#hitman!reader

[spiderbeam]

IH6: hard liquor (mixed with a bit of intellect)

EVE’S 2K CELEBRATION 🎤: meeting a cute stranger at a bar doesn’t exactly go down the way you expected it to …… ft. kiwi by harry styles

pairing: isack hadjar x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

contents: alternate universe: non-f1, suggestive, implied violence, lots of tension, heavy making out, drinking, i think i channeled some f2 isack energy, plot twist at the end there, horner mention.

The bar is called Killshot—which, in all fairness, is a fitting name. It’s located in what some might refer to as not the best neighborhood, the neon lights inside are an eyesore, and muggings are common as soon as you exit the brick building. If anything, the name is nothing more than a marketing opportunity. Get mugged and get a free drink!

Still, despite any bad rep Killshot could possibly get, the drinks are cheap, and the food is halfway decent—so business at the bar is as good as any other day.

The lights are dim, alternating between honeycomb and dark red, while a song you’re not familiar with plays with a slow beat. You’ve never been a big fan of pool. Even when you gave college a chance a few years back—when your friends would insist on playing a round at the local pub—you just found it to be unbearably dull. If anything, pool was less about the game itself, and more about the moves guys tried to pull on girls. You’ve always liked playing darts more—you’re infinitely better at it, too.

Still—you suppose today pool will have to do. Especially with how he’s been quite clearly staring at you from across the table.

Isack rests his hands on the cue stick as he takes another drink from his beer bottle. You’ve thought it since you first laid eyes on him—he’s hot. The right combination between handsome and cute, with a bright smile and big brown eyes that are progressively becoming your weakness.

You miss your shot and you let out a small huff. Isack chuckles, putting down his bottle at the edge of the pool table. He quirks a brow. “Need some help?”

You bite down a laugh. He might be attractive, but he’s not exactly subtle. You consider letting him make a move without calling him out on it. But, then again… where’s the fun in that? You turn to him, blinking at him innocently. “Are you gonna put your hands around my waist to help me out?”

That gets a laugh out of him. “I happen to be a very good shot,” he justifies, tilting his head at you with a small smile. He shrugs his shoulders. “I could teach you.”

Even when you’re lifetimes away from your life in college, it seems things don’t really change. If anything, things stay predictable. You suppose there’s a silver lining, though. Especially when he happens to be your type.

“Yeah, I bet.” You nod your head, and he takes it as a sign to give you a hand. One of his palms carefully settles around your waist, body pressing against your back as the two of you lean over the pool table. His fingers curl over yours, the heat of his palm almost startling as he fixes your grip around the cue stick. You can feel Isack’s breath against your cheek, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine.

You meet his brown gaze over your shoulder, only to find that he’s already looking at you. The corner of your lip curves upward. “What did you say your major was?”

“Physics,” he murmurs, looking at you with a glint you can’t quite decipher.

“Is it useful for playing pool?”

“Very.”

You turn back to the table, following Isack’s directions as he lines up the cue stick under your free hand. He pulls it back, guiding your hand along with his. He smells like cologne, with undertones of coal and whiskey. The billiard balls clatter against one another. The red one and the yellow one go straight into the pockets at the corners. Isack pulls away as you turn around, though his hand still lingers by your waist. A steadying weight. You grin, only to find he’s already smiling.

“See?” he asks, his voice warm and encouraging. His lopsided smile pushes you to be bolder. “I told you.”

“You did,” you hum, leaning against the pool table and bringing him closer to you by the sleeve of his shirt. “Look at me—already improving in just one game with your help.” You raise a brow, lips curving up teasingly. “Maybe I should keep you around more often.”

He leans closer to you, tilting his head. “Maybe you should.” His eyes flick down to your lips. He’s quick about it, as if you’re not going to catch him doing it—but you do.

You turn to look at the rest of the bar. Crowded—probably at its peak capacity for the night. You press yourself closer to Isack, glossy lips nearly brushing against the shell of his ear. “There’s a guy by the bar that’s been glaring at you.”

His thumb caresses exposed skin by your waist casually. “Is there?” he asks, but you can feel him turning his gaze in that direction. True enough, there’s a guy with blue eyes and a buzzcut by the bar. Next to him, a girl with long brown hair sits impatiently, pushing the ice around her drink with her straw.

You pull back, Isack’s brown gaze flicking back to you near instantly. “He probably wants to use the pool table.”

Isack scoffs. “Well, he can. No one is stopping him.”

“We did kind of monopolize it.” You tug at his free hand, interlacing your fingers with his. “Maybe we should leave it to him,” you suggest.

Isack raises a brow, though his expression is knowing. “And what would we do then?”

You shrug casually. “I have a few ideas.”

The alleyway next to the bar is cold and damp and dark—not that either of you two are complaining.

Isack presses you against the brick wall of the bar, your hands reaching up to tug at his hair. He kisses your mouth with more intensity than you expected, tugging at your lips and combining spit. You pull his bottom lip with your teeth, earning a groan from him that only makes you more eager.

Isack’s hands are once again around the back of your waist, but you can feel him growing more confident. Soon enough, he’s trailing lower, kneading your flesh and smiling against your lips when you let out a sound.

It’s tongue against tongue, teeth on teeth. He’s a filthy kisser—with the innocent face he has, you would’ve never expected him to be this messy. Maybe you’re enjoying it more than you should.

Isack brings you closer to him, and you feel something hard press against your leg. You pull away from him for just a fraction of a moment. “Excited already?” you ask, voice breathy.

He hums something you don’t catch, his mouth moving to your jaw and then down to your neck. “You have no idea,” he says.

One of his hands leaves you for just a second. It’s easier to focus now that you’re not actively kissing him. Easier to keep your goals in sight.

It’s a blink. A blink in an already dim-lit alley. A split-second, and cold metal is pressed against your skin. The scent of gunpowder is evident now.

Isack presses his gun against your stomach the same exact second you tilt his head up with the barrel of your glock.

The night pauses, freezing in time. You hear no cars in the distance, no stray dogs howling, no empty bottles rattling against the pavement.

Neither of you pulls the trigger. Neither of you moves.

“You know, I almost didn’t catch it,” you start, slowly. You search his face, something akin to amusement sparking in yours. “Those pretty eyes of yours must work wonders for you in this line of work.”

Isack narrows his gaze, his chest rising with measured breaths. “You’re one of Wolff’s.”

“And you’re new. Very new. Which means you’re one of Horner’s.” You press the barrel of your gun deeper into his chin, tilting up his head. He responds by digging his weapon deeper into your stomach. It does nothing to unsettle you. If anything, it makes that golden adrenaline drip into your system. “Tell me,” you continue, “how many hitmen has Horner had to replace this year? Four? Five?” You tilt your head knowingly, smugly. “What does that make you? Lucky number six?”

“Watch it.” His eyes are half-lidded as he meets your gaze. His jaw tenses for just a moment. “What was the plan?”

“I imagine the same as yours.” You shrug. “Lure you out, shoot you, leave you for the rats or the cops to find.” A smile curls onto your lips. “Sends a good message, doesn’t it?”

