#dr strange x original character
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Accidental Marriage Pt.1
Stephen Strange x OFC
Warnings: Implied/referenced sex, light angst and english is not the author's first lenguage
Summary: For the prompt "Accidental Marriage."
“So… Do you put on my last name, or will this get a little Stranger?
Or: Cassandra Paulssen meets Stephen Strange twice. Once as master and student and once as husband and wife.
Not in that particular order.
Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4
The first thing Cassandra noticed when she woke up was how soft the warm sheets felt against her bare skin.
Gradually, consciousness took over the numb senses that remained alien to the environment around her. The mixed aroma of colognes in the environment; the barely muffled sounds of The City that Never Sleeps swarming in the distance, and the softness of the thin sheets that touched her bare back.
Frowning slightly, her eyes still closed at the remnants of heaviness in her system, she wondered how she had slept to roll up her pajamas so sharply. Curling her toes against her bare calf, she also noticed that it wasn't in her favorite worn sleeping pants.
A particularly loud horn thundered in the distance, and Cassandra opened her eyes, finding, to her utter bewilderment, the steely gaze of some not very familiar blue orbs.
A second passed. Cassandra blinked, almost stunned, and when she realized that the image in front of her eyes was, in fact, very real and not one of the perverse machinations of her juiciest dreams, her stomach fell to her feet.
The man blinked mechanically. Leaning as he was against the dark high headboard behind him, Cassandra took note of his chiseled, naked and slender figure. His bare chest was wide, his arms strong and his collarbones soft.
Slowly standing up, with the stranger's eyes still stuck in her figure (Oh, surprise! Also naked), she took her time to recognize the anomalous environment that surrounded her and notice the particularities that were slowly revealed in front of her. The man's face was thin and angular: his high cheekbones and dark hair, falling into a disheveled curl over his forehead (Cassandra had the impression that that hair must have been well combed the previous afternoon), and his blue eyes were sharp, with dark eyelashes and frowning eyebrows that contrasted richly against his light skin.
Finally, sitting on the edge of the wide bed of expensive sheets, Cassandra concluded two things:
One, Cassandra did not arrive at her apartment the day before, as was the plan to finalize the Congress to which she had accompanied her friend Hank.
And two: Cassandra, always surpassing herself, still had an exquisite taste.
Tilting her face subtly as she crouched down to pick up the forgotten underwear peeking out from under the bed, she allowed the curtain of brown hair, loose from the confines she regularly found herself in, to hide the pernicious smile she drew on her repentant lips.
"So..." Cassandra began, standing up and with her face again drawn in an impassive expression. Her state of semi-nakedness was suddenly reminded to her when the man's eyes briefly strolled through her tall figure; her arms defined, her chest barely covered by the dark strands that fell a few centimeters below her breasts, and her long legs. The man's gaze stopped abruptly when he took note of the various scars that decorated her skin. Cassandra didn't bother to manipulate the subject's mind to blur the marks. (Except for one particular stroke that jumped to attention on her lower back. That mark was an exception to any appeal to her prudence.) After all, the same man didn't seem particularly embarrassed by his undressed state either.
"Good morning," the man finally replied, and his short cordiality would have made her smile if not for the worry that was beginning to swirl in the bottom of her stomach. He exhaled, as if blowing his reservations, and shouted at last what he formulated in his own thoughts: “I don't know you.”
Cassandra hummed, okay, and watched him pass a long, well-groomed hand through his messy curls.
A little docile strand curled around a silver band around the man's ring finger, and Cassandra's heart skipped one, two, and then three beats before breath returned in a race to her constricted lungs.
“Are you married?” She whispered, her eyes flying around the room in search of evidence of a spouse who, in her drowsiness, may have been lost.
The man stood up. When the sheet slipped and fell back on the bed, Cassandra noticed that he, unlike her, was wearing pajama pants. She wondered then, if the man had had the opportunity to look for clothes and return to his senses completely after a night like the previous one (Cassandra, in truth, could not remember when it had been the last time she had slept so deeply)... How long had he watched her sleep?
"You tell me," he spoke. His deep baritone voice echoed in her eardrums and caused a shudder that only became evident when she made a gesture to his own hands, loose at her sides.
Slowly, her left hand rose in front of her face. Cassandra suddenly felt like she wasn’t fully awake. The silver band that shone around her own finger and perfectly matched the wedding ring of the handsome stranger seemed something straight out of a dream.
"Who was going to say...?" Cassandra rambled in her thoughts. Her stoic face revealed nothing of her inner anxieties. "Long lives fantasizing about my wedding day, and here I am now. Without remembering my own husband's name."
"Oh," Cassandra exhaled at last. Rubbing her eyes with the hand with which she did not carry the offending object, she decided to first address the most pressing issue for both of them. “Have you seen my clothes?”
~ • ~
Fifteen minutes later, less exposed in a baggy white shirt and knee-high sports pants, Cassandra sat on a high stool with her arms folded over the polished marble island. The man, no, the Doctor Stephen Strange, as he had succinctly presented himself to her moments before, walked around with his thumbs spinning around each other. She barely had a glimpse of his soft hands and long, slender fingers before Stephen, her husband, continued to drum with his fingers on the surface of the cold bar.
“I think we need to discuss the circumstances of our... situation.” he spoke sternly, and Cassandra just nodded softly before his measured face. “How did we get here last night?”
"We were in the Convention room," she replied. She resisted the urge to turn the icy band around her ring finger as she continued: “Dinner had been served. I... I was there with a friend.”
She thought of Hank's professional expression as he listened, his blue brow frowning with interest, to the impressive talks that swarmed around him. Most of the conversation had passed over her. Cassandra had attended just to accompany him; for it had been no wonder that he was invited to the annual convention of the American Health Association.
"I was invited to deliver the opening speech," Stephen said. Cassandra blinked, lethargic, as last night's details were blurry, and while she didn't commit to remembering the faces that figured at the party any more than she tried to keep an eye on the exits and another eye on her glass of frothy champagne, she thought she should have remembered the first person to appear on stage.
"Impressive," she said, after a silence that lasted several seconds, "Have you seen my phone? I think I should report to my colleague.” Before the X-men show up here and accuse Stephen of kidnapping, she thought, Machiavellian.
Stephen made a brief gesture to the luxurious leather sofa behind her. Cassandra turned on her high chair and watched her small handbag, hurriedly thrown against the cushions, and her thick black coat wrinkled next to the carpet.
Pursing the lips with disapproval; Where was her dress? she lazily came down from her bench and walked over to the sofa. Checking her cell phone first, and looking at the flickering green dot in the corner of the screen, she deduced that Charles and the rest had already noticed her absence.
To her surprise, she only had a couple of messages in the mailbox. One was Hank's — and Cassandra felt instantly terrible for having left him behind the night before in her unexpected unconscious state — another was from Ororo — who, to her delight, had only stopped to wish her a good day: "Take care, Cassie! I hope your departure will cheer you up a bit!" and the last one was Tony's.
With an inaudible sigh for her unexpected company, she left the cell phone back inside the carry-on bag. Consciously ignoring the unwelcome weight of anguish at the last message in her tray.
“Where did we go after the party?” He ventured to ask Cassandra.
She heard the sound of measured footsteps approaching from the open kitchen, and caught the sound of paper hitting the wood before seeing the crumpled documents on top of the coffee table.
There is no way that's official, Cassandra thought. Leaning a little to better observe the letters printed on the accusing document, she felt her breath get stuck in her throat when she observed her signature, the signature she used for her official documents at the time, carelessly scrawled over the black line at the end of the paper. Beside it, she read the neat, if perhaps slightly crooked, lyrics of Mr. Stephen Vincent Strange.
Well, heck. It was official, indeed.
“So... Do you put on my last name, or will this get a little Stranger?”
Cassandra observed the doctor's exasperated profile, his frown and tight mouth, and thought, belatedly, that perhaps her husband did not appreciate jokes as easily as she did.
For a brief moment, Cassandra let her gaze wander absentmindedly in the distance. The wall next to them was made of floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed her to appreciate the wide landscape of the city around her. In the distance, the Avengers Tower stood as a beacon of hope for vulnerable citizens under the shadow of its imposing figure. Cassandra pondered, gently stroking the ring with her thumb, whether to remain in the spotlight; stripped of the value of clandestinity, venturing into "heroes" businesses and getting exposed, stripping herself of her covers and revealing them to the eyes of others those evidences of a perfidious and veperian past as it had not been allowed from what seemed an eternity ago, if it had been worth the price of the honor in exchange for sabotaging a life that she would never have the pleasure of experiencing.
"This is serious," she heard Stephen murmur. Cassandra didn't look away from the sun's rays that swept behind the surrounding buildings. “We have to think about the next course of action. I need to talk to my lawyer, I'm sure Christine will know what to do... God, Christine... She'll think I'm an idiot!”
He ran his hands over his face. The stress very obvious in his defensive posture. “This can't be made public. Do you understand me? I am a recognized Neurosurgeon! I have a reputation to maintain.”
He walked a couple of steps, going back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, and continued to mutter through clenched teeth: “If something like this gets public, that I married... a stranger.“ The tone of voice with which he spoke the word settled badly in Cassandra's eardrums, and she frowned, finally looking at him as he continued with his infamous tone of voice. “It will be a media circus. The famous Doctor Stephen Strange, united in sacred marriage with a wallow of one night.”
He stared at her for a moment, and questioned aloud, "Did you lie when you denied knowing who I was when I approached your table last night?" He let out a curse and shouted, his body agitated and his face hard. “Of course. How convenient for you, and unfortunate for me. This was your plan since the beginning!”
"Let me stop you there," Cassandra lashed out at last. She tasted the bitter savor of disappointment in her mouth, and consoled herself by reminding that, according to her own background, her good taste for couples had never been accompanied by good judgment. As usual, all the pretty faces she romantically matched ended up being complete assholes.
"I have a name," her proud father and courageous mother had taken care of it, thank you very much. And while Cassandra hadn't been the name she was born with, she had come to harbor quite a bit of affection for it. “And I won't appreciate being dismissed as an opportunistic whore for a consented night of sex. I'm not fully aware of where our converged paths took us last night, but it takes two persons to dance this tango, and I won't be staying here to hear how your olympic narcissism allows you to keep trampling on me."
Snatching her purse from the couch and dressing in the wrinkled coat she rescued from the floor, she gave Stephen a glacial gaze, suddenly blank and with tight lips as he watched her walk away with great strides in the direction of the door.
“Goodbye, dear husband.”
And, emboldened by her blind anger, she closed the door behind her with a resounding final blow.
#stephen strange#marvel#stephen strange x oc#doctor strange x oc#dr strange x original character#dr strange#stephen strange x female reader#stephen strange x reader#stephen strange x ofc#stephen strange x original character#dr strange x fem!reader#dr strange x you#dr strange x reader#doctor stephen strange#mcu#mcu imagine
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I NEED TO DRAW MORE FANART FOR MY OWN FIC!! In The Fog of London is my Wattpad and Ao3 Jekyll and Hyde fic!! It’s loosely based on the book for source material!! Wattpad has the PG-13 version and Ao3 has the R version for more mature readers. I’m actually really proud of it hehe
GO CHECK IT OUT IF YOU LOVE MONSTER ROMANCE AND SHORT COUPLES!!
Wattpad: GhostLightSprite
Ao3: GhostLightSprite/SantoDelleMaschere
#literature#traditional art#traditional drawing#sketch#jekyll and hyde#edward hyde#oc x canon#fanart#fanfic#fanfiction#original character#original story#i love edward hyde#insane about them#insane about him#self insert x canon#the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde#in the fog of london#wattpad#ao3 fanfic#archive of our own
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Teacher’s Pet
Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader
Warnings: 18+ MDN, porn with(out) plot, oral (f receiving), power imbalance, slight daddy and doctor kink (I don't know if it even exists), Also I wrote this instead of sleeping so forgive any mistakes, tell me if I miss any
Summery: Stephen Strange is your tutor and you’re his student, only that today there will be a different kind of lesson
‘’I can’t do this’’, you said with a huff and let your hands fall on the sides. Stephen had been trying to teach you a new spell for almost an hour and for almost an hour you had been failing to do the movements right.
‘’Of course you can’’, he reassured you and got back into position to start again. "Lets-"
‘’No Stephen. That’s it I can’t, I can’t do it’’ You've always had trouble concentrating no matter how thrilling or mind-blowing the new spell was however you were dedicated and passionate about it so you always did it right after a few tries. Also you didn't want to disappoint Stephen.
You had always been interested in the notion of magic as a child, I mean who wasn't. But after some unfortunate events caused by some Avengers' mission that turned your life around you found out that magic wasn't that much of a children's story, it was real and there was a place where you could be taught. So you went for it.
Entranced and curious you always had a thirst to learn more. You were at the top of your class, with knowledge beyond it so when Stephen became the Sorcerer Supreme and took notice of your performance he decided to quench that thirst of yours. You knew it was a chance of a lifetime and soon you had moved into the Sanctum and you had a tutor. What you didn't expect was to develop feelings for that tutor so strong that you couldn't focus on your studies anymore.
"Come on Y/N! Stop whining and let's try again" You really tried to convince yourself it was a stupid school crush. He was older, illegally handsome, intelligent and you spent almost everyday together but then you noticed you couldn't stop thinking about him.
"No I- What are-" You looked at him as he walked behind you.
"Just let me show you. Is that alright?", he cut you off and your eyes widened
"Sure" you looked away staring at the wall so he wouldn't see the scarlet colour across your cheeks. You stood firmly on your foot terrified of the slightest step back as there was a high chance you would fall to his chest. You weren't sure how far behind you he was but you could smell his strong perfume, tingling your sensations.
"Don't forget how to breathe", he chuckled and you realised you've been holding your breath for too long.
"Good point", you whispered. Still from behind you he brought his hands in front of you and slowly, making with his hands the movements that you so much hated. "Just watch my hands"
You hummed in agreement as you observed his hands closely, the lines starting from his fingertips and then going down till all of them meet. You had noticed before-those long, skillful fingers could never go unnoticed- making you wonder what else they could go.
Yes you were desperate. Almost two years without sex of course you would think like that about fingers.
"You're paying attention aren't you?", he chuckled, snapping you out of your thoughts. Like a kid being caught with their hand in the cookie jar you gave him a guilty look and smile, realizing you had been staring at his fingers rather than the movement they made.
"Of course I am", you laughed awkwardly and abruptly turned around to look at him,losing lightly your balance you took a step back and hit his chest.
"Caught you" He had a firm hand on your side before lightly squeezing your waist to keep both of you still.
"Thanks", you said embarrassed
"Sure, just be more careful. Now let's continue" You nodded obediently and went to step away and take your previous position, however his firm hold held you in place, making your bodies press against each other. "
Pressing himself harder against you to come closer, his face rubbing your hair as he spoke to you, reminding the movements your hands were supposed to do.
"Like that?" You asked, finding it impossible focusing on the lesson rather than how his hold went further down your waist or how good he smelled.
"No Y/N it is nothing like that" Once more your hands fell on your side and you huffed and disappointed. "Weren't you paying attention when I showed you- Come on don't give me that look"
"What look?" You turned and looked at him confused, before realizing how close you were standing.
"The crying puppy look" Placing a stand of hair behind your ear, his fingers, your eyelashes fluttered as he stroked lightly the side of your face before he quickly pulled back. "Let's try again, hm?" He coughed.
Placing first his hand on your waist your voice hitched as he pressed his body against yours and gripped your wrists.
"You should do it now" He softly and you took a deep breath. He felt muscular against you and firm yet his touch on your wrists was so careful and gently, as if he was scared he'd break you.
Deciding to get over with it you started performing the movements he previously showed you, pushing aside any inappropriate thoughts.
"There you go" your jaw dropped slightly at the sudden sensation of something hard pressing against you. A soft whine escaped your lips as you realised what exactly that was; Stephen hard member pushing against your ass.
"You're doing so wonderful" he pressed you harder against his body, now his tip teasing your ass.
"Oh, Stephen-" your head dropped on his shoulder and with half open eyes you looked at him.
"You're the sweetest thing I've ever seen", he mumbled against your neck, as he traced kisses down your cleavage. "Tell me you want this too"
"Please more than anything" his cock twitched and he possessively his grip on your waist got tighter before starting kissing the side of your face.
"Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to keep my hands off you? Or should I mention how hard I get every morning? You have to use my shower because yours isn't supposed to work. You're such a dirty liar"
"It really doesn't work", your chuckle soon got lost under some heavy panting as he started sucking your jaw.
"Is that why you leave your panties in my bathroom? You know I have three pairs of thongs and fun fact they aren't mine" He couldn't count how many times he finished just by holding your panties. He was fascinated by them, their vibrant colours, the lace, the little bows on them.
"You're filthy" You joked and his teeth sunk down onto the sweet spot of your neck.
"Maybe" a small smirk curved on his lips, before his hand moved from your stomach down to your clothed core and then palmed it. "But I'm not the one who's wearing the shortest dresses when we're having lessons. Now that's really filthy"
"Jesus Doctor" Pushing past your panties he entered a finger in your core making you shiver under his touch. Your walls squeezed his finger, trapping it inside you. Moving away from your neck he quickly took his finger out of your pussy, making you gasp. Putting it in his mouth he sucked the sweetness off his finger.
"You sweet sweet thing" He hummed, still tasting you on his lips.
"Please need you"
"Go sit on the desk, sweetheart" He ordered, suddenly letting you go.
Hesitantly you walked to his desk before looking at him, any previous confidence now all gone leaving behind a shy little girl.
"Sit on the desk baby and spread those legs for me" He watched you walk across the rolm and then squeezing your legs together as you sat on the cold surface. Stephen approached you before sinking down on his knees, his hot breath heating your core. "Come on, show me what's between those beautiful legs?"
Pushing your legs over his shoulder and your skirt over your hips, he lustfully gazed over your mound before kissing your inner thigh. You jumped back the tick hair of his goatee tickling your soft skin.
He had been waiting for months for this moment, sitting face to face with your warm aching to be touched pussy, ready for him to suck its juices. He wanted to take you apart slowly, sensually tracing your body with his fingers and tongue, before taking you against that very desk and fuck you dump till you can't think of anything but his cock. But he couldn't. Not when he spent months longing to taste your sweet cunt, suck those pretty folds of yours dry.
He pulled you by the hips closer to his mouth, before kissing from your ankle up your inner thigh and then biting it. Shocked, you gawked at him who proudly looked down at the mark he had left.
"Let's take those awful panties off" Supporting yourself on the desk you hoisted your hips and watched as his hand got lost under your skirt and then pulled down a little pink thong. "You really wanted me to see this hm? I'm keeping those" With a dirty smirk on his face he stuffed it in his pocket, adding it to his collection.
"Now let's pay attention to this needy pussy" He doesn't waste time licking a flat strip up your pussy before latching into your clit, making you gasp loudly."Such a sweet cunt. All wet for me" his voice muffled in your tight walls.
"Please" you moaned, spreading your legs further for him to go deeper and help with the ingrowing heat. "Fuck, please Sir"
He groaned at the name, one of his hands leaving your hips to palm his hard bulge through his pants. "It's Doctor"
His tongue flicked against the bundle of nerves before sucking on your leaking juices, your eyelashes fluttered at the feeling.
You couldn't believe what was happening. Just a mess in a pretty dress with your so much older tutor between your thighs, eating you out like a starved man and you were letting him.
You were so dirty. Squirting on his face so desperately for him to pleasure you."Thats it make a fucking mess baby. Let daddy clean you all up afterward too"
Pulling his hair he shoved him closer to your pussy, his nose nuzzling on your clit in the process.
The combination of sweet burning feeling his tongue and lips left behind and the harsh rubbing of his goatee had you on edge.
His tongue flicked against your clit, his warm breath fanning over your wetness you’re so out of it, you can barely stay still. Your legs started trembling, your hips moving up and down, grinding down his face needy for release. "Fuck"
"My stupid, sweet girl. So fucking desperate for me. Are you gonna cum for me? Show me how well you can follow orders?”He already knew the answer to that, he could tell from your unsteady breaths and unfocused eyes. If he knew Wong wouldn't return back in a few minutes, he’d take you to his bedroom and try to see how well you'd take his cock now that he had stretched you all nice and open.
You looked at him with a pout as he beckoned for you to cum and massaged your little nub. He kept an eye on you, watching as you mumbled so shamelessly his name as you came undone, grinding on his face. "Yes, yes, yes"
He slurped all of your juices, your grip on his hair becoming more loose while you rode the last waves of your orgasm. Suddenly keys were heard and the large door of the Sanctum opened.
"Shit Wong's back", you cursed and Stephen raised his face for your pussy His beard glistening.
"You're the fucking pretty" He said still between your thighs but you wasn't sure if he was talking to you or himself.
"Come on" You stood up and fixed your dress before bringing a hand to his beard and whipped the evidence. He watched mesmerized as you licked your palm and then walked away with a smirk.
