did, judging by the choking sounds next to her.

“What!”

“What?” The smug smirk making its way across his face told her that her denial didn’t come across as innocently as she had hoped. “Shut up, Jason.”

“So he made a good impression then?” He asked somewhat awkwardly, which was bizarre for him. “You might even want to see him again?”

She smacked him in the shoulder pausing when he flinched heavily. She stared at him, studying him closely. That was where Red Hood had been nursing earlier. Red Hood, who has the same dimensions as Jason. Red Hood, who had a still healing cut on his forearm in the exact same spot as the one Jason mysteriously showed up with a few days ago. Red Hood, who knew her roommate was a he. Red Hood, who reminded her so much of Jason, which is why she liked him so much in the first place. Red Hood, who was definitely flirting with her as he rescued her while she was the only one… in Jason’s aunt’s office… after saving her from someone who, thinking back, had the same dimensions and eye color as Roy…

“Oh he made an impression,” she said absentmindedly, still staring at his shoulder.

“A… um, a good one? He did save you, right? Heroic deeds and all? Women love a hero,” Jason added casually.

Marinette stared at him for a few seconds, letting the pieces settle into place. Finally, her eyes widened in realization. “You set it up…”

Jason’s face went blank. “I… What?”

“You set it up,” Marinette repeated with more confidence. “You… Why?”

“What are you talking about?” Jason tried desperately.

She punched him hard in the shoulder. “Jesus! Fuck, Pixie. That hurt.” Jason cried out as he rubbed his aching shoulder.

“Good! What the fuck? Why would you do that? Were you trying to scare me?”

“No! I was… Because… because you liked Red Hood. I wanted you to meet him,” he said defensively. He looked away and took a breath. When he looked back, his voice was quieter, shakier. “You wanted Red Hood and… and I wanted you so…”

“You know, you could have just, I don’t know, popped up on the roof when I was there or showed up when I was walking home. You didn’t have to stage a robbery! Think about all that damage Kate has to deal with now!”

“She was remodeling anyway. She needed to demo the entire office so… two birds, you know?” He shrugged a little too casually to be casual and flipped the onions again.

“And one bat.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Or you could have just… said something”

“You weren’t interested in me. You were interested in Red Hood.”

Marinette let out a long sigh. “I was interested in Red Hood because he reminded me of you.”

His eyes widened in realization. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’. And liking him seemed less emotionally damaging than destroying my relationship with you by flirting.”

“You thought I wasn’t interested?” He looked at her incredulously. She looked down at her feet, shuffling them awkwardly, refusing to make eye contact, almost like she was afraid of what he was going to say. He couldn’t allow that to continue. He turned off the stove and walked up to her slowly, careful not to scare her, just like Red Hood had earlier that day. He gently cupped her face, softly enough that she could pull away if she wanted to. He stroked her cheeks tenderly.

When he finally spoke up again, his voice was loving and reverent. “Pix, I’m head over heels. I don’t think you even… no, I know you don’t know how much or you wouldn’t question why I tried talking to you as Red Hood instead. I love you, Pix. I love your heart and your humor and your sass and your passion… and your face. I love that too.

“And God, your smiles. I love your smile when you’re happy, which is different than your smile when you beat me at UMS, which is different than your smile when you see a little kitten, which is different than your smile when you’re thinking about home, which is different than your smile after you’ve completed a commission, which is different than your smile when I make an amazing joke that you hate. I love them all and I just want to see any of them, all of them, every day.”

He didn’t realize how close he had gotten to Marinette’s face until he realized the gasp she let out sounded like it was right next to him. She laid her hands over his wrists. “Jason…”

“And I really hope I didn’t…”

“Jason!” she interrupted. He looked at her wide eyed. She smiled reassuringly at him. “Can I kiss you?”

“Oh God, Pixie, you can’t imagine how happy that would make me,” he smiled down at her, lowering himself so his lips were close enough for her to reach.

She grinned back up at him as she pushed herself up, her lips a few millimeters from his. “Oh, I think I have an idea,” she whispered before closing the distance.

