She needed to be Maggie tonight. It was almost ridiculous how easily she could slip into the role, shedding the mantle of Queen Maeve with just a change of clothes and a decision to keep her "girls" under wraps. It was like magic, suddenly, she wasn't swarmed by fans, just another face in the crowd. Her outfit, plain but chic, transformed her into someone who looked like a "plain look-alike" of Queen Maeve. Just the way she liked it.
She needed a break, a real break, from everything. She wasn't foolish enough to think she deserved more, not with Homelander always lurking, watching. Fuck Homelander. No, better yet, fuck anyone but that smarmy dick.
As she eyed the patrons in the bar, she knew this wasn't exactly her crowd, but over the years of coping with the shit at Vought, she'd become less picky. Still, she had standards. If she didn't, she might have thrown a bone to one of those pervs on her team long ago. Instead, her eyes fell on a young man who had just seated himself at the bar. 'Jailbait', she thought, the nickname popping into her mind unbidden.
He was young, with a shucks-a-doodle innocent vibe that almost made her laugh. Light brown skin, black hair, and equally black eyes that looked like they should have been accompanied by a perpetual smile. But instead, his face was marred by deep thought, so intense she half-expected smoke to start wafting out of his ears. When he flashed an ID to the bartender, Maggie took a quick glance. Even from this angle, she could tell it was fake.
She had plenty of those back in the day... and now she felt old as shit.
The bartender didn't seem to care. Maybe he was just focused on profit and didn't give a shit about the law. Who was she to judge, anyway? She wasn't exactly a saint, living in a glass house and all.
"Tough day?" she mused out loud, watching with mild amusement as the kid choked on his drink. The timing was almost too perfect, if she didn't know better, she'd say it was a setup. But no, it was just dorky luck.
He wiped his chin with a napkin, an embarrassed chuckle escaping him. "Yep, seems about right," he replied, a touch of humour in his voice. "And tough weeks... tough existence, actually."
"Oh, those four years must have been hell," she teased, grinning as he snorted.
"Hey, don't blow my spot," he said, tapping the pocket where he slipped his fake ID.
"Sorry… Jailbait."
"You're forgiven, Foxy Mama," he shot back, and damn, did that feel wrong to hear... except she wanted him to call her that again.
"Do you wanna get out of here and do something fun?" She added a smirk for good measure, expecting a suggestive response. To her surprise, he nodded enthusiastically and hopped off the stool with a little jump. God, what a dork.
But instead of the lengthy, passionate encounter she'd been imagining, here she was, standing in a neon-lit karaoke room, a mic in hand. The young man, Jailbait, was next to her, belting out the lyrics to some cheesy pop song. He had a nice singing voice, she mused, but this was definitely not where she expected the night to go.
She felt the need to prove she wasn't out of her depth, so she grabbed the mic and joined in, belting out the chorus right next to him. Memories of child pageant shows, where she had to be prim and proper in front of pedos disguised as judges, floated to the surface. But this was different, here, she was free, letting loose and rapping alongside him, laughing when they stumbled over the words.
When was the last time she felt this kind of ease while being completely out of her element? It was almost refreshing. This wasn't her usual escape as Maggie, where she was constantly in a state of coping. This was... fun.
After a few songs, she collapsed onto the sticky, gross sofa behind them, hoping the stickiness was from spilled drinks. She leaned forward, trying to avoid sinking too far into the couch, and looked at Jailbait, who was still buzzing with energy.
"Didn't think my night would go this way," she murmured, feeling the need to clear her throat as they took a break from the karaoke.
"It's fun," he replied, a sad smile crossing his face. "One of my brothers used to drag me and another with him."
'Dead?' The thought crossed her mind, but she didn't voice it.
"Big family?" she asked instead. He seemed hesitant to answer, so she quickly backtracked, mentally cursing herself. She just wanted to get into his pants, not actually get to know him. But that sad smile made him seem like a kicked puppy.
"Adopted family," he said softly. "Four brothers, two older, two younger, one of which is actually my cousin, but I adore the little shit. You?"
The "mind your business" was on the tip of her tongue, but she found herself drawn in by his big, doe-like eyes. "Ma bounced when I could walk, dad is a piece of shit who sees me as a personal ATM." She shrugged, eager to move away from the topic, but before she could, he placed a hand on her back, soothing her with small circles.
