#like hes someone if i watch too much i get annoyed with. but i think thats just the general editting style tbh

[theorist-fox]

Paint

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: You and Simon share a cigarette. He slips up, and shares something more.

18+

CW: smut, not explicit. angst. hurt/comfort. miscommunication. mutual pining. sexual and non sexual intimacy. and guess what, my favorite tag, simon ghost riley is bad at feelings.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“Need to rest?”

You doubt he hasn’t heard you arrive, even if he’s facing the opposite way. It’s true, you could’ve gotten rid of at least the Kevlar vest or taken off your boots—but being in a safehouse doesn’t mean it’s literally safe, and you don’t like taking risks. Plus, there’s no time for getting dressed if there’s an emergency.

That's why you're sure he's heard you: boots thudding against the floor, the bulletproof vest scraping on the cotton of your uniform, the carabiners hanging from your tac belt, or the gun on your hip that clicks when you walk.

Normally, those sounds are muted; muscles and bulk don’t necessarily mean you move like a bull in a china shop. But you know the beast, now dormant, that is sitting on the floor right at your side.

Fucking bat.

He could move exclusively through echolocation, eyes closed shut; who knows? You wouldn’t put it past him.

You think you should start spreading the rumour, just to watch people shit their pants even more when he walks past. It’s already a sight you swear by, the way their faces pale while you stride beside him, dipping your chin to your chest to hide the quiet giggles—why not add some spice to it?

However, your fun thoughts are interrupted by the man himself.

“S’my turn tonight.” He replies listlessly, eyes locked on the door—armoured, triple-bolted, locked handle, and trip wire at the entrance, courtesy of Soap. He wanted to be safe, he said. Sure—being in a safehouse doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe, you agree, but Simon always likes to take things to the next level. And Price only feeds that urge, twice as paranoid as your not-so-friendly Ghost.

His watch has started three hours ago, and would you look at that? The door is still there. Closed. Bolted shut. Unexploded. Shocking.

You wonder why the five of you are even bothering with rotations when the place is quite literally a bunker a few feet underground, and if someone were to walk in unannounced, their arse would blow up to bits thanks to Johnny’s intricate wire trap.

But oh well. Simon is like that, and Price is even worse, so you’ll give in to their wishes like Kyle and Johnny did and take it the way it comes.

Then again, sleep isn’t apparently in your plans, and four eyes are always better than two, so you plop on the floor next to Simon, legs outstretched in front of you, mimicking his posture.

You nudge his ankle with the tip of your boot, because he’s freakishly tall, and your foot won’t quite reach his. He bends his knee enough to nudge you back.

“I can take over,” you tell him, knocking the back of your head against the wall. “Can’t sleep anyway.”

You feel his eyes on you, lingering like the muzzle of a gun to your temple, but it’s just a threat—you know he won’t shoot. Though hatred is permanently carved in his eyes—some leftovers of a past life—it feels more like a burning weapon poised to pierce your head, one that never quite follows through.

He’s kinder than he looks.

“Nightmares?”

“No.”

“Go on, then.” Simon says, with a jerky nod of his jaw your way.

“Feel a little restless, I guess.” You reply with a shrug, as if this is your daily routine by now. “Not exactly a comfortable place, this one. Plus, cap snores.”

He snorts. You smile.

“Loud engine, tha’ one.” He comments, returning his eyes to the door.

“You do too, y’know? Well, you don’t snore much, but,” you gesture with your finger at your mouth, “you grind your teeth at night.”

“Ain’t snorin’, tha’.”

“Still,” you purse your lips in a cheeky smile, “Annoying—that.”

You watch him give you the side-eye of the century. The blueprint of it. But it lasts a second before he returns his focus to the door, as if afraid it might run away or something.

"No one’s makin’ ya, y’know?" he drawls. "Don’t have to sleep over—could always jog on after you’re done.”

After you’re done, he says—as if it’s a chore.

You hate when he takes ten steps back after he’s taken one forward. One day he’s all up in your business, worrying his mind and his heart, and the next he tells you to go take a hike after you’re done.

It makes your belly churn and melt like he’s pouring acid over it—you’re in too deep, and you know it. But you're too much of a coward to drag yourself out of the muck of this relationship. You’d rather sink into its depths and be swallowed whole than face the thought of never seeing him again. You’ve already come to terms with that truth—it doesn’t get easier at all, though.

Instead of biting back, you roll your head his way and smile, small and genuine.

“I like sleeping with you.”

His shoulders tighten as if he’s startled by the way you replied so transparently, but he keeps his eyes on the door, giving you nothing else to work with.

“You don’t?” You venture.

No feelings, Sarge—you can practically hear him say in the silence that hangs tersely between you. Simon will die on that hill; you’re sure of it. Even if sometimes he slips and cares, says words you’d never think to hear from his mouth, fucks you too slowly for it to be considered just sex, it’s just the way it is, the way he says.

You know he’ll never leave his shell. Where he’s comfortably lonely, where he’s secure and safe. Whether he cares for you or not, the wall’s too high to climb, too thick to blow.

But the awful person here is not him for behaving the way he does; it’s you for putting your heart through the meat grinder knowing fully well it’ll come out like butchered meat.

If you're looking for someone to hate, Simon isn't the one.

“Negative.” He drawls.

You shift uncomfortably next to him, subtly pulling away a few inches from his leg.

But then he adds, “Toss an’ turn too much. Hog the covers.”

You stiffen and scowl. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Well, you could always yank them back,” you reply, sounding a little too petty for your age.

Simon finally turns his head your way, but now it’s you who’s glaring holes into the (shockingly) still unmoving door. His eyes linger on your profile for a second too long, and you’re just about ready to bite back with some snarky comment about him taking a picture so it’ll last longer when he speaks first.

“Don’t have the heart to wake you up.”

You feel something inside you soften and melt. Gingerly, you turn your head his way.

Your eyes lock, and his are creased at the corners—not with a smile, but with tender attention, as if he’s taking in the details of something worth his time, his concentration.

You plaster on a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased, as your cheeks warm over.

A soft huff to blow out the heat gathered right under your skin, and then you’re nudging his shoulder with your hand. He dramatically lolls sideways.

“That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever told me.”

He nudges you back, and you dramatically flop on your side. He snorts.

“Don’t get used to it.” He says, and gently curls his fingers around your forearm to lift you up.

You’re unexpectedly pulled in until you’re tucked in his side. The team is right behind a thin wall, and the knowledge initially turns your body into stiff marble. While their snores signal that your privacy is safe, you don’t want to repeat past mistakes. No matter how alluring those memories are.