@jasonette-july-event @maribatserver

#maribat #jasonette #Jasonette July #Jasonette July 2021 #prompt - heist

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aries-writingblog · 1 year

Text

Enemy Fire: 12

Summary: There's a new kid in town, and she's got a city to usurp.

Pairing: Jason Todd × F. Reader

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: language, violence, guns and weapons, explosions, micro aggressions/ hate speech

AN: photos are from Pinterest; I kind of hate this fight scene, it feels rushed and repetitive so please bear with it

Rising dawn was always a spectacular sight; Bright, fiery tendrils of light, staining the clouds in various shades. The blue light of day, chasing the night and drowning out the stars.

YN breathed in, her eyes slipping closed.

Today was the day.

By nightfall, come hell or high water, she would be free.

She couldn’t even begin to imagine her life without Adrian. Not without a pit forming in her stomach, gnawing at her. Stabbing holes and ripping through the fantasies.

She just had to survive the day. She had to do what she had to do, to survive the day, one last time.

Yn’s eyes opened again. The sound of boots hitting concrete bringing her around.

Red Hood approached from behind; He had removed his helmet, leaving him in only a domino mask. The ragged, J shaped scar on his cheek in full daylight.

His white strands gleamed against the daylight.

“This is the place?” Jason asked, peering down the ledge.

“Yep.”

YN pulled her legs up, from where they had been dangling over the edge of the building. Her boot laces dragged across the stone, drawing her attention.

Jason stared down at the silent alley. Unease in his belly, gnawing at his organs. Roiling uncomfortably.

It wasn’t exactly distrust in her; She still felt like a wild card. He wasn’t sure what she would do, if it came down to the wire.

He appreciated her willingness to act on certain impulsivities. No one else he knew would light an entire building on fire, in search of one man.

But if he were in the building at the time of the fire, it would be entirely different.

“Before I go in there, I want to know just how wide of a zone I need to give you.”

“Hm?” She glanced up from lacing her boot. His expression was grim. “Oh, you’ll be fine. May get a little warm.”

He exhaled, his cheeks blowing out his free hand brushing through his hair.

“Are you gonna go apeshit?” He demanded, cutting to the chase. “Do I need to have the fire department on call?”

“We walked through the plan— I’m sticking to the plan.” She defended; Crossing her arms over her chest, YN lifted an eyebrow, wondering if he had already forgotten. “We clear on the plan?”

Jason scoffed, his eyes rolling.

They had walked through the plan nearly seventy times— he wouldn’t forget it in a million years.

“I’m not happy about it.” He announced, gruffly.

“Poor thing.” She cooed, her eyes softening. Mocking him.

Heat flushed across his face, searing his neck and ears.

YN smirked, relishing the pinkish hue taking over his face. He couldn’t even blame it on the morning cold.

“We’re losing time.” Jason grumbled, shoving his helmet back on his head.

YN snickered, pushing herself to her feet. She stretched her arms out, then up above her head. Her Kevlar creaked against the leather, her head tilting both ways to crack her neck.

A groan fell from her lips, her chest pushing out. Though her body was padded with protective gear, Jason could still see the partial outline.

Realizing that his mind had been distracted that easily, he snapped himself out of the stare. Nearly ashamed that he had ogled her so blatantly.

She didn’t seem to notice; Simply attaching the end of her grapple cable to her harness.

“Up and at ‘em, boys— Santa’s coming to town.”

Jason turned halfway around, bewilderment plaguing his mind.

“What?” He demanded.

YN latched her grapple on the hook and perched on the ledge. Leaning back, she let the cable support her weight as she tested the suspension.

“Let’s go.” She ordered.

Jason latched his own cable, deciding on ignoring her eccentricities for sake of saving time. Planting his feet firmly, he bent his knees to begin repelling down.

YN leapt from her position, her feet colliding with the brick. Jason followed immediately after, chasing her all the way down.

At the bottom, they detached their cables and fell silent as they worked in tandem.

He passed her a pair of knives, which she tucked securely into her holsters. In return, she shared a Glock, fully loaded with an extra clip. He tucked it into his belt, without a word.

