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kanerallels · 2 years ago

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The Kanan as a Lunar Guard au as requested by @seleneisrising for my 501st follower celebration!

Quick warning: This au is a little darker than most of mine. Most of it is fine, but there is some violence and blood, and some death.(caused by someone under mind control, so they're being forced to kill someone. It's not that graphic, but I felt I should add a warning.) If you've read TLC, you should be fine, though!

He had to make things right.

Kanan knew that much. It was the one thing he was actually sure of right now, as he checked around a dark corner, hand hovering near the gun he’d stolen. It wasn’t his favorite idea, but it was a good back up.

He took one more glance around the hall before looking back at his companion. “The coast’s clear,” he said quietly.

The small, dark haired kid who popped out from the doorway he’d been hiding in didn’t look like much at first glance. But Kanan knew better. Because this boy was a shell— a Lunar born not only without the ability to manipulate bioelectricity, but who was unable to be controlled by anyone with that ability.

There were no shells— none that lived among society. They were taken at birth, ripped away from their families. But this boy had escaped that. Until now. Kanan felt a shudder tear through him at the memory of what he’d witnessed only hours before.

“Let him GO!”

The woman’s screams ripped through the streets, and Kanan saw one of the guards standing next to him shift uncomfortably at the sound. Kanan couldn’t blame him— the sound of agony made his stomach roil.

Stepping forward, he caught the woman by the arms as she lunged for the guard who was dragging away her son, who was staring with huge blue eyes. “Step back, ma’am,” he said firmly, keeping his voice stern.

“Let him go,” she begged him, finally tearing her gaze away from her son and latching onto Kanan. “Please— he’s not going to hurt anyone.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Kanan said. “He’s a shell— these are the rules. He should never have been here this long.”

Even saying the words hurt, like he was plunging a knife into a part of himself that was barely living. It’s wrong, his mind whispered. It’s wrong and you know it.

The woman’s husband stepped forward, gently pulling her away from Kanan and into his arms. His gaze was locked on Kanan, however, as he said, “Please— you’re a thaumaturge. There has to be something you can do, some exception you can make.”

Never in his life had Kanan wanted to do something more, to fight back. He opened his mouth, not quite sure what would come out—

“He certainly can,” came an accented and horribly familiar voice. Thaumaturge Isaacs stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. “He can remove this aberration, as should have been done in the first place. And you two shall be disciplined for committing a crime such as this. You two should be ashamed.”

Pulling away from her husband, the woman glared at Thaumaturge Isaacs. She didn’t have a shred of fear on her face, and Kanan found himself admiring her as she said, “Discipline us all you want. I will never be ashamed of raising our son.”

“How noble of you,” Isaacs said, a thin, unpleasant smile crossing his face. “Unfortunately, Her Majesty does not accept such excuses. I’m sure your executions will be quite pleasant.”

To Kanan’s surprise, there was no real fear, no panic on the couple’s face. But the woman bowed her head, looking shaken. After a moment, she stepped closer to Isaacs, and looked up with a pleading expression on her face.

“Please,” she said. “Please, keep Ezra safe.” She took a deep breath, and then her gaze moved to Kanan, and he realized with a jolt she was talking to him.

“Please,” she repeated, and then moved, faster than Kanan would have expected. There was a flash of metal, and Isaacs let out a roar of shock and pain as a knife plunged into his chest.

It missed anything vital, instead slashing open the area between his collarbone and his shoulder. The woman pulled it out and went for another blow— and then froze. From the way her eyes widened, panicked, Kanan knew it wasn’t voluntary.

Judging by the snarl of rage on Isaacs’ face, he knew what was coming next. And he couldn’t watch. So as the woman turned to her husband, raising the knife, Kanan slipped past Isaacs and headed towards the guard who held the boy in place. “I’ll take care of him,” he said brusquely, pushing the boy forward before the guard could protest.

“Wait,” the boy stammered, trying to twist out of Kanan’s grasp. “No— Mom! Dad!”

“Ezra!” called the man, his voice shaking. “Stay strong! We love you!”

“Don’t look back,” Kanan told him, pushing him forward. “Trust me.”

The boy tried to anyway, but Kanan kept him moving, even as they heard a scream of pain and a cry of agonized sorrow from the woman. Even as there was a final cry that Kanan knew meant they were both gone.

He could hear the boy sobbing, shoulders shaking. He tried at least once to escape, to pull away, but Kanan kept him moving until finally, they reached the transport. Bundling him into the passenger seat, Kanan slid into the driver’s seat.

Starting the engine, he started them moving forward, slipping down the streets. He didn’t bother waiting for the guards or Isaacs.

“What are you gonna do to me?”

The boy’s voice was shaky and full of tears, but defiant. Like his parents. Swallowing hard, Kanan wished— not for the first time— that he hadn’t been born with such a strong gift. That the queen hadn’t taken notice of him. That they hadn’t been able to use his family against him when he tried to decline the offer to become a thaumaturge. That he’d been able to stand up to them.

I’ve sat by long enough. I can’t let this one slide, too.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he told him, his voice steady. “I promise.”

That had been a full week ago. Kanan had managed to cover for the two of them, sneaking Ezra food as he hid in Kanan’s quarters, but only just barely. Luckily, he’d come up with an escape plan. He just really, really hoped it worked.

“Remember the rules?” he asked Ezra quietly.

Nodding, Ezra said, “Stay quiet, don’t move, and only get out when you say it’s safe. And if you give me the signal—” his voice wavered. “Run. But I don’t like that part.”

“Neither do I,” Kanan said. “But we don’t have much of a choice right now. We’re close, though.” Putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he said, “You ready?”

Taking a deep breath, Ezra squared his shoulders in a way that reminded Kanan of his last glimpse of the boy’s father. I’m sorry, he thought, not for the first time. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” Bending down, Kanan grabbed the case he’d brought with them— a large crate, set on wheels. Just the right size for a fourteen year old boy to hide in. “Get in.”

Ezra scrambled in, curling up into a ball, and Kanan put the lid down, leaving a tiny crack so the boy could still breathe. And push open the lid and make a run for it if he had to. But Kanan preferred not to think about that.

Tugging at the hem of the guard’s coat he’d stolen— which was a little too tight around the shoulders, but fit well enough that no one would notice— he took a deep breath. This is it. No turning back.

He wasn’t afraid— not of leaving. The only thing he was terrified of was getting caught. And the best way to avoid that was to move, and fast. So, grabbing the crate, Kanan propelled it forward, pushing it down the hall at a brisk clip.

It was late enough at night that Kanan didn’t see anyone as he made his way to the hanger nearest to his rooms. Choosing one of the ships closest to him, he was wheeling the crate up the open ramp when he heard a voice behind him.

“You there, guard!”

Oh, kriff. Kanan flicked a quick glance over his shoulder as he pushed the crate the rest of the way up the ramp, settling it into a secure position. With a jolt, he recognized the coat of a thaumaturge, standing in the middle of the room.

Things were about to get messy.

“Can I help you, sir?” Kanan asked, moving down the ramp a little ways.

“What exactly are you doing out here so late—” the thaumaturge’s eyes widened as they locked onto Kanan’s face. “Jarrus?”

Kanan moved, before the man across from him could. Diving forward, he slammed bodily into him, knocking him to the ground. The thaumaturge thrashed wildly, and shouted, “Guards! I’m being attacked!”

Slamming a fist into his jaw, Kanan knocked him out, and scrambled to his feet. The sound of footsteps in the corridor caught his attention, and dread swelled in his chest. Time to go.

He’d only just made it up the ramp when the door burst open, and a flood of guards poured into the room.

They took one look at Kanan, who slammed the button to raise the ramp, and immediately pulled their weapons. Drawing his own gun, Kanan shot the first one without hesitating and ducked behind a crate as bullets rattled off the interior of the ship. One ricocheted, and he felt pain blaze through his arm as it bit through his ill-fitting jacket.

As the ramp started to raise, muffling the sound of shouts and gunshots, Kanan got to his feet. Moving to the crate where Ezra was hiding, he flipped open the lid. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide and concerned.

“I need you in the cockpit,” Kanan told him, and Ezra immediately scrambled up and over the edge of the crate. He followed Kanan as he headed into the cockpit, and took the pilot’s seat.

“Buckle up,” he ordered the kid, who obediently strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat. Kanan focused on the console, switching levers and bringing the engine to life. We need to keep moving. Need to get out.

He didn’t move out of his trance, his focus on the ship, lifting it off and cruising out of the dome where he’d lived for his whole life. It was time to leave it behind. After everything he’d seen, everything he’d done, anywhere was better than here.

And there was really only one anywhere they could make their way to. Earth.

“Kanan?”

Ezra’s hesitant voice cut through Kanan’s thoughts, and he glanced up. “What?”

“You— you’re bleeding.”

His words brought the pain rushing back, and Kanan held back a wince. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Glancing at the console, he frowned. “Better than the ship is, anyways. I think we took some damage back there.”

“Are we gonna make it to Earth safely?” Ezra asked.

Taking a deep breath, Kanan said, “I hope so. Here goes nothing.”

The time slipped by, growing more vague and dizzying. Kanan knew the blood loss was affecting him, and he knew the ship was getting worse. But they couldn’t stop. They couldn’t. Not if there was still a chance that they could make it.

They’d only just made it through the atmosphere when the ship gave out. Kanan tried desperately to help the ship recover, to save it. But it didn’t work.

He heard Ezra scream once, shocked and terrified, as they plowed into a stand of trees he could barely see in the darkness of night. The ship shook, throwing Kanan forward, and his head slammed into the dashboard. Everything went black.

Hera jerked away, sitting bolt upright in her bed. For a minute, she wasn’t sure what had woken her, and then it registered. There had been a loud boom, somewhere out in the forest.

Sliding out of bed, she crossed the room to her window, pulling aside the curtains. At first, she saw nothing. And then, a dull glow made itself clear in the distance, beyond the forest that sat not far from her house.

Something’s wrong. It almost looks like… did a ship crash? There hadn’t been many in this area— Lothal was isolated enough that they didn’t get a lot of outsiders. And the ones they did didn’t crash their ships in the middle of the night.

But Hera had a gut feeling about this, and she tended to trust her gut. So, after quickly dressing, she headed out the door, stopping only for her bomber jacket. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, her shotgun.

You couldn’t be too careful, out in the woods in the middle of the night.

She’d made it out of the house, and halfway across the field that separated her house from the woods when she heard someone call her name. Glancing over her shoulder, Hera saw Sabine on the porch, a blanket draped around her shoulders.

“Stay in the house,” she called to the girl. To no one’s surprise, Sabine didn’t listen. Instead, she darted forward, crossing the grass in her bare feet as she caught up to Hera.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To look into that sound,” Hera said, deciding it was best not to argue. The girl could be incredibly stubborn sometimes, and it was good to have backup. Just in case. “It sounded like a ship crashing.”

“Smells like it, too,” Sabine commented, nose wrinkling. Hera could smell the same thing— the strong odor of something synthetic burning.

Together, they headed into the woods, weaving through the trees and towards the source of the smell. It wasn’t long before they found it.

It was, in fact, a crashed ship. Hera winced at the sight of the torn metal and shattered glass— the ship had barely held together, and had annihilated a couple trees on the way. But that wasn’t what made her pause, brows knitting together. “This design,” she murmured. “It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen here in the States, let alone in Europe.”

“Maybe we should focus less on that, more on where the passengers went?” Sabine suggested. “Looks like the ship’s empty.”

She was right— the windshield had been shattered, and there was no sign of any occupants. But as Hera moved closer to the ship, she saw the way the glass had been pushed out, and a few smears of blood on the metal. More spatters left dark marks on the grass, tracing a path deeper into the forest.

They can’t have gotten far, whoever they are. Raising her voice, Hera called, “I know you’re out there! And you’re hurt. Let us help you.”

She paused, awaiting a response— but there was none. “Well, it was worth a shot,” Sabine said. “Now what?”

Hera started to answer, but then a rustle in the bushes cut her off. Turning towards it, she saw a dark figure moving towards them, its pace stumbling and unsure. As it drew closer, the shape resolved itself into a man. Most of his features were still obscured by the darkness, but the gun in his hand was clear enough.

Moving swiftly, Hera brought her shotgun up to her shoulder. “Stop right there,” she told the man. “Not another step until you drop the gun.”

He did stop, weaving a little on his feet. The gun slipped from his fingers and he spoke. “Please,” he said, his voice rough and deep. “Please. Help him.”

Before Hera could begin to ask one of the myriad of questions in her mind, the man's knees gave out and he crumpled to the forest floor. Lowering her weapon, Hera handed it to Sabine and stepped forward. Moving into a crouch, she grabbed the man by the shoulders and rolled him onto his back.

Taking one look at his face, she let out a choked gasp. He was covered in blood. Most of his eyes were obscured by it, but Hera could see shards of glass digging into his cheek, and her stomach turned.

“Sabine, go get Zeb,” she ordered. “Tell him to get a transport and get back here, fast. And call the doctor, tell him we're on our way.”

“On it,” Sabine said. Pausing only to set the gun against a nearby tree, she bolted back the way they'd come, her blanket falling to the ground behind her. Hera only sent one look after her before turning her attention back to the man laying on the forest floor in front of her.

“It's going to be okay,” she told him. “Sabine's going to get help, you'll be fine.”

“No.” The word was barely a whisper, and Hera frowned. “Please. Help Ezra.”

Ezra? The way he was talking, it sounded like… There's someone else out here.

Getting to her feet, Hera headed in the direction the man had come from. It wasn't more than a few minutes later that she found what she was looking for. Hiding inside one of the bushes was a boy, not my older than fourteen. He lay on his side, unmoving, but as Hera knelt next to him, she could see the rise and fall of his chest. When she checked, his pulse was steady, and he only had a small gash on his forehead.

He must have been knocked out in the crash, Hera guessed. But how did they crash? Why? Something here wasn't quite right.

The hum of an approaching transport caught Hera's attention, and she headed back to where it was just coming to a stop, near the crashed ship. Sabine hopped out, followed closely by Zeb, their neighbor. “Karabast,” he said, staring at the crashed ship. “Someone made it out of there?”

“Two someone’s, actually,” Hera told him. “There's a kid in the bushes. Unconscious, but he's not nearly as bad off as his friend.”

“Tough kid,” Zeb said. “I'll go get him first, then.”

As he headed into the bushes, Hera moved next to the man. He didn't react— odds were good that he's lost consciousness. “He's okay,” Hera told him anyway. “We found Ezra, now hang in there.”

He stirred a little, and for the first time Hera noticed what he was wearing. Under the blood and dirt stains, the tattered jacket looked almost familiar. Like she'd seen it before.

But then Zeb was back, and Hera was helping him get first Ezra, then his companion, into the back of the transport. Minutes later, they were zipping across the grass and towards the small town of Lothal.

When they arrived, Dr. Meridian was waiting for them outside her office. Between Hera, Zeb, Sabine, and the doctor, they managed to get first the man, then Ezra inside.

The doctor looked over the unconscious Ezra first, and proclaimed him possibly concussed but fine. But when she disappeared into the second room with the man, Hera knew it would be a while before she came back. The image of the blood-soaked wounds on his face came back to her, and she winced.

Sabine had taken up one of the two chairs in the waiting room, with Ezra curled up in the other one. Zeb was pacing back and forth, and Hera leaned against the wall, watching the minutes tick by on the clock across from her.