"Looking forward to our next lesson, Doc"
#sinister strange#dr stephen strange#dr strange x reader#stephen strange x reader#dr strange x reader smut#dr strange x you#dr strange x fem!reader#sinister strange x reader#stephen strange x you#stephen strange x original character#benedict cumberbatch
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Redesigning Utterson's outfit, also I finally (hopefully) decided on a body type for him <3
He will be the most handsome gentleman Ever :3
I need to make a detailed version of his monocle hmmm. Also this means I need to remake his little reference sheet :P
Also look at the improvementttttt <3 we love me growing in mí arte <3
#forfunsiesau#alternate universe#fgo#fate grand order#fate go#fgo fate grand order#original character#fgo fanservant#fanservant#ibis paint x#ibispaintx#gabriel utterson#the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde#He's my cutie <3#digital art
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✨Multifandom Masterlist!✨
I can’t believe I’ve just done this… but I was trying to edit my master list and instead ended up deleting it! 😫 so here it is all over again I guess!
Touch starved series: (complete)
Loki x Reader - 28th October 2021
Natasha x Reader - 30th October 2021
Peter x Reader - 26th November 2021
Bucky x Reader - 30th November 2021
Tony x Reader - 20th January 2022
Dr Strange x Reader - 23rd January 2022
Bruce x Reader - 26th January 2022
Pietro x Reader - 9th May 2022
Steve x Reader - 16th May 2022
Kate x Reader - 1st June 2022
Thor x Reader - 17th November 2022
Wanda x Reader - 26th November 2022
Clint x Reader - 3rd December 2022
Yelena x Reader - 17th December 2022
Marc Spector x Reader -
Steven Grant x Reader -
Jake Lockley x Reader -
Part 2 to Pietro x Read is here (released 21st November 2022)
Coming soon... Touch starved Moon Boys (Marc, Steven and Jake):
they will be a system, it will just be how each one reacts obviously
Touch starved ❤️ Reader ❤️
My touch starved reader works are here:
Reader x Peter - 30th November 2022
My other Works!
Here’s a list of my other fanfiction:
Drunks and Pizza, What could go wrong? (Clint Barton x Reader)
Past Scars and Future Hopes (Loki x reader) (Oneshot)
Is That What You Think? (Bucky x reader) (Oneshot)
The Resurrection of Love (Spencer Reid x OFC) (LongFic)
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 !!!PAUSED!!!
The Sins of the Winter Soldier Bucky x Reader
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, (paused due to moving house!)
#avengers#avengers imagine#avengers x reader#bucky x reader#tony x reader#dr strange#dr strange x reader#bruce banner imagine#clint barton x reader#loki x y/n#touchstarvedmcu#marvel fanfiction#marvel#touchstarved peter#marvel mcu#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds fic#merlin#spencer reid x original female character#spencer reid fanfiction#multifandom imagines#pietro maximoff#thor x y/n#wanda x reader#murther#derek morgan#penelope garcia#moon knight#jake lockley#marc spector
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You get me so high Stephen Strange x Lectora.
Advertencias: Smut (+18) diferencia de edad. No mucho, pero tampoco tan poco.
Nota: Stephen vuelve a casa después de la boda de Christine y encuentra a su mejor pupila esperándolo para consolarlo.
Tus piernas se mueven impacientes al compas del reloj. Después de enviarle un mensaje de ti, desnuda en su cama no te ha contestado. Tomas tu teléfono de la mesa de noche y te tumbas boca abajo apoyándote en los codos mientras revisas tus mensajes de nuevo. Lo último que te ha escrito antes de la foto ha sido "Me siento tan solo y ridículo" y entonces le has mandado la foto con un dulce adjunto de letras "Me tienes tan..."
Tus piernas se mueven mientras revisas tus redes sociales, ves una foto de @Lokiyougod en un hermoso auto negro que acaba de comprar.
"Maldito engreído" murmuras poniéndole me gusta.
Y cuando quieres seguir avanzando la puerta del cuarto del doctor Strange se abre. Te quedas muy quieta conteniendo el aire cuando lo ves. Cierra la puerta con un movimiento mágico de dedos y también las cortinas.
"Pequeña exhibicioncita" dice quitándose el saco. Te ríes en silencio y te levantas de la cama de un salto. Tus pechos saltan con el movimiento y el hechicero no se reprime en verlos.
"Déjeme ayudarlo a despojarse de sus ropas, maestro" pones tus delicadas manos sobre su chaleco y desabotonas cada botón con mucha sensualidad. Sientes sus manos sobre tus caderas, enterrándose en tu piel.
"Estoy muy tenso ¿Sabes" sube sus manos por tu espalda desnuda y te hace estremecer. Te distraes solo un momento mientras quitas el chaleco por sus brazos y te preocupas ahora por quitarle la camisa. Sabes que él puede quitarse la ropa con un chasquido de dedos pero te encanta hacerlo sin magia "Tuve que salir en medio de la fiesta y todos se pusieron como locos al verme saltar" una risa ronca brota de sus labios y tú le copias, sonriendo mientras te muerdes el labio "Pensaron que estaba pasando algo"
"Pobres" dices quitándole la camisa por completo. Pasas tus manos por su pecho y más abajo, donde se marcan sus músculos preciados.
"Te extrañé" el hechicero entierra su rostro entre tu cuello y tu cabello y rodea tu cuerpo desnudo con sus brazos fuertes. Su cuerpo caliente se siente tan bien contra el tuyo. Lo abrazas con timidez y te sonrojas cuando se aleja sosteniendo tu barbilla con sus dedos "¿Tú me extrañaste?"
"Usted no tiene una idea" Stephen sonríe con satisfacción "Solo quiero estar para usted, quitar al tención de sus hombros... hacerlo sentir bien"
"Bésame T/n" sus labios están muy cerca de los tuyos, tú corazón está muy desbocado, le das un corto beso. Uno coqueto que hace que él entierre sus dedos en tu trasero "¿Vas a dejar que el hechicero supremo te folle hoy hasta que se quede sin aliento?"
"Todo lo que el hechicero pida, le será concedido" susurras soltando un gemido de placer cuando sus dedos traviesos se meten entre tus muslos humedos.
"¿Todo?"
"Todo" repites y él rompe el espacio que los separa para besarte. Te aferra con fuerza y te mueve de vuelta a la cama. Te tumba de espaldas y abre tus piernas, gimes cuando sus labios tocan tu piel y se acercan al centro de tu placer "Oh por favor" sueltas mordiendote la mano "Porqué tienes que matarme de esta manera"
"Porque eres una cosita muy impaciente, cariño" ronronea, lanzando aire en la cara interna de tus muslos, sopla aliento y te estremeces "Tan impaciente y tan perfecta" Su lengua traza la linea de toda tu raja, golpea tu clitoris con una suavidad que hace que te retuerzas. Tus manos se entierran en su pelo y tiras de él mientras su lengua sube y baja sobre ti.
"Ya no más, Stephen por favor" suplicas levantando su cabeza. Él se arrastra hacia tu rostro y te besa con tu sabor en sus labios. Muerdes su labio inferior y le entierras las uñas en la espalda. Una mirada concisa que suplica clemencia "Te necesito"
"¿Qué necesitas del doctor, bebé?"
"Necesito al doctor dentro de mí ahora, tan dentro como sea posible y que me rompa " gimes mirándolo a los ojos "Que me rompa en todos los sentidos"
Él sonríe socarrón y te besa.
"Que cosita tan pervertida eres" Se arrodilla entre tus piernas abiertas y se deshace de sus pantalones y ropa interior, ves como sostiene entre sus manos su enorme polla. Siempre te asustas al verla, nunca te acostumbrarás demasiado como para no desearla como la primera vez "Voy a follarte duro esta noche T/n, el doctor está muy tenso y tiene que aliviar todo de él dentro de ti" Pone la punta de su polla en tu cavidad, la mueve sobre ti haciendo que gimas con fuerza y entonces entra en ti, hasta llenarte por completo. Lo hace sin delicadeza y al principio duele. Siempre duele.
Pero cuando se adapta ya no duele, es placentero. Cada vez más. Comienza a moverse dentro de ti, a golpear tus paredes una y otra vez. Toma una pierna y la pone sobre tu hombro para encajar mejor y mientras se inclina a besarte, sale de ti bruscamente y te gira.
"Levanta ese hermoso culo, cariño" dice metiendo las manos bajo tu vientre, te besa la espalda y luego toma tus caderas con una mano. Se hunde en ti con fuerza otra vez, gritas sin pudor. Gimes y a él le encanta escucharte "Oh dulce bebé" dice mientras te golpea con dureza "¿Siento que te quieres correr?" asientes mordiéndote el labio en silencio "Hazlo preciosa, porque mientras lo hagas, el doctor se vendrá dentro de ti" rodea tu cuello con sus manos y pega sus labios a su oreja "Voy a poner mi semilla en ti, bebé, hasta la ultima gota" muerde tu lóbulo y gimes "Voy a llenarte por completo de mi, ¿Quieres que el doctor te llene por completo cariño?"
"¡S-sí" gimes.
"Dime que lo deseas, convénceme" Empuja dentro de ti con fuerza, una palmada sacude tu trasero, gritas de placer a punto de correrte.
"¡Por favor pon tu semilla en mi Doctor!" gritas y él se ríe, toma tu cabello con una mano y hace que te arquees, estás a punto y no puedes evitarlo "¡Oh dios mío" gritas.
él comienza a moverse con más fuerza, con más rapidez y entonces de una estocada termina y su semilla caliente te llena por dentro por completo, te estremeces y terminas temblando bajo su piel, gimiendo su nombre mientras aún se mece dentro de ti despacio, besando tu espalda, sobando las marcas rojas de sus manos en tu trasero.
"Buena chica, mi amor" susurra "Ahora ven aquí" sale dentro de ti y se pone boca arriba, rodea tu cansado cuerpo con sus manos y te pega a él "Hoy dormirás conmigo" dice. Cierras los ojos, acariciando su piel.
"¿Estás de buenas hoy?"
"No, me has puesto de buenas tú... amor" te mira hacia abajo y te besa, no sensual, no sexual, romántico. Y te abraza y sabes que las cosas están cambiando y esperas, con todas tus fuerzas que de una vez por todas, se haya olvidado de Christine.
#dr stephen strange#stephen strange x original character#stephen strange x you#te amo#amor#stephen strange x t/n#doctor strange x reader
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Just made this edit right now
#marvel#doctor strange#stephen strange#stephen strange x you#stephen strange x reader#stephen strange x original character#dr strange smut#hmmm 👀#unless 👀👀👀#pls 😩#if you know what i mean 😏#mom spoilers#Spoilers
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Bittersweet Devotion pt.2
Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader
Cw: angst, heartbreak, mention of cheating, mention of death, no happy ending, apology, tell me if I missed any.
wc: 9.3k
Previous
Your universe, Earth-XXX, was a parallel one to Earth-616 in some sense. You had a Peter Parker, a Gwen Stacy and a Mary Jane Watson, it had everything down to the death of Ben Parker and the devastation it brought to your friend. It was the same year as Spider-Man 616’s world, it had the same political standing and same history. Your world, like many others, was a near carbon copy of 616, down to the smallest things; but like others in the spiderverse, you had differences. Some were minor changes in the course of its canon story, others were major changes in the characters and the era.
You - like Miguel, Miles, Jess, Hobart (he liked going by Hobie), Patrick and Patriv - were one of those major deviations in the original canon. You didn’t exist - or so you thought - in Peter B. or Peter’s universe even though you lived in the same year. The reason might be that in the reality, the sum of all potential universes that paralleled each other, created the multiverse - the Spiderverse.
The concept of it seemed strangely unlimited, the infinite possibilities to a different ending or a different start for its world. The multiverse was, in some sense, as old as time, a culmination of everything made imaginable by man. Found in ancient texts - the Puranas, ancient Hindu mythology - that expressed the infinite number of universes with their gods and principles. Whereas Persian literature - tales - touched the idea of learning about alternate universes that were similar, yet distinctly different from theirs.
Misconstrued by many, the strangeness of it was deemed a danger, the unknown possibilities were feared by people of older age, but venerated in the past as it was in the present for the unfathomable possibilities. It exists in fiction, where they borrowed the idea of many worlds within a reality from myths, legends and religion. Heaven, Hell, Olympus and Valhalla were all reflections of a familiar world, a material realm for the blessed, the sinful, the gods, and the worthy. The similarities sometimes frightened you, how close the people were to knowing of the reality you all lived in. The tangibility of crossing worlds and bringing about chaos to every string, every realm, every material form of the multiverse.
They, after all, were real, Hell as much as Heaven in your universe. Gods from every religion, either monotheistic or polytheistic, some you’d personally seen are Thor and Loki, brother and sons of Odin the Allfather, and the God of Thunder and Mischief respectively. Another was a big crocodile lady, Ammit, from what you’d heard from the all-knowing Dr. Strange. From God to Norse and Egyptian gods, from angels and demons, and from humans to mutants, your plane of existence was as wide as it could go without drifting off the edge and causing a mass domino effect within the multiverse.
You were curious, naturally so for a scientist, exploring the worlds that felt familiar to you but you hadn’t truly grasped - different, yet similar. You hadn’t given a second thought to exploring yours. After all, why explore yours when your horizon was as broad as you imagined it, unperturbed by any limits when it came to the multiverse? The eternal and unlimited growing number of realms in your expanding reality.
Perhaps that was the reason why you hadn’t known your universe had its own Miguel O’Hara. You rarely came back for anything, you had everything you’ve ever wanted in Nueva York, Earth-928. You have friends who could truly understand you, people who stood beside you when you fought, youngsters who looked up to you for mentoring and a dream- or it was a dream. Dreams, not dissimilar to wishes, were hopeful, naive in a way, they came and went. Some dreams would come true, while others fell, like the fallen stars that crossed the night sky.
Yours simply happened to be a fallen one, one not meant to happen and become greater. You let it go after he dropped you, after he turned his back and let his mouth run unperturbed. He brought her up, someone he swore he would remember but left in the past. A new chance to become something, to become whole again, and Miguel took it. He wanted to start anew, fresh with someone he never met, you wanted the same; you both had what you wished for, until he put his foot down, cutting the thin web that connected both your lives.
It broke your heart. Months of patience and anxiously stepping around each other, nervous about breaking the trust freshly built between you both, lost in a few weeks. You were brittle, heart fractured and threatening to fall further apart if someone was any crueller to you. The smallest glare, the tiniest scoff or the weakest remark would send you reeling into the abyss of heartbreak and the throes of anguish. Yet somehow, you found yourself being led away by a copy of the Miguel you loved.
He mumbled apologies as he held you tightly, his arm over your shoulder as he cradled you under his umbrella, hastily urging you to follow his guidance. If it were any other person, you would’ve been wary, cautious of any strangers that touched you so closely and chaperoned you so quickly; but this was Miguel, a man you trusted and that you still trusted wherever he came from. Earth-XXX’s Miguel O’Hara was still similar to the one you knew, someone you could trust. You did.
He led you to his flat, someplace near Alchemax’s building in Manhattan, a safe neighbourhood for the richer citizens of Manhattan. A cozy place of neutral tones and muted colours, yet warm as he welcomed you - a stranger as of yet - into his home. He had machinery strewn around, reports stacked on his coffee table and smaller things he had been tinkering about decorating his home. As a geneticist, he liked to play with machinery, having drawn his designs and models, built his creations from scratch and worked from the base programming to make something better. At least Miguel from Earth-928 did, and it seemed this one did as well.
You stood in his shower, where he left you in a frenzy to bring you dry clothes, drying out your hair with the towel he motioned you to use. You doubted that he had anything your size, his broad shoulders and his towering height, nothing he had in his draws - and the boxes he stowed away in his closet - would fit you. They would drag down your ankle and sit low on your collar. Granted, you were soaked down to your socks and had no temporary clothes to cover yourself with during your stay.
You had stripped from your soaked clothes and patted down your wet skin, shivering from the cold that clung to your bones even after Miguel had increased the heater in the small confines of the bathroom. It was small but big enough to move around and stretch your arms comfortably. You hadn’t felt the cold until he brought you to his bathroom, the numbness of the past months weighing heavily on your shoulders and the bleeding of your heart made everything seem so meaningless. The colours draining from the world around you, a once bright New York turned grey, the monochrome tones of black and white mixing and interlacing to form even more boring shades.
The vibrancy and life you once saw around you dulled and died suddenly, like the winters brought by Demeter’s devastation and sadness when her daughter was taken from her, stolen from the berth of flowers she liked frolicking about. How Demeter doomed the world to see her pain, to feel how she felt in the moments her daughter had to return to her husband than stay with Demeter. You felt laden by your faults and his actions. Doubtful of your relationship, of what led you both to such an ending. Had you been clearer or more forthcoming about your emotions, or had you confronted him for his behaviour, would you still be in his arms?
Were you at fault for missing something you had relied on as comfort and safety? Could you be blamed for his reaction to your meddling in his affairs in the Society? Could you blame him for dropping those words on you? After all, being reminded or compared to a past lover was anything but gentle, the gut-wrenching envy and betrayal you felt flash through you was nearly drowning. It made you feel lacking, to be reminded of his old flame, the one he was about to marry and the person he seemed to love before all. Could you even compare to what she was; what she did? (Dina had cheated on him, you knew that, but he was truly happy in their moments of pleasure and domesticity. They were a family until she died.)
You were drowning in your self-made sorrow when his voice called you, grounding you to the room. Standing before a door, naked and shivering, arms wrapping the damp towel around your shoulders. He called again, cracking the door open to pass you the - his - clothes he thought would fit you. He coughed as you took your temporary wear, your cool fingers brushing his warm ones. It was a sudden and jerking contact, you pulled back jerkingly, a shamble of an apology and a thank you flew from your tongue. His chuckle was a reassurance in the complete quietness of the flat, his low voice reminding you of better times.
The sweater hung loosely around you, dipping down your collar to expose your shoulder. It was warm, the cotton used to make it still soft after being stored away and the soothing scent of spice and pine deeply integrated into the fibres. The pants were stretched around your hips, the tight fabric thin and flexible under stress, hidden under the long shirt. The legs, however, swayed loosely around your limbs, too big for your calves, but tight enough to hug your thighs. He had certainly made sure to bring you clothes that would fit your frame. You hadn’t attempted to smell his pants, you thought it would’ve been too intrusive and disgusting to do so if only to smell a remnant of Miguel on his as you did on the sweater.
Miguel was waiting for you in the kitchen, his back turned to you as you ambled towards him. His shoulders loose and back relaxed in the presence of a stranger made you appreciate how good-natured he was in most universes you’d been to. He turned his head, gesturing you to sit on the chair facing him on the island as he returned to something he was making while you changed.
“I hope you don’t mind hot chocolate,” he started, voice light and hopeful as he turned to you, cup in each hand as he moved to stare at you. “I’m not one for tea.” He slid the warm mug into your hand, eyes watching your expression as he slowly sipped on the hot beverage.
His eyes squinted slightly when your lips curled upwards, a smile hidden by the steaming mug. You cupped the mug, feeling the warmth of the freshly brewed drink, the steam rising in soft curls and melting in the cooler atmosphere. Tentatively, you brought the rim to your lips, slowly tilting the cup. The powerful taste of chocolate hit you strongly, the sweet and dark liquid melting the tension in your muscles until you could curl over the table with an appreciative sigh.
“Thank you…” you knew his name, wanting to call him, but his reaction would be unwanted, the shock, fear and suspicion that would fill his beautiful, brown eyes. So you slurred your words, dragging out your voice until he could tell you his name himself.
“Miguel. Miguel O’Hara, ” he nodded, cocking his head upwards, pointing at you with his chin. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Hey every time I want to call you.” His lips broke into a cheeky smile, teasing you when he saw that you’d comfortably melted into the drink and his island chair. He wanted to ease the tense atmosphere from before into something much calmer, to help the accumulated tension in your shoulders to fall like the rain that clouded the streets of New York.
You let out a hoarse chuckle, your throat still fresh from crying, and told him your name, trying to stabilise your shaking tone. His cheeky smirk tugged at your heartstrings, you hadn’t seen Miguel laugh or smile this freely in months. You missed it. The casual banter you shared and the on-and-off insults you’d hurl at one another, all good-natured insults meant to rile him.
“Thank you, Miguel,” you nearly choked when you uttered his name, the wound still so fresh and bleeding it slip from your tongue easily. It brought up so many memories, both painful and joyful. Your eyes glazed over, tears threatening to fall once again, to paint your cheeks with agony that you - him, or perhaps both of you - had brought on yourself. “Thank you…”
Miguel hummed sympathetically, eyes staring down at his drink, deep in thought. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to invite you to share your problems, to tell him why you broke down on the street in stormy weather. Or maybe he was thinking of the fastest way to kick you out, to get rid of the mess you became. The silence, however, was reassuring, calming the nerves that followed the eerie calmness of Miguel’s den or the loud, hectic atmosphere of the Society. His warm, worrying gaze grounded you, the softness behind his concerned stare was heartwarmingly nostalgic.
“Difficult breakup?” His words seemed hesitant, unsure of his conclusion to the cause of your appearance. Unknowingly, he had struck gold, pinning down the right problem in your life with a few observations. Of course, he was observant and aware of his surroundings, why else was he so willing to bring you into his home?
“How’d ya know?”
His sigh was telling, the deep, concerned and tired breath was only used when he knew that you wouldn’t tell him what ailed you, like the groan of a disappointed, yet worried father.
“Because I know how it feels,” he says slowly, pensive over his words, picking them carefully to not damage you further than your ex had. He knew the pain of a harsh breakup, the pain and sorrow that followed, like a dark cloud that hovered over you whenever you were awake.
“Why?” You croaked.
“Why?” he parroted, frowning at your question.
“Why did you invite me in? I’m a- a stranger to you, you don’t even know me. What if I’d been acting to mug you or potentially kill and steal from you? What’d you do then, Miguel?”
