I can’t be the one left here dragging you down, let me drown -
Your first mission with him goes…not well.
“What is wrong with you?” He’s all teeth, he’s mad. You’ve seen him annoyed, tired, a little miffed perhaps, but never properly mad. “Are you just stupid, or do you think this is a game?” You blanch a little, your mouth closes and opens like a fish out of water - you really don’t know what to say to him. You leave your mask to cover your guilt, but his falls as he gets in your face. You feel like a child being scolded for breaking your mothers nice end-table lamp - “I should have let him kill you, teach everyone a fuckin’ lesson.” He’s going on and on, and you can’t muster the words to tell him to fuck off, you were doing what he asked of you, being reckless wasn’t even a thought, you were just doing what you thought he wanted - risking your hide for the betterment of his cause.
The anomaly had gotten away, though, because he’d stopped mid swing, just to help you. The Green Goblin had slipped through your webs and was cruising full-speed to string you up, you hadn’t even noticed the blades on his hover-board ejecting and tipped right at you until Miguel had shot a single web dead-center on your chest and yanked you to safety. The foiled attack left you on your hands and knees a few feet away with only the smallest of cuts on your forearm, bleeding disproportionately considering the size, Miguel distracted with you, and the villain of the week cruising away down the main drag. You stood and Miguel yelled.
“I- I’m sorry! I thought-”
“Oh so you were thinking? That’s almost worse, in that case. If you’re going to waste my time, you’re better off going back home. I already have to babysit Gwen, Peter, half of the universe! I don’t want to add you to that long list.” His hands fly up to fiddle with his device sitting on his wrist. You can still see his sharp canines, he’s still scowling.
“I’m sorry.” You trail off as a portal opens, he doesn’t have to say anything for you to know you were being relieved of your duties on this mission with him.
You step into his main quarters back at the citadel, shame and embarrassment heavy on your shoulders. You trail a hand up your arm to stop some of the blood - Lyla is quick to buzz from your wrist, “you should let someone look at that back in medical, it could be worse than it looks.” You don’t even raise your hand to reply, simply plugging your homeworld coordinates in and lettings a portal open up, you yank the watch off and toss it on O’Hara’s chair as you stalk through - you didn’t know much but you knew well enough that no one was going to scold you like a dog. You were trying your best to help, fuck him.
You ignore everyone for weeks. Peter B. was the first to come and try to convince you back, then Pav, Gwen, and even Hobie gave a little effort, but you told them all the same thing - “he doesn’t want my help anymore, and I have stuff to worry about here.” It doesn’t escape you that Miguel was never bothered enough to ask you himself, he didn’t do anything to help the situation. Were you being reckless? Maybe. Did he overreact though? Yes. Were your feelings more hurt than you realized, your ego bruised that he’d hollered at you, scolded you like a child? Moreso than you cared to admit.
It’s a week short of two months before Jessica comes looking for you, telling you O’Hara needed to speak directly to you, to which you’d shrugged, said whatever it was wasn’t pressing enough to be bothered with, that if it was important, he would have reached out.
“Kid-” she sighs, rubbing a hand on her lower back, and suddenly you do feel a little bad, maybe you were just being stubborn, “that’s not his M-O and you know it. You know as well as I do that he’s just embarrassed he yelled like he did at you, of all people.” You know she can see the smoke coming from your ears as you think over what she’s saying. Why would someone like him be embarrassed of anything? “Just think about it, will’ya? For me, not for him. Screw him, he can be a major prick, I know it.” You hum a reply, and she leaves a shiny new watch on your kitchen table before she’s gone and you’re alone again.
“How’d it go?” Peter is quick to catch Jess, and she laughs a little. “As well as you’d think, Pete. I think I got through a little, though.”
“Should we send Pav back? He’s always the ray of sunshine, maybe that’ll be a good move.” Jess just shakes her head at him, “I think she’s got enough to worry about.”
“What did Miguel even say to ‘er? I didn’t think she’d have such thin skin.” Hobie is quick to match pace, they know he’s not really invested, but he loves to hear the gossip first-hand.
“I don’t know, but it must have been harsh.” Peter chimes in, Jess picks up her pace, trying to get to the cafeteria and leave the two nosey men behind.
They share a look behind her back, “it probably wasn’t what he said, boys, it was probably because it came from him.”
They don’t quite know what that means.
Two more days go by before you hear the device beeping an awful little tune. You try and try to ignore it, but like an alarm, it just keeps sounding off at your table, exactly where Jess had tossed it. Two full minutes stretch by and you finally pick it up, blood boiling, trying to simply silence the machine, but you fumble. You don’t want to admit to yourself that maybe, just maybe, it was purposeful.
His face lights up your small space, he looks a little surprised, but the look melts into his usual uninterested gaze as quickly as you notice, you snap a quick, ‘what,’ before he can even open his mouth.
You think you see the flashes of hurt, embarrassment maybe, but he’s quick to mumble a little, “are you done pouting, or are you going to hide out forever?”
Your eyes are wide as soon as he says it, “Pouting? That’s all you’re gonna say to me, really? Accuse me of-”
“You know what I meant, so are’ya comin back anytime soon?”
Your eyes roll to the back of your skull, and Miguel notices, “don’t roll your eyes at me, kid.”
“Back to scolding me so soon, huh? No one else around to talk down to over there lately?” You know you shouldn't say it, but you can’t help it. You’d never spoken back to him, but the lack of physical proximity made you brave.
“Scold? How is that scolding, you shouldn’t roll your eyes at anyone like that, it’s an ugly habit.”
“So you’re callin’ me ugly now, too?”
You can see his jaw clench, you’re being childish and stubborn, you know, but you can’t help it. Really, what was he going to do about it anyways?
“Are you being difficult on purpose, or does the attitude come naturally to you?”
“Does being a dick come naturally to you?” You counter with a sneer.
He huffs, you’re not sure why you’re being obtuse, but your feelings were still hurt. That’s reason enough for you to give him a little lip.
“God you - Jesus Christ, fine.” He looks around at something off-screen, “I’m sorry I yelled at you, alright? I shouldn’t have talked to you that way-”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” You interject.
“Would you please just, please - I am sorry, I was just worried you’d get hurt.” He’s quiet now, bashful, if you didn’t know him any better than to know the man was incapable of being sincere. “Would you please come back? I think you could still be of use to us here.”
You’re stuck in your spot, teetering a little back and forth, he did sound sorry. You whisper a quick ‘I’ll think about it,’ before beeping the watch off and putting it on top of your fridge.
a/n: Hobie’s a messy bitch and we all know it. Pt. 1 - Pt. 2- Pt. 3 -
It was obvious how soft he was for you. Gwen noticed as soon as she joined, the way his smile lingered long after you’d left, the way he’d follow you around the citadel like a lost puppy when you came back from a particularly risky mission, the way he’d actually listen to your advice and hear you out. His word was not final with you around, an interesting shift in dynamic compared to what she was used to. Hobie and Peter B. saw it, too. The way the two of you worked together on missions was like watching a well-rehearsed dance, to which the steps were borne to you both so naturally. You both played nice together, an odd juxtaposition to his usual lone-wolf routine.
You teased at him, poked fun at the way he’d grumble at the team, reminding him to play nice, they all had the universe’s best interest in mind, no matter how differently they went about showing it.
“So, do you think they’re like, an item?” Gwen asked over lunch, Peter snorted a laugh at the idea.
“Ha - no, I don’t really think so,” Hobie chimed in between bites, a small smile pulling at his full mouth, “I don’t reckon anyone could get that close to the boss-man and live to tell the tale.”
“Guys, come on, he’s not hardly as bad as you’re making him out to be here, give him some credit,” It’s Pav this time, a hum of agreement from Peter, too. “I bet the old man’s got some game under all that scowl.”
“I’m sorry, old man?” As if on-queue, O’Hara stands with hands on his hips over the table, an eyebrow raised and lips drawn tight, “‘m not much older than Peter, you know.” They give a short chorus of gasps, chokes, and a few laughs before O’Hara lets out a heavy sigh, “don’t you all have somewhere you ought to be, or do you enjoy wasting my time having to hunt down your little breakfast club?”
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that. If you keep frowning, you’ll just give yourself wrinkles, Miguel.” You’re quick to peer around his back, winking at the table. “Don’t you have a basket of puppies to spit on?” His eyes widen as he looks down at you, face turned up just enough to catch a toothy grin thrown at him, and attempt to lighten the mood from his scrutiny.
“Aye, that’s a good point,” Hobie finally chimes in again, “I gotta go anyways, Gwen?” He stands and pushes her tray back, an invitation to wander off. She stands and follows, Pav joins, and Peter mumbles something about needing to head home to put Mayday down. They all stare on their way out, watching the disposition shift almost immediately.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that with them around.” His words hold no heat, he’s got the ghost of a smile playing at his lips and you slide around to face him, hands on your hips to mirror his stance, “well, someone’s gotta show ‘em you’re not all bad. Besides, what’re you gonna do about it?” Your smile stays wide still as you carry on the conversation, a longer one than any of them have seen that hasn’t devolved into an argument.
“Is that an invitation or something?” He’s cheeky about it, “you did hear what else they said, no? They think I have game.”
It’s the raise of his eyebrow that sells it, you can’t help the yelp of a laugh that comes from you, “They’re not wrong, but I don’t think it’s the type of game you’d wanna brag about.” The tips of his ears heat up at your teasing, “are you trying to get me to fight with you?” He’s shifted his weight, a genuine smile gracing his features for once, stooping to face you directly, “oh-ho, is that a threat, old man?”
“Old?! Come on, you’re gonna hurt my feelings.”
“Ah, see! There’s that smile I love so much.” Your cheeks heat up at his teasing this time, the kids were right, maybe he did have some game, you thought.
The group stares at the two of you through the interaction, wide-eyed, open-mouthed stares sent between them.
A few weeks pass and their investigation leads Gwen and Miles to follow the two of you closer. They needed concrete evidence of your relationship before they could accuse you of anything.
“Wait, whaddya mean, he was flirting?” Miles whispers from his place, a healthy few feet away from the commotion. A stray Doc Oc had shifted into another world, you and Miguel had decided it was too risky to send more spider-folk, so he opted to take you along in lieu of a full team.
“I don’t know -shh!” Gwen sticks a finger up over her masked-mouth, “but if he finds out we’re here, he’ll skin us alive. Keep it down.”