“As good as any,” Isack says. Then, looking at you in the dark, that glint in his eye shifts. He surprises you when a chuckle bubbles out of his lips. “I thought you looked familiar—when they gave me your photo. Should’ve known.”

“Your boss has a thing for sending his people in blind,” you say simply, casually, as if that sentence doesn’t have a bodycount. “It’s too bad. If we weren’t in the same line of work, I would’ve probably taken you home.”

Isack arches a brow, leaning closer to you despite the gun in his face. “Is that a threat or a compliment?”

“You still have my lip gloss on your mouth, so why don’t you tell me?” Isack scoffs a chuckle. His lips look bruised, and a part of you wants to finish what you started. You click your tongue. “Wolff is paying good money for your head as a message to your boss. Pretty eyes or otherwise, a girl’s gotta eat.”

Isack doesn’t seem intimidated, his gaze calculating. “You shoot and I shoot. No one wins then.”

“Maybe,” you say, letting him press you back against the wall, waiting. “It’s still fun, though,” you grin.

“You’re insane.”

Your grin widens—a cheshire smile. “Don’t act like it doesn’t turn you on.”

Isack blinks, and you use the brick walk behind you to push you forward, redirecting the line of Isack’s gun and twisting it in his grip. Your weapon clatters to the floor the second you manage to disarm Isack, before he sweeps your leg and throws you down onto the pavement. Cement scratches your exposed arms, back against the ground as you aim Isack’s gun up at him and kick yours in the opposite direction, far out of his reach.

Isack raises his hands in surrender. You arch a brow, smiling. “Don’t take this personally.” You pull the trigger, only for the gun to lock. You furrow your brows, and Isack opens his palm, revealing the magazine he somehow managed to pull out during the scuffle. “Huh.”

“Not bad for a rookie?” Isack asks. Fuck, is it bad that you find him more attractive now?

You’re trying to draw a different course of action inside your head when you hear it. Footsteps that sound too measured, too cautious to belong to a drunk person.

“Which way?” you hear a man with an Australian accent ask.

“We shouldn’t have waited. Briatore’s not going to be happy,” a female voice says. Fuck. This night was supposed to be clean—when did it get so complicated?

You turn to Isack, you seems to have the same realization. Even if he is as green to the scene as you think, he has to know the name of Flavio Briatore. Unlike either of your employers, Briatore’s not one for hiring hitmen for quick and clean jobs.

You glance back at the darker, damper half of the alley. Isack meets your gaze at the same time. Even without saying it out loud, you’ve both taken note of the rusted old stairs that are just a few feet away. Fire escape.

You jump onto your feet as Isack rushes towards the stairs, an unspoken competition of who can get away first. He runs up while you reach for the metal, hoist yourself up and climb on the outside until you can swing yourself inside. The two of you meet at the second floor, survival instinct kicking in over the unclaimed bounty that stands in front of you. Money, after all, is better spent when you’re alive.

You barely have time to spare a glance down. You didn’t recognize them earlier—but now, with guns in their hands, their faces click into place. Doohan and Pulling. Maybe you’ve wronged Briatore far too many times—in this line of work, you take it as a compliment.

Doohan climbs up the fire escape, while Pulling stays on the ground floor. The sky is cloudy, the moon is gone, the rusted metal stands in a twisted manner that gives no openings—making the shot would be impossible for anyone else.

You hear the gunshot a moment too late. The bullet ricochets against the metal with a loud clanging sound just as you’re pulled to the side by a hand around your wrist. The bullet bites the wall where your head had just been a split second ago. Isack blinks back at you, his hand still wrapped around yours—before the sound of Doohan’s footsteps sends both of you hurrying up. You hop on the handrail, jumping up onto the roof. Isack climbs up, following just a second behind.

The two of you crouch down, evening your breaths as quietly as possible. You reach down for your leg. Footsteps stop just a floor or two below. You didn’t miss the open window on your way up—you imagine he thought you’d gone inside that apartment as soon as he lost sight of you. It’s not like there’s any light to help him, either.

Once Doohan and Pulling are no longer an immediate threat, the two of you stand up, backing away from the fire escape. You’re not quite in the clear yet, though.

“That was close,” Isack says, quietly, cautiously.

“Yeah,” you say, his back facing you. Rookie mistake. The click of a gun being loaded is near deafening. Isack stiffens. “Too close.”

He turns around, slowly, only to see you standing with a smaller pistol in your hand. He raises a brow. “You have a second gun?”

“Now I definitely know you’re new,” you say, voice light and casual for someone holding a gun. There’s a certain sharpness curling around your smile. “Next time, make sure you carry a backup.”

He tilts his head. “Next time?”

“You saved me from a bullet to the head,” you say, placing your gun back in the holster strapped around your ankle. “Consider this a thank you.” Isack doesn’t move as you backtrack, heading towards the rooftop exit. You can feel his eyes keenly following your every movement. You’re not worried—if anything, you almost manage to look relaxed when you side glance at him. “And word of advice? Find a different employer. The last five didn’t get as lucky as you.”

Isack scoffs, though it has an amused ring to it. He doesn’t give it away in any sense, but you know. He’s not gonna heed your advice. You wouldn’t.

The beckoning innocence is in his eyes once again. It’s a front, a lie, but it draws you in nonetheless. Maybe you’ve grown soft. “So, is this the end of our date?” Isack asks.

“Seems like it.” You grin—sharp, dangerous. “But looking forward to the next one.”

[hyperfixationsgobrr]

Jason Todd, who while on patrol one night, finds a young Hitman!Reader on a roof, lining up a sniper shot, the second he slips up and makes a noise, the kid whips around, already has a revolver out, amateur, wouldn’t get past a plate. This kid can’t be older than 20, Jason questions what the hell they think they’re doing, they respond ‘Cleaning.’ Oh. Oh. None of his business. He leaves, sees them around the bad part of Gotham, never comments. Until one night, Jason notices them walking into an apartment, followed discreetly by two of Penguin’s men. Jason investigates, finds them on the floor, no weapon, two shots were fired, two men were shot, one too-young-hitman survived. Jason makes them promise to stop ‘cleaning’.

Based on Leon:The professional

[batman-employee]

Wild Goose Chase

—The Day of the Jackal—

Pairing: Alexander "Jackal" Duggan x Reader

Summary: The Jackal has competition for best underground sniper. He doesn’t care at first, but then you start stealing his clientele, and he grows competitive. The stakes grow higher with each passing assassination and you find yourself enthralled by what the Jackal was capable of.

Word Count: 1,173

Tags: second person pov, no gender specific pronouns are used, depictions of blood, mentions of guns and violence, fighting, swearing, reader's nationality isn't mentioned, reader is a sniper and is pretty much self-taught, reader goes by The Reaper

A/N: Oh em gee I am back with another Jackal story 🙈🙈 since a lot of people liked my other one, I’ll write another because this guy is so difficult to write and I want to broaden my horizons. Reader and Jackal don’t technically interact but I might do a part 2 if it’s requested :)

You didn’t care about the bodies you dropped. You had a job, and you followed through. It was nothing personal, it hardly ever was. You never killed for yourself, it’d draw attention. You weren’t stupid enough for that.