“I know the risks, but you didn’t, didn’t you? And wouldn’t, you don’t look like the person to harm another.”
You scoffed at his words. Didn’t and wouldn’t didn’t mean you would not do it later after gaining his trust, to stab him in the back after he helped you and nursed you. The simple, naïve idea that you didn’t look like a violent person was mind-blowing, it was stupid. How could he know if you didn’t mean harm later on? Like how Miguel never meant to harm you - he loved you - and yet in the end, he had.
“That’s naïve,” you muttered, eyes closed as you drank the cooling beverage, the sugary drink trickling down your throat.
“I’m confident in my ability to read people.”
He did seem confident in his ability, the straight back and the strong gaze in his eyes showed; and, maybe because you knew from experience that Miguel was observant and careful, he hadn’t gotten where he was by simply trusting people and following the herd. He tested and made mistakes, he learned from them each time and found a way to use it to his advantage. The Miguel you saw in every universe was similar in some ways, their good nature, their cunningness, their bravery and their intelligence. All aspects known to characterize Miguel O’Hara in all universes he existed in.
You conceded to his will, head bowed and shoulders slack. You breathed shallowly, swallowing the lump in your throat:
“Yeah, what gave it away?”
You thought it would be the last of him you’d see in your life, you wished it wouldn’t, that you’d see him over and over, to feel what the Miguel from your universe had to give, but you knew it was wishful thinking, a wish thrown to the stars. Logically, he had no reason to call or text you after exchanging numbers days prior. He promised to call you, and he made you promise to call him if anything ever resurfaced, be it pain, anger, heartbreak or hate. You, instinctively, believed his word.
You hated yourself for falling so easily to another Miguel, how you bent to his words and the sweet promises he uttered that night. There was no sign that he would keep his word, that he would see you again after your breakdown, except for his words and your belief in him. Then it wasn’t misplaced, all the trust and belief you had, since he called you, asking to meet up at a cafe. Miguel had set up a place and time for you when you replied with a croak, still feeling down. He had whispered reassuring words to you, urging you to meet him - he explicitly told you he’d feel offended to be stood up - and spend some time outside. The air was fresh and cool for an autumnal month, it wasn’t too cold that you were forced to wear a thick jacket, but it wasn’t warm enough for you to go out in a simple shirt.
You were hesitant to take him up on his offer, knowing how easily you could rebound. You’d crash into Miguel’s open arms, searching for the love and affection he fed you like a lovesick puppy, but, then again, Earth-XXX’s Miguel was similar, yet different from his variant. It would be a lie if you told yourself you didn’t miss him, the soft smiles, the gentle touches and the affectionate words. You had spent so much time as his right-hand Spider that it felt odd not seeing him the following morning. It was a routine you’d formed: waking up in his bed, kissing him good morning, getting to work together and eating together. Everything you’d done in the past years was with Miguel from Earth-928 the routine, the rigidity, it was grounding, it was the only semblance of normalcy in the world you lived in.
Now, you had to face the possibility that you were too broken to see another Miguel, to hold a casual conversation and form coherent and normal sentences. The purposefully slow steps you took to the cafe picked after having a moment outside the glass front were telling in itself. You swallowed the little amount of saliva in your throat to soothe its dryness and walked through the doors of the quaint establishment. It was painted in calm, brown tones, rustic in design with a warmth that rivalled the comfort of your bed. It lifted a bit of the tension you had, shoulders slumping slightly as your eyes searched for a familiar mop of brown hair.
Laying against the brown sofa, he stared out of the wide window from his booth. The warm, morning lights caressed his cheeks, lighting up the sharp edges of his jaw and nose. He was sculpted in perfection, like the youthful beauty of Adonis, crafted with the meticulous and attention-catching hands of an artist that created what was thought to be a god’s beauty. You could spend your days watching him, catching every little detail of Miguel’s face under the changing lighting, but you were standing near the entrance and he was waiting for you. His words echoed in your mind: “Don’t forget about next week, I miss seeing you.”
His eyes flickered to you, blinking as he turned to you, flashing a smile. You returned the sentiment, a shaky smile lifting the corners of your lips. You sat across from him, eyes wandering the cafe to stare at anything but him, lest you wouldn’t be able to stop the rush of emotions that would light your face in a flush. He uttered your name, greeting you in a friendly manner. You nodded back, muttering his name, pushing down the wince whenever you said it.
“Chocolate.”
The still-warm cup stared at you, light steam wafting over the reflective liquid. It was full, unlike Miguel’s cup, and drank down to the middle of the container.
“Thank you.”
He probably wouldn’t let you repay him for the hot chocolate he bought you, the smile he gave you told you as much when your eyes flickered between his and your cup. The hot chocolate was a reminder of your night in his flat, where he lent you his shoulder to cry and his ears to listen. Embarrassment seemed to flash whenever you recalled the memory, how vulnerable you were to him, your walls broken down and your heart open. Though, Miguel didn’t seem to mind your fragility, giving you as much time as you needed.
“How are you? I wanted to give you a few days to think before meeting again, I thought you might’ve needed the time alone.”
You nodded lamely, fingers curling around the warm porcelain, back slumped into the booth to hide from his knowing eyes. He was right, you had needed the time alone to clean yourself up, scour through your memories and tend to whatever mess you made of yourself. You were thankful. The last few days had brought revelations, how - both of - you had ignored the signs of a rupture in the relationship and continued to push on, like crossing a crumbling bridge.
“‘M doing better. How- and how are you?”
He smiled at your attempt, you were trying on your own after a few - forced - encouraging words from Miguel. Maybe you’d learn to live with the pain, coexisting with the numbness that filled you until it dulled to a point where it would be barely acknowledged by you or anyone in your vicinity - where it wasn’t painted on your face with bright colours. Or the pursuit to forget it, pushing it into the farthest corner of your mind and heart, painting over the crack with glue. As long as you wouldn’t drown in your sorrows, ending up playing with dangerous substances to stay afloat while your mind sunk deeper into addiction and denial.
He wouldn’t let you get that far, Miguel understood you and he lived through it as you did. Although his was a more violent breakup - she had cheated on him, his explosive reaction was natural - than yours, he hadn’t relied on anything but self-meditation and a lot of thinking. Like a friend - you were one by his standards, he’d invited you to his flat, you’d seen his organized chaos and ranted about your life while he comforted you with his shoulder and a cup of hot chocolate - he would stay by your side, hoping his support would be enough to help you.
“Great so far.”
His grin - somehow - grew even larger, enthusiasm gleaming in his eyes.
Oftentimes, Miguel would be the one to call you, your phone ringing in the afternoon of the day prior with his soothing voice on the other end of the line. He spoke easily, finding the time to invite you out for the simplest reason, to talk, to make a drink, to have fun, and - your favourite by far - to see you. His initiative had you trying to double your efforts to heal, reaching outside of your boundaries and texting Miguel whenever you had a moment to yourself. You felt guilty that he was always the one to plan these outings, so you promised yourself that you’d become a better friend than you currently were. You even remembered his teasing tone when you called him for the first time:
”Aye, finally. I thought you’d never call me, chica. I felt neglected, thought you had forgotten about me for a second there.”
It started with the first coffee date, bickering about who would pay, pushing your card before the other while still seated at your table, frowning stubbornly and throwing promises about letting the other pay next time. Either way, Miguel rarely let you pay, coming atop as the winner of your little fight with his strength and height (you couldn’t exactly put all your force into your push, it could break bone and bruise the skin.).
Then it would be random meetings on the streets that would lead you to a random bench at the park, basking in the other’s presence, retelling your day and him nitpicking anything he could with a ridiculously criticising frown. He was playing, you knew he was. You did the same after you’d gotten more comfortable talking to him, it became easier to see him as a different - as his own - person. A few hits on the shoulder left and right, but it was mostly laughter at ridiculous expressions made to emphasize your disdain for a certain event.
The months that followed were a blur to you. Rather than going to a cafe or the park, you went to restaurants and crashed at one of your flats, yours if he wanted to play games and lounge about with food and drinks, and his if you wanted to watch movies (he had the best television you’d ever seen, such high definition and speed.) and tinker away at his inventions and theories. He was certainly happy that his new friend was another scholar in the field of genes and engineering (you were mostly into engineering than genes, but you knew a few things that you’d found interesting.). You could both gush - scientifically - about the possibility of gene splicing and lab-generated mutations in humans, like the mutant superheroes.
You’d taken some liberties and went drinking, meeting at the same bar biweekly to relax after a few hard days at work. It served to loosen your nerves until either of you felt comfortable to chat up a storm about the most random subject. It’d been about the odd dent on the rim of his glass; then it’d be about how the sky was grey this week, there weren’t any warm, yellow rays blaring down on you when you went out; or it’d be about the distasteful cut of a man’s moustache. Drinking loosened your tongues, some words were said and some sentiments were shared, but none were truly taken seriously knowing you were tipsy - nearing drunk - those nights.
Every time you saw Miguel, you felt like you were rediscovering a part of yourself as well as him, the thing that made him so distinct and loveable. Miguel was expressive and honest, he slowly and gently let you down from whatever high you were, the pillar you needed to stand again after falling. He was so much different. It used to pain you how much they looked alike, but character-wise, they were like the two sides of a coin. It made you appreciate the delicate intricacies that made the multiverse.
You won’t - can’t - deny that you’ve grown fond of this Miguel as you did with the other one, but you couldn’t let yourself love him. He didn’t deserve someone broken and hashed into many lives: the masks you wore, the things you did, the secrets you hid, and the things you could do. He didn’t deserve someone who could bring him to his death; dying simply because he was connected to Spider-Woman; beaten simply because he knew Spider-Woman; kidnapped simply because they deemed him useful as leverage. All things that could go wrong haunt you. Miguel was human, he wasn’t a Spider, he wasn’t a superhero, and he wasn’t a vigilante. He was Miguel O’Hara, the geneticist working at Alchemax, with a brilliant mind and a kind heart.
You cherished every part of him. That’s why you can’t let your heart lead, dedicate how you’d react to Miguel after the months you spent together. He was so close, yet so far; he was touchable, you could hold him, kiss him and hug him, but he was unattainable, you couldn’t tell him how much you loved him. You watched him with hidden love, showing your affection as platonic, a friend watching another. You had hardened yourself to your heart’s cries, for loving Miguel was a dangerous game-
“I- what?” you gawked at Miguel, wide eyes and mouth agape. You were shocked at the words that left his mouth, his soft, wet lips moving as he repeated the words.
“I love you.”
His cheeks were flushed, burning a soft red, it trailed to his ears and nape. His open collar - his jacket hung on the back of his chair and his shirt clung below his collar, a skin-tight shirt that hugged his sculpted chest sinfully, it hid little to the seeing eyes of the crowd and your drunk self. His sudden words had all but sobered you, shaking you into clear lucidity of his confession.
“You… love me?”
He blinked dumbly at you for a second, as if taking the time to absorb what he told you and what you repeated. Miguel was tipsy, not drunk. He smiled and nodded, a bashfully affectionate grin on his beautiful lips.
“Yes, is it so hard to believe, chica?”
He often called you chica, you thought it was a friendly term of endearment between friends (truthfully and regretfully, you knew little of Spanish, even with being in a committed relationship with an Irish-Mexican.). You just realised it was his pet name for you. All this time, he had given you his heart, and yet, you had denied him of yours. He was more playful and less burdened by life, it made him more teasing and smiling. The term chica somewhat made sense, a cuter and more playful way of calling someone you loved than the deep-meaning ones like mi cielo and mi vida, a play of words like a small secret between you. This secret hid behind names given between friends, a well-kept one, close to his chest but gifted to you.
It might’ve once been - started - as friends, but it grew and festered in his heart until he found the time to express himself, to tell you how he truly felt for you - how he grew to care for you. He deemed this moment fine, bordering tipsy and nearing drunk, he’d be open, brutally honest but still aware of the words that left him. He wasn’t a lightweight anyway.
You wanted to tell him you also loved him, but you couldn’t do it, mouth slightly open and eyes glazed with heartbreak, you simply stared at him in hesitancy. You opened your mouth once to reply and closed it, open and close, again and again until all you could do was stare at him. How were you supposed to answer him after the bomb he dropped?
”Yes! I love you too!”
”Oh, Miguel, I love you too.”
”I- I love you as well.”
There were so many ways to express your feelings to the man who confessed, but none seemed to convey the true emotions that lay in your heart. You wanted to tell him you learned to love again thanks to him, that the time spent with him had made you open your eyes to the beauty that you were blinded by the pain and you slowly grew to care for - love - him as much as you did with Spider-Man 2099. He had the same smile, the same mind, the same heart, but he was more innocent, less burdened by disaster and happier.
So you simply nodded. It made his smirk grow.
“Aye- would it be better if I called you ‘mi tesoro’ instead? It’s more straightforward, no?”
Even now, his words were light and playful, his tone affectionate as he leaned closer to you. You could see the mischievous glint in his warm, chocolate eyes (you thought that was why he liked serving you hot chocolate, it reminded you of his eyes.) and the curve of his lips as they moved to form words. You were transfixed by his beauty, mesmerised by the comforting hues and the sharpness of his cheeks, missing how close he was to you.
“Or maybe-”
Softness caressed your lips, a plush, warm feeling that made you flush. He was kissing you, those pretty lips on yours. Your breath stuttered and you froze, but it didn’t stop Miguel’s initiative, a hand cradled your nape, holding you in place as he pushed himself closer to you. He moved against you, tongue slipping from his mouth and tentatively laving over your bottom lip, asking for something.
He was so warm, so caring. You could just close your eyes and follow his lead - you did. He pushed harder, yet the kiss stayed soft and passionate, he lightly nipped your lip and soothed the stinging with his warm tongue, beckoning you to open your mouth for him. Your lips parted, opening up for Miguel to dive in, muscle meeting yours halfway and curling over yours. He still cradled your head, fingers running through your loose hair and tilting your head backwards, giving him more space to show you how much he loved you. Your arms, somehow, found themselves wrapped around his neck, pulling him as close to you as he was pushing himself against you.
His kiss was loving, his hold was careful and his touch heartwarming. You almost regretted having to pull away, but you had to breathe, your lungs starving for air after having been devoured by Miguel’s adoring kiss. The moment you opened your eyes (you didn’t know you had closed them while you kissed), his smile greeted you, a lovesick one bubbling with unending joy. You almost choked from how it fit so well on him.
“That’s- that’s one way…” you spoke between breaths, chest swelling with every erratic pant, matching his similarly worn-out breathing.
That was all he needed from you. Your kiss was enough for him to know you loved him the same, a patient and gentle love he was willing to give you. Your heart pulsed strongly, lips curving and eyes squinting, you pushed yourself closer to his heat, his all-encompassing warmth that wrapped around you when you wanted to feel safe and loved. Your world couldn’t be any brighter, like the vibrant colours of blooming flowers when Persephone was given to her mother, where the snow melted and colours washed over the lands once more, painting the blank white and dead grey in joyous tones. It glowed brightly and warmed you like the summers that followed the melting ice, the clear, blue skies of Olympus and as freeing as the soaring hawks and skipping elks.
Letting go was far harder than loving. To let the person who you let in leave felt emptying, it left a gaping hole in his heart. Where it was once calm, struck a raging storm of rejection and regret, crashing waves the size of Poseidon’s rage and violent storms the strength of Zeus’ retribution. It hurt watching you walk beside a variant of himself, a happier and lighter version of him without his mutations or duty. You were the Spider-Woman of your universe so there wouldn’t be a second one unless there was a catastrophic canon divergence.
He hadn’t followed you at first, respecting your wishes of being left alone. He had to give you that much, at least, after those months spent beside his ignorant ass. He hadn’t seen it until it was too late, lost under the weight of his duty and fears that he’d forgotten he had people who cared, who felt, who loved. It was too late, it was always too late with him. If he couldn’t fix his first mistake, who’s to say he could fix this? He couldn’t save his first daughter or his second’s universe because it was falling apart. He couldn’t save anyone because he hadn’t realised his mistake in interfering in canon events, and he lost you because he couldn’t stop his vitriol, his violent temperament that had pushed you away. He always took things for granted until they were lost to him.
Was it two or three weeks before he decided to check up on you? He didn’t know anymore, the weeks blurred until he finally amassed the courage to go against everyone’s words. Through the flat hologram of his orange screen, he watched you lament on your own, body curled into itself and shoulders shaking. Your sobs were heart-wrenching to watch while he had no means of contacting you; you would’ve reacted more strongly and aggressively if he’d contacted you after leaving.
So he watched.
You stared vacantly from your window and left only for the bare necessities or to act as Spider-Woman. Crime never slept so you couldn’t stop even in your time of need. You swung from building to building so gracefully that Miguel was hypnotised by your grace. He watched these moments as a reminder of the missions he took by your side, webbing and catching anomalies all across the multiverse with fearsome speed and accuracy. You both had made a fearsome team, but that time was over, it was a memory long forgotten.
So he watched.
Your flat was cold and empty, the space filled with spectres of memories, the cool rooms vacant of life that used to fill them with warmth and happiness. It was saddening from his perspective - the observer, the watcher and the reader of your story - of your time spent alone. He wanted to tell you that you weren’t alone, that he was watching you from afar, a silent protector that would only act if you were in imminent danger - as long as it wasn’t part of the canon.
So he watched-
Besides you was Miguel - not him, another one - and he looked much too comfortable by your side for his liking. His variant seemed much too close for a friend, moving from sitting before you to beside you, arm slung over your shoulders and leaning back and, sometimes, towards you at a breath’s distance. He turned green with envy, a vicious monster brewing inside his body with the threat of bursting out, clawing at his chest. The other was too close to you for his liking.
He watched as his variant bought you drinks - always, however long and loud you’d complained and fought, he never let you pay in the end - and paid for your dates. He abhorred it. How happy you looked with the other him. How calm and satisfied your smile was. How close his variant was to you. He wished he was at the other’s place, taking his rightful place beside you. He would kiss you, smother you in love and give you whatever you wanted, whether it be a hug, a kiss or his time, he would’ve given them to you. He wouldn’t dance around the edge of your affection and his love like he was doing, like a man unsure of his feelings and anxious to act on it.
He thought the other Miguel was a coward - though he knew he wasn’t. He wanted to blame his variant and find fault for anything he did, but they were still the same person. He was Miguel O’Hara as much as he was. He wanted, but couldn’t, especially after seeing how both loved you the same, having a similar type. They were so much alike that he could’ve replaced his variant, yet so vastly different in other manners that he would’ve stood out. His history, his trauma, his curse, the other had none of them. He was normal while he was Spider-Man, a stronger, more brutal version of Spider-Man.
Granted, he loved you with every fibre of his being, but he had never showered you with as much love and affection as the other, having his character muddled through long hours of work and long-lasting tragedy. You were another of his tragedies, where he found love again and lost it by his own making. He would have left too if the Society didn’t depend on him, leaning towards him for support and help in protecting the multiverse. It was something he couldn’t sacrifice for his whims.
So he kept watching and let his heart crack and envy fester.
He watched you grow even closer to him, shoulders and hands occasionally touching, making you jump and blush. He watched you move from simple coffee dates to full-blown restaurants and bar dates, drinking and eating at your leisure - something he could’ve never provided you. He watched you wobble around when you were drunk, your arm over his shoulder and his around your waist, supporting your drunk weight. He watched you kiss, the other pressing your bodies together and you reciprocating the loving embrace you had once given to him.
He felt like crying. He was crying, silent tears rolling down his sharp cheeks in slow, thundering waves of his heartbreak. He clung to the desk, claws unintentionally popping out and bending the metal under his fist. The sound ripped through the silent room like the image that ripped through his heart. He was alone in his grief, shoulders slumping and arms shaking with the intensity of his emotions. He had locked the door, barricading it with a busy, do not disturb sign, warning the others that he was occupied and wouldn’t be reached unless there was an emergency.
“Miguel…”
He’d forgotten Lyla was here - she was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, with your help he had given Lyla an upgrade in her system that gave her access to every Spider that had the watch. She had access to every file in the database and his secrets. Lyla was loyal to him as much as she was to you, respecting your words with a promise of her own to leave you alone. That, however, didn’t mean that she wasn’t privy to his pains, watching him while his eyes were stuck to your universe’s screen, giving him some comforting words that were meant to lift his spirit. It never worked but the intention was there.
He couldn’t look at her, still facing the hologram of you kissing. He felt the surge of too many emotions to be able to think clearly, his self-control tethering on a thin line of fragile web. If he turned, he would explode on Lyla, giving her the brunt of his suffering even though she didn’t deserve it, she felt and laughed as much as any other human. He remembered programming in emotion with you, laughing about how much she would be as teasing and annoying as you. Lyla was another gift to him by you, so it would hurt him more.
“Miguel-”
“Don’t- Do not say another word.”
For a man in tears and pain, his voice was curt and stoic, playing the leading figure he’d taken for so long. It betrayed his shaky figure, fingers crushing the metal loudly and shoulders jerking with ever-wrenching choked sob. His world was crumbling around him, rippling and cracking from the seams and folding into itself. The control of his state was failing miserably as he kept staring at your mirthful smile after the kiss. It tore him apart knowing he pushed you further away and into the arms of another. It hurt him deeply.