Your usual grace is no match for this particular anomaly, a quick strike from one of the metal arms sends you spiraling into a support beam with a sickening thunk. Miguel hollers for you, with no response. Another metal arm is just as fast as it catches your skull and thrashes you into the beam again, you’re limp by the time Miguel can confine him.
Miles and Gwen make a swift exit after that, catching only a glimpse of O’Hara as he rushed over to where you lay, an uncharacteristic panic in his voice as he supports your head and shoulders - “Layla, send someone, please, hurry.”
Never once had they heard him willingly plead with the AI.
They don’t get an assignment from O’Hara for a while, and feign ignorance when Hobie and Pav ask.
a/n: ok how about a break from the regularly scheduled freak shit I usually post about O’Hara. He deserves some soft shit too smh.
Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 -
a/n: bc anon asked for a part three, and im super cheesed about it. I wasn’t gonna post it until tomorrow, but what can I say, im a generous god.
Take me far enough to say we’ve gone -
Miguel O’Hara was also a nervous man, as it turned out. He was nervous for you, afraid of what the light in his chest had to offer when he saw you return from a successful trail-run. His bluff was called, it seemed, and you passed with flying colors, earning a wide smile from Peter B. as he dropped you off, once again in O’Hara’s main quarters. The heavy glow from all of his screens casts him in an ever-intimidating light, that seems to be his theme with you. Scary.
He’d watched you with rapt attention on your little assignment, not sure why he’d anticipated the worst to happen to you - worst-case was Peter stepped in and bailed you out, but he’d informed Miguel that he hadn’t even needed to give any advice, a silent watcher, only coming down from his perch on a near building to show you how to activate the force-field device and ring in for a transfer.
“Well, looks like you’ve earned a permanent position amongst our ranks, huh?” He’s mumbling a little, he seems a little deflated as he says it.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” You’re raising a brow behind your ever-present mask, nary a ding on your suit. He can tell how much confidence the mission had given you, your shoulders not tilting inwards like they had the last few times he’d loomed over you. Your back was straight, and your hands pressed firmly on your hips in the shared stance every spider-person adopts when they know they’ve done well.
“Of course it is, but these missions aren’t always gonna be so easy, kid.” He mirrors you, standing up straight, leaning down slightly to make his point, “there’s gonna be a mission for each of us that we can’t come back from, you know that, right?” It’s almost threatening, the way his red eyes bore into your white eye-covers.
He watches your chest deflate a little at the comment, a pang of remorse runs through him for saying it in such a harsh way. Truly, he just wanted you to be aware of the risks here, the sacrifice that you may be called to make one day. Each of them was expected to lay their life down for the greater good, and he wasn’t exempt from that, either. In his mind, he was offering you an out, a second chance to save your own hide if that’s what you really wanted, before taking on such a lofty responsibility.
You jump a little when you hear the door slide open behind you, “jeez, Miguel, as pleasant as ever, aren’t’ya?” It’s the Peter that came with you, “Mayday is asleep-” who? “-Why d’ya always try to scare the new kids, don’t you think she’s proved herself enough?” He looks at you with a warm smile, the kind a father would wear as their kid rounded home for the first time, “I think you killed it, kiddo, don’t let him take the wind from yer sails. I was impressed,” you feel your cheeks heat up at his blatant praise and mumble a sweet thank-you, absent-mindedly kicking a pretend pebble as he claps a warm hand on your shoulder. He doesn’t stop, “why don’t you take your mask off and breathe a little, huh? It must feel terrible in there after the long day,” you can tell he’s being genuine when he asks, bending down to stare right into your mask with a slight tilt of the head, but you can’t help the itch on your forehead when the mask isn’t there, especially thinking about having to make direct eye contact with O’Hara.
He cuts in, “she says she’s more comfortable with it on, Peter.”
“Well, that sounds like a lie, she’s probably just terrified of you, chief. Especially when you go around making threats like that on a debrief.” They carry on like you’re not standing right there.
“It’s not my fault if I want them to be aware of the risks, Pete.” How informal of him, using a pet-name, you think.
“Yeah, well, the least you can do is thank’em for once. Not everything has to be so life and death. It’s no wonder our turnover is so bad, I have to wonder what our unemployment payout looks like.” They’re not stopping, you really consider making a quick escape while the two men, obviously very good friends based on Peter’s razzing, carry on talking over your head.
“I want to think you’re joking but-”
“Tax fraud is no joke, ‘El, you know that.”
You’re…Uncomfortable now, he was right, your mask was kind of stifling after working so hard to have a no-loss mission, there’s still sweat dripping down the back of your neck as the two of them chirp on and on, back and forth. The heat from all the monitors has your vision swimming a little and you start to get a light headed trying to keep up, eventually heaving a heavy sigh of your own. A small, shaking hand makes quick work as you tilt your head down, hair messy as you shake your head, finally getting a good breath of fresh air from outside your protection. Both men stop mid-sentence and stare.
Peter is the first to speak up, not missing a beat but teasing as ever, “there she is, as pretty as ever,” he’s smiling-still. “Feels better, right? Don’t worry about it, we all know how to keep a secret kid, you’re safe here, with us.”
O’Hara just lets a heavy breath fall from his nose and turns away from the two of you, “I have work to finish, Peter, can you get some food for the two of you, please? Consider it a celebration, since you’re so keen on rewarding everyone for just doing their damn job.”
Peter mumbles something as he steps behind you, guiding you with hands on your shoulders, pushing you a little from your spot in the middle, “yeah, yeah, come on.” His head snakes around to smile at you again, “not to brag, but the food here is amazing.”
It’s quiet after you leave and let the door slide shut, Miguel takes a shaky breath in, and out. He couldn’t help the pang of...jealously? Remorse, maybe, that he couldn’t be the one to tell you that you were safe with them, reassure you, tease you the way Peter was so confident in doing. The way your rosy cheeks looked so pretty, like Pete had said, plays over in his head time and time again for much longer than he’s proud of. He wanted you to know you were safe with him. At the end of it all, he wanted to make sure you were safe.
He’d seen you on his monitors for weeks before calling you to help them, walking around your New York in your street clothes. When Jess had caught him staring at you with such a heavy scowl, he’d said he just wanted to make sure you were keeping it above the wire, doing his due diligence to make sure he wasn’t hiring some loose-lipped kid. She only smiled at her feet, seeing right through his little lie.
He was even more curt with you after you became comfortable enough to venture the halls without your mask, usually late at night when you knew less folks were around, but pluck his eyes from his skull before he admitted to the dull ache his ability to give you comfort enough to be maskless gave. He really did try to be more inviting with you, even briefly considering taking you on a more risky mission with himself and Jess. Of course, the anxiety that bubbled dashed any hope of one-on-one time in the field. He’d ask you about your canon events, trying to find a way to connect with you. However tight-lipped he was, you were moreso. Mumbling a quiet affirmative or negative, then steering the conversation back to work, against his best efforts. He thought it must feel that way with him, sometimes, when folks try to talk with him. He found himself missing your wry jokes, not as jovial as the run-of-the-mill spider, still keeping a shred perspective on your life of sacrifice. He, of course, knew all of your canon events, he could lay them out by dates and times if he wanted, he’d spent more time than he’d ever admit to on his little…Obsession with you.
It worried him, how fond of your company he’d become in the short time you were helping him. He was really trying to connect, honestly, but every time it felt like he was putting his hand on a hot-plate, and every time he was reminded of what his job meant - sacrifice. And God himself couldn’t convince him of the idea of sacrificing you for this chosen life.
He, as a result, decided to pull back. Treat this as a little passing fancy, maybe you just reminded him of being young again, careless, caution to the wind and so on.
Months trickled by, trying his best to get you to smile at him despite his resolve to let it all go, to hear your laugh at least once was all he needed to get through his day, it seemed. He was embarrassed, in all reality, he was still technically your boss, no matter how informal that seemed in the walls of the citadel.
“-well, at least that’s what I thought, but Hobie said she was quite the up-and-comer.” He tried to listen to you, but the way you licked your lips made his skin tingle, “I may swing by and meet her, he seems super excited.” You’re leaning over his desk while you talk, Miguel had lost the plot, though. “As excited as someone like him can be, y’know.”
“Yeah, send out the welcome wagon, no?” He smiles a little, typing away at some code that needed fixing.
“Ha - well, it’s not like you’re one to do it, you’ll scare her off like a wolf would a hare.” You’re staring at the screen when his fingers stop, hovering over the keys like he’d lost his train of thought, “what’s that supposed to mean?” He turned to face you, eyeing you with a heavy scrutiny, as he was wont to do.
“No, nothing bad, I guess. You’re just so dramatic sometimes, it’s weird until you get to know ya’.” There’s a chuckle hidden between the words spilling from your mouth, he wonders if you realize how much he loves when you tease him. It makes him feel more human, less isolated.
“I’m just making sure they all kn-”
“-All know the risks involved, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. I think you’re just pretending so no one knows you’re a big softy.” His fingers haven't moved from above the keys. He leans back in his chair, his straight back finally relaxing a little, “and where do you get off thinking you can talk to me like that, kid?” There’s a stark lack of actual annoyance in his voice, a few months ago, you’d think he was actually offended you’d speak to him that way, but the keen look in his red eyes betrays him these days. “I think Peter is starting to rub off on you.” You laugh a little and smack his shoulder, “someone’s gotta keep you in check around here, right? He can’t shoulder all the burden of your grumpy ass!” You’re smiling down at him, having moved at some point to lean closer. He feels the tips of his ears heat up a little.
“Yeah, well, tell anyone and I’ll have to do somethin’ about it, kid.” You’re a little surprised at him, in the best way. He’s got a full smile, just like the one he wore when you told him about the dryer sheet below your mask, your cheeks heat up and you move to hop off the platform, “hey” a finger pokes at his shoulder - “don’t start writin’ checks there, boss, or I’ll have to ask you to cash’em some day.” You don’t turn around to face him as you continue, “it’s our secret, I guess. For now, at least.” You pull your mask back over your head as you walk out the heavy door.
He groans a little as the door slides shut, leaving him in the soft hum of all of his monitors - he doesn’t finish the line of code before he shoves himself away from his desk and starts the long trek back to his own private room for the night.
a/n: big man said feelings are for dummys. Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 4-
‘Come home,’ the Hexie mountain said, to begin another end -
Miguel O’Hara is a proud man - he’s built a reputation from zero, the leader of the spider-people, tasked with the fate of the multiverse. He’s proud of the burden he’s placed on himself, if he didn’t shoulder it, who would? With such great responsibility, it warrants great sacrifice. Sacrifice is something he’s very friendly with, the concept hangs on him like a tattered blanket, the idea that at any moment, it can and will get worse.