But still—you don’t fight Simon’s hold around you; you don’t dare.

You trust his judgement and progressively melt into him, nestling your cheek on his chest as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. Nice and comfortable, in spite of how hard it is with all this stupid gear strapped on both of you. The Velcro on one of his front pockets scratches your skin, but the rest of you is so cosy that you don’t care. You toss one leg across his, and he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“Can’t wait for evac to come get us,” you sigh. “I’d kill for a smoke.”

Simon squeezes your shoulder. You decide to take it as a green light to rest; your eyes flutter closed almost automatically, as if he’s pressed a button the moment he pulled you in. Grateful, you bask in this brief show of care—allowing Simon to take that one step forward, fully knowing he’ll just take ten steps back the next chance he gets, because that’s simply how he is.

He doesn’t add anything to your comment, probably registering it as further small talk, and you know he doesn’t care for that. He has a sort of internal threshold about how much mindless chatter he can tolerate in one sitting. You're aware of it, and you don’t mind, instead taking the quiet moment for what it is: a fragment of peace.

His heartbeat is faint to your ear, too many layers between you and his chest for you to hear it clearly. His thumb swipes softly on the fabric of your uniform. And he’s warm, like a furnace rumbling with rekindled fire. Suddenly, sleeping sounds much less of a hassle and more of a treat.

Simon’s chest rises softly under your cheek. The buzzing of the neon lights overhead turns into pleasant white noise, much like the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from the bedroom behind the wall where you and Simon are leaning.

It’s only after a few moments that he shifts—imperceptibly, like the subtle man that he is. But you catch it anyway. Spec Ops and their senses, right?

Yet you trust him, so you don’t bother opening your eyes. You count your blessings, and they are few: Simon holding you to his chest while hostiles run rampant right above your heads is at the top of the list right now, and you won’t let it slip.

But then—a tap on your nose. A featherlight touch of something papery that finely crinkles when it meets your skin. You scrunch your face and force your eyes open to see…

…a cigarette.

You blink yourself awake, though you hadn't fallen deeply enough into sleep for it to be startling.

“For me?” You ask, craning your neck to look up at him, only to find him already gazing down at you.

“If you’re polite ‘bout it.” He replies, tapping the tip of the cigarette on your nose again.

You smile. “Please?”

He hums approvingly and slots it between your lips. Plucks the Zippo lighter from one of the front pockets of his vest. Swiftly flicks it open.

The flame dances before your eyes, blue hues growing into yellows and oranges. You lean closer, allowing the tip of the cigarette to hover right into it, until the white paper burns dark, until it finally glows red.

The first drag you take feels like a warm hug. Not often do you have the chance to sit back and smoke while on the job—the glowing cherry is like a big, fat, neon arrow pointing at your head for eventual snipers. Too dangerous to even try.

But six feet underground (quite literally), inside a windowless, armoured bunker, you’re safe from unwanted scopes and deadly bullets. And your cigarette is your prize right now, so you savour it like you should.

You groan in bliss, smoke leaving your lips in foggy curls.

“Lifesaver,” you murmur, returning your head to his chest.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Easy to please.”

You snuggle closer, and he holds you there in comfortable silence. But he’s incredibly tactile tonight: fingers draw mindless circles on your shoulder, while his other hand has found purchase on your thigh, thumb swiping back and forth along the inner seam of your trousers.

It’s not sexual. You think you’d recognise when Simon’s touch turns into something carnal and covetous. No, now he’s just… touching. Sensing. Testing the softness of the meat of your thigh between his fingers, feeling the curve of your shoulder with his pads. It feels like he’s blowing softly at the cinders of a fire that’s been smothered by the more grievous events of this long operation. It torches your belly; rekindled flames gently lick at your skin, until you feel soft and malleable, warm and weightless.

You smoke peacefully, eyes occasionally fluttering closed. Subtle shivers run through you when his hand travels to your side, right where the bulletproof vest doesn’t cover. 

Three or four drags in, a gloved hand appears before your eyes. He beckons with his fingers.

A breathless chuckle. A fond roll of your eyes. You tap the column of ash off the tip and place the cigarette between them.

Simon uses his thumb to lift the mask off his face until it bunches up on his forehead. You shift enough to sit upright and tilt your head his way.

His cheeks are flushed red, irritated by the continuous rubbing of the balaclava. Slivers of paler skin stretch across his cheekbones and upper lip—knotted scars that have always been there, disrupting the growth of his stubble and the smoothness of his skin. Yet now, after tracing them time and time again, they blend in so seamlessly that you have to focus to even notice them at all. Lost their shock value, they have. Now, they’re just small pieces of a puzzle—insignificant in the grand scheme that is Simon.

He brings the cigarette to his lips. His cheeks hollow as he takes a lungful of smoke. It puffs out of his lips a moment later, as he sighs with the same relief you did moments earlier. Just like that, his apparent tranquillity infuses you with the same peace.

“Don’t finish it.” You murmur, very aware that if he did, you wouldn’t mind.

His mouth twitches, and his pupils swivel down to where you’re nestled in his side. Honey lashes fan his cheekbones, eyelids smeared with black greasepaint that makes the chocolate of his eyes look like the warmest of browns. Dark ripples mottled with gold.

“Learn to share.” He drawls, but contrary to his words, he brings the cigarette to your mouth.

You wrap your lips around the orange filter, brushing briefly with the pads of Simon’s gloved fingers. Another intake of smoke has your shoulders relax, but before you can breathe it out of your system, Simon tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in dangerously close.

Not that you haven’t been this close before, of course. You’ve had him kissing you silly, mouthing at your skin, or drowning between your legs. But to your poor battered heart, every time feels like the first. A blessing, because you’d never trade this feeling for anything in the world. A curse, because it’s a lonely one.

Smoke billows from your parted lips into tendrils that travel upwards and sting your eyes. You don’t close them, but your eyelids fall a little heavier—though you don’t blame it on the smoke.

He nudges your nose with his, instructing you to tilt your head back.

You do.

His thumb tugs your chin, gently forcing your mouth to part. Your stomach flips and twists, leaving you dizzy and unsure of which way is which. The flames from before are melting you inside out now, burning liquid pooling at your lower belly. It makes you muscles clench, your thighs squeeze.

Simon’s eyes stay on yours as he brings the cigarette to one corner of his lips. He takes a purposeful drag. The burning paper crackles. The sound is ten times louder to your ears.

Your blood pumps madly—you feel it run and collect in the apples of your cheeks, in your head, spinning and spinning, until your thoughts are blurry and disconnected.

