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ephemerensis · 7 days ago

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Steamroller // Tim Drake x GN! Reader

happy new year! little enemies to lovers kind of thing kind of (theyre just like on opposite ends and they don’t really know it). stalker update for all interested parties: i think he’s starting to lose interest and give up 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️! also i graduated! yippee! NOT proofread.

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Your favorite nights were ones like these, windswept and carefree as you sped down an empty street on your motorbike. With the last of your tasks wrapped up for the week, it was smooth sailing until the next rotation. Or so you thought before you heard a familiar grating voice bark at you, swinging into the view of your side mirror and chucking something at you.

Switching lanes, you narrowly avoided the batarang that came whizzing by. This guy again. Swinging your bike back around, you pushed the brakes to screech to a halt.

“Nice try bat rat, maybe aim next time!”

If it wasn’t so dark, you’d see the scowl plastered on his face as he stalked towards you. Red Robin hated you, and that was an understatement. Which was fine, you didn’t like him much either.

“Didn’t need to,” he spat. Pressing a button on his suit started up something like the sound of metal scraping pavement behind you. Before you could react, the sharp little object he threw at you came reeling back where it came, and the wheezing sound of your back tire losing air came with it. He threw a grappling hook at you.

“You’ve got to be joking.” In a way, it was your fault for taunting the guy. But this was the sixth encounter this week, if he wasn’t constantly out to get you, you’d think he were in love.

“What were you doing at the rendezvous point Penguin set up?” He stalked towards you, for what you weren’t sure. Sometimes he just wanted to provoke you, other times he’d just go for the swing. But you didn’t have time for that today.

“Intel, not that it’s your business.” You ripped a patch out from your utility belt, slapping it on the tire he just rudely tore a hole in before applying pressure to see if it’d last the way back.

“I’ll decide what my business is.”

“You stalking me everywhere says otherwise.” The tire sank more than you would’ve liked, but it would do. He stopped ten feet in front of you; looks like he didn’t want to fight tonight either. You rummaged through your pockets for good measure.

“I am not stalking you. You’re just where trouble happens to be.”

“Yeah. If that helps you sleep at night.” When your fingers brushed against the smooth plastic you were searching for, you mounted the bike again, turning on the headlights and adjusting your mirrors. It’s important to drive safe. “Anyways! Move.”

“What-“ Before he could finish his thought you pushed on the accelerator, watching him dive out of the way. It’s a shame his reflexes were so fast, if you ran him over he’d be out of commission for at least a month.

You tossed the plastic discs behind you as you sped off, leaving a flush of smoke behind you. He was good, but he wouldn’t be able to trace you with this.

Mercenary work never really was for you, let alone vigilante work. But growing up poor in Gotham and constantly grappling with loan sharks and the other unsavory groups your parents brought upon your family taught you a few things. And you found out you were pretty good at getting things done, the sneakier stuff: spying, stealing, occasionally taking out single targets, the quiet things. It felt bad but being hungry felt worse, survival of the fittest or something like that.

You were so good you paid it all off, and made a profit; enough to get yourself and your brother through college, and give the ol’ crime lords the slip. And things were good.

You liked your 9 to 5 office job, sorting through papers and typing on your laptop. You liked talking to your neighbors and inviting them over on the occasion for taco night. You liked your partner and the cozy apartment you lived in together.

Until your useless brother threw it all away, talking to the wrong people, getting into debt again, throwing around your name where it would mean anything, and it was square one.

So now you’re here. Running from some vigilante freak that has it out for you when you haven’t even done anything all that bad; it’s the people you work for he should be worried about. Instead he wants to breathe down your neck every night of the week, and he fails, every time. Maybe that was why he got so mad, as if there aren’t bigger fish to fry.

When you got back to your apartment, it was almost three in the morning. Slipping in as quietly as you could manage, you breathed a sigh of relief to find all the lights still off. Your boyfriend, Tim, always sleeps with a night light on, something about being scared of the dark. Lucky for you, he worked ungodly hours which made sneaking around a lot easier.

You’d just slipped into your pajamas when you heard the front door open and someone flicked the lights on. You could tell Tim was frustrated by the way he walked, brisk and heavy as he tugged off his coat and tossed his tie into the abyss. But he softened when he saw you, stopping in his tracks with an almost guilty look on his face, like he was sorry for feeling anything but joy in your presence.

“Oh hey, were you waiting up for me? I told you not to.” You shook your head, making your way over to press a kiss to his cheek and hold his hands. They were still cold from outside, the walk from the parking garage must’ve been treacherous.

“Are you okay?,” you asked, running your thumbs over the back of his hands. They were rough hands, surprising for a rich boy, but in your palms they were always so gentle.

He let out a breath, laughing a little before settling into a rueful smile, “I can’t get anything past you, can I? I’m okay. Just work stuff.”

“What kind of work stuff?” You tightened your grip on him, tugging him over to sit with you on the couch. He complied, leaning on your shoulder as he sunk into the cushions.

“Just something I can’t quite… resolve.” He sounded so tired. Business always went well, and Tim was a genius, it was a wonder how he ran into so many problems in the office. Sometimes you wanted to reach into that pretty skull of his and take a peek into his brain, maybe he was just overthinking things, or maybe you’d finally understand that you could never understand. Both would soothe you.

“Yet. Everything works out in time, and you’re the best I know. Can I help?” You felt him tense when you ran your hand over his shoulder, pulling away immediately to check on him. But before you could manage to ask he reached for you, shaking his head.

“No. It’s sensitive material. I’m okay,” he insisted, leaning on you again as he perched his arms neatly where they would fit around you. “Can we just stay like this for awhile?”

It was a good thing he never asked for anything malicious, because you’d say yes to just about anything he asked.

“Yeah.” You’d never known power so intimately before you held his skull to your chest. The way he surrendered himself and was whole, shedding the burdens of his responsibilities entirely to be vulnerable for a moment. But it was coupled by an intense fear, that his trust was rare and very easily abused or misguided if you weren’t careful. And if you weren’t, it felt as if he wouldn’t ever be vulnerable again.

“Thank you, and I love you,” he whispered. Your tired, hardworking boy.