The room was quiet, so quiet she could hear the second hand on the clock ticking. So quiet that when Ezra stirred, Hera’s gaze moved to him before his eyes opened.

When they did, they widened quickly. “It’s okay,” Hera told him quickly as he shrank back. “We’re friends. Your friend is in the other room— you’re Ezra, right?”

“Y-yeah,” Ezra said slowly, staring at her. “Who are you— and where are we? Why isn’t Kanan here?”

Kanan. So that was the name of the man. “He was hurt in the crash,” Hera said. “That’s where we found you. I’m Hera, by the way.”

“Hi,” Ezra said, looking around the room. His gaze moved from Zeb, to Sabine, who gave him a half-wave, then back to Hera. “Thank you. For helping us. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course we did,” Zeb said. “We’re not monsters.”

“Right, but— well, I know that Earthens don’t really like Lunars.”

The room went quiet. Oh, Hera thought. That explains a few things.

Looking between them, Ezra’s eyes widened. “Oh. You didn’t— um, I promise we’re not gonna hurt you? I can’t even use the gift and Kanan promised he wouldn’t, I swear. Just please, don’t give us back—”

“We’re not going to,” Hera told him firmly. “I promise.”

“R-really?”

“Really,” Hera said firmly. “You’re far from the first Lunar that’s wound up in Lothal. It’s a good place to hide, if you need to. Now, why don’t you tell us what happened? Start from the beginning, and take your time.”

Slowly, falteringly, Ezra began to tell them. About how he’d grown up in hiding, protected by his parents for as long as they could.

But then Queen Levana’s soldiers had found out about him, and they couldn’t protect him anymore. They had both been killed— Hera gathered that much, though Ezra didn’t talk about it much. “But Kanan didn’t let them take me,” he said. “He protected him, snuck me out.”

“That’s a bold move for a guard,” Hera murmured.

“Kanan’s not a guard,” Ezra said. “He’s just wearing the coat so no one would realize it was him. He’s, um. He’s a thaumaturge.”

Zeb cursed, and Sabine’s eyes went wider. “Wait. Don’t thaumaturges work specifically for Queen Levana? And, you know, do terrible things?”

Ezra’s gaze dropped. “Yeah. But he helped me. He saved me. So he can’t be that bad.”

Hera thought of the desperation in the man’s voice when he’d begged her to help Ezra first. Not him, but Ezra. He’s right. Kanan cares about him, and he wants to help him. Hera didn’t know this man, not really. But she trusted her gut, and her gut told her that this man was a good man, even if he was flawed.

As she was thinking, the door to the other room creaked open. Hera looked up as Dr. Meridian stepped through, closing the door behind her.

“Is he okay?” Ezra asked instantly, sitting up.

The doctor glanced at him, smiling warmly. “I see our young friend is awake,” she said, her accented voice soft. “How is your head feeling?”

“Fine. Well, it hurts a little. How’s Kanan?”

“Your friend is stable,” the doctor assured him. “I cleaned and dressed his wounds— a bullet wound to the arm, and multiple wounds to the face and eyes. The glass came out cleanly, but the damage to his right eye is so extensive that I doubt his vision will recover.”

“So— he won’t be able to see?” Ezra’s voice shook, and Hera instinctively reached out and took his hand. He clung to it, his eyes wide and shocked.

“Not out of that eye— and not well out of the other, I’m afraid,” Dr. Meridian said, her voice sympathetic. “But he’s stable, and a lot better off than he could be, considering the circumstances of the crash. I’m so sorry— I did everything I could.”

“We understand,” Hera assured her. “Thank you. Would it be better if we left him with you, or took him to my house?”

“I think it would be best if he had someone familiar there when he woke up,” the doctor said. “So your house may be best.”

“We’ll take him there, then,” Hera said. “Thank you for all your help.”

“Of course.”

With Zeb’s help, it wasn’t long before they had Kanan back in the transport, and made their way back to Hera’s house. Once inside, it took them a while to get everything situated. Finally, Sabine was back in her room, Kanan in the guest room, and Ezra took Hera’s bed, because she knew she wasn’t going to be getting much more rest. Zeb offered to stay, but eventually headed back to his own house, after promising he was only a call away.

And then Hera was alone, in a quiet house after an hour or more of hectic activity. Heading into the kitchen, she made herself a cup of coffee before slipping into the guest room to check on Kanan.

He was still asleep, though as Hera settled in the chair she’d set up next to his bed, he stirred a little. “Ezra?” he mumbled.

Hera felt her heart twinge in sympathy. The man had been through so much, as evidenced by the clean white bandages wrapped around his eyes. But still he worried about Ezra. That spoke of a good man, someone Hera had a feeling she could respect.

“Ezra’s safe,” she promised him. “He’s okay. Just rest— everything is going to be fine.”

The tension twisting Kanan’s face eased a little, and he slipped back into a peaceful slumber.

Tomorrow, they’d have plenty of questions to answer and painful truths to give. But for now, Hera was happy to give this man one more night of peace.

#501st follower celebration #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #ezra bridger #kanera #swr #star wars rebels #sabine wren #garazeb orrelios #my oc #(also fun fact that is my dr oc. also apparently she has the same name as a dc character so i miiiiiiiiiiiight change it. we'll see)#writing stories is a kind of magic too #lunar kanan au

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dudethatsmyundeaduncle · 1 year ago

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Not Cannon and Not Fannon, a secret third thing called I desperately misunderstood/misinterpreted this charcter as a child and now everyone else's charcterization is wrong because it doesn't fit my specific decade old hallucinations.

#this is mostly a DC post #yall dont understand the misunderstandings i have of some of these freaks #i was a babe in the woods the story was for me to figure out!#my best misunderstandings in order have to be #1 After seeing Teen Titans Tokyo i fully believed Robin/Dick Grayson was japanese and thats why he was able to like blend in #so imagine my suprise when I start hearing this POC man is white in cannon SHOOK #in that bar scene #u know what im saying #again i was like...6 #2 thought harley quinn was girl joker #still think thats a pretty banger idea ngl #cuz like listen you intro batwoman u think oh girl batman #cuz ur a lil girl and this is how media works for u #so u see harley quinn and u think oh girl joker #imagine my suprise like 10 yrs later #3 i thought star fire was a bad guy before she came to earth #like fully thought her planet was like war mongers and conquerors and that she got banished and came to earth and learned to be nice #dont know why i thought that gonna be honest #think i missed some very important dialogue probs #anyway still kind of a banger idea #DC #dick grayson #nightwing #robin #harley quinn #dc joker #starfire #koriand'r #batman

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roennq · 2 years ago

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And that is exactly how this blog came to be...

“i liked it before it was cool” well i liked it AFTER it was cool when everyone abandoned it

#me with so many shows #the musketeers #arrow #heroes #and shows i've YET to see #gotham #flash #most of the dc universe series #all the star wars series #also movies #john wick #mission: impossible #sleep is for the weak #blog origin story #lol #also... wouldn't exactly use the word 'abandoned'#thrilled to discover the many 'the musketeers' fans here

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romerona · 29 days ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/romerona/779775449552371712/ethera-operation?source=share

Omgg do you have the charlie angels reader draft?!?! If so, could you post it someday? I LOVE charlies angels ✨️✨️.

Heyyy, so, yessss I do have a small one shot I think? I never thought would see the light of day, so I polished it a bit because I am more than happy to share itttt, actually thank you for asking lol <3<3<3

Only Angels fly this high!

Bradley Bradshaw x Charlie's Angel reader!

You were never just Maverick’s daughter.

You were the girl who swept your district's science fair four years straight, the one who could solve a Rubik's cube in under sixty seconds without even looking flustered. You knew every Avenger’s and DC's origin story by heart, had an unshakable love for Aragorn and your textbooks, and could quote Star Wars like scripture.

With your braces gleaming, frizzy ponytails bouncing, and socks that never once matched, you were a walking storm of heart, brilliance, and sunshine. A true geek with a gymnast's poise, a mind too quick to sit still, and a laugh that could fill a room before you even entered it. You were fire and fizz and full of wonder— Pete Maverick Mitchell's daughter, sure, but unmistakably, undeniably you.

When your dad disappeared on those long, classified missions—off saving the world in ways you weren’t allowed to know, you just packed your bag like clockwork and headed to one of two places. Sometimes, it was to your godfather, Uncle Ice, who’d ruffle your hair and tell you, with that steady calm of his, that even though you hardly looked like your dad, you had the same fire in your eyes. The same stubborn spark. The same refusal to back down. He said it like a compliment, like a promise. You loved him deeply, truly. He was a quiet sort of anchor, a man who never needed many words to make you feel seen.

But most of the time, you went to the Bradshaws’.

Carol always welcomed you like one of her own, with a warm smile, a hug that smelled like fresh laundry and vanilla, and a plate of something home-cooked waiting on the table. Over time, their house became your second home, the place where you memorized the sound of their old floorboards and where you felt safest when the sky felt just a little too big.

And then there was Bradley.

Older. Cooler. Already growing into the kind of person you could only dream of becoming. He had this effortless way about him—music in his ears, sun in his smile, the kind of person that made rooms quieter and your heart louder. You followed him around with books hugged to your chest, spilling facts about superheroes and black holes, always hoping he'd listen—and he did.

He never rolled his eyes. Never made you feel silly for talking too much or knowing too many things. He let you tag along, called you “kid” with a grin that somehow didn’t sting, and made you feel like being exactly who you were, loud laugh, wild ideas, frizzy hair and all, was something worth being proud of.

You adored him.

Not in a way that needed anything in return, but in that pure, clumsy way that only happens when someone older and kinder and just out of reach shows you what it feels like to be seen.

When Bradley left for college, you told yourself not to miss him. You tried to tuck the ache away somewhere quiet, somewhere small, behind schoolwork, hobbies, competitions and all the things you used to ramble about to him when he’d pretend not to listen but always did. It wasn’t just that he left; it was that things changed.

You only saw him once after that. At Carol’s funeral. The air that day was thick with loss, the kind you could feel in your throat. You spotted him across the room—older, more tired, a stranger in the shape of someone you used to adore. You exchanged a look. Maybe a nod. Nothing more. Heavy. Wordless.

Calls stopped. Messages faded. And after the falling-out between him and your dad, whatever thread had quietly tied the two of you together just… vanished.

But even as time tugged Bradley further away, you never drifted from your dad. If anything, you clung to him tighter. You sent him everything—snapshots of you mid-flip in your gymnastics uniform, shaky videos of your band performing at school, newspaper articles of your victories, long, rambling letters from chess tournaments detailing every single move like it was a mission report. When you got your college acceptance letter, you didn’t just call him, you sent a copy with a doodle you’d drawn of the two of you in matching aviator sunglasses, grinning like dorks.

Because he wasn’t just your dad. He was your rock. Your anchor. Your hero in a flight suit. And no matter how many people came and went, how many versions of yourself you outgrew, he was always the one constant, the voice on the other end of the line who never once stopped believing in you.

And then… you became something more.

Charlie's Angel.

Not long after you started college out in California, with wide eyes and ambition for your future, you were approached by a curious agency. The Townsend Agency. It wasn’t like anything you expected. There were no job postings or open interviews. Just a whisper, a test, and then a door you didn’t even know was there opened right in front of you.

What followed was a whirlwind training that pushed your body to its limits, missions that tested your mind and your morals, and partnerships that carved something fierce and beautiful into your soul. You weren’t alone in it, either. There were two other girls—no, women—who became your teammates, your family, your sisters in everything but blood. Together, the three of you tackled the impossible. Missions took you all over the world—scaling rooftops, decoding encrypted files on the fly, surviving car chases, shootouts, betrayal. It was thrilling. Dangerous. Meaningful. Just the kind of beautiful chaos you lived for. Like a good Mitchell. You always did love flying close to the sun.

That being said… you still haven’t told your dad.

Not because you didn’t want to. You did… do. You’ve come close a dozen times, standing at the edge of the truth with your phone in hand or your heart in your throat, thinking this is it. But it never felt quite right.

Because how do you tell Maverick, the legendary naval aviator, your fighter pilot of a father, that his little girl became a spy?

Not a doctor or a lawyer or a quiet observer behind a desk. No, you became an Angel, a full-blown, off-the-books, world-saving, chaos-wrangling secret agent. You jump out of planes sometimes without a parachute, trusting only your timing and a teammate’s hand to catch you. You've fought trained mercenaries twice your size in the back alleys of foreign cities. You’ve disarmed bombs with ten seconds left on the clock. Posed as arms dealers, infiltrated corrupt corporations, survived car crashes, scaled a glass building in Dubai with nothing but suction grips and nerves, hotwired a moving car in Paris while dodging sniper fire.

And somehow still walked away—bloody, bruised, but grinning with your sisters.

How do you sit your dad down and say, “Hey, remember how you used to panic when I scraped my knee on the monkey bars? Well, now I carry lockpicks in my heels and can kill a man with a paperclip.”

Your friends tell you to just do it. “He’ll understand,” they say. “He’s military. He gets it, he's done dangerous things all his life."

But you know better.

He was a father first. He always had been, even when he wasn’t physically there, even when he was halfway around the world, flying high above everything. His heart was always anchored to you. You were his little girl, his sunshine, his soft spot in a hard-edged world, who checked your helmet twice before you could ride a bike, who made you text the second you got somewhere, worried when you scraped your knee, when you stayed up too late studying.

He was Maverick. Top Gun. Hero to most. But to you, he was just Dad.

So no, it’s not easy. Not when you know the truth will make his pulse spike and his mind race to every worst-case scenario. Not when you can still picture his face the day you fell off the beam at your gymnastics meet and he looked like the world had ended.

But still… there’s a part of you that hopes—when the moment comes, when you do tell him—he won’t just see the danger. He’ll see the strength, the purpose, the pride.

That somewhere deep down, the Maverick in him will recognize the Angel in you... Today is not that day, though.

Not when you’ve finally managed to visit after months apart—not because you didn’t want to come sooner, but because life had a funny way of keeping you both busy. His schedule was packed with flights and trainings and whatever top-secret projects still pulled at the edges of his life. Yours… well, yours was classified. Let’s just say saving the world tends to mess with your calendar.

But now, with a rare stretch of time off, you showed up at his hangar-home like no time had passed at all. He met you at the door with that familiar squint and slow-building smile, arms pulling you into one of those hugs that made you feel twelve again, like the universe could shrink down to just the two of you and still be enough.

You showed off your latest toy—a vintage, growling Mercedes-Benz Heritage, sleek and silver, like something out of a Bond film. He gave it an approving nod, muttered something about it being too pretty to trust you behind the wheel, and you both laughed like no time had passed.

At some point, after he proudly showed you the new project he was working on—an old plane with more history than metal—you insisted on cooking. Said you wanted to treat him. He looked skeptical but stepped aside, letting you take over the tiny kitchen.

The thing is… you might know how to hack into secure government servers blindfolded. You can decode encrypted files while hanging out of a moving vehicle and disarm a bomb with nothing but a bobby pin, chewing gum, and sheer nerve.

But apparently, you still don’t know how long garlic bread is supposed to stay in the oven.

Smoke curled out of the toaster oven like a signal flare, thick and dramatic, as if announcing your failure to the whole Mojave. You stood there, spatula in hand, staring at what used to be garlic bread—but now looked more like a charred fossil.

