Word Count: 1,175
"Detective Gage," Steph called to the hostage, the familiar sweep of hair over the forehead damp with sweat. "No, no…" she muttered. "Nick. Answer me."
Word Count: 1,170
Universe: Coffee Shop AU
I… May have accidentally come up with an actual plot for this ‘verse. Because I don’t have any other projects to work on. I guess what I’m saying is… I’ll be doing drabble chapters for this universe sometimes. All tagged with Demonfire coffee shop AU. But not every day like 30 Days of Demonfire was.
(I swear I have not forgotten about/abandoned Nightstar Beyond; I’ve been busy lately and drabbles are way easier to handle than actual chapters, which require substance and actual planning, which you won’t see here.)
Damian gritted his teeth as his taped fists impacted the sturdy canvas bag, dozens of tiny impressions reflecting the dim lights of the Batcave oddly.
The sound of Colin’s feet on the treadmill and his rhythmic breathing filled the gaps between Damian’s punches as he gripped the bag and panted, adjusting his tape wrappings with his teeth as the tape started coming loose around his knuckles.
I don’t ship it but if the falcon/hawkeye ship isn’t called angry birds I’m rage quitting the marvel fandom
suddenlyatpeace asked: Idk if you're still taking prompts but I love your Sam/Clint fics so much and I really wanna see a fic where all the rest of the Avengers are worried the birds aren't gonna get along because 'oh no who's alpha bird?!' But then they find they've already become huge BFFS
"The alpha bird?” said Sam, crossing his arms.
"The alpha bird?” echoed Clint. “Where the hell do you get this stuff?”
"Like—dominance in the—" said Tony, waving his hands vaguely. "You know. Nature."
"You think birds of a feather—" started Sam and Clint grinned and finished "—aren’t gonna flock together?"
"Oh no," said Tony. He looked scared. "No puns, no."
"I can stop," said Sam, holding his hands up. He grinned at Clint. "Your tern."
"Toucan play at this game," agreed Clint.
"Dear god," said Tony weakly. "Please let me go."
"I get worse, regularly, on patrol." Tim says as Bruce holds out a cup for him to spit into. "So you can’t actually be mad at me."
"I think you’ll find that I can and will be mad at you, with or without your consent." Bruce replies, applying some topical anesthetic to Tim’s cheek, "Just like how you entered an underground - illegal underground - fighting ring.”
"It’s not like there was anyone there who could actually beat me." Tim points out, "And it’s good practice. And everyone’s always going on about how I need a hobby."
Bruce clenches his jaw, and refuses to sink to the level of being rough while administering medical attention just because he’s angry. He isn’t that petty and he’s not juvenile, either.
"You told Jason."
"Jason found out on accident."
"If Jason could find out on accident, what makes you think that one of our enemies couldn’t? Tim Drake is a cripple and hasn’t ever been in a fight in his life."
"No one is going to go looking for Tim Drake in a UFC fighting ring." Tim says, eyes narrowing, "And if anyone can recognize Tim Drake with all the blood on my face then kudos to them. Is that why you’re so upset? Jeez, B. We both know I’m more careful than that - "
Tim startles when Bruce slams the bottle of anesthetic on the metal table, “I am not mad at you because of any possible risk towards our identities, I’m angry with you because of the danger you have physical put yourself in, and through. Your hobby shouldn’t be getting beaten up. Your hobbies shouldn’t leave you spitting blood, and they shouldn’t require stitches, and they sure as hell shouldn’t require pain killers. I’m angry with you because of your blatant disregard towards your physical wellbeing and the fact that you don’t even recognize this as a problem. I’m angry with you because you didn’t think to tell anyone, and god knows what would happen if one day you did lose and there was no one to help you or tell me what happened to you.”
Bruce’s eyes travel from the bruising around Tim’s knuckles, the faint and drying smears of blood from where he was wiping his mouth and nose on the way home - up his corded arms, and to his face. Tim looks back at him, stunned, before his expression slips into something more familiar, more professional. Colder. Meaner.
"And who, exactly, did you think I learned that from?"