After four years on the job, you’d made quite a name for yourself. However, in those four years, you never hit the same city twice. It was somewhat stifling—turning down good jobs with good money just because of where they were located, but you valued your freedom more than a cool million dollar hit.

Once you hit the one year mark, where, apparently, you made your presence a bit known, you earned the moniker ‘The Reaper’.

Somehow, you managed to never be suspected. You supposed a few years in theater and drama school paid off quite well.

Currently, you were leaving the scene of the crime; some quaint city in Boston. You were walking down the street when your head turned to a store, an array of TVs playing the news. The red band stretched across the screen read: GERMAN POLITICIAN, MANFRED FEST ASSASSINATED THIS MORNING.

“This sniper managed to shoot 3,815 meters, that’s 12,516 feet or 2.37 miles for those who are not familiar with the metric system. Authorities are calling this shooter The Jackal.” The news reporter stated, her hands folded over one another as she spoke. “Unfortunately, no one had gotten a good look at the shooter, authorities are doing their best as we speak.” Her co-anchor added in.

You stared in disbelief—3,815 meters was almost impossible. Not literally impossible, but damn near impressive. You’d heard of The Jackal during your time as a… mercenary… but you weren’t all that interested in what he did. There were probably thousands just like him. But 3,815 meters was something to gawk at.

“This damn world…” croaked an old man beside you. You quirked a brow, “I’m sorry?” You asked, letting out an awkward laugh. The man turned to you and spoke with a straight face; “these people, killing the ones who actually give a damn about us. Don’t they care about the youth of our nation?” He sighed and shook his head.

You deadpanned, blinking. “Right…” you, begrudgingly, agreed. “This damn world.” You smiled weakly at him and walked away. “This damn world for letting selfish, ignorant asses like you do anything you fucking want as long as you’re white and a man.” You muttered under your breath, not even audible to the man that was most likely hard of hearing. He looked older than your oldest grandparent, and that was saying something.

Though, the Jackal was probably both white and a man. But that wasn’t important.

What was, was that no one was talking about you dropping another fascist in Boston. The whole reason you were even in town. You bit into your cheek with a grimace. You weren’t usually all that competitive, but now you were. A guy who goes by Jackal is suddenly taking all the credit? Who even goes by that ridiculous moniker as an assassin? It’s fucking shameful. If you’re gonna be a killer, at least have class.

Jackal. The goddamn Jackal out-bested you. Some jackass (pun intended) named after something that couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to be a coyote or a wolf.

God. Now you pissed yourself off.

You decided to do some research when you got back to your hotel, looking up some of the best snipers who could have made that shot (maybe if you were lucky, you’d gun him down and be on top). But, of course, as a hitman, he was excruciatingly hard to come across.

By this point, you were headed to Europe for yet another job. Given your research, a lot of the Jackal’s work originated from Europe, so you might as well head into his playground, ruffle his feathers (or, fur?), and maybe have a good rival to compete with. That’d be fun. Or maybe you were just a wee bit unhinged and eager to one-up this guy.

But then. That was when it happened. Tallinn, Estonia.

An attempted hit was made on Ulle Dag Charles, but was compromised the moment one of Charles’ own men ruined it. Since it wasn’t a done job, The Jackal was definitely in town somewhere.

Ironically, your target was a woman named Bianca Pullman. Apparently, your guy, stupid fucking Jackal, had this British agent on his ass since Munich. Some place in New York hired you to kill her so his job would be easier.

She, of course, followed him to Estonia, and you followed her. A game of cat and mouse. If the mouse was a highly dangerous being capable of killing anyone and everyone with a single bullet from miles away. This only made the game more exhilarating to you, if you were honest.

Yet, as the days pass, Pullman gained more and more security until she just.. stopped following the Jackal altogether.

That is what you’d say if you were a gullible idiot.

You called in a few favors (few… hundred… favors) and did detective work; allowing you to find out the Jackal’s real name. Maybe if this whole hitman thing doesn’t work out, you’d have another option.

Alexander Duggan, a member of the British army. He was believed to have died on the field, but come on. You weren’t stupid. You had an uncle who faked his death to evade his taxes—this guy probably did something similar to brush his identity off the earth. Because who in their right mind would accuse a dead man of terrorism? What would they do? Lock up his gravestone? Coffin, maybe? Hell, Duggan was believed to have been blown up. Army guys are normally smart, and he probably planned ahead and staged it if he was smart enough to be in the game as long as he’d been.

Duggan was a man of many names—many lives. It would be difficult to track him down from here. From this point on, you weren’t even sure why you were so enamored by his skillset. Like, sure, two miles to shoot some dick in the head is impressive, but seriously? Tracking him across all of Europe? It wasn’t like you were trying to put him to justice like Pullman. Maybe it was just the mystery behind it all? You did love a good mystery novel…

Irrelevant. He was just an amazing sniper and you felt… threatened. That’s exactly it. He was too good, and it threatened your own abilities, so, like one does, you needed to hunt him down, kill him, and take the mantle of Most Badass Hitman.

Then, curveball, you got your hands on the facial composite drawing of the Jackal.

And… for fuck’s sake.

You fucking knew him.

You’ve seen him around before.

Sure, it also kind of resembled a 1980s gremlin… oddly enough… but no doubt, you’ve seen someone who looked like this before.

“Charles Calthrop.” You whispered.

[diejager]

Yall cool with your girl making more money than yall? Ladies yall cool with making more money than your man?

JOYCE, DROP ANOTHER 141 × READER FIC WITH POWER IMBALANCE AND MY LIFE IS YOURS

🐝

For The Right Price

Pairing: Poly Tf141 x assassin!reader

Cw: power imbalance, darkish!reader, assassin, hitmen, blood, violence, mafia stuff, french grammatical mistakes, tell me if I missed any. Note: this might not have been what you were expecting, but uh… I am back on my John Wick obsession😅 Note x2: I don’t really know how people in France speak, so I stuck to my Quebec dialect 😭

Gaz, like much of the others, was unsure —hesitant about this plan. He was initially - and still was - against the idea of hiring an outside hand after what they’d gone through with Graves, and he wasn’t exactly excited to relive that a second time this soon. He didn’t know the exact identity of this so-called assassin Laswell had called. Scratch that, he knew nothing of them: neither name or face, only the alias they went by. The dark and ominous reputation they’d garnered themself through the years of hard working kills and stealthy hits, appearing and disappear within seconds: The Chimera. 

A man eating, woman devouring and stealthy killer that anyone could hire for the right price. Anything went in the darker world under their feet, from the lower bowels of the underground, to the deepest parts of a family built into a towering pyramid. They had the police in their pockets, senators and politicians in their blood and even the government had a used for them. Assassins sent to do their dirty work and keep their hands clean. 

That’s something Gaz hated the most, people in high seats playing the martyr when they’d done nothing to help. He could at least respect The Chimera for being honest of their employment, self-aware of the dried blood caking their hands after every kill. 

“The Chimera as a reputation for being… honest,” Laswell had muttered with reluctance, as if she couldn’t find the right word to describe the killer they were hiring.

All they were given was a few papers with their skills and accomplishments —at least the few that were publicly recorded and known by anyone outside the world-wide organisation. Price had given them the night to memorise it and prepare for the meet-up somewhere in Paris. 