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, coughing as you fanned the smoke with a dishtowel, trying to open a window that didn’t want to budge.

So, you stumbled out of the silver trailer—smoke still trailing behind you like you were escaping a failed op—waving the towel above your head, hoping to clear the air.

"Everything is fine, just give me a vacuum and a YouTube tutorial," you coughed, still fanning the smoky air like your life depended on it. The kitchen now smelled less like garlic and more like defeat.

Then you heard it—your name, called out in a voice that was both familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Warm but deeper. Steady. Older. You froze mid-wave of the dish towel, eyes narrowing as you turned around.

And there he was.

Bradley Bradshaw.

Holy. Shit.

"Bradley!" you gasped, the breath catching somewhere between shock and joy.

Before you could think, you dropped the towel, launched forward, and threw your arms around him. It wasn’t graceful—your elbow clipped his sunglasses, you nearly tripped over your own feet, and there was definitely still flour smeared across your shirt—but none of it mattered. The hug was tight, warm, all the things unsaid wrapped into a single, breathless squeeze.

“Oh, it’s been forever,” you said breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at him.

You were grinning wildly, eyes dancing, completely caught up in the joy of the moment. What you didn’t notice—not at first—was how stunned he looked.

He blinked, almost like he wasn’t sure how to catch up.

“Look at you!” you said, poking his chest with mock offense. “You grew a mustache!!!”

Bradley let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head as if trying to make sense of it all.

“And you… grew up,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud—like the realization had just hit him and slipped past his guard.

“Barely,” your dad chimed in from across the hangar, where he was wiping his hands clean with an old rag, smudged with grease from the plane’s engine. His voice cut through the moment like a well-timed punchline.

You turned just in time to see him eyeing the thin trail of smoke still drifting from the open trailer door.

“Please tell me you did not burn down my kitchen,” he said, eyebrows raised, half-exasperated, half-amused.

You held up your hands in surrender, cheeks flushed. “Not entirely! It’s still standing. Just… maybe don’t open the toaster for a while.”

“Great…” Your dad shot you a long-suffering look, then sighed like a man who’d seen combat but still wasn’t prepared for you in the kitchen. Then he turned to Bradley, wiping the last of the grease from his palms. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Yeah… uh, just happened to be nearby,” Bradley said, almost too casually. Then he lifted the takeout bag in his hand. “And—looks like I showed up just in time.”

He gave you a small smile, the kind that was soft around the edges and held a hint of something else—something unreadable and warm.

,You grinned at the bag like it was the Holy Grail. “Ohh, like a psychic… or maybe Lady Fate herself. What you brought and please tell me you brought enough for an unexpected mouth?”

“I did,” Bradley smirked, giving the bag a little shake for dramatic flair. “Thai. From a little spot near the base—place looks like a shack but cooks like heaven. One of those joints where they always forget the utensils, but never mess up the order.”

You gasped like he’d just told you he found buried treasure. “My kind of place. Who needs forks when destiny delivers Pad Thai?”

Bradley chuckled, handing you the bag with a knowing grin. “Hope you still like spicy, because I told them to go easy—and they still said ‘mild’ was more of a suggestion than a promise.”

You peeked inside the bag, the smell already making your mouth water. “Perfect. I like my food with a little danger. Keeps me humble.”

Your dad chimed in from behind you, grabbing plates “You say that now, but let’s see you talk tough after the first bite.”

You shot him a look. “Says the man who thinks pepper is a bold seasoning choice.”

The three of you settled in around the small table—plates spread out, drinks poured, laughter drifting lazily through the warm air. Conversation flowed easily, the kind that bounced between memories, light teasing, and just enough catch-up to fill in the gaps years apart had left.

You asked Bradley about his life, his job—nudging him gently with curiosity, dancing around certain topics with the kind of practiced grace that would’ve made Bosley proud. You didn’t lie—you just knew how to steer. How to let a story breathe without giving away the details underneath.

While delicately munching on a spring roll, you hummed quietly, savoring the flavor, then murmured without thinking, “I’ve been craving them like crazy since I came back from Thailand.”

Bradley, mid-bite, paused and looked up with a mild tilt of his head. “You’ve been to Thailand?”

You froze—not visibly, just a flicker of hesitation behind your eyes. The kind of pause most wouldn’t notice. But Bradley had always paid attention.

Still, your smile was easy as you nodded, grabbing your drink for cover. “Yeah. Work keeps me traveling.”

Bradley leaned back slightly, chopsticks in hand, eyeing you with playful suspicion. “Yeah? What do you do, exactly? Something fancy, I imagine, if that car outside is any indication. Since when do you have that kind of taste, huh?”

You raised a brow, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I’ve always had taste.”

He snorted. “Right. Last time I saw you drooling over a car, it was that busted-up ‘Back to the Future’ knockoff you swore was the coolest thing ever. What was it? That rusty little hatchback with spray-painted flames and a bumper sticker that said ‘Flux This’?”

You laughed, nearly choking on your spring roll. “Hey, that car had personality. It was vintage.”

“It was a safety hazard.”

“It was charming!”

Bradley grinned, shaking his head. “You’ve upgraded. I’ll give you that. So, seriously—what do you do now?”

You smiled sweetly, taking another bite of your spring roll with practiced nonchalance.

“I’m a private art conservator,” you said, repeating the same polished line you’d fed your dad years ago—the one you’d carefully crafted to sound just vague and boring enough to kill curiosity.

Bradley blinked. “A what?”

“Art conservator,” you repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I restore paintings and sculptures—help private collectors preserve rare pieces. Lots of travel, lots of delicate work, very serious,”

Bradley glanced at your dad, who didn’t even flinch, too busy digging into his pad see ew like this was Tuesday.

Then he looked back at you, eyes narrowing slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Seriously?”

You met his gaze, unblinking. “Dead serious.”

He leaned back in his chair, skeptical. “You? Art conservator? The same girl who once glued googly eyes onto her dad’s Elvis poster because—and I quote—‘It improved the emotional depth’?”

You shrugged, all cool confidence. “Every great artist starts somewhere.”

Bradley laughed, shaking his head. “Unreal.”

“Hey,” you said, pointing your chopsticks at him. “Don’t knock the hustle. Art is very fragile. Almost as fragile as, say… classified intel of the worlds economy on a microchip hidden in the frame of a nineteenth-century oil painting inside the vaults of the luvre.”

Both Bradley and your dad raised their eyebrows in perfect unison, like a synchronized team of disbelief.

You blinked, then raised your hands. “Kidding, pass the rice please."

Bradley chuckled and reached for the plate, shaking his head as he handed it over.

“See, that’s what I find unreal,” he said, his voice laced with something halfway between nostalgia and awe. “You were always… I don’t know. Too clever and smart for your own good.”

Your dad grunted in agreement, still chewing.

You tilted your head, scooping rice onto your plate with a lazy grin. “Is that your way of saying I was annoying?”

He smirked. “Terribly. But also kind of a genius. I always figured you’d end up running some multibillion-dollar tech company or… I don’t know, sending astronauts to Mars.”

You snorted. “Wow, aim high, why don’t you?”

He leaned his elbows on the table, studying you. “I did. You had that kind of brain, y’know? The kind that never turned off. It always felt like you were thinking ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

You paused for just a second, fingers tightening on the chopsticks before you smiled again, softer this time. “Still am, just not in the way most people would guess.”

Bradley narrowed his eyes slightly, playful but curious. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”

You returned to your food, casually scooping rice onto your plate, but you could still feel Bradley’s eyes on you—curious, watching like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t know he’d started.

“So,” you said, changing the subject with a too-bright smile, “what about you, Lieutenant Mustache? Still flying? Still breaking hearts?”

Your dad let out a soft snort, clearly enjoying the turn of the conversation.

Bradley leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, giving you a look. “I’ll have you know the mustache has become a very powerful asset.”

You raised a brow. “Does it come with a security clearance?”

“Practically,” he said with mock pride. “Still flying, still in uniform… just with slightly more facial hair and responsibility.”

“Terrifying,” you muttered, hiding a grin behind your drink—because in all honesty, that mustache looked damn good on him. Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. At least not yet.

There was a beat of silence after that, easy and warm. The kind that settles between people who’ve shared enough history to skip over the awkward parts. Three lives woven through time, scattered and now briefly realigned. It felt like no time had passed at all—and somehow like everything had changed.

Your dad stood with a quiet groan, stretching his back as he grabbed the empty soda cans and crumpled napkins.

“I’ll grab more,” he said casually. “Napkins, too, since someone eats like she’s still thirteen.”

You shot him a look. “Rude.”

“But true,” he replied over his shoulder, disappearing inside the trailer.

And just like that, you and Bradley were alone.

The hangar fell into a soft, ambient quiet—just the hum of the overhead fan, the distant creak of the cooling engine, and the sound of Bradley’s thumb absentmindedly tapping the rim of his drink.

He looked over at you, eyes thoughtful. “So… ‘private art conservator,’ huh?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Still hung up on that?”

“Just trying to picture it,” he said, tone teasing but curious. “You, in gloves, hunched over a painting with a little brush.”

You leaned in slightly, resting your elbow on the table. “What, you don’t think I’ve got the patience for restoration?”

“I think you’ve got the precision,” he said, eyes not leaving yours. “I’m just not used to you being quiet for long.”

You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that said you’re not the only one who’s changed. “People grow up, Bradshaw.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, gaze flicking down and then back to you again. “Apparently, they do.”

The tension between you wasn’t thick, but it was there, like static. Familiar and new, cautious and curious. It buzzed just beneath the surface, waiting- your phone began to ring.

The sudden sound made you flinch just slightly, dragging you out of the moment. You set your plate down with a reluctant clink and fished the phone from your pocket.

Bosley.

Your eyes flicked to Bradley for half a second—he was watching you, still relaxed but alert, picking up on the shift in your energy. You forced a smile, one hand already tucking the phone to your ear as you stood.

“Gimme a sec,” you said casually, stepping away from the table, from him, from that dangerous almost-moment.

You put the phone to your ear, trying to keep your voice casual. “Hello… Yeah, okay. I’ll be right in.”

You hung up, slipped the phone back into your pocket, and took a moment to school your features before turning back around. A practiced smile curved across your lips—effortless, easy. You walked back to the table like you hadn’t just been called back into a secret life.

Bradley was still seated, watching you with mild curiosity, like he knew something wasn’t adding up but didn’t know quite what.

“Everything good?” he asked, tone neutral but eyes searching.

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Work. Something I need to take care of.”

Before he could say more, your dad emerged from the trailer with two cans of soda under one arm and a bundle of napkins in the other.

“Alright, I brought backup—oh.” He paused, catching the shift in your expression, one you always wear when you need to leave impromptu. “You leaving already?”

You gave him an apologetic look. “Duty calls.”

He sighed, handing over a soda anyway. “Figures. You show up after a year, almost burn my kitchen down, steal my spring rolls, then vanish.”

You grinned and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Classic me.”

Your dad chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t be a stranger and text me ass soon as you get there.”

"Of course and don’t worry I'll come back as soon as I can."

You turned to Bradley, catching his gaze again—still curious, still trying to piece together the puzzle of who you were now.

“Guess I owe you a proper catch-up,” you said softly.

He stood, nodding slowly. “Yeah. You do.”

And just like that, you slid into your sleek silver Mercedes, the engine purring to life beneath your fingertips like it knew exactly where you were going—and why. One last glance in the rearview mirror caught the faintest reflection of your dad watching from the hangar, soda in hand, and Bradley still standing by the table, napkin clutched loosely in his fingers, brow furrowed like he wasn’t quite ready for you to disappear again.

You gave a small wave—half playful, half I’ll be back—then pulled out of the dusty lot, tires crunching against gravel as the sun dipped lower behind you.

Back to the mission.

Back to the life they didn’t know about.

Back to saving the day, as usual.

Y/N: Heyyy hope you enjoyed ittttt. There's something about Top Gun x Charlie's Angels that just scratched my brain just right, y'know? One of my favs movies ever.

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invincibledc · 2 months ago

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✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐌𝚰𝐋𝐘 𝐗 𝐒𝐏𝚰𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

Summary!: when patrolling, you can’t help but meet another from your dimension.

Genre!: crack fic(?) this is for my own amusement.

Note!: reader is a male. An oc of mine for spider!reader appears. Every Spider-Man has to have their Deadpool. Also this is not proof read

Word count!: 806

Info!: Protege of Peter Parker, in their dimension/universe, Peter Parker use to babysit them. But due to the curious mind of a fourteen year old, they followed Peter when he left them. Thinking that they were asleep but really was following him. Looking over a cornered they didn’t notice a spider crawling its way to them in weird colors. It bites them, making them yelp. Short story, they finished tying a mugger up and running into a dimension of dc. And now they live with the batfamily.

Relaxing, in your spider suit, being a Spiderman in this dimension, universe, or whatever it is, fuckin` blows!

I mean, you can't even go outside and get a simple piece of air of freshness! You can't even try and take a shower before Damian as he hates your guts despite the other men here telling you he doesn't.

But does throwing a ninja star at you tell you otherwise??

No, it doesn't!!?

It almost reminds you of Lori. He’s always thrown sharp objects at you, it almost makes your skin crawl. Despite you crawling on a building as of now.

Patrolling the beautiful streets of Gotham City. If you can hear the sarcasm.

Neither less, you finally reached the top of the building. Pressing the comms, you alerted Bruce that you made it to your position. And then there's the little twelve-year-old brat yapping off in your ear. “Spiderman, make sure to focus thoroughly through this patrol this time. I will not save you and watch how you owe me your life.” you can hear that smug smirk on his face. Gritting your teeth, you hung up on him.

“Little brat, always on my damn case. Can't he just give a guy a break?!” you don't know what's up with the little shrimp, but either less. You have to stick with it. You started to web up goons, but that was only the beginning.

You were dealing with a huge thug, a grown-ass man versus a fourteen-year-old who is agile like a spider. You shoot your webs at the big man’s hands before swinging under his legs, turning your body with your webs, you pull your arms. Forcing the male to get slammed hard and knocked out.

“Phew… that wasn't bad at all. Wasn't it guys?” you said looking at the reader reading this story. with a grin, your expressive mask showing a happy expression. But soon that moment was ruined by you trying to break the fourth wall.

Hearing a girlish scream, you turn around to see the same-looking portal that had sucked you up into this world. You felt excitement, hope, and happiness. As much as you loved the whole family here, you had your own back to your universe.

But, of course, you had forgotten about the girlish scream as a kid with strawberry blonde short hair, tied into a small ponytail, a freckled face, and hazel eyes, hit you hard. At your body.

“Lori?!” you exclaimed, looking at the slightly tanned boy who straddled against you. Meet Lori, aka, the deadpool of your spiderverse. He had a katana holder strapped across his body. But never mind that, Lori’s eyes widened as he saw that he was on top of you.

“Spidey!!!” he squealed, pulling you into a hug despite the awkward position. He then lifted your mask, peppering your face with kisses.

“L-lori! Lori! Stop man!” Lori finally stopped and hopped off you so cartoonishly. Magically he pulled out his Deadpool mask and put it on.

“Bro! It took so long for me to force a wizard to open some wacky portal so I could find you! When Peter told me you were missing, I had the biggest hunch that you went to another comic world!”

You raised a brow as Lori hopped in front of your face, wagging his finger in front of you. “Like bro, how could your best friend be behind like that man!” Lori couldn't help but comically sob into your chest. The thirteen-year-old boy then perks up, his also expressive mask showing him narrowing his eyes.

