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starlightsearches · 2 years

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Pick Up Lines

Part 1 / Part 2: Meet-Cute

Warnings: Language, stalking behavior, some suspense.

Requests are open but I’m slow. Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated!

The Riddler x Femme! Reader

3.8k words

You must look even worse than you feel.

You know this because of the way Bruce watches you from the driver’s seat of his car, permanently-sad eyes turned down even more at the corners, brow lined with the worry you normally hold for him. He turns his head towards you at every stop, lips parted, but he never manages to say a word.

“Thank you again, for this.”

Your own voice is raw and weary, shaking a little as your forehead rests against the cool window. There’s no need to pretend around Bruce. No need for a brave face. He’s seen you through the worst this life has had to offer.

Interviewers often asked what it was like to be friends with the Bruce Wayne—a humanizing tidbit before the hard-hitting questions, although it’s usually the most difficult to answer. Growing up at each others’ sides had made you more like family. He was the one who first suggested law school—mostly as an insult, after another petty argument. He paid for your tuition when the time came, though, and then refused to let you pay him back. There were years of Wayne Foundation Christmas parties and birthdays spent drinking champagne on his couch, a store-bought cake resting on the cushions between you. You were given no warning when it all came to an end. Work always kept you busy, and he had plenty of vague excuses up his sleeve. The past two years of unanswered phone calls and canceled plans had turned you into almost-strangers.

Despite all that, there’s no one you trust more than Bruce.

Wayne Tower looks just like you remember it, that familiar feeling of safety enveloping you as the gates fold closed behind Bruce’s car, sealing you in the lush green garden and its high, protective walls. Bruce puts the car in park just in front of the arched alcove of the door, hands still gripping the steering wheel.

“Alfred said he’d be waiting for you,” he mumbles, “and Dory has already made up your room.”

“Are you not coming in?”

“I have a meeting.” Bruce frowns hard at the windshield, like he’d expected to find a better lie written in the thin layer of moisture across the glass.

He should know better than to think you’d let that go. “A meeting?”

There’s no response. He’s about as talkative as a brick wall, and twice as stubborn. If you’re ever going to break him down, it’ll be one stone at a time.

You sigh in defeat, leaning your head back against the old leather of the headrest. Your hand finds his without much thought, fingers resting against his pale knuckles. He flinches from the touch, even though his skin is colder than yours. You let him settle into it before you speak.

“Are you just waiting for a properly dramatic moment to reveal all your secrets?”

He almost smiles; you catch it out of the corner of your eye. “Yeah.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to be patient.”

The look he gives you says thank you, even if he stays quiet. You grip the strap of your duffle bag, yanking it from the back seat before sending him off with a wave and a sigh.

The night air is cool, but not biting, rain misting down through the shelter of the high, shady trees, and the sound of your footsteps echoes around you, bouncing off the cobblestone drive.

Alfred is waiting in the foyer, as promised, with a much friendlier greeting than Bruce had given you, wrapping you in a one-armed hug. He still smells the same—the vague male scent of cologne and pomade, with something more mechanical underneath it, like motor oil. It’s one of those things that defined your childhood, one that brings back an old memory with every breath.

You pull him in tighter—maybe a little closer than what’s warranted, but you can’t help it. You’ve missed him. “It’s good to see you, Alfred.”

“And it’s good to see you, miss,” he says, kind enough to let you hold him, “although I wish it wasn’t under such circumstances.”

You wonder how much Bruce told him. You hadn’t heard any part of the muffled phone call, and not for a lack of trying. Jim had kept you distracted as you threw whatever you could reach into an overnight bag, peppering you with questions you didn’t want to answer.

Did you hear anyone come in? No.

How long was the power out before you left the bathroom? I have no idea.

Is there any significance to the rose petals? Not that I know of.

There was another envelope, and a finely wrapped box, left on the table near an unconscious—but luckily alive—Officer Garrett. Jim had asked if you wanted to wait for them to be dusted for prints; you told him to open both without you.

Alfred talks about nothing as he walks you to the guest room, filling the silence with questions about only the most superficial of topics.

“Can you be honest with me, Alfred?”

You pull him to a stop in one of the many identical hallways, at the third door on the left, the door to what has always been your room whenever you stayed here, although it looks like any other. Alfred won’t meet your eyes, watching his thumb as it travels back and forth over the top of his cane.

His expression is etched with worry when he finally looks at you, and he sighs, the weight of the world on his shoulders, “I can try, miss.”

“How is he . . . really?”

Alfred frowns hard, choosing his words carefully. “Better than he looks.”

He meets your eyes, trying not to smile. It makes you both laugh, macabre little chuckles bouncing off the stone walls. “That leaves quite a margin of error.”

“Listen to me,” Alfred rests a hand on your shoulder, more fatherly than your own father ever was. “He may not look it, but he’s doing as well as he can. Don’t worry yourself too much over him. You need to take this time you’ve been given, and try to relax a little, yeah?”

But relaxing is one of those things you’ve never been very good at.

It’s not something you needed to be good at; people like you could always find rewards for throwing yourselves into your work, and with no work to throw yourself into . . .

Gray sunlight wakes you much too early from a night of fitful sleep, and after a few unanswered calls to Jim wondering about the possibility of him grabbing your laptop from your apartment, you spend the rest of your morning wandering the empty halls in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of leggings you usually reserved for apartment deep cleans and workouts. After rummaging through a few different closets, you manage to add another item to your ensemble—a well-worn workman’s jacket an old gardener must have left, and it helps to stave off the tower’s perpetual chill.

You journey into the library, craving something to swallow your time, but the dim room with its vaulted ceilings holds nothing but weak sunlight and disappointment. Most of the books are probably priceless, and definitely ancient—so old you’re afraid they’d crumble to dust in your fingers. The only “modern” contributions Bruce had made to the collection were dreary Russian classics that you’d rather eat page by page than read.

You fiddle with your phone in your hand, raking your eyes over the orderly shelves, before deciding to look up the closest book store—just to check—pleasantly surprised to see that there’s one only a few blocks from your location.

You really shouldn’t. And yet, you find yourself walking to the door.

It’s not like you could ask Bruce to go with you—you don’t even know if he came back last night, let alone if he’s awake. Of course Alfred would go, but the walk would be hell on his leg, and taking the car in the heart of the city would be its own kind of hassle.

And it’s not like you were in any danger in the daylight.

You leave a note on the dining table for Alfred—Needed some fresh air. I have my phone!—and sneak out the side gate.

There aren’t many others out in the early morning: some blue-collar workers with tired eyes on their way to and from jobs, one or two baby-faced professionals in expensive suits, handfuls of women in designer athletic gear measuring their pulses as they speed walk down the way. You’ve never seen a homeless camp on this side of the city, but you pass by a few people with cardboard signs, either foolish enough to hope for better luck among the wealthier crowd, or desperate enough to risk catching the attention of the police. You make a note to find out if the book store will let you withdraw any cash for your walk back.

It’s a high-end place—one with large, clean front windows and a little cafe inside, its chalkboard menu boasting oat milk lattes with your choice of floral syrups. The inside smells exactly how a bookstore should, the air warm enough that you can unzip your borrowed jacket without getting cold. You tuck your hands in the large, lined pockets, feeling invigorated, and decide to treat yourself to a drink.

There’s something very calming about walking through the aisles of a bookstore, something that makes you forget about everything beyond its doors, and you set a leisurely pace through the stacks, comforted by the privacy the shelves offer you. You pick up titles at random, choosing only the most ridiculous romances you can find—ones with tragic, busty women on the covers and the weakest of plot summaries.

Of course you’d bump into somebody with a shopping basket full of porn.

There’s a loud zip from the waterproof material of his jacket when his shoulder blade brushes yours, and it’s unexpected enough to startle the book you were holding out of your hand.

He reaches for it the same time you do—long, pale fingers and dry knuckles poking from the oversized sleeve of his jacket. His hand just brushes yours along the book’s stiff spine, and you’d never believed in all that fairytale rom-com bullshit, but given the way your fingertips go numb when they meet his, it almost feels like a spark.

He’s got big, dark eyes and a round, angelic face—his cheeks a sweet baby pink when he meets your eyes, growing pinker with embarrassment when he sees the cover of the book you were holding, like he’s the one who’s been caught red-handed.

Fuck, he’s cute. The kind of guy you’d like to carry around in your pocket.

“Sorry,” you snatch the book from the floor before he can get another chance to examine the shirtless cover model and his air-brushed pectorals, tucking it back on the shelf at random and crossing your arms over your chest in a poor attempt to seem casual, “I didn’t see you there.”

He’s staring up at you from the ground, wide eyed, and his lips tremble without words—you’d say the expression he wore was disbelief, if he didn’t look so afraid.

But then he gets a hold of himself, standing in front of you with a slight slump to his shoulders and his hands tucked away in large jacket pockets. He’s taller than you thought he would be.

“That’s okay,” he sounds just like he looks, small and bashful. His eyes dart away from yours, back to the shelf and its rows and rows of trashy romances, his cheeks reddening again. You grasp at straws for a distraction.

“Are you a mystery fan?”

There’s a sign above one of the shelves behind you, the word MYSTERY in large block letters, thank god, and it successfully diverts his attention away from the chiseled firefighters and men in kilts.

He hums quietly as he nods, tracing over the dark covers and author’s names, clearly more familiar with the titles there than you are. Conversation doesn’t seem to come naturally to him; he purses his thin pink lips together, thinking hard about what to say next.

“What about you?”

“Oh, not really,” you say, and he offers nothing to fill the silence. You feel compelled to continue, “I think there’s enough mystery in my own life.”

Which would explain your presence in the romance aisle—funnily enough—although if he makes the same connection, he’s too kind to point it out.

He shifts quietly, glancing towards the mouth of the aisle, probably desperate to get out of here. But it feels like ages since you’ve had a normal conversation with somebody, even though less than twenty four hours have passed since you met with Jim. And you’ve never been very good at letting things go.

“What would you suggest?”

“What?”

His eyes flash back towards yours, and he squints them, almost suspicious—like he can’t understand why you’re still talking to him, like he’s grown too accustomed to being the butt of the joke.

“If I wanted to get into the genre, where do you think I should start?”

He frowns, deadly serious about your request, and if you were expecting an Agatha Christie or a Stephen King, you’re immediately corrected. His hand travels to one of the lower shelves, shaggy hair falling in curtains around his face, leaving the pale skin at the back of his neck bare and vulnerable just above the collar of his blue dress shirt.

God, really? You chew on the inside of your cheek, staring hard at the block print covering the front of a John Grisham novel. You’re hardly a nun, but this interaction’s got you acting like you’re fresh from the convent. Maybe you should have taken your secretary’s offers to set you up with her cousin or neighbor or whatever. But, then again, the conventionally-attractive thirty-somethings she showed you pictures of never piqued your interest like this guy.

He stands again before you can think too deeply about petting your fingers over the delicate little hairs at the edge of his scalp, to see if they’re really as soft as they look.

“Here.”

He rests the book in your hands, gently, like the slightest breath might undo the glue at its seams and cover the floor in sheafs of unbound papers. You take in the faded gray cover—completely unassuming, both the title and the author unfamiliar. It’s a little like the man in front of you, you think with a stifled smile, although the USA Today review promises hidden depths.

“Thank you—”

He hears the pause in your voice, and hesitates himself, before winning whatever internal battle he’d faced and pressing his hand out for you to take.

“Edward,” he supplies.

“And I’m—”

“I know.”

He blushes furiously at that admission, eyes wide with surprise, like he’s just confessed to some heinous crime. For the first time you wonder if you should be worried, talking to a stranger so openly given . . . everything.

The blush only grows more acute, skin redder than you would have thought medically possible. He speaks in a small voice, sliding his clammy hand from your grip. “I’ve— I’ve seen your campaign ads on TV.”

Now it’s your turn to be embarrassed. “Oh god, those are really, really awful.”

His face falls, looking sadder than warranted. “What?”

You heave a sigh, shifting the basket from one arm to the other. Creating the campaign ads had been, to put it mildly, a fucking nightmare. The PR guy you’d hired was a total ass, forcing ethnically-ambiguous child actors into your arms and constantly commanding you to “smile, no wider.” The end result left you looking vapid and cloying.

“They’re just so, I don’t know, cheesy? I can’t watch any of them without cringing. People are always worried I won’t come off as ‘likable,’ so I guess we had to overcompensate.”

He actually looks distraught at the idea. “Why would anyone dislike you?”

Oh my god. You part your lips like you’re about to speak, but find yourself too stunned to list any of the reasons people found you unpleasant, warranted or not. And then you spy a brooding figure over his shoulder, and you're stunned for an entirely different reason.

“Bruce?”

Bruce is standing with his back towards you in the little cafe area, and he turns at the sound of his voice, purple shadows under his eyes and a relieved expression on his face, which quickly turns critical.

“What are you doing here?” He crosses the space between you in a few large strides, concrete frown tampered a little by the confused look he shoots in Edward’s direction. You give him a little shake of your head—Bruce had never been a fan of meeting new people, and it seems like Edward is the same. He clings tightly up against the shelves, the oversized sleeve of his jacket denting against the wooden frame, trying his best to make himself smaller. When he glances at you, pressing his glasses back up his nose, you think you spy a little hurt in his features.

It’s not like that, you want to say. And then you want to roll your eyes at yourself.

Of course it’s not like that. It’s Bruce.

“I was just looking for something to read. And I have my phone.”

You put on a falsely innocent tone, a trick that had served you fairly often in your childhood whenever you’d gotten caught doing something you shouldn’t. Bruce recognizes it too well to be on the receiving end.

“I’ve been calling you.”

You slip your phone from your pocket, scrolling through an unprecedented list of notifications, missed calls and messages—some from Jim, but the majority from Bruce.

A little pocket of worry burrows its way into your chest. “I didn’t know I had it on silent, still. I’m sorry. Did something happen?”

“Lieutenant Gordon came looking for you, something about the . . . situation at your apartment last night.”

Edward’s shoulders have dropped down from his ears, and you can feel the curious pressure of his eyes on the side of your face. Your mouth twists into a frown. It’s a hell of a time to meet somebody. It seems like Edward might be thinking the same thing, shifting from foot to foot.

“I should go,” he says, “I’m late for work.”

He tries to scoot past you in the aisle, careful not to touch you. When your hand wraps around his arm, he jumps.

“Wait—“ you stop him, and then flounder, unsure how to ask for what you want—acutely aware of the way Bruce is watching you and the way Edward is watching him watch you. “I should probably get your number, you know, in case I want any more recommendations when I finish this one.”

There’s a display table near the end of the shelf—stacked with little recommendation cards you can fill out for other customers and a cup of ball-point pens. You take one, pressing it into Edward’s hand.

He eyes you warily, his clammy fingers unfurling slowly around the plastic before he writes down his name and number on the inside cover in a messy scrawl.

“Thanks, I’ll call you.”

He nods, unable to even meet your eyes, pink cheeks dusted by the ends of his sandy blond hair. He’s too shy to even say goodbye.

You watch him go, and when you turn back Bruce is staring at you with a heavy frown. You take a little pleasure in watching him chew on his criticisms, deciding where he might have the moral high ground, whittling them down to practically nothing.

“You could have just had him type it into your phone.”

Jim is waiting for you in the sitting room of Wayne Tower, trying hard to look like he’s not mesmerized—and maybe a little put-off—by the brutal architecture and ostentatious decor.

There’s a few items on the coffee table in front of him: your computer—thank god—a black dress from your closet, still in its plastic dry-cleaner wrapping, some black heels.

You take a seat, and Jim clears his throat, gesturing to the clothes. “Mitchell’s funeral is tomorrow; I thought you’d want to attend.”

“Thank you,” you drop into one of the chairs across from him, but you can’t pull your eyes away from the dark green envelope and its matching box.

He sighs, leaning on his forearms. “Our guys dusted them for prints and didn’t find anything. I’m sorry.”

You nod. It’s not alright, but it’s expected.

Gordon looks like he’s ready to say more, but he pauses, glancing over your shoulder. “I’d hoped we could talk more about this in private.”

You look back. Bruce is still standing in the doorway, looking quiet and awkward.

“I don’t mind if he stays. If it’s alright with you, of course.” Gordon nods, and Bruce finds a seat. The room is quiet, and solid with tension.

“I guess we should start with this.” Gordon reaches for the box. It’s heavier than you expected, and long, easily spanning the distance between the armrests of your chair without touching your lap. You lift the lid and cast it aside.

“Oh.”

It’s not the same one. That’s what you have to tell yourself, looking down, tears stinging your eyes. It’s not the same bat. But there’s a roaring in your ears, and the smell of blood thick in your nose, suffocating your other senses.

It’s not the same one. That one had more wear—nicks in the barrel, paint faded in some places, like the two retro stripes near the handle, flecked at the edges. That bat had been Bruce’s originally, until he’d passed it on to you—a kind of consolation prize, after your parents had yet again denied your pleas to join a local softball league. You made due, playing catch with Bruce in the garden, trying not to seethe when he had to leave for his little league practice.

It’s not the same bat, but it weighs just the same in your hand. You know what it would sound like, if you swung it through the air. Know how it would feel to lift it high above your head, then bring it down with all your might.

“God.”

You don’t need to explain the significance of the gift—the two men are well-aware of your history, just like the rest of Gotham. And him, as well.

Bruce swallows, watching you lift the bat from its package and set it gingerly at your feet—no sudden movements. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

Gordon clears his throat. “We got another card, as well. No cipher this time, but there is a riddle. It’s a little vague—we haven’t been able to figure out a satisfactory answer.”

He pulls out the card, shows you the front: I’m “pin-ning'' all my hopes on you, valentine! underneath an illustration of a child hanging little heart shapes on a clothesline.

“It could be two, just me and you. What do you have that also has you?” he reads.

Bruce frowns, “a family?”

You’ve still got your eyes on the baseball bat, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“No, not a family. A team.”

A team.

Gordon pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back against the couch cushions. His fingers tremble for a cigarette.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

He’s taken the words right from your mouth.

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#the riddler x reader #the riddler x you #edward nashton x reader #edward nashton x you #the riddler/reader #the riddler/you #edward nashton/reader #edward nashton/you #dano riddler #paul dano riddler #dano!riddler x reader #dano!riddler x you #dano!riddler #danonation #my writing

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starryturrtle · 10 months

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riddler x Bruce headcanons yippie

Aaa ok!! I personally don't ship riddlebat but I think the ship is cute so srry if it's out of character!!<3

Cw for stalking lolz

• Bruce calls edward "ed" because Edward doesn't like his name and Bruce thinks it's kinda cute(he'll never admit to it tho)

• Edward has a photo album dedicated to Bruce and is constantly take pics of him without Bruce knowing

• Edward writes a lot of love notes for Bruce but rarely sends it to him

• They solve crimes together on date nights‼️(edward loves to help solve the difficult puzzles for bruce)

• Both their sleep schedules are extremely fucked up so they see eachother at the most random times

• Edward has extreme attachment issues and is constantly all up in Bruce's space(bruce tolerates it for the most part)

• Both autistic so when one or both of them get really burnt out they just sit together in silence and watch a show they both like and hold hands

• They both go to operas together for dates!!

• Edward is very touchy while bruce finds being touched uncomfortable so they typically settle for holding hands

• Edward has ocd so bruce does everything he can to a adhere to Edward's "ocd rules"

• Edward forces bruce to watching cheesy romance movies(bruce acts like he doesn't like them but Edward knows he secretly does)

• Edward stalks every single person bruce has ever dated or talked to on social media

• Bruce will see things he thinks edward would like and buy them for him

• Edward stalked Bruce months before they met

• They met in a diner at like 1am bruce was getting coffee after a night out being batman and edward followed him there getting the courage to talk to him

#riddlebat #batman 2022 #riddler #riddler x batman #headcanon

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itsmeevie01 · 3 years

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A Moment in Time

ok, so. a little disclaimer before we get into the good stuff. Cannon is in no way whatsoever being followed in this. honestly? im not even sure that i REMEBER cannon at this point. that said, cannon is non applicable. at. all.

moving on. YES, i WILL finish B!DBWM stuff eventually. but uh...not today. i just mentally cant. it. will. come. when. my. brain. can. handle. the. world. that. i. had. tailored. for. it.

ALSO this is going to be kinda sporatic, but the goal (not end all be all but) is to have this wrapped in a pretty little package and finished (at least on my end) by the end of february.

and now....onto the stuff you came here for!

---

Marinette was running late to school when she met him. She ran into the boy and stumbled back, flailing to catch herself before she fell. He looked down at her owlishly, before looking around. By the time he had returned his gaze to her, the teen had pulled herself back together. He smiled and nodded at her, before moving to go around. When Marinette had pulled herself together enough to call a short “sorry!”, He was already gone.

That was three weeks ago. Now, she was looking at a picture of their interaction, where it blared on the front page of the newspaper that Jagged had sent her. When Marinette had received the package, she had been confused. Jagged wasn’t supposed to send her another demo for a few weeks. They were still working on singles. When she had opened the box and found five different American publications with her on their front page, the teen designer had shrieked. With shaking hands, she picked up the top one and studied the headline.

HAS BRUCE WAYNE’S WARD FOUND PARISIAN LOVE?

The bold text was catching, sure, but Marinette was caught on WHO it was placing her with. Someone she had never met. The second one had a picture of her next to Jagged at an event, and a picture of the boy next to a blonde girl. The headline wasn’t much better than the first.

TIMELINE OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN MDC AND THE HEIR TO WAYNE INERPRISES.

The teen snorted. She was starting to see the pattern. Putting the tabloid down the girl moved onto the next one. This one had, once again, a zoomed in picture of the five second interaction between her and a stranger. The title, however, was different than the first two.

ALL OF BRUCE WAYNE’S CHILDREN, AND THE INSIDE SCOOP ON HIS NEWEST DAUGHTER

She squinted, laughter bubbling up a little as she observed the piece of fiction. Whoever the Bruce Wayne was, Marinette hopped that he was able to combat this, because she had no intention of letting this fly.

Tim and Bruce were staring at the pile of papers in mild shock. When Jared had reached out to them in mild panic, they had been confused. His panic had been explained when the rocker had arrived carrying a stack of tabloid literature a foot thick. When he had thunk’d the stack down on Bruce’s desk, the businessman’s shock had been more than notable. When Tim had picked up the first few publications the initial look on his face was mirth, but it quickly morphed into shock, then panic. When he handed the top item to Bruce, the older man frowned. When the second pamphlet made its way to his hands, Bruce paused. His next move was to call the Wayne family lawyers. when he turned back to his old friend, all the faces in the room told the same grim tale of what was to come.

When Tim found out that it was Jared’s niece that he had accidentally run into in the brief moment in Paris, he wasn’t sure whether he should be more stressed by it, or if it was by pure luck. When Bruce’s friend went on to explain that the girl would probably already suing the reports and papers that had published the rumor, the young CEO was impressed. To have a lawyer on hand like that was…surprising, considering that she couldn’t be older than 18.

When he asked the rocker if he thought the girl would let anyone go after her, he laughed. Then, Jared Stone explained that the girl was known in Paris for squishing rumors with surprising efficiency.

That evening, Bruce invited his childhood friend home for dinner, and the star spent the evening telling stories of their capers as children, with Alfred grimacing in agreement with the stories. Partway through dinner, Jared’s phone went off. While the rest of the family tensed, glancing to Alfred, their guest frowned at his phone before rushing to answering. “Hey Little Rocker! How’s Pari- oh. So, Penny was more efficient then I thought she’d be. I- yes I figured that you may want to hear. Do- No! Marinette, what!” here, the man paused, his head cocked to the side, his eyes screwed up in thought. “No luv! Sue them within an inch of their lives! You more then have that right.” Here, the rocker paused before he laughed. “Tell that buzzing bee of yours that she’s a good friend. Alright, Miss Mari. I’ll ring you when I’m back on that side of the Atlantic.” He laughed again, “See you soon, Marinette.” The table stayed quiet, waiting for the man to give an indication on the status of the conversation. “Well, Brucie, expect to hear from my niece in the next few day, or at least, her team of lawyers.” the Wayne patriarch blinked before nodding in hidden surprise.

