#found one about nightcrawler | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

charliehoennam · 3 months

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angel.

Pairing: Louis Bloom (nightcrawler) x F!reader A/N: i blame jake for this. lou bloom is a fucking psycho, stay away from people like him. this is purely fictional, people. this was named out of inspiration from angel by massive attack, so kudos to them as well.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, smut, NON-CON drug use and NON-CON intercourse, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies, kiddies), crime, language, somnophilia. (consent is EVERYTHING, yall. again, this is fictional)

Word count: 5,900+ ( i think this might be the most i've ever written)

SHARING IS CARING, SO PLEASE REBLOG

It’s early morning as you’re carrying a box into your newly rented apartment.

Louis is stunned when his eyes land on you, forgetting about the water he’d been using to hydrate his plant until it drips onto his foot and snaps him back to reality.

“Ah, shit” he hissed, quickly lifting the glass up.

Turning his attention back to the window, he watches as you enter the living room. It’d been empty for a long time; he was curious as to who would move in there. All the apartments were pretty much the same. What made this apartment so special was that it was directly across from his. With uncurtained windows, he could look right inside from his.

Hypnotized by you, he’s frozen in place. The feeling is all too foreign for him.

Louis isn’t exactly a social butterfly. In fact, he always found easier to avoid people as much as humanly possible. Not out of fear, but out of disdain. At the height of his career with Video Production News taking off, he strongly believes he’s learned to manipulate normal human emotions which he’s almost never felt.

There’s just something about you that brings out some of those unfamiliar feelings in him and floods him with desire. Attraction surely has a hand in it. No one could deny your beauty, and your body makes only more difficult for him to ignore you.

Infatuated by you, he watches you attentively from the corner of his window. He can’t let you see him. He can’t let you catching him staring at your ass curve as you bend down to pick up a box outside. The leggings you wear provoke him further, outlining your panty on the back and mound in the front.

He doesn’t even know your name yet, but you already have his imagination going wild. It’s almost like you’re calling for him.

With his blood flowing straight down to his cock, he zones out daydreaming about what you’d look like on all fours, bent down with your face buried in his sheets. He thinks about how round your ass would look perched in the air for his gaze; how inviting your pussy would look from behind; how soft your skin must feel despite the goosebumps he’d make you feel.

Such a pretty little thing for him to violate.

His hand seems to have a life of its own as it reaches his crotch, palming his twitching cock over his gray slacks. He knows, right there and then, that he has to have you and his devious mind is already churning with a plan.

He decides to wait until the people helping you - who he assumes are your friend - leave. In the meantime, he times his exit to the precise moment everyone’s in your apartment having pizza to make a quick run to Bob’s Market around the corner.

He needs an excuse to approach you without raising any alarms in your mind. He needs you to feel safe around him; make you think he has only the most genuine interests at heart.

Chocolate chip cookies should do just that. Who doesn’t like chocolate chip cookies?

The warm L.A. sun shines down on him, illuminating his deviant plan. He wonders how he got so lucky to be at the right place, at the right time. He knows he has to do whatever he can to make you his.

No one will love you like he will. No one can take care and protect you the way he can. He would kill for you. How many people could do that without fearing the consequences for you? How many would devote themselves to you and do absolutely anything to keep you, even if he has to harm you?

Entering the store, he wanders around for a minute before opening the refrigerator door and grabbing a package of the ready-to-bake cookie dough. You really should be grateful. You got him baking before he even knows your name.

Fidgeting with his keys in his pockets, he eyes the supply store across the street. A lightbulb lights up in his head with an addition to his plan.

With the cookie dough in a plastic bag, he strolls over to the supply store. The ropes on display make him stop in his wandering stride.

“Not yet,” he tells himself.

Convincing himself to control his impulse, he picks up the silicone putty he came for and purchases it with ease.

“Locked myself out of my car the other day. Gotta make sure to a get copy of it made today, but I also got some errands to run. Life in L.A. never sleeps, does it?”

With his chin tilted down and eyebrows narrowed, his chuckle unsettles the cashier although the poor terrified man nervously smiles back. There is no ignoring the chills Louis gives him.

Unsettling people is in his nature and Louis hasn’t quite learned how to tweak that part of him. He supposes he has to practice his smile a little more in the mirror.

As he arrives back to his building, he overhears one of the guys coming out of the building to collect another box. You’re nowhere in sight thankfully, so he lowers his head and pushes the sunglasses perched on his nose up along its bridge.

Once inside, he heads to the bathroom for a quick piss. As he’s washing his hands, his stoic gaze lifts. He stares at the mirror emotionlessly.

He knows right from wrong. His methods may be questionable, but they’re not done without thought and calculation.

Opening the medicine cabinet, the transparent orange bottle of sleeping pills seems to glow at him. He knows he shouldn’t. It’s morally wrong, but when has moral high ground ever stopped him before?