And worse it does get. He comes back from a long and tedious mission only to find a smiling Jess at his control center, “I think I found someone you’d be keen to meet, O’Hara.” She’s standing proud, back straight as you peek around her back, bent slightly at the waist, you give a small wave. You’re smiling, despite the mask wrapped around your head, “hi, I’m fro-”
“What did I say about bringing people back here without explicit permission?” He’s curt. His mask is intimidating, the red stands starkly around the black, but you can tell he's scrutinizing your every breath. “Well, hey, give’em a chance, will’ya? You haven’t seen what-”
“No.” He’s turning his back to the two of you as quickly as he’d come in. “No variants that I don’t approve of in this operation. Protocol, you know that.” You feel yourself shrink back behind Jess subconsciously, trying to escape the fire. He’s quick to leave the two of you without another word. Jess offers some supportive words, that he’s not nearly as bull-headed as he’s pretending to be, just give him time to warm up. She sends you back home with a wry smile.
You fill your time at home, in your own world, doing your routine rounds. Keeping things in check when it happens - a soft hum turns into a static buzz, it pulls the hair to stand up on the back of your neck. The littering of pebbles on your building's rooftop start to pull away from the flat top, as if fishing wire had pulled them up in a pathetic magic trick. They come crashing down as a chorus of car alarms ring out around you, your feet carry you to the edge and you stare, wide-eyed, as Electro visualizes out of thin air. You take a second to consider the possibilities when you hear a familiar voice - “I knew we’d see more of you, kid.” It’s Jess, coming from behind you, “lend us a hand, let’s show O’Hara what you’re made of, yeah?” She’s smiling at you, springing into action without another word.
You go through the motions with her, and she contains the anomaly, as she put it, so he’s ready for transfer. You’re only catching half of what she’s saying, “come on, Miguel, you’re being obtuse, we could always use an extra hand, we can keep’em on the back burner, let me lend a watch, please?” You hear the device on her wrist sigh, an exasperated fine, and a click. She tosses you a gold watch soon thereafter, “we’ll be in touch, honey.” She’s all smiles, winking at you as she speeds away, a dark cloud opens up, several spider-people emerge, collect the out-of-place Electro, and everything goes silent.
You get called back to the citadel a few weeks later.
It’s all hustle and bustle, a perky brunet meets you with a rather standoffish spider, he’s all smiles as he pulls you back through the halls, explaining the in’s-and-out’s. He does a bang-up job explaining the transfer systems, containment, how the watches work to connect the web of spiders to one another to help sort out anomalies in the multiverse, it’s our job, he says with hands on his hips, to make sure none of us have to sacrifice more than necessary. You’re trying to convey your understanding from behind the mask, “you can take it off here, you know?” The tall man says, he’d been close on your heels, never really chiming in on your little tour until now, “we’re all pretty safe here. All things considered,” he mumbles the last part, but you tell them you’d be more comfortable keeping it on for now, “ah, you’re probably smart for that,” Hobie finally says. You’re not sure what he means, but you’re thankful he lets it go after that.
The tour ends at the control center, you’d been here before, you tell Pav. He’s a little surprised when you tell him you’d even met O’Hara before. Not formally, of course, but he’d made your acquaintance. Hobie laughs, “yeah, well, he ain’t one for chit-chat.”
“Enough,” he finally chimes in, just as curt as you remember, and in habit you shrink into yourself, “don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Oh, yeah…” Pav trails off as he grabs Hobie’s arm, pulling him away. They’re quick to say their goodbye’s to you and head off into the hallways, leaving you with mister boss-man himself, alone. He’s bigger this time, it feels like. Or maybe you just feel smaller.
You’re not quick to say anything this time, without his mask, you can see the scowl on his face, he looks tired. The urge to comment bubbles in your guts, but you busy yourself picking at the hem of your glove - “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself, Spider-woman from Earth twenty-fifty-four?”
You’re not sure what he means by the Earth part, but you feel your back go rod-straight, “O-oh yeah, sorry I’m-”
“Don’t apologize,” he sounds frustrated, “I already know who you are, I’ve been keeping an eye on you at Jessica’s request.”
“The Spider-woman who brought me here the first time, right? The one who gave me the watch?” You’re trying to keep up with everything, but the way he stalks over to you, eyeing you up and down, scrutinizing your every move is unnerving. You’re sure he’s doing it on purpose, trying to intimidate you, and you hate to admit that it’s working. The hair on the back of your neck has been itching since Pav and Hobie said goodbye.
“Yeah, that’s right. Can I ask, why are you keeping your mask on in here?” It sounds like a genuine question coming from him, like he’s a little hurt you don’t trust the safety he’s built yet.
“Oh, just - Uh, just cause.” You smile under the mask, nervous and apprehensive. You don’t want to admit that you’re intimidated by him, the mask being your only source of mock-confidence in situations like this. “It’s just more comfortable.”
“I know that’s a lie, mine gets so muggy I can hardly stand it some days.” He’s turning away from you as he says it, the blase way in which the statement rolls off his tongue surprises you a little. Maybe he’s offering an olive branch, trying to ease you into his presence.
“When I first started all this stuff, I used to keep a dryer sheet tucked behind my head.” You’re speaking before you realize, suddenly embarrassed, “it helped a little, but it was itchy…” you hear him chuckle, a low rumble from his place in front of you, he turns with the comment, “really? I’ve never heard of someone doin’ that, it really worked?”
“Heh - y-yeah, but it would make my hair really greasy, too. I stopped doing it and just changed the material around my mouth to help instead,” your hand flies to the back of your head, the faint itch from the memory lures your hand to scratch.
His eyes crease with a smile, “that’s kind’a funny…”
The quick conversation ends there and he gets to business, telling you where he needs you, what’s expected, and how to properly use his little device to catch an anomaly. He’s trusting you to go with a Peter variant, he tells you Peter B. Parker doesn’t venture out on missions very often anymore, though he’s very familiar with the tech, so he’ll help you, but you were in charge of the heavy lifting on this one - a trial run, he’d said. You thank him for the opportunity and tap at your watch until the portal opens, you step through and start your working-interview for the spider-society.
a/n: lets start from the beginning, how did a guy like you end up with O’Hara wrapped around your little finger? Pt. 1 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 -
a/n: Miguel O’Hara does not get a spidey-sense in the comics. His senses are super-human, yes, but his hearing, sense of smell, and even his eyes are hyper-sensitive, to the point that he wears tinted glasses to keep his eyes from too much light exposure - He suffers from debilitating migraines from his eyes.
It starts with a single sharp throb in his left temple, every single time.
he’s at his desk, staring at screens all day lately, he lets out the most pathetic groan.
quickly, the space behind his eyes starts to throb, too, and eventually he gets spots in his vision before his whole head is in a tight vice, the muscle band around his skull cinching.
he leaves his desk and his watch. He tells his AI not to disturb him.
you, of course, are out on a task to collect an anomaly.
his eyes are swimming by the time he falls face-first into his bed, wrapping a pillow around his face to keep any light out. He falls asleep pretty quickly after that.
“Miguel?” It’s a whisper, hardly heard by a normal ear, but he picks you up immediately. He’d heard you walking up to his front door, actually. “Hey, honey, how’re’ya feelin?” He feels the bed dip as you sit and groans in response. You tut a little, reaching out to rub small circles in the muscles on his back. Your usual sweet scent makes him nauseated. You’d even gone home to shower, forgoing any perfume of any kind, just a bar soap, but it wasn’t enough.
Your hands move to massage his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension. If he could, he’d be purring like a cat at the touch. “Headache.” He finally says, voice so small it makes your chest ache. Super-human eyesight means super-human migraines.
You stand, and he protests the lack of touch, going to gather his pain killers, some water, and a tube of icy-hot. You all but pull him up, keeping his pillow on his eyes the whole time. “Open.” he simply pops his mouth open and you place three small, green pills in. You hand him the water and shift to straddle his back. Your legs are stretched almost too much as he settles into your chest. You pop the cap of the muscle relaxer and make quick work of spreading it over his neck, shoulders, and around his forehead. Trying your best to massage away some of the pain, the man could cry at how gentle you’re being. He’s sure you’re beat up and bruised from your mission, and yet here you sit, your touch so gentle he thinks he could have died in this moment and died happy, despite the constant shocks of pain in his head. “Thanks,” is all you get as he moves down to lay in your lap, trying to fall back to sleep as you run your hands through his hair. You don’t reply, but his breath evens out quickly - he’ll feel better in the morning.
It was obvious how soft he was for you. Gwen noticed as soon as she joined, the way his smile lingered long after you’d left, the way he’d follow you around the citadel like a lost puppy when you came back from a particularly risky mission, the way he’d actually listen to your advice and hear you out. His word was not final with you around, an interesting shift in dynamic compared to what she was used to. Hobie and Peter B. saw it, too. The way the two of you worked together on missions was like watching a well-rehearsed dance, to which the steps were borne to you both so naturally. You both played nice together, an odd juxtaposition to his usual lone-wolf routine.
You teased at him, poked fun at the way he’d grumble at the team, reminding him to play nice, they all had the universe’s best interest in mind, no matter how differently they went about showing it.
“So, do you think they’re like, an item?” Gwen asked over lunch, Peter snorted a laugh at the idea.
“Ha - no, I don’t really think so,” Hobie chimed in between bites, a small smile pulling at his full mouth, “I don’t reckon anyone could get that close to the boss-man and live to tell the tale.”
“Guys, come on, he’s not hardly as bad as you’re making him out to be here, give him some credit,” It’s Pav this time, a hum of agreement from Peter, too. “I bet the old man’s got some game under all that scowl.”
“I’m sorry, old man?” As if on-queue, O’Hara stands with hands on his hips over the table, an eyebrow raised and lips drawn tight, “‘m not much older than Peter, you know.” They give a short chorus of gasps, chokes, and a few laughs before O’Hara lets out a heavy sigh, “don’t you all have somewhere you ought to be, or do you enjoy wasting my time having to hunt down your little breakfast club?”
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that. If you keep frowning, you’ll just give yourself wrinkles, Miguel.” You’re quick to peer around his back, winking at the table. “Don’t you have a basket of puppies to spit on?” His eyes widen as he looks down at you, face turned up just enough to catch a toothy grin thrown at him, and attempt to lighten the mood from his scrutiny.