Through everything, he heard Lyla whisper a small sorry before she popped out of existence, her small holographic body vanishing along with her orange light. Gone was her familiar light, gone was the nostalgic memory of programming her, and along her, was the support of another person. He was truly alone in this moment, to fall on his knees and let himself drown under the weight of everything.
If your love was a tangible thing, he would’ve cradled it between his warm palms, holding it tightly to his chest to feel the soothing effects you had on him. Like a balm to burns, you cooled the searing pains that the world inflicted upon him, the warm blanket that covered him when he needed rest and the pillar that held him when he fell. He’d lost something he couldn’t gain a second time, clutching his head in his misery, drowning and howling.
It felt surreal until it wasn’t until it all sunk in. He truly couldn’t grasp the utter loss and betrayal he felt. The realisation that he truly lost you to none other than himself. The irony of it all slashed deeper, how he drove you closer to another him by his own doing, making you love a Miguel with more gentleness, more kindness and time than him, Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man from Nueva York, Earth-928. Everything he had was lost in time, his spiralling thoughts of loss and misery clouded his vision, bringing tears forward in bigger waves.
Was he doomed to lose everything he cared about? Was he bound to love and lose? Why couldn’t he have a happy ending like everyone else? Was it because he was different? Perhaps it was, there were other O’Hara Spider-Man, but none were mutated like him, a product of self-infliction and sabotage - none had their DNA spliced and mixed with a spider’s. He was simply too different from the others, they were lean but still had a strong musculature, muscles tightened to create more strength and defence; none were big and broad as he was, with rough edges and mean streaks. They were nice and happy, faced losses of their own, but always came out on top (there were some minor - sometimes major - variants of Spider-Man here and there, but they all had some similarities in their stories of becoming.). He saw the devastation and grasped onto the thinnest silver lining he could find, holding onto it to stay afloat while others thrived where they were.
Maybe it was truly because of him. He was realistic - near cynic - he couldn’t see things optimistically, life had made him that way. The silver lining he saw in things was small, nearly extinguished by his near-pessimistic way of life. Did that have an impact as well? It most likely did, at least partly. Fate had given him a bad hand in things, he couldn’t be completely blamed for how things turned - or so he thought, hoped. A man wasn’t only the result of what he’d done, but also of what he was given. When push comes to shove, Miguel acted in a way he thought meant well for him and the others even if it didn’t seem like the right decision at first. He rarely doubted his actions while he did them, only after, could he let himself face the consequences of what he’d done. Miguel simply didn’t have the pleasure of waiting. He needed to act when it was called.
If he had waited, if he had been patient and sought out others for support, if he had spent time thinking before acting, would he still have his little girl beside him? Would he still have you in his arms? If he had shown you more affection, would you have still loved him?
Did you still love him?
Miguel didn’t know what he was doing. Standing before your apartment door in civilian clothing and a bouquet of twelve, beautiful white tulips - the meaning not lost to him. It was an attempt at apologizing for his mistakes, a desperate one led by heartache. He brushed his hair back, trying to look as kept as he could in his situation: dark bags and sickly skin, tense muscles and sore back. This was a daring move from him, it would end up catastrophic if the Miguel from your universe saw him at your front door; but he checked, making sure his variant was elsewhere before opening a portal to your place.
He hadn’t moved in a while, listening to you move around your flat, the sound of your soft steps shuffling from behind the door, a wall between you and him, reminding him that he wouldn’t be able to cross it unless you welcomed him. He held the bouquet in one hand and knocked with the other, his knuckles hitting the wood softly and hesitantly. There was a pause between every knock, drawn by his nerves and the anxiety that gripped him.
You moved and closed in on the sound at the door. He saw your shadow dance under the small gap on the floor and pause. You knew. You knew it was him even without peeking through the peephole, your spider-sense aiding you in recognizing the unknown. Although your hand rested reluctantly at the knob - perhaps still too raw from your break as he was - you opened the door for him, figure small and apprehensive.
“Miguel,” you muttered his name, greeting him with a slow nod. You stepped back and opened the door wider for him, he took it as a good sign that you let him in rather than shut the door in his face.
He nodded back, saying your name. He took a step forward, foot breaking the barrier to your flat. The second one ensured he was fully invited, both feet strongly rooted on your side of the door. He wanted to make himself smaller, to appease you, but he knew you wouldn’t have liked that. He squirmed under your stare, a mix of curiosity and concern.
He nearly sighed audibly when you gestured at him to sit and he moved to the sofa he remembered sleeping on with you, cuddling under a warm blanket while you watched a movie. He knew your home by heart like you knew his, the memory washed over him with melancholy. You sat on the armchair to his left, your back to the kitchen. He swallowed thickly and handed you the bouquet, freshly cut tulips glistening with pearly drops under your lights.
Your shoulders shook as you leaned in to take the bouquet, jolting back when your fingers grazed him. Feeling your skin felt invigorating, it breathed back life into him, even slightly. You thanked him with a slow nod, seemingly unsure of what to make of it. Was it a gift? Was it an apology? Was it a farewell sign? He figured your mind was running in circles trying to understand the meaning of the pretty bouquet he handed you. You were always an overthinker, but your mind worked brutally well. That’s something he always appreciated about you.
“I-” Miguel started, seemingly stopped by something that he couldn’t get out of his throat. Maybe a ball of dread or needles of anxiety, but it held him from giving you the words he spent nights thinking over, to give you the message he built from the deepest crevice of his heart. “I’m sorry, (Name).”
You stared at him, understanding that he needed a moment of silence to truly convey his feelings. You hadn’t uttered a word since he first started, expression neutral, not betraying whatever brewing storm you locked inside of you. He was grateful, truly.
“I know- I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really, really sorry, mi vida.”
He sensed you tense, the muscles of your back contracting and rippling under your shirt. Every unseen fibre moving was bare to him, he could see and feel better than most, if not, everyone else.
“I acted out of anger and lack of sleep, but that doesn’t mean you deserved that- never. I just, my mutation makes me more animalistic, more… aggressive than the other, and I hurt you. You didn’t deserve any of that and I can’t always blame it on my mutations. I should’ve been able to control myself. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you in those ways.”
He lowered his gaze to his hands, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing his palm, trying to coax himself into relaxation. Although your breathing softened, a calm breeze in an atmosphere thick with tension, he didn’t dare look up and see the face you were making.
“I was a bad boyfriend and a horrible friend. I’m- I’m not asking you to forgive me, I don’t want you to forgive me, but- I just needed to tell you how much I regret hurting you. I want to apologise, I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how to fix this.” He breathed deeply, collecting every ounce of confidence and honesty to brave your reaction. “I’m sorry, mi cielo.”
He shuddered, body rippling with his pained breath. He hadn’t realised how painful it would be to face you with his fears and confession, with the threat of abandonment and rejection fresh in his mind. He was a man of pride and strength, rarely facing anything with trepidation and hesitance.
“I’m really sorry, mi cielo. I’m so, so sorry.”
He sat in silence, letting it hang over him like the blade of a guillotine, silent and brunt. Perceiving the flash of the sharp blade before it fell on his neck, sentencing him to a quick downfall with a long, lasting agony that would sting his neck as long as it would hurt his heart. The French used it for executions, the thing that spelled people’s end. At its height, it was used as an apparatus to behead traitors or people who were deemed dangerous to the people of the new republic. Down the blame went and off the head popped, like it would happen to Miguel if he wasn’t prepared for it. He truly didn’t know whether he had prepared for his rejection, for the death of his heart, to watch the flickering sparks of his flame wither out.
“I’m sorry too, Miguel-”
The rope strained, knots twisting and rippling in the tightness of the pull. It shook, whipping in the air as it straightened completely, held closely by the hand of the executioner. The wind blew but it was sturdy, withstanding the violent gales that slammed against the body of it.
“-it means a lot that you came here to apologise- ”
The crowd was filled with silence, the emptiness of the area a mock of a ghost town. Abandoned to be sentenced to death without anyone to witness. They deemed him not fit for their acknowledgment before his death, before the sparks of his life extinguished. His fate wasn’t worth their time, unlike the poorest criminals who stole for money, unlike the richest pigs who fed from the poor with their silver spoons and golden crowns, unlike the cruellest killers who gutted and left men, women and children to bleed out, and unlike the guiltless innocents cursed for something they hadn’t committed.
“-but, I can’t.”
The rope was let loose, its tail flying and whipping in the air as the blade descended with its weight. The wood chafed against its support beams, yet it flew gracefully and rapidly, singing the doom of its prisoner. The blade gleamed under the moon’s bright light, the silver whispers of peace and sleep deaf to his ears.
“I can’t love you anymore.”
It cracked down on him, his life flashing before him as it cut into him. Severing his control over his body, putting out the dying embers of hope. He clung to desperation in his last moments, wishing to relive the moments of happiness, bright oblivion and cherished love.��
He wished that he could’ve seen your shadowed figure hidden in the darkness, tears lining your cheeks as you watched him take his last breath. The only person who came to see him leave, the one who he would’ve burned the world for. In the end, after everything he’d done, you still gave him a small moment of your time to witness his fall, you deemed him worthy of such an act. You offered him your kindness.
My extensive tag list of extremely patient people pt1.:
@iseizeyourmom @raynerainyday @etherealton @sciencethot @coffee-obsessed-freak @thesecretwriter @beepboopcowboy@bontensh0e @aikoiya @allysunny @fandoms-run-my-life @brittney69 @aranachan @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @konniebon @starlightaura @redwolfxx @aniya7 @alicefallsintotherabbithole @bvbdudette @wwwelilovesyou @wwwellacom @akiras-key @bobafettbutifhewasgay @opiplover @rinieloliver @uniquecroissant @yas-v @xrusitax @blkmystery @darherwings @ariparri @notivie @vr00m-vr00m @battinsonwhore05 @irishbl0ss0mz @mivanda @saint-chlorine @livelaughluvmen @battinsonwhore05 @notivie @lililouvre @giasjourneyblog @ykyouluvme @skullywullypully
#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara imagine#miguel ohara#miguel o hara#miguel o'hara#atsv miguel#miguel spiderverse#spiderman 2099#miguel x reader#miguel o’hara x fem!reader#miguel o’hara#miguel o’hara angst#across the spiderverse#atsv x reader#spiderman atsv#atsv#atvs spoilers#spiderman 2099 x reader#accross the spiderverse#spiderman 2099 x you#x reader#angst
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I Can Fix That... Pt. 2 | Jonathan Crane x fem!reader
author's note: I decided to make a pt. 2 purely for my own enjoyment, though I hope there are others out there as sadistic as myself. I finally watched the Batman trilogy and did research on DC fan pages to write this. It follows the plot of Nolan's DC adaptation so all characters mentioned (like Ra's Al Ghul) are from the comics and movies.
Summary| She gave into Crane because she needed to survive, at least that's what she's tried to tell herself, but there was something about this man that just felt so painfully... right. Now Crane has a proposition and he doesn't intend to take no for an answer because he's starting to like her -- uh oh-- too much. Where will their new agreement lead them when Gotham devolves into chaos?
Warnings| Based on an DC action movie- drugging, slut shaming, fear and terror, dubious kidnapping, restraints, drugs, physical violence, spitting, toxic relationship, mentions of a gun, chaos, and needles. I know- it's a lot.
word count: 8596k (lol oopsies?)
Wires- The Neighborhood 🎶
Where did you sleep last night- Iridium, Salazar, Liam Marks 🎵
Caesar on a TV Screen- The Last Dinner Party 🎶
i
The detective nodded her head, surprised that she’d so easily forgotten her plan. Dr. Crane sniffed and spun his set of keys around his finger casually.
“Now the best thing about being the creator of my fear serum,” he started, moving to the shelf of vials he had previously sorted, “is that I have an endless supply and every opportunity to use it whenever I want.” She could hear him smile but she could no longer see him. Crane admittedly liked the girl and he’d fucked her as a minor pivot in his original plan for the night. Now, it was time for business. He pulled a dish of powder from a locked drawer and hid it away from sight as he crossed back into the girl’s view. “You may think you understand what my serum can do, but you’ll never truly know until you try it.” She furrowed her brow and shook her head, wishing that she could back away from him but she couldn’t move. He changed the subject swiftly, not giving her a moment.
“I applaud you for your performance tonight. I was more than willing to humor you and of course, your present state did you many favors. I like my women tied down…” he joked and chuckled darkly. “But now, we need to get practical.” He removed his glasses and folded them slowly. He slipped them into his breast pocket. “You know too much, Miss —, and we both know that your current allegiance to your job would prioritize a crude sense of justice over your affection for me. We can’t have that, can we? So, I’d like to propose a solution or a treatment of sorts.” He clenched his jaw, angling his head down so that he was looking up at her through his eyelashes. “You’ve already proven to yourself tonight that the mind has complete control over the body. Desire rules judgment… and I want to rule you.” He smiled darkly. Before she could speak, powder was thrown into her face, blocking every orifice with a sickening gas.
The anxiety was immediate. She saw strange creatures approach her from all sides, poking and prodding her with dirty nails. She saw the walls leak a disgusting fluid, like blood and fecal matter and it spilled over the floor. People sorted through the liquid for scraps, children screamed and cried around her. She’d been one of those children, raised in an orphanage because her parents couldn’t afford to keep her. Strange men swarmed the children, offering toxic treats and money for favors which the children shied away from. She screamed, pulling at her restraints as she tried to fight off the assailants. She shook her head violently side to side, and she screamed involuntarily with raw terror at what she saw. In the midst of a nightmare of Gotham’s poverty and dark underbelly, Dr. Jonathan Crane stood calmly before her. He watched her, his arms crossed against his chest. He cocked his head to the side.
“What do you see,” he asked calmly. She turned her attention to him like he was a beacon of light in a horrible storm.
“Jonathan, help me!” She cried.
“Tell me what you see,” he said again and clucked his tongue to calm her. She looked around again at the people she saw, rummaging through mountains of trash.
“Horrible… horrible poverty. The things… the things I saw as a child. People starving, children crying…” she whimpered. Rats scrambled across her body and she screamed again, shaking against the table. “Jonathan, please!” She called for him and he waded towards her, oblivious to the horror around him. He stood above her and stroked her face. He removed the restraints from her waist and her wrists and helped her sit up. The things she saw darted out of her peripheral vision, distorted now and hard to understand. She couldn’t run because she couldn’t tell where she was anymore, where her body was in relation to her perspective. Did she even still have a body?
Dr. Crane grunted as he helped her off the table and held her up beside him. She fainted in his arms and he carried her out of the secondary lab into the corridor. He punched the elevator’s call button with his free hand and dragged her inside. As the large steel doors closed, he fished for his cellphone in his pocket and called his driver, telling him to meet him outside the hospital immediately. Crane hushed her, gently patting her head though she was still unconscious. The elevator dropped them at the floor she’d entered on originally and Crane carried her to the side door, ignoring the looks the night attendants gave the strange couple. A sleek black car waited outside in the alley, the engine running and dispelling smoky exhaust into the air around them. Crane opened the car door and helped her inside, smirking at the security guard at the door.
“Our meeting was successful, thank you officer.” He waved goodnight to the security guard who shifted awkwardly in his seat at the side door. Climbing in after her, Crane leaned over the console to speak with his driver.
“My apartment, please.” He gave the order sternly, even with the addition of the ‘please,’ and the driver nodded, speeding off into Gotham’s dark streets. His hand rested comfortably on her thigh as he watched her. She started to come to in the backseat, though the effects of the drug had still not worn off. Her breath was fast and she leaned deliriously into Crane’s shoulder, seeking protection from what she saw outside the tinted windows. She was so afraid that she felt safer in the arms of the man that had drugged her, and it would take hours to realize that, but by the time she did, the psychological effects would have already taken root.
ii
The car stopped outside of a dark apartment building in one of the only nice parts of town in Gotham city. It was raining as he helped her back out of the car and into the large lobby of his apartment building. She clung to his arm as he led her into an elevator, playing a soft melody that sounded like shrill screams to her intoxicated mind. As the elevator doors opened, effects of the drug began to wane though her heartbeat was still racing. She looked up at Crane’s sharp jaw and how he clenched it as he opened the door to his apartment and pushed her gently inside.
“I pay my people extra to turn a blind eye to everything that I do. I understand these circumstances appear even more nefarious, being that I have admittedly drugged you and brought you to my apartment. What can I say, I’m a bad feminist.” He smiled darkly and locked the door.
“When do I stop seeing… these things?” She collapsed into a chair behind her and cradled her head in her hands.
“The effects will be gone in an hour,” he responded coolly and switched on some of the lights in his modern apartment. The apartment was two stories with a spiral staircase and an elevator that led to the upstairs. She looked around, trying her best to ignore the hallucinations and study the actual apartment itself.
“You’ll be disappointed to know that I don’t have a lab here, it’s against the building’s codes. I spend very little time here actually, I’m always at Arkham or dealing with detectives… like you. I’m a busy man. Like I already told you, I have plans to ‘treat’ Falcone tomorrow so I’ll need that room free. This is the next best option and I think you’ll find it more comfortable in comparison.” He smirked and flicked a switch, immediately two restraints looped tightly around her wrists, emerging from a panel in the arms of the chair that she hadn’t noticed. Second restraints looped around her ankles, reminding her as her ankles were spread apart that he had removed her underwear. She turned her knees inward, hiding her crotch and scoffing with frustration.
“Again?” She groaned and pulled at the strong leather material holding her to the chair.
“You sound disappointed,” Crane observed with a small smirk. “It’s only temporary. I didn’t get a chance to question you back at the lab, so we’ll do that here.” He gestured to his empty apartment and started to walk toward her slowly. His lips curled cruelly as he looked her up and down, strapped to the chair. “So tell me, what do you know?” He whispered and she stopped struggling for a moment. She still felt jumpy and nervous but having him so close relieved some of those feelings. The effects of the drug wore off more but the underlying sense of anxiety and loss of control prompted her to answer honestly.
I know that you are trying to make a powerful drug that mimics fear and so far, you’ve put it in a powder form. It works when ingested in some ways and immediately elicits a response that incapacitates the victim. You want to use it widely, to control Gotham…”
“Right, what else.” He leaned on the arms of the chair, his hands grasped around her wrists.
“You don’t work for Falcone but you work with someone else. You’ve just been using Falcone’s drug operation to move your own prototypes of the fear serum. You want to be in charge and you know that fear can do whatever you want it to. The mind controls the body,” she recalled a sentence that he had used before he had thrown the powder in her face. “You’re also somehow connected to the missing micro-wave emmitter. I don’t know why but it may help you in some way, how?” She was breathing heavily like she was going to fall asleep.
“Good work, detective.”
“What are you using the micro-wave emitter for?” She asked. He chuckled and removed his hands from her wrists, backing up. He approached a small liquor cart and poured himself a drink, straight gin. She continued as he drank.
“Who are you working with and how do you expect to control Gotham when everyone loses their minds?” She could barely contain her voice, anger and confusion rose into her throat like bile.
“So many questions…” he swallowed and set down his glass, turning back to her slowly. “Aren’t you supposed to figure that out for yourself?” He raised his eyebrow.
“The mirco-wave emitter would dry out any water supply that it comes into contact with. Wouldn’t it be easier to poison the water supply, you would reach more people… unless it doesn’t have the same effect when administered in water.” She looked up at him but his face was hard. “That’s why you’ve been using it in a powder, it only works in a powder form. If you dry up the water supply and release the powder into the air, there isn’t a way to combat the effects, is there?”
Crane smiled and nodded slowly, “right again.”
“How can you control people who have lost their minds on the serum? You can’t control chaos.” She furrowed her brow and leaned forward, questioning him. Crane cocked his head and studied her for a moment, noticing the last traces of the fear serum leaving her body.
“Control has many forms, Y/N. The chaos that will come from my serum is planned, its existence is strategically executed.”
“But why are you doing this?”
“I love it when you get flustered,” he chuckled darkly at her and licked his lips, his eyes rolling before returning to her face. “It’s not just me, I work for a large organization that has been responsible for all historical catastrophes throughout history. We deal in balance, balanced chaos. They hired me because I can control fear, I know how to use it and weaponize it. Gotham needs to be balanced and it cannot be balanced without it first destroying itself. Create a closed environment with the population’s problems and confront them with chaos, the balance will soon be restored.”
“Who do you work for?” She whispered, her eyes wide.
“Don’t you mean, who do we work for?” He crouched at her feet and placed his hands on her thighs. He smiled crazily up at her and she leaned away from him.
“What?” She whispered.
“I work for the League of Shadows, and now, so do you.” He dug his finger into the soft bottom of her chin and pushed her head up so that she could see the second floor more clearly.
Standing at the rail were men clad in dark armor. One man stood out from the rest. He wore a black suit and carried a gold-tipped cane. He had long whiskers of gray hair like a mustache and steady cool eyes, deadlier than Crane’s.
“Good work, Dr. Crane.” The man kept his focus on her and her blood went cold. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Miss —. We’ve heard so much about you and of course, you’re the one that has caused us so much trouble!” He laughed sarcastically and descended the spiral staircase.
“Who are you?” She growled.
“Ra’s Al Ghul,” he smiled and the wrinkles on his face creased, pulling against his eyes. “I see you’ve already become acquainted with Dr. Crane, our very own criminal mastermind.”
“You’re too kind,” Crane smarted back, watching the girl’s face as she tried to take in all of the new information.