“I love you more,” you answered.

It turns out the “I’m okay” business was a massive tri-colored bruise that bloomed on his left arm. He was careful to hide it, and if you didn’t wake up a little earlier than usual you would never have known. You didn’t ask, clearly he didn’t want you to, but you were concerned— and moreso curious. He did spar with his siblings, this you knew, but they’d never do something like that to him. Maybe he was sleep deprived and got stuck between the elevator doors somehow, you wouldn’t put it past him. If you had time later, you could check in while he’s in the office, drop off dinner or something to make sure he wasn’t getting picked on.

You got up an hour after him, as you always did. There was a rhythm to your morning routine that you adored, it was comfortable; reliable. Tim made the coffee, and you made breakfast. When you first moved in together he’d offered to cook, being the one to get up first and all, but he was hopeless. Anything beyond instant noodles was a fire and food safety hazard. And you made a mean scrambled egg.

You cooked so he did the dishes, a compromise you never objected to— it was your least favorite house chore. You’d loop his tie for him when he was done, and he’d kiss you on the forehead to leave first. Your job started a little later.

At least it would if you hadn’t requested a temporary leave of absence while you worked for Gotham’s worst. You had to report whatever intel you gathered yesterday night to Black Mask. He’d have another assignment for you after, you were sure. But if you were efficient with these things, it could all be over in a month or so.

That’s what you told yourself as you waved him out the door. Thursday nights Tim usually got back at a human hour, if you could wrap up business early you could be home by the time he was too.

Black Mask was waiting for you by the time you got there, unsurprisingly. It never got easier looking at him, freakish and impossible to read, behind his skeletal metal teeth.

“Penguin’s plan?” He’d asked before you had the chance to fully enter the room, eager as ever to maintain his grasp on power. Breathing isn’t worthwhile unless you’re winning he told you once.

“He wants to spread some influenza with his birds. It’s not serious, but the cure he’s selling is. It’s highly addictive and one of a kind. I got photos on this drive.” You placed it on the man’s desk, pushing it towards him as far as you’d dared. “He’s colluding with the woman who runs the second biggest pharm-tech company in the city. It has a six week timeline, some of it was in motion last week so five from here out.”

“Okay.” Without missing a beat he’d already decided your next assignment, “get me the cure.”

“Four people have access. A team or a raid would be better suited.” You took a breath to answer him. This wasn’t possible, at least not easily. It wasn’t a job you wanted to take, and it wasn’t practical. Money wasn’t Black Mask’s pursuit, it should’ve been enough just to thwart his enemies, not profit from them.

“I don’t pay you to argue.”

You had to swallow the fear that crept up your throat. Fear of death was always within reach, that much was obvious when you took on mercenary work, but the fear Black Mask brought on was a little more primal. Something instinctual you had to ignore.

You couldn’t take this job. The both of you knew it would go over the hours you were signed for, anything that could arouse suspicion from your normal life was carved into stone as off limits. Tim couldn’t know, that was the rule. And this assignment could take you weeks, “…it breaches our contract.”

“I pay overtime. And let me remind you, you’re in no position to say otherwise.”Disagreeing twice was a hefty endeavor and the man was right, you had your brother to consider. It’s always funny, the way you think you have any say in things. “Get me the cure.”

You didn’t have time to pack up, leave a note, or meal prep dinner. It was burdensome to disappear, at least a little. But Tim would be okay; hurt, but okay. It’s not like he’d miss you terribly, he was working over-overtime as it was, and you hoped he would forgive you when you got back.

So you vanished. It was quiet work, mostly tailing people to get a lead, working to worm your way in to the right social circles, sorting through files while people slept.

Red Robin was looking for you, or at least investigating your activity. He��d have caught you a few times now if you weren’t more focused on working during the day. Not that he knew what was going on, that much was evident. Not that he would be able to do anything if he did run into you again anyway, that boy just kept losing. Or maybe he didn’t want to win.

It was hard to know what his objective was. Just that he thought you were bad news and made things harder than they needed to be. But he did intrigue you. Righteous Red Robin never fought dirty and it was a little flattering how he was insistently so hot on your trail. Maybe you’d tease him about it after this whole ordeal and he could throw another grappling hook at you.

It only took two weeks to gather enough standing in Penguin’s sphere to have access to his office. With all the snooping you’d done, you knew every possible password and key you’d need to access the files for Black Mask. If you broke in tonight, you’d be by daylight. Theoretically.

So you took to it. It wasn’t hard to break in once you knew where everything was. Nothing was terribly discreet, just about as hidden as valuables would be in someone’s home. Getting into the main computer was a breeze, you’d talked up enough patrons and underlings for them to spill every access code they knew. As you slipped in a USB to transfer the remaining files you needed, a familiar set of footsteps sounded behind you.

Brisk, decided, and determined to be quiet, you knew he was lurching forward with a right hook before you had the chance to turn around. You jerked your body out of the way before he could make contact, putting as much distance between the two of you as you could manage. Thankfully the file transfer already started before he rudely interrupted your heist, you just needed to buy time.

“Can we not do this today?” You couldn’t help the annoyance creeping under your skin; Red Robin’s timing couldn’t have been worse. If he’d shown up ten minutes later you would’ve been gone. Of all the times to barge in, he chose to when you were just about done.

But he was faster than he usually was, before your thoughts could finish flowing through your skull he was throwing something at you again; muttering a sharp, “shut up,” in tandem. A gasp left you as it grazed your cheek, he’d never drawn blood before, even so minutely.

Before you had a chance to react he was on you, swinging his staff with enough force to kill a man. It was all you could do to avoid it before the next swing came, overbearing and deadly, unlike you’d ever seen from him. Any ounce of annoyance left in you evaporated in favor of fear and adrenaline, he was angry.

“What is your problem? If this is about running you over, I knew you’d dodge it!” The knives you had tucked away in your boot straps were useless, you didn’t have time to reach for them and even if you had them there were no openings to intervene. With a stroke of luck, he hit the wall hard enough for his staff to get stuck, giving you enough time to make a run for the window. The files would have to wait.