“Aye, that’s a good point,” Hobie finally chimes in again, “I gotta go anyways, Gwen?” He stands and pushes her tray back, an invitation to wander off. She stands and follows, Pav joins, and Peter mumbles something about needing to head home to put Mayday down. They all stare on their way out, watching the disposition shift almost immediately.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that with them around.” His words hold no heat, he’s got the ghost of a smile playing at his lips and you slide around to face him, hands on your hips to mirror his stance, “well, someone’s gotta show ‘em you’re not all bad. Besides, what’re you gonna do about it?” Your smile stays wide still as you carry on the conversation, a longer one than any of them have seen that hasn’t devolved into an argument.
“Is that an invitation or something?” He’s cheeky about it, “you did hear what else they said, no? They think I have game.”
It’s the raise of his eyebrow that sells it, you can’t help the yelp of a laugh that comes from you, “They’re not wrong, but I don’t think it’s the type of game you’d wanna brag about.” The tips of his ears heat up at your teasing, “are you trying to get me to fight with you?” He’s shifted his weight, a genuine smile gracing his features for once, stooping to face you directly, “oh-ho, is that a threat, old man?”
“Old?! Come on, you’re gonna hurt my feelings.”
“Ah, see! There’s that smile I love so much.” Your cheeks heat up at his teasing this time, the kids were right, maybe he did have some game, you thought.
The group stares at the two of you through the interaction, wide-eyed, open-mouthed stares sent between them.
A few weeks pass and their investigation leads Gwen and Miles to follow the two of you closer. They needed concrete evidence of your relationship before they could accuse you of anything.
“Wait, whaddya mean, he was flirting?” Miles whispers from his place, a healthy few feet away from the commotion. A stray Doc Oc had shifted into another world, you and Miguel had decided it was too risky to send more spider-folk, so he opted to take you along in lieu of a full team.
“I don’t know -shh!” Gwen sticks a finger up over her masked-mouth, “but if he finds out we’re here, he’ll skin us alive. Keep it down.”
Your usual grace is no match for this particular anomaly, a quick strike from one of the metal arms sends you spiraling into a support beam with a sickening thunk. Miguel hollers for you, with no response. Another metal arm is just as fast as it catches your skull and thrashes you into the beam again, you’re limp by the time Miguel can confine him.
Miles and Gwen make a swift exit after that, catching only a glimpse of O’Hara as he rushed over to where you lay, an uncharacteristic panic in his voice as he supports your head and shoulders - “Lyla, send someone, please, hurry.”
Never once had they heard him willingly plead with the AI.
They don’t get an assignment from O’Hara for a while, and feign ignorance when Hobie and Pav ask.
a/n: ok how about a break from the regularly scheduled freak shit I usually post about O’Hara. He deserves some soft shit too smh.
Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 -
Anon requested: Would you be able to write a Miguel x f!reader fic where they are romantically involved and Lyla goes crazy and thinks that the reader is too much of a distraction to Miguel and his mission? To the point where she feeds the reader bad information that almost gets her killed and when that doesn't work she lures the reader into a trap?
---
a/n: tried to keep it short, but thank you so much for the req!
Running on empty:
It starts small, a break in code, maybe. But to them, it was the world - Miguel was theirs.
He isn’t sure when the glitch started, but he knew something was wrong. Sending destinations to incorrect places, warping you to worlds you ought not be in. Missing mission targets, failures to capture, issues. Miguel wasn’t one for issues, especially when it came to you, someone he knew was smarter than that.
Things moved faster with you around, the dark cloud that hung over his shoulders lifting just enough for him to remember what it was like to be human, not just SpiderMan 2099. You took up his time, time he used to spend with them. Maybe that was his mistake, he relied too much on their company, made them too human while he was writing their code.
"There’s an anomaly spotting in a neighboring world, O’Hara wants you to go alone, he said it wasn’t too much of a threat, in and out!” They hummed from your watch, you agreed and they opened a doorway for you.
They had sent you to a wasteland of an Earth, cold and barren, they said they were having a hard time connecting back to 2099 because of the sub-zero temperatures, it was seizing up your hardware. The last thing you hear is a quick apology then - silence. Two days you’d spent there before Miguel came to find you. He’d sworn against ever thinking to send you, your suit being your only protection - far too thin for a place like this, he’d said. He rushed you to the infirmary, much to Lyla’s chagrin, and spent the two days it took you to recover starkly by your bed. A deep scowl set on his brow, silencing any of their communications, summons from other Spiders, even threats of anomaly wasn’t enough to pry him away from you.
Next time though, they hid your location from Miguel, swearing you were just at home, dealing with some local issues. He felt foolish for believing them after all of this. He had found files documenting your time together around the citadel, they were angry. Vindictive. He knew that.
It hit a peak when he found you, hardly breathing, after being sent to a world riddled with crime - no Spider-Man there to mitigate any of the problems. “You risked the life of one of our best, Lyla, and for what?” He was fuming, yelling at a hologram - he knew this was silly, he could just rewrite the code.
It had taken just too long for him to track you down - your watch had been disabled, basically useless, you’d been glitching, struggling. You weren’t even sure where you were. As soon as you phased in, you watched a mask man pull a gun. You took a second to collect yourself - a small bodega with a very mousey woman behind the counter. Of course it was in the middle of a very hostile robbery - “-in the bag! Now!” The man, dressed in all black and a head taller than you, waved his gun to emphasize the seriousness. She was horrified, stuck in a panicked haze, time was running out, the man let out a sigh before straightening his stance. You only just hear the tell-tale click of the boot before you’re fully in your own body, lunging towards him. Just too late, boom, the woman let out a final scream before crumpling behind the counter. Your blood ran cold, and the masked man stumbled out of the small space as quickly as you came in.
It devolved from there, more crime around the block, no cops to keep them in check, and you risking your neck. The word of a masked vigilante spread quickly - no one was keen on shaking up the way of this Earth. Within a few hours, your image was spread. Lamp posts, posters, rewards from crime rings in return for your mask. In over your head, truly.
Days passed as you spent them running. Honest to god running from one hideout to the next, trying in vein to connect with Miguel over your comms. Nothing. Each time you were met with a proverbial dial-tone. You’d been caught more than once, each time your wounds compounded. A split lip turned into a slight concussion, turned into a cracked rib, turned into a gunshot wound to your leg. You felt like a caged dog, unable to help yourself, praying to whatever God watched over this version of the world to send some sort of help.
Finally, after a week of being adrift, he found you. You had holed up in an old storage unit, locked from the inside, he jumped you home and spent time fussing over you. He’d tried to get you back to the citadel, but you fought and he relented. He took your watch and ran a quick diagnostic, looking into the code that made up the technology. He found nothing but broken lines.
He disconnected Lyla soon thereafter. Jess had rang in that they were trying to fix whatever issues came up, but the damage was done. Miguel promised to come back, but the amount of glitching you’d suffered meant you had to stay at home - alone.
In my dreams you call me back, but I hope you don’t -
Peter B. found you. After Miguel had accosted Miles, he came back to collect a few odds before heading back to his universe when he found you, wiggling your fingers and toes, trying to get a little more control in your loose limbs. The look on his face is all you needed to know - he was worried for Miles, for Miguel, for his daughter, and for you now, too.
He connected the dots quickly when it came to you two, but he kept his mouth shut. It was none of his business, and he figured you were good for O’Hara. He’d figured incorrectly, and he apologized for it over and over as he hoisted you over his shoulder. You demanded he leave you, your stubbornness was stifling, even half-dead you were set on confronting Miguel. Peter insisted that now, more than ever, was not the time. O’Hara was coming unglued, you’d be best to leave now and save some face.
Peter left you in your world, seeming smaller now as he waved his final goodbye. He’d spent some time cleaning your wound, taking a sample to figure out any sort of solution to curb the venom. A small part of him wanted to stay, but he had his own family to protect now. He had Miles to worry for, too. He kept his watch, you knew that meant he wasn’t able to even consider the risk staying would raise.
You knew you couldn’t step away from helping your city, so you pushed your feelings to the back of your mind - this was a canon event in your head. Betrayal was part of the game, no? A lesson learned in placing your trust in someone who knew what to say to pull at your heart. You resign that it was all for the endgame to Miguel. Fine.
It was a few days before you felt the familiar tingle in the back of your skull. You feel it before you hear the footsteps. You’re on your guard before the window even opens. Your mask feels too tight around your skull when the black and red suit flashes before your eyes. You don’t hesitate as you throw your weight at him - you hurl a leg around his throat and try to haul him to the floor. You forget how big he is - how sturdy and strong he’d gotten. He throws a hand on your thigh and moves your momentum over his own head. You’re quick to roll from your back to crouch, ready to fling yourself again.
His hands are up as you turn to face him, “hold on, wait I - stop.” He’s hoarse. He sounds like he’s done nothing but eat gravel for the last few days. You, of course, do not stop. You’re shooting web to catch at least one hand to the wall behind him, hitting it with a hollow thunk.
His mask falls and he eyes you, his eyes burn your skin through your mask. “I’m sorry, wait. I don’t want a fight.” You know he’s holding back, he hasn’t made a single move since he came in. “Mi amor, please…” The way he sounds makes your nose wrinkle, you couldn’t help the anger bubbling in your tight throat, “don’t,” you put a hand in the air, “do not call me that.”
The look on his face hits you in the gut, “you know I’m sorry, but I had t-”
“You didn’t have to do anything! Your hand was never forced. Ya’made the choice, you di’it!” You don’t remember stepping so close to him, squaring up to his chest with a finger poking straight through his heart. He sighs, a soft you’re right is all you get. His forehead hangs and the fire in your chest dies to a cool tinge, your feelings are hurt, you rationalize, maybe you were overreacting. Your jaw is still tight as he eyes you through his lashes, he looks embarrassed, ashamed of what he had to do, “Mierda… you know I just didn’t know what else to do, I had to keep you safe, you know that.” His voice catches. “If you got hurt because of some stupid kid, I - por favor, mi amor.” His other hand falls to your shoulder, fingers playing with the hem of your mask.
You grab his wrist, “you don’t get to play the wounded hero card,” you use your other hand to pull the mask off, the bite mark was deep, deeper than he’d ever left before - you know that’s what he wanted to see, “Peter found me, while you were too busy chasing a kid, Peter took me home. He patched me up, made sure I was alright. You hid in your ivory castle.” It’s vindictive, words coming out to wound him further. You wanted to rub salt in his wounds the same way he did to you. “Was it deep?” He searches for any stray marks from below the gauze. It was probably healed at this point, but the scar would linger, you knew that. The venom would leave a permanent mark in your flesh. You give a little nod in lieu of a real response - it had hurt, the radiating sting was the only thing you could feel after he left you all alone.