When the family was talking during patrol that evening, Tim grumbled. The 18-year-old was still taken aback that the press had even seen the momentary interaction almost a month ago. As his brothers listened in, many of them started to make fun of the teen. When Jason tuned in, he dropped in the middle of tale. At his confusion, Tim sighed and started over, again. While the family was laughing over his run-in with the press, the former Robin shook his head and silenced his family. He had a feeling he wouldn’t live this one down for a while.

Originally, Jason had found Tim’s predicament hilarious. Of course, the kid had to have the worst run-ins with the press. Then, he had picked up one of the many tabloids with the story. When he had seen the pictures, all mirth left the resurrected vigilante. The noirette that was looking up at him from the page? Yeah. He knew her. Better than anyone else, actually. With shaking hands, the young man paged to the story. What he found was…illuminating. So. She had been adopted. In France. In Paris. After forcing his lungs to draw breath, Jason pulled out his phone. He had arrangements to make.

The day after Jagged had sent her the gossip rags that were considered journalism, Marinette strode into school with a scowl so ingrained in in her features that anyone who didn’t know her would think the expression was permanent. When she stalked into the Lycée classroom, Chloé grinned at her from where she had settled in the front row. Marinette nodded at her friend as she slid in next to her. Lila came skipping in moments later, a cruel smile playing on her lips, before falling when she saw the bone quaking scowl resting on her nemesis’ face. “oh Marinette! Did something happen? Did…did you anger your parents? Did they find out about all those men?” the other girl huffed before turning to her. Lila froze as she was met with the iciest glare that she had seen in years.

“oh Lila. That’s so cute. It almost sounds like you still think that your little stories affect me at all. That’s…adorable.” The Italian girl shrunk under the younger girl’s stare. Suddenly, she understood why people had been warning her to leave the teen alone. this girl, she was brutal. “lucky for you, you’re not the one I’m after, this time. My lawyers have bigger fish to fry.” The newer addition to the classroom gulped, her throat suddenly very dry. It occurred to her that maybe Marinette had let her take control of the class. After all, if they turn that easily, why would she want them for friends. The smaller girl nodded as she watched the realization run over Lila’s face. Raising her eyebrows, the Eurasian girl motioned her classmate along, sending a cruel smile after her.

Chloé waited until the little liar was gone before giggling at her friend’s reaction to the girl who had become their daily annoyance. “I’m guessing you saw what’s been running in the American news? I thought it wouldn’t take long for you to respond. Are a plethora of lawsuits on the way?” Marinette giggled slightly as her severe demander giving way to the internal glee that was consuming the teen over the sheer chaos that was to come.

When Jason touched down in Paris, he tensed. The atmosphere in the city was less carefree than he remembered. There was an air that actually reminded him of Gotham. Tense. Waiting or the other shoe to drop. The expectation that your day was going to go wrong set from the moment one woke up. Pulling out his phone, the Gotamite looked up the address to the bakery that he had found when digging online. If today went the way he was hoping it would, the bakery would be his only stop for the day. Of course, he didn’t count on Gina.

When she called him over from where she was standing by her bike, Jason had to smile. The woman was part of the reason that he wasn’t still camping out in Gotham, waiting to kill a certain billionaire. Once the spry biker had latched onto his arm, the young man knew that his mission would have to wait just a bit. After all, he owed Gina almost everything he had.

#maribat #sibling!jasonette #platonic jasonette #timari #ml x dc #mlb #bamf marinette #chaotic marinette #oh shit i did a thing #theres more to come #my writing #a moment in time fic

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rachelsteapot · 3 years

Text

Rescued: Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader Part 3

This is it! This is the last part of Rescued! I hope you’ve all enjoyed reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it. Diclaimer, I had a moment while writing this and managed to switch tense without noticing so if you notice any mistakes, please let me know and I’ll change them as soon as I can.

Part 1 / Part 2

Warnings: None

Tags: @bat-luna-cat , @nothingleftthaticando

That night, Tommy reluctantly dropped Y/N back at her Battersea apartment, having practically begged her to return to his city centre townhouse. The more time Tommy spent with this woman, the more and more he wanted her in his every day. This attraction wasn’t sexual like his previous women. It was more akin to what he had felt for Grace...

No.

Tommy was not going to let her face back into his mind. Grace was gone, a ghost that tormented him in his darkest moments. Y/N was alive, living, breathing. She had hopes and dreams that could still be fulfilled. Hopes and dreams that Tommy wanted a part in. And Tommy always got what he wanted.

Y/N’s mind was also churning. In less than twenty four hours, she had become a person of interest to one of the largest criminal gangs in the midlands, if not the whole country, simply because she had caught the leader’s eye. And what striking eyes they were too. Slipping into her nightclothes, Y/N placed her kettle onto the fire that she had started moments earlier, before settling into her armchair. Slowly, Y/N drifted in and out of thought, her pensive eyes glazed over as she stared into the flames. She was faced with one of the biggest decisions of her life: Tommy Shelby or Battersea cats and dogs home.

The next day, Y/N arrived at the shelter, and was met by an odd sight. A large poster was placed on the door and read, from what Y/N could decipher, ‘Under New Management’. So, doing what every good employee would, she opened the door and stepped into the foyer. It was quiet. Too quiet for an animal shelter. Quietly, Y/N approached the door of Mr. Smith’s office, and knocked.

“Come,” came a reply.

Y/N opened the door, once again releasing a haze of smoke, and stepped inside.

“Mr. Smith,” she began, but stopped. Sat in Mr. Smith’s chair, behind Mr. Smith’s desk, was Tommy Shelby. Y/N’s words caught in her throat, and she stood, stunned, until Bruce pressed his head into her knees.

“Mr. Shelby, what are you doing here?” she queried, bending down to stroke the dog.

“Y/N, I own it.” Swinging his legs off of the desk, Tommy stood and took the gently smoking cigarette from his lips. “I thought it would make your decision easier if I bought the place.”

A look of sheer confusion engulfed Y/N’s face. She knew Tommy was rich from his nice suit and ability to pay for almost everything, but she didn’t think he was ‘buy-a-dog-shelter-because-you-want-one-of-the-workers-to-go-home-with-you’ rich.

“I’ll stay for a few days.” In that moment, Y/N saw a flicker of a smile cross Tommy’s face, and she knew he had won.

The drive back to Small Heath was dull. But, at least, Y/N had Bruce for company. Tommy had been silent since they had left London, and Y/N assumed it was because he was concentrating on the road. In reality, however, it was something entirely different that was consuming Tommy’s attention.

Tommy’s mild swirled with thoughts: some about business, some not. Every now and then, the car rocked, causing the crime boss to catch scent of his passenger’s perfume, making his head spin even more. Out of the corner of his eye he could just see her stroking Bruce and god did she look cute.

Slowly, Tommy’s hand moved from the gear stick onto Y/N’s thigh. He heard her breath hitch slightly, and waited.

Y/n turned to face him, meeting his steely blue gaze, and nodded slightly. She was okay with this. Part of her brain had been begging for Tommy to make a move, and finally, he was. She felt her stomach twist slightly as his fingers pressed into her thigh slightly, having received permission mere seconds earlier.

Tommy was one of a kind, Y/N had decided, and if his family were half as intriguing as he was, she would be in for one hell of a trip.

After what felt like forever, Y/N and her guide pulled up in Small heath. Tommy marched from the car, pushing the front door open, and striding inside, followed dutifully by Y/N and Bruce.

“Tom. You’re back early.” A thick liverpool accent wafted through the smoke, and Y/N froze.

“Yes Pol, I made the deal so there was no reason to hang around.” A chair scraped against the floor and a figure stepped towards them. Sharp, hawk like eyes glared at the two as the woman pulled a cigarette from her lips.

“And who may this be?” Tommy’s hand found the small of Y/N’s back, willing her to answer for herself.

“My name is Y/N L/N, I worked- I work at a dog shelter in London,” she squirmed slightly under Pol’s gaze, waiting for a response.

“I was talking about the dog, but nice to meet you dear.” she muttered with an exasperated sigh. “Polly Grey. I call the shots around here, despite what Tommy may have told you.”

The woman released a long stream of smoke and reached down to stroke Bruce. Y/N’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“This is Bruce.” Tommy grunted, striding between the part-demolished walls, causing his companion to look to Polly for directions.

“Well go on then!” she cried, watching the new girl scuttle after her nephew.

The betting shop, as Y/N discovered, was noisy, smokey and down right boisterous. Finally, she spied Tommy leaning over a desk, and upon noticing her discomfort, Tommy beckoned her over, sliding his hand around her waist as she arrived.

“Y/N I want you to meet my little brother, John,” the young woman nodded shyly in the direction of a man holding a thick leather bound accounting book as he winked. “Be careful of him, he's a womaniser.”

“Ah! Says you Tom!” John interjected, holding a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “Don’t listen to him, love, he's boring and old. Come for a drink down The Garrison tonight, yeah? You can meet the rest of us.”

Seeing Y/N’s confused face, Tommy sighed in frustration and shot John a glare.

“I have three brothers and a sister, You’ve met John and, if you want, you can meet Arthur, Ada and Finn tonight.” taking a last drag of his cigarette, Tommy stubbed it out and stalked away, leaving Y/N in silence with John, who was watching the happenings intently.

“He bought the dog shelter that I work at so I would come to Birmingham with him,” Y/N explained, hoping that he wouldn’t ask questions that she didn’t know the answer to.

“Ah,” John nodded, as if this was a common occurrence. “You look tired, there’s a sitting room just through there. If Tom asks, I’ll tell him where you are.”

Y/N thanked the Shelby brother and wandered in the direction that John had indicated, the sounds and smells of the betting shop making her head spin. Finally, having located the sitting room and, finding nobody else inside, she settled onto the soft armchair and closed her eyes, drifting into a dreamless sleep.

When Y/N awoke, the sky had turned the telltale inky blue of night. Stretching gently, she sat up to find that she was not alone. Someone was sitting on the sofa adjacent to the armchair that she occupied, smoking a cigarette with Bruce at their feet. Upon noticing that she had awoken, Bruce stood and waddled over, plonking his head into her lap.

“Heya Brucie,” Y/N croaked, scratching his ears before stretching out her stiff limbs more thoroughly. She squinted into the gloom and slowly was able to distinguish the identity of your companion. In the half light, his features seemed elegant, his high cheekbones turning into mountains and his cheeks became the deep valleys below. If he wasn’t so attractive, he would have looked gaunt, almost skeletal, like the death he caused every day. But to Y/N, the features of his face were angelic.

Tommy Shelby sat on the sofa, gently smoking his cigarette while the young woman awoke. He noticed her studying his features and turned his head, locking his eyes onto hers.

“You’re staring,” he croaked, standing abruptly and rousing Y/N from her thoughts. She tilted her head to watch as he shifted his weight, as if testing the floor. “They’re all at The Garrison waiting for us.”

It was not a long walk from Tommy’s house to the pub, but in a dark unfamiliar place, it felt like miles. Hooked onto Tommy’s arm, Y/N shivered slightly as the evening breeze cut through her clothes making her wish that she had a thicker coat. As she approached The Garrison, however, her muscles relaxed, sensing the warmth and welcoming environment radiating from the glowing windows.

Tommy pushed the doors open, striding into the pub dramatically.

“At ease,” he sighed, nodding to the barman as you stepped into the pub behind him. Without so much as checking on his companion, he turned sharply to the right and stepped into a private booth, the noise inside the pub rising like a tsunami.

Y/N slid inside the booth after Tommy like an obedient puppy as a hush fell over the occupants.Looking around hopefully, Y/N searched for a familiar face and found Polly, the ghost of a smirk playing on her lips.

“Y/N!” her head snapped around to find the source of the voice, finding John picking his way to wrap his arm around her shoulders.

“Everyone, this is Y/N, she’s Tommy’s new flame, so keep your hands off!” His jest caused Y/Ns cheeks to flame up and she looked at the ground, attempting to avoid the eyes of the booth’s inhabitants. One by one, she was introduced to the Shelby clan by Tommy and John, and eventually found herself gravitating towards Polly and Ada, who, between them, also happened to possess most of the Shelby brain cells.

“So how did you and Tommy meet?” the younger Shelby woman sighed, sipping at her Gin.

Y/N looked up, meeting her gaze and chuckled gently, “He wanted to adopt a dog from the shelter that I worked- that I work at, so I showed him Bruce, and he decided then and there that he wanted him.” Ada nodded as she paused, and Polly let out what seemed to be a chuckle masked as a cough. Y/N furrowed her brow, clearly confused, until Ada interjected.

“Let me guess, he then bought the shelter so you’d come back here? It's very predictable Tommy behaviour is all.” her clarification caused Y/n’s heart to sink. If this was so predictable, then there was no reason to feel as special as she did.

Sensing her dejection, Ada sighed. “Don’t worry sweet, If he did it, it means he’s serious about you. Tommy likes to seem all big and hard, but really, he’s just as much of a softie as Bruce is.” As if to prove her point, Ada reached down and scratched the top of Bruce’s head. Y/N smiled softly, nodding to show her understanding.

“Men, am I right?” she giggled, causing the two other shelby women to smile.

“I’ll drink to that, my dear,” Polly smiled, raising her glass.

The next few days in Small heath were relatively uneventful. Despite having been invited to Birmingham by Tommy, Y/N had barely seen the man, except for ten minutes here and five minutes there. Largely, she had spent her time with Polly and Ada, becoming acquainted with the bustling city. The more time Y/N spent in town, or helping Lizzie with some accounting, the more at home she felt.

Birmingham, Y/N had decided, was largely like London.

Yet something was bugging her. She wanted to know exactly what was going on with Tommy. His hot and cold nature was intriguing to begin with, but now the novelty had worn off and she was stuck in an unfamiliar world without the one who had invited her there.

After a morning of shopping with Ada and mathematics with Lizzie, Y/N found herself draped across one of the armchairs in Tommy’s office while he worked on some contracts at his desk.

“Tommmmm,” she whined, causing the man to raise his eyebrows and hum in response. “Why am I here if all you’re going to do is ignore me?”

Tommy’s head snapped up, Y/N’s question had caught him like a wild right hook.

Finally, she had Tommy cornered.

Tommy gulped, fighting the urge to blurt out the whole reason, that he, Tommy Shelby, was infatuated with this girl from London who worked with dogs and rendered him speechless.

“I- I um thought you would like to see Birmingham,” Y/N raised an eyebrow as the crime boss stumbled over his words.

“We both know that’s not it, Tom. Be honest.”

Tommy glared at the woman in his armchair. She knew why, she was just taunting him. Tommy didn’t like to be taunted. Slowly, he stood from his chair and made his way towards his guest, who looked up at him from under her eyelashes. Then, coming to a stop directly in front of Y/N, he took her chin in his hand and pressed his lips to hers.

“Is that enough of an answer for you?” he muttered against her lips. As they broke away, Tommy thought he heard Y/N mutter something under her breath.

“What was that?” he asked, raising one eyebrow as his icy blue eyes bore into hers.

“I love you, Mr. Shelby.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby imagines #peaky blinders #fanfiction #shelby company limited #shelby brothers #john shelby #bbc peaky blinders

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jobean12-blog · 4 years

Note

Really in the mood for a Bucky x reader where the reader is trying her best to calm down the loveofherlife aka Bucky (or just trying to be a good gf when he’s mad) and he looses his shit and is a lil disrespectful and just hands down mean but totally passive and reader takes it without a word but like say during dinner or something Bucky says something rude about the readers cooking and she just starts crying and runs to the bedroom. Can it end fluffy and cute with lots of kisses pleeasse

All Life Long

Pairings: Bucky x reader

Word Count: 1,286

Summary: Bucky comes home from a mission gone bad and he has a hard time dealing with it.

Author’s Note: Hi anon, thank you for the request! I love writing Bucky and I can’t write him being too disrespectful or mean because I just never imagine him like that. Of course, he isn’t perfect and nice always but I toned that part down a bit and I hope that is ok and you still like it! He’s still a jerk, just not too bad, haha! Thank you again!

Warnings: Angst but with a fluffy fluff kiss filled ending!

You launch yourself into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist and hands carding through this hair, “I’m so happy you’re home safely, Friday said you guys were coming back but Bruce was needed and I got so nervous…,” he silences your rambling with a kiss. “It’s ok, baby, I’m ok,” he says soothingly as you slide back down his body and to your feet, “I need to go check on Clint though, he is badly injured,” he adds, voice thick with emotion and you decide to ask later, “ok, Buck, I’m here if you need me for anything,” and he gives you a small smile and kiss before heading for Bruce’s lab.

It seems like hours before Bucky comes back to your shared room, walking in with slumped shoulders and a weary look on his handsome face. You go to him, unsure if you should offer comfort or give him space, “hey,” you say, almost a whisper, “do you need anything, what can I do?” and he just looks at you for a moment before saying, “nothing, y/n, nothing, I’m gonna go shower.” His words held no warmth and as he turns to walk to the shower you place your hand on his back soothingly only for him to shrug it off and close the door in your face.

The tears come and you can’t help it, he has never turned his back on you, you’re always the first person he comes to for solace and he tells you what’s in his heart, knowing you’re free of judgement and only full of love. You know you must pull yourself together because if he sees he has upset you it could make things worse. You busy yourself with making some food and tidying up, waiting for him to get out of the bathroom.

Just as you’re setting the plates out on the table you hear the bathroom door open and he emerges looking clean, but his body language still shows defeat, what could have happened on the mission? You decide to ask, “Bucky, what happened out there? You can talk to me about it, maybe it will help,” you say gently, giving him physical space but the look on his face makes you want to hold him and never let go. “I don’t want to talk about it, y/n, I just…I can’t right now,” he replies, eyes downcast as he takes a seat at the table.

You don’t say anything, instead taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze before filling the plates with food and sitting across from him. You make small talk keeping the subjects light and trying to ease the tension. Bucky gives you little to work with and you can see he is really struggling so you decide silence is the best choice for now, your appetite gone as you push the food around your plate.

You notice he hasn’t eaten much, which is definitely strange, so you brave the question, “do you want something else to eat, baby, you haven’t touched much on your plate,” and look at him, eyes soft, wanting him to know you are just trying to help. At first, he just stares at you, jaw set in a hard line and you visibly pale, wishing you had never opened your mouth, and finally says “I just, I’m sorry… I can’t eat this, I can’t do this right now,” as he pushes his chair out with so much force it falls over and he stalks to the bedroom, slamming the door.

Once again, your cheeks are wet with tears, your body shaking as you sit in the all too quiet kitchen, unsure what to think or do. Finally pulling yourself out the chair, your sleeve now wet from wiping your face, you begin to clean up the dishes, pushing the uneaten food into the garbage. You move around the kitchen noiselessly; the only sounds are your consistent sniffling and the pounding of your heart in your ears. It isn’t until his arms are tightly wrapped around your waist that you know he is there, your body crumpling into his as your crying becomes uncontrollable and he keeps repeating the words, “I’m so sorry, doll, I’m so sorry for how I acted.”

He turns you around, so you’re cradled against his chest and gently picks you up in his arms, carrying you to the couch and settling you in his lap. You curl into him, grasping his soft tee shirt as his warmth slowly brings you back and calms you, “Buck, what happened? Please, talk to me,” you plead as you lift your head to look into his eyes.

“The mission went bad, baby girl, really bad and I thought we were gonna lose Clint…” he went on to explain all that happened, his emotions written all over his face and your heart broke at how hard he was taking this. Apparently, things had taken a turn no one had expected, and Clint’s injury was a result of a poor choice Bucky and Steve had made, the guilt so heavy he couldn’t shake it and he apologized for not talking with you sooner.

You listened to his every word, running your hands up and down his arms and along his chest, keeping yourself in constant contact, your eyes never leaving his, “I’m so sorry, Buck, I can’t imagine what that is like and I understand that it would be very hard to deal with. I know I can’t do anything to change what happened but I’m glad you talked to me, I’m not blaming you for anything, but I had never seen you act like that before,” you admit, kissing his cheek and caressing his jaw with your fingers.

“I know, y/n, I just couldn’t process it and I shut down. I started to freak out thinking what if I lost Clint…what if I lost you…I don’t think I would survive it,” he tells you, voice thick with emotion. He continues on, “I love you so much, more than I ever thought I could love anyone, you’re my everything doll and I got scared,” brushing his lips against yours, his shoulders slowly relaxing as the tension finally starts to leave his body.

You turn to face him, placing both knees on either side of his thighs and rest your forehead against his, “you’re my everything too, Buck, and I’m here for you always, it’s ok and I’m not going anywhere,” you assure him, sealing it with a kiss.

His hands slowly move up your sides and over your shoulders, his touch so gentle your skin erupts with goosebumps and they settle at your neck, one hand behind it and the other cupping your cheek, “thank you, y/n, for loving me, all of me,” he says, his soft lips meeting yours in a kiss that sets your body on fire.

Your hands run along his jaw, savoring the rough feel of his stubble and the softness of his lips, moaning into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, his tongue caressing yours as you press yourself into his hard body. You can’t help it as your hands move along his shoulders and his arms, the feel of his muscles making your body react in ways only meant for him.

His large hands slowly caress your body, each dip and curve making him groan in pleasure as he continues kissing you, your lips pink and swollen, never wanting it to end. You finally pull away to catch your breath, smiling as he pulls you into his chest and buries his face in your neck, breathing you in, and whispers in your ear, “I want to hold you all life long…”

@annavega333 @abovethesmokestacks @beckzorz @buckmesideways22 @buckysbrat @book-dragon-13 @cchellacat @collinsstanharbour @chuuulip @eurynome827 @hiddles-rose @jewelofwinter @jewels2876 @loricameback @lancetuckershairgel @littledarlinhavefaithinme @marvelous-meggi @marvelandotherfandomimagines @marvelgirl7 @nerdypinupcrystal @randomfandompenguin @stuck-y-together @sallycanwait68 @spacemansam @southernbell91 @sebastiansloserclub @tranquil--heart

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader fluff #bucky x reader angst #bucky barnes x reader fluff #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes #sebastian stan

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cetaceans-pls · 3 years

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Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Attempted Kidnapping, Date Night at an Aquarium, Gone Terrifically Wrong, Dom/sub Undertones Series: Part 4 of Third Thursdays

A plainclothes mission at the Gotham Aquarium quickly goes off the rails when Jason and Bruce find themselves on the wrong end of a kidnapping attempt. A billion-dollar target out of the Batsuit, Bruce gets taken.

Jason comes fetch.

Happy late Lunar New Year + Valentine’s! Why do I keep forgetting to post things to my tumblr! Life’s full of mysteries!

Anyways, please enjoy the weird result of me thinking too much about aquariums and helmets that look like jackals, and have a good week 🙏

Fic also available below the cut:

Jason studiously doesn’t mess with his cuffs, tug on his necktie, or pull off his sunglasses. He hates being forced to manifest in a suit and tie; it’s a misery every single time he has to. However, knee-deep in the bowels of a pandemic that just won’t freakin’ quit, needs must. Sometimes a man’s got to cosplay as a high-tier bodyguard to fit in a date night on a Thursday, so sometimes a man will.

He fiddles with his earpiece, expression serious even though he’s really just trying to get the volume up on his audiobook. It adds to the aura of stern, scary bodyguard man, and it means that the wobbly-lipped, handsy director cuts short his long, long thank you speech to Bruce and waves them inside for their all-access tour of the Gotham Aquarium after dark. It’s a performance he and Bruce have repeated for most of a year now, and it’s the main avenue for Jason to work through his massive collection of audiobooks. Once a month or so Billionaire Fuckboy Bruce Wayne will get it into his head to book a library or a park or a zoo or a planetarium all to himself for fuck knows what, and he’ll be good and won’t break any social distancing rules or any furniture because it’s just him and his bodyguard staying through the night. Come morning the establishment will find themselves the recipients of a donation generous enough to keep their heads above water, while Brucie floats away on a cloud of expensive scotch to find his next flex.