He would be lying if he said that he wasn’t a bit nervous, meeting someone as dangerous as an omen of death, lingering at the top of the food chain with this Baba Yaga who’d retired and another dubbed Zero. They all sat around ridiculously small table and in even smaller chairs at a café, the morning sun in Paris giving the place an air of elegance and artistry, a strange but subtle difference to the reason the five of them sat here, leaving a seat vacant for their mysterious hire. 

Gaz stared down at the french espresso, something he was somewhat excited to try, the small, round cup accompanied by a croissant, was much smaller than the cup he’d usually pay for in UK, but he wasn’t going to complain. It was a rich and creamy, slightly bitter on his tongue, but sweet at the end. Lifting the cup for a second sip, he caught a figure strutting through the patio of the café, slimmed down by a dark blazer, slacks and dress shoes. She looked like she just left a business meeting, a decked in fancy and expensive clothing that made almost made him shy away from his lack of style. 

He brought his sight away from her, blinking once before he nearly jumped at her sudden appearance beside him, hand placed over the back of the seat. 

“Bonjour, messieurs,” she smiled at them and turned to greet Laswell, “et madam. J’espère que vous aimiez ce café, j’aime bien ce petit coin de Paris.”

Then she turned her gaze to him, her eyes brushing over his face and landing on the cup in his hand:

“Oh, merveilleux choix! That’s my favourite as well.”

He cursed in his mind, now feeling even more reluctant to work with The Chimera someone who was both a ruthless killer and a dangerous beauty, threatening to warm the tips of his ears with a small amount of bashfulness. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” she shook Laswell and Price’s hand, muttering out her name, “This should be interesting, I haven’t worked for the British yet. Americans though, that’s another thing.”

Gaz was almost fearful of you, if not amazed by your efficiency. You moved like a shadow, sliding from wall to wall while they worked to catch up to you. Perhaps it was your smaller and slimmer build that made you so agile, where you lacked in strength, you made up in agility.

He felt this imbalance, where he would admire and fear you. You had shown you hand many times when you sneaked up to them, suddenly appearing beside or behind them, surprising even Ghost whose first instinct was to attack, and much to his dismay, found himself locked under you.

There were many occasions where, if you weren’t on their side, you could have disposed of them, shot, stabbed and killed either one or all of them. It felt like helll, living on the edge of life and death on both sides, the exhaustion it led with you hovering over and around them like an omen of death. 

But for all the hardship and frustration they all shared, you had made this mission easier to finish: with less set backs and surprises. You worked behind the enemy line, letting them know where each person was and the weaker points in their surveillance. Your size had come in handy a second time, squeezing through the smallest gap you could find, and he’d watched and listened you work in near awe. 

It didn’t help either, that you had a pretty face, appealing to stare at but not overly beautiful. You were a subtle and quiet beauty, waiting and observing, stalking and learning, you were like a panther, a majestic animal waiting for the right time to strike. If you weren’t so pretty and amazing, he wouldn’t have the issue of being left in amazement while his fingers twitched for his gun, an instinctual act for survival against a bigger predator.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @haven-1307 @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

[creepycuteylove]

Play With Fire (Hitman!Reader x Batman)

Insane, inside

The danger gets me high

Can't help myself

I've always liked to play with fire

♡♡♡

If I were a little less selfish, I wouldn't have done that. Kissing someone without consent, that is.

But that's the benefit of being the bad guy. I don't have to worry about anyone else. I don't have to do shit for anyone else.

I can be as self-serving and greedy as I want.

And... who could resist the temptation of stealing a kiss from the Big Bat himself, when presented with such a delicious opportunity?

It's like Mr. Knight was inviting me to do something quirky when he lowered his defenses like that; he was lucky I was in a... playful mood.

It happened during reconnaissance. A shadow detached itself from the surrounding darkness and dropped down before me. I didn't see him, didn't even hear him, but that didn't stop him from immediately tackling me into the concrete, that brute, making my head bump on the rough surface. Groans and grunts of pain spilled abundantly from my mouth; I didn't bother to put on body armor or protection, this was supposed to be an observation only. Being body slammed by an over-glorified furry that was built like a fucking brick house was not on the menu.

Alarmed by my agonized wails and incapacity to get back up, he came closer and leaned down to check on me  — my, what an absolute darling.

I seized the opportunity and wrapped my hands around his muscular neck, and rather than yanking him down towards me — like I initially planned — I was pulled up, towards him, thanks to the sheer difference in body mass and his perfect impersonation of a motionless statue.

His lips were warm and chapped, pressed tightly into a thin line. I nuzzled them lovingly as a lover would, but no reaction whatsoever.

He immediately reeled back, once the moment of incredulity passed.

I couldn't help but giggle at that memory.

♡♡♡

A charity soirée is currently being hosted at the Gotham Natural History Museum, where my objective, a fellow assassin, plans to kill a high-profile guest. A hilarious turn of events, right? No, not really. I like to hunt down other killers. Not out of nobility, but because I love the thrill of outsmarting them. I wonder, who gets to their target first?

It seems like one lucky CEO gets to live another day, as I follow my mark into one of the more secluded restrooms, probably to retrieve a weapon he hid there beforehand.

"That's a mean-looking dagger you've got there, Jaculi."

Wasting no time, he takes a swing at me. I sidestep the lethal attack, moving away from the door I had just come through. He rushes me again, recklessly. This time, I didn't retreat. I use my standard three-step block: wrist extension, twist to the back, and aim at knee pits to keep him down. I give his wrist a good wrench, forcing him to drop his weapon.

I picked it up, ready to finish the job when I heard it.

"Stop it," someone commands. Commands. Me.

Craning my neck to behold the person who lacks horse sense, I gaze into the most unworldly eyes I've ever seen. Light powder blue eyes that seem almost unnatural next to dark hair. They’re so bright and clear, they almost seem translucent; unusual and unsettling and unique and so, so beautiful. I just want to pluck them out and put them in a jar on my nightstand. But if I were to do that, the cold fire in those eyes would die out... no, I don't want them floating around lifeless in formalin; I want that fire to keep burning.

Jaculi takes advantage of my momentary absent-mindedness and throws me off, jumping out the window, the sound of countless broken shards reverberating on the marble tiles. Instinctively I get ready to go after him, I have a contract to fulfill after all, but there is one major problem. I turn around to look at it.

Pretty boy here has seen my face. Uh oh. This isn't good — for him.

Closing the distance between us with long strides, I make sure the metal in my hand gleams prettily under the artificial light. He doesn't even flinch. Cocky thing.

“Why didn't you just turn tail as soon as you saw what was going on in here? Why did you have to play hero? You think I will just let you walk out of here, alive?"

"If you truly wanted me dead, I'd be dead by now," he replies with a detached voice, unfazed by the blade pointing at his throat.

I stare at him in bewilderment, taken aback by his brazen spunk. Then I burst out laughing. The dagger slips from my fingers; there's no need for it anyways. Bravo, he saw right through me. Killing innocent bystanders is indeed not part of my MO. Either I have to work on my acting skills or Gotham's vapid trust fund baby isn't as dumb as the tabloids make him out to be.