A shiver ran through her body, and when his hand moved lower to the small of her back, she could still feel the heat from his touch even after he pulled away. What the hell was that?
Hesitation seeped into his face as he cleared his throat and stood up. "I had fun but, " He cut off as I rushed to my feet and brought him into a searing kiss. For good measure, I hooked my thumb into the seat of his pants, pulling him close so our groins pressed together.
He pulled back, eyes glazed with pleasure, but it was clear he was fighting this. "What is it? A girlfriend?"
He shook his head, swallowing thickly as he brushed a stray red lock of mine. "Not anymore. Fresh out," he said, lips curling into a rueful smile. "She tried to kill me recently."
"What?" That caught me off guard.
"Or near enough, I suppose," he added, the smirk not fading.
"Well, you know what they say about getting over a crazy bitch, getting underneath a new one."
He let out a snort, his demeanour relaxing. "I suppose I should find one then."
I smirked, playing along. If he wanted to be coy, I'd have to be blunt. My hand slipped past his waistband, getting a firm feel of what I'd be working with. "I don't think you need to look any further."
He looked at her dubiously.
"You're a poor judge of character. Too bad for you, I have no intention of being a good person who won't take advantage of you." I said firmly.
I then brought him into another kiss, and this time, there was no hesitation on his part, especially when he placed his hands on my ass, pulling me closer. "Mine or yours?"
"Yours," he breathed, his lips grazing my neck as he peppered it with small kisses. "My roommate wouldn't approve."
I had no qualms about leading him back to mine. It's not as if I advertised who I moonlighted as in my own home. So, with tangled limbs, tasting each other whenever the journey allowed, we set off for my place.
Ammon's POV
Redhead? Check. Questionable morals? Bingo. Of the MILF variety? Yarp. Bisexual? Shit, I really have a niche type.
As Queen Maeve pressed her lips against mine, her tongue demanding entry, thoughts of my supervillain ex were the furthest thing from my mind. The job was already done, I'd placed a 'bug' spell on her during our first contact, a tiny enchantment that would go unnoticed unless someone with a knack for magic happened to glimpse the small of her back. But in this universe, the odds of that were slim to none.
Maeve, or Maggie, as she was going by tonight, had been the easiest to track down. She was the only one who used her civilian identity with any regularity. Hardly using her supe identity to pick up chicks or chase her whims, like her teammates. She was also the only one I could get close to without raising too many questions. And yet, as she practically threw herself at me, I had to ask myself: Was I really going to walk away from a gorgeous older woman who was clearly intent on devouring me whole?
I didn't think so.
Her mouth was warm and demanding, her tongue exploring mine with a hunger that caught me off guard. We somehow found ourselves in her apartment, a spacious place, fancy but oddly bare, like she only lived there half-heartedly. Not that I had much time to look around. As soon as we were inside, she tossed her coat across the room and turned her attention back to me, her eyes filled with unmistakable desire.
My hoodie and tee were gone in an instant, and for a split second, I caught a look of surprise on her face. "What?" I asked, half-breathless.
"Who would've guessed you were so jacked under those baggy clothes?" she remarked, eyeing me with a mix of approval and curiosity.
A good disguise lets you melt into the background,
Before she could say anything else, I reached forward and hastily pulled her top over her head. Her bust bounced with the motion, barely contained by a lace bra, but my gaze shifted to the impressive set of abs on display. "You're one to talk."
She chuckled, running her hand through my hair and pulling me back into a fierce kiss, our tongues battling for dominance. Things got hotter, more intense as we lost the last of our clothing, our hands roaming over each other's bodies, but in her excitement, Maeve forgot her strength.
Before I could react, she playfully shoved me, hard. Too hard. I went flying backward and crashed into the wall, my body embedding itself deep into the drywall.
"Shit, shit, shit! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." she stammered, the lust in her eyes replaced by sudden panic.
I pulled myself free, stepping out of the crater I'd just made in her wall. Cracking my neck, I stood naked before her, and it didn't take long to realize my glamour had shattered in the process. The scars that littered my body, deep and jagged, were on full display. But Maeve's eyes weren't on the scars. She was locked onto my eyes, eyes that had shifted from their glamoured black to their true, vivid red.