Tucking the bottle into his pocket, he closes the cabinet before staring at his reflection. He’s determined to do whatever he has to. He needs to have you. This is hopeless love at first sight. Many people wish for love like his.

Once the cookies are baked and cooled off, he’s stood in the kitchen assembling them into the nicest plastic container he owns when he overhears you saying goodbye to your friends down below. He rushes to the window.

If anyone of the people assisting you are in a relationship with you, this would be the time to find out, right? A kiss on the lips or – if the man is anything like the boyfriend you should have – he’d offer to stay and help you unpack. Maybe christen the new home.

Louis doesn’t even realize how he’s holding his breath until it finally fogs the glass when he breathes out. You hug the men one by one. There’s no kiss on the lips. His hopes get higher as he smirks to himself.

Your conversation is distant, but he can hear better after he cracks his window open just a little bit.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to stay and help you unpack?” Matt asks.

He freezes and deception grows in his chest along with a pang of anger.

“Yeah, I’m sure. You guys have done so much already with the packing and carrying all the boxes.”

“We wouldn’t mind staying longer to help you,” Tyler joins in.

“No, really. I’m good,” you chuckle at their insistence. “I got this, guys. Don’t worry.”

“Alright. Just call if you need anything else. And thank you for the pizza and beer,” Matt smiles at you. “And I’m really sorry about all this mess.”

“Will you stop apologizing? I understand entirely. Just make sure you take care of my best friend and her baby and we’re good” you smirk moving to hug Matt after hugging Tyler. Relief washes over Louis. He concludes they’re only friends.

“I’ll see you later then. Take care.”

You nod and wish the same back to Matt. You watch the boys head out towards their car as you stand in the entrance's doorway.

While you begin unpack in the early afternoon, Louis realizes he needs to wait until it’s early evening for his plan to be precisely timed with the darkness of the night.

The cookies are done and now, he has to wait.

The move was smoother than you’d expected.

You had to move out when your roommate Cara told you she’d be needing more room since she found out she and Matt were expecting a child. With him moving in and a baby to prepare for, the apartment would be even more crowded than it was at the time. And you couldn’t agree more.

It was a sudden bomb, sure, but the fact that they knew that and were willing to do whatever they could to help softened the blow a whole lot. Matt even offered to pay for the entire move, but you couldn’t let them do that. Especially with a baby on the way.

Time was all you asked for and they made sure to give you plenty of it. So, instead, he offered to help with the move physically with the assistance of his younger brother Ty.

Once the brothers drove off safely, you walk back to your apartment. Thankfully, there are only two levels to the condo, and your apartment is on the ground level.

You look around your new home as you think about where to start so you decide to set up your sound system to get some music playing. Music always helps to provide a sense of company and pass the time.

You begin with the bedroom since you figure it’ll take most of your time. Besides, it’d be nice to not have to worry about where you’ll sleep when you’re too tired to continue and decide to call it a night.

Afterwards, you move to the kitchen to start organizing everything into its rightful place. You want to make sure you have your flow down. Coffee powder, filters and mugs go above the coffee maker. Plates, bowls and silverware go near the stove. Glasses go next to the fridge. Dish towels go in the drawer by the sink.

With every item neatly and strategically placed, the feeling of independence blossoms. This is your home now. Your haven. The very air you breathe smells of freedom. You can’t help, but smile as you look around and admire the apartment, although you realize it definitely needs more furniture.

Now that you don’t have to consult anyone anymore about placing artwork on the walls or buying an armchair, you can gradually work your way into giving the apartment a more personal touch.

Soon after you set all the pots and pans in a cabinet below the counter, you hear a knock at your door. You frown as you hesitate for a moment, thinking about who it could be.

Maybe it’s Matt and Tyler coming back to pick something they’d forgotten up. It has to be; you told very few people about your move and even fewer knew your new address. You weren’t expecting to have any guests over either.

So, you walk stealthily quiet towards the door to peer through the tiny peephole.

There’s a man standing on the other side of the door. You don’t know him. You’ve never seen him before, but the plastic container in his hands intrigues your curiosity.

“He’s probably just a neighbor”, you reassure yourself.

Louis notices your shadow casting underneath the door from the other side. The simple fact that you’re already acknowledging his existence has his heart thrumming with adrenaline and excitement, which he forces himself to contain.

“She knows me now,” he thinks to himself.

Watching him glance down at the foot of the door, you realize he must already know you’re at the door. He can see you. At this point, it would just be rude to pretend you’re not home, but you’re not sure who he is.

All you can tell is that he seems pretty attractive through the peephole which isn’t really helpful, but it does entice you to open the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh, hi. I couldn’t help but notice you just moved in earlier today. My name’s Louis. I’m your neighbor. I live in the next building in apartment 3F.”