“Someone's coming.” Lori pulled out a Glock 19, aiming it above as the mask’s eyes went into silts.

“When did you get a Glock?!” You exclaimed, pulling the gun from him. Lori looks at you before shrugging.

“Why not? Always carry something heavy yo!” Lori could be visibly seen pouting behind his mask, reaching to go grab the gun from you, you threw it up, webbing it to a wall.

“OH CMON!” Lori said In disbelief at how you could do this to him.

“Are you done with this reunion Spiderman.” a voice called out, Lori and you turned to face the voice. You pulled your mask down, Lori got into position, pulling his katana out. There stood Damian with his katana in hand. His eyes narrowed.

“What the—” Lori interrupted by the said Robin, “I don't know who you are, but I'm guessing you’re from Parker’s world.”

“I mean, no shit pipsqueak.” you could’ve sworn you saw Damian clench his jaw before he released it.

“Then I’ll have to take you to where you will stay.” Damian didn't know why, but having another person who showed the same interest made him a little irritated. This is a comrade of yours, so he must treat him with respect.

Even though he ‘hates’ you.

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that-weird-thing-in-the-woods · 7 months ago

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Oh well damn to be honest I really wasn’t expecting that 🌌🧿Ancient of space🧿🌌 was going to win but you menaces always find away to surprise me but anyway let’s get started on what you voted for

🌌🧿Ancient Of Space + Dani and Dan 🧿🌌

Now for the ✨PLOT✨ so Danny got got by the GIW after being turned over by his parents because…it’s them anyway after a few weeks of being with the GIW Vlad gets him out with the help of Dani and Dan but as they were leaving via the portal some of the GIW catch them they off Vlad (the rest of the way) and destabilized Dani and Dan ( who for this story will be called Dusk for Dani and Dawn for Dan because I feel like it ) and Danny has to take their cores and incubate them until they are able to stabilize enough and it takes around 9 months for that to happen { how convenient}

anyway and Danny heads to the ghost zone but since he has been with the GIW for weeks it would be obvious that Danny injured and he’s been running on adrenaline for the past few weeks and stress so he kinda crash lands in the castle ( with redeemed Pariah Dark let’s go!!) And he nurses him back to health { like with my 🪷Queen Danny🪷 Au} they build a father / son relationship with each other ( more like overprotective father / Hurt and some what traumatized pregnant son) and after some shenanigans and some late night crying from Danny he ends up as 🌌🧿The Ancient Of Space🧿🌌 and now we have for this family dynamic

A redeemed warlord turned King

A pregnant teen traumatized Ancient of space

And a weird uncle/father who has romantic tension with the warlord

And this is Danny’s ‘life’ for a few months ( well he’s a lest 6 months and showing because this is important for the story line later in) {and you get the pun :)}

And now for the DC part of this Tim drake gets sacrificed by some cultists who wanted to get the “Mother Of Sun rise and Moon rising and Child of War and Time” and wakes up and sees… the stars?? Well not the stars from earth it looks like it comes from deep space where no living thing has ever been and ever well be and as he sits up and looks around it looks like he’s in some dark castle/temple that looks well taken care of and as he gets up and walks around he walks past a pool of water that is so clear that it looks like a bit of the night sky full of stars that it’s reflecting ( it’s not water it’s a bit of the night sky ) and that’s when he sees her…him..? Them, they look gorgeous and that’s all I can think of right now I’ll add more if I feel like it

Now for the details

I’m thinking for dannys outfit

And for his hair I’m thinking

And for the castle/temple

And that’s about it hope this is what you guys wanted byeeee

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sceletaflores · 15 days ago

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GOT YOUR HEART IN A HEADLOCK…

꩜ masterlists ꩜ update blog ꩜ requests ꩜ taglist ꩜

ೃ⁀➷ pair: bruce wayne x vigilante!fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 3.6k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, nat can’t stop making oc reader characters, somewhat angsty cause i need it to function, bruce's pov, p in v, not rough sex and not love making but another third thing, unprotected sex (do as sex ed teaches, not as i write), slight pain kink, biting, finger sucking RAAAHHH, one tiny mention of blood, bruce wayne experiences feelings, ending is basically the “fucked in missionary and got emotional about it” meme, porn with a little too much plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat’s note: oh em gee...baby's first dc fic...i'm so terrified to post this LMAO but i need to because this man just makes me want to write all the sad, angsty, pining/longing filled fics in the world. it’s his beautiful tortured eyes, they’ve transfixed me. title is ofc from imogen heap's 'headlock' cause i'm clearly too obsessed with that album i've named like three fics after it's tracks AND it's just such a bruce song i had to. hope you love it, kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

bruce wayne gets an unexpected visitor…

Rain pelts at the spotless windows of Bruce's office. Sharp and impossible to ignore in the deep silence shrouding the room.

The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving the only glow in the room the flickering monitors lining the top of his desk. Bruce is hunched over them, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone, tired eyes fleeting over grainy security footage and recent police reports.

A tension lives in his shoulders as his hands fly over the expanse of his keyboard. The kind that never leaves. He’s chasing patterns again—strings of mob movement, scattered drug shipments, whispers of reemerging cartels.

It’s not often that he brings his, nightly work, to the tower—but something about the cave felt too heavy. Too suffocating, too soaked in grief and memory for him to get any real work done. Wayne tower, with its sleek sterility, gives him just enough distance to pretend silence is solacing instead of crushing.

Bruce needed that silence. Or maybe he needed the illusion of it—the unostentatious stillness of glass and steel, high enough above the rot of Gotham’s underbelly to try and escape the weight in his chest.

He exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, forearms tensing as he rewinds the surveillance footage for a third time. The storm is growing merciless—thunder cracking like bones, lightning throwing brief, jagged shadows across the gleaming floor. Bruce doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just leans further into the static buzz of his monitor, the comfort of control.

Until he feels it.

That shift.

That slow coil in his gut. The cold drag of something other licking at the edge of the air. A chill snakes its way up his spine and stirs the hair on the back of his neck, pressing against his senses in a way he’s become all too familiar with.

He cuts his eyes to the wall of windows before his desk. At first, he sees nothing but a dark sky. The rain clouds so thick and imposing they mute the shine of the stars, leaving behind a sea of pitch black.

A bolt of lighting rips across the sky—and for half a heartbeat, you’re there.

Seventy eight stories up, floating just outside the glass, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Your form is only half-phased, half solid. Raindrops slip right through you, never landing, never soaking. You press a hand to the glass, head tilted slightly as though amused.

Bruce doesn’t speak, but his eyes never leave yours.

You don’t knock. You never do.

You phase through the glass like it’s water, it doesn’t creak. It hums—a low rumble of energy. When your boots touch the polished floor, your form sharpens into full opacity, but the essence still clings to your skin. He can smell the ozone.

You don’t speak, not at first. You just stand there, dripping with power instead of rain, head tilting the other way now as you study him like you always do—like you’re looking straight through the flesh and bone, into whatever broken thing is holding it all together.

Bruce forces down the unease curling in the pit of his stomach, he turns his eyes back to the monitors. “You’re late.” His voice is low, sandpaper dry from disuse.

You hum, gliding a few slow steps toward his desk. He can feel the shift in the room—colder, tighter, like the air itself is shrinking away from your presence.

“I didn’t know we had a date.”

“We didn’t.”

“Then I’m on time.”

Files appear out of thin air, materializing right in front of his eyes. They simply hover for a moment, bathed in a flickering white hue and edged in smoke—until they fall onto his desk with a muted thump. The pages glide their way in front of him with delicate flutter—chilled only by the cold that clings to them from your plane.

“Where did you get these?” he mutters, scanning the top page. Intelligence. Photos. Notes scrawled in your familiar handwriting. It’s a roster—names he recognizes, faces he’s seen before in police reports and coroner files. All connected to the Falcone remnants.

“You’re welcome” you say dryly, turning to lean against the edge of his desk. You cross one leg over the other, arms folding over your chest. “Or do I only get a ‘thank you’ if I come gift-wrapped in latex and a chipper attitude?”

Bruce bites back a scoff, brows drawing together the more he reads over the pages. He knows this isn’t a friendly transaction, that it’s the furthest thing from you simply helping him from the kindness of your still heart. You come bearing gifts because you need something.

Bruce doesn’t rise from his chair. He just leans back slowly, eyes dragging up to meet yours. “What do you want, Spectress.”

Your head tilts, he can’t help but let his eyes run along the smooth column of your throat. “You.”

A beat. Bruce’s jaw ticks.

Then you add, “Well not you, you. Not yet.” Your lips curl around the words like they’re a dare. “Your eyes on something for me. There’s been a shift in the Veil, someone’s poking holes again. Thought some of your fancy tech might catch the bleed.”

Bruce stares, hard. He hopes you can still feel the weight of it—like the point of a blade pressed to skin. It’s his default, the way he carves answers out of people who fear the Bat. But you’re not some masked rookie wannabe he can intimidate into compliance with a look. If anything, the pressure only makes your smirk deepen.

“A shift in the Veil,” he repeats, voice low and quiet. Not mocking. Not doubting. Just…curious.

You nod, leaning a little closer, your body an elegant portrait of muscle and menace draped across his desk. “Someone’s not just brushing against it, Bruce. They’re trying to punch through. It’s not subtle.” You inhale a breath you don’t need. “The air is wrong. I can’t reach them. Dead things don’t stay quiet.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, almost a scoff, though there’s no humor in it. “And you think I can track the metaphysical footprint of a ghost hacker.”

Your smile blooms, sharp and lovely like a blade catching the moonlight. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t a priority. The last thing I want to admit is that I need your help. But it’s like something’s…tugging. Someone reaching across, but they’re messy. Clumsy. They don’t know what they’re doing, just that they have the power to do it.”

Bruce’s fingers twitch over the papers, they crinkle softly under his palm. The only sign that your words have sunk teeth into him. This isn’t some abstract ghost story you’re using to toy with him. This is intel. This is you saying something’s coming.

And The Batman doesn't deal well with what he can’t predict.

“Black Mask?”

“I think Black Mask wouldn’t have it in him to stay quiet if it was.”

Your voice is softer now, the flirtatious edge dulled to something more dangerous. The lights of the monitors cast a faint, blue halo over your face, catching in the slight glow that never leaves your eyes. Bruce notices the way your hand flexes on the desk, your nails dragging faint lines into the polished surface, like you’re grounding yourself—fighting the urge to phase away.

He sits forward slowly, reading the movement for what it is. “You’re scared.”

That makes your smile twitch. Not gone—never gone—but something in your face flickers. Like a candle too close to the wind.

“I don’t scare when it comes to the dead, Bruce.” A pause. “I’m what they whisper too.”

Bruce says nothing. His throat works around a swallow. Your presence has always rattled him. Not because you’re terrifying. He’s faced terrifying. It’s because you see him.

You see the pulses of emotion he tries his hardest to keep buried, all haloed around him in a hazy smoke of aura and vulnerability. You don’t only test the limits of his control, you blow right through them with all the ease in the world.

It grates on every inch of his nerves.

And still—still—he can’t help the way his eyes drop. The subtle arc of your hip against his desk. The glow of your power against the dark fabric of your suit. You shouldn’t look this soft, not with the weight you carry. Not with the death you wear like a second skin.

But you do. And it kills him.

Bruce swallows hard, dragging his gaze back to your face. You’re watching him with something like amusement, like you know exactly where his thoughts just wandered.

“You came all this way just for a file drop and a metaphysical theory?”

You don’t answer, letting the silence swell between you until it starts to choke. The room hums with it—something unspoken and aching. That same tension that’s always been there between the two of you, taut as wire. Neither of you ever acknowledge it directly. You dance around it like a live current, but tonight—tonight it feels closer to snapping.

You finally speak. “I saw the Gazette.” You look out to the skyline, eyes shining. “Wayne tower, only the second best view in Gotham, doesn't that just drive you crazy?”

Bruce doesn't take his gaze off you. “Not particularly.”

“What’s the first?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.”

The unexplainable feeling between you both is pulsing now, alive and unbearable in a way that makes Bruce’s chest tighten. He leans back in his chair, watching you, not sure if he’s challenging you or waiting for you to make the next move. Your gaze flickers between his eyes, his lips, his posture—always studying, always probing.

“Are we done here?”

You hum absentmindedly, pushing off the desk in a fluid motion. The air shifts again as you move. The room feels too small all of a sudden. The rain outside intensifies, and with it, the tension in the air thickens. Bruce can almost taste it—something sharp, eclectic, but also heavy and unwilling to settle.

You walk closer, slow, like you're testing how close you can get before he tenses.

He doesn’t.

That’s the game you always play.

Your tone is velvet stretched over teeth. “I’ve seen inside you, Bruce,” you whisper, the sound pressing against his ribs. “The regret, the rage. The rot. The want. You keep it locked down in suits and silence, but I see it. And it calls to me.”

You circle the desk slowly, not bothering to hide the way your fingers trail across the back of his chair as you pass. Shadows twist and turn around your boots, clinging to the shape of you like they miss you when you're gone. The storm throws another bolt of light against the glass, and your shadow cuts across the floor, long and spindled. Almost wrong.

Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t even shiver when your fingers drift to his collar and toy with the loose button near his throat. Your touch is cool, just wrong enough to raise goosebumps in its wake. A phantom’s touch.

“You always want what you can’t have, Bruce.”

Your words hit like a jolt of electricity, sharp and raw, and before he can stop himself, he’s standing. The chair scraping against the floor feels like a bomb going off in the silence. But it’s not the anger that drives him. Not entirely.

No, it’s the undeniable attraction. The way your presence disrupts everything he’s spent decades building. The way your very being forces him to question everything he knew about control, power, desire.

“You should leave.” It’s not a command. It’s not a suggestion. It’s…a warning, maybe. He couldn’t tell if you’d heed it. You both know you never do.

“I won’t ask twice,” you whisper, spectral power curling from your skin in soft tendrils that graze his chest. “Help me find who’s bleeding into the Veil , and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Bruce doesn’t need to ask what you mean.

Your hand flattens against his chest, his heartbeat loud and strong beneath your palm. The only warmth in the room.

His hand shoots up fast—too fast—and grabs your wrist. Not rough, but not soft either. Just enough force to anchor, to test the reality of you. His grip burns against your chill.

“I don’t need incentive.”

Your smile curls dangerously, and you phase. Right through his grasp. His fingers snap closed around air, and you’re behind him now, voice purring against the back of his neck. “Liar.”

Bruce rounds his desk with an almost inhuman amount of speed, caging you against the windows. You let him.

“This isn’t a game, Spectress,” he snarls, eyes burning. His face is close to yours now, too close. Your noses nearly brush. He should pull back.

“So serious, Bruce,” you murmur, eyes flicking to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. All that control, all that rage, and you’ve never even let it out the fun way.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You think that this is fun for me?” he asks, voice like gravel.

“I think you don’t even know how badly you need to come undone.”

Your words hang there. Heavy. Weighted. Inescapable.

And then your mouth is right there—sinful lips brushing against his ear. “Let me show you.”

It’s laughably desperate when your mouths finally meet. Fire and ice coming together in a blaze of teeth and tension and unsaid things. A war between two people who don’t know how to surrender without blood. Neither of you gentle. Neither of you soft. His hands grip your hips roughly, your back hits the glass with more force he’d use on any other woman.