Bruce has more money to his name than anybody ever, ever should, and these days he uses it to buy literal breathing space for much of Gotham’s public facilities struggling to stay afloat.

This is their first visit to the aquarium, because the social media intern-turned-manager here had managed to keep finances fiercely healthy by selling videos of aquarium creatures with personalised messages. Dick himself had commissioned a 30-second video of an aquarium worker whispering ‘wiggle wiggle wiggle’ into a microphone while the camera zoomed in and out from the moon jelly exhibition, and the number of Gothamites keeping their spirits up exclusively thanks to a video of a gently floating manatee quietly murmuring “You’re doing your best” is alarming.

That’s why it’s taken them a while to work their way here, but Jason has to admit he’s looking forward to a relaxing night walking around in mood lighting with B, heckling the occasional fish. Their last date night keeping Gotham’s ‘non-essential’ attractions open had been at the rec centre in the Narrows that’s been shut for months. Romance was thin on the ground there, because mid-date the Bat had taken over Bruce and decided that they owed it to the people of the city to make a few simple adjustments to improve water quality in the swimming pools.

Elbow-deep in an ancient pump and filtration system, Jason’s hand had gotten tangled in something while pulling out the filters. It had turned out to be a tangled, sopping wet mass of human hair the size of a cat, and for the first time in a while, he had wished he was dead and actually kind of meant it.

Tonight, though, promises to be smoother sailing. The aquarium’s not in dire disrepair, the staff have been instructed to keep out of their way and respect their privacy, and he has burritos and two bottles of mini-Merlot tucked in holsters that would hold guns on a lesser man. It’s perfect prep for a relaxing supper in front of the open water tank.

The director leads them in through the main entrance, still talking Bruce’s ear off while he gestures nervously around them and swipes at his thinning white hair. Jason follows after them, hand to his ear as he says a bunch of menacing gibberish into empty air. He and Bruce are incredibly dull on nights out like this, and have by Alfred’s decree been cut-off from work comms to decrease the chance of anyone on duty being rude jealous assholes. No one’s listening right now, but growling ‘Code Esper’ into his jacket has the director sweating even harder, which is the intended outcome. With a messily-babbled “Goodnight and goodbye Mister Wayne!” and an unwelcome pat on the small of Bruce’s back, the man disappears the way they came, heavy glass doors swinging shut.

Finally, the night’s starting to look better.

First thing Jason does is rip off his stupid sunglasses. It’s certainly an Expected Look for a bodyguard, but it’s 11 PM on a weekday night and on top of it being a hideous accessory, it sets his teeth on edge to have his vision obscured even while off-duty.

He also whips his tie off, because there’s a time and a place for choking and it’s not here, not yet. Jason runs his hand through his hair to break through the gel and scowls to see the black residue on his fingers. Makeup on his face, makeup in his hair, makeup pasted on to hide him in plain sight when other people get to go to Wendy’s barefaced and hand-in-hand as they pleased, urgh.

The world’s extra rough on the legally dead, even if he’s immediately mollified by Bruce sidling up to him, close enough that their hips bump and their fingers tangle.

Christ, rich man shampoo smells a whole lot different to the stuff you can get by the half-gallon in your local bodega. Jason is tempted to bite Bruce, find the closest cleaning cupboard and get up to some defilement, but it's a big aquarium and it’s a long night, so there's no rush.

The CCTV cameras aren't live, no red lights blinking, and it's supremely helpful how much privacy gets afforded to a billionaire and his potential debauchery in return for a big cheque. Jason slings an arm around Bruce's waist, because these are hard rights hard earned, and just grins at Bruce's long-suffering sigh. "Shut the hell up, this is crazy romantic. What do you want to see first?"

The answer is, inexplicably, the tropical freshwater exhibit, where they spend a solid half hour with an arapaima swimming up-down up-down a false river designed to look like the Amazon, their tiny bottles of wine in hand. Jason loses his mind first, pacing along the tank to follow the path of a fish longer than he or Bruce are tall, but within a minute Bruce is in lockstep with him as they stalk an innocent fish while they talk about not very much at all.

Bruce looks at the murkiness of the water and the cinematic dead leaves floating all over, expression gravely concerned. “They could do with a bigger aquarium.”

Jason groans, thumb absently picking at the label on his bottle. “Stop communing with the fish. It’s only barely cute when Damian gets really intense about animals, and the charm’s completely gone once you crack 6 feet.”

In his head, though, he can’t help but feel that yeah, more space for the arapaima would be nice, but hey.

Jason’s singularly terrible with small, tight spaces, so.

“C’mon,” he says, nudging Bruce so hard it’s mostly a shove. “Time to find out what sharks look like after-hours.”

“What’s normal operating hours for a shark?” Bruce asks just to be a pain, easily going where lead.

“Keep at it and I’ll shove you in the tank so you can find out.”

There’s a loose ceiling tile near the information counter in the main hall, right by the entrance leading to the enormous, floor-to-ceiling open water exhibit. There's a loose ceiling tile there because Jason had cased this joint a week ago, the way he checks out every place Bruce decides to take them to on nights like this, and that’s where he had decided to hide his kit. While Bruce walks from end to end of the tank, committing to pointless memory the names and traits of a hundred fish, Jason climbs up and into the ceiling to grab their party pack.

Tepid beer, pretzels, spicy chicken-flavoured chips, wet wipes. A heavy blanket, a bottle of hand sanitiser, Alfred’s cold-brew tea that could grow chest hairs on a rock. He’s even got a bottle of antacids to cover burrito-related maladies shoved into a first-aid kit so complete it could maybe, just maybe, regrow a limb. He dusts the heavy blanket off before he spreads it across the floor, where they have the best view of the most unbearably beautiful manta ray that could possibly exist.

Jason maybe preens a little when Bruce comes back from the edge and greets the spread with a bit of a smile. “Hurry it up already, dinner’s gonna get cold.”

The burritos get pulled out of their holsters as Bruce settles on the ground in the exacting, ginger manner of a man of a certain age whose knees have unfortunately passed their prime. They sit and eat while inoffensive jazz plays quietly over the speakers and fish go up and down and all around.

Ah, beats the ball of human hair by a country mile.

“This is nice,” Bruce says quietly, shrugging out of his coat and loosening his tie. There’s a sharp, bright gloss to him when he’s in Bruce-Wayne-Public-Performance mode, but Jason likes dishevelled, run-down Bruce who’s a little absent-minded and a lot human the best.

He likes this Bruce he’s earned.

“One of our better dates.” Jason holds up his bottle of beer expectantly, and feels profoundly smug when Bruce raises his to knock in a gentle toast. “Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I came to the aquarium. Must have been before.”

“Same,” Bruce says, and Jason wonders for a brief, harrowing moment if this holds true for the zoo and the planetarium and the rec centre and the public library and the-

He doesn’t get the time to linger on the thought and ponder, check to see if this is Bruce on a mission to form new memories in places that had held some from before a death in the family, because they’re interrupted by the sudden scream of a fire alarm.

They both tense where they’re sat, at the ready to fly into a fight in a suit and tie, but wherever the emergency might be it isn’t in here with them. Jason looks around, tries to catch smoke on the air, but it’s all stillness and the scent of disinfectant spray. Weird, that there’s no quiet stampede of night-time crew rushing to rescue their watery wards, no security guard sent on a quick mission by the director to save their cash cow.

Jason’s got a bad feeling about this. He gets to his feet and hauls the bag containing the first aid kit and other supplies up on his shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”

Bruce is fiddling with his phone, working through the security system of the aquarium. “All the cameras are down, so we have no visuals. The fire alarm in the deep sea exhibit was tripped manually, not by the smoke detector.” He frowns. “Carbon monoxide monitors didn’t register anything, and the sprinklers haven’t been triggered either. Could just be a fluke.”

Bruce doesn’t sound convinced, and neither is Jason. Assuming harmlessness is a great way to incur harm, and that’s something you learn damn early after starting up a vigilante lifestyle. Jason can only assume foul play of some sort, likely relating to Bruce, but there’s no way that an aquarium as big as this wouldn’t have night staff; civilians might be in danger.

Fuck, give him gross filters jammed with 27 years worth of dead skin cells over this. “I’ll go and check on the deep sea room.” If there’s no trouble, Jason’s mighty tempted to create some. “You should head back to the entrance, meet up with the sweaty director dude and evacuate. I’ll catch up with you after everything’s handled.”

Bruce looks pretty irritated to be asked to meekly make his way to safety, but pulling a Bat move right now would be incredibly bad optics. They both know his hands are tied, and Bruce sighs and climbs to his feet. “If I don’t get an update from you in fifteen minutes, I’m coming back in,” he tells Jason, crumpling the foil of his burrito and fastidiously stowing it away in the pocket of his slacks. “Comms check.”

They both tap at their discreet earpieces, and both wince at the screech of feedback when the comms activate and pair.

“Fifteen’s plenty.” Jason hikes his kit bag further up his shoulder, and pretends he’s not embarrassed when he tries to activate night vision on a mask he isn’t wearing.

“Jason,” Bruce says, calm, commanding, and quiet.

“What?”

“Be good.” It’s said like an order no one could want to refuse, but before Jason can get over his shivery shock and snap something back, Bruce is waving and disappearing out the hall, pulling on the skin of a simpler man.

Jason rubs at his neck and misses his helmet more keenly. This unbearable transparency of being; almost thirty whole ass years old and it’s astonishing how underneath it all he can still be so hideously eager to please.

“Please let there be a fucking crime,” Jason murmurs to himself, and disappears.

There is a crime, but it’s not even a good one.

Jason breaks into the deep sea exhibit through a utility hatch designed to access the cooling pipes for an elaborate sea sponge display. He’s quiet and mostly invisible when he surfaces in the room, and after a minute of letting his eyes adjust to the curated darkness, it’s easy to spot a man in a balaclava with a gun trained on the only door leading to the room.

He also quickly spots the terrified hostages huddled together under a display of what looked like demon jellyfish made of LEDs and blood. It’s easy to see the shape of the crime now; set off an alarm in an isolated area with only one known entrance and exit, and subdue people as they arrive. As long as the alarm kept blaring, staff would keep on coming, and by not triggering any of the smoke or carbon monoxide detectors the fire department remain clueless.

Excellent plan, great for catching anyone who hadn’t, oh, spent a solid 12 hours going through the schematics of the entire building out of an obsessive desire to create a space a Bat could relax in. Jason counts 11 hostages and just the one gunman, and tries not to groan.

There’s not much money to be had by robbing an aquarium, and judging by the degree of weaponry this isn’t some anti-aquarium demonstration organised via Facebook groups, powered by pandemic blues. No one’s liberating a shark or freeing Willy or anything nearly as fun. Ringing the alarm’s just an excellent, excellent way to control the movement of people.

There are only two ways to go; towards the fire or towards safety.

If you’re looking to net yourself a big fish, two small teams with a couple of free-roaming agents would be enough to ensure a catch rate of almost 100%. Jason highly, highly doubts that this whole song-and-dance was designed to abduct a frazzled researcher wearing a fuzzy sweater in radiant orange, or a stern-faced woman in a janitor’s uniform who looks alarmingly close to hulking out and breaking out of her bonds. He highly, highly suspects that there’s a reason outside of billionaire-envy to explain why the director of the aquarium had looked so dodgy and sweaty when he had welcomed Bruce.

Jason’s proven unfortunately right when the radio at the gunman’s hip crackles to life.

“We got Wayne.”

Of course they did. Bruce could hardly go to town and take down a bunch of armed kidnappers, especially if there are civilians near him. Jason tugs out his phone to update the Cave while the gunman grunts his reply and moves to turn off the fire alarm. Alfred asks Jason if he needs reinforcements as the guy tells the huddled terrified masses that he’ll kill them if they move, and Jason texts back a ‘no thank you’ as the goon strides out of the room, locking the door behind him.

The group of tied-up people burst into panicked chatter as soon as the gunman’s gone, and Jason uses the noise as cover for unzipping his bag and getting changed. Unlike Bruce, pulling on his second skin takes a lot longer, but once Jason tugs his red hood up and shucks off the bodyguard suit to stretch in his skin-tight armour, he feels twice the man and thrice as happy.

There’s no gun in the bag, there’s no gun anywhere near him, because it’s a self-imposed rule Jason has recently given himself for date nights. Bruce has been known to use anything from a screwdriver taped to a plank of wood to his literal bare stupid hands to pry things open in a whole-hearted effort to avoid having a crowbar anywhere in the Manor or in his life, and Jason wanted to repay like with like.

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck to not have his go-to weapon, though. He sighs as he straps a taser strong enough to knock God unconscious to his thigh, and sighs again when he pulls out a sickle in its leather holster. Alfred’s gotten terribly creative with what he packs for their nights out, but who is Jason to stand in the way of a man’s artistic expression?

Fully kitted-out, hood drawn and mask glowing, Jason shoves the bag back down the hatch and vaults over the top of the aquarium he was crouched behind, landing to the wild, panicked screams of the assembled staff.

His flashy entrance is totally unnecessary, and he knows the lights on the new helmet make him look less like a human and more like an abstract cryptid with a muzzle lined in blood. It’s spectacularly dramatic, but it releases some of the tension that’s been building in his body ever since he and Bruce split up.

He holds his hands up, forgetting the sickle in his fist, and the screaming hits a crescendo any opera would be proud of. It’s a little fucking hysterical, but Jason’s on the clock right now so he can’t savour this situation as much as he would have liked. “Calm the hell down, it’s just Red Hood here to save the day.”

The screaming eases up, though a gentleman in thick glasses and a threadbare labcoat does give a good ol’ screech when he comes closer towards them with the sickle set free. Jason ignores him and crouches down to cut the janitor lady free first. She spares a second to presumably calculate the chances of her beating him in a fight before she comes to a conclusion, shrugs, and turns to immediately start picking at the knots of the person next to her. Within a couple of minutes everyone is free, and everyone is scrambling to grab at things to arm themselves with. Jason eyes the selection of brandished pens and water bottles with mild delight, and nods respectfully at his lady and her bottle of bleach off the janitor’s cart because real recognises real. He does a quick scan to make sure there are no serious injuries or emergencies, and gets to his feet.

“All right, so this is apparently an attempt to kidnap Wayne, and you guys are just collateral. They’ll be clustered towards the main entrance, so get out through the most secret employees-only door you know. Stay together and stay quiet, and it’s gonna be fine. The Bat knows what’s going on, if that makes anyone feel better.” He considers how much he does and doesn’t want to share with the people assembled, before he decides that fuck it, being a shit-stirrer is pretty fun. “Pretty sure your big boss is in on it too, so if there’s an exit that guy won’t be familiar with, use that one.”

There’s a sharp intake of communal breath, before a young woman wearing waders and rubber gloves up to her shoulders raises her hand. “Do you mean Dr. Stevens?”

Jason shrugs. “Maybe?”

“Uhm. Short, all white hair, super skinny. Looks like someone you wouldn’t trust in a lab alone with a stressed-out postdoc of any gender because he gives off the vibe of a creep with varied tastes?”

Jason frowns at what the girl is saying, and the grim looks of much of the rest of the room. “Sounds about right.”

At least three separate people hiss motherfucker under their breaths, and three more say some version of I fucking knew it. The aquarium might not have had any severe financial issues, but oh, they’ve found a mess worse than too much human hair, looks like. Jason’s keener than ever to murder this Stevens dude, but he really, really doesn’t have the time to chair a HR complaint for the aquarium right now.

“Look, whatever goes down tonight I’m gonna give a Red Hood guarantee that the guy won’t be your boss anymore. Hell, Wayne’s going to be so grateful when I rescue him that I could get him to elect a different person to be in charge of this place even if this guy isn’t in cahoots with the kidnappers. So consider it handled, okay?” He straps the sickle back at his waist. “Now get the hell out of here. I’m counting on you.”

He nods at his bleach-wielding lady, and she nods back like the truest sort of comrade-in-arms.

Reassured, Jason kicks the door down and moves the fastest anyone’s ever moved in an aquarium, a red-faced wraith on a hunt.

Bruce courteously gasps when a hood is thrown over his head and secured, even though he had guessed the shape of the night’s events the moment he had reached the lobby and seen the half-wobbly half-cocky look to the director’s face from across the way. “What are you doing?” he demands in a shaky voice as he puts up token resistance, enough to look panicked but not enough to tempt someone into knocking him out and hauling him away.

Far too many questions to answer as to why a loafer coasting on generational wealth has more muscle mass than your average highly-trained mercenary, after all.

He counts his steps and tries to carve little signs into the pile of the carpeting with the toe of his loafers as he’s marched off, though he doubts Jason will need this trail of breadcrumbs to find him. “Let me go!” he yells, navigating the blueprint of the aquarium in his mind. Everyone ignores him, and his captors are none-too-gentle as they force him up some metal stairs.

Forty steps from the entrance to the lobby, a right, thirty steps, a left, a quiet beep, and now stairs. My, my, my, seems like they’ll be paying Dr. Stevens’ sea slug lab a visit. It’s a good location for a quick regroup, tucked away and locked behind several layers of security. Bruce imagines they won’t be here long; a good kidnapper doesn’t keep their victim where they found them, after all.

He’s roughly shoved into a chair and tied to it, rendered immobile by cuffs on his hands and rope round his legs, but it’s a cheap office chair and there’s give in his binds. He’s immobile, but only theoretically. Bruce keeps tugging at his bonds and cursing under his breath while he hopes that Stevens doesn’t bother to ask where his bodyguard has gone, has thought the worst of Jason and assumed that he had just run off.

It would make a rescue attempt much easier, though Bruce isn’t particularly worried. It’s a kidnapping force of, oh, five? Maybe six? Carpet muffles footsteps more than wooden floorboards do, but Bruce is pretty confident of his estimate. Six at most, with at least another team responsible for the fire alarm, so a worst-case scenario of twelve. As long as his measure of their competence isn’t too wrong, Bruce doesn’t anticipate anything worse than a couple of through-and-throughs if he has to fight through this himself.

He knows he won’t have to, though.

The people around him fall silent when their radio comes to life, a panicked man shouting “There’s someone here with us! It’s the Red-” before there’s a loud bang! followed by a terrifying silence.

“Ten,” someone yells tersely back. “Come in, Ten. What the hell was that?”

There’s a general rumble of unease in the room now, and Bruce is allowed a vicious, nasty smile because no one can see him under here. At least ten people are in on this, and about half of those are in here with him while the rest are out there with Jason. He considers making an effort to tap out in Morse how many goons are with him right now, since Jason has half a dozen ways to track his location with all the kit Bruce has on him, but decides against it.

Let the boy have some fun.

“Let me go, I’ll do anything you want,” he calls out half-heartedly, but no one gives a shit because there’s another panicked broadcast by another panicked man that cuts off abruptly. The tension in the room is palpable, feels more solid than the sack on his head, and it goes frizzy with electricity when the Red Hood’s terrifying static growl comes through on the radio.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Jason’s mangled voice croons through the line. Bruce feels goosebumps ripple up his arms, and feels oddly, hideously proud. “Two down, a few more to go. Hope you’ll put up more of a fight.”

Then there’s a sharp crack, and the line goes quiet.

“You promised me this would be just in-and-out! You said that Wayne would be out of here as soon as you got him! You didn’t say anything about a vigilante running me down in my own building!”

Ah, that’s Dr. Stevens losing his nerve. His tirade is cut short by a hard slap, it sounds like, and the voice Bruce thinks of as One is the only thing to be heard above the quiet whimpers of a panicking doctor.

“You agreed to do anything that needed to be done as long as you got a cut of the pay,” One says coldly. “Too late to get cold feet now, doctor.” There’s the sound of the walkie-talkie being turned back on. “Transport is incoming. Disappear and make your way out, regroup in safe house Gamma. It’s just one man against all of us, so don't lose your heads and we’ll get our money.”

Nobody responds verbally, probably because radio silence is golden when trying to beat a hasty retreat. Bruce feels his ropes come loose, and he’s forced to his feet as the kidnappers discuss their plans with more discretion than Stevens shooting off his mouth. He catches bits and pieces of conversation, mentions of the docks and allusions to the highest bidder, but everything goes instantly, deathly silent when the radio comes to life again.

“Three down, four down, five down. Be seeing you real soon, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce doesn’t need to pretend to take in a shaky breath.

God, code names are an absolute necessity when carrying out this sort of dirty work, but Jason wants to have a sit-down with whoever decided to go with numbers for this little shindig. First man taken out and he already knows this goes at least ten fuckers deep. The leader’s figured out that yelling the number of men he has in his employ down a radio the enemy has access to isn’t a great idea, but somebody with an army of a hundred wouldn’t have been so concerned with the downing of one, so Jason’s pretty much got confirmation that this is a small-scale, quick-in quick-out kind of affair.

They’ll be looking to move Bruce, with that whole ‘transport incoming’ message. Jason’s got Bruce’s location pulled up, B’s comms actively recording vitals and transmitting its location, and from the lack of movement it’s easy to tell they’re planning a getaway through the front entrance.

He’s also happy to note that Bruce’s resting heart rate’s still at an insulting 45 beats a minute mid-kidnapping, though boy it sure did spike every time Red Hood sent out a message. Good to know, real fucking good to know.

After taking out the fifth guy, Jason doesn’t run into anybody else on his way to the main entrance, and he doesn’t particularly care if some small fry are getting away. The priority is getting Bruce to safety, and then doing clean-up on the kidnappers and Dr. Creepazoid. A showdown within the lobby is endlessly preferable to a showdown outside, if only because it’s easier to keep track of people if they can’t run away from you. Double-checking that Bruce actually is being slowly moved towards the main entrance from wherever they stashed him, Jason happily beats them to the front doors and barricades them in with him, stacking tables and chairs and cupboards into a heavy, impenetrable mess.

Sure, whoever’s coming to pick them up might be armed enough to break on through, but Jason has intimate knowledge of what mercenaries are like. Thoughts like ‘I sure as hell am not paid enough to deal with this’ are common and powerful enough to dissuade most mercs in this situation. It’s what you get when you team-build on money instead of insane, intangible things like love and loyalty, losers.

Jason looks around at the arena of his making and makes a quick decision to climb up a display case stuffed full of the toys kids can expect to see in the gift shop. It’s sturdy enough, though the thin metal frames groan a little under his weight. Jason sheathes his sickle and powers down the lights lining his helmet, lies in wait like a hungry dog in the dark as he calms his breathing and imagines what it will be like to beat the living daylights out of people who think it’s cool to disrupt a well-earned date on a much-anticipated night.

It’s another ten minutes or so before he picks up the sound of heavy feet trying to be unnaturally quiet on cheap carpet. They haven’t rounded the corner and they’re still out of sight, but with his helmet enhancing his hearing Jason’s already getting plenty of information. At least five people with heavy, careful steps, likely the assailants heavy in their armour and weapons. One set of footsteps shuffling along the carpet, all hesitance and distaste, and that’s got to be Stevens.

And in the middle of it all, walking in a weird off-kilter rhythm like a man who either has a stone in his shoe or is determined to make as distinctive a walk as possible, is Bruce. Up and walking of his own power, which is excellent. Jason doesn’t need to go into this fight concerned with keeping an unconscious Bruce safe. This is going to be an activity with full participation by all parties, hell yeah.

Speaking of participation.

Jason taps the side of his helmet and connects to Bruce’s comms. “B,” he says, low and sweet just to unsettle Bruce. “I’ve got altitude on a cabinet on the eastern wall of the entrance. I’ll see you right as you come in, and I’m gonna attack before anybody knows what’s happening. Get behind the reception desk if you can. Do you copy?”

As per the training handbook for situations when you’re too deep behind enemy lines to do much of anything, Bruce registers his acknowledgment with three sharp clicks, teeth clacking against each other in rapid succession.