Just as you were reaching to pull up on the windowsill, a batarang caught the fabric of your shoulder, pinning you to the wall. Another grazed your outreached hand, distancing you further from your escape route.

If you were scared of Black Mask, you were terrified of Red Robin. Or at least, this state of him. You’d never noticed before how the whites of his mask looked like headlights, barreling towards a sundered deer. With whatever cognition you had left, your uninjured hand reached for the dagger in your boot, but you were slow and he wasn’t feeling gracious. He grabbed your wrist with one hand, pinning it next to your shoulder, and with the other he jerked you forward by your collar.

A glimpse of metal hanging on your neck made his scowl deepen and you winced for whatever he would throw at you next. But instead of a punch or getting hit with a blunt object, you felt the release of pressure when he snapped the dainty silver chain from you.

“Where did you get this?” he barked. There was something off about the way he said it, untethered. The necklace in question wasn’t something controversial; a chain with a pendant Tim had inscribed with his initials next to yours.

It wasn’t particularly valuable, nothing anyone would steal, but it meant something untouchable to you. Exactly eight months into dating he told you he loved you for the first time and presented you with it. The letters were rough around the edges from mistakes in sanding and carving when he etched the metal for you himself. And now it was being dangled in front of you, a reminder of all you could stand to lose if things went wrong. So easily snatched from you, as if they never belonged in the first place.

“Give it back.” You moved to sweep your leg under his feet, kick him, whatever you could to get it back and get out. It wasn’t fair in the slightest, he should know it wasn’t something to steal. But he just tightened his grip on your wrist and kneed your ribs once hard enough for you to keel over and stop moving.

“Where did you get this?” His anger was building, you could hear, but you didn’t care much anymore. He didn’t have the right.

“It’s mine,” you spat through gritted teeth.

“Liar.” A pang of confusion hit you, as if this were something to lie about. He was in your face now, and you glared back behind your own mask. If he didn’t back off soon you had half a resolve to bite his nose off. “What did you do to the owner? This is your last chance.”

Like Red Robin could do anything to you. You felt like a dog backed into a corner, sure enough. But upper hand or not, no one wins in a fight against a rabid dog, even if you manage to put it down.

“And I’m telling you for the last time, it’s mine.” But if you get put down, you can’t crawl back. The courage behind your words was starting to sound like desperation. “My boyfriend gave it to me and you need to give it back.”

And then your resolve was gone altogether, a plea more than a demand, for absolution. Your voice quivered on the last few words, maybe it was for the better, it seemed like that was the only part he heard anyway.

The blood in your wrist started flowing again as he let go of it, looking at you with something akin to terror. Swallowing lead, you considered taking the chance to run; rip the sleeve that was caught and book it. But something held you there, vulnerability? Or some deviant of the terror he was feeling. Your legs wouldn’t move now.

He was slow in reaching for your mask. You must’ve been slower, because you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t do anything at all, not with the way your heart was pounding in your ears. Everything in you was screaming all at once, but you couldn’t understand a thing they were saying and it was getting hard to breathe.

You squinted to adjust your vision once the mask was off, and something wet slid down your cheek. Dust must’ve gotten under the thing, you weren’t one to cry.

“Y/N?” He’d caught you and you let it happen. You heard the chain clink on the floor, and you were so sorry to Tim that you let it happen. Soiled something he put time into. Maybe it was fitting, you always took that boy for granted.

You flinched when he reached for you, pressing your eyes shut. But Red Robin didn’t cuff you like you expected. Knock you out, threaten you, chain you to a street lamp outside for the police to collect. Instead you felt arms wrap around you, hefty and secure, a welcoming warmth in juxtaposition to the cold, stagnant office air. And you knew these arms, and you knew this feeling, and you knew this scent.

“Tim?” It came out like a squeak, you didn’t intend that.

And then his head was buried in your shoulder again, his spot as it’d always been. “I thought someone took you.”

He took the liberty of freeing you from the wall first, and you dropped to the floor. Your knees felt like jello. It made sense, some of it. The late nights and the injuries.

“Without a ransom note?” you murmured. You didn’t know what else to say. It’d been Tim the whole time.

“Don’t joke.” He knelt beside you, tucking a stray strand behind your ear. After the shock, the guilt came barreling in. You caused his injuries. You got in his way. You ran away without saying anything. You’d been hurting him the whole time.

“I’m sorry.” You squeaked for the second time. After the guilt was the confliction. You didn’t know to do. Half reaching for him, half shying away.

So Tim grabbed your hands, stilling you completely with just that. He pulled a strip of cloth out of his belt to wrap around the palm he cut moments before. It was shallow, nothing that would scar.

He was probably as confused as you were, quiet to sort out the events as they’d unfolded— and the before. There was a lot to ask and a lot to explain, you wouldn’t know where to start. And if you did start, you didn’t know if you could stop. It was too much. You were tired. There were time constraints. The first bit of reality slipped itself into your mind, the two of you weren’t the only two in the world and you were here on a job. “Please don’t ask, I’ll tell you when I have the heart but please don’t ask. I might cry. I’m sorry.”

“You’re already crying.” His thumbs brushed your tears away as if just to prove it. But they stayed after, running the pad of his fingers over your cheeks for as long as you’d let him. A soothing pattern.

“Am I? I’m sorry.” Your eyes were locked onto him, and you knew he was looking back even if his eyes weren’t visible. The longer you stared, the more the tears seemed to flow. And you couldn’t fathom why you were crying.

“For what?” He said it as if nothing were wrong, and that’s all it took for the dam to burst. Flinging your arms around him to cry your worth into his shoulders. You didn’t deserve this boy.

“I love you,” you sobbed.

“I love you more,” he answered.