"Yes, you're right. I just wanted to scare you into holding that pretty mouth of yours shut," I get right up into this devilishly handsome face of his, "but since you decided to interfere, how exactly will you compensate me for this, Mr. Wayne?"

He opens his mouth to respond, but I don't give him the chance. I immediately press my lips against his. He jerks away, surprised, but I have one hand tangled in those dark locks and hold him in place. But no matter how I lick his lips and how hard I tug at his hair, he does not return my kiss.

That's okay. I disentangle myself from him and take a step back. I must be grinning like a Cheshire cat, overjoyed by the revelation that just presented itself.

"What a plot twist you are, Mister."

♡♡♡

While sitting idly on the edge of the silk-covered bed, I asked myself how long it'll take to stare a sleeping person into wakefulness. Not too long apparently, even though he tries to keep up the guise of being dormant; but his heart rate and respiratory tell me otherwise. My mask not only looks fancy, but it also got some nice features too.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you kiss like a bat, Mr. Wayne?" I take off my mask, dropping all pretense.

Realizing it's futile to keep up the charade, he sits up and leans against the headboard, face cold and unreadable. In the sparse moonlight, his eyes border on gray — how delightful.

"What do you want?" he asks calmly, with a layer of annoyance. As if having his secret identity uncovered by one of the world’s finest assassins and a magnum aimed at him are just minor inconveniences to him.

I take my sweet time to answer. "After our...  little encounter tonight, I chased after my target. But quelle surprise, one of your Batlings got to them first. You know, the one in the skintight suit with amazing parkour skills. It put me in a very compromising position because I generally avoid altercations with heroes and vigilantes. I had to withdraw from the mission and it stained my 100% success rate. I am really pissed, Brucie— Batman, whichever you prefer. In fact, I am so pissed, that I planted a small bomb in your butler's room."

He leans forward, the cold fire in his eyes flaring up, more vivid and piercing than ever. Sublime. "I swear if you dare-"

"Chill out, B, I'm not here for him. Nobody needs to get hurt tonight, as long as you behave."

"What. do. you. want?" he repeats, this time his voice lower and harsher, as if he's both hissing and snarling. My god, he's so sexy when mad.

I hum thoughtfully, tapping my chin with a gloved finger. "Well, there's the usual: elation, adrenaline, pink diamonds, a pony. But I can get all those on my own. So, if you're asking what I want from you..." I pause, licking my lips. "Kiss me."

"...what?"

"You've heard me. I pecked you twice already and haven't received one back yet. Doesn't seem fair now, does it? So I want you to kiss me — give me your best tongue game, and everyone will be able to leave this manor unharmed.

"You're insane."

I can't help but laugh at that; loudly, without restraint. Once I get a hold of myself, I throw myself at him, forcing him back against the headboard with a painful thunk of his pretty head. I grin at him from where I straddle his hips.

"Go on, Brucie. Impress me. You know what's at stake."

He keeps glaring at me with that intense gaze of his, but it shifts to my revolver, the barrel now pressed against his heart.

"That stays, pretty. Wouldn't want you feeling guilty for not fighting back." I lean forward so that we are nose to nose. "Now be a good bat and do as told."

Without hesitation, he leans forward and captures my mouth with his own.

I freeze up against him for a moment, surprised that Batman is actually doing as asked without further coercion. But then he tilts his head for a better angle, parts his lips just slightly, and moves his mouth against mine in a slow, soft movement and I melt against him.

The kiss is softer than it has any right to be, with an almost endearingly cautiousness; like a pair of long-lost lovers finding each other again.

He lets his tongue trace along the line of my lips, and I open my mouth and lean closer still, deepening the kiss. There's a hand in my hair, pulling my head up and nearer, tangling in my locks as though they belong there. I mirror the motion.

I let my other hand snake across his waist. He must realize by now that I dropped the gun, that he could fight back now, apprehend m—

I sigh into his mouth, his hand stroking my hair with more tenderness than I had anticipated in this situation, and instead of stopping he lets his other hand trail to rest on my cheek. He runs his tongue along the inside of my mouth and matches his tongue's movements with his fingers on my cheek.

A shuddering keen escapes me.

"Bruce," I breathe, breaking our kiss. "That—" I start, still breathing a little heavily. "Consider me, uhm, well, impressed," I say.

Still woozy from that, ahem, fervid kiss, I grab my mask and back towards the grand bay window, only to stop right before it to look over my shoulder.

In the meantime, he finds the firearm and releases the latch, allowing the cylinder to swing out from the frame  — only to find all the chambers empty.

I can't help but smirk innocently at the incredulous look he gives me.

Oh my, how upset will he be, once he finds out I lied about the bomb?

[ktheist]

 next ch.

assassin!jungkook x assassin!reader

x

“Is there no other way?” Jungkook grimly asks but still manages to smile.

“Besides the both of us dying? No, I don’t think so.”  You pull out the gun tucked behind your back.

“Then I’m sorry.” There’s something that he does, it’s subtle - he cocks his head to the side as though he’s looking at something past you. Then he nods.

Before you know it, you’re on the ground with a bloody leg. There’s no pain yet but it’s going to be a bitch when it actually hits.

“That was cheap, Jeon.” 

He looks like he doesn’t want to leave you in all your bloodied mess but when he meets your eyes, you both know the other’s interest doesn’t override your own.

“I know, I’m sorry, okay?”

So he’s out the door you followed him through - not knowing then he’s got a sniper somewhere a few buildings away. 

He hired a fucking sniper to shoot his girlfriend.

[lucis-dove]

Two halves becomes one whole {2}

Description; Many meet trough friends, you and Steve on the other hand met in the most unusual way. So how did you and he meet?

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Rating: Mature

CHAPTER NO/ONESHOT: Chapter 2/9

Word count; 3.950

Warnings; Mention of injury

Author; @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing

A/N: So... I'm not dead? It has been so much in school this time I've been gone and I'm sorry I didn't have the time to publish this chapter earlier, but I didn't  want it to be un-edited. However, here it is at last.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Steve hadn’t let you out of his sight after your talk, even though you thought he would go, most likely pulling you with him, on his daily run he missed earlier that morning, but he didn’t. He spent time with you, talking about every random thing coming to his or your mind. You truly felt that talking to the blonde man did calm you.

”You serious?” You snorted, not too much ladylike, to something Steve said. The laugh escaping under your breath and the shake of your head made Steve feel that the heated moment from before eased up even more. He knew it wasn’t time for taking up the conversation you earlier had again, perhaps it never really would be, but he replayed it in his mind. The way he saw your facade crack bit by bit the more you told him about the likelihood about you and Bucky, being anything really, was impossible when he came to the compound. He saw your past haunting you almost as much as Bucky's. It made him chew on his lip when the memories came back. How you just moved, what you said had looked so different then.

Left shoulder. Scapula. Not enough to kill him, but if the shot would’ve hit its target, not even his superhuman powers would’ve saved him. 