Jason arches his back, loosening his muscles before he curls up again, ready to literally pounce. The footsteps are drawing closer, and they have just a few seconds before shit is going to hit the fan. He unhooks his sickle, and grins at absolutely nothing.

“Oh, and B?”

A click.

“Be good for me.”

Bruce’s heart rate spikes just as the group of men round the corner, and Jason’s laughing like a loon as the lines of his helmet burn back to life and he descends on the kidnappers, a hound out of hell.

There’s something primordially terrifying about seeing a fury in red and black descend on you from the sky. Bruce knows what the plan is, knows exactly how menacing a figure Jason can cut when he wants to be dramatic, but even then he couldn’t stop instinctively reaching for the handy, wicked little pocket knife in his pocket the second he saw the lines of the helmet glowing through the dark of his hood.

In the panicked yelling as Jason leaps into the fray and starts systematically annihilating a group of heavily armed men who can’t fight back without shooting each other, it’s easy for Bruce to break free of his captors and rip the sack off his head. He ducks under the flailing butt of a gun and takes a moment to shatter someone’s kneecap with the metal cuffs on his wrists before he’s rolling out of the way, belly-crawling towards the sturdy reception desk.

Dr. Stevens is yelling and trying to run away but Jason keeps plucking at him and pulling him back into the brawl with a vengeance Bruce grudgingly admires. By the time Bruce has climbed up on a chair to get a better view of the fight while staying mostly out of sight, half the men are already a groaning pile on the ground.

By the time Bruce has freed himself from his handcuffs, Stevens is an unconscious mess on the ground, and by the time Bruce has texted home and requested that Alfred call the police, it’s just Jason and One circling each other, both their faces hidden, blades in their hands.

Bruce notes with some interest that where Jason had kept his sickle sheathed and mostly used the blunt outer curve to knock people unconscious, the wicked edge is now out and gleaming as One strikes at him with a nasty Bowie knife. The hand-to-hand is quick and brutal, both of them trading hits and jabs. Whatever armour One is wearing is holding up well against Jason’s sickle, which is fair enough.

Bruce would need to get closer to know for sure, but it certainly looks like the sickle Alfred uses to carefully weed the tulip bed. No point in sharpening a gardening tool to be sharp enough to bite into flesh.

Less pleasing is how One’s knife doesn’t seem to struggle much with cutting through Jason’s costume. The new mesh Bruce had designed in response to Jason’s irritated demand for a slimmer, sleeker costume was supposed to be able to withstand most edged weapons, but even in the dark it’s easy to see where the black fabric has been cut and Jason’s skin and blood are visible instead. Trust Jason to do quality testing in the absolute worst times.

Back to the drawing board it is. One is taunting Jason, allowing Jason to swipe ineffectively at him before laughing and slashing back. “Is this all you got?” the man crows from behind his balaclava, radiating smugness. “I don’t know what I was worried about. I’ll have you and Wayne brought in for sale, and I wonder who the highest bidder will be.” Another quick jab, and Jason’s forearm is marked. “Wonder which of you Mister J would want more as a playmate.”

At that, Jason goes stock still. It’s so sudden that it clearly startles One, who retreats a little, knife up and ready to go. Bruce finds himself with his jaw clenched shut, teeth grinding so hard it’s like lockjaw in three seconds or less.

Of all the things some no-name budget kidnapper could have said. Bruce taps on his comms, opens a line to Jason, because if One keeps push push pushing like this, he won’t live to see morning.

One might not live to see the next minute, if Jason’s slow, terrifying stride towards him means anything.

“Jason,” Bruce whispers into the comm. “Jason, enough. You’ve done enough. Stop playing with your food, come here and let me check on you.”

Across the lobby, Jason once against draws to a halt, but it doesn’t stick. One figures out that actually, the Red Hood had been getting sliced up into ribbons more as a weird exploratory experience than because of a lack of skill, and he figures it out by way of Jason coming right up to him in the blink of an eye, disarming him by snapping the wrist of the hand holding the knife, and grabbing him by the throat with a grip tight enough to kill.

One is currently absolutely sure that he’s about to die.

So is Bruce, who knows that he cannot reach the man faster than Jason can snap a neck. “Jason!” he damn near bellows down the comms, damn near shouts across the room. “Enough. You come when called. You come when I call.”

And like a miracle, like the time Jason came back all those years ago and all the times Jason’s come for him ever since, it works.

One is dropped to the ground, unconscious and foaming at the mouth, and Jason’s barrelling towards Bruce.

As Bruce is swept up and back into the depths of the evacuated aquarium, he finds himself thinking we’ve had worse.

Jason isn’t sure why his first instinct after being called off of the murder of a singularly horrible man is to haul Bruce up and run to the deep sea exhibit, but he’s willing to admit to himself that calm only comes back to him when they’re finally buried in the quiet dark of a room of things softly bioluminescing.

He’s got no love lost for the Joker, has fought the bastard enough times since that it’s not residual fear that snapped him. Here, far far away from the wreckage, it’s easy to identify that his trigger had been superimposing the many, many horrors Jason has personally died from and lived through onto Bruce. Bruce who in many ways has the worst luck of any person he’s ever known, Bruce who would sooner rip into himself than be put into a Pit, Bruce who has to be careful with his burritos and his knees, put under the loveless purview of a madman with a crowbar.

Being protective of other people is generally a good thing, but trust Jason to wield care like a bludgeon. He scoffs, and drops Bruce unceremoniously next to the trapdoor. He could take off his helmet, no one and nothing could see him here, but the mortification of being seen out of control makes it really fucking unappealing.

Bruce sits up and looks around, acting like not a single weird thing has happened this entire night. “I’ve never seen the deep sea exhibition,” he says, like he’s having a normal conversation, like this is just the middle of a perfectly pleasant, perfectly average date.

“I saw a poster, they only built this section after I died,” Jason says dully.

Bruce hums like that’s information enough. “I’m glad we’re getting to see it then.” He tugs at Jason’s leg. “Sit.”

And Jason does, his legs folding underneath him before a thought’s even fully formed. He remembers when he was redesigning the helmet and was struggling to pick a look that was both menacing and just plain cool. The one he settled on had been one of Damian’s designs, all geometric shapes and the suggestion of creature. It had reminded him of a jackal, of Anubis, like death come in the shape of this thing with a muzzle and teeth.

Right now it feels like he’d chosen the look of a dog, a dog with the brand of bat to describe its master, and he feels like a mangy, wild thing desperate for Bruce, just for Bruce.

He takes back every mean, unkind thought he’s ever had about the date at the rec centre. Let him bury his hands into a dozen masses of gelatinous hair than force him to think about things like this, think about himself like this.

Jason’s tight with tension, but Bruce doesn’t push him to talk. Bruce doesn’t force him to do anything, just has a hand wrapped around the nape of Jason’s neck, thumb rubbing at the seam where metal helmet meets skin. They sit in this weird, tingly silence even as Alfred’s pings requesting an update become more urgent, and Jason realises that they’ll stay in this weird, tingly silence until he makes a move.

“What the fuck are we doing, B?” he says at last.

“Whatever we want to, Jaybird.” Bruce is ignoring a lot of his own damn rules about names in uniform, but he still seems remarkably unconcerned about everything. “How are you?”

Jason groans, giving up and tipping over so that he’s sprawled uncomfortably over Bruce’s legs. “Feel fucking awful. I can’t believe I’m the kind of guy that loses his shit just because some asshole said something vaguely threatening to you.”

“I think it shows good character.” Bruce rests a hand on Jason’s shoulder, the other still carefully cradling his head. “But I’m not a good judge of character, so take that with a grain of salt.”

Jason barks out a laugh at that. “You sure fucking are. I knew that director guy was skeezy the moment I saw him. Can’t believe he didn’t set off alarm bells in your head within the first thirty seconds, B.”

Bruce just shrugs. “If I reacted badly to everyone that I thought I couldn’t trust, I’d rarely get to stop.”

Well, the man’s got a point. “Still. He’s apparently shitty with staff too, so at least we’re solving a bunch of problems all at once with this night out.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Jason.”

Jason forces himself to sit back up, a little alarmed by the little note that’s appeared informing him that the police are about five minutes away from the aquarium. “That’s a damn lie and you know it.” Even the strongest of the kidnappers wasn’t anything much above average for a night out on patrol, and Bruce is nothing if not ruthlessly efficient when the fight’s in a public place.

Bruce gets to his feet, careful and ginger, and Jason can’t help but just stare at his stupid wholly-human knees. Bruce doesn’t mention it, doesn’t draw attention that renowned vigilante and crime boss the Red Hood has his head not a foot away from his legs, and just holds his hand out to him instead. “How about, I wouldn’t have enjoyed this night without you?”

Jason takes a moment to pretend to think about it, but he knows his answer. “I”ll take it.” Like he takes Bruce’s hand, like he takes things from Bruce because it’s what he wants and it’s what he’s earned. “I should get out of here before the pigs show up.”

“See you back at the Manor?” It’s only half past midnight, which means this date’s ended a good three hours earlier than their usual. Bruce looks like he’s asking only as an afterthought; of course Jason’s coming home with him.

Jason struggles to think of anything more pleasant than sitting out on their balcony in the dark with a hot drink in hand, electric blanket doggedly trying to keep them warm even as the outlet threatens to explode from the snow that’s supposed to start at 2 AM.

He also struggles to imagine how he’s going to be good company when his head is in as much disarray as it currently is. How open is Bruce to some heavy petting outdoors if Jason can’t convince himself to take his helmet off the whole time? How likely is the night to devolve into them sitting awkwardly in frigid silence until someone snaps and starts an argument just for the sake of a change of pace?

“Yeah, I’m thinking that’s not a good idea.”

That gets Bruce to stop shabbying himself up to look like an actual kidnapping victim, cuffs already locked again. “I see. Why is that?”

Jason shrugs, and is glad that his face is still unseen even if it feels like his whole damn body is letting B in on the secret. “It’s a 'feeling kinda feral' kinda day. I’m going to go blow off some steam.” Run a couple of laps around the lake in the memorial park, and if he gets close enough to hypothermia he might start forgetting the quiet kshkshh sound of delicate neck bones grinding under his hand.

He feels violence wiggling just an inch under his skin, and that’s another self-imposed rule for nights out with Bruce. Any time his grip on himself feels even a pound looser than it should be, Jason’s going to take time for himself because this deep into this relationship he’s surer than ever that there’s a hell of a lot of brutality he could let loose and Bruce would just take it and take it and take it.

Jason will not bite his mas-

He’s forcibly taken out of his thoughts by a sharp rap against his helmet. He strikes out instinctively, and catches Bruce's hand in a tight grip. “What the hell, B.”

“You weren’t responding,” Bruce tells him matter-of-factly, not pulling away. “I said, you can go and run yourself ragged. After that, you come home.”

“And why should I listen to you?”

Bruce smiles a proper smile, sharp and smug and sweet, and leans over to press a kiss to Jason’s hand wrapped around his own. “Because, Jason, I listened when you told me to keep away and keep safe. Isn’t it your turn now?”

It’s all about that give-and-take baby, and Jason just might fucking howl.

He releases Bruce in a flash, and his helmet’s unlatched and crashing to the ground not a second later. Bruce could have aikido’d him over his shoulder and flung him clear across the room because Jason’s not the most coordinated he’s ever been right now, but instead the man just widens his stance and wholly and easily accepts Jason throwing himself at Bruce face first.

It’s a maddening kiss, because Jason’s just shoved Bruce against the blood jelly tank so that he can get into position for a good grind when an alert goes off from his helmet, and Alfred’s too-loud voice calls out to tell them that “The police officers have arrived, sirs.”

Jason groans and pulls back slightly, trying to catch his breath as he digs his teeth into Bruce’s shoulder despite the three layers of expensive fabric in the way. “I hate everything,” he says, half-heartedly groping at Bruce’s chest.

“Hate it in your free time,” Bruce mutters into his hair, before choking a little because he caught a mouthful of semi-permanent dye. “On our nights, be good.”

Relationships are a contract, and Jason’s willingly agreed to these terms for, ah, close to a year now. It doesn’t mean he won’t grumble, or mess up Bruce’s perfectly styled hair just to make him grumble too. “Yeah, yeah, old man, I know what I’m about. Go and distract the cops already, I need to get away.”

Bruce lazily salutes him, looking dishevelled and mussed and suitably victimised. Jason is one damn inch away from dragging B down to the ground and reinstating his territory, god. Instead, he grabs his bag and picks up his helmet, and dawdles a little by the hatch. “You gonna be okay, old man?”

“Of course,” Bruce says confidently, ripping buttons off his coat and toeing one shoe off to look extra pathetic. “I have a hot date to keep. I’ll see you at home, Jason.”

What’s a man to do when given an order like that?

Jason obeys.

A/N: i’ve literally had ‘king tide come through’ listed as a title i wanted for something since last year?? it doesn’t even really mean anything i just love that the highest high tides are kings and it’s got such a nice ring to it. my approach to titling things is that it has to slap, thanks for coming to my TED talk ;9

#brujay #bruce wayne #jason todd #whale writing #i haven't been to many aquariums at all but #generally my idea of a good time is me being close to a Big Body Of Water #as long as i don't obsess on the survival rates of the lads in the tanks #being that close that much water is inexplainably soothing #and bc feb has been all sorts of miserable for me personally #i wanted some soothing

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bearly-writing · 4 years

Note

So that gunshot wound fic you wrote was AMAZING. While savoring every word, I was thinking that I’d really love to also read something with older, Red Hood era Jay being protective of Dick. So, if you don’t mind, could I request the Burns square for Dick with Jay??

Thank you very much for such a lovely compliment! I am so sorry that this is taken SO long to write! I hope that it’s at least slightly what you were looking for and that you enjoy it :)

All of my prompts have now been requested! Thank you everyone who’s requested something - I know I’m getting through these painfully slowly, but I promise I am getting through them! :)

Under The Skin

Fandom: Batman

Prompt: Burns

Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne

Warnings: Violence, Blood and Injury, Gun Violence, Gore, Burns, Acid burns, Torture, Permanent injury, Career-ending injuries

Summary: This is exactly what Jason means about Gotham’s villains. Two-Face can’t just shoot Dick, or beat him, or, hell, mutilate him a little. It has to be a fucking performance. It has to be totally goddamn insane.

Read it on AO3 here!

There will be a second part to this. I’ll add the link in here once it’s been posted!

The problem with Gotham, Jason thinks bitterly, is that everyone has a fucking gimmick. No one seems capable of doing anything in this city without putting on a goofy outfit first: Freeze, Catwoman, the Riddler, the Joker – fucking Batman can’t fight crime without his fur suit. It wears thin after a while. Jason is tired of the overwrought jokes and the overly-contrived crimes. What happened to the good old-fashioned thugs? What happened to a classic get-your-hands-dirty beating? Jason would take that over Batman’s rogue gallery any day. He would take a punch to the face over sitting here listening to Two-Face rattle on about chance and probability and rolling that fucked up coin between his fingers in a heartbeat.

“I’m a fair man,” Dent is saying, the coin flashing beneath the glare of the bare bulb above them: warehouse-torture-room aesthetic at its finest.

Jason snorts and Dick throws him a look that’s almost physical. It’s easy to ignore, though – Jason’s had plenty of practice.

“If you want it to be fair, then untie us and fight us properly.”

That earns him a cold look, but not much else. One day that sort of goading will work – until then Jason will have to make do with tugging fruitlessly at the cuffs binding his hands behind him again and snarling.

“I’m a fair man,” Dent repeats. He smiles with the side of his face that isn’t mangled flesh and exposed bone. “You’ve both been poking around where you shouldn’t be. I should kill you for that, but I want to give you a chance.”

Flash, flash, flash, goes the coin. Watching it makes Jason feel dizzy and he has to shut his eyes to stop the room from spinning, has to tighten his throat against the anxiety that’s slowly expanding in his stomach. A 50-50 chance. That’s Two-Face’s shtick. Not the most inventive gimmick in the world, but with a face like his, Jason supposes there aren’t many other options. Except not becoming a homicidal maniac, of course, but then, Jason doesn’t have much room to judge on that count.

Footsteps, loud against the concrete floor. A shadow falls across Jason. When his eyes snap open, almost automatically, Two-Face is standing over him, leering down at him. Jason tries to jerk away but there’s not much space to put between them whilst he’s tied to a chair.

Two-Face grins. Scarred fingers grip Jason’s chin, tilting his head up. “You first, I think.”

Flash, flash, flash.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason can see Dick’s face, pale and tense, attention focused like a laser-point to the press of fingers against Jason’s skin.

“Red Hood doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Dick snaps, because he’s too stupid and self-sacrificing to not draw attention to himself. “If you really want to be fair, you’ll let him go.”

Because that has always worked for them.

Two-Face ignores him, of course.

“This side –“ The coin stops spinning. Two-Face holds it up between his fingers, the smooth side facing out. “- and you get to go unscathed. This side –“ A twist, then it’s the scarred side facing them. “- and I leave you with a little reminder of exactly why you should stay away.”

Jason rolls his eyes. Which came first, he wonders? Is it Batman’s fault that all of the villains in Gotham are like this? Or is Batman a product of whatever chemical is clearly floating around in the air too? He wishes Two-Face would let go of him. Wishes that he and Dick hadn’t crashed the villain’s party in the first place.

“Get on with it,” he snarls, because he can’t figure out how to get out of his bonds with Two-Face standing so close, and he’s been sitting in this chair for long enough that his ass has gone numb.

The coin flips up into the air and Jason tightens his gut to prevent his stomach from doing the same. It lands in the palm of Dent’s hand with a soft thud. The villain glances at it, and Jason struggles to read his face, but it’s difficult to parse an expression from the mess of scars. Then the coin is extended towards him. Shiny side up. Jason breathes a soft sigh of relief. Beside him, Dick strains in his own bonds, trying to get a look at Jason’s fate.

“Lucky,” Two-Face murmurs, but he’s smiling that creepy half-smile. Jason can’t tell if he’s angry or not. At least he lets go of Jason’s face, finally, if only to stalk across the warehouse towards Dick. “Your turn.”

“Let Red Hood go first – that was your bargain.”

“No,” Jason snaps, because he’s tired of feeling so out of control here and he’s tired of Dick throwing himself on the fire every fucking chance he gets. Jason doesn’t need anyone to coddle him, and he definitely doesn’t need Dick martyring himself for his sake – if only because the others would never forgive him for letting golden boy get hurt when Jason’s here to take the punishment instead. “Take that as Nightwing’s toss and do mine again. Or better yet, let us go and fight us properly.”

Two-Face just shakes his head, still smiling. The effect is unnerving – that bright flash of teeth that shouldn’t be visible even in the widest grin.

“Cute.” He stops in front of Dick’s chair. The vigilante glares up at him with a surprising amount of venom. “You both get your own chance with fate. Then you can both go free when I say you can go free.”

There’s another flash. The soft thud of metal against flesh. Jason can’t help straining forward, even as he works desperately at the cuffs around his wrists whilst Two-Face is distracted. The metal is digging painfully into his flesh, scraping the skin raw. Something warm trickles over his hands – blood probably, but Jason doesn’t have time to care about that. If he can just get the leverage he needs to break his thumb…

“Oh dear.”

One hand stretches out towards Dick. For a long moment, Dick just stares into Dent’s face, gaze locked resolutely on his. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he looks down. Dick recoils. It’s not hard to guess which side came up.

Shit.

Shit, this is bad.

“You cheated,” Jason manages, voice a low, gruff growl. It makes him sound uncomfortably like the Batman, he knows, but he can’t soften his voice when his anxiety is crawling up his throat and choking him. “You fucking cheated.”

Two-Face is on him before Jason even registers the movement. An arm slams hard into Jason’s throat, jerking his head up and rocking him backwards. Pain spears from the point of impact, racing down his spine, setting alarms blaring through Jason’s head. He tries to gasp a startled breath but he can’t suck any air past the press of Harvey’s arm. Pain and pressure lock his throat tight.

“Say that to my fucking face,” Two-Face snarls, inches from Jason’s nose.

Jason struggles. Gasps. The chair is tilted back dangerously, threatening to spill him onto the floor at any moment, but Jason can’t pull himself upright with Two-Face holding him down. Can’t drag in enough air to get the words out.

“Hey! Red Hood goes free. That’s what the coin said. You can’t touch him. Hey!”

Even through the fog of panic, Jason can hear the fear in Dick’s voice. It sends his heart rocketing against his chest. Has his pulse throbbing beneath Two-Face’s arm.

For a long moment, the villain doesn’t move. Then, finally, he pulls away. Jason rocks forward at the release of pressure, gasping in a solid breath of stale, dusty air. Instinctively, he tries to reach for his throat, but the cuffs hold him just as helpless as Two-Face had.

“You’re right,” Two-Face says, calmly, smoothing down his suit, as if he hadn’t just launched himself across the room to strangle Jason. As if he isn’t holding them captive in a sketchy warehouse, threatening them, hurting them. “The coin has decided you go free, Hood. But don’t test me. I can always flip again.”

Jason’s throat is still too tight to manage a scathing reply. He settles for baring his teeth, glaring as darkly as he can manage. Two-Face seems entirely unconcerned, turning away from him to focus his attention back on Dick.

“You’re not so lucky, huh?”

One hand braces against the back of Dick’s chair as Two-Face leans down until he’s right in the vigilante’s face. Dick doesn’t react, just stares back evenly. It’s hard to tell if the confidence is fake or not. Jason knows that Two-Face scares his brother. Knows that Dick still has nightmares, sometimes, from when the villain had beaten him senseless with a baseball bat well before Jason’s ill-fated turn as Robin. Jason understands that.

“Cat got your tongue?” Two-Face smirks.

Scarred fingers twist through Dick’s hair and jerk his head back, forcing his neck into a painful-looking arch. Dick snarls, teeth flashing, the muscles of his arms bunching as if he’s tugging on his restraints. From where he’s sitting, Jason can only see half of his face. Something cold and frightened blooms in Jason’s chest, an awful paranoia born of Two-Face’s proximity, Two-Face’s threats.

“Don’t touch him,” Jason snarls, and Dick’s head jerks, as if he wants to look over despite the hand in his hair holding him still.

Two-Face straightens but he doesn’t let go.

“Stop me,” he says, mildly. “If you can.”

Jason yanks harder on his restraints, feels the skin split beneath unforgiving metal. Snarls. There’s no more give than there was before. As hard as he struggles, he isn’t getting out of these cuffs.

A smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

***

This is exactly what Jason means about Gotham’s villains. Two-Face can’t just shoot Dick, or beat him, or, hell, mutilate him a little. It has to be a fucking performance. It has to be totally goddamn insane.

“This is a joke right?”

Jason tugs harder on the cuffs. It won’t get him anywhere, but it makes him feel a little better and it’s the only thing he can do with Two-Face standing behind him, scarred hand resting heavy on Jason’s shoulder.

He isn’t in the chair anymore, although they haven’t untied his hands. Instead, he’s kneeling on the ground, cold concrete leaching the heat from his knees. There are about fifteen of Two-Face’s men milling about, waiting for the entertainment, and Jason had been stripped of his helmet and most of his gear before he’d been strapped into the chair, but he thinks he could still make a good go of it, if he could just get his hands free. Or even without his hands, if Two-Face wasn’t holding a gun, resting it casually against the back of Jason’s head.

Dick won’t be much help either, and Jason isn’t sure he can take on sixteen people on his own. His brother is more securely bound, ropes wrapping tight across his chest, winding around his arms and cinching his legs together, tethering his ankles to his bound hands to render them immobile. Oh, and he’s also dangling in the air above a wooden platform covering what Jason strongly suspects is a vat of goddamn acid.

Honestly, Gotham. Sometimes Jason feels as though he’s fallen down the fucking rabbit-hole.

“I don’t joke,” Dent says from above him, voice mild, as if he’s commenting on the weather rather than someone dangling over a vat of acid. “I do like to keep to a theme though.”

A theme. Fucking hell.