You bite his lip as he lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing—like the world could end beneath his feet and he wouldn’t notice as long as your lips stay on his. Your legs wrap around his waist, strong as they drag him further into you.

You meet him with all the power in your bones, your body flickering with that unearthly light as your hands fist the collar of his shirt and pull him impossibly closer. You taste like the dead. Like smoke. Like something Bruce shouldn’t want, and can’t stop needing.

His hips slot against yours, and he’s hard. The heavy weight of his cock pushing against the front of his slacks. You moan low into his mouth, and it’s not ghostly—it’s human. Raw. And that’s what undoes him more than anything. The reminder that beneath all your power, your secrets, your cold—

You’re real.

"You’re soaked in death," he mutters against your mouth, voice raw. "And I still—"

“Still want to fuck me,” you finish, breathless, smirking against his lips. “I can feel it. You think I don’t know what your need tastes like?”

Your hand slides down between your bodies, cupping the thick heat straining against the front of his pants. Bruce hisses through his teeth, hips jerking into your touch, and you laugh—low and lovely and full of wicked delight.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice thick with sin as you stare down to take in the way his cock strains against your stomach. “So fucking hard for the dead girl.”

It’s more than he can stomach, and Bruce snaps.

He uses a single hand to rip his belt open, the other bracing your thigh against the window so hard the glass groans. Your suit splits open at the hips with a flick of your fingers, the obsidian fabric shifting and slithering like something alive, giving way to skin that’s too perfect, too cold, and he groans—low, rough, helpless. Your suit gone, his shirt shoved up, his pants shoved down just enough for skin to meet skin—desperate and unfiltered.

There’s no ceremony. No slow lead-in. Just the stretch, the pressure, the way your body clenches around him like you’ve been waiting for this—aching for it.

The whole damn building seems to shudder, and your laugh comes out breathless, thrilled. Gotham burns beneath you in the stormlight, streaks of red and gold and shadow, a perfect backdrop to something that was never meant to be soft.

You gasp, sharp nails raking welts down the muscle of his back at the sting of his thick cock forcing a place for itself inside of you. He can feel the way the walls of your cunt flutter around him, gentle caresses that have something dark and consuming blooming in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against the hollow of your throat, dragging his mouth down the glowing seam of your collarbone, sucking a mark where the light pulses the brightest. “You like this.”

You don’t answer, locking your ankles behind him, digging your nails into his shoulders hard enough to make him snarl. “Harder, Bruce. I can take it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Every thrust is deep and mean, hips slapping against the cradle of your thighs mercilessly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and obscene. You clench around him, and he groans, fingers digging into your hips so hard they’ll bruise if you let them.

You meet every thrust with a vicious grind of your hips, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all at once—hand reaching back blindly to slap the glass, leaving a foggy print behind. The groan that rips its way from his chest is filthy, guttural, primal.

You’re impossibly wet, impossibly tight, and the angle—Christ, the angle—lets him grind so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your spine. Bruce’s eyes fall to where your bodies are joined, he watches the way his cock punches in and out of your swollen cunt. His skin is coated in your messy wetness, glistening in the moonlight each time he pulls out before disappearing back into your addictive warmth.

Your power lashes around you both, the lights flickering, the storm outside growing louder. Somewhere, the shadows moan.

“You love it,” he growls, voice like thunder against your ear. “Getting fucked like this. Against the glass. Knowing anyone could look up and see—”

“Bruce.” Your voice is the deepest form of sin, soaked in gasoline and waiting to be ignited by the match that only he has the ability of sparking.

Bruce can hardly stand it. The nasty, possessive feeling beats against his ribcage almost as hard as his heart. Scratching and clawing and demanding to be set free. His cock throbs inside of you. He’s close, and the incoherent gurgle of his name passing through your lips only spurs him on.

He’s moving before his brain can process it, his hand loosening its unrelenting grip on the muscle of your thigh to cradle your cheek. It’s heartbreakingly tender, in such a way that he’d never use even when he’s playing up the soft, faux-sentimental fucks of Brucie Wayne.

His thumb swipes across your slick bottom lip before he can think better of it. Your mouth falls open with a pleased moan, devilish tongue sweeping out to brush against his skin teasingly. For a heartstopping moment, Bruce wonders what it would be like to sink between those plush lips.

The cool kiss of them, or the sweet caress of your tongue, on the scorching tip of his cock. Just the thought has him shuddering, a bitten off curse falling from his lips as he pushes his thumb into your wanting mouth. Your eyes flutter closed, lashes fanning over your cheeks as you hollow them and suck.

“Fuck.” Bruce sets a brutal rhythm, hips pistoning into you with a desperation that belies the calm mask he wears for everyone else. But not for you. Never for you. You get the real thing—unfiltered, cracked open, all ugly need and unbearable weight. You take it, welcoming it with a tilt of your hips and a hiss of pleasure through your teeth as they bite down on his thumb roughly.

You try to phase, instinctively—too much, too fast—but he grabs you harder, pins you down, keeps you there in your body. “No,” he growls, lips against your skin. “You’re not going anywhere. Not till I’m done.”

The coarse, dark hair dusted along his abs grinds over your sensitive clit with every thrust, the blunt head of his cock hammering against the sweet spot inside of you. His heavy balls slap the bruised, raw skin of your ass.

Bruce tilts his hips just so, and you howl.

Your orgasm hits like a supernatural event, your body clenching around him, pulsing with energy that sinks into him, through him, like it’s marking him from the inside out. He chokes on your name—your real name—and it sends another shock through your system.

Bruce spills into you with a growl that rattles through his chest, buried so deep he forgets what it feels like to be hollow. The pulse of his cock is in time with the pounding beat of his heart.

And he watches, eyes rapt, as you come back down. The heave of your chest as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air you haven’t needed in decades, the glowing satisfaction swirling through your cloudy eyes, your swollen lips slick and parted around the soft pants of pleasure—stained with his blood.

He watches the power only barely contained beneath your skin. The shining white of it swimming through your body languidly, like pure white ink spilled along the surface of a lake, pulsing with life. So fucking alive.

Bruce realizes then that he’s found it.

The best view in Gotham.

mini nat’s note: tagging some lovelies that showed interest in this mess @ebodebo @ovaryacted @lordlottie @wlwloverwrites @dixie-isnt-cool! i love you all...bad! bruce wayne isn't on my taglist, but i might add him later! i do possibly want to write more for him in the future, so yell at me to add him if you want! thank you for reading! mwah <3

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entitled-fangirl · 1 year ago

Text

Masterlist <3

Game of Thrones masterlist

DC masterlist

Invincible masterlist

Vikings

Ragnar Lothbrok

#drew drools over ragnar lothbrok

Patiently wait.

Bjorn Ironside

#drew drools over bjorn ironside

New.

One and the same.

My strong girl.

#drew drools over hvitserk ragnarsson

Ivar the Boneless

A ring and a cold heart.

Bridgerton

Benedict Bridgerton

A beautiful thing to picture, indeed.

One happy marriage.

Saltburn

Felix Catton

He would burn the world for her.

I love hearing about your day. SMUT

The cold ground provided no comfort.

Sweet little nothings.

So guilty.

Breakfast is ready.

It's like heaven. SMUT

Anything for you, beautiful girl. SMUT

The Last of Us

Joel Miller

A civilized meal.

Never been more thankful.

They're not gonna hit you.

Her saving grace.

Sweet mama.

Miller baby.

Two idiots in love. Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 (Finished series)

Mandalorian

Din D'jarin

His perfect little Cyar'ika.

You've made me worry.

Such a pretty sight.

I know you made her your riduur.

Good Omens

Crowley

He may always be a demon, but she still loves him.

Is that a spot?

Hannibal NBC

Hannibal x reader x Will

I see the way you look at her, William.

His carefully crafted web.

A predicament.

Terms of Endearment (drabble).

Will Graham

No Pajama Party for you, Mr. Graham.

Fishing 101.

Their safe hold.

So scared but so happy.

Xmen

Charles Xavier

Of course, my love.

Polar

Duncan Visla

Four days of hell.

Midsommar

Pelle

That's a love rune. Casts a love spell.

Little bird.

Adjustment.

Twilight

Jasper Hale

Are you scared of me, Princess?

Sparring.

Marcus Volturi

The Best Thing for Marcus.

Caius Volturi

The human did interrupt.

Sherlock BBC

Jim Moriarty

A deer in the headlights.

Harry Potter Universe

Barty Crouch Jr.

His betrothed. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

I hope I do.

Severus Snape

The astronomy professor.

Remus Lupin

Our needs. SMUT

James Potter

Feeling unwell.

OC stories:

Harry Potter universe:

The misaligned stars.

Remus Lupin x OC x (past)Regulus Black

Summary: The golden trio knocks on the door of someone who can help them with the Slytherin locket.

.............……………….

Who I'm accepting requests for

More about my page!

My backup account: @poetic-endeavor

Fanfic count: 78

#masterlist #imagine #fanfiction #fanfics

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whocaresstillthelouvre · 2 months ago

Text

No One Noticed

Pairing: Javier Peña x Steve's Little Sister Reader Rating: Mature (for this chapter) Summary: You thought you'd never talk to Javier again... until a newspaper and a bouquet show up in your dressing room. Warnings: angst, yearning, pining, heartbreak, lying to your boyfriend, lying to your brother, lying to yourself that you can be perfectly normal about javier peña, jealousy, washington dc Words: 4,800

A/N: Listen, these two have some stuff to figure out, and as much as I want to post hot Javier Peña smut, I have a lot of feelings about them taking their time. (lol I say that and the next chapter will definitely have jealous Javi smut) Thank you to @devineconjuring for her dot eating. Her and @secretelephanttattoo's words of encouragement stopped me from rethinking this story, and I so very much appreciate them trying to coddle my brain.

Suburban Sparks Masterlist Masterlist

—-

“Amazing show, sweetheart,” Elliott’s accent drips with the sweetness you tell yourself you adore. His hug is warm and it does make your heart beat a bit faster, but all you can think of is how good it would feel to have Javier’s deep voice congratulate you while his strong arms are wrapped around you. Elliott’s arms simply feel like settling.

It’s ironic that your costar, not Javier, is now holding you. Javier was the one who helped you get this role. His support and belief in you, his gruff words of encouragement–those are what carried you through auditions and anxiety-riddled nights going over your lines. He saw something in you that you often failed to see in yourself. Elliott was just the cute co-star you thought could mend your broken heart.

Elliott pulls back from the hug, his green eyes searching yours for a reaction.

You remember to act again. Act happy, act okay, act satisfied, act like you didn’t feel the pair of brown eyes that you always dream about watching as you stood on stage.

“Thank you, El,” you respond warmly as you turn to your dressing room door. “I’ll meet you back out here in ten for the party. I just need to freshen up.”

“Of course,” he smiles, leaving a kiss against your lips. You feel like such a liar as you turn and walk into your dressing room, closing the door behind you.

You flick on the lights, relishing in a bit of quiet after the whirlwind of the day. A bright bouquet lying on your vanity catches your eye.

You run your hands over the delicate petals and notice a newspaper underneath them. Above the nameplate, there is sharp, neat handwriting in blue. Javi.

Tears spring in your eyes, your heart begins racing, and the pit in your stomach turns into butterflies. He was here.

You were incredible. I knew you would be. - Jav

Under his note, a number with a DC area code is written. The air leaves your lungs, and you let out a soft sob, tears beginning to fall down your cheeks when you realize he’s just a phone call away again. A small, fragile laugh escapes your lips.

You rip his number off the newspaper, much like you ripped the photo of him all those years ago. You place the flowers in the sink of your tiny powder room. Now, you’ll have a part of him in your dressing room.

A few drops of Visine and a fresh coat of foundation help hide the fact that you were just in tears over Agent Javier Peña before you head out to rejoin Elliott and the rest of the cast for the opening night party. Now that's acting.

—-

After an hour of galavanting, empty conversations, and congratulations, you make an excuse. Drooping your posture and yawning, you tell everyone at the party you’re not feeling well. Elliott offers to take you back to your place, like the gentleman he always is. Squeezing his hand, you thank him and tell him to enjoy the night. The drops of guilt inside you fade as you walk outside and pull the newspaper clipping out of your jacket, tracing your fingers across the slight indentations where Javi’s pen pressed against the paper as he wrote his number.

You shouldn’t call; you should just move on, learn to fall in love with Elliott, and take the safe route. He’s kind, handsome, and just your type. But he’s not Javier. So, you tuck yourself against a building a street away from the bar and call the number.

"Hello?" His voice. It’s exactly how you remembered it: deep and comforting. You feel like you could cry.

"Javi." You breathe out, your hand gripping the phone as if it’ll float away.

“Hey. Congratulations. You were incredible.”

“Thank you,” you sigh. God, you wish you could see him. Where is he? What is he doing? Did he go home and wait for your call? Does he miss you as much as you miss him? Has he found it just as impossible to move on? “The flowers are beautiful… and the newspaper?"

“I-I was hoping we could read the news together like old times?” A wide smile spreads across your face. You want nothing more, but the wounds are still fresh. You still feel shipwrecked, unmoored by him leaving you, your heart stranded. But, a sliver of hope lights in your heart when you think of that bouquet of flowers and the man waiting on the other end of the line.

“I’d… I’d like that. What’s your address?”

He rattles off his address. Arlington, of course.

“Is it okay if I—if I come over?” you ask, your heart pounding against your chest.

“Please,” he breathes out, more needy than you’d ever expect to hear him.

—-

Your foot nervously taps against the linoleum of the subway car, faster and faster with each stop that brings you closer to Javier’s apartment.

Finally, the tinny speaker announces the Crystal City stop. You practically rush off the train and up the steps, the cool air breezing across your skin when you exit the station. The streets are quiet in the late night hour. A chill runs across your body, goosebumps pricking at your skin as you realize you’re getting closer to Javi.

1111 19th Street looms large. Damn, the DEA has money. It’s one of those constructions you hate, a cold and modern building that comes in and ruins the skyline.

Standing before the intercom, you take a deep, steadying breath before pressing the button next to his name. “It’s me,” you say into the box. The buzz sounds almost immediately, as if he’s been waiting by the door.

The elevator ride feels endless. There’s a ding for every floor you pass, numbers climbing on the little board above the doors, your reflection in the mirrored walls revealing your nervous anticipation. The silver doors part, and suddenly, you're standing in front of Javier’s apartment.

Before you can knock, the door swings open. Javier stands in front of you, just as handsome and perfect as you remember him, looking both nervous and hopeful. The deep brown eyes you've missed so much drink you in.

"Hi," you breathe, suddenly feeling shy. You can’t believe you’re here at Javi’s door. You know him far better than anyone you’ve ever known, the connection of months of phone calls, of falling for the man of your dreams, yet this is only the third time you've been with him in person.

"Hi," he replies, his hand coming up to rest behind his neck. “Do you want to come in?”

“I didn’t come here to chit-chat in the hall, Jav.” Jav. You forgot how good it feels to say his name. He steps aside with a nod, and you can feel the way his body tenses as you step through the doorway.

You lay your purse on the dining table, its surface untouched as if he never uses it. You shrug off your jacket, Javier’s eyes following every movement as the thin straps of your navy blue tank dress reveal your bare shoulders.