#tim drake fanfic #tim drake #tim drake x reader #batman #dc #red robin x reader #tim drake imagine #tim drake x gender neutral reader #tim drake angst #tim drake fluff #red robin x y/n #red robin

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doomtrooper77 · 25 days ago

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Meet Gusieppe "Joe Murder" Murderetti. Mob Boss's Mob Boss

It had been a couple of weeks since he had been back to the Dungeon gym. He got his workout in at the gym at work, but this place was made for growing. The Dungeon was mainly a private gym. Most people didn’t know it existed, and those who attended liked it that way. From the outside, it looks like an abandoned warehouse. You might also think so if you just paid attention to the unpainted walls and steel girders above your head. Graffiti on the walls. Look at what the gym contained: a sea of free weights, benches, racks, and machines to lift big. The only cardio was the fighter’s section in the far corner. Full boxing ring, a full-size MMA octagon, mats galore for jujitsu to karate. The other side of the building was for recovery. 3 full Saunas, 3 shower areas, Cold Plunges, 4 huge Japanese heated Soaking tubs, and massage rooms. This place was a lifter's dream. But there were no influencers here. Nobody is setting up their camera for Instagram or TikTok. The place was clean from top to bottom. Members didn’t pay, you had to be invited.

I had decided to bring my college buddy who was in front out of town with me. He was still in pretty good shape even though 10 years later, he spent most of his day behind a desk. I told him I knew a place where we could workout like we used to in college. He didn’t think much of the place until we got inside, and he grinned like a kid in a candy shop. We changed, and I told him no phones were allowed outside the locker room. He objected and said he had a deal he was working on, and he had to stay in touch. I told him it could wait an hour or two. We worked out together for about 30 minutes, and he said he wanted to work arms, and I told him I needed to do some legs. So we split up.

I had my headphones on and was on my 3rd set in the squat rack. When I noticed everyone in the room was looking at something behind me. I racked the weights and turned to see my buddy in fucking Joe Murder's face. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

Joe Murderetti, aka Joe Murder, was not a local mob boss; he was THE MOB BOSS. Not the flashy one, he was the Mob Boss the flashy ones were terrified of. He was the one authorities knew had his hands in everything, from drugs to extortion, loan sharking, casinos, financial crimes, and murder for hire. They had come at his 10 different ways, and each time, not only did nothing stick, but people disappeared. Judges, lawyers, prosecutors, politicians, witnesses, and cops. He was called a wizard of the fucking underworld because impossible things happened when he was involved.

Joe Murderetti was also the person who invited me here to this gym. His gym.

My buddy was in good shape for your average guy. He was 6’2 "and 270 lbs. He looked solid and hadn’t lost much of a step since our college days. I was 6’3" and 290 lbs. I was a beast; I had to be when I was on the streets.

Teddy was running his mouth and putting his finger in Joe Murderretti’s face! He was always an arrogant hot head and when he got this way he never paid attention to the world around him. He didn’t see the fucking sea on monsters headed his way. Joe Murder owned this place. Most of the people who came here worked for him—either part of his day-to-day crew or one of 20 others who controlled most of northern Illinois. At least 15 guys were converging on the two. Not one of them was under 300 pounds. Hell, Joe himself tipped the scales at 340-350.

I flung my headphones and started trotting over. I got within 10 feet when I felt a big hand clamp on my shoulder and neck. My training and instincts kicked in, and I grabbed the hand and arm holding me and started to judo-throw them over my shoulder. Under normal circumstances, that person would have been slammed to the ground over my shoulder, and my knee would be in their neck. Instead, the big hand holding my shoulder grabbed my wrist, twisted it, and kicked my legs from under me; when we hit the floor, it was my face slammed into the rubber mat, and a massive knee was in the center of my back. Air rushed out of me, but my training kept me attempting to move. I tried to twist, but not only was the weight on my back too much, but the person holding my arm twisted it further and pulled it up toward my head. The pain was excruciating. I was only able to twist my head to the side and yell out, “Mr. Murderetti, Mr. Murderetti!” Another shadow passed over me, and a big, lugged boot sole stepped on my head and neck, pushing me further into the ground. I stopped struggling.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Teddy and Joe Murder looking over at me on the ground. Teddy's eyes got big, and he started moving in my direction, but two more massive guys grabbed him. Teddy's only training was from football when we played in college. One guy had him wrapped in a chokehold, and the other had slammed his fist into Teddy's gut twice already. Before he could hit him a 3rd time, Joe Murder casually held up his hand, and the chokehold loosened, and the puncher stood at the ready. Joe Murder was still looking at me.

His dark eyes locked on to me, and he said, “David, what does this have to do with you?” His voice was deep, yet he had the south-side Chicago Italian accent. This was the voice of the mobster on the street. I had heard that voice speak in a boardroom executive tone to north side charity dinner smoothness. Today, it was the voice of the man who owned the streets.

“I’m sorry, Teddy didn’t know who you were. We came in for a quick workout, but I wasn’t paying attention. This is my fault.” I said. Joe Murder made another small gesture, and the two monsters holding me down pulled me to my feet. They did not let me go. By this time, there were 10 other massive guys surrounding us. All of them looked as if they wanted a piece of us. Everyone else in the gym disappeared.

Joe walked over to where the two men held us and absently said to them, “Let him go.” Both men let me go but didn’t move away. Joe stepped up to me, and an aura of menace surrounded him. Each of the guys on either side of me could have twisted me into a knot. But something about the man standing in front of me made them seem like puppies in comparison to a tiger.

Joe Murder was 2 inches shorter than me, but damn near a foot wider. He made you feel like the closer he got, the more you shrank into yourself. “Your buddy has a loudmouth and seems interested in business that’s not his,” Joe said. Teddy spoke up, “Dave, tell these knuckle draggers to let me go! Tell them you’re a cop, and they just fucked up big time. You’re gonna drag them in and put them under the fucking jail!” The last sentence cut off as Teddy got another shot to the gut. His legs crumpled under him, but the guy held him up.

Joe Murder’s eye twinkled dangerously, and then he said mockingly, “Under the jail! Yeah Dave, tell me how you’re putting us under the jail.”

Over the next week, I will post a member of Joe Murder's crew daily.

#ai muscle #midjourney #mobster series #enforcer #brute

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0mysticmidnight0 · 10 months ago

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~Mystically Broken AU - Chapter 1~

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You trembled as the taxi took you to a dark street, filled with crime. Robbery, Arson, right in the day light. You felt nervous. The taxi stopped at the tallest building. Once you left the taxi and entered the building, you turned around to glance at the Taxi, two people robbed the driver.. You hurried to your destination. You enter the Elevator, hopping nothing wrong happens.