“You would think you’d stay away from acid,” Jason says, nastily. “Don’t want to fuck up the rest of your face too.”

Two-Face doesn’t rise to the bait. Jason wonders if the theatrics are just for them, or if he’s always like this. There certainly hadn’t seemed to be any themes involved when Two-Face had shot Jason’s good-for-nothing dad dead. Just a short fuse and a gun.

But then, a thug is a thug – maybe caped crusaders require more pizzazz.

“He’s obviously jealous of my good looks,” Dick interjects, surprisingly calm for someone who’s good looks are in imminent danger.

Jason sneers – his skin feels too tight to manage any other expression, pulled taught across the bones of his face. “Well, you could always scar the other side Harv – if you’re looking for a way to improve that mug of yours.”

The gun presses hard into Jason’s skull, rocking his head forward until his neck aches, chin pressed into his chest, staring down at his own lap. It’s an uncomfortably vulnerable position.

“Shut up,” Two-Face orders, voice still mild. There’s no hint of the snarl from earlier, although Jason feels the phantom press of an arm against his throat all the same.

Jason kind of wishes he would lose his temper – Jason can work with anger, particularly if it’s aimed at him. Anger makes most people sloppy. Makes them react without thinking. All Jason needs is the opportunity. But Two-Face has pulled cool and collected Harvey Dent to the surface like a flip of the scarred coin that had doomed Dick earlier.

“My boys have been promised entertainment. The coin has decreed a punishment. Nightwing is taking a little dip and you’re going to sit here and watch it. Isn’t that right boys?”

There’s a ragged cheer. The pressure against Jason’s head lessens. For a moment he doesn’t look up, just keeps his eyes fixed on his legs, feels his heart punching against the curve of his neck. If he can’t see it, maybe it won’t happen. Maybe this is all in his head.

Except, when he finally lifts his head it’s all still there: Dick’s still dangling from that fucking rope like a rat caught in a trap; the vat of acid is still sitting underneath him; the goons are still milling around, watching Dick with hungry eyes. The gun is still hovering close behind Jason’s head.

There’s a flash of light at the edge of Jason’s vision. That stupid coin turning over and over in Two-Face’s fingers. What Jason wouldn’t give to snatch it out of the air, toss it down a drain or bury it under the earth, or maybe throw it with enough force to bury it in Two-Face’s head.

“Take him down,” Dent says. He could be closing a case in court, listening to his voice, rather than sending an innocent man to his death.

Or maybe there’s not such a difference there after all - Jason’s never much liked lawyers.

Across the room one of Two-Face’s goons closes their fist around the lever connected to the winch system Dick is dangling from. There’s a metallic clank. A suspended moment where even the air feels still, as if not a single person in the room is breathing. Then there’s a jolt as the rope holding Nightwing in place starts to unravel, dropping Dick down towards the vat.

“Stop!” Jason snarls.

Panic shreds his voice to something rough and painful. He strains against his bonds, against Two-Face’s looming presence, against the fact that this is happening. A heavy hand layers over his shoulder, pressing him down as he tries to struggle to his feet. Dick drops steadily downwards.

“It’s fine, Hood. I’m fine.”

Because Nightwing is a martyr to the end. Because even as he’s being lowered to his death, he can’t keep his mouth shut, can’t let a moment go by without nobly sacrificing his own wellbeing.

“Shut up,” Jason snaps.

Behind him, Two-Face chuckles, a low, awful sound. If Jason can just get out from underneath him. If he can slip his cuffs and get across the room and pull that fucking lever back up.

“Don’t do this, Dent. You bastard. Let him go.”

As if begging has ever helped anyone. Two-Face ignores him. He’s breathing heavily, fingers pressing savagely into Jason’s shoulder without the protection of his leather jacket between them. Around them, Two-Face’s men jeer and laugh as Dick inches ever closer to the acid beneath him.

His brother’s face is tight with fear now, that strange calmness completely gone, eyes huge and dark. He’s struggling, trying to gather enough momentum to swing himself out of the path of danger, but he’s bound too tightly to have much success. By now, his knees are almost touching the surface. Dick tries to pull them up, to curl them safely against his chest, but the rope between his wrists and ankles pulls taut, holding him in place.

A hollow, frightened sort of hope carves out a space behind Jason’s ribs. It’s the same sensation he had felt, through the agony of his broken bones, his ruptured organs, as he had leaned against the locked warehouse door, waiting for his father to rescue him. It’s stupid. It’s childish. Jason, of all people, should know that you can’t rely on a last-minute rescue, knows that even Batman can be too late. If they’re going to get out of here, Jason can’t rely on the bat. The only person he can rely on is himself.

“Wait,” Dick shouts. The whites of his eyes are bright against his dark skin. “Stop, please! Don’t-“

Batman isn’t going to make it. Jason isn’t even sure if Batman knows they’re here. It’s down to him. No one else is going to save them.

There’s a sharp crack as Jason’s thumb gives way. To Jason, it might as well be loud as a gunshot, but it’s mostly lost beneath the jeers of Two-Face’s men and Dick’s terrified shouts. Jason’s heart is punching so strongly against his throat that it feels a little like it might leap right out of him. He can feel the frantic throb of his pulse in his wrist. There should be pain, Jason thinks, numbly, as he slides his damaged hand out of the cuff, but instead there’s only adrenaline, bunching every muscle in his body, setting his heart ricocheting against his chest.

Two-Face isn’t looking at Jason. Instead, he’s focussed on Dick, exposed teeth and eye gleaming in the harsh light. Jason doesn’t spare any time following his gaze, or hesitating, or waiting for a better opportunity. He acts. Sweeps one leg out to catch Two-Face by the ankles. Rocks him back. Surges up to catch his flailing wrist. The arm in Jason’s grip gives with a satisfying snap beneath the pressure of his elbow and Two-Face howls. Jason lifts one leg and plants his foot solidly against the villain’s chest. The kick sends Two-Face flying, crashing to a groaning, hurting heap against the far wall.

In a matter of seconds, Jason’s arms are free, Two-Face is across the room, and Jason has a gun in his hands. When he spins to face the rest of the room, Two-Face’s men are staring stupidly, attention drawn by the sound of their leader’s scream, but no one has reached for their weapons. No one is prepared for Jason hefting the gun in his hands and opening fire.

There’s green crowding close at the edge of Jason’s vision. A wavering, blurry quality, as if Jason is under water. As if he’s back in the Lazarus pit, drowning in toxic green, water in his mouth, his nose, his throat, pressing in against his eyes. There’s a roaring in his ears, a swelling wave of noise crashing against him. And underneath that, the sharp rapport of gunfire – his and the thugs who haven’t yet been dropped like flies.

“Hood!”

The cry cuts through the strange, tinnitus-ring in Jason’s ears, the green-tinged fog in his head. He blinks. The voice is frightened. Someone’s in danger. There was something Jason was supposed to do.

Then Dick screams and Jason slams back into his body with a jolt like an electric shock.

The lever. Jason needs to get to the fucking lever, now.

Jason isn’t sure if he’s ever moved as fast as he does now, launching himself across the room. He gets a flash of a white, terrified face - the thug’s mouth dark and wide as Jason barrels towards him - before they collide with a force that knocks the breath out of him.

That terrible, agonised scream cleaves the air in two. Jason fumbles. His hands are slick with sweat and blood. They slide hopelessly against the rusty metal of the lever.

Beneath him, the thug struggles for his gun. Jason smashes his fist into his face. Ignores his gurgling cry - barely hears it under the siren-pitch sound of Dick’s pain. Reaches. There’s metal under his hands and something gives and somewhere in the distance Jason hears the rattle of mechanical movement and please, please let that be Dick being pulled free.

The thug is limp beneath him. Jason pushes himself upright in a sort of daze, feeling both very far away from his body and yet strangely present at the same time. The world seems to spin around him. Some of Two-Face’s men are still standing, but no one is firing at him. Most of them are on the floor, lying groaning in pools of blood, or clutching wounds, or crouching in fear.

Above them, Dick is writhing on the end of his rope like a worm on a hook. The black material of his suit is dark around his knees. Liquid drips off of his legs in a slowing stream, splattering across the wood and concrete as he jerks and twists in his restraints. The scream has tapered into a high, choking keen. It’s...it’s a noise unlike anything Jason’s heard before. It pours icy water down his spine, tightens his skin until he feels claustrophobic in his own body, twists cold fingers through his gut.

Dick was dunked - that much is obvious. Dick is hurt. That’s acid clinging to the weave of his suit. Acid darkening his legs. For a long moment, Jason feels paralysed by the realisation. Dick is hurt, Dick is injured, and Jason doesn’t know what to do.

Get him down. That’s the first thing. Jason needs to get him safely on the floor and away from that goddamn vat. He moves almost without meaning to, as if his brain is trailing behind his body, still caught up a few seconds ago. One of the goons, startled by Jason’s sudden movement, fires off a shot. It goes wide, splinters the wall somewhere behind him. Jason doesn’t turn to look. He doesn’t care. If the bullet had ripped through his shoulder, he’s not sure if he would even have noticed.

The gun in his hands comes up automatically to return fire, but Jason doesn’t stop to aim or to check if it hit its mark. He keeps his eyes fixed on Dick. There are a set of shallow steps leading up to the platform. Jason scrambles up them. His whole focus laser-sharp on Dick, his world narrowed to the dark shape of him, the contorted twist of his legs. The rest of the room might as well not even be there. But no one fires on him.

Jason has nothing. Nothing but the gun and his own hands - his jacket, his knives, his fucking boots are all in the other room. Jason could shoot him down, but the acid is still beneath him, and if Dick falls…

But it’s not like Jason has any other choice. If he doesn’t get Dick down now, who knows what could happen. He’ll just have to catch him. He’ll haveto.

Jason launches himself at Dick a second before his gun goes off. For a breathless moment, Dick is free falling, dropping like a stone towards the acid below him. Then Jason collides with him, hard enough to knock the breath from both of them, sending them both crashing to the wooden platform.

Beneath him, Dick makes a choked, breathless sound of pain. Jason rolls off of him as quickly as he can. Fumbles with the ropes holding him tight. Doesn’t look at his legs even as he frees Dick’s arms and torso. Carefully avoids touching where the rope is damp and already falling apart.

Dick writhes. It’s hard to tell whether he’s trying to free himself, or just too caught up in the pain and fear and confusion. His eyes are wide and white, his mouth dark where it’s stretched around the awful little sounds of pain he’s emitting. When he finally frees his arms from the ropes, he reaches automatically for his legs, blindly, and Jason catches his wrists and holds them tight.

Dick’s pulse thrums like a desperate bird beneath his fingers. Jason’s own pulse is beating almost as hard, a sick, throbbing rhythm at the hollow of his throat. When Jason finally glances down at his brother’s legs, his heart almost leaps right out of his mouth.

The fabric around Dick’s knees has melted away almost entirely, leaving ragged, bald patches in Nightwing’s uniform. The skin underneath is already blistering. The flesh is raw and wrinkled, pink and wet in some places, bone white or blackened in others, as if the skin is already dead. Jason has to swallow bile at the sight of it. Feels acid burn at the base of his throat.

Water. He needs water. Needs to get the acid off Dick’s skin. He should cut the uniform off too, get the contaminated fabric away. Or should he? Would removing the fabric, practically melted onto Dick in some places, only make the wound worse? He doesn’t know. He can’t remember. Jason knows that Batman taught him this - knows that first aid for burns was one of the first things he had learned. But the fog in his head is too thick and he can’t think.

Not that there’s much Jason can actually do. There isn’t exactly a handy water source in the middle of the huge concrete warehouse and all of Jason’s gear is piled in the other room: his comm, his jacket, his gloves. Jason is scared to touch Dick’s legs. Scared to hurt him and scared to disable himself. The last thing this situation needs is Jason with acid on his hands.

All he can seem to do is clutch at his brother’s wrists and stare, helplessly. Dick’s face is white, a wet sheen of sweat glimmering in the bare orange light. His mouth is just as wet, parted around his ragged breaths. Each exhale comes out as a whimper, little helpless noises of pain.

“Hood.”

Dick’s eyes roll sightlessly. Jason can see the whites all around them. The words are pressed out between gritted teeth.

“Hurts. Fuck. Fuck. Help. Jay, it hurts.”

It trails off into a high whine. Dick jerks, all of his muscles tightening, knocking his head back against the metal floor of the walkway. It looks a little like he’s having a seizure, his entire body tight and twitching. Jason tightens the fingers around one wrist and tries to cushion his head with his other hand.

“You’re OK, N,” he babbles, feeling useless. Panic draws his stomach tight, a hard, heavy ball in his gut. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna...B will be here. He’ll come. It’s OK.”

It’s all meaningless, but Jason doesn’t know what else to do. They can’t rely on Batman, as much as Jason might want to. Batman’s only human. It’s Jason who needs to get Dick out of here. He needs to get water. Needs medical attention.

His hands flutter over Dick’s legs, his chest, too frightened to land. Dick moans, a low, rattling sound. Jason could get him under his arms, but the last thing he wants to do is drag Dick’s ruined legs across the ground.

“Who’s cheating now?”

The voice is surprisingly close. Jason hadn’t heard Two-Face get up. Had missed the soft thud of his footsteps beneath the sound of Dick’s pain. But the voice comes from right behind them - as if Two-Face is standing over them, and suddenly Jason is painfully aware of the fact that he had slung the gun onto the floor beside him in his haste to get to Dick. That he doesn’t have any of his gear and Dick is incapacitated and not all of Two-Face’s goons are out of commission.

He crouches low, trying to cover as much of his brother as he can. Beneath him, Dick writhes, staring blankly up at the ceiling high above them. Two-Face steps closer. Jason can feel the heat of him against his back. He tenses.

There’s an ear-splitting crash - splintering wood and glass - and a huge, dark shape barrels through the boarded-up window. In that moment, Jason understands exactly why so many people are terrified of the Bat - his almost mythical status. Because now, a shadow against the shattered window, cape spread wide, face grim beneath the cowl, he could be a demon. A nightmare. Despite knowing that Bruce is on his side, for a moment Jason is terrified.

He ducks and Batman flies over his head. There’s a dull thud as he collides with Two-Face, then a garbled cry as the two of them shoot over the edge of the platform. Jason doesn’t turn to watch. Beneath him, Dick’s face has gone slack, his eyes half-lidded and Jason is too preoccupied with fumbling for Dick’s pulse. It’s too fast. Too weak. But it’s there, still, threading beneath his fingers.

“What happened?”

Jason starts at the sound of Batman’s voice. It’s low and strained, even gruffer than normal. Jason recognises it as panic, although not many people would. It touches Jason’s own fear, sharp and bright in his chest.

“Acid,” Jason murmurs. “Two-Face dunked him. I got him out before...but his - his legs…”

A hand lands on Jason’s shoulder, warm and firm and reassuring, and Jason hates how grateful he is for that small touch. Hates how, despite everything, Jason was relying on Bruce showing up.

Batman crouches beside him. There’s a water pouch in one hand, drawn from the recesses of his cloak. His mouth is tight and pinched as he pours most of its contents carefully over Dick’s legs.

Jason can’t help himself. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Batman ignores him. Reaches up to touch the comm hidden in his cowl before sliding a knife out of his utility belt and slicing it carefully across the ruined fabric covering Dick’s legs. Batman’s gloves are thick black leather. Jason wonders if it’ll be protection enough, or if Bruce just doesn’t care.

“Agent A?”

Jason can’t hear Alfred’s reply without his own comm but it must be immediate, because Bruce launches right into the situation with barely enough time to draw breath.

“Nightwing is injured. At least second degree acid burns, possibly third degree. Basic triage applied.”

The knife slices through fabric like butter. The dark exoskeleton of Dick’s suit peels away beneath his hands. The flesh underneath is raw and wet - an awful, gory mess. Jason has to stare hard at Batman’s hands to keep from gagging.

“We’re heading back to the manor, but we’ll need an ambulance to meet us there. I think this is beyond our capabilities.”

Can Alfred hear the muted terror in Bruce’s voice? The little tremble? The low rasp at the back of his throat? Probably better than Jason can, but Jason hears it well enough to have his skin prickling, to have his heart rocketing against his chest.

Most of Dick’s suit, from the top of his thighs to his ankles, is stripped now, lying in tattered, half-melted shreds around him. Some of Dick’s flesh had gone with it, adhered to the fabric in a way that has bile surging up the back of Jason’s throat. Dick is still unconscious, thank God, face loose, chest rising with too-shallow breaths.

“Help me with him,” Batman murmurs as he rinses his gloves with the last of the water. Then he unclips his cloak, tucking it carefully around the open wound that is Dick’s legs.

Jason moves dumbly as Batman orders him. Hooks his arms under his brother’s armpits. Batman cradles Dick’s legs as carefully as he can, fumbling to find a spot that isn’t as badly damaged. Still, when they lift Dick into the air it must hurt, because he jerks back into consciousness as if electrocuted, eyes white and wide and rolling in his head. Jason tightens his grip to stop Dick writhing right out of his arms and Dick lets out a punched-out little noise of pain.

“Calm down, Nightwing,” Bruce orders, voice a low growl, and Dick goes still and quiet with a strangled whimper, as if he can’t help himself obeying.

“B? Hurts. My - my legs -“

“You’re OK,” Batman reassures - or maybe that’s an order too. Maybe if Batman says it sternly enough, Dick will be forced to make it true.

“Told you B would get here,” Jason murmurs. His own pathetic reassurance.

Batman’s head jerks up. Through the flat white lenses of his cowl, it’s difficult to read his expression, but Jason thinks that’s something like grief in the tight lines around his mouth. Something like guilt in the way he ducks his head.

“I’m here,” Batman agrees, although it’s clear that Dick isn’t listening. “Hold on Nightwing, we’re getting you home.”

#badthingshappenbingo #prompt: burns #batman #dick grayson #jason todd #bruce wayne #nightwing #redhood #fanfiction #my writing #violence tw #guns tw #torture tw #gore tw #burns tw #permanent injury tw #injury tw #hurt/comfort #angst

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spooky-titties · 4 years

Photo

Open Hearts

Open legs

Peter rubbed his eyes as he walked into the hospital, a small yawn falling past his lips. He had picked up a shift working in the ER with Clint last night and he was absolutely exhausted. He raked a hand through his hair as he walked down the hall and into Tony's office. He closed the door behind him and set his bag on the desk, silently pulling his clothes out. He had opted for a bit more sleep and decided to just get dressed at the hospital. He tugged his shirt over his head before kicking his vans off. He pulled his sweatpants off, setting them on top of his shirt.

His eyes widened as he looked to the side as the door opened. “Oh,” Tony's voice began, as Peter relaxed under his gaze. “Well, good morning.” He grinned, closing the door behind him.

“Morning.” Peter hummed, grabbing his black slacks, tugging them on. He grabbed his button up, pulling it on before silently buttoning it and tucking it in. He buttoned his pants and grabbed his dress shoes, slipping them on before putting his clothes back into his bag. He set his bag in the corner before grabbing his white coat off the hook along with his stethoscope.

“You okay, baby?” Tony asked as Peter nodded.

“Yeah, just tired. I helped out in the ER last night, there was a huge car wreck last night so, I was there most of the night and didn't get much sleep.” Peter said as Tony nodded his head slowly.

“If you want you can go home, we don't have much to do today.” Tony said as Peter shook his head.

“No, I'm fine, I promise.” Peter said as Tony raised a brow.

“Petey.” Tony said in a warning voice.

“Really. Once I get some coffee I'll be fine.” Peter said as Tony sighed. He knew very well just how stubborn Peter was, and there was no way that he was gonna just go home.

“Fine.” Tony said as Peter offered him a tired smile. “But we're only working a half day.” Tony began as Peter raised a brow. “They need us working overnight tomorrow so they want us off early to make sure we get sleep.” Tony stated as Peter nodded. “Which reminds me, do you wanna stay the night at my place tonight since we stayed at yours last time?” He asked making Peter nodded.

“Yeah, that works well cause I took a cab this morning.” Peter said letting out a small laugh.

Peter let out a soft yawn as he sat up in Tony's bed. As soon as they got back to Tony's place they both settled on taking a nap. Tony had let Steve talk him into going out with him, Bucky, Natasha and Bruce since they had to be up most of the night anyways.

“Tony, babe, wake up. We've got to get ready so that we can meet up with everyone.” Peter said gently shaking Tony awake.

“Okay, okay, I'm up.” Tony yawned, before sitting up, and stretching.

Peter could only smile at him as he stood up, another soft yawn leaving his lips. He walked over to the drawer he had claimed as his own and pulled out various clothes, going through what he could make an outfit from. Since he and Tony had began dating the pair have not only claimed various spots around each others home for their things but had also been leaving clothes, hair products, and shoes at the other ones home.

“What are you going to wear?” Tony asked as Peter skimmed through his clothes.

“Uh, I was thinking maybe this.” He said throwing a pair of black jeans, a white tee shirt and his denim jacket on to the bed before looking to Tony. “What are you gonna wear?” He hummed walking towards the bathroom that was connected to Tony's room.

He looked in the mirror, running his hand through his hair. “Uh, I don't know.” Tony began, as he walked into the bathroom behind Peter, his arms circling around his boyfriends waist. “While I don't know what I wanna wear I do know what I want on my body.” He whispered, placing soft kisses against Peter's neck. His cheeks turned a dark shade of crimson as he cocked his head, looking at Tony who was smirking at him. “You're extra cute when your flustered.” Tony whispered in his ear, before leaving another small trail of kisses along his neck before pulling back. Tony looked in the mirror, running a hand through his hair before looking back at Peter, winking and walking back out of the bathroom.

Peter's mouth hung open for a moment before he looked in the mirror, a giddy smile rising to his lips. He could only let out a soft chuckle as he shook his head. 'This man is gonna be the death of me.'

Peter's laughs filled the Uber as Natasha, Bucky, and him sat crammed into the very back of the van. Bruce and Steve were quietly chuckling at the trio from the middle, while Tony and the driver talked in the front.

“So are you guys ready to fucking party?” Bucky grinned, looking at the two. It was no secret that they were defiantly a bit buzzed. The bar that they met at had two dollar jello shots, and the three were not the type to turn down jello shots.

“I don't know about you but a lemon drop martini is calling my name.” Natasha said and Peter's eyes lit up.

“That sounds so good, I haven't had one is so long.” Peter hummed as Bucky nodded his head in agreement.

Soon they pulled up into the bar, and Natasha was rushing everyone out, “Babe,” She began, a long whine falling from her lips as she looked at her husband who was getting out of the car, “Go faster.”

Bruce could only chuckle at his slightly inebriated wife before getting out, offering her a hand as she stepped out. He played the role of the step stool and helped both Bucky and Peter out before his hand wrapped around Natasha's waist.

As the group filed into the bar, Tony's eyes widened a bit before laughing, “You guys really had to come here?” he asked, looking between Steve and Bucky, who smirked.

“This is the bar that Tony took me and Buck too when we first met.” Steve began before looking to his husband who grinned.

“He then bet me fifty bucks that I wouldn't get on stage and dance for amateur night, like tonight.” Bucky said nudging Peter with his elbow.

“What makes this all the better is I worked here.” He said, all eyes landing on him as he let out a laugh.

As if almost on cue a loud squeal came from the other side of the bar, “Parker!” The girl grinned as she nearly leaped out from behind the bar as she came running across the dance floor, tackling Peter into a bone crushing hug.

“Wand!” He grinned as he returned the tight embrace.

“What are you doing here?! How's the hospital?” She began, questions flying out of her mouth faster than he could answer.

“Wanda! You ask all these questions like I literally didn't talk to you last night!” He laughed before pulling out of the hug, “These are some of my friends from the hospital, as well as my boyfriend. This is Natasha, Bruce, Bucky, Steve, and Tony.” He said introducing them.

“The way you described Tony to me, does not do him any justice.” She whispered as Peter nodded his head. “He is much hotter than you said.” She said letting out a soft giggle.