“Now, I have a job proposition to offer you, Miss —. You seem to have figured most of our plan out but I don’t think you understand the complexity of our organization. You see, the League of Shadows is an ancient organization that has balanced the harmony of every major city in the world since the beginning of time. Gotham has gone bad, to the point of no return. Your ‘Batman’ as you call him can’t reverse what has been brewing for years. He never saw what you did, how the people of Gotham live in filth and poverty while the elite few enjoy the spoils. This city needs to be reborn, it needs chaos to restore the balance.”
“But wouldn’t you be killing thousands of innocent people?” She interjected and Al Ghul shrugged slightly.
“Nobody’s innocent,” he answered quickly and then inhaled, clarifying, “Anyway, that’s not what we want to do here. If we take control of the city and hold it for ransom, we can work out a deal to replace the crooked government with some of our people. I’m offering you a role alongside my people. You’re smart, all that evidence you collected against Crane- none of the senior officers could have held a match to it. We destroyed it of course, as soon as Crane told us about your little visit.” She looked past Al Ghul to Crane who leaned against the wall calmly. Had they destroyed the copies? How could she be sure that they were telling the truth? “The box of evidence you had put aside for Sgt. Gordon was the hardest to find but we found it. What made you suspect Dr. Crane? Was it a gut instinct?” He drew on before she interrupted him.
“You want me to help you kill people?” She furrowed her brow and nearly laughed in disbelief.
“We want your help to save Gotham from itself and establish a new and better government.” He corrected, fixing his posture. Crane watched her closely and spoke up from the back of the room.
“She’ll do it,” he answered and she opened her mouth to interject but his smirk silenced her. “She’ll do it because whether or not she wants to admit it, Miss —, is like us.” Crane reached into his breast pocket and removed his glasses. He cleaned the panels with a dish towel and pushed them onto his nose. She looked between Crane and Al Ghul, her heart beating quickly in her chest.
“Will you join us, will you help us save Gotham?” Ra’s Al Ghul placed both of his hands on top of his walking stick and shifted his weight evenly between his feet. Crane folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head to the side, a knowing smile played on his wide pink lips. Her decision surprised her but the serum had already changed her chemistry, Crane had revealed her true self to herself and there was only one choice left.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Crane nodded, “good girl.”
iii
She was released from her restraints and she rubbed her wrists where the leather marked them. Ra’s Al Ghul snapped his fingers and a map was rolled out on Crane’s dining room table. The map was of the entire city of Gotham, showing the sewer and water lines. They explained the plan, showing her where the micro-wave emitter would be placed in the city and how it would be moved through each neighborhood.
“What about the police?” She asked and gestured to the map of the city. Crane laughed and shook his head.
“You were the only cop that suspected this, the rest will have no idea until it's already started. The person we really need to worry about is Batman,” he ran his fingers through his hair and glanced up at Al Ghul, “luckily for him, an old friend is coming by to visit.” Al Ghul nodded and smiled kindly at her.
“Batman and I go way back. I’ll take care of him.”
“What am I supposed to do?” She asked, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Crane caught himself staring and cleared his throat.
“You’ll help me with the production of the powder, ensuring that your cop friends don’t figure out too much and keeping Sgt. Gordon away from Arkham or leading him astray… anything,” Crane answered, setting his face as he spoke. She nodded.
Though they had asked her to join their efforts, they also obviously didn’t trust her completely. They wouldn’t tell her everything, she knew. Her night had gone in a completely different direction than how she had imagined it. Everything had changed after the fear serum, it had shown her that what she feared most had already happened. The police were corrupt, run by small-time gangsters and criminals and crime continued to run rampant as the state lost more and more money, forcing social service organizations to close and more families out on the streets. This whole time she thought that the police could solve the problem but they only caused it. Crane was right, she was like him and she would do anything she could to change the city. After the meeting, Crane poured her a drink and dissolved a packet of powder into the liquor. He stirred it in front of her and Al Ghul before sliding it across the table’s surface.
“This will put you to sleep for a few hours, twelve at most. It’s only a precaution to make sure that you have truly promised your allegiance to us. Everything that you say will be monitored from this point on.”
“Everything?” She looked at Crane who clenched his jaw, a faint tease of blush spread on his cheeks.
“Everything. Do as we say and follow our rules and you stay alive,” Crane finished and tapped the rim of the glass. “Now drink.”
“How do I know that you aren’t just poisoning me?” She asked the men around her.
“We’re learning to trust each other, but you have to go first.” He smiled and when Al Ghul said nothing, she took the glass and drank it slowly. The last thing she saw were Crane’s eyes, set perfectly on her.
She was conscious enough to set her glass down before falling back onto the couch. Crane approached her quickly and checked her pulse, monitoring her reaction to the drug.
“Did it work?” Ra’s Al Ghul asked behind him and he nodded.
“Yes, she’s out. Because of all the drugs in her system already, this one may take longer to wear off.”
“All the other drugs?” Al Ghul raised his eyebrow and Crane chuckled.
“I couldn’t help myself and besides,” he turned to Al Ghul, “you wanted her alive.”
“I’m not convinced that we can trust her,” Al Ghul shook his head and pointed at the map for his men to clean up.
“Oh, I’ll make sure we can.”
“With your mind tricks?” Al Ghul teased and Crane sighed, rolling his beautiful eyes.
“Don’t insult me, Ra’s. I know what I’m doing.” He warned the man calmly and nodded to the men. Two men helped carry her body as Crane led them back down the elevator into the lobby which was deserted at that time in the early morning. They climbed into Crane’s waiting car and pulled away from the curb. The girl’s body was limp against the seat and Crane resisted the urge to stare at her, fascinated by her sleeping body. The men carried her up to her apartment on the third floor of a small walkup. Crane rummaged through her coat pockets for the key into her apartment and unlocked the door.
Her apartment was small and cozy, furnished with minimal couches and chairs. Books and art decorated the walls. Crane pushed through the door and directed the men to lie her down in her bedroom, the small room off of the main living area. They men looked back at him expectantly as he stood by the doorway, watching her sleep. He rolled his eyes and shooed them away. What did they think he was going to do? He’d already fucked her. Alone in her apartment, he stood by her bed and stroked her cheek. She slept on, engulfed by unconscious darkness. He leaned over her slowly and grasped her throat gently, exhaling across her face. He said nothing but looked her up and down and smirked, pleased at the sight of her. He’d won another spoil: her.
She woke up in her bed, twisted in the sheets as if she had been restless all night. She was sweaty and hot, the air stuffy around her. Crane and Al Ghul were nowhere to be seen. She checked her watch and hurried out of bed, stripping off her clothes from the night before and into black trousers and a dark blue sweater. She stumbled into the living room and wound her hair up into a claw clip, moving towards the door when a voice startled her.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Dr. Crane spoke from the couch. He was in a fresh suit and looked well-rested. He was taking notes in a file on Falcone, his briefcase sat on the coffee table in front of him. She jumped, gasping from shock.
“Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?”
“I was waiting for you to wake up. We have work to do today. That bitch at the DA’s office wants to speak with me. I'm supposed to meet with her this afternoon. She’s questioning Falcone’s transfer.”
“I ordered the transfer after you did Falcone’s interview, maybe I could meet with her instead.”
“No, I need you to take this file to the judge on Falcone’s case. I can handle her questions.” He stood and held out Falcone’s file. “I already gave my statement at the hearing but this file will confirm my medical opinion, hopefully that will get her off my back.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Do you think Falcone will talk if she speaks with him?”
“Possibly,” he bent his head side to side and shrugged, “but we aren’t going to find out. Let’s go,” he snapped his briefcase closed and made for the front door. She glanced from the couch to her bedroom.
“Were you watching me all night?” She flushed angrily and followed him. He closed the door suddenly and spun her around, forcing her back against the front door.
“I can only say this once because they aren’t listening now but as soon as we get in the car, they’ll be monitoring you. I am keeping you alive, Miss —. I will do everything in my power to keep you alive but the second you step away from me, you’re on your own. I know we have an understanding so believe me when I say that I would prefer very much if you didn’t die. Follow my directions because they’re following you.” He said in a harsh whisper, a strand of hair falling into his face. They stared at each other in silence, exchanging breath when he kissed her harshly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and moaned softly against his lips. He bucked into her hips and she gasped softly against his jaw. And just as quickly, he pulled away, breathing heavily and led her out the door and down the stairs into the waiting car.
“I’ll need my gun back,” she pointed out as they settled on the backseat. Crane sighed, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He opened a small compartment in the car door and retrieved her gun. As he held it out, he took her jaw in his other hand, his thumb pressing into her fleshy cheek.
“This is where that trust would come in handy, detective.” He whispered darkly. She looked at his lips and then up to his eyes, speechless around him. He watched her struggle for words and chuckled, handing her the gun. “Be careful, Y/N, and remember Ra’s plan.” He looked at her lips and sniffed, slapping the roof of the car. “This is her stop.”
iv
She met with the judge who oversaw Falcone’s case and gave him the thick folder. He looked at it briefly before recognizing the information.
“I appreciate you coming out to speak to me about Falcone’s transfer to Arkham but I cleared everything with Ms. Dawes yesterday. She’s already scheduled a second psychiatrist to meet with Falcone first thing tomorrow morning. She mentioned that she’s also requested Dr. Crane’s case file. Has she seen this?” He waved the folder and she clicked her tongue, shocked that she had scheduled a second opinion and that Crane didn’t know about it.
“I’m not sure, sir. I was the detective working with the prosecution and I was the one who oversaw Dr. Crane’s examination and request for transfer. I can attest to Falcone's mood at the time as well. He screamed nonstop as Crane was trying to conduct a test of sanity. Anyway, I wanted to make sure that you saw Dr. Crane’s diagnosis in the aftermath of his transfer. This has updated notes that Dr. Crane shared with me. It might be useful in your deliberation.” She smiled and the judge looked down his nose at the folder.
“Good point. Thank you, detective. This is helpful.” He opened the folder on his desk and put on his rounded spectacles.
“Well now that we’ve spoken, I’ll try to catch Dawes and save her the trouble.” She pushed back her chair and brushed off her trousers.
“Miss —?” The judge called from his desk.
“Yes, sir?” She looked back.
“Dr. Crane has committed many of Falcone’s men to Arkham in the past few months, is that correct?”
“Yes,” she nodded and her heart raced.
“That must be a pretty crazy group.” The judge laughed and went back to the folder, completely missing the pattern. She sighed in relief and left quickly. She started to walk to Arkham, moving so quickly she felt like she may have been running. Dawes had already scheduled a second opinion, meaning that she was probably at Arkham pressuring Crane for his detailed diagnosis. It would take Dawes one second to figure it out so she hoped she could get there quickly enough to do something. She had no plan which she knew was stupid but whatever was bound to happen in the next few hours would be bad and she needed to help Crane. Her phone began to ring and she put it to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Y/N.”
“Ra’s?”
“Are you on your way to Arkham?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Turn around and go back to your precinct. I want you to stick close to Sgt. Gordon, go where he goes. You’re his top detective so run with it. If anything happens at Arkham, he’ll be there and I want you there with him. Crane will be fine.”
She slowed to a stop, skeptical but wanting to believe what her new boss was telling her, “ok, sir.”
After a second of silence, Ra’s added, “It’s Batman’s birthday and what better way to celebrate a playboy than with chaos?” The call ended before she could respond.
She spun around and headed straight for the precinct. She spotted Gordon at his desk, working on paperwork. She hurried over and knocked on the door, letting herself in when he waved.
“Good, I’m glad to see you. I need to run some ideas by you for the Falcone case.”
“I just dropped off Crane's diagnosis for the judge but he said that Dawes may be seeking a second opinion.”
“About that -” The intercom went off with a loud screech.
“Attention all units! Attention all units! Batman was spotted at Arkham Asylum. He is believed to be armed and dangerous. Backup is requested at this time.” The voice repeated with a robotic drone. Sgt. Gordon looked from the speaker to her and grabbed his coat from his chair.
“We need to get to the asylum right now.” Gordon yelled and she followed him closely, checking that her gun was still secured to her hip. She clipped her badge to her front pocket and pretended to sound confused.
“Why are we going, Sgt? Do you think this is about Falcone?”
“It might, I’d feel better if I was there to find out; and if Batman is there, someone’s in trouble.” They hurried down the stairs and climbed into a car. Gordon sped away from the precinct and ran red lights. The tires bled across the roads as they came to a screeching halt behind a row of police cars parked outside the Asylum.
“Why is everyone waiting outside?” She yelled over the noise. An officer standing with his gun aimed at the building yelled back.
“We’re waiting for backup!”
“They’ll be here soon, sir. We should wait!” She yelled over the noise at the Sgt.
Gordon looked up at the building and pulled his gun from his holster. He started moving towards the building, looking back to wave her on.
“I’m going in. You coming?” He called.
She groaned anxiously beneath her breath before responding, “yes, sir!” They raced up the stairs into the lobby which was left completely vacant. Gordon held up his gun and she followed suit, staying close behind him. She felt the urge to kill him now and find Crane but her gut warned her that someone else was in the room, watching. They walked slowly through the main corridor, past the abandoned security checkpoint, creeping closer to the wide atrium. When they stepped beneath the enormous domed ceiling a loud noise broke through the top of the building. She looked up and covered her face with her forearm to protect her eyes from large shards of falling glass. She saw a large dark blur surround Sgt. Gordon and pull him up to the roof.
“Sgt. Gordon!” She yelled after him. She knew immediately that the blur was that bastard Batman. A small laugh escaped her mouth as she shook her head and lowered her gun. A group of SWAT ran in seconds later. She pointed at the ceiling with her gun and called them over.
“He came down and took Sgt. Gordon!”
“Who?” Someone yelled at her and she shook her head, pretending to be unsure.
“I don’t know! I think it was Batman.” She yelled, adding to their panic.
“Batman!” Someone shouted and in the moment of distraction, she slipped away into a side corridor. She bolted towards a staircase and stopped at every floor, looking for signs of activity. Her body burned with soreness as she sprinted down each corridor. She wanted to scream his name but her lungs wouldn’t allow her the extra air to do so. She rounded a corner and ran into a group of police. They all started shouting at her until she showed them her badge.
“I’m a detective- What the hell is going on here?” She yelled.
“We’re looking for Dr. Crane!”
“Have you seen Sgt. Gordon?” She asked, panting and trying not to panic when they mentioned Crane’s name. “He disappeared and I've been looking for him.”
“No, we haven’t. We got a call that they found drugs in the building and then Batman showed up. Crane was running the operation.” One police officer responded and jerked their head to the side where they were going to run next. “It's down this corridor!”
“I’ll come with you,” she shouted and led the unit, her gun pointed at the ground. Two large doors were falling off their hinges further down the hallway. The room itself was smokey and gaseous. She looked down from the doorway where there were stairs leading into a cement lined room like an empty indoor pool. Tables were littered with Crane’s fear serum and men that she assumed were dead. Huge vats of liquid marked with a toxic symbol sat on their sides by an open waterline.
“This is it,” she said to the officer beside her and started to descend the staircase. The smoke made it hard to see so she moved slowly, looking around the floor for Crane’s familiar face. The men she saw were all part of Falcone’s posse who had been hired to help the drug operation run. Something snapped beneath her food and she looked down, seeing Crane’s scarecrow mask which she recognized from his drawing. She picked it up and looked around anxiously, her fingers around the gun shook. Then she saw him. Crane was propped up against a wall and bleeding slightly from the head, a thin trail of blood oozed on the wall behind his head. He was panting and flailing around, his pupils were mere penpoints. He’d been attacked with his own fear powder. She looked around before dropping into a crouch beside him. He recognized her but continued to shake, his eyes darting around her head.
“Jonathan,” she whispered, “it's me.”
“Did you find him?” Someone shouted and she yelled back that she had. He raised a judgemental eyebrow, his mouth forming a cuss word. His glasses were gone.
“Trust me, Crane.” She whispered against his ear and held his wrists together. She took her handcuffs from her belt and handcuffed him.
v
She leaned against the wall and tapped her foot anxiously as they strapped him into a white straightjacket. She crossed the room and helped the officer secure the last belt, thankful for any excuse to touch him and remind him that she was still there. Looking up at her, he spat and she flinched slightly. His light eyes were ringed with red swollen skin and she wondered if he really felt betrayed by her. She wiped his spit from her cheek and returned to her place by the wall.
“So this is the scarecrow,” Sgt. Gordon entered the room and let the door slam shut. Crane jumped from the noise and closed his eyes, taking a deep shaky breath.
“Scarecrow… scarecrow.” Crane whispered with his eyes closed and shifted within the straightjacket. Sgt. Gordon pulled up a chair, the metal scraping against the floor, bristling Crane into opening his eyes.
“What was the plan, Crane? How were you going to get the toxin into the air?” Gordon asked calmly and fingered the scarecrow mask. Her stomach turned watching Crane struggle to regain control over his mind. He shook and his eyes darted around the room, landing once or twice on her. She kept a straight face, giving no sign that she was terrified that something would happen to him or she would accidentally reveal something about him that they didn’t already know. When Crane didn’t respond, Gordon continued, his voice rising.
“Who were you working for?” Gordon pressed and Crane’s eyes snapped to his, a crazy smile pulling at his lips.
“Oh, it’s too late. You can’t stop it now.” He spoke through shivers, cutting up his words. He smiled at the end and Gordon shook his head. He stood and shoved the mask into her hands.
“Here. Stay with Crane.” He growled and left the room, his footsteps echoing through the heavy steel door. She looked down at the mask in her hands and hid her smile. There was only one officer left in the room with them and she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to come up with a quick plan.
“Are there any officers outside?” She asked the cop by the door who peeked his head outside the door.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good,” she smiled and raised her gun when the door snapped behind him. “Then this should be easy.” She cocked the gun and cornered the officer. “Face the wall,” she ordered and when he turned, she hit him over the head with the butt of her pistol, knocking him unconscious. She quickly handcuffed him and checked outside one last time before running over to Crane. He was still recovering from the toxin, his face set in a deep frown. She began to free him from his restraints, glancing at the door every few seconds. His eyes stayed on her face and he kept muttering things below his breath. When she undid the last restraint he jumped up and it fell from around his shoulders to the floor. She started to smile when he lunged at her and pushed her up against the tiled wall. Her hair clip cracked against the tile and clattered to the floor in pieces. She gasped beneath his hands, one holding her throat and the other grabbing the slack in her sweater, exposing her navel.
“You betrayed me,” he growled, “you told Gordon... I saw you.” His eyes were wild and glazed, he looked right through her.
“What?” she gasped out though his hand was crushing her windpipe.
“I saw you two! You fucked him. You fucked him!” He yelled, his body shook with anger like he was coming down from an adrenaline high.
“No, I didn’t!” She struggled beneath his hands, “this is the toxin talking, Jonathan! I didn’t betray you-”
“But you fucked him,” his voice twisted into a heatbreaking whine, an image flicked before his eyes and he closed them quickly, shaking it from his head.
“No!” She coughed and she could feel herself getting light-headed.
“You love him,” his voice was breaking beneath him and his eyes darted between hers as the toxin showed him more and more; everything of which included her.
“Jonathan!” she screamed and hit his chest hard with closed fists, “I can’t fucking breathe!”
His eyes snapped open wider and he released his grip around her throat. Her feet landed on the ground and she coughed, sinking into a crouch against the wall. Crane stepped back and watched her silently. He was still shaking as he ran a hand anxiously through his hair.
“Why would I save you if I loved him?” She cried in frustration, rubbing her bruised throat. “It’s the toxin, Jonathan… I didn’t do the things you think I did,” her voice softened. She looked up at him and stood slowly, grabbing onto the wall for support. Crane cradled his head in his hands and whimpered.
“What do you see?” she asked quietly and stepped closer. He shook his head and created more distance between them. “Jonathan, tell me.” She pressed and he exhaled with a soft shutter.
“You… fuck,” he started through heavy breaths, working himself up again. “I see you and Gordon…” He rubbed his eyes and looked back up at her. “It’s been so long since…”
“Since what?” She furrowed her brow, questioning. His eyes darted away into the corner and he shook.
“Since my father last used it…” he took a deep breath and finished his sentence with a lengthy exhale, “on me.”
“The fear toxin?” She whispered, slowly starting to understand what he was suggesting. He nodded and flinched as if something had attacked him. Was he saying that his father used a prototype of the fear toxin on him? She grabbed onto the sleeve of his suit jacket and tugged his attention away.
“It’s just me. There’s no one else- nothing else in here except for me,” she gestured to the nearly empty room (the officer was still unconscious in the corner). “And I’m here for you,” she whispered and closed the distance between them, her hands slipped around his small waist beneath his suit jacket. She felt his body tense beneath her embrace before slowly (very slowly) releasing its tension. He didn’t hug her back but rested his forehead on her shoulder. She stroked his hair, and found the shallow wound on the back of his head. She ducked her head as she pulled away, finding his mouth and kissing him gently. The toxin was slowly wearing off and she could tell he was only beginning to return to his normal self.
“We need to get up to my office,” he muttered and looked at the door. “They’re releasing the patients.”
“What?” She furrowed her brow. Crane sighed and shook his head.
“Ra’s gave orders to open all of the cells. The patients will be let loose into the city.” He licked his lips and looked down at her. “We need to get upstairs.” His expression was tense as she could tell he was trying to fight the lingering effects of the toxin. She nodded.
“Show me where to go.”