Her breath hitched, but not in fear. If anything, she looked more intrigued, a shiver running through her that had nothing to do with the cold.
She took a step closer, reaching out as if to touch my face, her voice a little breathless. "So, you're not just a pretty boy after all, are you?"
"No," I replied, a grin spreading across my face. "Not at all."
Before she could react, I grabbed her by the hips, spun us around, and slammed her back into the same cratered spot in the wall. She gasped, half in surprise, half in pleasure, as the impact knocked the air from her lungs. I wasn't matching her strength in my human form, but I was still a hell of a lot stronger than most. And she felt it.
Her initial surprise quickly melted into a full-blown, lustful smirk. "You think you can keep up with me?" she teased, her voice husky.
"Why don't you find out?" I shot back, a playful challenge in my tone.
She responded by hooking her leg around mine and pulling me closer, her lips finding mine in a fierce, demanding kiss. The tension between us shifted, a mix of competition and desire, each of us testing the other's limits. Her hands explored my back, feeling the ridges of old scars, but instead of hesitating, she seemed to relish it, her breath coming in quick, excited bursts.
I pressed against her, feeling her strength push back against mine. For a brief moment, we were locked in a test of power, neither of us willing to back down. I could feel the rush of adrenaline, the thrill of being with someone who could take what I dished out and give it right back.
"Is this what you wanted?" I murmured against her lips, my hands tightening on her wide hips, fingers digging into her skin just enough to leave marks.
She grinned, wild and fierce. "Oh, it's a start."
I laughed, low and deep, before crushing my lips to hers again. We were both playing with fire, but I had a feeling we were both going to enjoy getting burned.
Her hand moved between us, caressing my length with a deliberate touch that sent a shiver up my spine. She pulled back with a satisfied hum, her eyes never leaving mine as she brought her hand up to her mouth. Slowly, deliberately, she licked her palm, wetting it before reaching down again, slicking me with her spit. There was no mistaking the intention in her eyes, she was in control, and she loved it.
My gaze drifted to her bed in the open-plan apartment, but she grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at her. A sly, excited smile spread across her face, and her long leg grazed up my side, the smooth skin teasing against mine. I cupped her leg underneath her knee, feeling the taut strength in her muscles.
She leaned back, letting herself fall into the crevice in the wall, pulling me down with her. My cock pressed lengthwise against her stomach, the heat between us building, electric and undeniable.
She didn't need to say anything. I used the leverage of her knee to lift her up, her body moving fluidly with mine. She wrapped her arms around my neck, raising herself just enough to allow my cock to spring upright. With a slight adjustment, I felt the head brush against her slick entrance, the anticipation palpable between us.
Impatient, she slammed down onto me, taking me in one swift, powerful motion. She let out a guttural moan, pulling me into a searing kiss that was all teeth and tongue. When she pulled back, she bit down on my lower lip, hard enough to draw a hiss of pain from me. I shot her a glare, but it only seemed to fuel her excitement. Her wetness was unmistakable, her arousal evident in every twitch and shiver of her body.
"Hard, Jailbait," she commanded, her voice low and rough, tinged with challenge.
"Fine, Foxy." She gave me a pointed look, and I amended with a wicked grin, "Foxy Mama?"
Her response was immediate, a tidal wave of pleasure that surged between her legs, drenching me in her heat. She moved against me, rolling her hips with a force that bordered on violent, every movement demanding more. There was nothing gentle about it, no tenderness, no love, just raw, unfiltered need. And I matched her pace, each thrust meeting her with equal fervour, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room.
That's how I spent the night: fucking her hard, rough, and without a trace of affection. It was desperate, wild, and probably far from healthy, but none of that mattered. I was on the rebound, and she was right. Sometimes, you had to get under one crazy bitch to get over another.
And for tonight, that was more than enough.
Earth-Who-The-Hell-Knows
Kent Nelson stared at the wall, his expression vacant, but Bruce could see the gears turning behind his eyes. The old mage was deep in thought, running through the possible ramifications of his actions and the mess he'd inadvertently created.
The super-cycle Ammon has bounded himself to had to be led away by Alfred, they were pretty frightened that the sentient machine would kill the older man.