Your eyes sweep across his apartment, noticing how big it is for a single person. So this is what your taxes go to, huh? It’s filled with the usual furnishings found in the modern mega-luxe apartments popping up all over and gentrifying the coastline of the Potomac. Dark hardwood floors, barren white walls, and expansive windows with a view they’d put on the postcards at the touristy gift shops. A modern black leather couch and matching chairs frame a glass-top coffee table. Sleek lines, shiny silver furnishings, zero warmth.

He stands, his shoulders tense. You wonder if your body mirrors his or if you’re able to conceal how nervous you are. It’s a strange feeling to know somebody as intimately as you know him and yet feel like a total stranger in his space.

“It’s… nice,” you muse, your voice echoing in the quiet. “You could probably afford a nice area rug in here; might cut down on the echo.”

“I don’t do a lot of talking,” he responds.

“Mm,” you hum. You wonder if he’s just as lonely as you–if not more.

“Did you want to take a seat? Want something to drink?” he asks.

“What do you have?”

“Water or beer.”

“A beer’s good, thanks.”

You settle on the cool leather cushion of his couch, happy to finally take a seat on something soft. You’re exhausted. The adrenaline of opening night is long gone, only replaced by the memory of finding the flowers and newspaper left by Javi. You thought tonight would end in a celebratory drunken stupor, finally allowing yourself a night to relax, ultimately leading to you following Elliott back to his place where you’d close your eyes and imagine Javier as his lips were against your skin. Now, you’re in this sparsely decorated apartment trying to swallow down your nerves as you hear the clink of two beer bottles being opened.

When Javier comes back, his movements are stiff, and his broad shoulders seem to carry a weight, as if he’s not only nervous but sad, too. You feel like he may be thinking the same thing when he looks at you. Your legs are crossed, with your hands folded delicately over your knees to stop yourself from fidgeting too much.

He sits next to you, just close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, to breathe in the aroma of him–tobacco, mint, and cinnamon.

There’s a silence that settles over the two of you as you both drink your beer. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s weighted with longing and words unsaid.

Javier clears his throat softly, looking at you from the corner of his eye, his hand gripping his bottle tight.

“I knew you’d be amazing,” he says. The low baritone of his voice transports you back to all those months spent on the phone–his deep voice wishing you good night, telling you stories he thought he’d never share with anybody, believing in you and your talents.

You can feel a tear prick in your eye. You try to blink it away, but it disobeys and rolls down your cheek.

“Thanks, Jav,” your voice croaks out. His eyes snap to yours, widening when he sees your sorrow.

He rushes to cup your face with his large hand, his thumb sweeping to erase the solitary tear. You gasp at his touch. Six months since he touched you so tenderly, since he kissed you like you always dreamed, since he held you close as you both drifted to sleep. Two months since he cornered you in Steve’s upstairs hallway, his big brown eyes staring into your soul, sadness radiating off of him. The chill of walking away from him has stayed with you since, even as you tried to find happiness with somebody else.

He moves to pull away his hand, but you snap your hand up, clutching his and locking it in place. Your gaze pierces his as another tear falls.

“Don’t,” you whisper. His eyes soften, and he nods.

You both remain locked in each other’s eyes, your hand resting on his while he cradles your cheek.

You’ve felt so lost, so adrift without him, trying to live an incomplete life. But now Javi’s touch has found you again.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I missed you so much,” you choke out.

His thumb gently strokes your cheek, wiping away another tear that escapes. His touch feels so familiar, yet it’s so new.

"I didn't know if–” he starts, then pauses, swallowing hard. "I didn't know if you’d call."

You let out a shaky breath. "How could I not? After everything…"

His eyes search yours with hope and uncertainty, and you give him that hope when you lean into his touch. God, he hurt you. You’ve ached for him since that first night you didn’t hear from him. You’ve replayed that terrible call in your head over and over since. You vowed to move on, you vowed to let yourself heal over time, you vowed to live your life without Javier Peña until the newspaper and flowers showed up on your dressing table.

“Why did you disappear?” you ask.

“I was scared,” he confesses, his voice just as low as yours. “You deserve so much more than me, so I wanted to protect you. From me, from my past, from Ste—”

“Jav,” you interrupt sharply. “I’m the only one that can protect me.“

Javier's hand falls from your face, his eyes dropping to the floor.

"You're right," he says softly. "I should have trusted you to make your own choices."

You reach out, gently tilting his chin up until his eyes meet yours again. "I chose you, Javi. I still choose you."

“I’m sorry.”

“I know Jav, I know,” you reassure. “We can go on and on about this, but right now, I just want to be here with you. Just pretend that the last couple of months haven’t happened. I want to read the news again.”

He gives you a slightly sheepish smile. “So, I actually left you my newspaper, but do you want to watch the news?” he asks.

You nod, almost too enthusiastically. “I’d love that. We’ve never watched TV together.”

He shifts on the couch, leaning back and pulling you against him, his strong arm wrapping around you before he turns the TV on and cuddles you against his broad body.

All thoughts of the past couple of months–the yearning to hear Javier’s voice again, the loneliness that had overtaken your heart–disappear as you tilt your head up to look at him, admiring his handsome face.

He catches you staring. “Yeah?”

“Sorry, I just… I can’t believe I’m here with you.”

His arm tightens around you. “I’m glad you are.” He leans down, placing a tender kiss on your forehead.

You rest your head against his broad chest, savoring his closeness and listening to the steady beat of his heart. Your tired eyes blink heavily as the news anchor’s voice fades into background noise, the calming cadence of Javier’s breathing lulling you to sleep.

—-

“Hey,” a familiar deep voice awakens you. Javi. You must be dreaming. “It’s late.”

Your eyes open, adjusting to the darkness of Javier’s apartment. The TV has long since turned off, the ambient light from the city all that shines through the large windows. You’re still nestled against Javier’s chest. You both have shifted, your arm wrapped around his stomach, both of his wrapped protectively around your body.

“What time is it?” you ask, still hazy from sleep.

“Just after 3. We both fell asleep.”

You sit up slowly, untangling yourself from Javi’s arms and stretching your stiff muscles, before you realize. “The subway–” you start, but Javier cuts you off.

“It’s closed. You can stay here if you want. I can take the couch, and you can have the bed.”

Your heart races at the thought of spending the night in Javier’s bed, his scent surrounding you. You recall all those nights on the phone, imagining what it would be like to fall asleep next to him, to wake up in his arms.

“Or… you can sleep in your bed with me,” you suggest, hopeful and hesitant.

“I’d like that,” he whispers.

—-

Javier’s a true gentleman, as much as you wish he weren’t. He leaves you a white shirt emblazoned with DEA in bold, black letters across the chest and a pair of basketball shorts on the bathroom counter.

The feeling of trepidation is overshadowed by excitement as you emerge from the bathroom. Javier’s eyes track you as you cross the room. He’s settled in bed, clad in a light gray shirt, the covers resting against his chest and his back against the headboard.

He pulls down the covers on the bed for you, and you slip under the soft sheets, already feeling the warmth of his body. He turns the lamp off before he shuffles down, the bed dipping behind you as he sighs. You turn to face him, your eyes slowly adjusting to the dark.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “More than okay.”

His thumb strokes your cheekbone gently. “Can I do something?” His question is almost whispered out, his voice deep and low.

“Of course,” you answer without even hesitating.

He leans in, closing the small distance between you, and kisses you.

Gentle, tender, full of a promise of more… when you’re both ready. His lips are soft and warm, just like before. Now, you get to take your time, gentle and unhurried.

He pulls away, far too soon for your liking, resting his forehead against yours. “Good night. I’m happy you’re here.”

“I am too, Jav. Thanks for coming to opening night.”

“Of course,” his arms wrap around you, cuddling you close against him, just like the first night you spent together.

You just had the biggest opening night of your career, performing the play you’re headlining in front of a sold-out crowd, but that pales in comparison to the moment you have now. Finally, Javier Peña is back in your life.

—-

You wake to a gentle nudge against your shoulder and Javier’s slight smile as he holds up a cup of coffee and a paper.

“Morning,” his deep voice rasps. “Want to read?”

You smile and yawn, stretching your arms above your head, feeling Javi’s eyes on you the whole time. You nod, sitting up and accepting the mug from him. You take a sip as Javier sits beside you on the bed, his arm wrapping around you and pulling you next to him.

“Front page or sports?” he asks.

“Front page.” You curl up closer to him. You dreamt of these moments.

"Let's see what's going on in the world today.”

You sip your coffee while you listen to Javier read, his arm tightening around you with each story, as if you’ll float away. Your fingers trace lazy circles against his chest, and Javier groans in the middle of an article about some sort of reform bill.

“You gotta stop that.”

You chuckle, pulling your hand away.

Javier turns the page, reading an article about local politics, but your cell phone suddenly blares to life on the nightstand. You jump, startled, and reach to grab your phone.

STEVE flashes on the screen.

“It’s Steve,” you tell Javi, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

You take a deep breath to steel yourself before you hit the answer button. “Hello?”

“Hey, kid!” Steve’s cheerful voice booms through the speaker. “How’d opening night go? It’s not too early, right?”

You glance over at Javi, who’s watching you intently.

“No, you’re fine. It was good.”

“That’s what I like to hear! Connie and I will be there tonight. We can’t wait.”

The guilt of talking to Steve while his friend sits right next to you feels like it will swallow you whole.

“That’s great,” you respond, trying to keep your voice light. “I can’t wait to see you both.”

Javi shifts beside you, his eyes focusing on a point in the distance, his hand gripping the newspaper tightly.

“Do you have dinner plans? Con and I would love to take you and Elliott out after.”

You feel your chest tighten at the mention of Elliott, your eyes instantly flicking to Javier sitting rigidly by your side, his jaw clenching.

“Um,” you clear your throat. Javier looks over at you, his brown eyes widening when he takes in the panic set on your face. He slightly nods, allowing you to continue how you need to. “Y-yeah, that sounds great, Steve.”

You nervously fiddle with the neckline of Javier’s shirt, feeling stuck between making him happy and keeping up appearances with Steve–and Elliott.

"Perfect! We'll see you tonight, then. Break a leg, kid."

As you end the call, it feels like a slight chasm has now formed between you and Javier. The newspaper crinkles in Javier’s hands as he folds it. His whole body looks tense, and you feel the anger radiating off of him.

“Elliott,” he says. Not a question, just an acknowledgment. Your chest feels tight at how low his voice is.

“He’s… we kind of hit it off after both getting cast and he’s been nothing bu—”

"Is it serious?" Javier interrupts.

You set your coffee mug on the nightstand, buying yourself a moment to find the right words.

"No," you say finally, looking into his eyes.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, his eyes examining your face as if searching for the right words.

His shoulders rise with a deep breath. “I want you to do what you need to do,” he softly says. “I want you to pick who you want to pick.”

You grab his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “I want to pick you,” you nervously say, “but, the play and Steve… and I just can’t. If we do this,” you exhale, “then you’ll be all I can focus on.”

“I know,” he soothes, running his thumb across your knuckle. “Friends, for right now.”

“Friends,” you smile and nod, ignoring how badly you want to pull him towards you and kiss his plush lips.

—

Watching Javier exist in his own space teaches you new things about him you never wondered to yourself. Like, he’s actually not very good at making eggs. He attempts to make you an omelet but instead serves you scrambled eggs with a lopsided grin. He’s very methodical while cooking, a towel slung across his shoulder, every spill or drip instantly wiped up.

He takes a seat at the dining table next to you. “I’ve never had a meal here,” he quietly muses, covering his eggs in black pepper and a couple dashes of Tapatio hot sauce.

“Well, I’m glad I could help you break it in.”

You feel oddly at home with him, comfortable sharing in such a mundane morning ritual. Your heart aches at the realization of what could be.

“What time do you need to be at the theatre?” he asks.

“Not until three, but I should probably get back home soon. Need to change, go over my lines, ya’ know?”

Javier nods, his eyes dropping to DEA stretched across your chest. “You look good in my clothes,” he says so low, you’re pretty sure it’s to himself.

“Friends, remember?” you tease, though you’re pretty sure he can feel the heat radiating off you.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “I’ll drive you home.”

“It’s okay, Jav, I can take the subway.”

“I’m not letting you take the subway in last night’s clothes,” he firmly responds. “Not when I have a perfectly good car.”

Your heart aches when you realize that Javi and his chivalrous ways–the protective way he can get without being overbearing, how he cares in his own quiet way–are back in your life.

“I’ll just go get dressed,” you say, quickly rising from the table and turning as you feel tears sprout in your eyes.

—-

It all feels so surreal as you stand in Javier’s bathroom, staring at yourself in the same mirror he uses to shave, removing his shirt and folding it neatly. A single tear trickles down your cheek, followed by another, then another until you’re gripping the edge of his sink, trying to muffle your sobs with his t-shirt in the same way you muffled your moans for him that first night.

The past months without him come rushing back. The sleepless nights when you would stare at the phone willing it to ring, the way your heart would leap and instantly fall when it would ring and it wasn’t him. The fear that Steve would mention Javier, the cruel realization that Javier had moved here and not told you when Steve casually mentioned it. Confiding in Connie in that guest room, her arm wrapped around you as you confided in her, telling her how you had fallen for Javier Peña, of all people.

You take a shuddering breath, wiping the tears away with the back of your hand. You can’t let Javier see you like this, not now, while everything seems so fresh and yet so fragile between you. You splash cold water on your face and breathe. You tell yourself to act again as you slip your dress back on and take a deep breath before you open the bathroom door.

Javier stands in his bedroom, his hand raised as if he were about to knock. His jaw ticks, and his brown eyes search yours, taking in the hint of redness that remains in them.

“You alright?” he asks softly, concern furrowing his brows.

You nod, unable to trust your voice not to give you away as you hand him his shirt and shorts.

His eyes continue to search yours. Your chest tightens, your eyes burning with unshed tears. He’s been able to easily read you from the moment you met him in your big brother’s backyard. You tell yourself you’re a good actor, but Javi’s always been able to see past it, even through a phone line thousands of miles away.

His lips part, indecision flickers across his eyes, before he tightly shuts them, as if he stops himself from speaking the words he wants to say.

“Come on, let me take you home.”

—-

He leads you through the parking garage, the only sound your footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. Javi’s hand hovers protectively just inches from your back, his touch sending a spark against your skin each time his palm brushes against you.

God, you didn’t even know what type of car he drove, and now he’s unlocking and holding open the door of a maroon Jeep for you.

You slide into the passenger seat, watching as Javier jogs around to the driver’s side. When he settles in beside you, the Jeep feels so much smaller.

He looks over at you, before he puts his aviators on.

“Just tell me where to go,” he says, as he starts the engine.

You navigate Javi across the bridge, farther away from his clean, corporate neighborhood with slick-looking tall glass buildings, into your offbeat area with various-colored row homes.

You can’t help but steal glances of him. The morning light gleams across his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the sharp angle of his nose, the perfect curve of his plush lips. He’s so close to you, and yet you still feel so far away.

Javier effortlessly navigates through the twists and turns of your neighborhood, almost as if he’s been here before. As your street approaches and your apartment building comes into view, your hands fidget in your lap. You’re not ready to let this reconnection end; it all seems so fragile. Not even twenty-four hours ago, you were going through the motions with Elliott, trying to convince yourself you could be happy.

“Just up there on the right,” you direct softly. “The blue building.”

Javier pulls up to the curb, shifting the car into park before turning to face you. The soft rumbling of the Jeep idling beneath you feels like it matches the hum of your pulse.