They’d just rounded up the mission, another HYDRA base, as it seemed they only popped up somewhere else as soon they thought they were done. His shield was at his feet and he began crouching down to pick it up, although halted mid-movement. The new tech Stark equipped him with was unusual and foreign, so it would take some time getting used to. Instead of his worked in movements, he now just lifted his hand slightly to retrieve it. He waited for the magnetic force in his suit’s gauntlet to make the shield come back into its place, though it never had a chance to appear. It hit him like a slap to the side, although the immense pain suggested it was more than that. He didn’t know for sure if it was a critical hit, his mind blanking out a bit as he lifted his hand to the wound. The time slowed down as he felt the hole in his suit and the fluid coming from it.

”Rogers, what are you doing, your heart-rate raised point seconds ago?” Tony’s voice came through the com, Steve concluding he must be in the jet already to notice his charts. ”Hit”, his voice came out low, not by choice but it felt like something held him back from speaking louder. His eyes searched the area, the clipped forest the signals from the Hydra base lead them to. He didn’t understand, they’d cleared the area, no more of their agents should be left. 

He was zoned out enough to not hear the words of his teammates trough the com, although the mull of their voices still reached him. Suddenly he caught something, something shimmering a distance away. He fixed his concentration on it and if he hadn’t lost enough blood for it to be deadly, he swore he saw something move, rather someone. It only looked like a shadow at first, then he saw it morphing -almost questioning his sanity- until he saw the person standing up. He recognised the form as a woman and the thing she skilfully slung over her shoulder he only identified cause he’d seen Bucky make the same move in the ’40s. It was a rifle.

”Steve, answer your damn com, could you?” Instead of hearing it in his ear, he heard it from behind him. Nat’s voice made him turn his head, his body following it. Her eyes widen seeing his hand, tightly pressed against his wound, something which couldn’t have been created more than a minute ago, or else he wouldn’t be as steady as he was on his feet. The shock on her face disappeared when she jumped to action. 

”Steve’s hit, shoulder, injury severe by the looks of… everything, affects going to show sooner rather than later, he needs med guys”, she said while pressing even harder on his shoulder and the pressure made him grunt, as the stabbing pain made him wobble. He blinked, trying to get the dizziness out of his head enough to clearly see when throwing a look over this shoulder once more. ”Nat”, he gripped her fussing hands, stilling them enough for her to look up at her. ”Sniper”, the words trailed away when he, trough the corner of his eyes, saw Nat looking the same way he did.

The women were still there, not far away from where she stood up at first, looking over her shoulder. Her hair waved slightly in the silent wind before she made a gesture to them, which made Steve grit his teeth. She saluted him. ”Tony, it was a sniper. Affiliation…”, Nat glanced up at Steve, who only shook his head. ”Unclear. If you’re able, search the area, she can’t humanly possibly have come far” ”Tony is already in the movement and I’ve already contacted Cho, the only thing which should make it impossible for us to take him to her is if you don’t get him into this jet”, Bruce voice sounded over the com.

It was a struggle, but Nat had been able to, with the help of Clint meeting her up halfway, take Steve to the jet. The ride home to the tower was nerve-wracking but not a second too short as Dr Cho met them as soon as the jet landed in the hangar. She couldn’t say for sure, but when Steve had trouble lying down on the stretcher, grunting and flinching away, which just created more pain, she suggested a broken bone in the shoulder. 

The x-ray went fast and with a quick look, Dr Cho could say with certainty that the shot had gone through the scapula, a critical hit for anyone really, although for the circumstances the breakage had been clean. No splitter with the bullet, neither had bone been wrongly fixated, so the only operation necessary would be retrieving the bullet and fixate the broken bone for it to heal correctly. After the surgery and Steve’s awakening, he was informed he would be ok. The tissue would heal quickly, although the bone would take some time. He would be out of the game and even if he was a super soldier, rehabilitation would be necessary to build up the muscles and other soft tissue.

They found her. Maybe a month or so after the incident, but they found her. Steve didn’t believe they did at first, seeing as a ghost never reappear. 

”Hey Rogers, I think I found your shooter”, he remembered Tony informing and Steve have possibly never reacted as quickly as he did. Flying up from his bed, feeling the discomforting pain shooting trough the still not fully healed shoulder. He’d come into Tony’s lab, which served as his office more than the actual one, a big picture of the women on display. Both Tony and Bruce watched it, live footage which had been stopped in action. 

”That’s her”, he couldn’t say he recognised her eyes, as he hadn’t seen it from the distance, neither her hair colour as it seemed to have been in an up-do then. ”Are you sure, don’t wanna get the wrong person. Shooting Captain America ain’t a light crime”, Tony cocked an eyebrow his way, but Steve only nodded. Her movement reminded of the shooters, even if those he’d seen had been few. Something with her seemed to fit the picture and though Tony hadn’t been able to get any footage that time, he didn’t need the comparison. ”Well then we take her in, probably without as much fuss as possible”

The moment you heard a knock on your door and lowered voices outside, you immediately knew what would greet you when you opened. With a smile, you met a small part of the Avengers who stood outside your apartment door, the rest most likely station at other places for back up. 

"You are suspected of shooting a member in our team", it was Tony Stark who spoke and you couldn't but shrug at was he said. "Sure", no denying, neither confessing, something you had learned to do. After that, you followed with them without any hustle, knowing it damn well would worsen a situation that already was under control.

Steve hadn’t been with the ones who took you in, Nat had. She gave him the information about how it went. So the only thing the man found reasonable, even though his injury, was meeting you. He didn’t think he would be able to do it, because Nat almost had pushed him down in bed when he said where he was going, but in the end, he walked down the corridor, the redhead trailing behind him. Even though he didn’t need to limp, the subdued pain emitting from the wound made him do it. He didn’t know if this was a bad idea or not, because you had tried to kill him, although still you hadn’t shown any hostility since you'd come.

Steve stopped outside the interrogation room you quite repeatedly left and came back to, he heard. Looking through the window, he saw you sitting there, a smile on your face as Clint sat opposite you. Your eyes gleamed in the light, while you laughed at something the man said. 

Why did you laugh? The question surfaced in Steve’s mind when he saw you, sitting in cuffs, smiling as if you sat opposite a friend. As he pushed the door open all the eyes turned to him, the conversation dying with his entrance. Your gaze flickered over him, staying a bit longer on his shoulder. In the end, they settled to meet his gaze, your face much more stoic then before.

”How are you doing?” Your question made him frown, sceptical to your casualty. ”Could be better”, his voice was bitter. ”Better could be dead”, the smart comment made him cock a brow towards you, yet he felt like if you weren't a foe, both Clint and Nat would’ve laughed. ”Better could also be not shot”, he answered and you only shrugged. ”Yeah, sorry ’bout that”, you apologised. Steve didn’t answer, he felt that most people would’ve mumbled out the apology but you hadn't. You said it while holding his gaze, something which could be seen as a real apology, although he felt like you just said it because you hadn’t anything to fear. ”Can I talk to her?” He asked Clint, who only glanced at Nat behind him before standing up. ”Steve, can I have a word with you before that?” Nat’s voice made him take a step back instead of forward towards the chair. ”You can’t talk alone with her. She’s the most hospitable person we’ve ever have the pleasure to take in, but we cant trust her just because of that…”, she pointed out in a hushed voiced, enough for only him to hear. He looked over his shoulder, not finding you looking at him expectantly, instead having an easy conversation with Clint. ”She could snap, I know that very well. You can stay if you want, I’ll be fine with either-or”, he said, only wanting to talk with you, not in the moment caring if all of Shields agents stood behind him.