~Flash Back~

You sat in your boss's office, expecting your paycheck for the month. She looked at you rather nervously. "As you know, our company has been slowly crumbling, we've been losing clients and we haven't been strengthening any business ties. Luckily! We have a few people wiling to help us, under a few conditions." You glanced at her nervously. "Who are these people exactly?" She gulped and looked away, She wasn't usually this cautious. You were worried. "You'll find out soon! They arranged a meeting for us to discuss the terms and conditions. You are coming with me since you are our top employee and one of our representatives!" She smiles enthusiastically. It felt odd, you wanted to know more about them. But you felt like she'd avoid the question. "That's great.." You smiled nervously. Why did your fellow representative have to be sick on THIS day?! You knew you should've spent more time in bed..

~Present~

You gulped as you tapped the button on the elevator. The top floor. The elevator door shut loudly. Who were these people? Why was this place so shady and creepy. You had the feeling that whoever your boss made a contract with isn't really a nice guy. The elevator made an abrupt stop as it opened. You walk out of the elevator and looked around. The floor was glass and it looked like an aquarium? You couldn't see any fish until you saw a.. robot shark.. then another and another.. The room was dimly lit and looked up to see the city's four most wanted criminals and your boss looking at you. "You made it!" your boss's voice muffled you were too in shock and you looked at the four criminals infront of you. "Let's get this over with, my time will not be wasted by your incompetence." Donatello, Mechanical genius, One of the smartest and deadly criminals due to his understanding of technology. He creates deadly weapons that cause mass destruction. it was rumored he uses petty criminals for his experiments.. Who am i kidding, he probably does. He glared you down like he couldn't tolerate your presence. "Donnie, stop your growling. You're gonna scare away the prey." Leonardo, One of if not the person with highest bodycount. He's killed hundreds, thousands to get what he wants. But he always manages to hide the evidence. One of the best Manipulaters. He's hard to catch, people say he just vanishes. He nudges his twin while laughing. He looks at you like he wanted to devour you whole. "Why don't you idiots shut up! Don't listen to them."

Raphael, a literal tank that could take hundreds of people at once. The strongest when it came to raw strength and battle strategy. If you ever cross him or do something that upsets him, prepare to deal with his terrible and DEADLY temper. He glared at Donatello and Leonardo as they shut their mouths. You hear a voice from behind you.. You gasped when you saw who it was. "Well, don't you look fun?"

MichelAngelo, The best at deceiving others and persuading them to do his bidding. He locks people up for fun and calls them his playthings. He kills anyone who steps in his way. He commits daily vandalism. He wouldn't kill anyone right away, he'd slowly drive them to the brink of insanity because it's fun to watch them fall apart. What had your boss gotten you into?! "Now, take a seat. Cynthia here tells us you have experience addressing crowds and dealing with rumors about your company. Dealing with any evidence regarding your companies misdeeds." It was true you were the one dealing with false rumors and false evidence.. That's how you became one of the representatives. But you had a gut feeling they were gonna take advantage of that. "I have been the one dealing with those issues but that was because they were mostly false! I can't defend something when i know it's wrong." You wanted to stand your ground. That was a bad choice. you turned to your side and gulp. There was a sword or katana.. an odachi. There was an odachi to your neck. "All of us have to do things we don't want to do to survive in this cruel world. Do as we say and we'll keep our end of the deal, alright?" Your boss, Cynthia just looks at you nervously, her gaze telling you to accept their condition. "Or we'll have to slowly destroy you one by one.. " His laugh echoing through the room. "Make this quick so i don't have to spend another moment with these imbeciles." you gulped and slowly nodded as you still felt the Odachi's sharp end to your throat. "We need you to destroy all criminal records. No matter how many times i delete it from the governments system, the people of new york still spread these awful rumors. who knew word of mouth could be so, infuriating. we need you to-"

"Ughh.. Donnie! English!" "Just get to the point already!" "I was JUST getting to that. We need you to accompany us to some governmental parties this year. They host four parties each year. One of us will accompany you and we need you to speak for us and claim our innocence." "But you aren't innocent! I-" You felt the Odachi go closer to your throat. "Hold your tongue." "Precisely, Complaints of the people to the government make us a target. So much so that they arranged an elite super force or a group of highly trained professionals after us." "We ain't getting anythin' done when we knows a buncha' creeps watchin' us!" "Do you think you can get the job done? It is pretty fun!" Your boss looked at you apologetically.

You nodded and the Odachi was pulled away and you took a sigh of relief.. What did you get yourself into.?

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amourlyns · 1 year ago

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❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

✧ 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕: in which the reader meets bruce wayne at a gala, the riddler is rampant in the city. and this gala is his next target. part one of two.

✧ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: mentions of alcohol consumption, and drugs. bruce is vv emotionally repressed, he’s got problems ok?

✧ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: 🦦 this is pattison’s batman influenced by matt reeves (the batman.) no use of y/n, pov switches to bruce twice in this fic. listen to 〞thank god for the rain 〞 by bernard herrman for ambiance.

⟡ ⠀ | Gotham is well (…) an odd city. An odd city with slick—tongued alley cats who roam and lurk at each corner, merging with the shadow and watching passerby dance and speak in hypnotic tongues.

You liked to call it the Gotham effect, it comes with the city of sin and crime. It’s odd, like you stated before. There’s the occasional glitz and glamor of wealthy Gothamites, galas laced with cocaine pearls and wine filled bottles (…)

Accompanied by champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvre’s to indulge in for the night.

And within this false sense of normalcy and entitlement, there’s the night. The Gotham better known for its crime and vigilantes. You see, everyone in Gotham is acting. The key to understanding it all in Gotham is the rhythm.

The people are the rhythm, the day is the rhythm. The night is the rhythm. And within this element of rhythmic chaos, there’s always something lurking. Watching the city underneath light polluted skies and charcoal clouds. When the smog seems to clog up your lungs and choke your breathing, there’s always something else to worry about.

The Batman, of course.