"Thank you for the ride," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Did you–did you want to come up?”

You can see the thick swallow travel down his throat. “I think it’s best I don’t. You know… friends.”

You nod. “Thanks again, Jav.”

“Anytime,” he responds softly, both hands still gripping the steering wheel like if he let go, he’d grab you.

You can feel the sear of his gaze as you exit his car and walk up the steps to your building’s door. You turn your head and smile at him, and he gifts you a smile back before you turn and walk through the door.

—-

You feel like you want to cry with each step you take up to your apartment. The hallway you travel every day seems longer than usual, as the distance between you and Javier grows. He’s so close now, and yet he still feels so far away.

You drop your purse on your tiny dining table covered in highlighted scripts and art supplies. It’s only 11 AM–you know you need to shower, but you don’t want to rid yourself of the smell and the warmth of Javi. You also should probably call Elliott, to keep up appearances and let him know you’re feeling better.

When you unzip and reach into your purse to grab your phone, you feel cotton and pull out Javier's white DEA shirt. Your heart skips a beat. He’s left you his shirt again.

—-

My permatags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

Friends of Sparks. (Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed. @secretelephanttattoo, @sawymredfox, @jolapeno, @almostfoxglove, @thelightsandtheroses, @jokesonthem, @miss-oranje-disco-dancer, @bitchesuntitled, @goodwithcheese, @jessthebaker, @littlemisspascal, @harriedandharassed, @moel-jiller, @mandaloriankait, @baenedict221b, @pasc4lfuzz @kirsteng42, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @lilac-boo

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meazalykov · 23 days ago

Text

shooters shoot

catarina macario x f!uswnt!reader with features of platonic!trinity rodman x f!uswnt!reader

your team at chelsea does not know that you're bold, so you take your confession to a crush to the next level

you’re sprawled across your couch in your london flat, the early morning light filtering through the blinds. it’s 6am, and your phone is propped up on a cushion, trinity’s face filling the screen.

your bestfriend's pink braids are loose, swinging as she moves around her dc apartment. it’s 11pm for her, and she’s buzzing, her energy practically vibrating through the facetime call.

you’re in a yankees hat, the brim pulled low, and a chelsea blue hoodie that’s a size too big, your go-to for these morning chats.

“y/n, i’m freaking out!” trinity says, her voice a mix of glee and disbelief. she’s pacing her living room, holding her phone so close you can see the glitter of her earrings.

“did you see that ben posted his own tiktok too? is that a hard launch? oh my god, the comments are wild and everyone won't stop blowing me up about it.”

you grin, sipping coffee from a chipped mug.

“girl, we were on call when you posted it... remember? you and ben are just out here breaking the internet.. I mean a tennis star and an espresso shot from the us women's team? of course the fans are eating it up... they love anything that involves being nosey.”

trinity laughs, flopping onto her couch.

“i didn’t think he’d go that big, you know? like, we talked about it, but then he posted that photo and then that tiktok??? i screamed, y/n. I fucking screamed!!”

you laugh, nearly spilling your coffee.

“it’s so extra but you two are cute, though. the washington spirit girls must be losing it.”

“oh, they are,” trinity says, rolling her eyes.

“croix already joked about planning a team dinner to ‘celebrate my glow-up.’ like, chill.” she pauses, then leans closer to the screen, her voice dropping.

“but, like… what do you think? about the whole public thing?”

you tilt your head, catching the shift in her tone.

“it’s bold. i mean, you and ben are solid, so it works. why? you regretting it?”

“no, no,” she says quickly, waving a hand.

“i love it. it’s just… i don’t know. it’s a lot but it feels good, you know? like, we’re out here, no hiding.” she starts pulling her braids into a ponytail, her fingers moving fast, “you ever think about doing something like that?”

you freeze with your mug halfway to your lips, “me? like, a hard launch? trin, i’d need someone to launch with first.”

trinity raises an eyebrow, tying off her ponytail.

“don’t play dumb with me, y/n. you’ve been acting all weird each camp since we came back from our injuries after the olympics... who’s got you smiling at your phone?”

your stomach flips. you set your mug down, tugging at the strings of your hoodie, “i don’t smile at my phone.”

“liar,” she says, smirking.

“spill. who is it? I know its someone we play with.”

you hesitate, glancing at the ceiling like it’ll give you an out but it’s trinity aka your best friend since you were kids, the one who knows every embarrassing story from your first uswnt camp. you sigh, leaning back into the couch.

“fine. it’s… catarina.”

trinity’s jaw drops, then she bursts out laughing, clapping her hands.

“catarina? as in catarina macario, HUHHHHH???? our teammate? your chelsea teammate? oh, that’s so obvious!”

she says that in the most sarcastic voice imaginable^

you scoff, crossing your arms.

“shut the hell up, trin.”

she’s still laughing, her head thrown back.

“im joking but no, no, it’s perfect. that shit was clearly obvious but you’re just out here crushing on cat, and it’s written all over your face. I'm fucking dying.”

“you’re the worst,” you mutter, but you’re smiling.

“it’s not that serious though. i just… like her. a lot.”

trinity wipes her eyes, calming down.

“okay, but real talk? you should do what me and ben did. post something cute, tag her, make it official.”

you shake your head, your heart racing at the thought.

“trin, you and ben were already together when you did that. i can’t just… shoot my shot like that. what if it freaks her out?”

trinity leans forward, her face serious now.

“can i tell you something, you have to promise to not tell anyone?”

you narrow your eyes.

“sure.”

she takes a deep breath, like she’s about to drop a bomb.

“last camp catarina was talking to lily, alyssa, lindsey, and sonnet and… she admitted she likes you.”

your brain short-circuits.

“what?”

“yep,” trinity says, nodding.

“she was all shy about it, but she told them she’s into you after lily questioned her about it... like, for real.”

you sit up, your hat nearly falling off.

“trin, if you’re lying, I'm booking a flight to dulles airport and killing you.”

“i’m not lying!” she says, holding up her hands.

“I swear on my spirit contract.”

you stare at her, your mind spinning. catarina likes you? catarina, with her quiet confidence and her laugh that makes your chest feel tight?

you swallow hard, trying to process, “okay… fine. maybe i’ll do it.”

trinity’s eyes light up, “the tiktok trend I did? the ‘shooters shoot’ one?”

you nod, already feeling the nerves.

“yeah. it’s funny, and… i don’t know. it’s less scary since you know I fuck with humor.”

“i can’t wait,” trinity says, grinning.

“you’re gonna shock everyone with that shit!”

later that day, you’re back on your couch, your phone in hand. you’ve got the tiktok app open, the audio already picked: “they say shooters shoot… ah huh… duke dennis, what’s up with you?”

it’s a vibe, catchy and bold, perfect for what you’re about to do. you’re still in your yankees hat and chelsea hoodie, the outfit feeling like armor.

you take a deep breath, hit record, and let the audio play.

on the screen, you keep it simple. just text and no full name that shows you're talking about your chelsea teammate.

“-------- -------, what’s up with you?”

you count the dashes carefully with catarina’s first and last name, without actually typing it. you post it before you can overthink, your heart pounding as the video goes live.

within minutes, your notifications explode.

your tiktok is no stranger to attention since you post a lot, from training clips to goofy dances with trinity or other teammates like alyssa back home and mille from chelsea.

however, you see that fans are losing it, speculating in the comments.

“who’s the mystery girl?”

“y/n’s shooting her shot what the hell???!”

"trinity got her to do ts I bet"

“those dashes… wait a minute!”

you scroll through, your cheeks burning. some uswnt teammates are in on it too.

tara comments, “oh, we know 👀.”

giselle drops a fire emoji and even some chelsea girls are chiming in.

you’re equal parts thrilled and terrified.

the next country over from you in england... lily, chilling in the netherlands, sees the tiktok and immediately sends it to catarina with a single smirk emoji.

catarina watches it, her lips curling into a smile. she laughs, her cheeks flushing.

“wha-what? that is crazy,”

she mutters to herself, but she can’t stop watching it.

the next day, you’re at chelsea’s training facility, and the locker room is a minefield.

you walk in, head down, knowing exactly what’s coming.

catarina’s already there, sitting on the bench next to your spot, lacing up her boots. you glance at her, and she smiles...soft, but with a spark that makes your stomach flip.

“well, well, well,” sam says, striding in with a grin.

“look at tiktok star y/n, shooting her shot.”

you groan, tossing your bag into your locker.

“can you not?”

“nope,” sam says, popping the ‘p.’

“you’re famous now. that video already reached nearly 200 thousand likes and everybody is dropping every athletes name in the book to figure out who you're talking about... iconic.”

lucy joins in, leaning against the lockers.

“ona sent me the video and i’m just saying, y/n, those dashes were very specific.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

“y’all are annoying.”

catarina’s quiet, but you catch her glancing at you, her smile growing and you smile back at her with a sparkler in your eyes.

sam notices and gags dramatically, “oh my god, you two are so gay.”

you turn to sam raising an eyebrow, “says the woman whose american fiancé is pregnant with your kid. who’s also my godson, by the way. maybe we’re all just gay in here!”

the room erupts in laughter.

millie, ever the straight ally, shakes her head, “not me.”

you smirk, “you look gay, though.”

millie cackles pointing at you, “fair, but don’t change the subject. that tiktok was about catarina, wasn’t it?”

you don’t deny it, just shrug, your cheeks burning.

catarina’s still next to you, and you feel her shoulder brush yours.

it’s enough to make your heart skip.

after training, you’re walking to the parking lot when catarina catches up to you.

“hey,” she says, her voice soft but teasing.

“can i get a ride?”

“yeah, of course,” you say, trying to play it cool despite the butterflies in your chest. you unlock your car, and she slides into the passenger seat.

as you drive, the silence is comfortable, but you can feel her watching you. finally, she speaks.

“so… that tiktok. was it really about me?”

you grip the steering wheel, your face hot.

“yeah. i mean… i didn’t want to, like, freak you out but yeah. trinity thought it would be funny and I know humor is kinda like our thing so...”

she laughs, and it’s the best sound you’ve ever heard.

“damn you pulled a trinity and ben on me. i can’t believe it.”

you glance at her catching the way her eyes sparkle back at you, “too much?”

“no,” she says, shaking her head.

“it was cute... very cute.”

you pull up to her apartment, and before you can say anything, she turns to you.

"y/n, i… i like you. like, a lot. i didn’t know how to say it before without any of our teammates getting in the way but… yeah.”

your heart stops, then starts again, faster.

“i like you too, cat. a lot.”

she smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out.

“so…”

you take a deep breath, feeling bold.

“how about a date? do you remember that one rooftop restaurant you and mia took me to back in san diego last year. it was a beautiful place that overlooked the beaches. we could have our first date here but we’ve got national break in a few days so... are you in?”

“i’m in,” she says, leaning over to kiss you.

it was a quick peck, but it causes a smile to break through you anyways.

“it’s a date.” you mumbled against her lips.

you watch her walk into her building, your heart bursting.

when you get home, you text trinity.

y/n:

i did it. date with cat. you were right.

trinity four seconds later:

TOLD YOU.

shooters shoot, y/n.

i’m proud.

you laugh, sinking into your couch, already counting down the days until you are in san diego.

#catarina macario #catarina macario x reader #uswnt #trinity rodman #trinity rodman x reader #ben shelton #woso fanfics #woso community #woso x reader #Chelsea fcw #Chelsea women #woso #womens football #wlw #Sophia smith #naomi girma #Naomi girma x reader

157 notes · View notes

hello-eden · 10 months ago

Text

Master post 2

Master post 1

Story posts/prompts

The Plan

One or Two Hearts

A Comforting Nightmare

Missing

Seeing is Believing

When will you learn your actions have consequences

The orb

Anchor

Rewind to the end

all grown up

social media timkon clone kids

demon twins social media

In Plan Sight p2 p3 p4 p5

To long of a wait

never hidden

being crazy never stopped me from being right

Awaken the endless

unexpected hope p2

Surprise Reflection

Is it a Comfort or a Curse

Our surprise

is it a enemy or a child

false information

stopped rebirth

safe and sound

the grave secret

unsetting change

Grief filled promise

wish bubble

Interrupted Reunion

safe keeping

moving in

never wish on a star

incorrect Quotes

DC-Favorite

Dead tired #1

Dead tired #2

Demon twins

Surrounded

Stabbed

Skill issue

poisonous

breathe

fire

Danny phantom

Outsider pov Vlad and Danny

Fake human au

Family tree

Vlad is to raise Ellie and Dan

Mom dan

Dan and Danny co parenting

Pitch Pearl misunderstanding with Dani

Pjoxdp

Star wars x DP

#dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #danny fenton #batman #dc x dp crossover #batfam #batfamily #dcxdp #star wars #pjo series #pjo hoo toa #dcxdp incorrect quotes

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jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear · 2 months ago

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Rating the various incarnations of Jonathan Crane Pt. 2

(Don't see your fav? It was probably covered in my original post!)

Bringing the backrooms into DC, Night Terrors Crane is great, very funny, super spooky at times and full of memable humor. Sure, it might feel dated years down the line, but right now it's hilarious!

8/10 - Moar backrooms content pls

This guy. Is he eating hotdogs or cookies? Who knows, but I love him. Only featured in one comic, but with a peak design that inspired many more Cranes down the line. Good Stuff.

9/10 - I want to befriend his ravens

Ahhh! Fear State! THE GOAT, the best, the king of kings in terms of story and design. His reign ended far too soon, but he's great mask on and mask off. Lotta CAMP vibes from this one

9/10 - I love his mask

Man-Bat Scarecrow is one kinky mother fucker, and we stan. The design is great, the dialogue is awesome and he gets to star in multiple comics!!

7/10 - We love kinky cranes

Oooh this guy, he had a lotta hype surrounding him and he DID NOT disappoint. Batman 89 Crane is great, and he's a person of color! (we don't see that enough tbh) Great design <3

10/10 - He needs his own comic

Poor misunderstood Crane--I mean Steve? He jsut wants to be seen as Scary, and I can relate. I think we all agree taht he is a good boi.

10/10 - We adore you, little Steve

The most unqiue of the older comics, our dear Salecrow! He's got rhyming down to a science, literally! A fan favorite for good reason

8/10 - RIP Tim Sale

LEGOOOOO!! The boy, the baby, the cinnamon roll! He's so cute and huggable!!

9/10 - Lego for life

Now this guy. This guy is Fantastic. HHSD Crane is is what other Cranes aspire to be. Design is amazing, dialogue is great, and charm is through the roof!

10/10 - Ruh Roh Sccooby!

What can be said that hasn't been said. This is ICONIC Crane design and a perfect prequel to Arkham Asylum Crane. "Fuck art therapy" - This man.

20/10 - Perfection in one Crane

#Jonathan Crane #Scarecrow #The Scarecrow #Rating Scarecrow #DC #DC Comics #Arkham Shadow #Salecrow #HHSD #Lego Scarecrow #ArkhamManiacs #Night Terrors #Etc

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dduane · 26 days ago

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Hello! I have been a long-time fan of your work in Star Trek, and then while watching Transformers G1 I was startled to see your name appear on the title screen of Webworld. Most of the episodes of G1 are a little all over the place, but Webworld GOT me. It’s so fascinating to see Cyclonus essentially bring Galvatron (against his will) to a mental health clinic?! My question is, how did you get involved to help write an episode of Transformers? What was it like? Thank you so much for all the amazing work that you do!