He shifts his head to stare into your eyes now, a pleading look. You don’t relent, “I don’t have time to deal with this,” you do, “I’ve got things to wrap up here.” You do not. “I have to go, see yourself out, will’ya?” You have nowhere to go, nothing to do, you just couldn’t stand another minute looking into the face of someone you cared so deeply for.
You’re quick to turn, but he’s quicker, anticipating your retreat, “espera, por favor.” His hand wraps around your upper arm, stinging with a tight grip, “you can’t just walk away, we need your help back home. I - I need you there. Come back and we can forgive your transgressions.”
Snap - “My transgressions?” You roar in his face, swinging a clenched fist at his head as you turn your shoulders to face him, “my transgressions?” He’s quick to raise his other hand to catch your fist before it connects, tearing a small chunk of drywall off with the web, “I have nothing to apologize for! I made no mistakes!” You’re a head shorter than him, but you crane to match his gaze, his eyes are wide now, a leg swings up and connects with his ribs, causing him to double over just enough for your skull to connect with his, “I won’t apologize, you know I’m never going back-” you cut yourself off, yanking your arm from his grip and swinging again, with the same result as the last, “I told you I’d never forgive you!” Both of your fists are wrapped in his hands. You can see the patience on his face wane further and further as you carry on, he was never one for back-and-forth’s. His way, or no way.
“You’re acting like a spoiled brat, this isn’t about you.” His voice is even, if not raised to match your anger, his neck cranes, bringing his face inches from yours, “not everything is about you.” He’s sneering at you as he tosses you like a ragdoll to the hardwood floor with a painful thud. He’s quick to get on top of you, mounting you and invading your space again, “maybe I ought to remind you who’s in charge around here. Who’s payroll you’re still technically on.” He’s quick to collect your wrists and hoist them over your head, reminiscent of the last time he’d argued with you like this, “O’Hara! What - wait, stop.” You thrash a little below him, jaw tight and eyes screwed shut, panic rising like bile in your stomach, burning a hole in your throat, “stop.” You can’t buck his weight from your midsection, he’s in your face again with that wicked, sour grin. “You know, you looked awfully pretty sitting on my floor, it’s a shame Peter found you and not me. I had you running through my mind all night.” It’s vile, his implications, the way you can almost see the spit shining on his canines. He sweeps a nose to the gauze, inhaling deeply enough to make himself grunt, “I had all these big plans for you when I came back, I was disappointed to find my office empty, pretty.” You turn your head away from him just as he uses his free hand to smoosh your cheek to the dirty floor, pieces of drywall digging into your face as you huff, you know a reply would egg him on, “what, mi amor, nothing to say to me now? Come on, that mouth of yours is always so quick.” He’s just below your ear, you feel him press his lips there in mock-affection, the action makes you sick. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you heard a hint of a moan as his sharp teeth grazed where his lips had just left. Your eyes shoot open, panic shocking your core. “O’Hara, stop…” It’s a whisper, “please, I’ll come back, just-”
“Just what? Tell me what you think you have to offer anymore.” It cuts deep, the sudden change in his tone, you feel his breath on your neck, the slick drip of drool coming from his fangs, Peter was right, something snapped with him. You’re in too deep.
He’s picking at the medical tape, peeling the bandages Peter had used from your sensitive skin, you hiss as he rips the last bit and feel him smile - “it did scar all pretty, huh?” He’s talking more to himself, you realize. “Good, I was hoping you’d have a pretty little mark.” His tongue sweeps across the tissue, you wriggle in vein below him, feeling the drops of spit rolling behind your neck and into your hairline. He was vile, animalistic as his teeth dig into the scarred flesh again. You let out a howl at the familiar tinge, tasting the venom in the back of your throat like anesthesia before surgery. “Maybe this time I can make proper use of such a pretty situation, no? Why not relax a little, you’re always so tense. Let me take care of you.”
a/n: we all know he’s a fucking freak, right? - pt. 1
I’ll find you if it’s urgent, or if I’m hurting, more than I am now -
The first time you sleep with O’Hara you blame it on the alcohol - a pathetic excuse that you both see through. It hurts him, that you’d seemingly regret the choice enough to blame substances. Too ashamed to face your actions head-on. The second time, you admit that the first time wasn’t a mistake, and the third, you’re both giddy like school children.
It was a reprieve, to have someone who understands the delicacy that a commitment would require - so you don’t speak about it. It happens, you jump back to your own world, and he lays awake dwelling on what he’d done wrong to make you leave so quickly every time.
Every time he worships you, hands moving like praise over your body, so careful not to burn, he knows his own strength. He treats you like a fine china doll, working you over until you give him permission to just touch you, be rough, let out some of the stress you know has built up in his toned back. He practically drools over you, finally releasing some of the apprehension - you were strong like him, you remind him, you could take it. You only catch a glimpse of the feral look in his suddenly-red eyes. His bite stings, he’s looming over you like an animal, you can feel every inch of him tense before he pulls away, you taste a sweet burn that moves to your nose before you hear the apologies, over and over - he didn’t mean it. Your head lulls, and you swear you see the ghost of a smile on his lips, despite his words. His venom was a result of the change in his DNA, he promises it was a guttural reaction to your words, he spends the next few hours working your body over with sweet touch, praising you for not panicking, that it would never happen again.
You avoid him for a few days after that, you had obligations in your own world, you repeat over your comms.
Finally though, the worry wanes and you go crawling back - you miss the comfort his praise would always give. “So sweet for me, so good, look at you, taking me so well,” he’d always say, his mouth leaving red bite-marks over your chest, your back and shoulders, never above the hem of your suit. Private. This time, though, is different.
He wastes no time in silencing his watch, his hands are quick over your body, not the slow, meticulous care they usually have for you. He grabs the hair at the nape of your neck and yanks your head to the side, inhaling your hairline, before his lips bite at yours. You feel like you’re drowning, can’t keep up with his hands, you can’t match the pace he’s set, he wastes no time in bending you over the desk and pounding into you until you’re almost delirious.
Once he’s done, finally coming undone, leaning over your back and leaving a dark red bruise just below your ear, he apologizes, says it’s just been so long since he’s seen you, missed you so much. You’re still pinned below him, your face still smashed into his desk while he’s saying it all into your neck.
The next time, he’s back to his sweet self - taking his time to work you up in the privacy of your own four walls, the praise is back - not biting words like last time, so you don’t dwell. Maybe you had withheld yourself too long from him. This time, though, he stays a little longer. Wrapping you around him in your sheets, and you can’t see the way his face contorts into a sick grimace as you allow yourself to fall asleep. He’d leave when he was ready, you assumed.
In my dreams you call me back, but I hope you don’t -
Peter B. found you. After Miguel had accosted Miles, he came back to collect a few odds before heading back to his universe when he found you, wiggling your fingers and toes, trying to get a little more control in your loose limbs. The look on his face is all you needed to know - he was worried for Miles, for Miguel, for his daughter, and for you now, too.
He connected the dots quickly when it came to you two, but he kept his mouth shut. It was none of his business, and he figured you were good for O’Hara. He’d figured incorrectly, and he apologized for it over and over as he hoisted you over his shoulder. You demanded he leave you, your stubbornness was stifling, even half-dead you were set on confronting Miguel. Peter insisted that now, more than ever, was not the time. O’Hara was coming unglued, you’d be best to leave now and save some face.
Peter left you in your world, seeming smaller now as he waved his final goodbye. He’d spent some time cleaning your wound, taking a sample to figure out any sort of solution to curb the venom. A small part of him wanted to stay, but he had his own family to protect now. He had Miles to worry for, too. He kept his watch, you knew that meant he wasn’t able to even consider the risk staying would raise.
You knew you couldn’t step away from helping your city, so you pushed your feelings to the back of your mind - this was a canon event in your head. Betrayal was part of the game, no? A lesson learned in placing your trust in someone who knew what to say to pull at your heart. You resign that it was all for the endgame to Miguel. Fine.
It was a few days before you felt the familiar tingle in the back of your skull. You feel it before you hear the footsteps. You’re on your guard before the window even opens. Your mask feels too tight around your skull when the black and red suit flashes before your eyes. You don’t hesitate as you throw your weight at him - you hurl a leg around his throat and try to haul him to the floor. You forget how big he is - how sturdy and strong he’d gotten. He throws a hand on your thigh and moves your momentum over his own head. You’re quick to roll from your back to crouch, ready to fling yourself again.
His hands are up as you turn to face him, “hold on, wait I - stop.” He’s hoarse. He sounds like he’s done nothing but eat gravel for the last few days. You, of course, do not stop. You’re shooting web to catch at least one hand to the wall behind him, hitting it with a hollow thunk.
His mask falls and he eyes you, his eyes burn your skin through your mask. “I’m sorry, wait. I don’t want a fight.” You know he’s holding back, he hasn’t made a single move since he came in. “Mi amor, please…” The way he sounds makes your nose wrinkle, you couldn’t help the anger bubbling in your tight throat, “don’t,” you put a hand in the air, “do not call me that.”
The look on his face hits you in the gut, “you know I’m sorry, but I had t-”
“You didn’t have to do anything! Your hand was never forced. Ya’made the choice, you di’it!” You don’t remember stepping so close to him, squaring up to his chest with a finger poking straight through his heart. He sighs, a soft you’re right is all you get. His forehead hangs and the fire in your chest dies to a cool tinge, your feelings are hurt, you rationalize, maybe you were overreacting. Your jaw is still tight as he eyes you through his lashes, he looks embarrassed, ashamed of what he had to do, “Mierda… you know I just didn’t know what else to do, I had to keep you safe, you know that.” His voice catches. “If you got hurt because of some stupid kid, I - por favor, mi amor.” His other hand falls to your shoulder, fingers playing with the hem of your mask.
You grab his wrist, “you don’t get to play the wounded hero card,” you use your other hand to pull the mask off, the bite mark was deep, deeper than he’d ever left before - you know that’s what he wanted to see, “Peter found me, while you were too busy chasing a kid, Peter took me home. He patched me up, made sure I was alright. You hid in your ivory castle.” It’s vindictive, words coming out to wound him further. You wanted to rub salt in his wounds the same way he did to you. “Was it deep?” He searches for any stray marks from below the gauze. It was probably healed at this point, but the scar would linger, you knew that. The venom would leave a permanent mark in your flesh. You give a little nod in lieu of a real response - it had hurt, the radiating sting was the only thing you could feel after he left you all alone.