The arm coiled around you curves so that he can trace your shoulder, following the outline of your gear, and then his hand settles around the side of your face. He keeps you still, fingers flexed at your jaw and thumb dimpling your cheek. The cold leather of his glove should counterbalance the warmth blooming right under your skin, giving you some sort of comfort, yet it’s such a jarring contrast that it only causes the air to lodge in your throat.

The intensity in his eyes, masked by the usual indolent display, is not lost on you; he makes it impossible, unthinkable, to look away. The air around him is stuffy, almost suffocating, and the haze of the smoke, with its pungent smell, doesn’t help. Yet somehow, it makes him look so unbelievably soft, like everything around him is dimmed and unimportant. Like his eyes are all that matters, or the shape of his lips and the slight crook of his nose.

The hand holding the cigarette goes to rest on your thigh. It tenses under his touch, and he squeezes it until it softens right under his palm.

Smoke leaves his lips, then, billowing right into yours. It travels down your tongue, pungent and hot, even richer in taste after it’s been in his mouth, too.

Something tightens in your belly. Makes your head spin further and your hands tremble, as they lie rigidly at your sides. Tension spreads through your body something fierce, muscles coiled in beautiful anticipation, but the lines in your face are smoothed down when Simon brushes his thumb on your cheek.

You inhale. Nicotine travels down your lungs and inflates them with the earthy notes of tobacco, the subtle hint of mint of a gum he must’ve chewed on before, the humidity of his warm breath.

“Like that,” he breathes hoarsely, abandoning the effort of sounding even remotely unaffected.

You blink slowly, exhaling a fleeting cloud of smoke back into his mouth.

“What?” You ask, so quietly you can’t even hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat.

The cigarette is presented right next to your face, once again. The column of ash at the tip is longer than the portion still available to smoke. As Simon brings it to your lips, you see it crumble onto your trousers in your peripherals. You don’t care.

“Learn to share,” he repeats hoarsely. “Just like that.”

And he nudges your lips open by slotting the filter between them. His gaze falls on them like it’s inevitable, like his eyes are metal and your mouth is a magnet.

You take a slow drag, watching his face with hooded eyes. Simon follows raptly the way your cheeks sink, how your lips curl. He’s lost his subtlety now, more obvious when you notice the heaviness with which his throat bobs.

Gingerly, you raise a hand to hook your fingers at the shoulder straps of his vest, pulling him in. He slowly follows your lead, inching closer once more.

Smoke flows from your mouth to his, a wave of soft grey tendrils that tethers Simon to you. And he breathes it in, breathes you in, closing the gap.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that couldn’t be considered one for how faint it is. But his arm, still curled around your shoulders and holding your face steady, tightens just a fraction.

Simon brushes his nose with yours. His head cocks sideways, and he presses his mouth to you again.

You feel like every nerve ending that’s being touched is set ablaze, synapses overriding in the poor attempt to concoct a thought, a word, a breath. Nothing leaves you, if not a trembling sigh that stings with nicotine.

Simon pulls back. You whine pathetically, and you don’t care, as your eyes flutter open—you hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them at all. You trace a path from his lips upwards, studying intently the lines in his face and the way the camo paint hasn’t managed to settle in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the furrow between his brows.

Pinched, they are. As if that kiss has worried him more than any bit of sex ever could.

Your heart clenches at the thought. Writhes pitifully, as if it could talk him out of his spiral, bring him back to you, burn his lips to yours until they merge into a single fucking entity that’s impossible to tell apart.

But he nods softly, then. Your chest unravels, lightens. You nod back.

The cigarette in his hand falls forgotten on the dark concrete floor. His palm lands on your waist, fingers delicately tugging at the bulletproof vest.

His lips find you again. Softly, like he’s testing waters he’s already more than navigated—conquered, even. Mouths slot perfectly like they’ve been trying to do this thing all this time, all along.

You return his kiss with the same caution, trying to quell that fire ignited in your belly. Soft pecks echo in the quiet room, drowning the sounds of your teammates sleeping just behind the wall, the flicker of the lights overhead. Focusing on Simon’s lips, on his taste, and the slight twitch of his brow pressed to yours.

You busy your other hand by hooking it around one of the front pockets of his vest, where a magazine sits. His chest rises heavily under the press of your palm.

Without ever breaking apart, you shift until you’re on your knees, gaining the rare advantage of height. Simon tilts his head accordingly, resting it back against the wall. Your hands initially settle on his shoulders, then on the slopes of his neck, thumbing gently at each side.

He holds you uncharacteristically tender, a hand on your waist and the other on your thigh, where he pats once, twice, until you’re following silent instructions and end up straddling his lap.

Simon’s kiss never stops, nor does it deepen. He teases your lips with his own, leaving gentle pecks that have your stomach erupt in butterflies, your throat tight and suddenly parched.

You wonder if this is the moment in which he slips one hand under the waistband of your trousers, like he always does. Whether he’ll settle on teasing the blooming wetness on your knickers until he’ll feel merciful enough to travel past the cotton and plunge his fingers into you. Or if he’ll simply skew the gusset of your panties to the side and touch you, formalities set aside.

He does none of that.

Instead, his hand settles at the back of your head, the other one on your waist. You flutter your eyes open, only to find his completely shut—and if Simon Riley dares to look so peaceful, you’ll allow yourself that blessing too.

You lose yourself in him, sharing unhurried kisses only framed by the ripping sound of velcro being unstrapped—his fingers working deftly with your tac vest at your sides. You help him out, lifting your arms so he can take it off.

Simon tosses it behind you. Pulls you back down to him again, with long fingers keeping you still by your nape, while other hungry ones untuck your shirt from your trousers so they can feel your skin. Your stomach ripples when he touches it.

His palm explores, follows the curve of each fold, of each line, tracing a path that warms up under his hand and pitifully freezes when he leaves it unattended. Until the tips of his fingers reach the underline of your bra. You sigh softly in his mouth.

“Yes?” He breathes.

“Yes.” You reply.

It must make something tick in his brain, because his painfully obvious tent pressing up to you twitches under your weight.

Simon kisses you slowly as he palms at your breast right above the cottoned bra, causing your sex to flutter around nothing, yet not in a way that feels unfulfilling.

He spares no more seconds to hook his fingers around the central seam of your bra, pulling down.

He cups one of your breasts as it spills out—feeling its weight in his hand, thumbing softly at the nipple until it hardens, until you feel just enough out of breath.