He pulled her through the door and they ran down the corridor to an elevator. When the doors opened, Crane used his key to override the system, preventing anyone else from calling the elevator. He pressed the button for the floor with his office, not realizing that his other hand was squeezing tightly around hers. When the doors opened again, they rushed down the hallway and into Crane’s office. He sighed when the door was locked and the blinds closed.
“What are we going to do?” She asked him quietly and he inhaled slowly.
“I need to inject you with the antidote so the toxin doesn’t affect you when we leave the building.” He murmured, more to himself.
“We’re going out there?” She tried to keep the fear from her voice but he detected it instantly, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you scared?” He asked automatically.
“Of both of us dying out there at the hands of one of your old patients, yes, yes I am.” She nearly laughed.
“Don’t you want to be part of the fun?” The Jonathan Crane she knew was definitely coming back.
“I’d rather not become the ‘fun’,” she quipped and he smirked.
“As you wish.”
She followed him into his lab and he rummaged through a collection of vials arranged on one of the counters. Finding the right one, he slipped it inside a cartridge of what looked like an epipen.
“Pull down your pants,” he ordered and then it was her turn to raise her eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that and do what I tell you,” he said sternly and she did as he asked, pulling down her trousers where he had access to her thigh. “This will hurt,” he warned her before immediately plunging the needle into the fat around her thigh. She hissed in pain and heaved out a breath.
“The good news is that you don’t have to ever do this again,” he patted her leg and buttoned her pants for her. “Now me,” he changed the vial and unbuckled his pants. He raised the hem of his boxers and punctured the needle into his upper thigh. He grunted in pain and closed his eyes for a moment and whistled out a tight breath. A large explosion shook the ground below their feet. She jumped and winced as she landed on her sore leg. Without opening his eyes, Crane nodded.
“And that would be the patients leaving the building now.” He withdrew the needle and tossed it to the side, buckling his pants.
“Let me see your head,” she touched his arm and he leaned forward slightly, turning his head where she could see it clearly. She carded her fingers through his dark hair and parted the dark roots away from the shallow wound. “It's a small cut, you’ll live.”
“Thanks, doctor.” He smirked. Her fingers shifted through his hair as he straightened and she tried not to look disappointed when they were no longer twirled around his black locks.
“Are you back now?” She looked up into his eyes, looking for trances of fear.
“I think so,” he responded and traced his index finger around the collar of her sweater. There were small bruises where his fingers had been when he forced her against the wall in his state of panic. “Was I terrible?” He whispered.
“Not more than usual,” she laughed lightly and covered his hand with hers. “I’m ok.” She insisted and he furrowed his eyebrows and licked his lips.
He was going to apologize, he was going to tell her how much he loved her and that was why he had reacted so strongly to the toxin, but the words died on his lips so instead he said, “We should leave before the city goes all the way under.”
“They’ll raise the bridges so no one can leave, it’s too late.”
Crane chuckled and leaned against the lab table behind him, his fingers grasping around the edge. “And once again, you severely underestimate me. Come on.”
vi
“Get on,” Crane held the bridle and gestured for her to mount the large black steed.
“You’re kidding right?” She looked around at the burning city and then back to the police horse who’d lost its rider.
“I wish I was,” he sighed and tugged her closer by her waistband, “now giddy-up, Miss —.” He joked flatley and pushed her up onto the saddle. He hoisted himself up after her and sat in front, taking the reins in his hands. She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed her thighs around the horse's stomach, holding on for dear life.
“Where the hell did you learn to ride a horse?” She yelled over the panic and she felt him chuckle.
“Oh, there are a lot of things that you don’t know about me, detective.” He smirked and kicked the horse into action. She gasped and held him tighter as they flew through the violence-strewn streets. She couldn’t imagine how ridiculous they looked to the people of Gotham but under the influence of the fear toxin, she hoped people were more afraid than amused seeing a man in a full suit riding a horse. Crane focused on the route ahead, navigating them through the broken city.
“Where’s Ra’s?” She yelled into his ear.
“Forget about him.” He growled and urged the horse faster.
“Why? What happened?”
“He tricked me. He didn't just want to impose an arguably better government, he wanted to kill everyone and to kill us too. He tipped off Batman and that’s how Batman found me. He didn't need me after the toxin had been released. He kept you away from me, didn’t he?” He called over his shoulder, leaping over a crashed car.
“Yes, he told me to go to the precinct instead when I tried to warn you about the DA.”
“He wanted Batman to find me and he assumed that you’d get stuck here after you followed Gordon. Two birds with one stone. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.” He growled and turned the horse onto a side-street and into an alley.
“Where are we going?” She asked, her grip tightening around Crane as she saw people screaming in the streets.
“To my father’s house.”
“How?” His father’s house? After his father had probably done something horrible to him?
“Just hold on,” he warned and flicked the reins again. She closed her eyes, wanting to block out the terror in the streets. While some of it gave her pleasure to see the raw side of humanity express itself, it reminded her of what she had seen as a child- the side of people that came out when they needed to survive.
They rode to the edge of the city and Crane slowed the horse to a stop beside a tall building that looked abandoned. He hopped off of the horse and helped her down, catching her as she forced herself to slip over the saddle. The building was far enough away from the inner-city that it looked like it hadn’t been touched yet by the chaos, though the toxins had definitely reached it.
“We need to get to the roof,” he informed her calmly and pointed her to the elevator.
“Another elevator…” she whispered beneath her breath, knowing it wasn’t the right time to mention how much she hated the idea of going into one when the world around them was ending. Crane pressed the button labeled “20R,” and the elevator began to soar up. The elevator had windows that opened into the city. As the elevator climbed, they could see the destruction of Gotham and right across the bridge, normalcy.
“Ra’s is moving the micro-wave emitter by the high speed rail. If his plan goes accordingly, the emitter will poison the other side of the city beneath Wayne tower.” He pointed out the tall Wayne building from their vantage point. “I hate Gotham and I hate Batman, but I think I hate Ra’s Al Ghul more.” He sneered distastefully. “We could have run Gotham…” he sighed and shrugged, “maybe another day.”
She couldn’t help herself but laugh. Being with Crane had opened her eyes to a new side of herself, one that was dark and masochistic. She liked this side better, way better. She liked thinking that one day she could be in charge, force out all of the government officials that were too dumb or sexist to listen to her. She could lead beside Crane…
When the elevator doors opened a gust of wind met them. The doors opened onto the roof of the huge building. A helicopter stood in the center of a large bull’s eye, its blades running in circles above their heads. Crane’s hair ruffled in the wind and he squinted his eyes against it. Her mouth fell open in shock and Crane chuckled at her reaction.
“That’s the funny thing about, trust, detective. I don’t believe in it,” he smirked and beckoned her to the helicopter’s doors.
“You planned this?” She yelled as he gestured her to climb onto the landing gear.
“Of course,” he smiled, "I always have a backup plan." Her mary janes slipped across the bars as she climbed and Crane supported her back, guiding her back into the body of the machine. He pulled himself inside after her and collapsed in one of the seats. She tried to orient herself, looking around the small helicopter, landing on the pilot. The pilot nodded at Crane, he was wearing a thick mask and goggles to keep the toxin away.
“Ready doctor?” The pilot called from the front and Crane nodded breathlessly. He looked at her and clenched his jaw, returning to the version of Crane she knew so well.
“Yes.”
#cillian murphy#fanfiction#cillian fanfic#jonathan crane smut#jonathan crane x reader#jonathan crane fanfic#jonathan crane#dc scarecrow#hot scarecrow#young cillian murphy#cillian fluff#robert fischer#batman begins#long reads#multi chap fic#cillian x fem!reader
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Karaoke Night | Dr Strange x Fem!Reader
Karaoke Night | Dr Strange x Fem!Reader
| just a good ole fic
| 3165 words
| RATED 13+. just fluff here.
| The sorcerer supreme, the master of the mystic arts, and the disciple walk in to a karaoke bar on a Saturday night, fun ensues.
| NOTE: this is best read while listening to the made playlist. have fun reading! check out the playlist HERE. (you can also find the playlist at the end of the post)
You heard the door creak open and you looked up from your book to see Master Wong enter your study room. He’s got that look in his eye and you knew exactly what would be the words that he’s about to say.
“Are you up for some karaoke tonight?” he asked.
He knows it’s an offer you could not pass up, honestly, why does he even bother asking? He already knows you love karaoke, even if you don’t participate in the actual singing. Wong, on the other hand, loves karaoke too, and singing.
“How could I refuse?” you stood up from your seat and marked the book.
“Is he coming?” you asked as the two of you walked down the hallway.
“I’ll make sure of it.” Wong said and continued down the hallway, with a mission in his every stride.
As it was a cold night in Manhattan tonight, yet you still opted to dress into a casual dress, and of course your platform boots. You rarely dress down as you spend the majority of your days wearing training robes and tunics, and so you grabbed the opportunity given to you tonight, to wear one of the limited number of dresses you own. You studied yourself in the mirror, deciding if you should put on a bit of makeup or at least fix your hair into something acceptable than its usual mess. You decided to do both.
When you stepped down the grand staircase of the Sanctum, you spotted Wong and Stephen standing by the door. They dressed casually too, but you can’t help admire Stephen’s style. He looked simply handsome in his chambray shirt topped with his black sweater. You also can’t help notice the grump painted on his beautiful face, his brows furrowed and his lips thinned into a line. You suppress a laugh; in fear you might become the spotlight of his teasing tonight.
Stephen caught your vision in the corner of his eye. He must admit that he’s not in the mood to go out and mingle with other people tonight. As soon as Wong peeked his head in his study, he said no. But then he thought, it’s karaoke night, that means you’re coming.
And that’s a moment he could not miss out. Karaoke night means you’d let your hair loose and you’d make every moment out of it having fun.
He’d rather miss a ton of mystic spell readings than miss your pretty smile.
Plus, this could be the night he’d get you to step on the platform, hold the microphone, and sing.
Yours and Stephen’s eyes meet and instantly, his face softens into a smile. It was an involuntary movement. Stephen sometimes wonders if something is wrong with his facial muscles because as soon as he sees you, his face relaxes, his lips ease into a smile. He’s so close to diagnosing himself with a pseudobulbar effect, he’s a doctor after all, but then it could just be a bad case of you. He hopes it’s the latter.
You stood next to them as you slipped on your coat and Stephen took a minute to admire you. You looked positively stunning in your dress, he needed a minute to stop his heart and resuscitate himself. And when you looked back over your shoulder and gave him a grin, Stephen was sure his soul just floated into the seventh circle of heaven.
He must admit, his silly crush on you is getting worse with each passing day. You invaded his mind like an incessant thought, your voice and your laugh like an earworm in his ear. He fears he might be falling in love with you every single day, but as Christine once said to him, “face your fears.”
This could be the night he finally follows her advice.
You and Wong started to babble about the songs he’s going to sing as you stepped through the portal to the karaoke bar. Wong said he’s going to sing Hotel California, and you have to laugh, of course he’s going to sing that classic, it’s his favorite. You noticed Stephen was quiet, not like his usual sharp-tongued self.
“You okay?” you asked him as you stepped back to walk with him.
“Fine, just saving my voice.” he looked down and saw you smile, your eyes twinkling.
“Hope you up your game this time Strange, you’re on a losing streak.” you giggled.
“I’m starting to think you have a crush on Wong, you always pick him as the winner.” he huffed.
“Hey! I don’t pick him; he just has a better singing voice.”
“I doubt that!”
“Not my fault your throat was scratchy last week, Stephen.” he rolled his eyes at your retort and stopped walking. You stopped too and looked at him.
“I’m going to win this time, Y/N. Mark my words.” he gazed at you, his eyes cold and you could see the promise behind in every black pool of his eyes.
“What if you don’t?” you stepped closer to him.
“I’ll make sure that I’ll win tonight.” he said, and you could feel his warmth of breath and the depth of his voice. Your eyes drift from his eyes to his lips, and he did the same, finding your lips more interesting than anything.
If he steps closer, just an inch closer to you, he’d finally know what your lips would taste like. And if you did the same, you’d finally know how truly soft his lips are, you’d finally know what it’s like to have his beautiful lips against yours. If only the two of you had the courage to do that, to find out for yourselves what the two of you have been missing, but Wong whistled, bringing you back to now, and urging you two to hurry up because you might lose the karaoke room he’s reserved.
You broke the trance by holding his hand and leading him through the crowded bar. When you two entered the private room, Wong was already entering his first entries, excited to start the night. You commenced the night in your own way, by slowly drinking the apple flavored beers that come free every time you rent a karaoke room. When Wong stepped aside to let Stephen enter his song numbers, you flipped on the mini disco ball and the first bars of Hotel California filled the room.
“Welcome to the Hotel California! Such a lovely place…” you sang along as Wong’s voice boomed through the room.
“Such a lovely face…” Stephen echoed the lyrics, finding it hard to avoid staring at you.
You swayed your body in time with the rhythm, starting to loosen up. Stephen too, did the same, after taking a few sips of liquid courage. And when the guitar solo came in, Stephen imitated it and you stood next to him, trying to outperform him. When the song ended, you clapped and cheered. Stephen stepped up on the platform and grabbed the mic, tapped it and Hall and Oates’ You Make My Dreams Come True started to rock the room.
“You make my dreams come true,” Stephen sang and pointed at you.
“I do?!” you played along and screamed through the music like his number one fan. Who are you even kidding? You are his number one fan; you just hope he knows it.
“Yeah you do!” Stephen’s reply was heard throughout the room and he gave you a wink.
He continued to buck his hips along the music and you swear, he’s got hips like Mick Jagger. He was undeniably gorgeous under the colorful lights; his hair was starting to get disheveled and his smile lines were back. You watch him in awe as he brings the song to an end, his voice flawlessly hitting every note.
As he stepped down the platform, you applauded, your hands stinging at how hard you did it. Your eyes glittered in admiration for him and Stephen caught a glimpse of it, the bright lights reflecting in your eyes.
“This next song is for you Y/N!” Wong whooped and the familiar beats of Africa by Toto filled the tiny karaoke room.
“He turned to me as if to say, ‘hurry Strange she’s waiting there for you!’” Wong sang and gave Stephen a pointed stare. The sorcerer supreme definitely knows what’s up between you and Strange. Wong is getting disappointed at his friend for he still hasn’t got on his big boy pants and admitted to you that he’s got feelings for you.
“It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from youuu…” Stephen sang along and looked at you with a smile.
“There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever dooo…” you sang and braved a glance at Stephen.
He was looking at you and your cheeks started to burn. He smiled and decided to save you from being flustered. He did so by standing closer to you and putting his arm around your shoulders, together swaying and singing along to the remaining lyrics of the song. In his close presence, you felt instantly and ultimately better, you just wished the dancing lights hid your blushing cheeks.
The next song showed off Stephen’s smooth baritone voice. True by Spandau Ballet.
“Why do I find it hard to write the next line? Oh, I want the truth to be said.” he sang the lyrics, he had no trouble singing the song as he knew it by heart. But different words floated in his mind; Why do I find it hard to say that I love you? Oh, I want my truth to be said…
“Ha ha ha haa haaa, I know this, much is true…” you dreamily sang, your hand clutching your beer bottle. Stephen could make out your voice from the loud sound system. Your voice sounded soft, almost dreamy, and he smiled to himself.
Wong’s next song brought you up to your feet even if it was already aching. Stephen took a quick swig of beer before joining you on the floor. You snapped along the first notes of Queen’s A Kind of Magic and coaxed Stephen to dance with you. He happily obliged. He spun you around and giggled when he pulled away to imitate the guitar riff with Wong.
Once again, you snapped along to the song’s hypnotic bass, clicking your fingers along the song while you did your best to seductively sway your body. Stephen watched you as you danced towards him and he found it hard not to kiss you and take you right there and then. Your efforts to seduce him into another dance must’ve worked as he grasped your hand, pulled you to him and you two danced into another boogie as the song ended. It was uncoordinated and fun. As the last notes died away, the two of you were laughing, nerves alight with adrenaline.
Prisoner Of Your Love by Player was up next and Stephen grabbed the mic from the stand. Intending to sing on your makeshift dance floor instead at the platform.
“It took me time to realize I’m where I wanna be…” Stephen crooned and his smooth velvet voice filled your ears. You can’t keep your eyes off him as he earnestly sang the song, his body following the sultry beat.
“Better drink up, Y/N. The next one will make you dance again.” Wong laughed as he took a sip of his drink.
“Ugh, you know me so well.” you groaned and playfully rolled your eyes. The first notes of More Than a Woman by Bee Gees faded in.
Stephen met you in the middle of the floor and he offered his hand.
“I’m no John Travolta, but would you do me the honor?” he asked, his eyes soft against the vivid and dancing disco lights. You took his hand and sidled closer to him.
“Even if John asked me at this same instance, I’d dance with you instead.” you replied, letting your feelings slip. You quietly blame the alcohol.
“Oh, say you’ll always be my baby, we can make it shine…” Stephen sang close to your ear.
“We can take forever, just a minute at a time.” you said, echoing the lyrics of the song.
“More than a woman, more than a woman to me…” Wong sang, and watched the two of you sway and spin around. He smirked to himself, knowing his plan was working.
He was right, he was no John Travolta. Because you doubt Travolta would ever hold you so close, so close you could almost feel his heartbeat. No, Stephen would never be like him. Stephen held you close to him, and at first you feared he might feel your racing heartbeat. You were afraid that your heart would betray you at that very moment. But you felt infinitely better when you felt his heartbeat. It was also fast, just like yours.
Could it be the adrenaline of dancing? Or could it be that he's feeling the same? Could it be the two of you are just bumbling fools who love each other but are scared to admit it? You lightly shake your head at the thought.
You looked up at him and gazed at his eyes, you saw his dark pools slowly growing and your eyes probably did the same. Stephen smiled at you and you were undone. His smile was soft and you could almost feel your heartstrings tug, your cheeks heat up. Suddenly, he started to lean into you. He gently dipped you, and you closed your eyes.
In arms, you felt secure and safe, under his gaze you felt loved.
It was almost the perfect setting; the two of you dancing to 70’s disco under the colorful lights with Wong perfectly imitating Barry Gibb’s falsetto. Stephen wanted to kiss at that very moment; you holding on to his arms, your eyes closed and lashes fanned against your cheeks, your lips looked so soft and inviting.
But it wasn’t the perfect moment. If Wong planned for this moment for the two of you to kiss; just like in Saturday Night Fever (1977), Stephen would say thanks for his effort but he had other plans.
And so, he just planted a kiss on your cheek before helping you back up again. Your shared intimate interlude was broken when you heard Wong’s voice crack while imitating Gibb’s infamous falsettos. You and Stephen giggled, Stephen mostly roaring and laughing at Wong. You had to playfully swat his arm and warn him to play nice. The three of you took advantage of the break and drank some water while the last notes of the song faded. You sit on the plush sofa and watch as the two men bicker.
“Wong is not the winner for tonight.” Stephen said, looking at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Don’t be so sure about that, Stephen. You haven’t sung your last song.” you replied.
“You might want to be sure that I am the clear winner for tonight’s karaoke night.” he said and grabbed the two microphones from the platform. Your eyes grew in alarm and you turned to Wong, only to find him smirking. You watched as Stephen walked towards you, and once he was in front of you, he held out a microphone.
“Nobody puts my baby in a corner.” he winked and you gulped. Something must’ve run through your veins, it could be the four bottles of apple flavored beer, or it might be just the mere fact that you love Stephen and you’d do anything for him.
And if he wants you to stand up on the platform with him and sing The Time of My Life with him, you’d do it. So, you pried the offered microphone from his hand, and followed him to the front of the room.
“Now I’ve had the time of my life, and I’ve never felt this way before. Yes, I swear, it’s the truth, and I owe it all to you…” Stephen started the song, his eyes not leaving yours.
“Cause I’ve had the time of my life, and I owe it all to you.” you heard your voice through the speakers and you saw Stephen smile at you. His heart swelled in pride and in pure love. He took your hand and you visibly eased. The two of you shared a smile before turning to the screen to sing the next lyrics, together.
“Just remember,”
“You’re the one thing,”
“I can’t get enough of,”
“So, I’ll tell you something,”
“This could be love.” the two of you sang the lyrics, your voices blending in perfect harmony. Stephen smiled, marveling at how perfect the two of you are. Your hands fit perfectly, hearts beating in sync, and voices harmonizing, and becoming as one.
As the instrumental sounded through the room, Stephen finally gave in to the urge of giving you a spin. You happily acquiesced with a grin on your lips, your body crashing against his. And just in time, as the sax solo of the song played through the speakers, Stephen finally kissed you.
You melted in his arms and you snaked your hand to his neck to hold on, in fear you might fall over from the intensity of his kiss. Your lips molded onto his, gently tasting his lips, tasting him. He broke away from the kiss just in time as the instrumental ended, his eyes closed, a grin painted on his lips.
Every song he chose that night, every lyric he sang, was all for you. Every note he crooned, every word that fell from his lips, was dedicated to you. And now, to finally confess his feelings with a special moment with you, with a song you love so much, and with a kiss, he feels as if he is the winner of the karaoke night.
This is the time of his life. And now, it’s also yours.
“Fucking finally!” Wong’s voice boomed through the room, startling you both and pulling you both out of the moment.
You and Stephen brought the song to an end, smiley and eyes shining with bliss. It felt liberating to finally have your feelings for him to be finally known, to be finally heard through the karaoke machine’s sound system. And you just have to give it to Stephen for being weirdly romantic; confessing his love for you through songs? Classic.