Bruce knew Kent well enough to see through the doddering old man act. It was a shtick Kent played up far too often, but that wouldn't cut it this time, not when Ammon finally found his way back. And Bruce was certain he would.
Kent had royally screwed up, and both men knew it. He hadn't just lost a powerful ally; he'd lost Ammon, the Freak of Gotham, half-demon, protégé, and a petty beast when he wanted to be. And Bruce could see it already.
The older mage would have to be prepared to pay for his mistake when Ammon returned. Because Ammon wasn't one to let things slide, especially not when someone messed with his life this profoundly.
"The senile routine won't fly?" Bruce said, voice dry, though his expression remained impassive as ever.
Kent let out a heavy sigh, the weight of his error hanging between them. "I'd say he'll find it amusing, but we both know that's not quite the word."
Bruce allowed the barest flicker of amusement to cross his face. Ammon wasn't the type to let go of a grudge easily. Kent might be preparing himself for a tongue-lashing, but Ammon's brand of payback was far more creative than that. Bruce almost felt sorry for Kent. Almost.
"You know, he's going to make you pay for this," Bruce said, more statement than question. "I wouldn't put it past him to figure out a way to make you immortal just to keep you in the job."
Kent rubbed the back of his neck, a resigned smile tugging at his lips. "Oh, I've already come to terms with it. A spell for eternal life sounds like just the sort of petty vengeance he'd conjure."
From what Kent had reluctantly admitted, Ammon was lost in another dimension with no easy way back. He was being tossed around, forced to navigate unfamiliar worlds alone. Kent had described it like searching for a needle in a haystack. Ammon could be anywhere: a cyberpunk future, a world without superheroes, or one teeming with nothing but superpowered beings. Maybe even a world where Superman was evil. Bruce almost smirked at the thought. 'That's just absurd,' he mused.
Despite the dangers, Bruce wasn't worried. Ammon might be without the Team, the League, or the Bat-family, but that didn't mean he was helpless. Ammon had the skills, instincts, and sheer grit to handle whatever came his way. It wasn't arrogance; it was confidence born of watching the boy overcome odds that would break lesser men.
Bruce wasn't a betting man, but if there was one thing he'd wager on, it was Ammon. The young man was resilient, adaptable, and most importantly, he was his own brand of unstoppable. No matter what kind of twisted, parallel universe he found himself in, Ammon would find a way.
Kent glanced at Bruce, his expression a mix of guilt and acceptance. "I've prepared myself for what he'll throw at me. I can handle it. What I can't handle is the thought that he might be out there feeling abandoned."
Bruce crossed his arms, his voice steady and certain. "He won't. Not for a second. Ammon knows who he is. He knows who we are. And he knows that when he comes back, he'll have a score to settle, but not because he's lost hope. Because it's just who he is."
Kent nodded, though the concern didn't leave his eyes. "He's more resourceful than anyone I've ever met, but the paths he might have to walk..."
Bruce glanced at the Batcomputer, its screens filled with data he was still poring over in a futile attempt to track any sign of Ammon. But the truth was, no technology could help him here. It was out of his hands, and that wasn't a feeling Bruce was accustomed to. Still, he trusted Ammon. He had to.
"When Ammon gets back, and he will, it won't be a matter of rescuing him," Bruce said, his voice taking on a rare softness, barely there but noticeable to those who knew him well. "It'll be about what he learned out there and how he's going to make us pay for every minute of it."
Kent chuckled, a low, rueful sound. "Good luck to us, then."
Bruce's lips quirked ever so slightly. "He'll be your problem first, Nelson."
Kent sighed, but there was a trace of fondness in his resignation. "I'll be ready. And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way."
Bruce watched as Kent returned to his thoughts, the mage's mind no doubt already preparing for the inevitable confrontation with his protégé. The Batcave felt quieter, almost too still without Ammon's presence, but Bruce knew one thing: this was a temporary absence.
And when Ammon returned, it wouldn't be with tears or apologies. It would be with fire, fury, and a petty vengeance that only the Freak of Gotham could deliver.
"Good luck, son," Bruce muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for Kent to hear. "Give 'em hell."
A/N - Published - 2024/08/31
Yo, thanks for all the support shown to this, always appreciated.
Our boy makes stupid choices, when out of the mask. Young and on the rebound makes a poor combo. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