If anything, he highlights what Gotham is at the core. A broken city, deeply scarred and angry. Scratching at its surface to be heard. To be healed. Has Gotham always been seeking justice and light? Or is it seeking something much more carnal and sinister (…) Vengeance? A certain greed?

Whatever it was, it spoke to Gothamites. Hate the Bat, or love the Bat. He spoke for the city of Gotham, and he would always be there at every corner, watching.

Gotham is sick and venal.

You hope for the day of a real rain to come and wash off the scum from the streets. For now, it’s the Bat who takes care of the illness. Could 〞 it 〞 save Gotham?

Maybe.

It’s silly thought anyways, Gotham has been plagued with crime for decades. Some masked vigilante wouldn’t be able to stop that regardless. The thought is flimsy and useless. Something made out of hope and optimism, the kind of thing you consume in dreams. Not only that, but the Batman is more of a fable, a myth.

Besides, there was no use in consuming yourself with thoughts of Gotham and its nightly specter. For now, you’re here, at another Gala— with the same diluted faces and the same twisted smiles. Then night moves on in an odd distorted way, a blur even.

The man who snaps you out of this daze is Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s Prince, the man of the hour. You could only wonder what caused this recluse to emerge out of the manor he calls home. Unlike other notable people in Gotham, Bruce Wayne chooses to live a quiet life shrouded in mystery.

When he does remove himself from the confines of the manor, and the tabloids simply go into a frenzy. Like sharks during a feeding. It feels like everyone in Gotham wanted a piece of Bruce Wayne. Craving a flesh they surely don’t deserve.

Something tells you to draw closer to the oddity, like this would be the only time you’d be able to lay your eyes on Bruce Wayne in the flesh. So, you might as well take the opportunity to really take him all in.

Wayne eventually loses the limelight. The audience dies and you decide to pass through the sea of bodies that separate you two. He notices this of course, ever so vigilant. Some part of you expects him to flee and avoid the confrontation all together. Wary hues remain fixated on your figure slipping through the crowd.

Surely he isn't waiting (…) Right ?

Apparently he wasn’t, not like you knew of course. Bruce Wayne was a hard man to decipher after all, you couldn't tell if something compelled him to stay or if that kept him still.

For the first time tonight, you're accompanied by someone else. It'd off to say the least, Bruce is certainly a presence to behold, sure. But he wouldn't even spare a glance at you, you gaze eventually follows his line of sight.

Now? Now, all eyes are set on beacon in the sky now. The symbol of the night.

Batman is called by the city tonight, needed in the shadows once more. You could only wonder what for. You’re not one for new and tabloids but, there has been some discussion about the 〞 Riddler. 〞

Gotham’s newest deranged lunatic villain.

The man was terrifying, you’ve seen the footage. You've seen the terror and heard the screams. So how was the Batman going to save the city now? The thought of Gotham coming to its own demise (…) it was bound to, the city hasn’t had hope in a long time. You knew that very well.

Now what was he thinking? Did the Wayne believe in the Bat? In Vengeance, and his own crusade. Before you can even ask the question, he’s turning away. Maybe he’s had enough of your company for tonight.

❛ MISTER WAYNE, WAIT. Before you go, I’m just (…) curious about this one thing━━ IT’S THIS (…) BAT. VENGEANCE, do you really think he can protect the city ? Save Gotham ? His motives just seem so unclear. He’s menacing, almost reminds me of the Riddler. It’s all about vengeance, no ? Whether it’s about the city or people who’ve wronged you. ❜

Bruce does not turn back around to face you, instead he turns his head. Adjusting his gaze to you and the symbol in the night, it shifts. Once, twice than thrice. His face is unreadable. Typical.

He wants to speak, you know that much. Yet he doesn’t, for whatever reason. Bruce chooses to stare right through you.

You let him.

He doesn’t owe you a response, you know that much. Before you know it, he’s gone.

𝙱𝚁𝚄𝙲𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚈𝙽𝙴’𝚂 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙶𝙰𝙻𝙰. A FEW HOURS BEFORE YOUR ENCOUNTER (…)

⟡ ⠀ | THE CITY IS QUIET TONIGHT. Unlike any another night, the city streets are deserted, emptied if you will. It’s all because of the recent attacks by the Riddler. There’s a few stranglers of course, sticking near the shaded roads and corners.

There’s a gala tonight, Alfred informed me on that. He wanted to me to attend because I needed to 〞 maintain 〞 my appearances for the sake of my family’s reputation and legacy. I only agreed because it would be the perfect opportunity to watch the city through civilian eyes. And give me an advantage.

The suit is less than ideal. Tight, stuffy and constricting.

Alfred is in the middle of fixing my tie when he tells me I look like my father.

I do not reply to that.

I stare into the mirror. Taking the time to analyze my polished appearance, Alfred fixes my tie and hands me my father’s cuff links once more. Now he’s watching me closely, too closely. Like I’ll break and shatter because he mentioned my father.

My face must’ve given my thoughts away, Alfred is quick to place his hand on my shoulder. Giving it a squeeze. My eyes dart between his hand and his face.

There’s that (…) sympathy again, or was it regret? Sometimes the two emotions blur and mix, all into one.

I should be kinder to Alfred.

If I could vocalize it, I would. But it comes out all raw, sore and achy. Like I’m forcing the kindness out of me. If only I could— could verbalize this gratitude. I would—

My chest throbs at the guilt. I grimace. Alfred seems to get it somehow, he can see the apology in my eyes. He lets me go for the time being, I insist to drive myself. He obliges.

The arrival is dreadful. The lights are too bright and there’s too many eyes on me. Voices ring out, calling out my name— Gothams Prince, Wayne, Mister Wayne, Bruce Wayne. They chant to me. The media swarms me like flies, and questions flood after.

I hardly keep my head above the water, I’m practically drowning. The only thing that keeps me going is that light in the sky.

The signal.

The media disperses, shifting towards the beacon of light that brands the sky tonight. From my peripheral view, I see something moving closer to me. Slipping through the sea of people. Their destination is to me. My gaze remains fixated on the bat-signal.

I have to go.

The figure besides me shifts, eyeing me down every now and then. I decide to take my leave.

