Title: Breathe Me
About: Arsenal/Shatter drabble
Arsenal whips around and grabs for his shadow.
His hand closes around a soft, warm arm clad in tight spandex, and he jerks hard, pulling his pursuer into the dim light of a streetlamp. Standing before him is a lithe girl, dark hair falling around her shoulders, a navy blue mask glued to her face to hide her identity; not that it matters, he knows who it is already.
“Why are you following me?” he snarls.
Shatter quirks an eyebrow. “Who said I was following you?”
With a derisive snort, Arsenal pulls her into the side alley and pushes her back against the wall, letting go of her arm. “You weren't being subtle about it.”
“You must be really arrogant,” she says, “if you think I'm following you.”
He notices the emphasis she puts on the last word and takes a step forward. Shadows cut across his face and pool in the hollows beneath his eyes. “Not me? Then who?”
Her mouth quirks up at the corner, the beginnings of a smirk. “If I tell you, I'd have to kill you.”
Arsenal looks down at her, into the cool, steel grey of her eyes. Despite the mask and the darkness, he can still pick out the freckles splattered across her cheeks and nose. The pale light of a streetlamp washes all the gold out of her skin, making it sallow. He takes another step forward, and she tilts her head back slightly to keep eye contact. There's a freckle at the corner of her mouth, he notices, and then notices that her top lip is slightly fuller than the bottom.
“Who sent you, then?” he asks, to distract himself.
“Nightwing,” she says easily, with an indifferent shrug.
“Why did he send you?” he tries again.
Her mouth tilts up, and this time she is smirking. “Ah, no. The answer is still 'I'd have to kill you'.”
Arsenal shrugs and takes another step forward. When he breathes in, his chest brushes against the breastplate strapped across hers. “Can't blame a guy for trying.”
Shatter leans her head back against the brick of the wall and stares up at him. This close, he can see green flecks in her eyes, catching the dim light and flashing like sparklers. His hand lifts, almost on its own, and skims her hip, the warmth of her skin seeping through the teal spandex. She lifts her own hand and her fingers press briefly to his jaw before dropping back to her side.
“Why did you shave your hair off?”
He jerks with surprise at the question. “What?”
“Why did—,”
“I heard you,” he says sharply, fingers curling around her belt. “It just—,” he pauses. “I felt like it. Is cutting hair a crime now?”
Shatter shrugs. “No. I was just hoping you'd tell me why.”
“I just did.”
The way she's looking at him, it makes him squirm and want to punch the wall behind her. She doesn't believe him, not that he cares, but it's obvious in the slant of her head and the light in her eyes. Finally, she says, “Sure. We'll go with that, then.”
“Don't believe me?” he challenges, mouth twisting in a sneer.
“Doesn't matter if I don't,” she says calmly. “As long as you believe what you're telling yourself.”
Arsenal stares at her, fingers twitching where they are wrapped around her belt, and then he kisses her, hard. He presses himself against her, feeling the sharp edge of her breastplate bite into his chest and ignoring it. She goes still beneath him with surprise, and then her hands drift up and brush his hips, fingers hooking into his belt. He nips at her bottom lip, maybe a little harder than necessary, but doesn't care; he wants to hurt her, wants to crack the calm, icy facade she's constantly wearing. But then he darts his tongue out, sweeping it across her lip to sooth the sting of his bite, and Shatter opens her mouth under his, and he's lost.
Beneath his hand, she is warm and supple, pliant. He slides his fake hand around to the small of her back and presses her more firmly against him, while his real one moves up to grasp the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. Her own hands have drifted up and fisted in the front of his shirt.
Arsenal's tongue sweeps out and slips past her lips, and she tastes like coffee and cinnamon. A soft groan, low and throaty, catches in his mouth, and he presses closer, trapping her between the wall and himself. With a harsh gasp for air, he tears his mouth from hers and presses his face into the crook of her neck. He's pleased to hear her panting, chest rising and falling sharply as she sucks in much needed oxygen. So she can be worked up, that's good to know.
Taking a deep breath, he tilts his head and places a hot kiss to the underside of her jaw. Her breathing shudders in his ear and he trails his mouth down her throat, nipping at her collarbone. His heart is pounding in his ears, pounding out the sound of her name, over and over again until it's all he can hear. Lifting his head, Arsenal slants his mouth back over hers. He lets his real hand drift down, skimming her back and around her sides, and is rewarded when she trembles, mouth opening in a small gasp beneath his.
“Roy,” she murmurs against his mouth.
“Mhm?” he hums, skimming his lips along her jaw and nipping at the skin.
Her hands curl around his neck, fingernails scrapping gently against his head, bare now that he had shaved his hair off. “We're being watched.”
He smirks. “So let them watch.”
“...that's probably a bad idea.”
Catching the tone of her voice, Arsenal jerks back from her, immediately missing her warmth but shoving that hollow feeling away. He turns, reaching for the crossbow strapped to his back. Squinting, he searches the darkness, and frowns when he doesn't see anything.
“What the hell are you talking about?” He turns to look at Shatter.
She's gone, nothing but the feel of her breath on his mouth left to even say she was here in the first place. And then he notices writing on the brick wall, down low. He crouches to get a better look, the words written in white chalk; It was you I was following. Sorry. Just following orders -C.J