YN hurried to stand in front of the warehouse door, Jason hovered behind her. Yn’s hands came up, palms out. He tapped her side twice, giving her the ready.

A large ball of fire built between her hands and she launched it at the door. With a loud bang, it flew from It’s hinges, the metal crumpling, melting into an unrecognizable hunk that collided with the wall behind it.

The two filtered into the warehouse hallway, parting ways.

Jason kept his weapons leveled, keeping himself prepared.

They had to have been expecting an attack— otherwise, Adrian was more stupid than YN gave him credit for. Even if not, the noise of their entrance should have raised an alarm.

So where was everybody?

Jason turned the corner, out of the hallway and into a large, cleared area. A few crates were stacked against the far wall, a pair of closed double doors led further into the warehouse.

He stopped walking, standing in the middle of the expansive room. His weapons raised.

Risky business.

Jason closed his eyes, slowing his heartbeat. Keeping his breathing low.

That damned Lazarus Pit had to be good for something.

A faint, racing heartbeat filled the silence. He held his breath— waiting to hear more.

Multiple heartbeats. All rapid, thudding beats.

Jason exhaled, opening his eyes.

He spun around, firing two shots.

The body hit the ground, a dense thud sounding off. Simultaneously, gunshots fired from behind him.

Jason whipped back around, bullets sparking off his helmet. Bodies funneled through, all attempting to set up a defensive formation. He cursed.

No where to hide to reload, no where to even retreat to for reprieve.

He grunted, a bullet lodging into his vest.

“Incoming!”

Jason dropped to the ground, wasting no time in pondering her actions. His reaction proved to be valuable, as a large swath of flames forced the men before him to either back away or be consumed. A barrage of bullets followed, raining over his head.

He rolled over and scrambled back, away from her line of fire.

YN had been slowly moving forward, firing into the group of men. Jason pushed himself to his feet beside her as she dropped the now empty and useless weapon. All of the goons across from them were in various states, all sprawled on the concrete, a vicious red seeping out of their wounds.

“Jesus!” Jason barked, facing her. His modulator warped his words, but his tone was crystal clear; And he was pissed. “You trying to kill me?”

“If you don’t stay out of my way! I said incoming.” She grouched, stepping over a downed body.

“You didn’t say you were the incoming!”

YN rolled her eyes, her head tilting over her shoulder, her body following as she faced him. A half- alive foot soldier aiming for Jason’s back made her eyes widen.

“Duck!” She shouted, shoving him down by the shoulders. Jason grunted as his knees popped. She sent another fireball against the enemy. “I don’t have time for specifics!”

She turned again, beginning to jog in the opposite direction.

“Make the time!” Jason called, following without hesitation.

When he entered the next area of the warehouse, he cursed under his breath.

He should’ve hesitated.

Men in black Kevlar poured from the entrance across the room, weapons pointed directly at the two invaders.

Jason fired into the group, several falling to their knees. Only to be replaced.

“Take the left!” YN ordered, leaping from the line of fire to the right.

“Fuck you.” Jason grumbled, following her half assed direction, diving to the left. “Fuck you, so much.”

YN slung a knife, the blade slicing through the air, lodging into the neck of an enemy. He fell to his knees, grasping for the handle.

She ripped it out, sending a knee to his face. Swinging around, she forced the knife into another’s thigh, elbowing his face. He fell backward with a shout.

All the money Adrian spent, preparing for this, and he didn’t even get the poor bastards any helmets.

Jason reloaded, firing more bullets into exposed skin. He watched YN as closely as he could, to avoid a stray bullet in her direction.

She was moving so fast, a blur on the battlefield— it was difficult to keep up with her, but not impossible.

As the last body fell, YN straightened, wiping blood from her face. Jason approached, leaning down to scavenge for new weapons. He was nearly out of ammunition, and he had the terrible feeling that it wasn’t over that easily.

“I’ll find Adrian, you keep these idiots away.” She instructed.

Jason reached out, snatching her elbow. She jolted backward, nearly bumping his chest.

“I’m not letting you go in there by yourself.” He countered.