❛ ❛ MISTER WAYNE, WAIT. Before you go, I’m just (…) curious about this one thing━━ IT’S THIS (…) BAT. VENGEANCE, do you really think he can protect the city ? Save Gotham ? His motives just seem so unclear. He’s menacing, almost reminds me of the Riddler. It’s all about vengeance, no ? Whether it’s about the city or people who’ve wronged you. ❜ ❜

Their words capture me for a few moments. I still. Letting the words settle into my mind. I can’t find it in me to look at them.

WHEN I LEAVE, it seems like the city mocks me. It feels like the rain corrodes my kevlar. The frigid rain seems to sink through bone marrow and nip away at skin. There’s a ferocious wind in Gotham tonight, the rain drenches everything in a torrential downpour.

Storm drains are filled and plugged, creating miniature oceans in the road.

When I arrive, the commissioner informs me on the recent developments of the Riddler. He has plans for tonight, and another letter written for me.

An explosion goes off that night.

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theoutcastrogue · 2 months ago

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"A frenzy of absolute disclosure": what post-WWII Europe needed and never got

Naples, Italy, 1955 [x]

Then Lila, drying her tears with the back of her hand, asked “Who are the Nazi Fascists, Pascà? Who are the monarchists? What’s the black market?”

It’s hard to say what Pasquale’s answers did to Lila. I’m in danger of getting it wrong, partly because on me, at the time, they had no concrete effect. But she, in her usual way, was moved and altered by them, so that for the entire summer she tormented me with a single concept that I found quite unbearable. I’ll try to summarize it, using the language of today, like this: there are no gestures, words, or sighs that do not contain the sum of all the crimes that human beings have committed and commit.

Naturally she said it in another way. But what matters is that she was gripped by a frenzy of absolute disclosure. She pointed to people, things, streets, and said, “That man fought in the war and killed people, that one beat people with a stick and poured castor oil down their throat, that one starved his own mother, in that house they tortured and killed, on these stones they marched giving the Fascist salute, on this corner they beat people up, these people's money comes from the hunger of others, this car was bought by selling rotten meat and flour laced with marble dust on the black market, that butcher shop came from stolen copper and vandalized freight trains, behind that bar is the Camorra, smuggling, loan-sharking.”

— Elena Ferrante, My Brilliant Friend

Note: I was gonna quote the official English translation and get done with it, but it was BAD. It had vocabulary like "administered castor oil", "inflicted beatings", "adulterated with marble dust", and I couldn't stand it. This is formal register, not how a teenager would casually talk to her friend. It's maybe how she'd write an essay for school, but that's the whole fucking point: school doesn't cover this, formal register is not applicable. We're in Italy in the 1950s, and the establishment pretends all this doesn't exist, and in turn the girls' families and neighbours pretend it doesn't exist, everyone shuts their eyes and mouth because they don't want any trouble. That's the point. Lila has read the entire school library, and she still wouldn't know what a Nazi is if the communist kid hadn't told her.

Post-war Italy – like most of post-war Europe and especially countries that had fascist movements and/or were under occupation, and ended up on the NATO side – forged a comforting narrative where everything bad that happened was of external origin or in the past. When the war ends and the dust settles, the people involved are still around if not more or less in power, everything's still in shambles, no rights have been wronged, with a handful of exceptions fascists and collaborators have kept the fortunes they made on other people's misery and walk around unbothered, and no one talks about it.

#Elena Ferrante #My Brilliant Friend #trs #italy #naples #rogues in fiction #the city speaks #heroes and villains #analysis #the Rogue school of translation gives exactly zero fucks #mafia #Camorra

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nthspecialll · 2 months ago

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Uncle's truth

Uncle is a liar, he is a story teller and the most untrustful of the gang when it comes to his past because he tends to say things that are pretty obviously lies, like being a king in a forgein country or being a one shot kid, but there is one time where he seems to be telling the truth.

It is during a camp interaction with Pearson where Pearson is complaining about life at sea being hard and Uncle listening in, replying that life at sea isn't hard, it is a dream. You can heard the slight sorrow, the longing for something he didn't have but wished he did, he tries to keep the mood cheerful, but he realises quite fast that he can't and his voice falls flat.

It is pretty obvious what Uncle is about to say is truth, it is the only time I can tell he isn't lying. He talks about being nine years old, an orphan and living on his own in the streets of a city side by side with scumbags.

Also something interesting to note is that he was "living on his wits," he was nine years old and smart enough to survive in a place of crime and live through a lot of shit. He says "sharks ain't nothing compared to human beings." It is a reminder that even though he is a jolly old man, he is a man who lived his life with the worst from the beginning, he most likely has seen a lot of unease and troubles.

#rdr2 #rdr2 community #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption two #john marston #red dead fandom #rdr john #rdr2 uncle #nthspecialll

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unsoundedcomic · 2 months ago

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When it comes to gangs I feel their influence and abilities to pull of a crime probably a better showcase than a gang war. Under that lens who is the greater gang. The frummagems or the Tanners? Both has pulled major political assassinations.

They're pretty different. The Frummagems and other Sharteshanian gangs are almost a public utility. Their smuggling provides a lot of hard-to-find items to the locals, their loan sharking is all half the population can afford to bank with, their protection services stand in for what's otherwise a pretty corrupt and useless police force, and their territorial control can actually keep the streets a little safer, because there are things they will not tolerate. Then they do the usual thievery, kidnapping, and begging. Not a lot of pointed elimination work goes on outside of retribution. Nary was useful for assassinating Rilursa BECAUSE the Frummagems aren't assassins. They were hard to trace and had no connection to Beadman.

The Tanners are assassins. They don't steal - they kill for coin. In fact they're a very punctilious organisation, one that enforces order in its neighborhood, and one that runs two very legitimate, aboveboard businesses (the killing is a third one, much less aboveboard).

So they're really difficult to compare. You're gonna meet the Tanners and be like, wow, these are the kindest and coolest Alds ever! And the Tannery is such a bright and merry spot of colour and fun in drab old grim Durlyne!

Just hope no one ever pays them to visit your house at night.