He doesn’t sound threatening. His voice is actually softer than his appearance. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but something about him gives you the chills and you can’t figure out what or why.

“I’m not a raging psycho killer if that’s your concern,” he chuckles eerily. “I’ve just lived here for a few years. I always bring cookies to new neighbors,” he lies. “Just a modest way to welcome people, I suppose. The city of Los Angeles is harsh enough. Why must we be the same?” he smiles strangely, making for an awkward moment of silence.

“Would you like me to leave them by the door?” he continues.

It’s like he can almost smell your hesitance through the door.

How does he know?

Not wanting to seem rude on your first day on the block, you unlatch the locks on the door and open it up with a tight-lipped polite smile.

God, you look even prettier up close. It’s hard for him to hide his admiration. You could never tell, but he’s battling the impulse to pin you down and fuck you senseless. You’d look so lovely all tied up for him.

You can’t deny he has some of the most beautiful features you’ve ever seen. His clean-shaven face flaunts a few brown freckles. Faded smile lines curve around his long nose and thin rosy lips, making the latter more inviting they already are. His jaw is prominent from his tall, slim build. Large doe eyes as blue as Neptune are framed by a pair of thick eyebrows that makes his gaze even more intimidating. Dimples depress into his hollowed cheeks as he smiles charmingly at you, revealing his perfectly lined teeth.

“Thanks. That’s very thoughtful of you,” you respond with a soft voice, reaching for the container. “I’d invite you in, but my apartment is a mess right now. I’d rather you see it when it’s less chaotic.”

“Yeah, it’s no problem,” he affirmed with a sinister smile. “Like I said, I just wanted to welcome you to the block. If you need help with anything, I’d be more than pleased to assist you in any way possible.”

He looks very friendly and very well-spoke, but you can’t shake how his vacant his eyes seem to be.

Maybe it’s the slightly greasy medium length brown hair parted to the side and tucked behind his ears. Maybe it’s how he towers over you with hunched shoulders and casually scans the apartment behind you between his words. Maybe it’s the outdated button-down shirt he’d worn that made it seem like an attempt at dressing formal.

You’ve only just met the man, but something about him has your squeezing your thighs together. Someone about him draws you in and turns you on in a way that you simply cannot explain.

“Thank you. I will do that,” you assure him. “Sorry, what’s your apartment again?”

“I live in 3F. It’s located in the neighboring building just across.”

“3F,” you repeat making a mental note of his home number. “Yeah, I’ll stop by if I need anything.”

“Please don’t hesitate. I’m always happy to be of service. I will let you return to your previous engagement, I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted anything.” He knows he hasn’t, but he needs you to believe this wasn’t planned. “I look forward to seeing you around, Y/N. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Yeah, same to you, Mr. Bloom.”

You hold your hand out to shake his. He almost swoons at your formality. Manners mean everything to him, so he reaches out and shakes your hand with gently firm grip.

The veins on his pale hands have your pussy growing wet at the thought of them inside your cunt. You’re sure he could reach your special spot with such long slender fingers. You wonder how many of them you could fit inside your pussy simultaneously.

“Please, call me Lou,” he grins baring his perfect teeth.

“Lou, then,” you smirk correcting yourself. “I will see you around. Thanks again.”

“Enjoy the cookies.”

He turns around with a smile and calmly walk down the hallways towards the exit. His hand burns with the shadowing touch of your hand lingering on his skin.

You close the door behind and lean against the wood with a curious frown. You had expected him to live on the same floor or at least in the same building.

You shake off the thought as you lock your door and admire the cookies he’d brought on your walk back to the kitchen. It really is a kind gesture, one you thought only happened in movies. And you just happen to love cookies.

The pieces of his plan have all been set and now he can only wait.

To make his time useful, he decides to sit and think about every single process of his plan. He cannot be unprepared. There cannot be any surprises.

He starts with the locks and walks to his door, standing still and hollow as he stares at the rusty and faded golden locks. Assuming all the apartments are the same, he closes his eyes to remember the details of your encounter. He remembers hearing a chain slide open and the mechanical twisting click. They appear to be the same as the locks on his door.

He opens his eyes and studies them carefully, thinking about how to get the chain open believing it to be his only obstacle. The twist lock would be easy. His thieving days have been behind him for a while now – his company is doing great enough; he doesn’t have to steal anymore – but breaking and entering is still second nature to him. Picking a lock is hardly a challenge.

Sitting at his computer, he researches ways to unhook the chain. He quickly finds a quick and simple method that doesn’t involve leaving any evidence behind, so he grabs his tool kit and searches for the only two object he needs.

Once he’s confident enough after a few successful attempts from inside his home, he proceeds to lock his door once more and climbs out an open window. With his apartment at ground level, it allows him to climb out with ease. He leaves it open just in case his practice test turns out unsuccessful.

He walks around to the building’s entrance with the kit, a small roll of duct tape and a rubber band.