You think you feel him tremble when he leaves your mouth to travel with featherlight kisses down your jaw, nipping right under the bone, where your flesh is plumper. You shiver and tilt your head to give him more room to work with, offering your neck to satiate his appetite.

His kisses are open and wet, but no less patient, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world to savour you until he’s content. He doesn’t; you know it, but you can’t summon the courage to remind him of where you are, of the possibility of onlookers.

No, because he’s tender, he’s kind, he’s bordering on reverent, as he kisses your neck, as he touches your chest.

His hand follows the indent of your spine, settling at the base of it and toying with the hem of your shirt only to lift it up and brush your skin. Hairs all over your body stand on end. You breathe heavily and slow, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders—your fingernails digging in as if that might help you quiet down.

“Y’ taste good," he whispers to your skin.

Your lips twitch in a smile.

“Haven’t showered in days,” you reply just as quietly.

He bites into your neck. Your spine arches in brief shock, and he keeps you from falling backwards with his palm at your back.

“An’ yet,” he drawls, pulling back just to lift those dark eyes at you, “Sweet as a peach.”

The softest grin spreads on your lips almost reflexively.

“Flattery will get you—”

“Anywhere,” he interjects, lifting your shirt to expose your chest until the fabric bunches right above your breasts.

You let him, perhaps proving him right. Even so, you cup his cheeks when he eases in closer, leaving open kisses at your sternum. The paint over his eyes transfers to your skin, leaving darkened streaks of sweat and black grease.

You briefly wonder if your neck looks the same, or if there’s any residue left on your face. If he’s unknowingly marked you in such a spontaneous way, simply because it was meant to happen. The quiver in your chest becomes easier to understand then—a sense of belonging in the shape of messy grease marks left in Simon’s wake.

He murmurs something you can’t quite place, hushed and lost in the haze that has been building in your head, in the thunder of your heartbeat. You hum inquisitively, brushing your hand through his dampened hair.

He repeats himself. You hear him now. You do—quite clearly, actually.

“Missed you,” he says.

The poor thing that’s your heart cracks fiercely. You wish it were a neat fracture, easier to piece back together, but it’s jagged and dangerously sharp instead.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. It’s a plea, because there are only so many lies you can take in exchange for a fuck.

His hands connect with each side of your waist, grasping at the flesh to keep you still. He doesn’t use that grip to grind your hips to his own, he doesn’t use it to relieve the tension of his hardened sex.

He uses them simply because he can. Because he wants to. Wants to feel you, touch you, sense where you are, while his lips explore somewhere else, where your flesh is softer and plumper, more sensitive.

“I did.” He insists breathlessly, careful not to raise his voice. “Fuck—I did.”

You push at his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up.

“You didn’t,” you repeat through gritted teeth. Tears build in your eyes much too rapidly, fuelled by the frantic beat of your heart.

He latches on to your nipple. You choke on a whine as he tugs at it softly, grasping it between his front teeth. His arms come to hold you entirely, wrapped like vines around your middle. Slowly, you surrender, ceasing your futile attempts to push him away. 

But you cry. The sting in your eyes finally finds relief as you allow fat tears to roll down your cheeks. Simon doesn’t look up at you, maybe because your sorrow translates into his guilt. However, he stops tasting you with a weary sigh, gently resting his forehead on your chest as he holds you steady.

“I did,” he croaks. "I do."

You hold him too, encircling your arms around his head and resting your cheek on top of it. His hands go from still to hesitating until he is the one who gives in, this time, and brushes them soothingly down your back.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, but judging by the lack of movements from your teammates behind that thin wall, it’s probably been only a handful of minutes. Regardless, Simon holds you through all of it. Until he feels the soft stutters in your chest quell, the sniffles abate.

Only then does he lift his head. Only then does he cup your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing your cheekbones, collecting dried-up tears. They glide on smoothly, which makes you think that maybe his greasepaint has transferred onto your skin there as well.

It shouldn’t, but your heart flips at the thought anyway.

“I'm not a good man, love.” He murmurs, eyes dark and unusually sad. “But I'm no liar.”

The earnestness in his voice almost makes you choke up again. 

You swallow it down. Inhale.

Recollect yourself. Exhale. Lean your cheek in his hand.

Your eyes are downcast, staring at the dark streaks of camo paint fading and blending on your chest.

“I know,” you croak, unsure but wanting to believe him. Almost needing to.

Simon’s hand leaves your cheek. It’s so much colder now that the air brushes your damp skin, but the ice sublimates suddenly when he taps your chin.

You lift your head and lock his eyes. They shine with something unshed, perhaps tears, perhaps words he can’t place, ones he can’t say.

“No lies.” He subtly shakes his head. “Not to ya, ya hear?”

You nod softly. “No lies.”

"Missed ya," he says again, his voice cracking in a way that makes you think this is harder on him than it is on you. "You gotta understand that. There ain’t a day goes by that I don’t."

You swallow thickly. Throat dry, tongue stuck to your palate. Eyes fixed on him, once again unthinkable to look away, but for different reasons entirely. Perhaps this is more than one step forward; perhaps this is a whole new path from which he can’t backpedal. You don’t raise your expectations, you don’t dare—but hope is as much of a bastard as it is beautiful, and it flickers back to life.

“Okay,” you reply, not feeling like you can say it back, not feeling like it could stand in front of the way he’s said it—so viscerally that it ripped at your heart.

He kisses you again, soft like before. His hands return your bra to its place, your shirt down to your hips.

You kiss for a moment more, saying everything your voices can’t, as touch returns to be the only language you both understand.

He helps you off his lap. No more words are exchanged as he dresses you up—tucking the shirt back in your pants, putting the vest around you again, making sure it fits just right when he tightens the straps at your waist.

Wordlessly, Simon invites you back to where it all started, that night. Next to him, with his arm around your shoulders, your leg across his own, and your head on his chest. His eyes on the door, focused. His watch is not over yet.

You fall asleep, coaxed by the soft brushes of his hand on your shoulder, the rise of his chest each time he breathes.

Your hand in his own, his paint on your cheek.

[ang3lc]

the voices were whispering about poly!141 romancing a burlesque dancer!reader, this was a lot fluffier than i intended it to be, but here are some thots...

﹥ simon first sees you at a performance he’s dragged to, fully expecting to be unimpressed.

﹥ the second you step on stage, he’s captivated—not just by how you move, but by the power and command you radiate.

﹥ he becomes a quiet regular at your shows, always sitting in the shadows, watching intently. no cheers or whistles, just the unwavering focus of a man completely in awe. no, that's not drool on his balaclava, what are you on about?