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chrissy-kaos · 10 months ago

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Welp.. I done fucked up. I went out with Finn street sharking🦈 and hit a new high score with tickets 😂

“Street sharking is not a crime”

#fuck cops #ACAB #fuck the police #street sharks #outlaw life #street racing #trans car girl #trans #transgender #trans pride #transisbeautiful #mtf #transgirl #girlslikeus #mtf hrt #maletofemale #transformation #street sharking is not a crime

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bubuslutty · 1 year ago

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pirate!captain Price au

word count: 1.2k

warnings: none. pretty sfw

a/n: im so in love with him it's pathetic. that's all I have to say

I need pirate!Captain Price.

I need him smoking with his foot propped up on the edge of his ship, the wind making his long coat dance in the wind.

I need him to stroke his beard while listening to whatever poor excuse someone gives him while owing him money before he orders his boys to tie them up and throw them to the sharks.

I need him to be ruthless with a soft spot for the misfits and orphans, more than often giving money to the beggars when he thinks no one is looking.

I need him to be a huge tease and start trimming his beard with his knife, or sword when someone’s boring him with loads of bullshit.

I need him to kiss a Lady breathless right before he jumps out of her window after he and his boys just robbed them of their riches.

I need him to place his hat on his face and take a nap on his hammock, snoring loudly away while his boys are daring each other to jump naked in the cold sea.

I need him to be so confident in himself and his skills, but not feel the need to prove it to anyone. He can take up anyone in a fight and win. He could have chugged 4 pints and was a bit wobbly on his feet, but as soon as he has his gun or sword in his hand, he never misses. Or heck, even his own fists could kill a man even if he was drunk, with pink cheeks, glassy eyes and all.

He’s fast, rude and absolutely despised by the Royal Navy. He’s been caught a couple of times and thrown in prison so he could be hung for his crimes, but he managed to escape every time. And when he didn’t, he would be standing in the middle of a clearing, waiting to be hung when his boys come out of nowhere, raining bullets and fire on the Navy, rescuing their Captain like they’ve done it a million times before. And the only reason he allowed himself to stay in the hands of the Navy for that long is because his boys begged him to let them rescue him, because according to their words, “It’d be fun."

I need pirate!Captain Price to be loved by pub owners and whores. Because not only is he generous when it comes to paying for everyone’s food and drinks, he’s generous in giving out as many orgasms as his partner for the night wants. He would treat the whores like Ladies, even though they won’t consider themselves anything close to high-class proper Lady. And when everyone’s satiated and drowsy, Price makes sure to leave a hefty amount of money under their pillow before he leaves.

Pirate!Captain Price who wouldn’t want to settle down any time soon, who feels more comfortable in constantly moving around and being surrounded by his boys, who’re practically his family. He feels like he’s meant to be some sort of shepherd to those who the streets treat unkindly. He’d rather offer a job to someone than see them lost in the streets, with no one to rely on. So he’s some sort of Robin Hood in his own ways.

And when fate finally slaps him across the face with love, it happens in the most unexpected ways. It happens on a random Monday, Gaz shouts that there’s another ship not far off on the East and everyone gets ready to attack it. When they do attack the ship, swinging abroad and scaring the crewmate shitless, John finds himself in the middle of a wedding, a bride, groom, guests and the priest about to make them say their vows.

And everyone is obviously terrified, but John’s no cruel man, he can’t ruin a poor couple’s special day, so he thinks about leaving until he meets the bride’s eyes. She was pretty, oh so pretty all dressed in white lace and pearls, but she also looked terrified, hands trembling on her sides and he understands, she was scared for her life. John glances at his boys and tells them to leave without saying a word, and then he notices the tables with wine and champagne, and John has to have a sip or bottle, doesn’t matter.

And that’s how he makes the biggest mistake ever, he walks to the front, where the couple was frozen along with the priest with the table to their left, and really, why put the drinks at the front? Why not at the back? But John doesn’t care to think too much of it, he ignores an old woman flinching and slapping a hand over her mouth and he hums, picks a flute of champagne, and their biggest, most expensive bottle of wine.

Right as his lips were about to touch the edge of the flute, he sees a blur of ivory white in the corner of his eyesight, and everything happens so fast that he failed to stop the bride from grabbing his sword right under his nose. John meets her eyes and it was the first time he truly felt scared for his life, her eyes were dark and absolutely furious and he thought that was it, he was about to die by the feet of a priest and groom, stabbed to death by the prettiest bride he’s ever seen, truly an Angel sent down to pierce his heart and make him bleed for all of his sins.

But she doesn’t stab him.

Instead, she buries the sword in her groom’s heart and the ship erupts in horrified gasps and screams. John watches in real time how the priest faints and how the groom meets his bride’s eyes, unable to breathe while his clothes are getting soaked in pure red at a concerning speed. He curses her out and John is so lost, what the fuck did just happen?

And it seemed like that was not all because the bride is panting and had a wild look on her face, and she turns to someone in the crowd, screaming at the top of her lungs, “I TRUSTED YOU!”

John looks at the crowd and quickly sees an older woman with a guilty and terrified look on her face, hm, must be her mother, same eyes and hair. Then the click of a gun somehow reaches John’s ears in the chaos and he sees a man lift his gun, pointing it towards the bride, and John realises it’s the poor bloke’s father who the bride just killed. John’s hands drop the bottle, the liquid staining his clothes and he grabs the bride without thinking, he throws her over his shoulder and snatches back his sword and jumps out of the window, landing on his ship.

And he doesn’t have to say anything before his boys steer his ship away and they sail as fast and as far as the wind carries them, away from the mess the bride left behind. Well, she wasn't a bride anymore, was she?

When John’s senses catch up with his reality, he finds himself hovering over the bride, her see-through veil still draped over her angelic face, doing nothing to hide her wild eyes as she stared at John, chest heaving up and down. And he was still clutching onto his sword, the blade bloody and warm, matching the same colour of the wine that was now staining his trousers.

What did I just do?

tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @obiwankenobis-lap @goapgrim @smalldemonlover @silviafantin15 @reveluving @bobastayhigh @originalsimp @h-leigh @gxldyjess @msdrpreist @chaoticevilbakugo @Lacunaanonymoused @whore4dilfs @canadianmilkbag

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