After successfully picking his twist lock open from the outside this time, he opens the door to the extent of the chain. His long arm allows him to reach inside. Once the rubber band is hooked through a link of the chain, he tapes the other end of the rubber band to the door. That way, when the door closes, the chain slides to the furthest end with the movement, unlocking itself and falling to the side to hang freely.

A grin creeps onto his lips, stretching grimly as pride fills him. Old habits die hard; he giggles knowing he can still be the sneaky thief when he needs to be.

Meanwhile, you decide to indulge on a short coffee break, so once your coffee is made, you sit on your couch to enjoy the sweet treat your new neighbor was kind enough to gift you with.

If he hadn’t already been infatuated by you before, he is now in love with you. He can’t stop thinking about your sweet nature and manners. His heart races as his mind lingers on your smile and the thought of your voice. He’s eager to learn every single detail about you.

Despite being a workaholic, he decides tonight is a special exception because you’re just special like that.

Back inside his apartment, Louis calls his second-in-command of Video Production News to inform his team he won’t be joining them on the hunt for coverage tonight.

“A more important and rather urgent setback has presented itself and, in order to prevent further undesired and unpredicted hindrances, I have to eliminate them now.”

Having worked closely to Louis, his team knew better than question him. His strict tone while reminding them to be on their best behavior only enforces that he is not to be disappointed.

It isn’t even 9 p.m. but you’re feeling beyond exhausted at this point. The coffee you had a couple hours ago was in vain. It seems to have given you the opposite effect.

You try to persist on unpacking, but your body feels so heavy already. It must be from all the exercise of moving. Lifting heavy boxes, walking up a couple flights of stairs, kneeling and standing. It’s been a very busy day and you’re just tired.

You make your way to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Due to the weight your tired limbs and their dragging, you opt to not wash your hair. It would take too much energy that you simply don’t have. You can barely keep your eyes open as you rinse the lathered soap off your body.

You don’t even bother putting on underwear. Just a t-shirt will have to suffice because that’s all you muster before you collapse on your bed.

Its’ cozy embrace enraptures you into a deep sleep and, within seconds, you’re out cold.

Louis watches you exit the bathroom from his window. His breath hitches when he sees you drop your towel on the floor of your bedroom.

The medicine is kicking in as he predicted.

He smirks to himself, proud of his achievement. Excitement floods through him when he notices you didn’t bother much with clothes. That’ll make his job so much easier.

His true self comes forth, shedding him of his friendly – or his attempt at it - facade.

He ties his hair into a small bun behind his head.

He planned this already to make sure he wouldn’t need much. Just his camcorder, latex gloves, a key mold. This may be the first time, but it certainly will not be the last. The last object he takes along is a pocket knife that he strongly hopes he won’t have to use.

His stride is calm though his heart pounds in his chest. He prays the got dosage just right enough so you don’t wake up.

His eyes scan around as he crosses the small courtyard to your building. No one is outside; no one has seen him.

As he reaches your door again, he slides the gloves onto his hands. It doesn’t take him long to enter your apartment with quiet footsteps after all the practice he’s had.

He’s never felt closer to anyone in his life than right now.

The apartment has you all over it. These are your belongings. In a way, he feels as if he’s penetrating his way into your intimacy. The thought is enticing enough to make his cock harden a little in his pants.

He wanders around your new home with his camcorder already filming, opening boxes and cabinets and drawers as he roams. He needs to record every detail about you. What do you like to eat? What are your movie preferences? What music do you listen to? Do you read? Reading is important to him. It is a sign of intellect.

You don’t seem to have any pets. If you had a dog, it would’ve been aware of his presence already. There aren’t any bowls of food and water set out. Much like him, you seem be a loner.

The apartment is much like his. Small enough for one. No bedroom. Just a kitchen near the entrance with a window at the other end. A small bathroom and closet for your clothes.

He wonders what you usually smell like as he enters the bathroom. He finds your shampoo and condition and raises each to his nose. Then your deodorant. And your perfumes. He closes his eyes, admiring how heavenly you smell.

He makes sure to film the label of your perfume to buy one later and spray it against his pillow so he can sleep with the scent of you every night.

Can’t you see how much he loves you?

As he silently makes his way towards your living room, he gulps with anticipation. His palms grow clammy as he stares at you, asleep in your bed.

Despite his excitement, his hand reminds steady as he focuses the filming on you. For a couple moments, he stands at the foot of your bed just watching you sleep.

You look so pretty. So peaceful.

He would slaughter whoever attempted to disturb you. He knows it’s rather ironic, but he’s so captivated by you.

He can’t stay away. He wishes he could climb into your bed; that he could wrap his arms around you, inhale your scent, touch and kiss you over every inch of your body to worship you as you deserve to be worshipped.

That’ll take time, but he will make it happen somehow.