﹥ when he finally speaks to you backstage, it’s brief but genuine: “you were brilliant out there,” his presence lingers long after he’s gone.

﹥ simon shows his care in subtle ways, like walking you to your car or standing by when someone gets too pushy after a performance.

﹥ his intensity can be overwhelming, but his quiet reverence makes you feel seen like no one else ever has.

﹥ johnny is the loudest, most shameless fan in the crowd, whistling and cheering without a hint of restraint.

﹥ when you glance his way mid-performance, he gives you a cheeky wink that’s more charming than annoying.

﹥ after your first show, he’s waiting backstage with an absurdly large bouquet of flowers and a grin that could light up a room.

﹥ he shows up to every performance after that, leaving little notes and even bringing snacks to win over your crew just to have an excuse to be around.

﹥ when you’re stressed, johnny knows exactly how to pull you out of your funk, whether it’s cracking the worst jokes you have ever heard or reminding you why you’re amazing.

﹥ his energy is infectious, and while he’s a goof most of the time, his loyalty and admiration for you run deep.

﹥ kyle notices you for your confidence onstage, but it’s the person you are offstage that truly hooks him.

﹥ his first interaction with you is understated—a warm smile and a thoughtful question about your routine that catches you off guard with its sincerity.

﹥ he doesn’t overwhelm you with attention but instead takes the time to understand your world, asking about your inspirations and the work behind each performance.

﹥ kyle’s gestures are small but meaningful: bringing you tea (or coffee, if you prefer. either way, it's just right.) during long rehearsals, sharing playlists he made just for you, or songs he think you should dance to (in private, though it's too soon to admit he wants that)

﹥ he’s the steady presence in your life, always knowing when to step in and when to give you space.

﹥ watching your shows, his pride is quiet but palpable, his gaze full of admiration that makes your heart race. when he sees you nail a move you were struggling with at rehearsals, he knows to reward you later.

﹥ john isn’t the type to fall easily, but something about you draws him in—your grace, your confidence, your unapologetic authenticity.

﹥ he doesn’t approach you immediately, choosing instead to observe, waiting for the right moment to move on you.

﹥ when he finally does, his words are simple yet deliberate: “you’ve got a way of commanding a room.” there’s a weight to them that makes you realize he sees you.

﹥ john is the one who steps in when things get chaotic, offering calm solutions and unwavering support. a strong hand to guide you.

﹥ he’s protective without being overbearing, ensuring you’re taken care of without trying to control your life.

﹥ his affection reveals itself in quiet moments—holding your hand late at night, his voice low and rough against your ear as he confesses how much you mean to him.

﹥ together, the four of them create a healthy mix of support and chaos that makes your world feel complete.

﹥ simon ensures you always have a safe place to land, offering strength and stability.

﹥ johnny is the light that chases away any shadows, making you laugh even when you think you can’t.

﹥ kyle notices the little things, ensuring you’re always cared for in ways that matter most.

﹥ john is the anchor, grounding you with his steady presence and unwavering reliability.

﹥ they tease each other constantly—johnny and kyle competing to cheer the loudest at your shows while simon mutters about “bloody fools” in the corner, john's too lost in the way your hips move to care about any of their rambling.

when the spotlight fades and it’s just the five of you, you feel surrounded by a warmth that makes you realize you’ve found your permanent home—in their arms, in their hearts.

mlist | @honestlymassivetrash

[l0v3r666]

YOU BACK :D!

Hopeless in love Ace and Deuce, but both are in love with MC. I can already imagine the disaster that would be.

wait isn’t this what the game is about??

Hopeless!Adeuce is insufferable with their crushes- but the thing is Ace knows Deuce likes you (and vice versa) but neither of them are aware of their OWN feelings,, they’re much too preoccupied with the icky sensation of seeing you with someone else, (100x worse if it’s not either of them) it’s excused that he’s feeling that way because he covets your friendship and doesn’t want to lose you. But when they do realize their feelings that’s when it gets real.

Hopeless!Deuce loves you loyally. He wants a life with you after he achieves his goals, and definitely thinks you’d suit a neat suburban life (maybe with a couple kids?). But he’s way too scared to admit it :( what’s he supposed to do if you reject him? All the class time he’s spent thinking about you would be wasted!!

Hopeless!Deuce thinks Ace is a total sleaze. Sure they might be friends (maybe), but that doesn’t mean he deserves to have you! Deuce would much rather protect your peace than lose to Ace, and it’s only a little awkward when Deuce shows up at your dorm even though Ace insists on hanging out alone. Deuce is only second to Grim when blocking your love life, and neither of them are very good at it <3

Hopeless!Ace doesn’t even chance thinking of life after school. Why’d he trash brain power on something that cheesey when he’s just looking for a little fun? He may want you to watch his games and give him good luck kisses, but it’s not like he LOVES you. Maybe just.. advanced liking.

Hopeless!Ace gets downright devious with how he sabotages Deuce, to the point that nothing is off the table anymore. From hiding important assignments to turning off his alarm- he’s evil about it, and so annoying. That’s what tips Deuce off that he has competition.

Hopeless!Adeuce can’t do anything right without their favourite prefect, so show them how it’s done! Alternatively, you do have pick of the litter and some of the other freshmen’ll cause less headache.. Please let them show you the “loveable scamp” is worth sticking around for!

[gothicxreylover]

Could you please write (maybe yandere if you want please) Tengen & his wives x gn or fem where the reader has been disobeying the rules they have given her and she gets annoyed/anger at how overprotective they are of her so she starts flirting with another hashira as a way to piss them off only for Makio to drag her away and bassist throw her over her shoulder as she takes her home to get punished (smut please if not it’s okay whatever ur comfortable with)

PLEASE WRITE THIS PRETTY PLEASE ILL GIVE U A KISS MUAHHHH

⋆༺𓆩𓋹𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩𓋹𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩𓋹𓆪༻⋆

This fanfic contains- possessive thoughts and actions, overwhelming/overbearing behaviors, jealous, flirting with someone else, and implied smut at the end(it’s lazily written.)

The night was warm, the faint sound of crickets chirping in the distance, as the Hashira gathered at the Demon Slayer headquarters after a long day of training and missions. Among them, you had been particularly fidgety. Ever since Tengen and his wives had set a few rules for your safety and well-being, you’d been getting more and more frustrated by their overbearing behavior.