He shifts his head to stare into your eyes now, a pleading look. You don’t relent, “I don’t have time to deal with this,” you do, “I’ve got things to wrap up here.” You do not. “I have to go, see yourself out, will’ya?” You have nowhere to go, nothing to do, you just couldn’t stand another minute looking into the face of someone you cared so deeply for.
You’re quick to turn, but he’s quicker, anticipating your retreat, “espera, por favor.” His hand wraps around your upper arm, stinging with a tight grip, “you can’t just walk away, we need your help back home. I - I need you there. Come back and we can forgive your transgressions.”
Snap - “My transgressions?” You roar in his face, swinging a clenched fist at his head as you turn your shoulders to face him, “my transgressions?” He’s quick to raise his other hand to catch your fist before it connects, tearing a small chunk of drywall off with the web, “I have nothing to apologize for! I made no mistakes!” You’re a head shorter than him, but you crane to match his gaze, his eyes are wide now, a leg swings up and connects with his ribs, causing him to double over just enough for your skull to connect with his, “I won’t apologize, you know I’m never going back-” you cut yourself off, yanking your arm from his grip and swinging again, with the same result as the last, “I told you I’d never forgive you!” Both of your fists are wrapped in his hands. You can see the patience on his face wane further and further as you carry on, he was never one for back-and-forth’s. His way, or no way.
“You’re acting like a spoiled brat, this isn’t about you.” His voice is even, if not raised to match your anger, his neck cranes, bringing his face inches from yours, “not everything is about you.” He’s sneering at you as he tosses you like a ragdoll to the hardwood floor with a painful thud. He’s quick to get on top of you, mounting you and invading your space again, “maybe I ought to remind you who’s in charge around here. Who’s payroll you’re still technically on.” He’s quick to collect your wrists and hoist them over your head, reminiscent of the last time he’d argued with you like this, “O’Hara! What - wait, stop.” You thrash a little below him, jaw tight and eyes screwed shut, panic rising like bile in your stomach, burning a hole in your throat, “stop.” You can’t buck his weight from your midsection, he’s in your face again with that wicked, sour grin. “You know, you looked awfully pretty sitting on my floor, it’s a shame Peter found you and not me. I had you running through my mind all night.” It’s vile, his implications, the way you can almost see the spit shining on his canines. He sweeps a nose to the gauze, inhaling deeply enough to make himself grunt, “I had all these big plans for you when I came back, I was disappointed to find my office empty, pretty.” You turn your head away from him just as he uses his free hand to smoosh your cheek to the dirty floor, pieces of drywall digging into your face as you huff, you know a reply would egg him on, “what, mi amor, nothing to say to me now? Come on, that mouth of yours is always so quick.” He’s just below your ear, you feel him press his lips there in mock-affection, the action makes you sick. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you heard a hint of a moan as his sharp teeth grazed where his lips had just left. Your eyes shoot open, panic shocking your core. “O’Hara, stop…” It’s a whisper, “please, I’ll come back, just-”
“Just what? Tell me what you think you have to offer anymore.” It cuts deep, the sudden change in his tone, you feel his breath on your neck, the slick drip of drool coming from his fangs, Peter was right, something snapped with him. You’re in too deep.
He’s picking at the medical tape, peeling the bandages Peter had used from your sensitive skin, you hiss as he rips the last bit and feel him smile - “it did scar all pretty, huh?” He’s talking more to himself, you realize. “Good, I was hoping you’d have a pretty little mark.” His tongue sweeps across the tissue, you wriggle in vein below him, feeling the drops of spit rolling behind your neck and into your hairline. He was vile, animalistic as his teeth dig into the scarred flesh again. You let out a howl at the familiar tinge, tasting the venom in the back of your throat like anesthesia before surgery. “Maybe this time I can make proper use of such a pretty situation, no? Why not relax a little, you’re always so tense. Let me take care of you.”
a/n: we all know he’s a fucking freak, right? - pt. 1
The first time it happens, he’s embarrassed. Red-in-the-face, stammering apologies, massaging your muscles as you come back - the headaches are terrible from the lack of blood flow, he explains. He says he can’t control it with you, he got too worked up and couldn’t stop the venom. It’s more of a reaction than a conscious decision sometimes. You were just so pretty below him, and it had been so long since someone had begged him to just touch them. He buys you chocolate the next day, meeting you on the doorway with his head low and bashful.
The second time it happens isn’t a mistake. You’re arguing, yelling at him to relax - there’s no way to stop Miles, you tell him he should be proactive in finding a solution to the fallout of the kid’s stubbornness.
He squares up with you, your loud mouth trying to cash a check your ass can’t endorse, apparently. He’s wrestled your arms over your head, his hard body pressed into you, and you into the wall behind. You’re bearing your blunt teeth as you holler at him to let you go, he’s got no right to hold you up like this. The way you talk to him, fight and struggle against his obvious upper hand has him uncomfortable in his suddenly-too-tight suit. His thigh is firmly between yours, pressing his knee to the wall to keep you stuck where he wants you. Your chest is heaving as you yell - you’re telling him to stop, to listen for once, he was a stubborn kid once, too. God, your suit was tugged just right, your hair mussed from him ripping your mask from your skull harshly. You see it once, the fire in his eyes as his resolve settles. His red eyes fall to your neck and you thrash, his thoughts dawning on you just too late. You tell him you’d never forgive him if he did it on purpose, you’re all teeth and heat as he leans in, hot breath fanning over your neck as he leaves a soft kiss just before. He leaves you slumped on the floor, promising he’d be back for you, that he was so sorry he had to do it. It’s a quick thought that you look good like that. Vulnerable for once, your big mouth quiet, you’re prone for the first time in your suit, all for him. What a shame to have to waste such a pretty opportunity.
The third time it’s more for his benefit than yours.
a/n: originally an ask sent in to @kentoangel - sorry, I really liked how it came out and I want to do a part two, so I had to take it back from the anon I’d sent in about his venom, for science of course.
The first time it happens, he’s embarrassed. Red-in-the-face, stammering apologies, massaging your muscles as you come back - the headaches are terrible from the lack of blood flow, he explains. He says he can’t control it with you, he got too worked up and couldn’t stop the venom. It’s more of a reaction than a conscious decision sometimes. You were just so pretty below him, and it had been so long since someone had begged him to just touch them. He buys you chocolate the next day, meeting you on the doorway with his head low and bashful.
The second time it happens isn’t a mistake. You’re arguing, yelling at him to relax - there’s no way to stop Miles, you tell him he should be proactive in finding a solution to the fallout of the kid’s stubbornness.
He squares up with you, your loud mouth trying to cash a check your ass can’t endorse, apparently. He’s wrestled your arms over your head, his hard body pressed into you, and you into the wall behind. You’re bearing your blunt teeth as you holler at him to let you go, he’s got no right to hold you up like this. The way you talk to him, fight and struggle against his obvious upper hand has him uncomfortable in his suddenly-too-tight suit. His thigh is firmly between yours, pressing his knee to the wall to keep you stuck where he wants you. Your chest is heaving as you yell - you’re telling him to stop, to listen for once, he was a stubborn kid once, too. God, your suit was tugged just right, your hair mussed from him ripping your mask from your skull harshly. You see it once, the fire in his eyes as his resolve settles. His red eyes fall to your neck and you thrash, his thoughts dawning on you just too late. You tell him you’d never forgive him if he did it on purpose, you’re all teeth and heat as he leans in, hot breath fanning over your neck as he leaves a soft kiss just before. He leaves you slumped on the floor, promising he’d be back for you, that he was so sorry he had to do it. It’s a quick thought that you look good like that. Vulnerable for once, your big mouth quiet, you’re prone for the first time in your suit, all for him. What a shame to have to waste such a pretty opportunity.
The third time it’s more for his benefit than yours.
a/n: originally an ask sent in to @kentoangel - sorry, I really liked how it came out and I want to do a part two, so I had to take it back from the anon I’d sent in about his venom, for science of course.
He thinks you’re too good for him. He thinks you’re too good for the life you cling to, but really that you’re too good for him. He wants to wrap you up and keep you in his ivory tower, safe and warm. But, mostly you were too good for him.
You had an almost inhuman air about you, the way you stood behind Falcone, he’s seen you in a skin-tight suit, in loose shirts, in nothing, but the way you looked wrapped in black, a properly fitting dress and pretty little heels, hair swept up and lips painted up pretty, it was a shot through his chest. He’s glad he kept his lens in, this was one to be saved, he thought. He forgets, every now and then, that you’re really a woman under all the grit - the muck and blood he’s become so used to seeing you caked in. And without his helmet, his armor, his boots, he was nothing but a man at your feet. He was rightfully and fully intimated by you in that moment, as soon as he caught your eye over your shoulder, a silent plea to follow you, he couldn’t breathe. You weren’t like him, you didn’t hide from your job, he admired that about you.
His feet moved him up the steps before his mind was working, grabbing your arm - you don’t know her, she doesn’t know you, his mind hissed. He didn’t have a goddamn word to say to you. He wanted to keep you like this - human. Real and palpable, but just the idea of whoever you saw behind the mask and what you thought that mask saw you as - It ate him alive, gnawing his bones from the inside out - how do you get people to like you? Ask for her help! His mouth is working too fast, how do you know Falcone - that wasn’t a good start. Fuck.
You looked delicate like this, without the leather over your head, knowing everyone here knew who you were, knew you had something to do with Batman, and now being seen with Falcone? No matter how faceless you became, once the light was shined in your corner, the cracks would form. That’s how this city works, eats you up and makes you feel like it’s all your fault.
You’re smiling, it doesn’t reach your eyes, it's fake. He’s seen you laugh before, really laugh. Head thrown back while his lips attacked your neck, leaving gnarly red bruises just to make you mad. He’s seen the way you smile down at your own feet, nervously chuckling when he makes embarrassing comments to you from behind your ear. He’s seen your face heat up at his teasings, but you were being professional, trying too hard not to cause a scene. Smiling and laughing, that was probably what you were here for, to make Falcone seem a little more normal.