A curt nod from Nat made him turn and take the seat in the chair. Clint nodded goodbye before beginning to walk out of the room, stopping when passing Nat and exchanging a few words. He didn’t concentrate on them, only hearing Nat would be staying, nothing new.

He sat there, looking at you, his shooter. There wasn’t anything special about you, nothing that at least would make him stop and think killer. You were one of those one could see passing by on the busy streets of New York, fitting perfectly in because no one really didn’t in the big city. 

”Why?” ”Need to elaborate Captain”, you answered with a sweet smile. ”How many questions could I probably want to ask you personally?” He knew he sounded more bitter than he intended to, but it seemed you didn’t care about it. ”Oh, more than you probably think you could. Why did I shoot you the way I did? Why did I execute it on one of your missions? Why did I even shoot you?” You sported a sugar-sweet smile, one he actually didn’t think was fake, though you said such heavy things. He didn’t see you flinch, nor did your tone even waver when rhetorically asking any of the questions. ”You hit your head on the last one, why did you shoot me?” ”Because somebody wanted you to be shot” he narrowed his brows, no waver again. You weren't here to play, he noticed that. If he would ask, you probably would tell. ”You're an assassin”, your attention swayed from Steve to Nat when she said this. Browse furrowing much like his own. ”No”, you weren't an assassin, if you so had been you would give everything away to easy. He looked at Nat, her eyes swaying from you to meet his, the same question he had reflecting in her eyes. What were you? ”Your good with guns”, Steve caught himself saying it, too late to take back. ”Observant for only seeing me such a short bit”, you replied, pointing out he’d only seen you for what couldn’t be longer than seconds when he was shoot. ”Had a friend, capabilities similar to yours”, he thought of Bucky, though he didn’t believe his childhood friend had been this good with weapons, even if he wanted to think so. That concluded you were no ordinary war soldier and as you neither were an assassin, only one thing came to mind.

"Interesting friends you have Captain”, you hummed, even though you didn't expose yourself, he knew you compared Bucky to yourself. ”So how much?” This caught you a bit of guard. He saw the shock on you face before you answered, not verbally but with the motion to further explain, mentioning for him to once more elaborate. ”Don’t play dull, you know what I’m talking about. The number, how big was the number?” Steve felt his patience thin, not that he had a reason to feel like it as you, as Nat said, was the most non-hostile person they’ve ever taken in. ”Isn’t it selfish to ask for that?” You smirked when you saw that he would continue. ”No, not if I maybe want to turn myself in if the price is high enough”, his comeback made you chuckle. ”Are you sure the price ain’t gonna give you a heart attack?” You questioned him, as if you were worried about him after putting a bullet in his shoulder. Steve smiled while touching his injured shoulder. ”Didn’t die out of this, so I’m feeling the most alive ever after”, he joked, not knowing where it came from. You nodded as she lifted you finger. Steve saw Nat flinching at the side and he made a sign under the table for her to stay back. With your pointer, you drew a single number in the middle of the table. 

”One? One what?” Steve asked, his curiosity almost licking the table where your finger had drawn the mark. You leaned back, crossing your arms while watching Steve as the answer was as clear as day. ”It’s a nine-digit number”, your voice almost echoed around him and if he wasn’t the slowest on math, he would’ve said the number Nat did. ”One hundred million dollars”, she almost sounded astonished as she said the number out loud. ”Yup”, you popped the p before continuing. ”Pretty number for America’s golden boy”, the smile, almost giddy on your lips, made him conclude that he was more than right. ”You’re a hitman”, he voiced his thought and he heard Nat huffing out her displeasure. He saw how you snapped to look at her. ”You serious”, you snorted. ”At least I get money for my job, instead of just a pat on the head”, Nat squinted her eyes, while Steve was in shock to say anything at the remark. He was grateful for when the door swung open, although none less surprised. Fury walked in, a few agents staying behind outside the room. 

”Did you need to get into trouble?” He didn’t direct it at Steve, instead of at you. ”You knew you couldn’t keep me a secret forever”, you answered easily, but Steve saw how a minimal part of your jaw clenched, the smile much more forced than before. It wasn’t Fury who’d sent you, but he knew about the profession or else you wouldn’t incline to him with ”keeping you a secret”. ”Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff, I suppose this interaction is necessary to clear her name, even though you are more than rightfully to be suspicious”, Fury said before taking a glance over his shoulder. ”It would be for the best Director”, Nat’s forced answer came and Steve saw the gears turning in her head. She noticed him looking, with the glance she gave him, they’d agreed on one thing. Something wasn’t right and they would keep it shut until, if ever, they needed to say something. 

”Is the equipment off?” Fury’s voice brought back Nat’s eyes to him. ”Not for the moment, seeing as it was needed before. I’ll be back in a minute” ”Romanoff, you can stay and watch that nobody enters. I’m certain Captain Rogers can further tell the information later”, he said before Nat even was able to leave her spot. She cast a glance at Steve, not worried but wondering, before exiting with a curt nod. ”So Captain…”, Fury began once again ”This is one of Shield secret weapons, close to none know she exists inside the organisation. Meet Y/N Y/L/N, S.H.I.E.L.D’s very own hitman” ”Pleasure to finally meet”, the women said and then it went up to Steve why you knew Fury and possibly other people as well. You played a double game.

You didn’t know how far you would’ve been able to walk by the amount of pacing you’d done back and forth in your room. Probably a mile. You were equally surprised that you hadn’t gone down a floor yet.

”If you wanted an invitation to my room, you could just come down and knock, instead of coming through the roof”, you knew the voice, had heard it shout at you countless times in the gym, laughed with you till you cried, but at the moment it didn’t register fast enough. Faster was your movements, your learned habit, your instinct. Your hand had gripped the cold metal under the pillow on your bed before you could stop yourself.

Nat raised one of her eyebrows, which you only noticed by halting your movements and looking over your shoulder. It wasn’t the only shock in the room, yours was probably higher than hers. Although the action, you didn’t try playing it off, instead you just sighed and laid your hand on top of your pillow.

”If that’s how you’re going to meet Barnes, then I suggest you rethink it”, you slumped down on the bed, hands almost irritably rubbing your face. ”I know… I know”, you muttered as you kept looking at the pillow, almost sensing the cold metalled weapon laying underneath. ”How are you doing?” You heard Nat’s footsteps slowly coming closer. ”Honestly?” Even though it was a question, you knew the answer before she nodded. ”Not good, Steve reminded me a few days ago that Bucky would come here and begin getting settled. So I’ve been cooped up in here ever since”, you responded. You remembered the first time Steve mentioned the preparations for Bucky’s arrival. You hadn’t understood it then, but when Steve went out with the information that most of the team would be staying in the tower and missions would only be assigned if it was necessary, it was clear afterwards. You also remembered the second time, four days ago. Steve had caught you in the hall heading down to train when he reminded you, he’s going to arrive tonight. You couldn’t remember much from that training session, besides that you came from it with a split knuckle. It had been a month, maybe even two, since Steve and you went to the cafe and he told you everything. One, maybe two months since the stress of Bucky’s arrival made you go into meltdown and Steve comforted you. You felt that another wasn’t far away, but you knew Steve wouldn’t be close this time.