Eventually snapping out of his daydream, he moves to the dresser and pulls open a couple drawers.

The first has your jewelry and accessories. He studies them to better understand your taste hopefully for future reference. He’s encouraged to take a ring, so he could wear it around and take a part of you with him everywhere he goes.

He finds a small one that is big enough to fit on his picky. It’s nothing too special. Just a thin silver band that you happen to have a few of in different size. It would be easy for you to assume it got lost in the move, if you notice it at all.

The second contains what he is looking for: your panties. His eyes grow darker as he rummages through them, picking the sexiest ones to lay out on the wooden surface of the dress to film them better.

The thought of you wearing them for him has his cock hardened completely and leaking with pre-cum. He can feel the wet spot soaking his underwear. He would give anything to have you wear them, rubbing the lacy fabric against his face and cock with your pussy.

He takes turns smelling each of them, inhaling the sweet intoxicating scent of your pussy and fabric softener.

He finds a sexy lacy pair in his favorite color as he sets the panties back in their drawer. That one belongs to him now.

The urge to rub his cock to completion gets harder to control as he tucks the panty into his pocket. A dark thought blooms within his mind as he focuses back on your sleeping figure.

You’re so unconscious that you don’t even feel him lifting the covers. He has to bite his bottom lip when he sees you’re in the perfect position for him.

“Such a little fucking whore. Bet she loves getting rammed. Probably loves doing what Nina rarely ever did,” he thinks to himself.

You’re on your side with the top leg bent up and spread against the mattress. With your other leg stretched out underneath, providing Louis with the perfect shot of your bare pussy.

He lifts his camera to pan the frame slowly onto the sight of your pretty little puffy pussy displayed just for him.

He can’t help but palm his cock through his trousers. He needs to cum. It’s starting to hurt. His balls are just so full and his cock, so painfully hard.

He growls lowly at your exposure and freezes instantly, watching if he woke you up. You don’t stir in the slightest, not even when his long slender fingers gently part your plush lips to spread them open for his private little video.

Licking his gloved fingers, he savors the taste of your cunt and hisses contently. He smiles devilishly when you don’t react to his fingertips slowly probing your entrance. Until the moment you finally turn onto your back, unconsciously spreading your legs even wider.

He wonders if you’re awake and enjoying his little teasing, but judging by your steady breathing, you’re sleeping like a rock.

He licks his lips at the pussy opportunity splayed out in front of him.

His menacing gaze narrows on the sight between your displayed pussy as he unbuttons his pants and pulls them down enough to let his cock spring free. He thinks about penetrating you and fucking you with just his tip. Would it wake you up?

He carefully climbs onto your bed and positions himself on his knees between your legs with his camera back in hand. He spits in his gloved hand and gathers his leaking pre-cum to lube his cock up. The slick latex against his skin makes the stroking even easier.

Staring down at your beautiful folds, he wishes he could take his time, but truth be told, he’s so fucking hard already and he needs to get it out of his system.

Your cunt looks so pretty and juicy that he wishes you could use his face as a seat all day.

His cock throbs in his hand as he gently pressed his tips between your folds, pausing only to zoom the camera in on your pussy and his cock now perfectly aligned and connected.

God, it feels so perfect like your pussy was made for his cock. So warm and soft against his. He can’t imagine what you feel like inside. He wants nothing more than to pump you full of his cum until it drips out, just so he could push the leakage back inside with his cock.

The thought alone is enough to get him close. He has to be careful and slow.

He pushes his cock past your pretty lips slowly. With his mouth hanging open in an O, he closes his eyes as he fights back a moan. You feel so deliciously good and tight around him. He doesn’t want to cum to just yet though.

The movement of his hips is slow as he takes his time pushing in and pulling out. He could swear you’re wet, but he assumes it’s just his eager cock.

Carefully setting your legs to drape around his thighs for a better position, his pace picks up a little.

At this point, the friction of his cock and your perfect pussy is audible to him, but it doesn’t seem to even bother you. He doesn’t even care about anything other how deliciously heavenly your cunt feels.

He’s close. So fucking close. He pauses his movement, holding his cock inside your walls to reach up and gently push your shirt up past your chest.

He toys with your exposed tits. He needs to feel you.

Hooking his teeth under the rim of the glove at his wrist, he uses them to remove his hand from the glove. Once it’s tucked into his pockets, he reaches up to continue playing with your breasts.

He licks his lips imagining them wrap around your nipples, suckling and biting your tender flesh to mark you and let everyone know what a whore you are, but most importantly his whore.

He just has to get his mouth on them. They look too irresistible to miss what could be the only opportunity he has.

He sets the camera on the bed beside you to film himself fucking you while simultaneously sucking on your tits, kneading them each in his large hands.

He’s balls deep in your tight cunt now. You must be so damn drugged because your eyes aren’t even moving and your breathing is still steady. Even if you were dead, it wouldn’t stop him for fucking you. He just loves you that much.