“I swear to Christ, Red.” She spat, yanking herself away from him. The whites of her domino mask were glowing orange— a clear indicator that this was something she needed to do alone. “You do not want to be in the room when I find him. Please, stay out here.”

He hesitated, lips pressing together tightly.

“I don’t like this.” He shook his head. YN smirked, her head quirking.

“Good.”

YN sprinted along the empty hallway.

She hadn’t seen any more hired men, but she could still hear gunfire and warfare happening from across the warehouse.

She knew Jason could hold his own, and she certainly knew it would’ve been better to have two of them against Adrian.

That didn’t mean she wanted him there.

No doubt, Adrian was going to pry and poke— attempting to disarm her mentally. And that was something she didn’t need anyone to witness. It was nothing Jason needed to hear.

Besides, he wasn’t fireproof. For him to stay safe, he needed to stay away from the furnace zone.

Emerging into the final room of the warehouse, she slowed to a walk. Glancing around. Just like the other rooms, there were wooden crates and boxes stacks on pallets against the walls.

Giving her no where to hide.

An ambush was impossible to create against him.

But it also meant he couldn’t hide, either. He was stuck in the open too.

“If it isn’t my darling niece.” Yn’s body froze at the voice behind her. Her heart thudding against her ribs. Her fists clenched at her sides, igniting the flames. She glared over her shoulder. The man emerged into view, a daring smirk on his lips. “What you don’t speak, anymore?”

“Not to you.” She growled.

“What’s the problem, eh?” He asked, hands in his pockets. His dark hair gleamed under the warehouse fluorescents. A malevolent grin curved his lips. “You know this scene… this is familiar. Your family always seems to find their way to the wrong end of my gun, huh?”

“Fuck you.” She hissed, her nose stinging.

Not now; She swallowed against the onslaught of emotion building in her throat. Now was not the time to let him rile her up. He was looking for a reaction. Betting on her losing her temper.

She wouldn’t. Never again.

He couldn’t do this to her ever again.

YN fueled the flames, releasing them in large balls of fire. Adrian dodged them, without blinking.

She knew going into this that he would know her every move; He had trained her, after all. They were methodically the same.

Her hope was that she could overpower him. Her entire plan was based around her strength. Attacking at dawn, sunbathing as the sun lifted, charging herself. She had limited her use of her abilities to keep her stamina.

Saving everything for this.

“I told you, sweetheart, you had a choice here,” Adrian explained, he pulled a pair of guns from his holsters, keeping them in a loose grip. “This all could’ve been over. Could’ve been back home, working through this entire misunderstanding.”

“Nuh-uh.” YN laughed. She held her palm out, driving Adrian back with a path of flames. He clenched his jaw, reluctantly obeying her boundary. She was trying to disrupt his aim. “I’ve figured some things out, Adrian. Since I left, your organization has crumbled. You never held any authority unless I was there— a threat, you could hold over people.”

He stopped moving, leaving himself open for an attack. YN heaved a barrage of fire, heat blazing backwards.

Adrian ducked, hitting his knees and unloading his weapons. YN yelped, a bullet ripping through her shoulder.

“That’s what you’re good for.” Adrian taunted.

YN removed her hand from her shoulder, blood dripping from the wound. The good news was that it went straight through; The pain was intense, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as it would’ve been, had the bullet stayed in.

“You’re weak without me.” She spat, her chest heaving. Lungs working overtime to get enough oxygen.

“You’re one to speak— when you bring in vigilante help.” He staggered to his feet, releasing the empty magazines, shoving the weapons back into the holsters. He didn’t have enough time to reload; His knives would have to do for now. “Do you think he won’t turn you in? Or kill you— Red Hood’s history isn’t as straight and narrow as you may think.”

YN wiped sweat from her face.

“I’m not delusional about my alliances.”

Adrian scoffed, licking his lips. The air was drying out, from her fire and heat. Burning the oxygen, making it harder for others to breathe.

“What do you know about alliances? You’re young— inexperienced. Naive.” Adrian grunted, launching knives at her. YN dodged, the blades clattering to the ground behind her. “All you’ve ever been good for is a weapon.”

