Siberianallen - Без названия

Next Time, Try Knocking

Cad Bane x Jedi!OFC

(moodboard by lifelikefae)

NSFW - 18+ ONLY

CHAPTERS

In which Cad Bane makes a new accquaintance who is not what she seems.

Bane breaks and enters. Senna makes another bad life decision.

Bane updates Senna on his mental health.

Bane starts catching feels and finds the whole thing highly #cringe. Senna forgets to close her blinds.

Bane and Senna run into each other at a party.

Senna finally realizes the extent to which she fucked up…

Bane gets a glimpse of the Sentinel’s Dark Side…

Senna tells Bane. Bane takes it about as well as you’d expect.

Bane gets sloppy. Senna gets a tip.

They’ve got to stop meeting like this…

Consequences? For MY me? It’s more likely than you think…

In which Senna is on probation and Banes gets… a phone call?!

Bane asks Senna to hold onto something…

please don’t tell my mother about this chapter

ET goes full narco-terrorist. Senna has a bad trip.

Bad feelings are had by all.

Bane to the rescue…

EXTRA

Bane’s Story (Ch. 3.5)

Phlox’s Story (Ch. 5.5)

Bounty Hunter AU

Kom’rk AU

OC moodboard

The tag

time left to be lazy

pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns)

rating: gen

word count: 1,359

one-sentence synopsis: you share a quiet, soft moment with adrian and your daughter as a family.

author's note: there's no prompt or request or plot or anything here!!!! i just constantly die at the thought of adrian with a baby and i simply cannot find enough fics about it so i wrote this on my phone impulsively tonight!!!!! be the fic you wish to see in the world!!!!!!!!!

>>> read on ao3! <<<

You get home from work earlier than you were expecting to. It was slow, and your supervisor knows you'd much rather be home, so she let you go early. You'd been so excited, flying practically all the way home.

Pushing in the front door, you know better than to call out for Adrian. You'd seen his car outside; you know he's still home. There still aren't that many places he could be, right now. Anyway, he probably would've told you if he went anywhere, and he hasn't messaged you in a little while.

You close the front door quietly behind yourself. You whisper, "Hello?" but you don't get a response.

Creeping further into your home, you find the lights are all off. It's late afternoon, and the sun is still up, but all the curtains are closed. As you sneak towards the living room, you find one single curtain open, letting in a streak of golden sunlight.

In that beam of gold, you find Adrian sprawled on his back on the couch, bare-chested, ankles crossed, silent. He's not asleep, but he's not very aware, either. Most of his attention is drowsily focused forward.

You smile, finding him there. His glasses are at the end of his nose, green eyes brightly focused on the infant sleeping on his chest. She's spread on her belly, cheek pressed over his heart; you know she must be listening to his heartbeat, that he must have put her there purposefully. The sound and feel of it always calm her down when she's restless. His fingertips are trailing absently up and down the tiny length of her back. She rises and falls just slightly with the movements of his chest as he breathes in time with her. Her own fingers are curled up in his other hand, close to her face, wrapped around two of his fingers, her thumb stroking her round cheek in slow sweeps.

Your heart is swelling up inside your chest just looking at the two of them. Even as you watch now, Adrian lets the edge of his thumb drift upwards, pushing aside a tiny curl of dark hair from her face. Her eyes are closed in sleep, lips parted as she breathes.

As you step forward, moving slowly, quietly, Adrian traces down to tap the tip of her nose, then resumes stroking her cheek.

"Love you," he murmurs to her. "I wish I could read your mind. You're probably thinking something really cool. Like— Your dreams must be crazy. You don't know pretty much anything. That must be, like, so, so awesome." He smiles slightly down at her. "Just like you."

The soft rumble of his voice doesn't disturb her. If anything, she's more settled for hearing it. That's not a surprise to you; she's heard his voice her entire life. It must be familiar to her, comforting, just like it is to you. You smile just for thinking it.

It's then that Adrian sees you. His eyes shift slightly, focusing on you, and his smile widens. Quietly, he says, "Hey! You're home early."