It’s hot in his throat, the dream of you being on his arm today. He’d spend money on you, and he knows you’d throw a fit about it, but you’d wear whatever he got for you. Probably a pretty little dress like what you had on today, maybe different shoes though, you seemed to shift from heel to heel outside, flexing and rolling your ankles in the tight leather heels. Not the best choice for someone who’s supposed to be working, but what can you do. He’d offer an arm from your side of his car, pulling you into the murky light, whisper his thanks into your hair and you’d smile down to your feet, anxious about the cameras, maybe. He’s staring at you while his jaw works over his teeth, a weird mindless habit he got from Alfred. A good way to keep one’s tongue in place, the man told Bruce as a child.
“Hey, Bruce Wayne!” He turns at his name, and when he looks back you’re gone. Ducked under his arm and ran off to sit by your company. You kept nervous hands in your lap, and your eyes never met his again.
It devolves from there, but he sees you as he knows you suddenly, back to being his dovey, less mousy, rushing out between bodies to keep your paycheck safe. It’s a headache after you’re out the door safely, he focuses back on the task at hand, no matter how much he needs to keep you safe, he could only do so much as Mister Wayne.
The cold, damp air coating the cave helps his aching head. Not a lot, but just enough to pull his lens out and try to go over the day. He sees you again in the crowd of people, you look less like the dove and more like a field mouse stuck in someone’s garage. Your eyes were all over, scanning the crowds of people, lingering on bodies too close to Falcone. He’s still mesmerized now by you as he approaches the man, his other body-guard stopping him before you dare to look up at him. You seemed almost normal in that second, like you were meeting him for the first time. She was, his own mind supplies. Right.
“She’s quite the looker when she gets cleaned up, isn’t she?” Alfred steps out from the elevator, smiling a bit. “Much better than the last time I saw her, too.”
“Yeah, really.” He’s quiet as the screen rewinds on your face again. Eyes a little wide, lips drawn tight, hands knotted in front of you, and the foul hand wrapped around your hips.
“If I didn't know any better, I’d start to wonder about all the time you spend in her company.” He’s got an eyebrow raised, Bruce ignores him.
He was right, but it’s not the man under the mask you liked, in his mind. It was Batman - Vengeance, not Bruce Wayne - child billionaire. Alfred says something about properly introducing yourself, a proper date, a walk around the park, some sun not killing him. He says a phone call would be too informal, perhaps a real letter, paper and ink. Bruce isn’t really listening, he already knows you. It seems foolish to cross the lines between him and the mask when it came to you. You’d said so yourself, later that night in the alleyway, you assumed Bruce had something to do with all the deaths, you’d called him a freak. A weirdo. End of story.
If he was paying more attention he’d say that Alfred had the gall to laugh at his quiet admission.
“Well, then it may do some good to your public image to be seen out and about with someone on your arm, don’t you think?” Alfred was talking over his shoulder, heading back to the lift, “give it some thought, but do let me know soon, I’ll draft a letter.”
“I - I’m not gonna send her a letter, I can just ask her.” His head finds the crook of his arm on the desk.
“Then do so.” The doors shut. Fuck, he didn’t wanna ask you.
He’s clammed up at first, refusing to keep his eyes open, but you never bring it up. You weren’t technically not doing your job, you were keeping enemy number one busy and out of your boss’s business, so what’s the harm in being lenient on methods.
You kept the lights low in your new digs, the small stove-light casts a warm, orange glow over your bodies. It was like magma, slow moving and burning anything it touched, his hand resting too lightly on your hips while his head was tipped back just-so. Your legs are spread almost uncomfortably to accommodate the size of his thighs while you sit over him, the dingy couch you’d picked up creaking in mild protest. He looked like a renaissance painting come to life, spilling drops of oil over your skin as you pitched forward, resting a head in his neck while his hands trail up and up, dragging the fabric of your loose shirt under his palms. His mouth is hot, leaving open-mouthed kisses along the column, rolling over tendons, working you up.
This is how it goes, you’ve learned the steps to his dance. His gloves get set on your stove, the light is flicked on, and he pulls you from behind until you’re throwing a leg over his lap. It felt like high school, it seemed like he was always worried about someone catching him.
You feel the low hum in his chest as you roll your hips in his lap, hands splayed over the bat that teases, you’re not entirely sure he can feel anything through the bullet-proof armor, but you think he gets off on being so close to you, feeling skin instead of the leather of gloves. His head is thrown back and you dare to ask, “can I take this off?” He doesn’t reply, you know the rules, the helmet stays on. Just in case, he’d always say into your hair.
His hard nose-piece drags into your scalp, inhaling you a bit. His hands find refuge on your shoulders and he pulls you deeper into his chest, finally tipping his head to meet yours, he’s still slow-moving to kiss you, but his lips feel like spring, they thaw your cold core. You breathe in through your nose, getting dizzy from the lack of air.
He’s reckless with his smiles these days, almost like he’s relishing in the ability to do so now that the seal has been broken. You laugh a little and pull away, perching on your shins until they ache with the pressure. You’d sit like this for ten years to see the way his teeth graze his bottom lip, you see the roses blooming from under the eyeless mask. You ached more to pull it from his head, spread your lips over his neck, breathe him in for a change. You see the way his eyes flick open for just a moment and you take the chance to grab his chin, tiling it up you catch him in another kiss - you want him to see you, not hide away like he was so keen on doing.
He’s breathing in through his nose when you pull back to sit at your full height against him, hands on his shoulders for support.
He looks almost human for once.
You wonder what he must think of you.
Large hands play with the hem of your shirt before they dare to run under, feeling the muscles flex in your back as you arch into his touch, pressing yourself into his chest, his nose presses tough into your neck as he bites on the skin - “Ow - hey, baby, careful.” Your mask covers the marks, but they still sit heavy against your skin whilst he’s away. He gives a boyish smirk and you melt for him at that moment. The tight bubbles start to form in your throat and your nose burns a bit. You wiggle your legs closer to the back of the couch and wrap your arms around his neck, you’re looming over him, watching the way his finally-open eyes look over your face, your hair, your neck.
You want so badly to take the mask off, but you know on some level, you’ve started down the path of falling for that eyeless mask, not the man behind it. You think he knows that, too.
a/n: he’s just checking on you. he’s gotta go soon, though, you know.
PART ONE: After an altercation, you’re left with the choice to trust Batman with your secret, or risk him leaving you to bleed in the alley.
PART TWO: You and your Bat finally try to get back into the swing of things, but the two of you can’t shake the clouds over your collective heads.
PART THREE: It’s been a few weeks since Batman has caught up with you - hiding yourself from him means you don’t get a moment’s rest. You’re hot on the tail of his main target, but you’re too close to slipping up for your own comfort.
PART THREE (2): Everyone needs a filler episode, right?
PART FOUR: What has your bat been up to in the days you were so unwell?
PART FIVE: It’s a slow day at home, chores to do, wounds to clean. You know how it is.
PART SIX: Time for a little action on your part, don’t you think?
PART SEVEN: You find yourself, dare you say, in too deep, in more ways than one.
Summary: You find yourself, dare you say, in too deep, in more ways than one.
Warnings: Violence, fighting, gun mentions. No mentions of body type or race.
PART ONE
Love is a double-edged sword, honey. Bear it with caution.
---
It’s grueling, walking back in the dull drizzle. A fine mist has settled along the low ground in the few hours you’ve been out. There’s a sharp pain on the back of your head and your nose hasn’t stopped bleeding, you gave up trying to get it to stop - it’s broken.
You wonder if you should even bother going back to Batman’s safehouse. You’d broken curfew, and father will surely be mad. He didn’t come looking for you while you were out, but you know you’ve got an awful earful waiting back there. Your sock is wet in your boot and the gun is cold on your back. You have a wet patch on the ass of your jeans, too. Great.
You're sure you’ve broken at least one knuckle, too, lacking the usual wrappings under your gloves to keep them in place. Your blood was buzzing, though, you’d forgotten how great it felt to be in situations like that, even if you didn’t get any information.
You’re turning over your hands, staring at the drops of blood leaking from your nose, and you tongue the split in your lip when you hear it, a quick pace behind you, padding with uneven steps when you turn to see a blunt silver rain down right between your eyes. You’re out cold before another thought comes to mind.
It’s familiar, the dark ichor around you. Comfortable almost, at this point. Hands clench into fists. You don’t fight it like you did last time, the pulling down and down as it floods your lungs. The cotton in your head is on fire, the smoke pouring from your ears, your nose, your mouth as it lovingly wraps around you, it’s lulling you to sleep, to that sweet calm below, you don’t have hands to drag you out this time, so you don’t fight against the deep pull of the river. Thighs flex in tight jeans.
It’s sharp, loud pops. They strike like lightning in your sweet haze. Your head dips forward, you wrench it back upright on your spine and try to ward it off. It comes again, louder, once more until your eyes are open, the dull ache in your head grabs you from your stupor and yanks you awake. You take a sharp breath in and feel the tightness around your chest, hands useless as you try to stand, legs stuck in place. What the fuck?
You’re ten miles up, staring down at yourself before you're shocked into place with a slap across your face. You’re tied to a metal chair in a small, damp room. You must be underground, your sweet haze gives up as you’re collecting yourself.
Where underground? The million-dollar question.
The tough ropes scuff into your bare arms, metal cuffs bite your wrists, you’re struggling as you hear more gunshots - that’s what those were, good to know. Still awfully far away.
It’s…opulent here, too. An odd theme of your life, lately. Old paintings lean against the walls on the floor, a moldy vanity, an old sofa is stacked in the corner with a sheet tossed over, and a shelf with plenty of vintage books line a wall. Oswald caught up with you, hadn't he? A small price to pay for breaking his beak, you smirk with your chin tucked into your chest.
You were still stuck, no matter how smug you felt. Your head lulls back, heavy still when you hear the door behind you unlock and open up, the clicks of expensive shoes catch in your ears, “welcome back, dovey,” the name’s gonna stick, isn't it?
“Bet you thought you caught the wind, eh? No such luck, bitch.” He’s still going, “you can’t get off that easy.”
“Is it the sound of your own voice you like so much, Ossy?” It’s sweet saccharine from your split lips. “Or do you just prefer it to the dumb ramblings of your hired company?” He’s quick to snap a man you hadn’t noticed to life, a quick punch to your jaw leaves your head hanging. “Shut the fuck up - listen. I hate to say, I need ‘yer help, sweetheart.”
“And I need that five grand you promised, numb-nuts.”