“Is Carol still in charge?” He asked as she nodded, making Peter grin, “Honestly, I'd be lying if I said I don't miss this place.” He said, resting a head on Wanda's shoulder.

“Hey, Stark, I think it's time for a bit of revenge.” Bucky began before looking to Peter. “Peter, I bet you fifty bucks to get up on stage tonight.” Bucky hummed as Peter let out a soft laugh.

“I mean don't get me wrong, I would love too, but I don't think I can do amateur night.” Peter said, before grinning a bit as Carol walked over, hugging him.

“No but we can do return of a veteran.” She laughed as she nudged him, “Besides I still have some of your old costumes.” She grinned while Peter laughed.

“Of course you do.” He smiled before looking to Bucky, “I accept your bet.” He said, making Bucky grin widely.

“Well, then, time to get you on stage!” Carol laughed, patting him on the back.

Peter grinned, walking back to Tony placing a soft kiss to his cheek, “Let's see how cute you are when you're flustered.” Peter whispered in his ear before pulling back with a sweet smile. He quickly winked at him before turning back towards Carol.

“Oh I'm so fucked.” Tony whispered to himself as he watched Peter saunter off.

“So what costumes do you have?” Peter asked as Wanda, Carol, and him walked back behind the stage, towards Carol's office.

“Oh only your favorite.” She began, pulling the pull off suit out, the leather shorts, a black button up halter top, and fishnet stalkings coming out next.

“Oh my god, yes!” Both Peter and Wanda chorused. “I'll tell the others that everyone's favorite dance is happening!” She squealed before disappearing into the locker room.

“I think I'm gonna wear heels for it tonight.” Peter grinned, making Carol smirk.

“Someone is trying to impress that guy.” She hummed, making Peter laugh as he took the clothes, starting to change, Carol turning around.

“Not really impress but more so turn on.” He hummed, pulling the fishnet up his legs, the shorts soon following. “You're good.” He hummed as Carol turned around.

“Well if he doesn't get turned on after this, then he's crazy.” She stated before offering him a smile. “I'm gonna go let the crew know that we got you back for the night.” She hummed watching him nod before she left.

He quickly got changed into the costume, a fedora soon completing the look, before he slipped on black heels. He looked at himself in the mirror before walking into the locker room. “What's up bitches?” He grinned, all of them smiling over at him. “So who want's to do my makeup real quick?” He asked with a small smile.

“Get over here, dumb-ass.” Wanda grinned, making him smile as he came and sat down. She wasted no time quickly doing his makeup, and applying fake lashes. “And here's your umbrella.” She said, smiling as he took it.

“Alright, ladies and gents, we got everything set up, and I hope your all excited to do our favorite dance!” Carol said as everyone let out a cheer. “Wanda, as usual your gonna apply the red lip to him behind the umbrellas.” She said as Wanda nodded, before they all rushed towards the stage.

Peter peaked out from behind the curtain, laughing a bit as the set was still the same. He looked out at the bar, noticing Tony and everyone front and center. “This is gonna be fun.” He grinned to himself.

“For a special treat tonight, we have our favorite exotic dancer back for tonight only. Most of you know who it is, welcome back on stage Throb Lowe!” Alex cheered into the mic making Peter laugh. He had come up with his dancer name when he first started and was put on the spot, it just sorta stuck.

Soon the song singing in the rain began playing and he waltzed out, smiling a bit as he danced along to the music. He sung to himself before spinning around on the light pole, water falling above him. He grinned a bit as the girls opened their umbrellas, allowing him to get behind them, and quickly pull off the tux while Wanda applied the red lip. Soon the song transitioned into umbrella and none of them could stop smiling.

The moment he walked out from behind the umbrellas, his eyes found Tony's. He held in his laughter as he continued the dance, Tony's eyes raking over his body. To say the least that Peter was committed to the dance as he dropped down, dancing to the music, smiling at the few girls in the front row. Soon he was hopping down into the crowd, walking up to Natasha dancing in front of her. She let out a loud laugh before he walked back on to the stage.

He stepped into the small pool of water, slapping at before he and the other guys danced, more water falling down. He had forgotten how much he really missed this. As the song came to an end, he did a quick flip and laid in the water, taking a moment to catch his breath.

“I don't know about you guys, but I'm feeling a little wet.” Alex said making him laugh as he stood up. “Let's hear it fro Throb Lowe!” He yelled as everyone let out a cheer. He grinned, linking hands with his former coworkers as they all bowed.

He walked back behind stage and laughed as he hugged everyone before changing. “We all need to plan something.” He spoke a grin on his lips, everyone nodding. “You all have my number, so just call me!” He hummed before walking back out to the crowd, searching for everyone.

“So, Throb Lowe?” Tony's voice asked, making him turn around, a soft laugh leaving his lips.

“Look, I came up with it on the spot when I first started dancing here.” He laughed, shrugging a bit. “Where is everyone?” He asked as Tony nodded towards the dance floor. He followed where he was pointing and let out a laugh. Natasha and Bucky were dramatically dancing to the music, while Steve and Bruce watched on with raised brows. “Well then, let's go join them.” Peter grinned, and before Tony could protest Peter was pulling him out on to the dance floor.

The night had gone on and soon Peter and Tony were walking back into Tony's house, lips locked in a heated kiss. As soon as the door was closed, Tony was pressing Peter's back against the hardwood of the door.

“You just had to get up there and dance didn't you? You just had to get up there and make me want you so much, huh?” Tony spoke in a hushed voice as he pressed rough and needy kisses to Peter's neck.

Soft whines were pulled from Peter's lips, “Just had to get a little payback, that's all.” He muttered out, rolling his hips against Tony's earning a soft groan from him.

“Oh, a little payback?” He hummed as Tony's fingers danced over Pete's body, leaving a trail of goosebumps a he did. “Well, I know that's not all you can do when it comes to dancing, so what do you say, give me a little show, baby?”

Peter's skin felt like it was on fire in the most amazing way. He chuckled softly, before nodding a bit, “You want a show?” He hummed as he pulled away from Tony's kiss. He took his bottom lip between his teeth before shimmying out from Tony's grasp. As he walked towards the bedroom, he paused for a moment. He looked back at Tony, slowly peeling his tee shirt from his body and tossing it to Tony before making his way upstairs.

Tony was following close behind, a small laugh falling from Peter's lips as he raced towards the bedroom, Tony hot on his heels. That was one thing Peter loved about his and Tony's relationship, no natter how serious or sexual the moment between them was, they always managed to make each other smile.

As soon as Tony, caught up he was grabbing Peter by his hips once more, pressing a mix of soft and rough kisses against Peter's back. “Ah, ah, ah, I'm sorry but you aren't allowed to touch the dancers.” Peter hummed, as he turned to face Tony, before pushing him onto the bed. “At least not until they say so.” He whispered before turning back around, his hips swaying from side to side.

A low groan fell past Tony's lips as he stared at Peter, watching his body move, “You are gonna be the death of me, baby.” He said, watching silently Peter as he moved his hands down his chest, before stopping at the waistband of his jeans.

Soon he was slowly shimmying them off, tossing them to the side. He smirked slightly as he slowly moved towards Tony, taking his hands in his and placing them on his hips as he swayed them. “Now you're allowed to touch me.” He whispered in a voice soft as silk.

Tony took that as permission to pull Peter into his lap, letting out a soft moan as Peter took this chance to grind his hips against Tony's. “Baby, you are so goddamn sexy.” He muttered, his hands roaming Peter's bare body.

“And you have a bit to much clothing on for my liking.” Peter hummed, his hands moving to slowly unbutton the black button down that adorned his body. As his hands moved back up Tony's chest, then pushed his shirt back down his shoulders, exposing just enough skin for Peter to kiss. His lips left soft trails along his neck and collarbones, each kiss being soft and light. His fingernails grazing his shoulders, pulling another groan from Tony's lips.

“You are just in the mood to tease, is that right?” Tony spoke, his hands moving to grip Peter's ass. “Ya know, I can tease too.” He began, his hips bucking up to meet Peter's. “I can lay you back, have your entire body under my tongue, bring you so close to a world rocking orgasm then, just when you're about to be pushed over the edge, I'll stop.” He spoke, his voice low as his hand moved before coming down onto Peter's ass with a soft smack.

Peter let out a small whine, which only made Tony chuckle, “Now, I only said I could, not that I would, I love watching your face as you cum, makes me feel good knowing that I made you feel so good.” He hummed, before standing up, bringing Peter with him. He turned them around, gently laying Peter on his back in front of him before standing up once more. He took his time in slowly pulling his shirt off his body, his jeans soon joining the pile on the floor of discarded clothes.

Peter's eyes raked over Tony's body, having no shame in staring out the beautiful man before him. Tony smiled, leaning back down, hovering over Peter. “I'm gonna make you feel so good.”

-------------

A/N Okay, so that’s chapter six, i will be doing another chapter soon, but i do want to warn you guys it will be filth. It won’t be a real chapter but more like chapter 6.5, i only want you guys to read it if your comfortable with it and of LEGAL age.

Much love, Jess

#doctor tony #med student Peter #open hearts #This took way longer than i wanted and for that i'm sorry #lol but at least it's finally out

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get-your-fics · 5 years

Text

Violent Ends - Chapter Fourteen

Far Gone

Summary: Bruce Wayne is addicted to a lot of things to distract from his dark urges, but his addiction to you might only increase them.

Pairing: dark!Bruce Wayne x reader

Series warnings: Violence, language, smut, rape/non-con, stalking, kidnapping, underage drinking, drug use, torture, abuse

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The fire turned icy cold.

Your words were frozen, and your skin was like fresh fallen snow. Every time I touched you, my fingers turned blue, and I was frostbitten to the touch. Your temper simmered, submerged under freezing depths like something waiting to be awoken. I didn’t know how I expected you to react once you recovered from the shock, but I certainly hadn’t expected this. Every glare you shot me was polar and frigid, your eyes like two lakes frozen over with a thick layer of ice. I wondered what it would take to crack the surface, to melt the wintry glaciers underneath.

I let you alone while I attended to some work at my desk. When I was done, I went out searching for you. “Gorgeous,” I called. I headed for the greenhouse first, but it was empty. “Gorgeous?” My voice was a little louder this time. My shoes slapped against the wooden floors as I picked up the pace. “Gorgeous!”

I came across one of the doors in the hallway cracked open. I stopped in front of it, watching the light leak out of the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. I pressed a hand against the wood and gave it a slight push. It made a loud creak as it swung open on its hinges.

You were in the library curled up in a cushy armchair, your nose buried in a book. On the side table next to you was the french vanilla latte I had made you earlier in a steaming, white ceramic mug on a saucer. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves, some shelves so high they needed a ladder to be reached. They were jam-packed with classics by Charles Dickens and Harper Lee, plays written by Shakespeare and Tennessee Williams, or great romances like Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. Epics like The Odyssey, poems by Edgar Allen Poe, even some young adult fiction novels that had come out in recent years like The Hunger Games and Twilight. The air smelled like coffee and dust and worn, yellow pages. It had been a while since someone had actually utilized this space, so it brought a smile to my face seeing you there all cozy.

“There you are.” You nearly jumped out of your skin at my words and looked up to settle your gaze on me. I leaned in the doorway, a smug smirk spreading over my face. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

You shrugged and lifted your book to cover your face. I stepped into the room and walked closer to you, my soles tapping against the hardwood. I stopped in front of you and clasped my hands behind my back. I tilted my head to the side and peered at the cover of your book.

“What are you reading?”

You lowered the book to your lap and sighed. “Well, I’m not exactly reading anymore, am I? Not now that you so rudely interrupted.”

I laughed and fell against the velvet, olive sofa opposite you. Mots of dust flew off of the cushions and floated in the air, catching the sunlight streaming through the windows. “What are you reading?” I repeated.

You closed the book and glanced at the cover. “A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn,” you read. My face lit up, and you quirked a brow. “What?”

“I remember seeing that in the bookcase in your penthouse.” I grinned. “I took the liberty of filling the shelves with some of your favorites.” I gestured vaguely around the room. “Hope you don’t mind.”

You shot me a dirty look and shifted in the chair. “I haven’t read this book in years.” You flipped through the corner of the pages and ran your finger down the glossy cover. “Why?”

I furrowed my thick brows. “Why what?”

You looked up from your lap and met my eyes. “Why did you take me?”

I rolled my eyes. “I already told you why-”

“No, I know that,” you cut me off. “I’ve told you everything about me, but I know nothing about you.” You put your book down in your lap. “What made you like this? Why are you the way that you are?” You narrowed your eyes like you could see straight through me, like I was made of cellophane. “Was it your parents?”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on edge, and my shoulders went rigid. “Everyone likes to blame the death of my parents for my erratic behavior,” I put the words in air quotes, “but this has nothing to do with them.”

“Then what was it?” You leaned forward. “I know you haven’t always been like this. You weren’t like this in school. You weren’t like this the day Tommy beat you up.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I wouldn’t have liked you so much. I would’ve sensed it,” you asserted. You wrapped your fingers around the handle of the mug and raised it to your lips.

“You didn’t sense anything that night at the Towers though, now did you?” I fired back.

You gulped down a mouthful of latte. “I did, deep down.” You set the mug down and fidgeted with your fingers. “I could feel something was off, but I ignored my gut instinct. Well, that, and you were very persistent.”

“We both know that’s an understatement, gorgeous.” I winked at you.

You looked back up at me. “You’re avoiding the subject. What happened to you?”

I pulled my lips taut into a straight line. “A lot of things your mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend.”

“Really? ‘Cause you’ve basically put me through hell the whole time I’ve been here.” You rested your elbows on your knees and your chin in your hands. “Try me.”

“Fine, if that’s really what you want.” I folded one leg over the other and stared you dead in the eye. “An immortal being who had been around for hundreds of years begged me to kill him, and so I did.”

It took a second for the words to settle in, but when they did, your forehead scrunched in confusion. “What?”

“See? What did I tell you? You wouldn’t understand.” I draped my arms over the back of the sofa. “You’ve got to listen to me when I say things like that, gorgeous. I know what I’m doing.”

You ignored my last statements. “That’s impossible. I mean, I knew you were crazy, but this is like an entirely different level.”

“He said I was the only one who could kill him,” I continued, “that I was his heir. I didn’t want to kill him. I thought it was the wrong thing to do, that killing anyone, regardless of the circumstances or who they were or what they had done, was the wrong thing to do. But then he started saying all these things, and he got into my head...” I trailed off. It was almost like I was back there, seeing the flickering candlelight cast shadows on the brick walls and hearing the drip of water from the ceiling on the concrete and feeling the blade as it sunk into Ra’s’s flesh. “I liked killing him, and I thought all the drinking and the drugs and the sex could suppress that part of me, but then I met you, and none of it seemed like enough anymore.”

You stared at me uneasily like I had just bared my soul to you, like I had cut open my chest cavity and ripped out my heart and threw it at your feet. “So you like hurting people?” Your voice was suddenly very small and vulnerable to crack at any moment.

“Not just anyone.” I pressed my hands against the cushions and stood up. “I like hurting you, gorgeous, more than anything else.” I walked towards you, and your breath caught in your throat. “It’s the only thing that keeps me satisfied anymore.”

I reached for you. You inched away from me and pressed yourself against the back of the chair you were sitting in as much as you possibly could. My fingers made contact with your cheek, and you let out a small gasp. I pushed some hair out of your face, watching the strands run between my fingers.

“Your blood is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, the best thing I’ve ever known.” I traced your jawline with my finger down to your neck. I felt your pulse there; it was strong and racing. I followed the blood rushing through the blue vein down your chest were it disappeared under the neckline of the dress you had on.

You swatted my hand away. “Why would you think doing bad things would get rid of these bad parts of you? Dark only breeds more dark. You need light to cancel it out.” You lifted your chin. “It’s easier to fall down the wrong path. Trust me, I know, I almost did so myself. But none of it’s going to make you any happier. It’s not going to make you feel any better. It’s just going to dig you into a deeper and deeper hole until you’re left with nothing but the bits of you that you hate.”

I cocked my head to the side and ran my gaze over you, as if I was considering your words. Then, I wrapped my fingers around your neck and squeezed down, not enough to cut off your airway, but just enough to make it hurt. Your mouth opened but no sound came out. “It’s cute when you act like you know what’s going on in here,” I tapped my finger against my temple, “but you don’t. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and it’s all thanks to you.”

I let go of your neck and smacked your cheek lightly. The high I got from watching the fear take over you and flood your eyes was unlike anything else I had ever experienced. I chuckled lightly and took a step back.

“Face it, gorgeous. I’m too far gone. You said it yourself; I’m crazy.” I grabbed your mug off of the side table next to you. It was empty. “I’ll go get you some more coffee.”

You didn’t utter a word as I left the room. I walked through the halls into the kitchen and put the mug in the coffeemaker. I filled it with water and opened one of the cabinets. I got out a bag of coffee grounds and poured it into the coffeemaker. I pushed a few buttons and watched as curls of steam started to drift out of the machine. I leaned back against the counter and folded my arms over my chest, crossing one ankle over the other.

When the mug was full of dark brown, steaming hot liquid, I took it out of the coffeemaker. I mixed it with some cream and a lot of sugar before heading back to the library, but I found it empty. “Gorgeous?” The book you had been reading was placed on the side table.

The light brown coffee sloshed from side to side in the mug as I marched down the halls. I peeked in the living room and the bedroom, but you weren't there either. I even checked the greenhouse again, but still, you were no where to be found. I cursed under my breath, starting to regret ever letting you roam the manor freely as it was becoming increasingly easier to lose track of you, when my ears pricked up at the sound of a voice.

I skidded to a halt and zeroed in on the sound. It wasn’t your voice; I could recognize that anywhere. This was a female’s, much brighter and chirpier and sunnier. “Gorgeous!” I followed the distant noise to one of the extra rooms that had been converted into a parlor nobody ever used.

Now, before I had taken you, I had gotten rid of any and all technological devices you could possibly find and use to contact the police except for two: the first being the iPad I used for surveillance on your penthouse, which I kept under the false bottom of the bottom drawer of my desk at all times when I wasn’t utilizing it, and the second being the television kept in this particular parlor, partly because I found it harmless, and partly because I had forgotten about its very existence.

All of the lights were off in the parlor except for the blue light emanating from the tv. It was turned on to a news channel, and a woman sat at a desk in front of a panel of windows overlooking the Gotham City skyline. She had dark brown hair that fell in soft curls around her face and a square jaw. She looked very professional in the navy blue blazer and white button up she was wearing.

“My name is Valerie Vale, and these are tonight’s headlines.” She folded her hands on top of the desk. “The (Y/L/N) Corporation’s fundraising chairman (Y/N) (Y/L/N) has been reported missing. It was at first believed that she had gone on vacation to Paris, but after not returning her mother’s texts or calls, her mother became worried that something was not quite right. The Paris Police Prefecture have looked into the girl’s whereabouts, and she was not sighted anywhere in Paris. Her family is now believing foul play was involved. This comes only a month after her stepbrother Brant Jones was found murdered in an alley due to a possible mugging.”

I tore my gaze away to see you sitting on a tufted, leather sofa. Your eyes were glued to the screen, and you hugged your knees to your chest. You were absolutely enthralled with every word that left the woman’s lips. The light from the tv flickered over your face, casting shadows across your features, and made your eyes shine with something I hadn’t seen for a long time: hope. Hope danced in your eyes like the flame of a candle waving in the wind. When I had said I wanted to see what could melt your freezing cold exterior, this wasn’t what I had meant.

“What are you doing?” I snapped.

You whirled around to see me standing in the doorway, your eyes growing to the size of saucers. “I was just-”

“Do you think it matters if they know you’re missing?” I set the mug down on the side table and stalked closer towards you. “Do you think it matters if they come searching for you? They’ll never find you here. They’ll never know that I took you.”

You pressed your hands into either side of the sofa, readying yourself to run. I took one more step, and that was all that you needed to hop off the couch. I was on you in a second, grabbing you by the collar around your neck with both hands and pulling your chest flush against mine. You stared up at me, your face inches from mine, and your warm breath fanned my face.

“And even if they did find you here, they’d never be able to rescue you. I’d kill them before they had the chance.” I brought one hand up away from your collar to your cheek, caressing your cheekbone with my thumb. “Is that what you want? You want me to kill whoever comes looking for you?” My lips curled into a sinister grin. “Do you want me to kill your mother?”

“No!” Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was a knee jerk reaction.

My grip on the collar tightened, and you yelped. “Then you better pray that no one ever knows you’re here.” I clutched your shoulders and shoved you down to the ground. “Go ahead, pray.”

You fell to your knees and looked up at me, furrowing your brows. “I don’t understand.”

I sat down on the sofa facing you. “Really? You don’t know what to do when you’re on your knees?” I reached for my belt buckle and smiled as realization bloomed over your features. I made quick work of the belt and tugged my pants and boxers down just enough to free my hardening cock from its restraints. “Open up,” I commanded.

You sat back on your heels with your hands in your lap, that defiant glint I’ve come to know so well in your eye. I leaned forward and seized your chin roughly. I pinched your cheeks, causing your lips to smush together.

“Open up, or I’ll have to force you to,” I seethed through gritted teeth.

You stayed still, drool starting to drip from your smushed lips. I pulled my hand back for a second, and your shoulders slumped with relief. But then I brought my hand down on your cheek, the sound it made as my palm made contact with your skin resonating inside the small room, even drowning out the noise from the tv. Your head turned to the side, and red blossomed in the shape of a handprint on your cheek where I had slapped you.

“Don’t make me repeat myself again,” I hissed.

You turned back to me, your chin wobbling and tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You parted your shaky lips, and I wasted no time threading my hand through your hair and pushing your head down on my length. The tip of my cock slipped past your lips, and you wrinkled your nose, screwing your eyes shut. I used my hand in your hair to guide you up and down my shaft.

“You better not fucking bite me, or I’ll do much worse.” My voice came out strangled like a growl as I felt your warm, wet mouth around me.

I bucked my hips at the same time I moved you down on my cock, slipping farther down your throat. I let out a low groan as you gagged, the back of your throat constricting around the head of my cock. You made a muffled noise around my length, the vibrations only adding to my pleasure, and pressed your hands against the sofa to get away from me. However, my hand in your hair kept you still, and you stopped struggling before I could tear out any strands.

“You’ve got hands, don’t you?” I looked down at you. “Why don’t you use them?”

You shifted your upper body into my lap so I didn’t have to yank on your hair so much to bob you up and down my shaft. You lifted a shaky hand and wrapped your fingers around the base. You pumped what you couldn’t fit into your mouth with your hand. You stared up at me, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes and running down your flushed cheeks. They mixed with the saliva and precum dribbling down your chin.

I thrusted all the way into your mouth, sheathing myself complete inside of you until your nose was nestled in my pubic hair. You tried to jerk back, but my grip on your hair tightened as I held you there. I watched alarm flood your eyes, and you banged your fists desperately against my thighs. I tilted my head and stared down at you. I wondered what it would be like to watch you choke on my cock, to watch your face turn purple as you sucked in your last gulps of air through your nose before your eyes closed forever. Wouldn’t that be a way to go? My cock twitched at the thought, but I didn’t want to cum down your throat.

I released your hair and pulled you off of me. You fell backwards and caught yourself on your hands. You gasped for air, clutching a hand to your heaving chest. Your complexion slowly returned to its normal color as your lungs filled with air. I wasn’t ready to cum inside you. Not yet.

“Get up here,” I snapped next to me on the couch, “on your hands and knees.”

You focused your lethargic gaze on me, precum and saliva still dripping from your lips. When you had enough oxygen in your veins for your brain to properly function, you backed away from me. You scrambled across the floor like a crab, doing anything in your power to put distance between me and you, whether it was useless or not.

I stood up, my erect cock still hanging out of my pants, and walked towards you. You screamed when your back hit a wall and raised an arm to shield yourself from me as I came closer. I latched my fingers onto your forearm and dragged you back towards the sofa. You shrieked and thrashed against me, but my grip on you was too strong. You kicked your legs, trying to dig your heels into the floor, and clawed your free hand against the hardwood for something to hold onto. Your nails left scratch marks on the floor, and I clenched my jaw.