Tengen, with his large, looming presence, always keeping an eye on you, almost like you were some fragile porcelain doll. His wives, too, were no better—Makio, the most assertive, would catch you whenever you tried to wander off alone, while Suma would fuss over every small detail, even offering to fetch your water every few minutes. And Hinatsuru, though quiet, always seemed to know when you were upset, her eyes following your every move like a hawk.

Tonight, though? You had enough.

“I don’t need them hovering over me like I’m incapable of making my own decisions,” you muttered under your breath, fingers drumming against the table as you watched the other Hashira converse. Tengen and his wives were too distracted to notice, but you saw your chance to get a little bit of freedom—or rather, to show them how it felt to be smothered by their constant vigilance.

You glanced over at one of the other Hashira, a man you’d often sparred with but never really paid attention to in that way before. Shinobu had walked off with a few others, and there was a moment of peace in the otherwise busy room.

With a mischievous smirk, you stood and made your way toward the quietest corner of the room where a lone Hashira—who was standing, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

"Hey," you said sweetly, stepping closer, feeling a flicker of satisfaction at the attention you were beginning to garner from him.

He was startled at first, blinked up at you. “Oh, hey there, Y/N. What’s going on?” His voice was soft, calm, but there was something in his eyes that flickered with curiosity. The slight tension in his posture was a good sign.

"Nothing much," you purred, stepping a little closer. “Just thought I’d come say hi. You’ve been looking strong lately. I think I could learn a lot from you…” You let the words linger, just enough to make him uncomfortable—but also intrigued.

As you continued to flirt, you caught the first signs of movement behind you. The flicker of colorful fabric, a flash of black hair. It was Hinatsuru, her eyes narrowing as she stared at you. She was walking toward you, but you didn’t care. If anything, this was only making it more fun.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hinatsuru’s voice was dangerously calm. You turned to face her, but before you could even answer, there was a forceful tug on your arm.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Makio snapped, her usually cool demeanor replaced with something sharp, almost predatory. “You’ve been disobeying the rules all day. Getting too close to another Hashira? You really think that’s going to fly?”

You couldn’t suppress the giggle that bubbled up from your chest. “Maybe I like him more than I like being treated like a child.” You folded your arms over your chest, giving Makio a pointed look.

At that, Tengen’s deep voice boomed from across the room. "I don’t like this," he growled, his eyes locking onto you with a possessive heat that made the room seem smaller. His tall figure cut through the crowd as he made his way toward you, his wives in tow.

“You know the rules,” he said, each word dripping with warning. His gaze softened just a fraction when it landed on you, though the possessiveness was undeniable. "You need to stop testing us, Y/N. We only want what's best for you. You don’t need to make this harder than it is."

“Maybe I do,” you replied, shrugging nonchalantly. “Maybe I just want to see how far I can push it.” You dared to glance at the lone Hashira one last time, watching as he nervously fidgeted, unsure of how to react to the situation.

Before Tengen could say another word, Makio had you by the arm again, this time more forcefully. “You’ve crossed the line, Y/N. Flirting with a low life like that? You’re mine—ours.” Her voice was laced with that familiar edge, possessive and unforgiving.

“Enough,” Tengen ordered, his voice like thunder. He then nodded toward Makio, who wasted no time in grabbing you firmly by the waist and lifting you off your feet.

“W-What?” you started, suddenly realizing that this situation was escalating in a way you didn’t expect. "Makio, put me down!" You struggled, but it was no use. The woman’s strength was undeniable, and soon, you found yourself draped over her shoulder like a ragdoll, your attempts to protest falling on deaf ears.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” she murmured softly, though the undertone was pure danger. “You’ve been naughty tonight. You need to be reminded of your place.”

The others, including Tengen and Hinatsuru, followed closely behind, their eyes never leaving you, watching your every move as if you were a puzzle they needed to solve.

You huffed in frustration, cheeks flushed with the suddenness of it all. The flirty edge you had tried to provoke them with now felt like a distant memory. The way they hovered over you now—protective, possessive, and almost intimidating—made you feel smaller than ever.

As Makio began to walk toward your shared home with Tengen, she gave you a pointed glance. "You’re going to learn not to mess with us. We don’t share, Y/N." Her tone was low, almost intimate.

Despite yourself, a part of you couldn’t help but shiver in anticipation. You had been testing your limits all night, and now, it was time to face the consequences—intimate, personal, and deeply possessive.

Tengen’s voice rang out behind you, low and dangerous. "This is for your own good. We love you too much to let you get away with this."

Now being in private with your lovers the mood soon turned into something more passionate. Tengen’s hand roamed around your body, seemingly to take in your body shape.

Makio softly kissed your neck, nibbling and bitting every second she got as she tugged on your waist. Suma was on your right, rubbing herself desperately onto you. Her head laid low as she whimpered out loud for pleasure. Hinatsuru smiled at the view she was seeing. And leaned towards you kissing your soft lips.

You were in for a long intimate session with your overbearing lovers.

⋆༺𓆩𓋹𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩𓋹𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩𓋹𓆪༻⋆

This sucks ass because I was running out of what to write. I hope it’s to your liking tho..

[latibulater]

i love think tank honestly i think he would have been better than a one-episode arch like his design? first of all is so fun. love his hover chair! love having another huge-head character (i wonder if billy knows of him at all). he such an emotive guy

he seems to really love teaching his non-interested students, and it's honestly very sweet imo how he reaches out to dean and suggests he avoid the tower during the time of his father's arch, and i mean you could interpret it as him saving his own reputation, but i think it's because he doesn't wish for dean to be harmed. and its funny and genuine to me the way he says to dean the essay is shit but he is one of the best students of the semester. ik when i went from home school to real school i struggled hard at first with writing papers, so i wonder if dean is the same like he's enjoying the class and is kind of grasping the concepts but he is plagiarizing by accident and has lots of run-on sentences (like this one). but it's sweet that nidaba still calls dean "one of the brightest" (even if you interpret this to be buttering up which i do not)

and he seems to be a moriarty without a sherlock from this little scene where he deducts dean's home life from different clues. i like that he says "i interpret the data" because that's much less wishy-washy then bbc sherlock. he's so handsome here genuinely

and his nietzsche quote "all great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous masks in order to inscribe themselves on the hearts of humanity." honestly is so relavent to the show and the way he is so exasperated no one knew that. professor dr. nidaba, i swear you just need a tumblr girlie in your class.

the tank just goes up? the wall?