You can't stop smiling. You draw closer, kneeling down at his side.

"Yeah," you whisper. "They let me out early."

He tilts his chin upwards, and you lean in, accepting the kiss he presses to the corner of your mouth. He moves so carefully that he doesn't dislodge her. His head tilts, just slightly, and you meet in a proper kiss, both your eyes closing. You sigh softly, and you feel him smile into the kiss.

When you separate, you watch his eyes flutter open, eyelashes drifting up until he meets you again, grinning. He kisses at you through the air.

"Wanna lay down with us?" he asks you quietly.

You evaluate them, trying to figure out how you can get in here without disturbing them. As if he understands without you needing to speak the words, Adrian shuffles slightly towards the edge of the sofa, creating the perfect gap for you to fit in, in between him and the back of the couch. You pry your shoes off, climbing gingerly over him to tuck yourself in there.

Adrian shuffles a bit, gets his arm around you so he can pull you into his side. He kisses your temple, smiling as he readjust you both. Once you both slot into place, you rest your cheek on his shoulder, tilting to look down at your daughter where she still continues to sleep on his chest. She hasn't been disturbed at all, his hand holding her steadily in place over his heart until you're all settled again. You reach up to sweep the same wayward lock of hair away from her face that Adrian had tucked back. Her hair is so much like his, wild and dark, impossible to tame, especially while she's this young, only a few weeks old.

"Hi," you whisper to her. You reach to lay your hand over his where his fingers have stretched over her back, locking into place between them. "How was your day?"

"Oh, we did so much today already, didn't we?" Adrian answers for both himself and her. "What'd we do, let's see, we had breakfast, and we trained a little, and we took a bath—"

"Sorry," you interrupt him, "What was that?"

"I gave her a bath in the sink in that sling thing," he tells you.

"No," you say, "before that."

Adrian's grinning when he says, "She's pretty much the perfect weight for me to sling on my chest while I'm doing pull-ups—"

"Adrian," you laugh, keeping the sound as soft as you can. Just the image of that is strikingly amusing.

"She liked it!" he insists. "She even kind of smiled, I swear. I think she thinks it's cool."

You can't help grinning, too. Leaning against his chest again so you can watch her sleep, you agree, "I bet she does. She's your kid, after all."

Under your ear— and hers, you realize, which makes you smile all over again— Adrian's heart skips, speeding a little faster. It's still new, or new enough, having her here. When he remembers again, thinking coherently about her, and everything she is— the fact that she's your child, and his, and yours and his together, he just— he keeps getting overwhelmed. He still sometimes can't even believe she exists, and every time he looks at her again, he's overjoyed all over, absolutely in love with her.

"Yeah," he replies. "She is." He kisses the top of your head. "And yours."

"Probably why she likes you so much," you tell him, teasingly. "Just like me."

He smiles so deeply genuinely, such obvious delight, so honest joy in response to the silly things you say. He gives you another kiss before you both look down at her, watching as she yawns in her sleep, tiny body stretching out momentarily before she curls back up around his hand. Your hand locked with Adrian's other over her back keep her in place until she's settled again.

"There we go," Adrian murmurs nonsensically, just soft, low mumbling. "Aw, hey, there you go. Nice and comfy. Getting all relaxed, aren't you? Hey," he comments to you, "imagine someone, like— as proportionally big to us as we are to her holding us like this. Wouldn't that be crazy?"

You huff a laugh, nuzzling in closer to him. Your fingertips stroke the soft hair at the nape of her neck, curling lightly around. "Yes, that would scare the shit outta me, probably."

"Not if they love you as much as we love her," Adrian points out. You smile, at that, kissing his warm, bare skin where you can reach it under your mouth.

"You're right," you say. "I love you so much."

You're telling both of them, him and her, the loves of your life. Melting into them, yawning yourself, you fit yourself perfectly in with them again.

"Love you more," he tells you both, too. He keeps stroking her cheek, fingertips brushing yours, as she keeps sleeping and you get closer to it, trusting him to stay awake and keep the both of you safe while you rest.