”I noticed”, she stopped before continuing, and the short while you glanced at her. She almost looked troubled by the faraway look in her eyes. ”I’ve seen Barnes here and there, but Steve said he would wait with the interactions a bit.” ”Understandable”, he had talked with you about it. How he should proceed with Bucky coming here and you’d advised him to take it easy. Make Bucky choose when he would go somewhere. Show him the places he will feel secure in first, the rest later. Secure places were important if he would start feeling safe. ”You know you ease Steve’s mind a lot helping him out with how he should think”, now you turned to the redhead sitting beside you. She had a gentle expression, although her red hair framing her face made it look a bit more intense. ”It’s only my pleasure”, you shrugged before continuing. ”It would feel useless if I took my degree without even using it”, she almost snorted out a laugh when you said this. ”You remember that you worked as a psychotherapist, right? Because I do. So you shouldn’t feel your exam is useless. Although what you can feel a bit futile about is not helping Barnes with anything”, a chuckle escaped you, the closest you’d been to a laugh the past days. ”Thanks, Nat, made me feel good then turning it around against me, really nice”, she only smirked, while standing up. ”You know you should help him, your the only one in the actual team having the right knowledge about how to”, you stood up after what she said it, your thoughts immediately going back to the conversation you had with Steve those months ago. You couldn’t do it. ”You know I can’t, I’ll just ruin it”, she cocked an eyebrow towards you all the while she crossed her arms. ”Why are you helping Steve when he asks?” ”Because he needs help”, you didn’t hesitate on helping Steve, he was one of your closest friends, almost bordering to family for you. ”And Bucky doesn’t?” You were shocked, your mouth opening and closing without so much as a sound coming from it. In the end, you let your head fall, shaking it, in disappointment or ignorance, you couldn’t tell the difference. ”I thought so”, was Nat’s final words before opening the door and exiting.

Series taglist: @buckysforeverprincess

Forever taglist:  @krystallynx @haven-in-writing @flowerchild121​ @thejamesoldier​ 

[hyperfixationsgobrr]

The Cleaner

Jason Todd x Platonic Reader

982 Words

CW: Blood, violence, depiction of wounds, foul language, drug mention, torture flashback, guns. Tell me if I missed any.

Author Note: My first longer piece, based on a little rant someone commented on wanting a longer one, and I'm sick and putting off an essay, so yeah.

9:48 PM March 16, 2011

Almost done with his shift, Jason trudged through the freezing streets of Gotham. As he walked, people looked away, stopped talking, stopped breathing. No one wanted to face the Red Hood. 

Jason tried not to think about the blood quickly soaking through his gloves. That asshole deserved it anyway, tried robbing the only decent store in this godamned city. Maybe Jason did go a bit far, but when has that ever stopped him?

This was the bad side of Gotham anyway. The side Batman didn't go unless absolutely necessary—the place where you came with bad intentions. 

Whatever. 2 hours and 12 minutes until he could go 'home' and pretend that everything is fine. 

He watched the alleys, usually where the bad shit happened. He noticed two men, most likely in a handoff. Whatever, none of his business. Then he caught it. On the roof of a nearby building was a sniper rifle, terribly hidden, with someone lining up a shot for the man in the handoff. 

Jason rushed to the building, climbing up as quietly as a man his size could. Sure enough, a sniper. Young, couldn't be older than 18. He took out his pistol; it would just be a quick shot, might as well get it over with. One less asshole to deal with. Another step forward and- 

Crunch

 Godamn it. The kid whipped around, immediately pulling a revolver out. 

That didn't particularly matter; his bulletproof vest could take a revolver shot. No problem

 "What the fuck are you doing here?!" 

They sounded far too young to be in this line of business. Their handle on the revolver was sloppy, amateur even. Not a threat. 

"Look, I don't want any trouble, just wanted to see what was going on." 

He half-heartedly grumbled as he looked down to see that he had stepped on a beer bottle. Damn it.

"Who the fuck do you think you are,  'investigating' shit like this?" 

"Y'know, a kid like you shouldn't have such a potty mouth. What are you even doing up here?" 

"I'm cleaning." 

"Cleaning? Kid, you're like- twelve or something. Plus, everyone can see the rifle from 3 blocks away, at least learn how to do this properly."

"Damn it!"

Jason will admit, it was pretty funny seeing this kid scramble to disassemble the gun and hide it.

"Kid, go home. Where the hell are your parents?"

Instant mistake, he could immediately see the cold fury that settled in their eyes the second the words tumbled out of his mouth. Too many kids in Gotham without parents.

"Six feet under, dipshit."

"Okay, well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm in the same boat, kid."

That seemed to ease up the tension a little. Jason saw out of the corner of his eye a bunch of Penguin's goons stalking into a warehouse. Nothing good happens in warehouses.

"Kid, I've gotta leave. A word of advice. Quit. You're too young for this shit, and one day you're going to piss off the wrong people, and you're gonna get killed in some godamn alley."

With that, he climbed down from the roof, leaving a stunned kid still clutching a revolver.

12:37 AM March 17, 2011

Penguin's little clique had been dissolved, at least for tonight. Jason only got a cut on his leg. Nothing too bad, a quarter of an inch deep, pretty clean, probably wouldn't need stitches. Plus, Jason had been through much worse anyway. 

He trudged home, if you could call it that. A studio apartment in the heart of the city, all it was was a mattress, a closet of clothes, and a poorly stocked pantry, just the essentials, protein bars, dried fruit, jerky, canned food, and crackers from the crappy Italian place down the street. 

He stripped off his uniform, shoved it in the old washing machine that barely got the stench of blood out. He averted his eyes from the mirror, not wanting to see the scarred, angry man that would stare back. 

Jason cleaned the wound in the dusty tub, his fingers trembling slightly. Biting the inside of his cheek to distract from the sting, he wondered why the scars refused to heal. They have to be years old already.

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It's so damn dark in here...fuck...how many days has it been? Bruce has got to come soon... he wouldn't leave me with him.

"I'm not the bad one here, oh no no no, it's Batman, he's the one that abandoned..." 

Jason couldn't even focus on that dipshit's voice; his arms were screaming, and his shoes could only scratch the floor. What was the Joker even doing? He's mimicking something, but Jason can't make out the words. 

Thud

God, the floor was so damn cold, Jason couldn't catch his breath, lungs squeezed too tight. What is that maniac holding? Is that a branding iron? Shit, that bastard is approaching him. Jason tried his best to inch away, but his whole body screamed.

"I want to keep him forever."

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Jason snapped out of it with a sharp intake of breath. The water is almost to Jason's knees now. Fuck. Jason finished up and dried off, taking a shuddering breath. He grabbed a protein bar from the pantry and limped to bed. Turning on the news on his shitty TV. Of course, Batman was getting praised for saving people. Batman always ‘saves’. But where was Batman when Jason needed him? Off ‘rescuing’ some other poor kid, claiming to be able to make them into a hero.

Some hero.

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Written for @readerunnamed