I got within reach of the side table and grabbed the mug off of it. I turned it upside down, dumping the light brown liquid onto your writhing form. You let out an inhuman screech as it hit you. It wasn’t hot enough to permanently burn you; it was just hot enough to sting your skin. You froze and squeezed your eyes shut as it ran down your face, plastering your hair to the back of your neck. I chucked the empty mug at the wall where it shattered into a million ceramic pieces with a deafening crash and showered onto the floor.

I leaned down and folded my arms around your waist. I picked you up like a rag doll and bent you over the arm of the sofa, your bruised knees on the couch cushions. You grabbed onto the arm of the sofa to push yourself up, but I pinned you down with one hand on the middle of your back. I lifted the skirt of your now stained dress over your hips, exposing your ass and pussy to me.

I hummed as I ran my finger through your folds. You were wet to the touch. You stilled, seemingly accepting your fate. I leaned forward so my lips were right against your ear. “Do you want me to fuck you again?” I gathered your juices on my finger before moving it up to your back hole. “Or do you want to try something new?”

That seemed to renew the fight in you. “No!” You kicked your feet against the cushions and banged your fists against the side of the sofa. “Don’t! I’ve never—”

“Are you an anal virgin, gorgeous?” I rubbed circles over your hole. “Does that mean I get to take another thing from you?” My grin was evident in my tone. I nipped at your earlobe with my teeth.

I pushed my finger into you. You went stiff underneath me, and your muscles contracted around my invading appendage. “Ow,” you whined. “That hurts.”

“Just relax. It’ll get better.” I pushed my finger further into you. You had the arm of the sofa in a death grip, your knuckles turning white. I pumped my finger in and out of you. “God, you’re so tight. You need to loosen up.”

I took my finger out of you, and you relaxed until I pressed two against your hole. “No! Stop!” You dug your nails into the leather so hard I thought you would tear it.

I ignored you and pushed them in. You hissed and bit your bottom lip so hard I thought you would reopen the cut splitting it. I pumped my fingers in and out of you slowly, listening to the small squeaks falling from your lips. I increased my pace and moved them inside of you, stretching you out. Then, I took them out of you and watched you clamp down on nothing.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’ll fill you up soon enough.” I spat into my hand, watching the warm saliva drip down my palm. I ran my hand over my length, smearing my spit mixed with your fluids along my shaft. I was painfully hard at this point and couldn’t wait to be inside of you, to feel you around me.

I gripped the base of my cock and pressed the head against your back hole. You perked up and looked at me over your shoulder. “Please, don’t! Please!” you cried, your eyes glossy with tears.

“Shhh,” I hushed you. “Just do your best to relax, and everything will be all right.” Though, I had to admit, your pleading was only adding to my arousal.

You opened your mouth to say something else, but I thrust into you before you could. You fell forward, your head hanging over the side of the couch. I barely got the tip of my cock in before you constricted around me. Saliva wasn’t exactly the best lube for the job, but the thought of me hurting you this way sent tingles running up my spine. You let out an earsplitting scream, and I moved my hand to grip your hip. My fingers dug into your flesh, carving bruises and crescent moon creases that would be visible in the mirror tomorrow.

I set a rough pace, pushing into you a little more and a little deeper each time my hips moved forward. I couldn’t get enough of the way you felt around me, so hot and tight and warm. The woman on the tv droning on and on was barely audible over the obscene squelch of me inside you and the squeak of the leather under my knees. I moved my hand from your hip down to your ass. I traced the closed up cut on your right cheek. It was about four inches long and formed a perfectly straight line. I felt the thin crust of dried up blood sealing the wound and the raised skin around the scar under the pad of my finger. Pleasure twisted in my gut at the memory of what I had done to you, and at what I was doing to you now.

I leaned forward so my chest was pressed against your back. My shirt and your dress were soaked through with sweat where our bodies met. I slid my hand down between your legs and rubbed soft circles over your clit. Tears dripped off of your chin and landed on your hands holding onto the arm of the couch for dear life. I buried my nose in your hair and inhaled your scent. You smelled like coffee and vanilla and green apple shampoo, and I didn’t know the concoction could be so utterly intoxicating.

I finally managed to thrust into you all the way, my hips snapping against yours, and hit my climax. My high washed over me as I came inside you, a low groan escaping from my throat. My grip on you started to fail as my arms shook, and I pulled out of you, watching my cum dribble out of your hole and down your thighs. I let go of you, and you collapsed onto the arm of the sofa, your head lolling to the side. You made no noise, no movement. I wasn’t even sure if you were conscious or not. The only sign that you weren’t dead was the steady rise and fall of your ribcage.

I fell the other way, my head colliding with a throw pillow. My chest heaved up and down, and my shirt stuck to my skin. The light from the tv changed, catching my attention, and I turned my head to see the same woman behind the desk again. The news station logo was in the top left corner, and a red banner ran along the bottom of the screen declaring other top stories in yellow, capital letters that moved by almost too fast to read.

“It is suspected that (Y/N) (Y/L/N) has been missing for about three weeks now,” she recited off of the teleprompter, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Please, if you have any information about her disappearance, anything at all, call the number on the screen or contact the GCPD.”

I felt around for the remote on the side table behind me and clicked off the tv with a hit of a button. It switched off to black, shrouding the room in darkness. I reached forward and snaked my arms around your waist. I pulled you flush against me and rolled onto my side so I was spooning you. Your eyes were closed, and I pressed a quick kiss to the top of your matted hair, tasting a hint of coffee on my lips.

So they had figured out that you were missing now, sooner than I had thought they would. But I didn’t care. It would take an act of God or a sacrifice to the devil to take you away from me, to separate me from you. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can get between us.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #Gotham #gotham fanfic #gotham imagine #gotham fanfiction #dark!fic #dark!bruce wayne #playboy!bruce wayne

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darkangeldesignstudio · 5 years

Text

Bad Guy

Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky and the team attend Raleigh GalaxyCon among the hundred of other cosplayers as a way to get in and foil another of Hydra’s schemes. But, it may appear that Hydra isn’t the only villain with a devious plan for the upcoming convention.

As promised for helping me reach 100 followers, here is my Bucky x Reader one shot with a pretty tantalizing twist thrown in for good measure. This one-shot was only half-read by my Beta as I wanted to surprise her with the ending, so any errors are mine and mine alone. XOXO

Warning: Knife play, SMUT!!!, and a bit of foul language on Bucky’s part.

Song: Bad Guy by Billy Eilish

The sticky Carolina heat was uncomfortable on a good day, but dressed in his black tack gear and mask, Bucky was absolutely sweltering under the sun. He tapped his communication ear piece twice, a signal to the team that he was active and all systems were go on his end. A multitude of taps answered his as he took in the surrounding area, looking for anything amiss among the hundreds of people around him.

Standing just outside of the Raleigh Convention Center, Bucky and the rest of the team were scattered throughout the crowd, waiting in the long lines to get into GalaxyCon disguised as none other than themselves. It was an awkward situation to be in, especially since Bucky hadn’t donned his Winter Soldier mask and signature kohl lined eyes in years. But, it was the easiest way to blend into the crowd of costumed civilians without being noticed by their targets.

About a month ago, Tony’s AI discovered some encrypted files talking about a weapons deal going down in the area. Turns out that one of the local hotel chains has ties to Hydra. Their plan was to create a disturbance with a fake bomb threat to the hotel, distracting the local police department and leaving the convention venue open for the deal to go down. That’s where the team would come in.

The team split into two entities. Tony, Sam, Wanda, and Bruce would stake out the hotel and make sure Hydra didn’t try to tie up loose ends with an actual bomb. While Natasha, Bucky, Steve, Peter, and Clint would stake out the inside of the venue, aptly dressed as Marvel cosplayers thanks to an eerily accurate movie series made by Disney.

That Sebastian guy could have been Bucky’s twin, honestly it creeped him out a bit, but not as much as being in this place did. The countless number of eyes on him made him uncomfortable. He had heard of hiding in plain sight, but this was ridiculous.

All eyes, male and female, were on him; each carrying a certain degree of admiration or hate. The hate wasn’t a surprise with what he had done, both in life and according to the movies, but the admiration was almost palpable as he stood in line with the rest of the crowd.

After about an hour of waiting in the heat, he finally made it into the venue itself. The cool air washed over his body and he sighed in relief.

Approaching the sign in table, Bucky received his ticket stub from their local informant and successfully passed through the - momentarily deactivated - medal detectors. And it was a good thing, seeing as he was absolutely decked out with knives and guns.

Walking further into the interior of the venue, he was surprised by the amount of people that dressed up for these events. Everywhere you looked, there were people dressed in costumes with varying degrees of coverage and creativity. He tapped his com unit again, letting the team know he was inside, before going about his watch.

Answering taps from Peter and Steve announced that they were still outside, while Clint and Natasha had already entered ahead of him.

He wandered aimlessly through the venue, perusing through the various stalls selling merchandise and the multitude of celebrities and professional cosplayers in attendance, until a little girl in a Thor costume stopped him with a tug on his hand.

“Mister, can I take a picture with you?”

The look on her face was so cute and innocent, he couldn’t have said no. “Sure sweetie.”

Settling down on one knee, Bucky propped the butt of his M249 SAW on the floor and rested his left hand around the opening of the barrel, exposing his vibranium arm to the cameraman in front of them. The little girl gasped at the sight of his arm, but quelled her excitement long enough to pose with her mini Mjolnir for the picture. It was the most adorable thing Bucky had seen in a long time and it made his smile grow under the black mask.

“Thank you, mister Bucky. I wish the other Avengers were here to take pictures with me, though.” The little pout on her face was too much for him and he quickly settled back onto the floor beside her.

“Well, little doll, I’m not sure if Thor or Iron Man is here, but I did see two people that looked a lot like Hawkeye and Black Widow standing in line for a Pretzel a few minutes ago. If you hurry, they may still be there.”

Her happy little squeal made him chuckle as he waved her back in the direction of her parents. As soon as they were far enough away, he tapped his ear piece.

“Nat, Clint. You have an extremely cute little girl in a Thor costume coming your way that wants a picture.”

Clint’s voice came in first, a bit muffled as he stuffed his face with pretzely goodness. “Sure thing, Buck. Does she know Cap is here?”

“No, I didn’t want to give too much away and seem suspicious. And please, for the love of God, stop chewing in my ear, Birdbrain.”

Nat giggled. “Don’t worry, Bucky, I’ll teach him some manners later. By the way, if you keep up that murder strut and I doubt anyone will be willing to come anywhere near you. I’m surprised the little girl was brave enough to even ask. But don’t sweat it, we will point them in Steve and Peter’s direction.”

With a grunt of exasperated agreement, Bucky went on his way to the next stop in his venue stakeout; the cosplay contest hall. Never noticing the eyes that watched him from across the room.

______________________________________

You watched as the beautifully dangerous assassin walked around the venue. He tried his hardest to blend in to his surroundings, appearing as only a local cosplayer to most of the civilians around him. But you knew better.

This was only your second time seeing Bucky Barnes in the flesh, and there was absolutely no way anyone could have mimicked that strut of his. Sebastian Stan’s version of the walk was mouthwateringly sexy to say the least, but it would never compare to the real thing. The stalking strut of the Winter Soldier was like steak to a starving man, delectable.

You followed him throughout the venue, watching him as discreetly as possible while mingling with other cosplayers and a gaggle of photographers they were vying for your attention. But who could honestly blame them for wanting a picture of Harley Quinn? Especially in all of your sexually tantalizing sequined glory, you were a feast for the eyes; pulling out all the stops as you donned your high pitched Brooklyn accent and swung your Goodnight bat around.

About half an hour into your stalking Bucky venture, a cute little girl in a Thor costume asked for your picture and you happily obliged her, comically trading your bat with her mini Mjolnir and making funny faces at the camera. When her dad was finished snapping shots of you both, you patted her on the head and pointed her in the direction of one Bucky Barnes. She had squealed before hugging your legs and running off in his direction, leaving her parents to scramble off after her.

You chuckled as the brave little babe grabbed Bucky’s hand without hesitation. It was cute watching him melt in her presence, getting on one knee to take pictures with the little Thor lookalike.

Once he was done, he seemed to point the girl in the direction of someone else, presumably another Avenger as the little girl seemed to become all the more excited, bouncing away into the crowds with her mom and dad in tow.

As soon as they were far enough away, you observed as Bucky tapped his finger to his ear and began talking to no one in particular. You had seen him do the same upon entering the complex, probably signaling the rest of his team. Now that you thought about it, you had definitely seen a couple walking around that were dressed as Black Widow and Hawkeye, maybe it was actually them.

But, you would have to think about that later, Bucky was leaving you behind as his long legged strut took him in the direction of the contest stage. Luckily, that was your next stop as well. There was no way you were going to miss out on strutting yourself across that stage. Especially if it gave you the chance to catch the eyes of a certain, smoking hot super soldier.

______________________________________

Bucky stood just outside the room that was scheduled to host the cosplay contest when he felt eyes on him. Admittedly, eyes had been on him all day, but this feeling was different.

Heat and chills travelled the length of his spine, it was as if danger and sexual tension were at war with one another as they danced along his senses. Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, he looked around for the source of the feeling. It took a few glances until his eyes connected with yours and he felt a palpable cold travel through his limbs. Your eyes were like shards of blue ice, piercing his heart until your face was enveloped by a smile that warmed his blood to boiling.

He looked away as if he hadn’t noticed how your eyes had connected, but he knew it was too late to take it back. He continued to glance around the venue, his gaze traveling over you a few more times as you smiled and laughed with the other people in line for the contest. You must have been a regular at these things, seeing as you were on the receiving end of many a warm hug and a multitude of selfies. A few men were even bold enough to kiss your cheek and it made a sharp pang of jealousy run through him.

He tried to quell it, thinking himself a fool for even feeling like that about someone he had never met, but when you turned to him with a smirk on your pretty lips and a cocky wink, it was as if you were doing it all on purpose.

Bucky truly considered entering the contest himself, just to get closer to you, but the mission came first and he quelled the urge to walk over and kiss that smirk right off your face. But only barely.

______________________________________

You laughed and giggled with the people around you in line. This wasn’t your first con, and many recognized you from your past cosplay ventures.

After the death of your - albeit controlling - boyfriend, you had moved to North Carolina to get away from the memories. You were free and you felt it was time to embrace it and create a new life for yourself because honestly, you weren’t leaving much of a life behind anyway. Without family or friends in the big city, what was the point in staying?

So, you had sold just about everything pertaining to your old life and travelled south. You purchased a moderately nice house just outside the city and began living it up. You had a nine-to-five working for the police, catching criminals left and right during the day, and kicking absolute ass in the boxing ring on the weekends. It had been fun, but something was missing.

Until, one day, a friend of yours mentioned going to a local comicon event and asked if you wanted to join her. “Come on, Y/N. It will be fun. Its basically a giant halloween party in the middle of summer. They have different shows and contests. Sometimes they even show movies, and at the end of the night they serve alcohol and we all sing karaoke. You don’t have even have to dre-.”

You placed your hand over her mouth to stop her slew of word vomit. “Did you say karaoke?”

Unable to speak, she just nodded her head enthusiastically, eyes shining with hope.

“Then I’m definitely in, babe!”

That had been three years ago, and you hadn’t missed a single event since then, eventually becoming an easily recognized “regular” at the karaoke contests.

This year was no different, except for the new eye-candy across the room who kept glancing your way.

A good friend of yours was walking past with his boyfriend and you waved them over. They looked so handsome in their Yuri Katsuki and Victor Nikiforov cosplays that you had to get them to pose for a picture with you.

They smiled, hugging you tightly. “You look smoking hot, Y/N.”

“Thanks, Chrissy baby. Will you and Tom take a picture with me? With each of you kissing me on the cheek?” You batted your eyes at them, hoping they would agree. If your plan worked, it would be pretty easy to work old James Barnes into a frenzy.

Tom grinned mischievously. “What angle are you working here, darlin? Somebody catch your eye?”

He wagged his eyebrows, causing you to giggle. “Maybe. I’ll be sure to give you all the gory details later, if you help a thirsty bitch out.”

They looked at each other and smiled. “Deal.”

Chris and Tom stood to either side of you as you handed your phone over to the girl in front of you. Leaning in, they each gave you a smacking kiss on your cheeks, sandwiching you between them as you flirted with the camera like the vixen you were.

Thanking them each with a hug, you waited for them to walk off before turning back in Bucky’s direction. You had felt the heat from his gaze from the moment you took that picture, and when you turned to him with a smirk and a wink, you half expected him to walk over and lay a kiss on you right there, but he seemed to reconsider that plan and went back to watching the crowd.

The mission must have been extremely important for him not to deviate even a little bit, apparently you would have to work much harder.

______________________________________

Entering the contest venue, Bucky lost sight of you as you went backstage with the rest of the contestants. It was probably for the best as he couldn’t afford many more distractions.

He peered around the venue, taking note of Natasha and Clint sitting on the far side of the room from him, seeming to be thoroughly engrossed in each other’s company. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought they were a real couple.

Steve entered the room a few minutes later and stood at the back, followed by Peter who sat on the floor, directly in front of the stage.

They all watched the goings on around them with varying degrees of interest, clapping at the right times when contestants were announced, Peter even cheered during the children’s contest, when a cute little boy walked across the stage dressed in his own Spider-Man costume. It made Bucky chuckle when Steve’s, no-nonsense, Captain voice told Peter to stop goofing around and sit down. Looking at Steve, Bucky could tell he was just as amused with Pete’s antics as a small grin tried to escape.

When the child’s contest was over, a man towards the front tried to exit the room. Steve had been tasked with watching him throughout the day and he followed him out.

“Peter, you’re with me. Nat, Clint, keep your eyes on your targets. Buck, back them up if they need extra firepower.”

Bucky tapped his earpiece in affirmation and watched as Peter snuck out the doors with Steve not far behind him.

The next round of contestants were announced and they all continued to watch the show and their targets. The time for Hydra’s decoy heist was quickly approaching and they could not afford to mess up, or lose focus.

______________________________________

You waited backstage, peaking through the curtains a few times. You didn’t want to appear overly eager, but Bucky was just so damn yummy. You couldn’t afford to lose sight of him and miss your chance to bring him back to the hotel with you.

The children’s contest was adorable, as always and you all cheered for the little cosplayers that took the stage in their cutest costumes. One little boy dressed as Spider-Man got an extremely loud cheer from a young man in the front row, also dressed as the friendly neighborhood hero. It made you smile as you peeked through the curtains to see the boy plop back into his seat quickly. Apparently, the Captain didn’t want too much attention on the young hero, just in case whoever they were hunting realized his suit wasn’t fake.

Not long after, you watched them both walk out with a few sets of couples, following an odd man. Looking around the rest of the venue, you noticed Natasha and Clint also watching a few people among the crowd. They looked out of place, even though they looked like completely normal civilians to the untrained eye. Interesting, but you had bigger, more muscular, fish to fry tonight.

The other contestants went on stage in quick succession, showing off their impressive cosplay’s and hoping to win the prize up for grabs. But, for you, the real prize stood at the back of the room.

Soon enough, it was your turn and you prepared for your set. This wasn’t your first time wearing the outfit, but butterflies sat in the pit of your stomach tonight, it made you giddy and even more excited to strut your stuff on stage.

“Please, welcome to the stage, a villain we all love to hate, Harley Quinn!!!”

The announcer’s voice stirred up the crowd as you strutted onto stage, twirling your bat en-route to your first mark. You stood, legs slightly spread as you slammed the end of your bat into the stage between your feet, the word “Goodnight” clearly on display for your audience.

You smirked as your eyes landed on Bucky in the back of the room, he was partially shrouded by the shadows there, but you could still see his large arms flexing with the urge to move.

Turning your head, you swung your bat onto your shoulder and began approaching the announcer with all of the heat you could muster. He was a squirrely little man, but he would do nicely as a bit of fuel for your fire. Hitting your second mark, you turned your ass to the crowd and bent over backwards with a huge manic smile on your face. Shaking your pink and blue pigtails you lifted yourself into an upright position and winked at the announcer, he was clearly sweating at this point.

Holding out your hand for the mic, he looked as if he would refuse, so you put on that sickeningly sweet Brooklyn accent again. “Come on, Puddin’, you know you wanna.”

You watched a little quiver race through his body as he held out the mic to you. Hook, line, and sinker.

Strutting past the announcer to your third mark, you turned back to the crowd and smiled as you brought the mic to your lips, looking Bucky right in the eyes. “I’m not sure if I attract crazy or I make them that way. I’m known to be quite vexing, just so you know. I’m a bad guy, it’s what I do. Meet me in the karaoke room and maybe I’ll show you.”

The crowd cheered as you tossed the mic back to the announcer. You strutted to your last mark on the far side of the stage and lifted your bat like a shot gun, pretending to cock and shoot it right at Bucky’s heart. Smiling like the devil you were, you strutted off-stage as Bucky placed his hand over his heart.

______________________________________

It was as if he physically took a bullet when she pointed her bat at him from the stage and he just had to figure out what she was all about. It had become an ache in his body once she walked off that stage and out the doors to the rest of the venue.

She had said something about karaoke when she took the mic from the stage announcer, Bucky just hoped he would still be here when it was time for the event.

The last of their targets exited together once the contest winners were announced. You hadn’t won any of the big prizes, but Bucky wasn’t even sure you were trying for any normal prize from the venue. You had had eyes for only him the entire day and that sent a thrill through his being, for once, he had no idea what would happen next. But there was no doubt in his mind that it wouldn’t be spectacular.

A few moments later, the call came in from Tony. They had foiled the plan at the hotel just after Hydra had given their team at the venue the go-ahead for their part.

The agents inside GalaxyCon seemed none the wiser that the rest of their plan had already been foiled and they soon moved into a back section of the venue where the foot traffic was light.

Bucky met up with the rest of his team outside, just as the final Hydra member they had been following walked into the back area of the convention center. They followed the Hydra members into a hidden stairwell that went below the facility and easily took them down.

The Hydra members didn’t put up much of a fight once they realized that Bucky and his team were the real deal. The team successfully confiscated a few hundred weapons and arrested a dozen Hydra members without a hitch, much to Bucky’s relief.

Steve called Tony on his cellphone reporting the mission a success before hanging up and turning back to the rest of the team. “I don’t know about you guys, but I am beat. I think I will head back up to the hotel and take a break from all of the crowds.”

Clint covered his mouth as he tried - and failed - to stifle a yawn. “I’m with you, Cap. I am in serious need of some coffee.”

Nat grabbed Peter and Bucky by the arm and began to lead them from the room. “See you two later then, I’m taking these two back up to have some real fun.”

Walking back into the crowded convention center, Nat released Bucky’s arm and began pulling Peter in the opposite direction. She stopped when Bucky tried to follow them. “I don’t think so, Buck. Don’t you have a karaoke show to get to?”

Bucky’s face turned crimson. Of course Natasha had noticed what was going on. “Way to embarrass a guy, Natalia. What if I wanted to hang out with you guys?”

“Don’t kid yourself, Bucky. You were practically salivating during her set during the contest, plus Pete and I are going to play video games the rest of the night and I doubt you wanna sit and watch us have fun.”

Peter, who had been watching between the two of them like they were in the middle of a tennis match, immediately zeroed in Nat when video games were mentioned and began chatting a-mile-a-minute. “Oh, man. Thanks, Nat. Do you think they will let me tinker with one of the new systems? We should call Mr. Stark so I can crush him at GTA…”

Peter’s voice quickly trailed off as he dragged Natasha down the walkway towards the room where the video game tournaments and game tests were starting.

With a sigh, Bucky turned to walk in the opposite direction, hell bent on finding something to do before the karaoke event started. His eyes landed on a newly familiar figure in the deepening shadows of the venue windows as the sky darkened outside. Her colored pigtails bounced when she jumped from her perch on the window sill and she sauntered her way over to him, twirling that damn bat along the way.