-

adrian chase taglist:

@deputyrook @bb-skyrunner @himboelover @pieriinova @gcldtom @violetrainbow412-blog @amysuemc @saturnngal @neptuneswritingwork @jewishdelis @myguiltypleasures21 @pinkygunslingy @chaseadrian @breathing-in-waves @rishlurh @goblynnrockz @theowritesstuff @themartiansdaughter @dallasvakarian @missscarlettangel @samantha24015 @hillaryroadheadcllinton @ohmybubbletea @buckys-estrella @witchywcmans @ladyrebel25 @eviejune @vigilantesluvr @qjuiq-odakyu @xothatnerdykid @awkwardfangirl2014 @thevalkyrior @mattsmanpain @sunflowerfive @deirdre-belle @anthonyedwinstark @sexysquatch @jelliebeanss @zofps @crimscnrains @trans-librarian @nellethiel-aranel @probablyasatanworshipper @phoenixhalliwell @perseajohnson @eeveeangelcakes @freyafriggafrey @psychadelictoadie @middimidoris @gaygonegirl @peacemakernet @herbsschmerbs @satansrighthandmanchild @seeking-a-great--perhaps @ev-june @bvcksmurdock @staticspouse @acupnoodle

Here’s a lighthearted one-shot featuring my OC Estelle Carter with Harley Quinn and Adrian Chase. The main pairing is Harley/Estelle but with a dash of suggestion that eventually they’ll be a Harley/Estelle/Adrian pairing. 

when you become untouchable {Vigilante | Adrian Chase} // one.

one. i come loaded with the safety switched off

Summary: After earning yourself several life sentences and a one-way ticket to Belle Reve in your early 20s, you've spent the decade and a bit since then establishing yourself as a loyal and effective tool for Waller and her team. As a meta-human who is able to completely know and understand the history of anything you touch, as well as master how to use it, and know exactly where the owner of the object is, but all only while touching the object, it's safe to say that you've developed a reputation as an unmatched hunter, though you've always felt hunter was too ominous a word for you and your upbeat nature.

So now you, Waller's pet supervillain known as The Chaser, find yourself as part of Project Butterfly, in the middle of suburban Washington. The only downside you can see is that everyone on the team is so serious; as the saying goes, if you enjoy what you do, you'll never work a day in your life! So fuck it, who are they to say you can't enjoy what you do, especially if you know you're good at it!? Unfortunately for everyone else, what you do is usually crime... and sometimes murder.

Need to Know: She/Her pronouns. villain!meta-human!reader. self depricating reader. chaos. implied dehumanisation. canon typical violence. possible smut in later chapter i haven't decided. slowish burn

A/N: 2652 words. ive caved and im writing a villain!reader/vigilante series. this is different to the other oc/vigilante things ive been posting except that this is now the fic where The Chaser is a thing. im excited to write this, it's a lot of fun so far xx i would like feedback please!!!

Taglist: OPEN -- message or comment if you'd like to be added xx

If anyone were to ask your opinion on the team you were with, not that anyone ever did, you'd never hesitate to mention that you wished they'd lighten up.

"Careful, Kujo, your sociopathy is showing," Harcourt's voice was dry over dinner at Fennel Fields, though her lips were quirked with the slightest amusement.

"You know my confidence isn't an attack on you," you told her with blunt sincerity, brandishing a mozzarella stick like you're trying to emphasise a point - the grease that clings, the oil that burns, they're made in-house, the exact way to make them, bulk ordered bread crumbs, the machines that processed them, the crumbling, dough forming, wheat into machines, the wheat cut down in the fields, the breeze - "I'm good at my job, that's not bragging that's just a fact."

"Yes, but you're good at everything," Harcourt leans her elbows on the table, chin resting delicately on her knuckles, "isn't that the point of you? Wouldn't being insufferable about it get boring eventually?" She's wearing that thin, mean smile that's unfortunately flattering on her, and you sigh, as if terribly put upon, leaning against the half-wall divider your booth sat against.