After giving your breasts the well-deserved attention, he can’t hold back anymore and believes he doesn’t have to.

If you haven’t woken up by now, then pounding your pussy raw definitely won’t wake you up.

So he grabs the camcorder again and starts fucking you harder and faster like a filthy little slut with his hand groping at your tits, making sure to get your pussy and tits all in one angle.

He wants to watch your tits bounce as he pounds your cunt mercilessly when he jacks off to the video later.

Sliding his hand to your hip to hold you steady, he relishes how the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoes through your apartment.

He wishes you could be awake to scream his name until your neighbors complain with fists to their walls.

It’s all too much.

He soon pulls out just in time to coat your pussy with his pearly white load.

You just look so pretty painted with his cum.

“My Mona Lisa,” he thinks to himself. “That’s what I’ll name this footage.”

Pulling his cock away, he lowers the camera for a close-up of his masterpiece taking his time to get every single angle of the white streaks on your flesh.

Staring intently at your cunt with wide eyes as he films, the feeling that floods him is the same at the one he felt on the night of the car crash in Benedict Canyon. This is another of his greatest accomplishments. He pants with adrenaline.

Curiously, he dips two fingers into his bodily ‘paint’ and toys with it, enjoying how slick your lips feel on his fingers. If he wasn’t so spent right now, he’d go at again and again.

He wonders how he’s going to clean you up now. He made a mess on your pussy. He can’t leave you in this state. It’ll be too obvious when you wake up in the morning.

Setting his camera on your bed to get him in the shot once again, he scoots down your bed and aligns his mouth to your coated pussy.

Snaking his arms under your thighs – letting them dangle over his shoulders – his hands reach your breasts to gently knead them. He wants to squeeze them hard, but he’s worried that might be the final drop that wakes you up.

He doesn't mind that his cum is all over your. It's really an excuse just to get his mouth on your cunt.

He takes his time letting his tongue explore your pussy, swiveling over every mound of your lips and dipping into every valley. Using his fingers to pry your pussy open, he stretches you enough to delve his tongue into your used hole.

He was careful not to cum inside you, but he yearns to taste you.

Deciding you’re clean enough, he carefully removes himself to stand and takes his camera to record each angle of your used naked figure, carefully circling around your room and zooming in your pussy, tits and face.

You look so pretty and innocent in comparison to he violated you.

Taking the advantage of your position, he quickly sets his camera on your nightstand and rushes to the bathroom to find something to clean you up with.

Locating some wet wipes under your sink, he turns the hot water to warm a couple sheets and heads back to clean you up.

He thoughtfully lowers your shirt and covers your body back up. He’s not a complete monster; there is genuine care for you in him.

He kisses your head gently before stepping back to look for any further evidence.

Heading towards the door, he finds your keys handing up on the wall. There aren’t many. Just three. So, he tests each one out to find your apartment key. Once he does, he takes the silicone putty he’d placed in an old and empty Altoids metal container.

He stamps the key into the mold twice, making sure to get both sides of the key perfectly imprinted.

His copy of your key has to be perfect to save time for the next time.

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nanamikentoseyebags · 10 months

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i'm nightcrawling to you

how come that every night he finds himself at your doorstep? why do all the ways lead him to you? how is it that in the pounding heart of this bustling metropolis, you are the only person he can come to?

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

content: extremely satoru-centric, hurt/comfort, just satoru turning up at your door every night in an attempt to feel something again

a/n: i love him so much i need to get inside his head and sweep all the bad thoughts out :(

At night Tokyo is mired in the noise of cars, loud voices of people who fill its streets at this late hour and argue about their trivial, insignificant problems, irrelevant to what is now happening in the heart of this metropolis. The city is suffocating in smog and soot, writhing, riddled with road lines, silently crying out for help, flashing muffled blueberry-colored store signs that are scattered across the map like sores on the body of a sick man. People rush home, causing it to itch and make it squirm. The city waits. It waits for all the commotion to die down, for the streets to sink into darkness and emptiness, for only then can it breathe. One more hour and...

A frantic inhale.

The multicolored night lights, the countless illuminations, a myriad of car headlights fade, melt into a kind of haze, like under a misty veil, and again as if from the depths of a deep blue ocean, emerges a mass of thousands of people, who believe that this place is the root of all their misfortunes. They move swiftly toward their dwellings, cursing their jobs that leave them unsatisfied and exhausted, but which allow them to live a relatively normal life. Need to last another hour…

A frustrated exhale.

The eerie shadows cast by the houses and the feet of the passersby slowly turn into a lingering inky darkness of the night that swallows up the entire city. The last person stranded on the road crosses the threshold of their house, closing the door behind them with a rattling thud. The motley signs, once pulsating in the center of the city, darken, revealing the faint glow of stars floating in the sky. The golden iridescence of random car headlights no longer makes it squint. The tired city takes that much-needed greedy breath of air...