______________________________________

You waited in the wings, taking to the shadows to watch the goings on around you. It was getting closer and closer to that time of night. Only an hour or so to go before you took the stage for karaoke and you couldn’t wait to see if he would show up.

Sat upon a high window sill near one of the stairwells, you watched and waited for him to come your way. His group had left not long after the contest, presumably to stop whatever plan their targets had enacted, but that was none of your business. Hydra was small fry compared to the things you had seen over the years.

A glint of lights on metal caught your eye as Bucky and his, smaller, entourage entered through the front doors. They stopped for a moment as Natasha and Bucky seemed to be conversing about their plans for the night, cute little Peter just bouncing his attention back and forth between them like a little kid. When Bucky finally split from the Widow and the Spider, you knew it was time to make a move. You had to get closer to the man, get just a taste of what you hoped to have tonight.

He stalked through the crowd, not noticing you on the sill at first, but when his eyes did land on you, you couldn’t help the devious grin that enveloped your face. Hopping from your perch, you walked his way, twirling your bat as you did.

He stopped in his tracks, hands clenching over and over, not sure what to do with himself. You stopped a few steps away, placing the end of your bat on his chest to keep him at bay, and smiled.

“Hey there, handsome. What’s a hero like you doing in a place like this?”

He cocked his head slightly, blinking as a bit of confusion entered his eyes. “You really from Brooklyn, doll? Cause that’s one hell of a fake accent if you aren’t.”

“Oh, so you noticed.” Giggling, you lowered your bat from his chest, resting the tip lightly on the floor next to you. “I grew up in Brooklyn, but left a few years ago thanks to, extenuating circumstances. That’s not what I wanna talk about though.”

Taking a step into his space, you placed your finger on his chest and began tracing little shapes over his kevlar. “I wanna talk about you, Mr. James.”

“Seems you know me plenty well, doll.” He smirked, grabbing your hand in his metallic grip. “Otherwise, you would have asked for my name.”

“Touché, smart boy.” You blushed, watching his thumb run across your knuckles. “So, now that you’ve captured me, what are you planning to do to me?”

“I’d like to start with your name and maybe we can go from there, darlin’.” Slowly releasing your hand, he waited.

You watched as hope and doubt warred in his eyes and you just couldn’t help yourself. Taking pity on him, you sighed. “Okay okay, just stop with the puppy dog eyes, its doing things to me.” You giggled when his ears turned red with his blush. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Y/N… That’s a beautiful name, doll.” Hearing him say your name as if he was physically tasting it on his tongue, it was erotic in an entirely new way. His words distracted you so much that you almost missed the moment he offered his hand to you. Unfortunately, he noticed your blunder, smiling gleefully at how well he was able to fluster you.

“Now that the introductions are out of the way. What do you say to a little photo session with me and my photographer friends over there.” Pointing towards the group of photographers milling about the photo area, you grinned up at Bucky donning your most innocent smile when you saw the suspicion cross his features.

“I thought you were due for karaoke?”

“I am, but I still have thirty minutes to kill before then. Come on, it will be fun.” Grabbing his hand you began leading his reluctant form towards the photographers. “How about we make a deal? For every picture we take, I will answer one of your questions.”

You finally reached the photographers, currently distracted by another group of cosplayers. As you waited, Bucky leaned into you and whispered in your ear. “As long as I get to spend more time with you, you can consider it a deal, doll face.”

His velvety voice whispering in your ear caused heat to travel to your core, followed by the rough edge of leather covered steel that traveled the length of your spine. You felt your nipples pebble beneath your bra as wetness pooled in your panties. This man was going to be the death of both of you if he wasn’t careful.

Looking over your shoulder at his looming form, you felt a thrill race through your body. “Was that a knife, Mr. James? Or are you just happy to see me?”

His electric blue gaze caused your blood to heat even more, there was a hunger there that you hadn’t seen in years and you couldn’t wait to experience it. “You have no idea, Y/N.”

______________________________________

Bucky watched as you took a few solo pictures for the photographers, they were provocative and downright dirty. It was a sinful show, but the look on your face proclaimed that it was all for him.

You called him over for his own solo pictures, much to his chagrin. But he wasn’t one to disappoint a lady, especially a dame as beautiful as you. He posed with weapons drawn, masked and unmasked, he even took off his glove for a few, completely exposing his vibranium arm to the flashes from the photographer’s cameras.

When the solo photos got old, he reached out to grab your hand and pulled you into his chest, taking you completely by surprise.

Your hand landed on his chest and your breath caught in your throat as his, unmasked, handsome face looked down on yours. He was truly breathtaking. His lips, so perfectly pink and plump, just begging to be kissed, but you held back. There would be plenty of time for that later.

“I’ve got questions, doll.” Bucky spun you around to face the cameras again as you both posed for your next photo. He was surprisingly good at this for someone who was so good at avoiding cameras.

“Ask away, dear Bucky.” You smiled, grabbing his mask and covering the bottom half of your face with a wink towards camera, Bucky deftly flipping his knife over his palms.

“What do you do, besides cosplay I mean?”

“Police Detective. I have a badge and everything.” Hanging his mask back on his belt, you reached into his holster and pulled out a pistol, almost dropping it when you realized it was loaded. “Naughty naughty, boy. You aren’t supposed to have this in here.” You placed your hand on your hip, holding the pistol between your thumb and forefinger and making a face as if you were scolding Bucky. Taking up the act, he held his hands up in mock surrender, looking thoroughly chastised. Cute.

“I’m technically on the job, baby doll. What made you become a detective?”

With that question, you sobered. The excitement of the photography session quelled with the dark past that that question dredged up.

Handing his gun back, you got the photographer’s information so you could print these pictures later and walked over to a more private area, Bucky on your heels.

“I’m sorry, doll. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Sitting at an empty table near the windows, you waved off his concerns. “Don’t worry about it, dearie.” Taking a deep breath you told Bucky as much of your past as you were willing to share at the moment.

“We’ve all seen things, Bucky. I know your story, you were brainwashed and controlled like a puppet for years. I won’t say my situation was exactly the same as yours, no-one used a machine to wipe my memories or anything that extreme, but I have been taken advantage of in many ways over the years.”

Looking off into the distance, you became lost in the memories of that dark time. Then you felt a hand grip yours and you were back in the convention center, staring into sad blue eyes.

“I know what you mean, Y/N. You became a detective to keep other people from going through the things you went through. I know because I did the same thing by joining the Avengers team. You are a strong woman for facing your fears like that. It took me years before I was even willing to don this arm again.” Raising his gloved vibranium hand, he turned it so it would catch the light. The metal was so shiny and bright, a symbol of his own bravery that he got to wear every day. Not much different than the badge you carried on the job.

You smiled. “Thanks, James. I needed that.”

______________________________________

The karaoke contest was a lesson in controlled chaos. Many of the participants had clearly had too much to drink, evident by their extreme dancing and out of tune singing.

You stood in line at the sign up table, watching Bucky blend into the shadows at the back of the room while you waited. The DJ and MC stood to the side of the stage, welcoming everyone who signed up and chatting with some of the regulars.

When you reached the table to sign up, the DJ pulled you into a quick hug. “Hey, Y/N. How have you been, girl?”

“I’ve been great, honestly. How has the business been going since you performed at Alexis’s wedding?”

“It’s been amazing. You weren’t kidding when you said she would bring me more exposure. Woman has some crazy hookups in the clubbing industry.”

“That’s great, bro.” Leaning into him, you whispered in his ear. “Hey, do you think you could do a girl a favor?”

Clapping you on the shoulder, his bright smile was so genuine it made you smile in return. “Of course, girl. You helped me out, and it would be pretty shitty of me not to pay you back. What do you need?”

Pointing over your shoulder to Bucky at the back of the room, you whispered your plan in the man’s ear. His smile was devious as he gave you a thumbs up and called the MC over who also agreed.

The MC took the stage to announce the next few singers discreetly adding you to the list. You were a regular on the stage, so nobody complained about you jumping ahead. Most of the people even cheered when they heard your name, making you blush and wave at them.

It didn’t take long before you were grabbing the mic and hopping up on stage with a smile. Looking to Bucky, you curled your finger, beckoning him forward from the shadows.

He sauntered to the center of the room, shaking his head and a smirk upon his lips as he watched. You winked at him and the room went dark, but for the few beams of neon light projected onto the screen at your back.

The bass began to thump throughout the room causing everyone to cheer as Bad Guy began to play over the speakers. Everyone began clapping along with the beat and cheering before going dead silent as you began to sing.

______________________________________

Bucky watched the lights go dark as you turned your back to the crowd. They all cheered and clapped to the beat of the bass that filled the room. Neon lights swirled in reds and blues over the projector screen onstage.

Then the room when completely still and silent with the first sound of breath through the mic. It was as if everyone just fell into a trance, silently watching as you began singing.

White shirt now red, my bloody nose

Sleeping, you're on your tippy toes

Creeping around like no one knows

Think you're so criminal

Bruises, on both my knees for you

Don't say thank you or please

I do what I want when I'm wanting to

My soul? So cynical

Your voice was like velvet caressing the skin of Bucky’s body. The bass matching with the pace of his heart as you looked over your shoulder and sang the words directly to his soul. There was an underlying mystery within the tone of your voice that made him want to come closer with every word from your painted lips.

So you're a tough guy

Like it really rough guy

Just can't get enough guy

Chest always so puffed guy

I'm that bad type

Make your mama sad type

Make your girlfriend mad tight

Might seduce your dad type

I'm the bad guy, duh

I'm the bad guy

The words of the chorus seemed to leak through the plates of his vibranium arm and stirred the soldier inside his heart. The danger spoke to that dark part of him as you began to undress him with your eyes. He was in a full trance as you strutted around the stage like a model on a runway, stopping every so often to rock your hips in a sensual little dance that had his pants tightening uncomfortably.

I like it when you take control

Even if you know that you don't

Own me, I'll let you play the role

I'll be your animal

My mommy likes to sing along with me

But she won't sing this song

If she reads all the lyrics

She'll pity the men I know

The soldier growled, rattling his cage until you turned your mischievous eyes to him again. Bucky’s control was slipping and the soldier was steadily pulling at his leash. He wanted out, he wanted you. It shook Bucky to his core. You came closer to the edge of the stage and beckoned him forward as you sang and danced only inches from him onstage.

So you're a tough guy

Like it really rough guy

Just can't get enough guy

Chest always so puffed guy

I'm that bad type

Make your mama sad type

Make your girlfriend mad tight

Might seduce your dad type

I'm the bad guy, duh

I'm only good at being bad, bad

You crouched at the edge of the stage, knees spread as you became eye level with the Winter Soldier. Singing the last line before the final chorus, Bucky snapped back into his own body with a lurch. He hadn’t lost control like that in years, but there was no time to dwell on that as the beat of the song changed and became strange in his ears.

I like when you get mad

I guess I'm pretty glad that you're alone

You said she's scared of me?

I mean, I don't see what she sees

But maybe it's 'cause I'm wearing your cologne

I'm a bad guy

Bad guy, bad guy

I'm a bad-

The room went even darker as the neon lights flickered like red and blue flames over the stage. Fog enveloped your body as white light began to strobe around you. Bucky blinked, trying to reorient himself and you were gone from his view. It was like you disappeared.

Then he felt it. Small hands travelled the length of his legs, caressing him from his ankles to his hips as you sang the final verse. Your voice became quieter, more sensual as you slithered around his body, touching him all over and heating his blood until you whispered the last line in his ear.

He blinked and you were onstage again, bowing like a circus performer to the cheers from the crowd. You turned to him with a wink and hopped from the stage again to walk out the doors. He trailed behind you in confusion. Did any of that even happen? Did he imagine it?

He felt like he was going crazy as he exited through the double doors at the end of the room and searched the emptying convention center for you. He finally saw you, sitting at the table you had vacated earlier and something snapped inside him with your cocky smirk.

Bucky stalked towards you like a wolf on the hunt. When he reached your table, he wasted no time in pulling you into his body and taking your sinful lips in a breathtaking kiss.

______________________________________

Your eyes flutter closed as Bucky’s lips mold over yours. You sigh and his tongue slips into your mouth as he tastes every corner of your mouth. You feel his metal hand caressing the back of your neck and you relax into him, melting like wax as his flesh hand caresses your hip.

Finally, he lets you pull away for air and your gazes meet. Neither of you can take the waiting and you grab his hand, pulling him towards the hotel across the street where you had rented a room for the weekend long convention.

When you reach the room, Bucky throws you over his shoulder and unlocks the door himself. You giggle with excitement and slap his ass cheek teasing him into growling and returning one of his own.

He struts into the room and kicks the door shut behind him before tossing you on the bed. You laugh loudly as you toss the bat - you somehow held onto - from the bed.

You watched as Bucky methodically divested himself of his weapons, laying them on the desk across the room. It was a type of foreplay all its own, watching him undress. It was an aphrodisiac all its own as he laid every dangerous weapon on his person out on the table, caressing certain blades with long thick fingers as if he was caressing a lover. It made you gasp when he fingered one particularly dark blade in the center of the table.

He looks ad you over his shoulder as he gripped the blade fully in his palm and began flipping it around in a dangerously sexy dance. “This was a gift from a friend of mine. Loki, God of Mischief, but I’m sure you’ve already heard of him.” Turning to you fully, Bucky continued to flip the knife in his hand as his other hand slowly unbuckled his kevlar vest, exposing the chiseled abs and pecks hidden underneath all of that tight black fabric.

“There’s one thing most people forget about him though, the man loves to party. Almost as much as Tony does. He is the God of Revelry as well, of course. On the day the Avengers welcomed me to the team, they all through a big party and he was there with this beauty.” Bucky caressed the edge of the blade with a metallic finger as he slowly approached the foot of the bed.

“He knew how much I love weapons and offered this one to me as a sort of peace offering. He said it was a token of congratulations for ‘finally freeing myself’.” He said that with air quotes making you giggle a bit.

“Loki sounds like a good friend to have. His brand of mischief was always something I admired.” Bucky’s blue eyes bored into yours and a flicker of jealousy lingered there with your words.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to use this yet, most of my fights nowadays are of the gun variety.” He shrugged, turning back to the desk as if he would put the blade back. You whimpered, a bit of disappointment making itself known without your consent.

The whimper from your lips made Bucky’s dick throb. He turned back to the bed, knife still cradled in his palm. “What’s wrong, doll? Don’t want me to put this away?”

You shook your head in denial. There was no way you were letting him put that blade away without using it tonight.

Holding your hands out to him, you curled your fingers in a come hither motion. “I think I’m overdressed, Bucky.”

He growled with excitement, causing shivers to shoot through your spine and heat to pool in your belly. You moved to lay your head on the pillows of the bed and watched as Bucky crawled up your body. His eyes were like glaciers, cold and hungry as he bent to trail the tip of his nose up the inside of your thigh to the apex of your hips.

You gasped as tingles of pleasure traveled out from where his body touched yours. Bypassing your aching center, much to your dismay, he gripped the bottom of your shirt with his teeth and pulled it upwards to expose your belly to his lips.

He pressed tender kisses around your belly button, dipping inside with his tongue before traveling back to the top edge of your tiny red and blue shorts and licking just under the waistband.

You arched your back and moaned his name to the ceiling when he moved away from your center again. He chuckled darkly. “Patience, Y/N.”

“Don’t tease, Buck-” You gasped as his mouth latched over your clothed nipple, bathing it in warm wet breath. “Oh, God!”

He continued to tease your body until you were flushed and gasping from the smallest sensation. His beard grazing your collarbone made you shiver, his teeth on your neck making you buck and moan as his hands slowly undressed you.

You were left panting on the bed in your lacy underthings as his hard body loomed over you. He held the knife in his hand again, caressing the skin of your hip with the flat of the blade. “I need you to be really still for this next part, doll.”

You could only nod, taking a steadying breath as dark and thrilling chills coursed through your veins. Bucky smiled down at you as you felt the blade slip under the waistband of your panties shredding through them like butter.

Your lips parted on a gasp as you felt the fabric slip away from your sides, and you silently thanked whatever God was listening that you remembered to get properly groomed before coming to the convention. Bucky repeated his actions, oblivious to your inner musings, as he sliced through the fabric at your other hip and the small strip of fabric that held the cups of your bra together across your sternum, exposing you to his gaze completely.

Bucky tossed the knife onto the side table as you removed the useless scraps of fabric from beneath your body. Turning back to you, he let out another deep growl. Your skin glistened in the moonlight from the window and your eyes were lit with mischief as they roved over his body in turn, before catching with his gaze.

Biting your lip, you reached out to tug the belt still holding his tactical pants in place. “I think you are the one that’s over dressed now, Mr. James.”

He grinned as he kissed you, giving you free reign to divest him of his pants as long as he got to taste your pretty mouth.

When he was fully undressed, you laid back on the bed again and pulled him down on top of you. His heavy cock grazed your hipbone, sending a rush of warmth to your already boiling core.

You bit the shell of his ear and dug your blunt nails into his shoulders and back as he teased you with his hard member. His mouth was like fire on your sensitive skin and his metal hand sent shivers down your spine with their cold and metallic texture. You whispered in his ear, unable to wait any longer. “Take me, Bucky.”

He took your lips in a long slow kiss as he lined himself up at your entrance. You moaned his name as he pushed himself inside, giving you a moment to adjust to his large size when you squeaked out a sound of discomfort.

You rocked your hips up into his, begging him to move and he obliged. Sitting above you, he began to piston his hips as a steadily increasing speed, hitting all the right spots inside you.

Bucky groaned when your walls began to contract around him. “Fuck, doll. You feel so damn good.”

You moaned with the pleasure coursing through you, rocking your hips in time with his, furthering your impending orgasm until he suddenly pulled out.

You groaned with disappointment, feeling suddenly empty until you felt him lower himself over you again. Your eyes flew open when his mouth connected with your core, sending you reeling over the precipice.

Gripping his hair you bucked your hips with the sensation, causing him to grip your ass and press his face all the harder over your clit.

His teeth grazed over your sensitive nub as his tongue delved into your body over and over until another orgasm screamed through you, stronger than the last. He pulled away, smiling down at you as you panted on the bed.

Then he was on you again, pressing his cock through your pulsing walls and fucking you into oblivion. It was as if you had gone through Heaven’s gates, reached Nirvana, and entered Valhalla all in the same moment. The pleasure was immense as he gave you orgasm after orgasm on that hotel bed, never ceasing in his relentless thrusting until he finally reached his own peak.

His hips began to jerk in an uneven rhythm as he came inside you, causing aftershocks in your core as he collapsed by your side.

He kissed your temple before heading into the bathroom to clean up, exiting a moment later with a warm washrag and wiping you clean as well. You hissed at the sensation, pleasantly sore, and he kissed your navel before throwing the rag onto the floor to clean up later.

Pulling the blankets away, Bucky laid in bed with you tossing his arm over you as you curled into his warmth and yawned with your exhaustion.

Turning into him, you tucked your head beneath his chin, nuzzling his neck with your nose. “Thank you for this, Bucky. I had so much fun.”

Your voice was tired and quiet in his ear making him smile, a bit impressed with himself to say the least. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he listened as your breathing evened out into that of one asleep as he whispered to you in the dark.

“Me too, doll. Me too.”

______________________________________

The next morning, Bucky awoke to a cold bed.

He jerked himself awake, looking around the room for you, but your were nowhere to be found. All of your things were gone and he cursed himself a fool for letting you get away so easily.

A glint of something shiny caught his eye from the bedside table. It was his dagger, the one he had used for the first time last night, and underneath it was a note.

Sorry I didn’t stay to say my farewells, but I warned you. I’m the bad guy.

Bucky clenched his fist, the vibranium plates whirring with the motion. He turned the note over to see a picture of you in front of some back tower, blood stained your shirt as you smiled at the camera, pointing that damn bat at the photographer like you were holding a gun. Next to you stood an African American man that Bucky immediately recognized as Deadshot; an expert marksman and assassin, much like Bucky had been back in the day. The others in the picture were also familiar to him as members of the Suicide Squad that the team had heard rumors of back in the day.

Sitting hard on the edge of the bed, Bucky ran his free hand through his long chestnut locks, tangling in the mess of bedhead he had yet to fix. He couldn’t believe it. Either this was some well fabricated photo done with that photoshop program that Peter and Shuri talked about from time to time, or you were actually, really and truly, Harley Quinn.

Gripping the photo in his hand, he knew what he had to do.

______________________________________

Six months later, Bucky had all but forgotten about his midnight transgressions after the convention.

He had burned that picture, just moments after learning the truth, not willing to put you in danger after you had made such a wonderful and peaceful life for yourself. F.R.I.D.A.Y. has searched for you, as per his request and found some really interesting information.

Turns out, you had been the reason for your boyfriend’s death, if any sane person could even call the Joker your boyfriend. He had been manipulating you for years, until the Suicide Squad had saved you, given you a purpose.

Joker had tried to take that away from you, attacking your teammates and expecting you to just watch from the sidelines. But you had retaliated, beating him with that bat and shooting him with his own gun.

You had gone into hiding not long after that, changed your name and moved away by the CIA in order to keep you safe from what was left of the Joker’s henchmen.

Now, you were a normal citizen, or as normal as someone who had been through all that could be. You held a normal job with the local police, helping others and arresting criminals, and Bucky was honestly proud to have met you. You both had shared an amazing night together and he wasn’t willing to ruin that memory in any way. So, he let you go, wishing you well along the way.

Today was set to be a unique one to say the least. Tony had called a meeting for the Avengers. Apparently, he and Steve had recruited a new member for the team and were bringing her in to meet everyone today.

Bucky walked down the glass and steel corridors of Avenger’s tower, headed for the conference room when a familiar laugh echoed through the halls. He stopped in his tracks, searching for the source of the sound, but he found nothing.

“Get yourself together, Buck. There’s no way she would be here.”

Walking the last few feet, Bucky shoved the doors open and sauntered into the room, taking a seat between Sam and Wanda.

Sam leaned his way to whisper in Bucky’s ear. “Heard the new recruit is a woman. What do you think she’ll be like? Bet she’s drop dead gorgeous.”

Bucky shook his head at Sam’s teasing tone, ribbing him lightly with his elbow causing Wanda to giggle.

The door to the conference room opened up wide, allowing Tony and Steve to step through together. Bucky watched as a flash of black and red hair stopped just outside the door to the room, waiting to be called in.

Tony cleared his throat as Steve took a seat, effectively pulling the attention of the room to him. “Avengers, we have a new member starting today. She will be on a probationary period for the next few months so we can supervise her before sending her on missions with the rest of the team.”

Just then, Tony turned his attention onto Bucky and nerves began to roll in his stomach. “Bucky, I have put you in charge of the new recruit, with Wanda and Loki acting as your backup in case you need it. As I feel you are most equipped to deal with this member’s skills and past experiences.”

The way Tony’s face turned sour with the word ‘experiences’, Bucky knew something was up and turned to Steve for clarification. “What the hell is going on, Steve? What has this person done for you to put me on babysitting detail? Who is she?”

A sigh left Steve’s lips as he went to open the door. “People in the southern states call her Dark Angel, she’s been working as a vigilante hero for a few years now. But her ways were a bit over the top and unconventional, which landed her in our hands.”

Opening the door fully, Steve motioned for the woman to enter.

The first thing Bucky noticed was her long black hair, it was longer than he remembered and much darker, as the last time he had seen her, it was blonde with blue and pink ends. Then his eyes were caught in the blue depths of hers and he shuddered out a breath with her name.

“Y/N, is that really you?”

She smirked deviously. “Nice of you to remember me, Bucky. Though I expected you to call me by my old name.”

The team looked back and forth between the two of them, waiting for Bucky to divulge the secret he had been keeping for months now. His fist clenched, the sound of plates whirring through the silent room as he felt the soldier slowly bleed into his eyes again.

“It’s nice to see you again, Harley Quinn.”

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