"You'd think so," you sigh dramatically, "but considering I'm an idiot eighty percent of the time, I have to get my kicks in how I can," and you angle your head to show her your sharp, smug smile, and she rolls her eyes, sitting back in her seat. You take another bite of the mozzarella stick with a shit-eating grin.

"And they call you The Chaser?" Adebayo asks with faint scepticism as she processes the interaction she's just witnessed.

"Depends on who you ask," you responded lazily, finishing off the mozzarella stick in your hand, and immediately forgetting everything your brain had absorbed, had known while you'd been holding the breadcrumb covered cheese.

"I know who you are, I'm just confused as to why," she huffs a half laugh.

"Waller threw Savant to the wolves, you could have his name," Economos pointed out to you instead of answering Adebayo, though as he flicked a napkin at your face, it hit you in the forehead, "would be more fitting," he adds lamely, like after seeing you fail to catch the napkin, his heart's not in the change of names. The napkin flutters into your lap and you give him an unamused look.

After a beat, however, Murn is the one who answers Adebayo's initial question.

"Everything Y/N touches, she masters, and understands its entire history," he explains, while you leaned around him to shoot Adebayo a bright smile, "including whoever is the current owner of the object and where exactly they are and what state they are in, but only while she's touching it."

"Hence, Savant," Economos said, gesturing to you with a weak wave.

"Idiot Savant," you clarified with a good-natured eye roll, "if I don't make a very serious effort to remember something about the thing I'm touching, it'll-" you make an uncomfortably wet noise as you mime the information sliding out of your head through your ear. After a moment, you pick up your glass and take a sip of water - the restaurant owner's wife technically owns the cups, and you see the employee who filled it, every time its been washed by a busboy, every customer who's ever drunk from it, the cardboard box it had been bought in opened by the restaurateur's wife, the pallets of identical glasses being transported to the store it was bought from, the factory worker boxing it up, the mass production of the glasses, the heat to melt it into shape -

"Everything you touch?" Adebayo asks, incredulously, and then looks to the glass.

"This cup technically belongs to the wife of the restaurant owner; she's sitting on their sofa three blocks away with a Labrador puppy in her lap. She bought the glasses on sale; one was chipped in the set of four so they were eighty percent off," you said without a moment of hesitation, and then took another sip of water for effect, "they use a cheap brand of detergent here."

"I... don't know enough about this restaurant to verify that but it sounds impressive," Adebayo muses, a sentiment you could see honestly reflected in her eyes.

"Show off," Harcourt smirks, something a little proud in her expression that she's ducked to hide. After a beat, however, Harcourt surfaces; "she chose to call herself The Chaser because she's a bitch."

"There's literally no meaner way you could have phrased that!" Your expression lights up surprised outrage, but it's clear you didn't take it to heart, turning, "for the first few weeks -"

"Of your career as a murderer," Harcourt undercuts your moment, but you chose to ignore her.

"As a freelancer," you emphasised, before hesitating and conceding, "who yeah, was hired to kill people when word got around I was good at it," you rolled your eyes, waving your hand by your temple as if dismissing the thought, "anyways people started calling me The Hunter, and when I think of the name The Hunter, I think of like, Robin Hood, a green aesthetic and men in tights, which really just made me think of Green Arrow, and that guy? You wanna talk about unbearable, that's your man," you hoped your expression conveyed the earnestness of your hatred for him, before snorting dismissively, "and anyways, Hunter is such a heavy word for what I do; it implies I always kill them, which I don't."

After a beat to let your words sink in, Harcourt actually grins.

"And because she's-"

"Stop telling people I'm a furry!" You practically shouted over Harcourt with well worn exasperation, though her grin only got wider.

"Calm down, Kujo," her response comes with a fond kind of amusement the others had rarely seen.

"I called myself The Chaser because I thought it was light and befitting of the main reason I used to be hired," you said, voice lowering as the moment passes easily, "and now," you flourish your hands, before resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand, "I'm doing my dream job."