A sharp inhale.

The harsh chilly air burns Satoru Gojo's lungs, as he slowly strides through the now empty streets of the weary city. His hands, stuffed into the pockets of his black jacket, involuntarily clench into fists in an attempt to warm his freezing fingertips. He shivers, pressing his head into his shoulders, trying to hide from the piercing wind that so mercilessly ruffles and tangles his snow-white hair and uneasy thoughts. Left all alone, he muses with a slight melancholy about his fate, written by someone's ruthless hand in the book of life…

An exhausted exhale.

"So strange," he thinks to himself, looking with unfathomable sadness at the soft inviting light coming from the windows of the little apartments in these big anthills of the concrete jungle, "in all my life I've never had a place I could call home. Where am I going? Where are my feet leading me? Is someone waiting for me?" A sad smile appears on his face as memories, like the pages of an album, begin to turn over in his head. Moments when he lost his home in the form of his best friend. Moments when he found it again in the form of his students. The moments when you helped him rebuild it from the scratch, replacing the burned out pieces with the solid foundation of your care. Moments when, for fear of destroying everything, he left again, leaving you there, safe, because with him coming, the chances of losing everything in an instant seemed to be infinite...

A sorrowful inhale.

Light slanting rain begins to fall from the dense clouds floating in the sky, beating on the curtained windows and blanketing the shivering city like a thin cloth of invisible threads with pearls dangling on them. Satoru let the occasional drop land first on his disheveled hair, and then drip in small trickles from his glasses, covering his already frozen face with chilling moisture. He does not turn on his infinity, allowing himself that rare weakness of feeling human. Heavy droplets come down from the roofs, drumming on the iron awnings, water grumbling angrily in the rusted gutters. Wet, gloomy houses stare at the lonely and lost man with their weeping windows.

…

A new gust of wind whips another batch of memories into his face, the irrepressible longing reverberating in his heart when he thinks about them for too long. The scraps of conversation brought by the raging weather play a faint melody in his ears. Satoru chuckles bitterly, as if right now he can hear the students calling him a bizarre, annoying, lanky sensei, who used to insert his ridiculous comments here and there. He never takes offense; on the contrary, he does everything he can to be one, the odd teacher who would do anything to make his students' youth look like the spring of their lives. Even though it makes him seem like the biggest fool on the planet. Somewhere within himself, he hopes they'll never have to find out how utterly tattered his soul is. And now, convinced that all of his students were sleeping soundly, he goes outside in an effort to find the way to his own sanctuary.

…

The weeping sky brushes away the leaden clouds from its blanket as if they keep preventing it from observing the unfolding of a story that has long been written. With a sinking heart, soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone, Satoru Gojo reaches for your door, stopping for a moment, unsure whether you should be bothered at this late hour. At the last moment, allowing himself to be a little selfish, he makes a few quiet knocks on the door and awkwardly hides his hands behind his back. For a few seconds, nothing happens. He heeds, not knowing for sure what he's hoping for: that you've been asleep for a long time and won't catch him in this miserable state, or that you were waiting for him after all, feeling this strange connection between the two of you. Suddenly the door swings open, revealing your small figure. The bright light emanating from your apartment on this dark night does not dazzle him, but rather cradles him with its invisible hands, trying to give him its warmth. The smell of homemade food fills his nose, beckoning him to peak in. Satoru stands motionless, looking at you with a fluttering heart. So familiar, so homely, with a smile stepping away from the door, inviting him to go inside. And he thinks, "It's so strange, in all my life I haven't had a place I could call home, it seems... it's always been here."

A relieved exhale.

thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3

tags: @shamelessperfectionhideout @margumis @vagabond-umlaut @4sat0ruu @a-nuisance-called-sam @strawberrystepmom @rossithepixie @suckonlimes @jazminetoad @nikokopuffs 💛

art and dividers aren't mine <3

#gojo satoru #jjk gojo #satoru gojo #jjk satoru #satoru gojou #gojou satoru x you #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo angst #gojo imagine

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xbellaxcarolinax · 9 months

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Hi, congratulations on 2K! 🥳

Can I ask for HCs for Marc Spector in a Zombie Apocalypse AU? 👀

Marc Spector x f!reader

Warnings: Language, violence, mentions of blood, weapons such as guns and blades, implied reader is younger, BUT OF AGE OKAY? Smut, p in v, nothing too crazy.

Thank you for participating babe <3 No mention of Steven or Jake in this one! I’m sorry :( Also, this isn’t very good Again, I’m sorry! But I did have fun, so there’s that!