imminent doom detected

i love how he gestures with the tank...nozzle(?) like the machine is really an adapted living device. and literally he has this awesome killer entrance to set up some chess like he literally just wants a nice game night

i feel so bad for him look

sweetheart 😭 his whole plan for the evening just got blown up like that wall. i feel so bad for him his little "who are you calling" like he's gotten in trouble 😭😭😭

but brock will play!!!! he's so excited now

and he can create a force field??? thats literally so cool. this scene with brocks arm is so funny like brock is acting a little unhinged but think tank is literally so bewildered

and who else got flirty undertones from this

and this was such a great scene him getting shot out the window while rusty's getting scammed by watch&ward. and then when warriana called think tank a "pompous son of a gorgon" a) love the insult b) their previous fights mustve been so funny think tank would use a lot of greek myth references and warriana would be like SHUT UPPPP *kicks him across the street*

look brock had so much fun with this fight and nidaba, while annoyed by warriana busting in, i think enjoyed it too! also i like this pic of him with just the undersuit.

i feel so bad for him he literally got his night fucked up by rusty's annoying silly ass and then got beat up by someone not even supposed to be there and now he's just trying to hail a cab bc his tank got trashed and then he gets WRECKED by a VAN. and what's this? stars n garters literally singing at nidaba's bedside?????

i loved this scene so much its so silly and off-beat, i love knowing that think tank's colleague/arch-rival cares enough about him to lug a guitar down to the hospital while nidaba's unconscious. WHY COULDNT WE HAVE HAD THINK TANK IN COMA TOWN?!

anyways thats about it :^) i just think it's a shame hammer&publick didn't develop or bring back think tank he's such a great and underrated character. also he doesn't even have a first name like wtf!!! i'm naming him dr. nathan (not nate!) nidaba

[strawberrykuro]

Heyyyy, what do you think the seraphim WHB were like as children?? Have they always had hostility towards each other? ..maybe you have some headcanons about this? :D

Seraphim childhood

Hey Anon! I'm sorry this took so long but I hope you enjoy this. 💗

Warning: could be ooc, slight angst, could be some misspellings, few mentions of Lucifer before he fell

I don’t think they were particularly hostile to each other when they were younger, it was more of a sibling rivalry between them, and from an outsider's perspective their relationship with each other seemed perfectly fine, it isn’t like they would try to kill each other one day! Haha… (how they were so wrong)

In front of god, they acted like 3 perfect little angels that could do no harm or wrong. Luci tho, knew that they weren’t perfect and it was only when god wasn’t looking, sometimes he would watch them have little arguments over the tiniest of things and he couldn’t lie that he found it adorable in an odd way. There was much more beyond their imagination, so much they had yet to see with their own eyes, and yet… they were fighting over which fruit would win if they were sentient and could fight. (Every time Luci eats any fruit, he thinks of that argument.)

— for each of them individually tho

Before there were 4 seraphim, it was only Michael and Lucifer. Michael spent most of his time with him, as he was like a second parent when God was attending to other matters. The amount of respect and love for his older brother was unexplainable in words; all of his knowledge came from Lucifer, and he’d use it all he knew to hopefully impress him.

When his two younger brothers were created, Michael just looked so confused at his reaction to the news. A new brother? And two of them? Why? Isn’t he and Lucifer enough? Isn’t he enough? What’s so special about these two? After a bit of resharing and some quality time spent together, he gradually got used to it. (Wasn’t always happy about it tho… (·•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ ) )

On a lighter note, Micha trying to take care of a young Raphael and Gabriel is funny to me. Consistently having to keep an eye on Raphael because once he took his eye off of him, suddenly Raphael was trying to eat dirt; a cake-shaped dirt cake. Creative? Yes. Healthy? Hell no.

Gabriel on the other hand was cleaner but is the most annoying piece of shit little brother ever. Like it was on sight the moment they made eye contact with each other, these two would do anything to outdo each other, a truly extreme brother rivalry.

— now for the middle

Raphael has always been an odd case. He was quiet as a child but got into the most trouble. Sometimes it seems like he’s looking for someone, and he was, he missed God, and he wanted to be with his father. Whenever he did find him, Raphael would latch onto his leg, hugging him dearly but it didn't seem like God would fully reciprocate that affection.

God would just sigh and murmur to himself on how Raphael escaped again and why no one was properly watching him. It always ends with God picking him up and carrying him all the back, it was like a kid pretending to be asleep so their parent would carry them to bed.

His relationship with his brother is very indifferent, while Gabriel and Raphael have a very obvious hatred toward each other, with Raphael it is more of an annoyance but tolerable. When Raphael was younger, he was a light teaser from here and there, cracking a few jokes on how Michael is such a perfectionist taking so many hours to get dressed, or Gabriel is such a suck-up to God to the point it's embarrassing to watch.

Just middle brother things <3

— and last but not least, the youngest

Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel. The one that his brothers would consider a “tattletale,” “brat,” and anything else under the sun. The way this child could flip a switch too quickly depending on who is in the room is laughable.

He wasn’t God's favorite, but he was the one who got God's attention whenever he wanted, which was 24/7. It wasn’t all bad, God did enjoy it when Gabriel would get curious about something and ask him about his creation. They would sit down as God rambled and Gabriel happily listened.

This ends with… Gabriel "slightly" bragging, but in a specific way. It is common knowledge among the brothers that Gabriel likes to do a prayer before he sleeps, and sometimes these prayers have a twist in the way he words them. They start normally like usual with thanking god and praising him but then you notice him going “Thank you for trusting me the most” or “loving my singing the most” etc.

Michael hits him with a pillow or tries to suffocate him, whatever shuts him up quicker. Raphael is already asleep so he never notices this. (Gabriel stopped this behavior when he got older.)

[doodler16]

Hello, what is your opinion about Adam, Lute and Heaven in general (in terms of writing)?

I have been following your posts for the last week and would like to know your opinion on this topic (if it is not too much trouble).

Adam (in terms of writing): As much as I enjoy his presence, the man is a terrible villain and is way too similar to other characters like Angel Dust, Valentino, Vox, Velvette, and Alastor in terms of personality. He swears a lot, acts smug, sex jokes, egotistical, sarcastic, and acts like a man-child.

The worst part about Adam is that he has so much potential and you can do so much for him especially the way Vivziepop wrote him along with Adam’s connections to Eden, Charlie, Lilith, Eve, and Lucifer. He could’ve been an all righteous person who preaches the Bible and Word of the Lord. Adam could’ve also been this nice, chill guy but actually masks his true unhinged personality, leading Charlie and everyone on.

But sadly, Adam is cursed with the written by “Vivziepop meme™️” I wish Adam was more calculating and subtle about his intentions. Because straight out of episode 1, Vivziepop doesn’t even try to write a subtle villian. It’s annoyingly and painfully in your face that Adam is the villian/antagonist Charlie and Hazbin squad has to face first.