He walks in front of you, grabbing your chin and forcing you to keep eye contact, you thrash a little before he cracks a crooked grin, “I don’t think ‘yer in the demanding position of this negotiation, eh?” He smells like expensive cologne and cigars. You arch your back as far as you can to try and wrench your chin free, he lets it go with a laugh and you huff. You feel the cold metal of your stolen gun in the back of your jeans when you slump back into place against the rope- these fucking morons left you armed.
Perfect.
“Alright, get to talking, I have a hot date to get to.” You’re buying time, getting him to talk like he was so keen on doing, the man didn’t know when to stop.
“‘Yer awfully chummy with that Batman, aren’t ya? I need some help, and if you play ‘yer part, I’ll give up ‘yer money, as promised, with a little extra for a finder’s fee, yeah?” He’s grinning ever-still as he crunches to eye-level, hands in his pockets and arms arched like wings behind him, “or, I can kill you for the black eye you gave me and the damage to my boys.” You dare a peek over to the larger man in the corner, he’s got a black and bloody bruise square in the middle of his head, and his hand is wrapped up - the one who got the boot.
“What do you wanna know, Oswald?” It’s said through clenched teeth, you’ll have to play along for now, he was right - you’re in no position to fight.
He smiles at you again, “atta-babe,” he whispers as his hand reaches from his pocket to tuck hair behind your ear. You keep your chin out as he continues, “see, this little bat problem I have? ‘Yer gonna help me clear out the attic. He’s gotten too many of my gals into trouble, ‘yerself included, eh? Trouble’s his friend, I think.” You hate that he’s not half-wrong. You squint at him, “what're’ya getting at, Ossy?”
“Come play in my club, sweetheart, I’m in sudden need of a few extra bodies in my court.” You stall a bit - this was a silver-platter situation, wasn’t it? You get into the club, give up a few fake-secrets of your Bat, and Batty can get a man on the inside, “what’s the catch, Penguin?” His smile turns dark at that.
“‘Yer smarter than ‘ya lead on, gorgeous. ‘Yer gonna have to start immediately, Vengeance is here, an’ he’s pissed.” It’s punctuated perfectly with a few more rounds, “I’m not fighting him with-”
“Without ‘yer suit, yeah yeah, you do-gooders are all the same, he already knows ya, you know...” He turns with a hand waving you off and dances from your sight, the door opens and slams, you wait with your bruise-headed buddy until he comes back, a few more rounds - a lot closer now. “It’ll fit. Put it on and clear him outta my fuckin’ club. Consider the suit your finder’s-fee, aye?” He tosses an expensive duffel bag onto the floor as his man unties you, “we’ll give you some privacy, but don’t dawdle.” His hand reaches out as soon as yours are free, palm out, “deal, dovey?”
You shake on it and the wicked grin graces his face again, his other hand slinks from behind and hands you a deep burgundy mask, it’s leagues better than the one you’d gotten last time you made this deal, “time for an upgrade, my dear. Now, deal with ‘yer Batman.” You don’t turn as he takes a few steps away, “oh, and don’t think of pullin’ a stunt like last time, I don’t have that kind of forgiveness lately…” He’s gone and you’re left with the door hanging. You strip as quickly as possible in front of a cracked old mirror and pull up the suit, it does fit perfectly, wrap the utility belt around and snap it into place, step back into your boots and reach for the mask. The suit feels almost bullet-proof. It makes you feel like steel.
You’re standing, shoulders back and a heady scowl on your face. You tuck your hair into the hem of the burgundy suit and slide the mask over, it’s snug. You shake your head and look up at the sound of heavy footfalls.
On your mark. He steps into the room and you turn from the mirror on the old vanity, get set. You feel your back straighten, the familiar confidence of a suit sticking metal poles down your spine, go!
You run at him as soon as he’s through the door, his eyes widen only briefly before you throw your weight into the air from your back foot, wrapping legs around his neck, you use the leverage to attempt to pull him down.
He’s…sturdier than you’d thought. His hands wrap around your thighs and toss you up and over his head, quick to turn as you crouch to your ready, low ground isn’t bad ground, you’re awfully quick in the give of the leather. A leg shoots out to swipe at his feet, your arm on the ground behind you as it swings, he steps back and you adjust quickly, swinging your other leg back around, his foot catches yours and still, not enough to knock him down.
You hear him growl in his throat, he’s like lightning on wet ground, stepping between your legs, he reaches down with a claw-like hand. You twist your torso left, and your hand shoots to wrap around his wrist, you’re on two feet and yank it around his own body with both hands, he grunts as you strain. His other arm is quick to reach at you, he turns almost gracefully and catches one hand white-knuckling his. He almost effortlessly pulls it away from his forearm, “stop!” he’s yelling as he shoves you back. Your arm is pressed across your chest and you’re taking small steps backwards. You try to lean into his grip and plant your feet, but however fast you are, he’s ten times stronger.
His other hand pulls away from you, he grabs your head in his fist and cracks your skull against the brick wall, you waver for just enough time to give him a window as pain suddenly blooms in your left shoulder again, his other hand comes out of yours and you trade places, he's got both of your forearms in his grip now, “what the fuck?” He spits a little with force, both arms are hoisted over your frame, the sudden leverage makes your shoulder burn anew and you relent. He adjusts his grip until he can hold both in one hand - even then he’s still fucking stronger than you right now. You’re kicking at him now with both legs. That was fast.
He reaches behind his cape and pulls an industrial zip-tie from his belt, you hear it zip around both wrists and you trash uselessly. Fuck.
“What the fuck?” He says again, talking to you like he talks to the people he kicks the shit out of - you were now, you reasoned.
“I’m on Ossy’s payroll, Batty baby. Call it a promotion.” You don’t stop thrashing, he seems unfazed. He simply hoists you up and over a shoulder, holding your legs tight, he lets you thump useless hands against his kevlar back. You try to roll off more than once, but again, he’s stronger than you gave him credit for.
He backtracks through the bowels of the club, to a service elevator, and to a back door. Where the fuck were Oswald’s guys? He hung you out to dry while he scurried away, that fucking rat.
It’s cold air that meets you, humid and daunting. He’s a few blocks up the road when he turns down an alley and drops you to the ground. Your back sits against hard brick and he clicks the metal from his chest, cutting your hands free and you immediately reach behind you and pull your gun from your belt. Of course, he saw it glint in the dull light of the dark underbelly, he practically wretches it from your hands, as painfully as he could, and tosses it like an old tissue up the alley.
Alright, fair enough.
He’s properly livid now, the fire in his eyes scares you, you fight that familiar small feeling telling you to curl into yourself. “Talk. Now.”
“What d’ya want me to say, Batty. He’s paying a better rate than you offered and I got bills.” You’re not backing down from the fire in his eyes. The mask on your head giving you too much confidence. You move to stand, back straight, and give a proper shove to his chest.
In a second he’s got both hands on your shoulders, shoving you into the brick behind you, the force leaves you gasping as the air leaves your lungs, “what the fuck does that mean, where did you get the suit?” He’s got his face stuck inches from yours, he’s absolutely fuming now. You feel hot puffs of breath on your chin.
“Penguin’s gonna send folks for me, I’m officially on his side, Batty. Baby, I’m sorry, but he- I, jesus-” you feel deflated, you let your hands grab at his wrists, “he offered me a spot on his team, I can keep an eye on stuff from inside, you don’t think that’s worth something?” You feel like he’s scolding a child. “But you gotta steer clear for a bit, alright? Give me some fucking space to breathe!” You puff your chest and arch your chest into his, trying to get him to back up, he doesn’t relent.
“No,” Plain, “you’re being stupid.” And simple.
“And what else can I do, vengeance? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I have no place to stay, no suit, and someone’s gotta keep an eye on me with your fucking rabid little riddle boy on the loose!” You sound exacerbated, you can hear it in your voice, it’s almost shrill. “Just play your part for a few weeks, that’s all I need.”
“There’s plenty of other things for you to do!” It’s loud, “namely, not working with someone like him.”
You gawk a little, “Batty, what kind of person do you think I am? Not all of us can afford your fancy cars, your toys, your little safehouses! I’m out of options. The end’a’the rope.” He’s still got you pinned, the pressure is starting to make your shoulder throb.
He stops, staring at you, you notice for the first time how blue his eyes are as they look over your entire face. How sharp his jaw is as it works his teeth over, the stubble painting his chin. You don’t know when you’ve bitten your lip between your teeth, but you graze the split and wince.
“You left the safehouse…” He trails a bit, picking his words, “why didn’t you talk to me first?”
You feel his grip loosen, he seems almost desperate to understand. You catch him, for the first time, closing his eyes, they flutter shut and you see how tired he seems for the first time since he’s met you. The dark, hollow mask stares at you with black eyes and you crack. You splinter and break, leaning your head to meet his until your forehead rests against his. You can feel him stiffen just-so and finally, a small breath leaves his lips and you see him break, too.
It’s so quick, you’d miss it if you weren’t so wired. His lips ghost yours as if he’s worried you’ll disappear. Like he’s worried you’ll be upset at him. You’re worried he’d do the same, actually. You feel his hands move from your shoulders to your neck, the idea of a touch runs under the hem of your mask. You lean deeper into his kiss now and let your cold hands mirror his, not daring to break the seal of his helmet. They rest on his shoulder, his neck, where his cape ties into his shoulders. You lean further still into him, letting his hand dance down your ribs and rest on your hips. He squeezes then, pulling you flush into him, eyes still screwed shut like he’s in pain.
“Just,” it’s quick between sloppy kissing, “just be careful, alright?”
You hum into him, sweet and soft, “of course, baby, always.”
He’s quick to pull away from you, eyes still shut, mask resting upon yours, “I’ll find you soon, keep an ear on the ground for me.”
“Anything you need, alright? I promise,” another small ghost of affection, “I’ll be waiting, okay?” You see the anxiety tense in his jaw, your hand ghosts his cheek and you’d almost dare to say he leans into it, almost. He keeps his eyes shut as he straightens, you feel a pit form in your throat. He finally opens his eyes to you.
“You got a lotta blood on your face, y’know?” You reel back in shock and let out a hefty laugh and you see it for the first time, it takes your breath away and you wish you could take a mental photo of this second in time; the man behind the mask smiles at you with genuine affection.
You’ve got a long few weeks ahead of you.
a/n: im not gonna apologize for hornee-baiting you heathens. narratively, it just didn’t fit - sorry. check back next time and ill see what i can shoe-horn in. see also: Bruce “I love the type of woman who can kick my ass” “batman” Wayne is the only Bruce I accept.