A knife aimed directly between her eyes flew from his hand; YN brought a hand up, blowing it away with a gust of flames.

Her lips curled into a sneer.

“I am more.”

Got her. Adrian smiled; It had taken a few tries but he finally found the way under her skin.

“That what your mommy told you?” He mocked.

“Shut up.” YN barked, stepping back.

“Do you know what your mother told me?”

“I’ll make you burn!” She shouted, a wall of flames bursting forth, again. This time they surrounded them— forming a ring that had begun to creep closer. Burning inward.

Closing him in.

“You don’t even have a conscious mind of your own. That why you teamed up? Someone to make decisions for you— tell you exactly what to do?” He called. “You like being a puppet.”

YN roared, flames bursting from between her clenched fists. Sparks flew across her body, the flame crawling up to her elbows.

Without giving him a chance, Yn launched fireballs in quick succession. The air shimmered with heat, her hair stuck to her neck.

Adrian closed in; Moving further in to her close range zone, forcing her to stop throwing her fire and start using it for defense.

His knives glinted against her firelight. She managed to disarm him, a punch being thrown at his nose.

Catching his cheek, he stumbled back half a step, before wrangling her into a headlock. She warmed her body, singeing his clothes before jutting an elbow into his gut.

He didn’t let her escape easily, raking his nails over her face. While she was still turned, Adrian grabbed her hair, yanking her against his chest.

His spare hand found another knife from his belt.

“You’ve always liked being mindless, it’s what your kind is good at.” He hissed, stabbing upward. The blade cut through her armor, sending radiating pain down her side. She fell to one knee, clutching at her ribs. Adrian sent an uppercut to her jaw, sending her flying backward, her head colliding with the concrete. He pressed his boot against her chest. “Stay where you belong, fucking meta.”

He kept her in place as he pulled another gun from his belt. YN groaned, trying to wriggle from under his weight. The barrel leveled at her face, his lips curving into a self congratulatory sneer.

YN grabbed his ankle, her entire body lighting on fire. Adrian tried to yank away, to avoid the scorching temperatures. With her tight grip on his leg, she sent him toppling to the ground beside her.

He kicked her stomach; YN coughed, nearly gagging at the pain. The wind being knocked from her chest. But she didn’t surrender her grasp on him.

Instead, she subdued him, blasting heat at his face. Crawling up to her knees, she knelt against his chest, pressing her kneecap into his sternum. Without giving him a chance to acknowledge his situation, she started launching bare knuckle punches at his face.

She kept going, unable to stop herself from beating him into a pulp.

Panting, running out of steam, she finally laced her hands around his throat. Her knuckles bloody and bruised.

Within that second of switching her hands, Adrian drove another knife into the outside of her thigh.

YN released a guttural noise— a battle cry— as she compacted all the fire and heat in her chest. It pooled from her extremities, building. Barely contained rage from years of his bullying, the abuse, her parent’s murders.

Every single insult and jeer, all the times he used her to do his dirty work. Every single kill that was at her expense. Every drop of blood she shed in his name.

It all began to forge one massive ball of hatred and anger that sat heavy in her chest.

Her hands squeezed tighter around his throat— his brown eyes bloodshot and straining.

She stared him down, her war torn scream reaching a fever pitch.

One last drop of anger, and the surface tension shattered.

The cup ran over.

An intense ring became all she could hear and her vision went white. Pressure released beneath her hands.

Euphoric energy recoiled through her— red hot and blistering. Ricocheting between her bones, threading between her muscles, overtaking her senses.

Blinding, divine retribution.

Reality crashed through her revelation; Her vision came back slowly, as she blinked, it cleared.

She sat on her knees, her hands pressed to the concrete. Steam curled from her body, flames danced in her peripherals, lapping up any fuel it could get and demolishing her surroundings.

Chunks of concrete were uprooted and pushed in a loose circle around her. Sunlight filtered through the smoke— the ceiling was gone.

YN panted, greedily inhaling any available oxygen. Her fingers curled, the joints aching as if they hadn’t been moved in hours.