You're very welcome!

About my work on Transformers G1: Developmentally speaking it's kind of a complicated story, so bear with me here while I set the scene.

In 1985 I was a pretty busy girl. The Door Into Shadow had just published. Deep Wizardry had gone to press for publication in Delacorte's fall-'85 schedule. My first computer game, Star Trek: The Kobayashi Alternative, launched (in the Rainbow Room on top of 30 Rock...) in the summer of '85. I was then scripting my first comics work for DC (the "Double Blind" two-parter and "The Last Word"). And after taking a brief breathing space from four or five years' worth of animation work across a number of shows (scroll down here for details), I'd just turned in an episode of My Little Pony.

In memory all this work tends to get tangled together somewhat (which is probably no surprise). One thread that shows persistently through the tangle, though, is how much time I was spending in New York at a time when I was living in Philadelphia.

A surprising amount of that has to do with the research surrounding Deep Wizardry, which required specialized materials not readily available anywhere else. Because I had a contract for that book, in early 1984 I applied for (and was granted) access to the Frederick Lewis Allen Memorial Room at the main branch of the New York Public Library. As a result, for the guts of a year I was "up in town" at least every other week or so, sometimes for two or three days at a time—taking notes from the Woods Hole oceanographic resources there, drawing copies of them (like this one) when xerography wasn't available or when otherwise necessary, and—when there was time—writing.

But on those stay-overs my evenings were my own, and fortunately there were some really nice people to meet up with, every so often. Back when 666 5th Avenue (now 660) was DC Comics' home, a lot of the writing and editorial talent had a habit of heading down to street level and around the corner on Friday nights, to meet up and relax at the bar in a local steakhouse on the E. 52nd Street side (IIRC: that neighborhood's much changed now). That's almost certainly where I first met Len Wein—most likely introduced to him by my editor on the Trek comics at DC, Bob Greenberger—and we quickly got to be friends. Each of us was interested in the writing (and kinds of writing) the other was doing, so we had lots to chat about.

Now during this period I'd recently finished work on that My Little Pony script. A production company called Sunbow was then handling the screen side of the property, along with shows based on various other IPs. To this day I can't remember who it was over there who said to me, "So listen, now that you're done with that, we've got some slots unfilled on another show—would you be interested in doing a Transformers?" My answer was naturally "Sure, why not?"*

So shortly I was talking story, in a general way, with my new story editor over there, Steve Gerber. The thought of doing something a bit personal, and getting into some of the characters' heads a bit, was as usual on my mind. The idea of getting Galvatron some psychiatric care had already crossed my mind at that point... though I had on first impulse pushed that (for the time being) onto the back burner due to possibly being a little too "on the nose."

At some point pretty early on in this process, though, a different idea hit me as it had hit me before. Len was plainly perfectly cut out for animation storytelling (as other comics writers have also been: but the fit has rarely seemed quite so perfect, to me at least). And he'd have a party with this, I thought. Why not invite him along for the ride and let him get a feel for how it's done?

So I did. To my great pleasure Len promptly said "Yes!" And having cleared this with Steve Gerber, we dove in as co-writers.

Collaboration can sometimes be a rocky road, but I've always been lucky in mine, and that lucky streak held true with Len. I have rarely had a co-writer who right out of the starting gate was more willing to stretch hard to get things right, and one who was more effortlessly funny... even when the humor turned dark (as it repeatedly did in this episode). He unquestionably brought things to that script that I wouldn't have thought to try, or would have been nervous about my ability to pull off, solo.

...So after a couple/few weeks we turned "Webworld" in, the checks cleared, and we both went on to other things. But that episode keeps coming up as many people's favorite... and I can't say that I mind a bit. :) (If you want to look at it, the whole episode's online: just follow the link.)

BTW, because people do ask "Why does Len's name appear first on the credits screen?", the answer's simple: Because I insisted. He was the newbie here, after all. I thought it only right that the junior partner in this medium should be put in pride of place on that credit, his first time out. (I routinely do the same with @petermorwood, for anyone who's watching. Collaborator of thirty-plus years he may be, but he's still newer at this than I am. Heh heh.)

In any case, I wear that particular joint credit with great pride. It's an honor to be associated with someone who went on to become—entirely separate from his already-stellar career in comics—one of the strongest and most prolific animation writers of the last few decades.

...So that's how it happened. (And as for the story of how Bob G. and I dragged Len out of that restaurant one night and made him buy his first computer [an early Macintosh]: that's true too.) :)

*Also, after this they asked me the same question again, but this time about a show called GloFriends. Same result, due to the house rule: "If someone offers you work, take it!" :)

#Len Wein #Transformers #Transformers: Webworld #Transformers G1

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maxwell-grant · 1 year ago

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There's a trend people have pointed out in superhero stories over the past 20 or so years that is the death of "regular" supporting casts, an increasing absence of un-powered sidekicks or people involved who aren't in the thick of the action or in the hero's secret. Everyone who interacts with superheroes is a couple issues away from becoming one, every story involves a supervillain encounter or several dozen, every hero's gotta have a lunchbox-ready "superhero family" made from these characters, and every side character that doesn't join them is either going to die or become a supervillain.

The defining example people use for this is Spider-Man's supporting cast, with every Spider-Man cast member short of Aunt May and J Jonah Jameson getting some kind of powered upgrade or symbiote, and I'm gonna say Amanda Waller is an excellent case study of how this kind of thing happens, and I think it helps to explain why Amanda Waller has been, Like That, for the past 30 years.

She’s wearing a grey shirt underneath a blue blazer and it’s tucked into a similarly blue skirt that stops at mid calf. She reminds me of the neighbourhood aunties I used to see leaving for church every Sunday morning.

My mom used to say that you are the company you keep. So what kind of person does it take to keep a variety of bruised, battered, and dangerous personalities in check? - Amanda Waller: DC's Most Terrifying Woman

To those of you who haven't read John Ostrander and Kim Yale's Suicide Squad, there once was a time where Amanda Waller was something more than a powerful antagonistic force able to butt heads with the biggest superheroes, and something other than a heartless establishment face out to make superheroes miserable for ill-defined reasons. Structurally speaking, Suicide Squad is a comic about marginal DCU characters forced to deal with actual real life problems, and it's central character is a marginalized person forced to deal with DCU problems and characters. The members of the Squad are a rolling parade of costumed misfits and maniacs assigned to go around the globe to fight and kill and die on dirty missions to deal with dirty laundry and stop war zones from erupting, while Amanda Waller is forced to shuffle around her cadre of D-list supervillains and disgraced superheroes and get into stand-offs with secret spy societies, living nukes, voodoo cartels, and Batman.

Amanda Waller neither looks nor acts like the kind of character that stars in a superhero comic, and she is the central character throughout the 66 issues of the run and we follow her character arc from beginning to end as she's forced to spin plates to accomplish her goals and prevent bad situations from getting worse. She is the most fully realized character in the run and everything rests on her shoulders. We spend a lot of time inside her head, her team, her associates, she is the center holding together an extremely chaotic book with no two characters on the same page. She is, and has to be, an extremely powerful person, someone who stands her ground no matter what, an unbeatable force of will because that is the only way she's going to survive the situations she's in, the only way she can be "The Wall", the kind of person who can repel Batman, command a platoon of monsters, talk her way out of Deadshot's contract, someone who can stare at Darkseid and credibly threaten the President into letting her live.

That's the part that everyone is more or less familiar. But there is, or at least used to be, much more to Amanda Waller than just being The Wall, not in the least because being The Wall is also hampering her effectiveness as well as straight up killing her.

"Amanda's toughness has taken her a long way" "It's taken her as far as it can. But it can't take her no further. It's actually starting to drag her down. I'm scared for my baby sister, rev - scared that the anger in her is congealing into hate." - Suicide Squad #31

We get to know her backstory, her plans, her points of contention with the system, her relationships with people around her, and how deeply she cares about things and people even as she sends them to the meatgrinder. From the start we learn that Waller staffs her team with people she's prone to getting into disagreements with, like Simon LaGrieve and Rick Flag, specifically so they can cover her moral blind spots and pick up the slack in emotional intelligence she's lacking, be the heroes that she can't afford to be. It is unspeakably crucial that the Squad is led by Rick Flag as well as Bronze Tiger, a fallen hero who owes Waller for his recovery who eventually takes Flag's baton. Waller stands up for her team, gets into fights with her superiors when they decide to terminate them, and takes the fall for them when necessary. Waller is a person who does Bad Things - but she is not a Bad Person.

The book in no uncertain terms frames the Suicide Squad's existence as monstrous in a scale Waller doesn't understand until the very end, and it digs deep into the unethical things Waller has to allow for and perpetrate in order to keep it running no matter how many lives it saves, and she spends the first half of the book on a downward spiral. But then there's the 2nd half of the book:

In the first 39 issues, Amanda’s flaws are her undoing. As she pushes away the people she hired to act as a balance, she grasped tighter and tighter to her uncompromised vision of the Suicide Squad despite the constant changes and derailment. Her choices had consequences: the death of Rick Flag, her demotion, employees quitting, and finally, the disbandment of the team.

The last 27 issues have Amanda rising up from the ashes after a year in jail. She’s less in her own way – she communicates, her anger isn’t driving her, she’s more receptive of alternative perspective and recognizes when she’s wrong in real time – but she’s still just as scary.

Waller rebuilds her relationships with the people she drove away, takes a different tack to how the team works, and starts going out into the frontlines with the Squad. She brings Oracle (who actually made her debut in this comic) into the fold, saves her life and plays a big role in Barbara making progress in overcoming her Joker trauma. She genuinely puts in the work to improve as a person and do things a better way than before, even if there is an inescapable immorality to the very existence of the Squad and what they do. That immorality never goes away, and it only further horrifies her when learning how badly her project has gone. In fact, it's that very inescapable immorality that ends her arc.

She learns that the CIA has started using a new Suicide Squad to support a brutal regime in South America, and when faced with the full extent of her complicity in Western imperialism? She decides right then and there to end the Suicide Squad for good after they liberate the population of said regime from said Squad. She is the only person who gives a shit about the country enough to start the assignment for free once she knows about it, force the Squad along, lead the mission in field, and personally (and even gently) usher the villain to his death at the end, to end what began with her.

She does bad things, and she does good things. She cares about people, and she uses people. Her decisions ruin as well as save the world. She spins a million plates to match wills and wits with the strongest, wickedest, most cunning humans and superhumans alike, and she still has superiors to answer to and people close to her she hires to judge her for what she does. She endured racism and misogyny and poverty for decades and rode whatever she could to attain as much power over her own life as someone like her could possibly attain, and to have it, she must be a willing tool of the state and bend the knee to Ronald Reagan, the man she derides for what he did to her community, hating every minute of it.

She lost her family to sexual and racial violence, and now she wrangles a penal battalion comprised of some of the worst people on the planet to inflict violence on her orders. She has saved and redeemed people, and she's haunted by the corpses she's left in her wake. She is oppressed and oppressor, someone who could only escape the ravages of American imperialism by becoming one of it's chief enforcers, and still she rebuilds herself into a better person from it upon confronting and challenging her role in it. She is not a bad person, she is not a good person either, she is just afforded a degree of agency and complexity unpowered characters in superhero books simply don't get.

Okay cool, now what is she up to these days?

That, I guess. That is what a strong but unpowered person who does not allow themselves to be bossed around by superheroes or supervillains looks like now. Everytime there's a call for a military bad guy, Waller gets tagged in to be DC's Henry Gyrich. There was a point where Waller was made to contrast the likes of Sarge Steel and Wade Eiling, someone who butted heads with them because she was a well-meaning person working for and committing evil as often as she attempted to stop it. These days, the most consistent beat with her is that she is the most dangerous person alive and worse than the villains she wrangles into working for her. She is a thing to be overcome, a hypocrite to be exposed, a challenge to the natural order of the universe, and she is too terrific at it to be shuffled off quietly. She is a Bad Person and so everything she says and does is Bad (and thus can be ignored).

Integral to Suicide Squad's structure was the fact that Waller was the center holding everything together, the ultimate third party: spinning plates working with, for and against all of the others so she can bend rules and be bent by them. Bent, but never broken, because The Wall doesn't break, others break first. Waller was a one-of-a-kind character, and that broke her, because beating Sarge Steel and Wade Eiling at their own game means replacing Sarge Steel and Wade Eiling. Waller doesn't look like them, she doesn't look like the superheroes either, and so she can't be one of them. She can't even look like herself a lot of the time, they try to slim her up everytime they think they can get away with it.

Suicide Squad was preoccupied with exploring a perspective from a world outside the superhero worldview, but we no longer have her perspective or that of people around her, we only know her through the superheroes she inherently defies and has had an adversarial relationship against from day one. She is someone with a viewpoint that is charitable to neither superheroes nor institutions, and thus, the universe is increasingly less sympathetic to her, the less utility she has to the grander narrative where everyone has to pick between one of two options. If she wasn't powerful and assertive, she'd be another Leslie Thompkins, another Jiminy Cricket the heroes passively ignore. But because she is powerful and doing morally compromised things without asking Batman's permission, she must have a personal grudge. She must be a government monster. She must attack the superheroes for no reason, no ideology, no motive.

So now she's just The Wall 24/7, the mean icy establishment boot who is strong and clever and cruel and hates superheroes and wants to destroy superheroes and rule the world from the shadows. Everything she does is a fuck-up she refuses to take responsability for, everyone is right to hate and distrust mean old Waller, and now everyone gets to look good by dunking on her. They couldn't make her a superhero, so they made her a generic supervillain instead. And now that she's a bad guy, she no longer has to believe anything, she doesn't really have to mean anything, they don't have to write stories about something other than superheroes and supervillains, and they don't have to let a fat woman of color take up space and screentime they could be giving to Harley Quinn and Slade Wilson instead.

Even by the time of Waller's debut on the tail end of the 80s, her career opportunities were on their way to extinction

Days Of Future Past marks the triumph of the superhero comic that's pretty much concerned with no-one but superheroes. Where Ditko and Lee's Spider-Man featured a single costumed crimefighter in the context of a commonplace existence, the X-Men of the 80s focused on a huge cast of mutants who had little if any lasting involvement in the everyday world.

By the 21st century, the corporate superhero comic would largely - if not exclusively - concern itself with little beyond a large class of superhumans and their fantastical existence. I suspect there's a significant correlation between that and the continuing cultural peripherilisation of the superhero comic - Colin Smith

Amanda Waller is one of the strongest characters in all of comics, she was as powerful as an non-superpowered character given center stage could possibly be, a perfectly designed character from which an entire corner of a shared universe was developed out of with her as the center making it work, but as the room for civilian casts and unpowered protagonists got smaller and smaller, so did Waller's options. If she was a Spider-Man character and somehow didn't get killed or made into a villain, they would have slimmed her up and given her a symbiote, because you're nobody unless you're web-swinging. Characters didn't look or act like Amanda Waller, and unfortunately, they still don't. It's just instead of making more characters like her, they gutted Waller to be more like the rest. If she couldn't make it, who else even could.

Keep your eyes peeled for this summer when she'll team up with two meaningless robot baddies to burn down the Justice League and I guess the universe for the next reboot or something.

#superheroes #dc comics #suicide squad #amanda waller #john ostrander #kim yale #dcu #dc #comic books #superhero comics

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