When the song finally ended, you embraced him. Stephen did the same, burying his head on your shoulder. You could hear Wong clapping and cheering. He was obviously happy to see his friends finally together after two years of mucking and tiptoeing around. When you drew apart, tears were brimming in your eyes and Stephen wiped away a tear that had fallen down from your pretty eyes.
“Am I the winner tonight?” he asked and you giggled at his cheekiness.
“You are, you’re the winner of my every night.” you beamed at him before leaning into a kiss.
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Accidental Marriage Pt.4
Stephen Strange x OFC
Warnings: Implied/referenced sex, light angst and english is not the author's first lenguage
Summary: For the prompt "Accidental Marriage."
“So… Do you put on my last name, or will this get a little Stranger?"
Or: Cassandra Paulssen meets Stephen Strange twice. Once as master and student and once as husband and wife.
Not in that particular order.
Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4
Notes: It's been so long. There is literally no excuse. I hope you like it. Any comment is appreciated ❤️
PD: I may come back later to edit a couple of words. I'm very tired, but I wanted to publish this before going to sleep. Enjoy!
The book slipped through Cassandra's fingers and landed with a soft thud on the surface of the table.
She stroked, with slow fingers, the divinely preserved ink on the yellow pages, and scanned out of the corner of her eye the long shadow stretched across the library floor: its abnormally elongated form occupying the previously empty space just behind her back.
De Motu Cordis, she read to herself. Contemplating the taste of the other presence in the room; the miasma, thick as cold wax of ancient magic, and the heavy silence that occupied the once serene, earthy atmosphere of the London library.
Would Stephen be interested in something like this? She wondered. She considered the weight of the antique binding, the precious preservation of an original copy, and opted to add it to the pile. He's an avid reader, she reminded herself. Surely he has mastered Latin by now.
And if not... well, Cassandra was used to reading to her children.
The figure shifted, and Cassandra's gaze finally landed on the deep dark eyes of Kaecilius, Ancestral's famous renegade apprentice.
"Master Rama is not at the Sanctuary," Cassandra told him. Turning slightly to check another book on the shelf to her left, her face far away but her senses well oriented towards the dark Sorcerer.
"I know," he replied. His voice was husky, and his words flexed with a certain curious accent. "His presence would not present a setback, in any case."
Stephen's voice is deeper, she hummed in her head.
"Should I be worried?"
"That depends," Kaecilius replied. Cassandra felt his appraising gaze sweep over her profile, noting her plain clothes, her coiled hair, and the lack of artifacts on her person. "What is your role here, woman? Are you another one of Ancestral's blind lambs?"
"Would you believe me if I told you I was the librarian?" she asked, and allowed a slight glance at his wary expression, at his intense greenish eyes, obscured by his scowl and the stern tilt of his head.
"Are you?"
Cassandra's fingers wrapped around a small piece of metal, hidden by the stack of books on her desk:
"Would you cut off my head if I were?"
The sling ring slipped over her fingers with ease, and Cassandra's voice was accompanied by an impassive stare as she turned her body slowly to confront the sorcerer completely.
Kaecilius sneered, and walked in a slow circle around her as she remained immobile, both hands behind her back: "I should have figured that trying to get answers from one of her puppets would be fruitless. None of them have an entity of their own and are incapable of responding on their own account."
"You have come to steal knowledge," Cassandra shrugged, lazy in her movements and sardonic with her smile, "Why should I give it away so freely?"
And from his back emerged two cutting daggers that the shelves around them reflected coldly: "Less painful."
"Your self-preservation instinct is admirable," Cassandra replied, and raised a hand in the air as one of his daggers was thrown into the space between her eyes.
The dagger passed through the portal conjured by Cassandra, and met its end at Kaecilius' feet as another portal materialized above his head.
"But you're right," Cassandra conceded, watching the man's frown through the space between her golden fingers.
"I'm not the librarian. They couldn't afford me."
Cassandra's eyes darted around the room. With a hop, she threw herself out of the way of the projectiles, and rolled down the hallway to take cover behind one of the bookshelves. She heard footsteps approaching behind the corridor, and stood up quickly as the man appeared with two orange, crackling whips in his hands.
She successfully dodged the first whip aimed at her right ankle. The second, unfortunately, wrapped around her waist and sent her staggering a couple of steps forward. She evaded the blow to her jaw and ducked, landing two quick blows to his forearm, opening his hand and breaking free of his grip.
She backed up a couple of steps. Kaecilius looked at her, frowning as he opened and closed his tingling fingers experimentally, and questioned again:
"Who are you?"
Cassandra bent down, picking up one of the thick tomes that fell to the floor with the commotion, and quoted, not looking away from the man's icy gaze:
"Per me si va nella città dolente. Per me si va nell' eterno dolore. Per me si va tra la perduta gente. Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore: Fecemi la Divina Potestate. La somma sapienza e il primo amore. Dinanzi a me non fur cose create, se non eterne, ed io eterno duro."
"Dante would be proud of all of his minstrels," he replied dryly.
"Do you think so?" Cassandra fanned her face dramatically with her hand, blinking languidly as she replied in a quiet, demure voice: "I practice every day before I go to sleep."
Kaecilius moved forward, and Cassandra lifted the book to stop the descending forearm, wielding a long dagger that the man unsheathed from the straps at his back.
The sharp point buried itself in her shoulder. With a grunt, Cassandra slammed her palm into the wizard's neck, twice, until his hand staggered and Cassandra was able to turn around, turning her back to him and twisting the man's offending wrist with both hands.
The dagger flew away from his grip. She spun around again, and hit him in the jaw with the book's top edge, just before raising both hands and making use of her borrowed ring.
The portal opened behind her back. With a flick of her wrist, the rippling space swallowed them both, and the landscape around them changed to a green field, far away from civilization.
"Running away from your fights like rats on a sinking ship. You really do work according to your master's teachings, non-librarian Miss."
His lip twitched slightly, and Cassandra noted a certain arrogance in his expression. Did the man really believe she would put up so little of a fight? Now, she was fully aware of her simple robes, her lack of weapons and her slim figure. The previous months, hard as they had been, had managed to take their toll on her previously firm and agile body. However, such arrogance was frankly conceited. Cassandra would use it to her advantage.
Nevertheless, Cassandra had to grant some reason to the graveled-voiced, deep eyed and grim-faced man. Eventually, Death was bound to come to her. Immortal Mutant or not.
"To hate her as much as you claim, you sure do remember all of her teachings, don't you?
The instant she perceived his scowl, Cassandra spun around, landed quickly with both hands planted on the ground, and landed a kick that violently threw Kaecilius a couple of feet in the air.
Rising with a twist, she untied with nimble fingers the belt around her waist; she dodged the blows of the sorcerer, who struggled to sit up as he gestured with sparking hands, and, avoiding the circles summoned on his wrists, she quickly wrapped it very harshly around the man's neck.
Then she leapt into another portal, conjured just below their feet.
From the black mountains of Kathmandu, the icy winds of the night were still slipping away when she left her quarters. Her dark form dodging the pools of moonlight, her footsteps stifled by the dense curtain of the night noise.
Emboldened by her apparent mischief, she stretched against the outer wall of the hallway. She hooked her toes into the reliefs of the ornate construction, and, propelling her body with her feet shod in smooth slippers, she soared up the side of the building, climbing with cat-like skill and dexterity. Perhaps, she thought with a hum, she had been wrong about her mutation all along.
Sneaking through the monastery at such ungodly hours of the early morning, with an ear alert for nocturnal students as she climbed the balustrade erected a few rooms above Ancestral's study, Cassandra felt like a wild animal scurrying and hunting in the middle of the night. The dark traces under her pale eyes flashing in the dim light, the shadow cast by her hooded figure...
At the feel of the cold wind against her exposed face, Cassandra smiled slightly, and exhaled softly as she propelled her legs to rise over the low stone pillars and land with a twist on the hidden balcony where Ancestral awaited her.
As Cassandra rose to her feet, the dark hood; blue as the new horizon and warm as Ancestral's brief smile at her wary expression, fell over her shoulders and revealed her measured face, her loose braid and the yellow bruise coloring her right cheekbone.
"Good morning, Cassie," The Sorcerer Supreme greeted. Unlike her, Ancestral didn't look sleepy at all. She looked as fresh as ever.
"Good morning," Cassandra slurred the words, not without affection.
Ancestral's eyes remained in the night sky. Cassandra observed her profile briefly: her tangerine-colored tunic, her clasped hands behind her back, and the knowing glow in her clear orbs. She followed her gaze, as if captivated by the flickers of brightness in the distance, and remembered the warmth of the campfire in the skáli, the crackling of the red wood and the sparks that lit up the dry logs they touched with smoldering wisps.
Cassandra remained at X-Mansion for more than 25 years. While her knowledge of the mystic arts was severely limited, Cassandra was no less than an excellent storyteller, and she was a master at the art of babysitting. Dealing with volatile youngsters and teenagers who could literally burst into flames and shatter windows in an apotheosic tantrum had given her considerable mastery in reading the emotions of those around her. Therefore, ready to dispel the melancholic state into which they were plunged, prey to that almost dreamlike landscape, Cassandra spoke.
"Have you ever witnessed how the sky lights up during the winter in Svolvær? The high peaks of the islands can bring out the poetic side of any warrior. Born of awe at the dazzling beauty, or provoked by the terror that the luminous imposition provokes in the most sorrowful hearts."
Her voice was a feather, dancing with the morning breeze, soft and silent, oblivious to the noise of the early morning, unperturbed in its own space of stillness. A hand rose in the air, and Cassandra drew with an imaginary brush the colorful strokes of the Northern Lights.
"One could not help but wonder... Would those lights be the reflections of the armor of the valkyries, leading the fallen warriors to their king? Or would the dawn be honored as the last breath of brave soldiers who died in battle? I know now, that it is not, in fact, the Bifrost, nor does it blind the unborn children of the pregnant women who gaze upon it.
A smile broke across her face, and she watched Ancestral's serene and pleased expression, attentive, as she asked:
"Would it be wise to think of those lights as the souls of spinsters who danced in the skies, greeting those below? Perhaps! But we, the Raven Warriors, had little or no intention to stop and look at the spinsters and spouses; to divide our feast and hard-earned glory. We were too busy shaping the world and molding its paths to our convenience."
Cassandra interrupted herself, and fell silent as the air brushed aside the unruly locks that clung to her cold cheeks.
She felt Ancestral's hand clasp her own trembling fingers, and squeezed back the soft palm of her old friend.
Was Ancestral older than Cassandra? She didn't know. Sometimes, on occasions like that, it seemed so. Perhaps remaining so oblivious to the tribulations of the mortal world had finally taken its toll on her.
(Or perhaps, she told herself, living with so many children had changed Cassandra a bit, too. What supernatural power could she possess, to disavow the comfort that she herself lent so freely?)
Be that as it may, Ancestral's presence was a valid support for Cassandra's tempestuous emotions. Ever since The Raft, ever since the battle at the airport, ever since those first discords between her companions, Cassandra had felt anxious, on the edge of her seat, as if waiting for the second shoe to drop. Unable to take a step away from the conflict, and unable to look away from the storm.
With a deep sigh, Cassandra closed her eyes , doubtful: her son was safe, her companions were safe at the Mansion, and she would no longer worry about the fate of the Avengers. She knew, for she had been present, that Steve had freed the rest of The Raft, and Tony was taking responsibility for the repercussions of his actions in New York. She had control of her body, and she would learn to pick her battles with more assertiveness.
"I am impressed."
Ancestral examined her at length. Cassandra felt the heat creeping up her neck, and barely resisted the urge to stroke her bruised cheek with her free hand.
"He was your student," she replied, lips pursed as she tugged at the patch of sore skin.
"Well, I am the Sorcerer Supreme, isn't that right?"
Cassandra smiled at her enlightened expression. Ancestral's face gently took on a serious tone.
"I would not impose this battle on you, Cassandra."
"He attacked, and I defended myself," she countered, "Besides... I am not doing a very good job at keeping my distance by getting involved with one of your students."
"Knowing oneself is a virtue," Ancestral laughed. And then she looked at her with an affectionate expression.
Cassandra repressed the urge to cover her face. She prayed to her gods to hide the heat she could feel rising in her cheeks and over her ears as she commented:
"When do you think he will return? Surely our little fight has not deterred him from his ambitious aims."
"There is no way of knowing. Sooner rather than later, possibly. " Ancestral replied, exhaling a soft sigh. "You did a good job containing him, Cassie. I thank you."
"It's unbelievable. Even here, at the Crossroads of the World, trouble manages to find me." Cassandra sulked.
"If it weren't for you, Kaecilius would have stolen more precious books, possibly at the expense of the lives of the sorcerers of the London monastery."
"He was alone," Cassandra reassured, "At least at first. By the time his followers arrived, we were a far way from the Monastery, and his interest in the library had already been diverted."
"And for that, I thank you again, Cassie," her friend answered.
Cassandra finally nodded, accepting her words. They watched the sun rising behind the mountains. The sky, colored in lilac softly turning blue as day took over from night.
Somehow, the wind of that new day felt warmer.
~ • ~
To Cassandra's utter bewilderment, the days passed in the blink of an eye: one moment she was eating quinoa and apricot porridge for breakfast as she strolled through the sacred storehouses side by side with Wong, the next she was browsing the monastery's copious library, the next she was tracing the fine angles of her companion's aristocratic face in the training yard.
Cassandra watched with tempered delight the smooth curve of his short grayish beard. The flutter of his eyelashes; his fine nose, his lips pressed together in concentration. She admired the damp curls that clung to his furrowed brow, and cataloged every crease and wrinkle under the burning blue gaze of her apprentice.
It was during those days that, in an unexpected turn of events, Cassandra found herself looking forward to her scheduled sparrings with the man. She enjoyed their sessions, the various books they argued between breaks, his dry humor and cheeky wit.
Stephen was stern. Cassandra could already predict the sharp reversal of his judgment as if warned by the white sky that heralds the dispersal of thunder. He was a highly intelligent man. She wondered... how much longer he would mourn the loss of his old life, of his acclaimed vocation?
What was it like for him to accept the expansion of his perceptions of reality? How long would he, with his extensive mastery of the arts that heal the body, bow to an invisible wound?
What was the attack on New York City like for him, was he safe, was he in the hospital, in surgery, or did he watch the aliens making their way across the sky from the wide expanse of his window?
Was he with someone else?
She wanted to know him better. She wanted to understand the biting language with which he enunciated himself: his sarcastic manner, his confident movements, and the softness in his eyes when he approached her for directions, for correction and recommendations.
As these ponderings clouded Cassandra's thoughts, she didn't notice the fist until the lapels of one sleeve fluttered inches from her face. Too late to deflect the blow, Cassandra turned her face to the right and staggered slightly as the blow to her cheekbone reverberated across her cheek and rattled her teeth.
She took a step backward. Although she had reduced the momentum of the blow by turning in the opposite direction, she could feel her pulse on the left side of her face.
She caught Stephen's startled expression: torn between a pernicious pride and a very severe mortification that silently delighted her.
Without giving him time to feel sorry for her, (or gloat over his small victory). Cassandra dodged Stephen's outstretched arm, landed a hard backhand to his jaw with her elbow, and came out of his guard to deliver a swift kick behind his knees.
Stephen fell to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut, massaging his chin and holding onto the earthy floor with trembling hands.
Gently groping his stinging cheek with her fingers, Cassandra smiled and held out her hand. Stephen accepted it, after a few brief moments of hesitation, and allowed his wife to support him to stand.
"Good job," Cassandra praised, "I would recommend, however, that you take a bigger step forward when you extend your arm: that little bit of momentum can add even more force to your stroke. And watch your feet.”
Stephen cleared his throat, rubbing his sweaty forehead with his sleeve, and muttered under his breath: "Yes... thank you."
Cassandra smiled. She watched his rosy cheeks, his fast breathing, his narrowed eyes, the extension of his arm: where it connected with her hands, still clasped together.
The sky clouded in shades of purple over their heads. In the distance, Cassandra saw the warm blanket of the sun uncovering the mountains, and watched as the outline of Stephen's figure obscured the red horizon. His eyelashes lit up in pale oranges, and through his shadow-darkened expression, she felt his bright gaze cataloging into her own sunset-colored features.
Cassandra's pale eyes traveled the path of night rising to blot out Stephen's red silhouette against the mountains. Frowning at the sting in her eyelids, she noted the surprise in her husband's clouded expression before becoming aware of the path she traced with her fingers on his wrist. She took note of every vein under his flesh, of the peach skin on his forearms, of the wrinkles in his training shirt: where it folded over his elbow, where the collar brushed against the soft skin of his throat, how his pulse felt against Cassandra's little finger.
Stephen's breath vibrated against her fingers.
Cassandra glimpsed the curve of his Adam's apple, his dry lips, his short beard...
Could Stephen explain to her what it was that made her different? What aspects of magic remained hidden to his analytical mind? Perhaps it would not be rash to attribute the depth of his gaze to the bewilderment regarding his very presence, nor the natural inclination of his neck in the direction of the palm she held over his shoulder..
She felt Stephen's warm breath against her wrist, and the dark canvas of his face remained veiled by the growing night. In profile, with his face turned in the direction of her palm, she watched her husband's clear pupil colored with the last remainings of the afternoon sun: bright blue, intense ink, as if the color of the sky had escaped from the celestial vault and pooled in his eyes. The morning would look pale in contrast to his deep gaze.
The sun faded with a last ripple of red robes over the monastery. The tall lamps placed at the corners of the courtyard were illuminated, and Stephen's face was revealed in the artificial light of dusk.
Cassandra withdrew her hand. Stephen exhaled a long breath, and his dark brows furrowed as Cassandra took a small step backward. Stephen closed his mouth, and massaged his jaw with fingers still wrapped in black bandages as Cassandra hummed to herself and turned to pick up her bottle of water, still on the bench.
She ran her hand through damp, dark locks that fell over her forehead, and took a long drink of water as she gazed out of the corner of her eye at Stephen, mimicking her actions.
Finally, and with a deep sigh, she took a seat on the bench as she fiddled with the edges of the rolled towel over her legs.
Stephen's grave words cut through the silent stupor Cassandra was reveling in as he asked:
"Who taught you to fight...like that?"
Cassandra hummed evasively, tracing with her fingertips the stinging shadow of the bruise she knew would not leave a mark over her cheekbone "Who taught me to fight...?"
Crossing her legs to lean back gently on the bench, she admired her husband's smooth face as she pondered his words:
"Well, I guess... a lot of people, really. I've been fighting since I was born."
Her fists clenched and unclenched, and a numbness unrelated to the cold of the night bristled the skin on her arms as she reluctantly murmured:
"I was raised within an implacable creed. I have traveled the world, over all the roads on land, and I met the war on the other side of the sea…"
She contemplated her own words, and frowned at the blurred memory of more remote times. Squinting at the tall, erect posture of the man in front of her, Cassandra's thoughts wandered. She thought of the roads of Anatolia: tarnished with memories of the crusades. The passage to Byzantium, from Latakia, and the dry skies before the bloody reality under their pale suns.
Cassandra did not enjoy traveling by ship: however, the quickest way from Mersin to Nidge had been a two-week sea route to the Taurus mountain range, and that way had always been easier than sailing over the sand, skirting mountains, valleys and routes through the snows. Cassandra knew the shadows beneath her own mountains as she knew the creases in her hands strained by the years; from the mountain passes that linked the Otta River valley, with its high pastures, to the trade routes that skirted the Lendbreen.
"I know the war." She admitted, unable to hold her husband's sly gaze as she squelched the impulse that urged her to seal her lips, for this man was a stranger to her, and she did not know his ways, and he discovered her name on a document. Cassandra did not know his family, and he did not know anything about her ways, nor her culture.
And yet, against her better judgment, Cassandra traced the thin edges of her husband's lips with her eyes, unable to hold the piercing gaze with which he focused her, as she continued to recount her life as if it had not been a forbidden tale to less portentous minds in the past: "When I left the Northern kingdom, and after several years of stealth and reserve learning more about the societies that were located further south, I participated in a small project under the supervision of His Majesty's army, and for several years I remained as a… consultant member."
She thought about the Avengers, Xavier's school, her time as Temis, the X-men, and she decided to keep quiet about her years as a member of those teams. Her involvement, however, was implicit in the precursors or her new name: "Then I became Eternity."
One detail Cassandra was always going to appreciate about Ancestral's abode atop the Alps was the crown of stars glittering above the black peaks on the horizon. It made her think of her youth: of the library books of Scotland, and she smiled as she contemplated the path Hera traced in the night sky with the coveted drops of her own milk. Nevertheless, and despite her delightful, silent amusement, at that moment Cassandra missed the evening: Stephen's eyes sparkled brighter in the sunlight.
Stephen's wrists jerked. Though the man tried not to look away from her own contemplative face, attentive to the short words she spoke with reserve, Cassandra noticed the man trying to unwrap the black ribbons from his hands, to no avail.
Enraptured by his apparent struggle, she raised a hand of her own, firm and smooth, and touched his trembling palm, first tentatively, watching Stephen's rigid profile and wide eyes out of the corner of her eye, watchful to catch any sign of refusal from her husband. When no resistance was met, she proceeded firmly; spreading her fingers under the taut palm, her flat hands holding the weight of his tremors entirely as she pulled the tape away from her husband's knuckles.