"Being part of a secret government task force?" Adebayo says incredulously, to which you shrugged easily.

"As long as I get to use my powers and travel, I'm happy; what are they gonna do? Arrest me again for following their orders? No," you snorted. Thankfully the moment I'd immediately derailed when Harcourt spots Peacemaker pulling up in his fully costume, a bald eagle in his back seat. The good mood that only you seemed to be able to elicit from her had disappeared, as did everyone else's.

When Peacemaker finally recognises you, his expression lights up with a strange kind of realisation and a 'oh yeah, everyone in Belle Reve knows Kujo', and you have to grit your teeth at that.

When you weren't working solo missions for Waller or the government, your powers were being used by your fellow inmates to find snitches trying to hide, settle disputes of ownership, or find out which guards were distributing contraband. Even in a power dampener collar, you had the faintest meta-human abilities, and it was more than a lot of folks you were locked up beside. Despite operating at your bare minimum while inside Belle Reve, a lot of people found you incredibly useful. It's a situation you preferred to forget; between being seen as a tool rather than a person, the unfulfilling requests everyone had, and how it felt like you were always scraping the bottom of the barrel to use even a fraction of your power, there was no time in your life you hated more.

After Peacemaker's comment, you find yourself quiet for the rest of dinner, far quieter than you had been before. Thankfully Peacemaker himself is loud enough for both of you, and no-one asks you any questions.

The dinner comes to a close, and you’ve still got half your plate unfinished in front of you. Everyone’s set to head home, or at the very least, head out for the night, but you’re still stuck in your head, memories growing teeth as you think back on Belle Reve and how powerless you had felt inside its walls.

“I’m going to grab a drink before turning in,” Harcourt’s voice brings you out of your thoughts, and you surface to see she’s the only one still in the restaurant, standing at the end of the table, watching you. She doesn’t ask if you’re okay, she doesn’t even ask if you want to join her, at least not out loud; she pulls a zip-tie out of her back pocket and offers it to you, wordlessly. The familiar routine brings a smile to your face, and you take it – you can see her, sense her there even with your eyes closed; it was her zip-tie to begin with, pulled from the pack this morning, and a week spent in a hardware store, shipped to the store with pallets all containing packets identical, packaged by meticulous machines, produced by the billions, fragile plastic warped from far bigger sheets -. With that, she gives a solid nod and heads to the door, following after the others. You loop the zip-tie around one wrist and only tighten it enough so it won’t fall off. Then, with a renewed spirit, you dig in to your meal, finishing it off.

It's as you’re finishing the last of your meal that you find yourself thinking about your own freedom for the night. You’d earned yourself several life sentences in the few years that you’d ‘freelanced’, enough time on your sentence that a lifetime of work with Taskforce X probably wouldn’t help you, but you were being unfortunately genuine when you’d called this your dream job. With a stipend from the government, getting to travel, getting to use your powers and often commit crimes, of which murder was not uncommon, it really was the ideal situation for you; people ask about your prospects outside of prison, but none of them seem to realise that you’d be doing this whether or not you were in prison, but now you can’t even get arrested for it. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, or even call it sad, you found it to be neither; you’re thrilled someone finally recognised you for what you’re truly capable of, and after almost a decade playing this part, you’ve been granted some trust, some wiggle room, some freedom in a sense.

So maybe you’ll join Harcourt at the bar, or find somewhere open late in town, or you could lay face down in the parking lot for an hour if the mood struck you; the world may not be your oyster, but this questionable town in Washington certainly was.

It’s only when you’ve finally decided to head to the bar and grab a drink with Harcourt that you finally notice the busboy who’s been hovering by the end of the counter, throwing glances at you ever few minutes, yet still trying to act covert. Wait… looking around, you see the restaurant is almost empty now, and sure it hadn’t been full to begin with, but it couldn’t be that – they’re closing in ten minutes. How long had you been stuck in your own head?