That’s when she noticed: Adrian’s body was no longer beneath hers. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere.

A blackened portion of concrete smeared a rough estimate of where he had been.

A manic smile tugged at her lips, a weak laugh burst from her lips.

“Stay where you belong, fuckwad.” YN spat, her breath coming in bursts.

He was gone.

Adrian was gone for good.

YN fell back on her ass, where she managed to maintain balance for half a second. Vertigo plagued her in an instant, sending her onto all fours, retching until nothing more came of it.

She whimpered, her muscles searing in agony. Joints creaking in protest— her head pounded. The flames around her were blurry and she wasn’t sure if it was tears or if she had liquified her organs.

She fell flat on her back, lying amidst the fire. Crackling and burning all the assets the warehouse contained.

YN coughed, something wet splattered her lips. Her limbs felt too heavy to even lift, and her mind was foggy. She wasn’t even sure she would know what it was if she investigated.

Jason groaned, his ears ringing. Slumped against a wall, he shook his head, attempting to focus his attention.

The warehouse looked like a bomb had gone off.

Fiery debris littered the ground— bodies were scattered among the carnage. The building itself seemed to be crumbling.

What the hell did she do?

YN.

Shit.

Jason unsteadily rose to his feet, his palms pressed flat to the wall behind him. His leather jacket was peppered with holes, his pants were torn and his helmet was shattered. Otherwise, by his short scan, he figured he was mostly unharmed by the blast.

Nothing was broken, at least.

He staggered off the wall, his feet moving unceremoniously toward the doorway. He had been in the hallway, right across from where he could hear Yn and Adrian arguing.

Then he had heard a scream and then… the blast. It was blurry, right before that.

There. A body lay motionless in a clear zone— the floor blackened around them.

Jason stumbled his way over the rubble, narrowly avoiding fallen chunks of ceiling. Smoke billowed from the massive hole in the roof, the fires in this area were steady.

This was definitely where the blast originated.

But the only person he could see was YN.

At least, he hoped it was her. He had to assume the best— that Adrian was buried under the rubble and YN had miraculously avoided it.

It would be one hell of a turn around for his luck, something that didn’t happen for him.

“YN?” Jason called. Smoke filled his lungs through his cracked helmet. He coughed, blindly pressing forward into the expansive, demolished area. He crouched down, crawling toward where he had spotted her. “Fucking, hell.”

Her suit was half destroyed; The Kevlar shredded and portions of the fabric were singed, blackened and burned beyond recognition. Even her domino mask was half intact.

Physically, she wasn’t fairing much better. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, scrapes and deep gashes littered her skin. Soot and dirt covered her in a fine layer of grime.

Had she been the source of the blast?

Jason called her name again, pulling at her suit. He was beginning to feel lightheaded, his movements were sluggish now. He knew they wouldn’t have long; The oxygen in the warehouse was rapidly being consumed by the growing flames. The smoke was another problem.

YN groaned weakly, barely lifting her hand to paw at his. A half hearted attempt to escape him.

“Get up.” He instructed, tugging at her arm. YN moaned again, her brow creased. He grunted in annoyance, pushing himself on to his knees gather her into a sitting position. “Get up— we’ve gotta move. Cops are gonna swarm this place. And I don’t care how fireproof you are, I’m not leaving you in this hellhole.”

She didn’t respond.

Jason planted his knee and scooped her into his arms. She gave weak protests, in the form of more whines than any real words. He ignored it as he held her close to his chest.

He found an exit rather quickly— the first real luck of the day— and burst through into the fresh air.

His lungs burned with oxygen flooding his body again. He coughed, his airways stinging.

He ached to drop to his knees and simply breathe but the body pressed to his chest forced his thoughts straight. He could already hear the sirens in the distance. The whole force would soon crawl the docks and he wasn’t planning on sticking around to explain himself.

His apartment was closest. He could make it there.

YN moaned again, her injuries being jostled as he picked up his pace. Jason hugged her closer, her face pressing into the crook of his shoulder.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x f!reader #enemy fire #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you

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