Adam doesn’t have a proper motivation regarding the extermination that the audience can at least understand. He’s like extermination equals entertainment. And it’s like that’s it? You do this for fun? Out and in context, Adam looks like a sadist. That’s like the equivalent of him saying I like kicking puppies for fun.

Adam easily could’ve had a much better motivation for why he does exterminations. For example: Adam does exterminations because of what happened in Eden. Lucifer ruined his eternal paradise and both of his relationships with Lilith and Eve. Or as another potential motivation for exterminations, it can involve Cain. Adam witnessing Cain’s punishment and believes it was Lucifer who did it, so he wants to make Lucifer suffer by killing his people permanently.

It also doesn’t help how dumbed Adam is. His way of thinking is also black and white despite me agreeing with him. I love the man and he has so much unlimited potential that is untapped.

Lute (in terms of writing): I like Lute, she also has major potential. Vivziepop can easily do a parallel between Vaggie and Lute. But, overall Lute is basically the heaven version of Vaggie and Millie. Their whole goal and personality orbits around the person they are close too. Don’t get me wrong, it could be an amazing and interesting story arc if Vivziepop wants to do that but I doubt she will do it.

And, it is sad to watch sometimes because I want to see them do something else that doesn’t involve orbiting the person they are closest to and being their bootlickers 96% of the time. Season 1, Lute is just there and I get the feeling she most likely be a static character.

Heaven (in terms of writing): I don’t like what Vivziepop did with Heaven. She dumbed down them and it’s annoying especially if you are Catholic or Christian.

What do you mean Heaven doesn’t know their own rules or what gets a soul to Heaven. That’s not morally gray, you are just making Hell look ten times better than Heaven. Even worse, Heaven has a good argument to counter against Charlie of why they do exterminations yearly and not to allow sinners in Heaven.

Hell is full of rapists, pedophiles, groomers, etc. Someone is Hell can easily fake their progress to get into Heaven. The fact that seraphim(s) more specifically Emily is calling sinners innocent is crazy. Does the Ten Commandments and the beatitudes not exist? Because they would be amazing rules for Heaven! Vivziepop doesn’t even have to chose one specifically, she can easily combine the Ten Commandments and Beatitudes together as an official rule for Heaven. Then can use the Seven Heavenly Virtues as respected higher ups in Heaven.

The fact that Heaven doesn’t have any hard days is weird in my opinion. You would think Heaven would be a nice community where they work hard and spread love too.

Oh wait, this is the same person who wrote this in her spin off show.

[atopvisenyashill]

do love how this is an asoiaf blog but i did not put either show in my top 10 this is the world we live in

[bredforloyalty]

the last few years have been a nice detour* but i think it's time to get back to being cringe

*: not that i wasn't cringe recently just that i need to crank it up and lose followers also

[tardis--dreams]

I actually realized i hate work. Won't be putting any effort into this anymore ♡

[euclydya]

i am surw we've said this before but hannibal would absolutely kill me for food crimes and that's hilarious. love that 4 me

[field-of-sungflowers]

On one hand god I wish this cone made it easier to post the VODs without losing half of them

On the other I'm just glad he gave the okay

[courtillyy]

i was going to say that stanz releasing this video as im making my way through nl's ultimate chicken horse series is a crazy coincidence. but thats actually a lie bc ive been on my nl arc all fkn year

[snekdood]

idc if ppl think im problematic i just want it to be for the actual real reasons i am

[itsalwaysdark]

we had fun tho the whole family hung out and we did some sporclee and chronophoto and then globle me n lamp nd father did globle bc mein mamma went to sleep. yay :]

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Danny the Guy Who Won't Die

He lives in Gotham, and he is just A Guy. Nothing weird about him, he's just there to study/work/help Lady Gotham to lift her curse/on vacation with Sam. Point is, he is not there to cause trouble and there's no GIW on his tail. Just a dude living his (after)life.

And Gotham, being Gotham, still finds a way to be annoying. There are mugging attempts, robbery, Rogues running around. Only Danny really doesn't want to deal with any of it.

Now there's a dilemma. If he uses his powers to fight, it will sooner or later come to Bats' attention. And if he fights as a human, it will also alert some of the Bats since he doesn't really do a great job at keeping his power levels low. Not to mention the fact he is really not enthusiastic about accidentally punching someone hard enough he sends them to a hospital.

What does he do instead? He pulls the 'I guess I'll die' act.

So every time he is attacked, he just plays dead. The mugger shot him in the chest? He falls down and stops breathing. Caught up in the middle of a Poison Ivy attack? Skewers himself on the vine and goes lax. Scarecrow's Fear Gas? Very dramatically chokes himself and plays a corpse. He makes sure to disappear before any ambulances arrive later, and it all goes well for a few months - he is just a casualty, who cares, really - until one day, he runs into that same mugger who shot him in the chest a while ago.

The man does a double take. Danny doesn't notice - he's been mugged so many times, who has the brain capacity to remember all of those fuckers. But the rumor goes out anyway.

A guy-who-won't-die. It's more of a city legend, really, and the Bats don't give it much thought since, well, it sounds stupid and not very important. A rumor of some man who was shot dead and then showed up like nothing happened? Yeah, it's probably because the mugger didn't check if he was actually dead. That happens. Maybe it wasn't even the same man, Gotham is a big city. If anything, hey, at least that was one less casualty? That's a good thing.

That is, until one day, they show up to Joker's hostage situation and witness the clown screaming at one of the hostages. He is so enraged he is shaking, spit flying out of his mouth, and, contrary to the usual Joker's evil sneers and maniacal laughter, he seems just... furious. But, like, the normal-human-level furious. The 'I just lost the last ounce of patience with you' furious.

"Don't you look away from me, you think I don't remember you?! Na-ah, I do. You were the one I drowned in the shark tank last week! And you were the one run through the chainsaw trap two weeks before that! And you were in the guillotine!!! I saw your fucking head get deattached from your body, how the fuck are you here again?!"

And the guy he is screaming at just looks at him, confused and incomprehensive.

"Um, I'm pretty sure I'd remember getting my head cut off, you know? So, err, wrong guy."

"Wrong guy my fucking ass-"

Joker is so distracted by his screaming match that it makes it almost too easy for the Bats to fight him down and drag to Arkham. Yet, a few of them get just a bit suspicious.

Now, imagine all the shenanigans when they try keeping a watch on Danny the Won't Die Guy.