Cassandra felt the strength of his tremors in her arms: with one hand she held his palm still, and with the other she stroked the revealed red lines, thin and hard against her own immaculate skin, feeling his sweaty, warm hand against her smooth fingers...
She heard the halting sigh that escape her husband's lips. Suddenly, Cassandra noticed she was holding her breath. Stephen's hand was large; his fingers long, covered with thin, shiny scars. Black tape hung from his strong wrist, veins running across the path of marred skin and up his forearm, climbing to where they were lost over the crook of his elbow and under his clothes.
"Then I became Eternity," she repeated in a hoarse whisper. Suddenly, she felt thirsty, and noticed the Adam's apple on Stephen's neck bobbing as he swallowed surreptitiously.
"Eternity." He repeated. Stephen's voice was low: it vibrated in his chest and delighted Cassandra's almost numb senses. She wondered how that voice would sound, calling her name, asking her questions, laughing with her…
Cassandra nodded softly, and murmured: "I have learned to fight in many places, at different times, and from different people I have learned something new."
She looked away from his short nails, a bit jagged from lack of skill with the small device that trimmed them, and looked at his stern face. His frown, the deep look in his eyes, his parted lips, noticing how his gaze roamed her own hands still touching his warm skin... And she thought that she didn't know him very well, and perhaps she will never get to share with him almost a millennium of stories regarding her own life, but…
"I wonder, Stephen..." she whispered finally, watching as his face bent over hers, and noting absently that the courtyard had been suspiciously cleared, and they were the only two people in the light of those wavering stars, "What will I learn from you?"
#marvel#doctor strange x oc#dr strange#dr strange x fem!reader#dr strange x original character#dr strange x reader#mcu imagine#mcu#stephen strange x female reader#stephen strange x original character#stephen strange x oc#stephen strange x ofc#stephen strange x reader#doctor stephen strange
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Age of Khonshu, or as I like to call it: Oh no. Oh no no no no.
Age of Khonshu, written by Jason Aaron. 2018.
Who is Jason Aaron? A big writer at Marvel, he is best known for PunisherMAX (the ultras violent and non-marvel universe version of the Punisher), some runs of Thor (the one where Jane Foster becomes Thor), and certain runs with Wolverine: Weapon X. He also wrote Southern Bastard, which is a big name over in Image comics.
Another important fact? He was raised Southern Baptist that has since become an atheist.
That history out of the way, let's look at the sort of comic this is.
I have been putting off reading this little doozy for YEARS. Why? Three reasons.
This was not a good year for me personally. In fact, this was the start of some REALLY bad years to follow for the next 4 years.
I missed the original release and when I tried to find it to read it, no one had it. Not even the library. (This should have been my first clue).
This is a Marvel tie in event.
Now, I have ranted about these before and I'm going to rant about it again.
What is a tie in event? It's a big Marvel World event that attempts to do a large story-line that involves a lot of other big names (usually the avengers).
In Events, you have the main story line that involves the main character. So say, DareDevil is fighting a super ninja. You have the main story that takes place in DareDevil's comic "DareDevil vs. the super ninja" and in that comic, it's such a big fight that the avengers have to get involved, and maybe Dr. Strange and perhaps Brother Voodoo is getting a movie next spring so they want to showcase Brother Voodoo working with familiar faces so he's involved now too.
BUT. All these people involved also have their own comics running. They don't just want to keep going and ignore this big ninja fight that's happening. So then we have side event tie ins that pause their normal story-line to respond in some way to the event that is happening.
So Let's say Ms. Marvel has her story line going where she's been fighting some evil mob boss. She's suddenly going to pause that story. She'll suddenly come up on a hole hoard of evil ninjas and have to fight them for a single issue. But they don't want to loose steam with her evil mob boss because they have to get back to that in the next issue! So it turns out her evil mob boss HIRED those ninjas in some sort of attempted partnership with the evil super ninja. Just to highlight how evil the mob boss is!
Oh, and if you haven't been reading DareDevil or the Avengers or ALL THE OTHER COMICS INVOLED good luck trying to keep up with what's going on. So by the end of the event, you have to compile a LOT of comics together in a particular order so that you can fully understand what's going on.
Even worse? Sometimes the responding tie in comics that aren't really involved with the main story line try to solve the issue. So, going back to my example, Ms. Marvel not only defeats the ninja gang, but she discovers something amazing that will in the end help defeat the Super Ninja! She has single handedly helped bring it down! …In her own comic. It makes her look like the big hero and like she was crucial to the event….When in truth, she has nothing to do withthe main story line over in DD world and her little discovery won't have anything to do at all with how to bring down the Super Ninja in the end.
With me so far?!
If this sounds familiar to you, then congratulations, you may have read "Moon Knight Shadowland", which was infinately better than the main story line of Dare Devil Shadowland. (I'm still bitter about that one). Or the original Civil War saga. Or Seige. Or Dark Reign. Or Age of Khonshu.
Today, I'm here to talk about Age of Khonshu.
In which Moon Knight gets his own special event under an Avenger's title.
So how did they compile this event under an Avenger's title? We start with something that makes no sense to someone that has not been following the Avenger's comics.
Stepping further into it? This event follows directly after the 2017 BEMIS run. So we are moving from the worst run in MK history into Aaron's Age of Khonshu. The next comic after this didn't come out till 2021! That's a three year gap!
What's the story?
Mephisto (I hate Mephisto. He has been made basically into Marvel's version of the Christian Devil.) is messing with the time line and is going back in time to amass soul contracts with people and is slowly taking over the world or destroying it or building up hell. It isn't ever properly explained, but most evil things like this usually aren't.
For some reason Khonshu has seen the future of a world where Mephisto has destroyed it and done terrible things. So he puts these images into Marc's head. Marc, thinking Khonshu is out to fuck with him again (when isn't he?) tracks down Khonshu in one of his Moon Cult temples.
Khonshu tells Marc that he's terrified of Mephisto and Marc realizes that Khonshu isn't just fucking with him this time.
So he teams up and decides to…STEAL ALL THE POWERS OF THE AVENGERS AND GIVE THEM TO KHONSHU.
That's right. As someone told me, it's like watching a ten year old talking about how their character is the most powerful and can beat up all the other characters.
Moon Knight beats up Dr. Strange with the power of Khonshu and steals his magic. Then he beats up Danny and steals the Iron fist. Then steals the GHOST RIDER'S fire of vengeance. He goes after Thor on the MOON. Turns out Thor's hamer is made out of moon rock so Moon Knight laughs as he steals the hammer because he has the power of moon. He goes after the Black Panter and T'challa is just like "LOL No. My power comes from my ancestors. You can't steal that."
So they lock up T'challa in a pyramid.
YOU KNOW WHAT MARVEL MOVIE WAS COMING OUT IN 2018?! That's right, the first Black Panther movie.
So in this comic, it's going to feature heavily that Black Panther is super powerful and the hero of the story.
Giving Khonshu all these powers, he remakes New York into Khonshu World and imprisons anyone that fails to worship him, because he's an all powerful god that will stop Mephisto.
And he does fight Mephisto and kill him, but there are so many versions of him now, because he's the devil and you can't kill the devil.
And throughout this, Moon Knight worships and prays to Khonshu, calling him his god and how he's a follower, and believes that Khonshu is a powerful god.
The Avengers keep asking him to stop, that he's off his meds or something and mentally ill and they can help him stop Mephisto if he stops Khonshu.
Eventually Moon Knight realizes that Khonshu can't stop Mephisto and he's gone too far.
He prays to a different god and THE PHOENIX fire shows up and he becomes Moon Knight Phoenix.
He betrays Khonshu because now he is his own god I guess? Helping them take Khonshu down, he gives back all their powers and they lock Khonshu away in Asgard.
Now he expells the Phoenix from his own self before he becomes Dark Moon Knight and destroys the world.
Now the Avengers story moves on to them dealing with Mephisto in a later run, but Khonshu is defeated and that's the important part!
T'challa offers Moon Knight a place in the Avengers, rather than a jail cell in Wakanda for his crimes. Moon Knight turns him down and returns to a small part in Manhattan that he'd rather protect.
And that's how it ends.
Aside from the main story aspect of this particular volume of MK avengers, here are the MAJOR problems:
Throughout the entire run, there is HEAVY christian imagery and language.
They talk about the devil and how scary the devil is. They talk about Hell. They talk about angels. They talk about gods.
They especially show Moon Knight worshiping and PRAYING to Khonshu or Phoenix.
Moon Knight himself discusses fighting the Devil and going to Hell as a construct of the horrors he has seen and done.
2. Throughout the run, Aaron tries to pull out bits from Lemire. Referencing him and doing callbacks. It falls SO flat.
There is a scene early on where he does the "I am Marc Spector. I am Steven Grant. I am Jake Lockley. And we are Moon Knight" bit. But it's followed by a prayer to Khonshu because he is the Moon God's accolyte.
Later he talks about how Marc expelled Khonshu from his mind and had healed and was his own man again. He talks about how Khonshu had put horrors in his mind that made him ill.
He then talks about how he frequents a certain mental hospital.
Not only is he referencing Lemire, but he's taking it in the wrong context. This man read it and went "Yeah sure I got it" when he clearly didn't.
In Lemire's run, we see Marc dealing not just with how KHonshu used and abused him and how messed up he was, but we also see him coming to terms with his own mental illness and trying to understand himself. To understand that he himself had been abusive towards himself. His self harm attributes. His pushing people away. We see him learn to embrace the 'what if' aspect of after mental illness. We see doubt and we see room to heal.
In this it's just "Khonshu did it."
3. We're back to the mental health topic. While they DO acknowledge Steven and Jake twice, offhandedly, we don't see them. It's just MARC. And I find it hard to believe that either of them would either let Marc go this far off the rails to hurting his friends, but that they would go along with it without having a discussion or working as a team if they found it to be the only solution.
They also have NUMEROUS remarks from the others about "We all know Moon Knight is crazy but I didn't think he was this crazy". It carries on the old conversations that everyone in the Avengers and so on all see Moon Knight as mentaly unwell. Unfit. Crippled, even. He's not well enough to do things. He pretends to be a hero but we all know he's likely to melt down any minute and do something crazy, attitude.
And repeatedly he's told to take meds, go to the hospital, check himself in… Even T'Challa tells him "Wakanda has made great strides in Mental Health. We can cure you!"
Cure him from what? Trauma? Take away his DID? Or implying that he's some sort of other unwell causing him to not think straight?
It's these three things combined that just really set me off.
The absolutely disgusting use of Christian vocabulary and idealism to portray a Jewish character. Even if Marc isn't observant of Jewish beliefs, he is culturally Jewish and raised by a Rabbi. Unless he blatantly converted, he would not find himself worshiping and praying to another god. He wouldn't believe in the devil or use such language to describe Mephisto. He wouldn't talk about Angelic idealations or even Hell.
Then the blatant use of his mental illness to further how it's easy for Moon Knight to fall into such ways. Of course he did this. He's crazy. He'll do anything!
Of course he made his god Khonshu into an over powered dick.
I've discussed this before with a good friend, but there is a difference between following Khonshu and worshiping Khonshu.
I love the use of Yehya Badr to show this in MacKay's run. One has converted and religiously believes and follows Khonshu. The other follows a path that he himself set down as a result of his experiences and own needs.
Moon Knight never outright worships Khonshu (when properly written). Even in Moench's old run, he believed that he had been resurrected by Khonshu and therefore his power and life was in Khonshu's hands. This was more following Marc's thinking that he himself was nothing more than a ghost. Without Khonshu, it was more of an existential dread that he was nothing. Not that Khonshu was a god figure.
In later runs this translated into a sort of worship and it never should have. In Moench's run, Khonshu was some unknown force. Perhaps a god, perhaps a spirit, perhaps some form of something ancient that represents the moon and protecting those who travel by night. Considering the Marvel universe and such loose terms of applying all powerful beings under the phrase of 'god', it makes sense. Thor is technically a god. But he is not a god to be worshiped.
Moon Knight takes his own Jewish upbringing. He is here to cherish all life. To protect those who fall into the margins and cry for help.
What's most insulting is that this comic directly followed the run by Bemis. The one that was so laced with antisemitism and blatant disregard for mental health topics.... So we jump from blood libel and Nazism into fighting the actual Devil and praying to gods and worship.
This is not a good look, Marvel.
Here's the thing, we need a Jewish writer.
I don't mean someone that was formerly Jewish that converted to some other following. I don't mean an atheist that has a special interest in other religions (as Aaron claims he is). We need a born and raised practicing Jewish writer.
We need someone to use the proper terminology that isn't Christian based. We need Jake to speak more Yiddish. We need Steven to be seen putting money into the Tzedakah box. We need Marc to discuss his conflict with his Orthodox Rabbi father and his current path in life and how, like it or not, he has become the epitome of the Jewish struggle to exist.
I appreciate Mr. MacKay, but when his run is done and Marvel looks for the next Moon Knight writer, I'd really like to see a Jewish voice step in and not only respect their own people (despite what Marvel may tell them to do) but to also continue to represent and respect the mental health aspect of Moon Knight.
Maybe I'm asking too much? But this issue...
TLDR: Do not read Bendis, Bemis, and Aaron when it comes to Moon Knight.
#Moon Knight#Moon Knight Comics#I'm so angry you guys#Is it too much to ask that someone do a little research before taking on a comic title?#Tell your story Marvel but fucking tell it respectfully#What the hell was the editor doing?#growling and snarling#Moon Knight is Jewish
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Is it ok, if I request a Neteyam X Sarentu!Reader smut with breeding kink? The reader is the player character in Avatar Frontiers Of Pandora if you’re wondering.
Hello Anon!
Of course it's okay! Thank you for the request. I am facing a writing block right now, so your message is tantamount to reaching out to me to get out of it.
I am already writing, albeit with difficulty, because I am trying to write a short story full of action and strong emotions to make even a part of the AFoP game experience.
There is rebirth, discovery, going back to the roots, mixed feelings, confusion, and so much more that I don't want to fall into banality. I do have a fairly well-articulated plot in mind that will develop into a chapter-long, intense story.
I can tell you many things don't convince me I'm working on them, but there is one in particular that you can help me with.
As usual, I am having trouble with names LOL
Here a sneak peek of the plot🤭
Twenty years after the dismantling of the TAP Program, a strange signal reaches Dr. Alma Cortez's computer.
The cryosleep pods in which the four surviving Sarentu children had been put into hibernation had begun to function again.
They had survived!
This is the story of how a young Na'vi raised by humans, in search of her origins and revenge for her lost sister, will find her place alongside the comrade-in-arms who will restore her sense of belonging and love.
#avatar#avatar fanfiction#avatar fic#neteyam x reader#neteyam#neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan#neteyam x you#avatar frontiers of pandora#avatar oc#avatar smut#sarentu#neteyam x na'vi!reader#neteyam x oc#neteyam sully#neteyam smut#neteyam x sarentu!girl#sarentu reader#frontiers of pandora#neteyam x sarentu!oc#neteyam x sarentu!reader#neteyam suli x reader#neteyam x f!reader#neteyam x female reader#neteyam angst#neteyam fic#neteyam fanfiction#neteyam x f!sarentu#avatar au#avatar fandom#avatar neteyam
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Rewrote + Redesigned Utterson, adding on some doodles about his light beams (What text says under cut)
First Image:
Mister Gabriel John Utterson (FGO original character): Archer Class
NP: Anti-Unit, "If He Be Mr. Hyde, I Shall Be Mr. Seek"
The "Ideal Gentleman", Mr. Utterson is kind and helpful. However, he is rather serious and can come off as grumpy. Despite his exterior, Mr. Utterson is well-spoken and someone many consider to take advice from. He was a lawyer in his life.
He doesn't seem to care much for gossip and may scold you for talking ill of others.
He "secretly" loves jokes, sometimes smiling uncharacteristically at one. It's an honor to lighten his usual frown. Unfortunately, Mr. Utterson's own puns tend to be timed awkwardly, falling flat and leaving others quiet.
The protagonist of "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde", he tried to help his friends but fell short. He was summoned as if after the events of the story unfolded. Is this why he's persistent? He refuses to talk about his friends' deaths.
Second image:
Can make non-burning light beams
Utterson, sighing: "FINE. I will make ONE tiny explosion. Only ONE."
Lanyon and Jekyll, looking excited: "YAY!"
Uses gun to shoot beams through because it's more "gentlemanly"
#forfunsiesau#alternate universe#fgo#fate grand order#fate go#fgo fate grand order#original character#digital art#character design#ibis paint x#the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde#gabriel utterson#mr utterson#gabriel john utterson#fanservant
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hanging out at the sanctum sanctorum over winter break as a teenage avenger!
type of writing: headcanons / scenario
word count: 766
request: yes / no
original request: hey can you do any headcanons about hanging at the sanctum sanctorum on winter break?
dynamic: avengers x teen!reader (teenage avenger series)
characters: reader, dr. strange, wong, peter parker, harley keener, miles morales, mention of natasha romanoff, steve rogers, sam wilson, and bucky barnes
a/n: this has been in my inbox for sooo long i'm sorry!! i'm going to still do winter break because even though it's spring (at least where i am), i like the vibes of winter break better!! ALSO requests are still open, just send in an ask!
taglist: @nutellani @thecloudedmind
(fill out this form to be on my taglist!)
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so you, harley, peter, and miles were FINALLY on winter break.
that last week had felt like forever
and it was so tough to focus on studying for exams at the tower
but you got through it!!!!
and btw the cap quartet (natasha, steve, sam, and bucky) took y’all out for ice cream sundaes after your last exam to celebrate so that was fun
even though it was winter
ITS A TRADITION OK
anyways
the tower was fun to hang around in
but sometimes it got boring
ik it’s kind of a crazy thought
but you guys wanted to EXPLORE
live a little or smth
you all went to tony’s lab
to do science experiments !!!!!!!!!!
but he was in a mood or something LMAO
so he was like “why don’t you go bother dr. strange, huh? i’m sure he’d love some company.”
and you were like “ok!!!”
so the four of you walked over to the sanctum sanctorum
it wasn’t actually too far from the tower
once you got to the door it was actually locked
miles said maybe it was ~ magic ~
which honestly was probably true
so you knocked
and knocked
and knocked
and you could hear someone inside!!!! but he just wasn’t coming to the door!!!
then you heard someone say “stephen, i’m letting them in.”
and then the door opened & it was wong!!!
pause for applause
because wong is so underrated and i love him
WOOOOO YEAHHHHHH WONG!!!!
ok back to ur regularly scheduled programming
so wong was like “come in”
and when y’all walked in it was super cold
like freezing
so peter asked wong why
and he said “it’s the way stephen likes it. i’ll go change it now.”
and he did
and you heard this HUGE sigh and then dr strange came floating down the stairs
so dramatic
and he was like “why are you here”
there was a twinge of concern!!! a little twinge!!! but still a twinge!!!
and so harley told him that tony had sent you
strange just sighed really loudly
he kind of sighs a lot
but he said he and wong were just about to sit down for lunch
and that “i GUESS you can join us”
guys my interpretation of stephen strange is rly dramatic in case u can’t tell
and you all got SUPER excited because guess what wong made
guess
jk i’ll just tell you
HE MADE SOUP AND BREAD
that sounds basic
but y’all
wong’s soup? it’s the best soup you will ever taste EVER.
the flavor? immaculate. the seasoning? immaculate. the temperature? just enough that you have to hold it on your spoon a little bit before you eat it.
aka IMMACULATE
so the dining table in the sanctum sanctorum is actually really long. no explanation as to why because it’s literally just wong and strange but u don’t question them any more
anyways so the soup is sooo good
but while you’re eating you’re telling them about school
well you’re telling wong
stephen isn’t really listening LMAO
but you start telling him about what you’re learning in history
and peter starts talking about how he really liked learning about the dinosaurs
and suddenly strange is so much more interested
and he just goes “you like dinosaurs? here.”
and he opens a portal LMAO
and wong is like “stephen NO”
but stephen is already going inside of it
and so all of you look to wong for permission
but he’s just shaking his head
so you go in
and BRO long story short but there’s dinosaurs
and they’re HUGE
and harley is like about to cry
but peter and miles are like “WOAH AWESOME”
so you go up to strange
and you’re like “yeah ok great. can we go back now.”
and he’s like “ok”
AND HE TRIES TO OPEN A PORTAL
BUT IT WON’T OPEN
AND THERE’S LITERALLY A DINOSAUR COMING TOWARDS Y’ALL
AND HARLEY IS SCREAMING
long story short he finally opens it and you all sprint back into the sanctum sanctorum
and go back to eating your soup
and wong tells stephen to “stop traumatizing kids”
and it’s true tbh
anyways i think that the rest of your time at the sanctum sanctorum would include cleaning (because stephen says that if you stay you have to be helpful)
and you all play cards
go fish and uno
and stephen gets mad when he doesn’t win and makes you guys go back to the tower
LMAO
but on your way out, wong tells you that stephen actually loves having you guys over
so you’re definitely gonna go back :)
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#dr strange#dr strange headcanons#stephen strange#stephen strange headcanons#doctor strange#doctor strange headcanons#sanctum sanctorum#sanctum sanctorum headcanons#avengers x teen!reader#wong headcanons#wong#marvel#mcu#mcu headcanons#marvel headcanons#teenage avenger series#teenage avenger#harley keener#peter parker#miles morales#natasha romanoff#steve rogers#sam wilson#bucky barnes#cap quartet
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