Immediately you’re calling out apologies; they probably could have left early if it wasn’t for you, but the minute you make eye contact with the guy in the red uniform who’s waiting, he’s brushing them off. As you’re attempting to pile all of the table’s dishes to make it easier to clean up, he comes over and tries to tell you that it’s no trouble. Still, you pile all the dishes and try and collect up all the cutlery to hand to him, trying to supress the nausea that always came whenever you were touching a lot of objects in rapid succession, the immediate flood of knowledge followed in mere moments by forgetting it all. Usually your gloves kept all of that at bay, but you’d had them off to eat and now –

You go to pass the guy your knife, handle first and unused, and in the half second in which you are treated to an encyclopaedic knowledge of this steak knife, amongst all other moments of this knife’s existence, is –

- suds from cheap detergent and a sink of water that should probably be drained, the scourer scraping off food remnants that cling, but then several minutes spent using the knife as a weapon; the movements being practiced are particular and harsh, movements sharp and deliberate. You know because the moment your fingertips had even brushed the knife you knew how to bed cut a steak as well as how to best cut a man, but this moment amongst the suds and grime is both practiced and in practice. There’s more times than you can count where you understand that someone was trying to practice flipping the knife, the night air cold, swearing each time it’s dropped or it cuts the user by accident; he’s used this knife enough that you understand how long it took him to actually get good at the knife tricks -

And the hands picking up the remaining cutlery are the same hands that taught themselves to flip this knife, to practice violence among soap suds. Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions, maybe it’s simply how he passes the time, trying to make himself cooler, or to defend himself. Gripping the knife a little tighter, you wince as you realise the serrated edge is pressing into the heel of your palm, not enough to bleed, but enough to steal your focus.

“Thanks,” the busboy says a little awkwardly once the table’s clear. You’re still standing next to the booth with the knife, “I can take that for you,” he offers. He’s disarmingly cheerful, though perhaps it’s only disarming considering the moments you keep replaying over and over in your head.

“Sure,” you murmur absentmindedly, and flip the knife in the exact way you’d watched him try to master for months in your mind; the way you master anything you can touch has always been an interesting gift, as if your body borrows the muscle memory of everyone who’s ever used it without you even having to think about it. The busboy blinks several times at the movement, at you now holding out the knife to him. Then, his gaze meets yours; in your mind, you see him stab at the side of the metal sink that he snaps the very tip of the knife off, only by a millimetre or two, but there’s the faintest dent in the sink that no-one else has noticed. It’s been months.

He takes the knife, and you find yourself blinking quickly as everything about this one damn steak knife immediately dissipates from your head.

“How’d you do that?” He asks, looking at the knife, “I’ve been trying to get it for ages but…” he trails off, and you look at the piece of cutlery in his hand.

“Man, I wish I knew,” you laughed, rocking back on your heels. You know now that he’s probably far more dangerous and capable than he looks, but you hadn’t bothered to memorise the moments. Something about a sink? He was asking about a knife flip; you knew you did it, you’d just never be able to really explain how.

“Sorry, I know that that’s kind of a dick answer,” you gave a weak chuckle, “I wish I could help you, but I’ve already definitely overstayed my welcome,” you hoisted your bag up your shoulder, “sorry about that,” you cast your gaze around the empty restaurant, to host by the till giving you a tired look, “again.”

And as you scurry out of the building, you call a final thanks to the kitchen, and decide you need a damn drink.

Star Wars OC : Lexi Tamzin, human-zeltron thief and informant, living on Coruscant and temporary cooperate with Jango Fett 😈♀️🌆

Sometimes I get overwhelmed at the concept of young Scorch. 

Walon calling him a trouble maker and Scorch just being like ‘I’m not making trouble, Sir, I am simply seizing an obvious opportunity that would be a shame to pass up.’ 

Is everyone ready for the Adrian x reader x Jake smut I’m writing? It’s absolutely filthy and I haven’t been able to stop writing it since it was requested. It’ll probably get posted today, if not then definitely tomorrow

A very happy Tech Tuesday to you all! In honor of the S2 trailer, here’s Tech with his new armor!