NSFW (Idk how that happened, it wasn’t the original intention lmfao)

MDNI

Marc was built for the times

Didn’t mean he enjoyed it

His time in the Marines proved useful, his instincts sharp and always ready for a fight, his skills with a gun and blade invaluable

Comes home with blood on his hands almost every night

Lost count of the lives he’s taken, both human and zombie (didn’t matter anymore)

A lone wolf—survived the outbreak all on his own

That was the good thing about lacking loved ones, he had no one to worry about but himself

And he wanted to keep it that way

Or so he thought until you stumbled into his chaotic life

It was an accident, really

You broke in through the window of his flat in the dead of night, your old chucks squeaking against the worn-out wooden floor

He had a blade to your neck within seconds, the sharpened edge pressed firmly against your delicate skin

“Who the fuck are you? How’d you get up here?” He spat, grabbing your frayed t-shirt caught in his fist by the neckline

How you managed to climb the fire escape up six flights without making a sound was beyond him

“Wait, wait, wait, I’m sorry, I thought this place was abandoned and I needed to get away.” You pleaded, your eyes wide and your hands curling around his wrist in an attempt to loosen his hold.

Marc grunted, shoving you to the side.

“Get out.”

“Sure, can that wait till morning?”

“No.” The last thing he needed was a liability.

“Please,” you begged, “they’re everywhere tonight. Just-just let me leave in the morning, they hate sunlight, you should know this. I promise I’ll be gone.”

He could’ve said no, should’ve. Something about your eyes stopped him. You were a young thing to him, a pretty girl with pretty eyes that spoke volumes

You’ve suffered just as he had

“I want you gone by sunrise, got it?” He bristled, pointing his blade at you, “And I better not catch you here again.”

“Got it.”

But when did things ever go as planned?

You were back again and again and again.

You traded food and in return, he provided you with simple weapons he’d put together—a tiny blade, an old wine opener, a shitty pistol.

That led to you crashing over his flat.

That was two years ago, and now, you were stuck to Marc like glue

But you weren’t useless. You were extremely stealthy, a good trapper, always bringing food home for dinner. Sometimes it wasn’t much—a simple trout or a small squirrel to fill your bellies till the next time you fetched a meal, but it was enough

Marc never said it, but he was glad you had stumbled into his flat those years ago

Too stubborn to admit you were a welcomed companion

Even more stubborn to admit he was falling for you

But that didn’t matter. The world was fucked and there wasn’t any time for that

One day you’d gone out to check your squirrel traps at the park (really, it was a forest now) not far from the flat.

Marc accompanied you as usual, seeing as he was the protector.

He’d gotten distracted. Found a Zippo lighter tossed carelessly over the grass. Still had oil in it.

It’d been so quick he almost missed it. Some guy had you pressed up against a tree, his thick hand wrapped around your throat as he lifted you up with ease.

Marc saw red.

Immediately grabbed his gun from the back pocket of his worn denim, aimed, and fired.

He never missed a shot.

The only thing he could really recall from that day was the fear in your eyes, the red splattered over your pretty face.

“Could’ve been worse,” you chuckled shakily, wiping your face free of blood, “could’ve been a nightcrawler, right?”

Marc didn’t laugh

He shoved the dead man away from you, grabbing you in a tight hug

You hugged him back, burying your face in his chest, your body trembling like a leaf in his arms

God, he was falling for you and there was definitely no time for it

But you made the time

One night you kissed him, soft and sweet, unlike anything he’d felt in a long time

You were pressed up against him, savoring his warmth in the chill of the flat

He returned it eagerly, unaware of how touch-starved he’d been, his fingers pawing at every part of you he could

Marc fucked you that night, nice and slow on his old bed, his dark curls drenched in sweat despite the cold

“You feel so good.” He whispered in your ear as you whimpered, coating his length in your juices.

“M-Marc, feel s-so full,” you moaned as you held him close, his thrusts growing sloppier the closer he got

You came, gushing over him with a silent cry. He followed not long after, pulling out from your pulsating cunt and spilling over the bare skin of your abdomen

He surged forward to kiss you, tongue tangling with yours as your fingers weaved through his sweat-slick hair

Your eyes, always so pretty, pulled at his heartstrings, just as they did the first time he met you

And he was never gonna let you go

#caro's 2k #moon knight #marc spector #marc spector smut #marc spector x reader #marc spector imagine #moon knight fanfic #mutuals 💟

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polyamzeal · 9 days

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X-Men '97, Episode 5 - Writing Mature Jealousy

I want to go over episode 5 of X-Men 97, titled Remember Me, because it has a very good portrayal of how to write jealousy well and in a mature way. Now since this a polyamory blog I know everyone is just going to assume I am going to say, “All their problems would be fixed by polyamory.” As tempting as that is I am not going to do that! Well the X-Men comics have recently touched upon actual polyamory representation I don’t think it works for this incarnation in particular but I do think by looking at it through a polyamorous lens we see some very interesting stuff going on that deeply monogamous folk might miss. So I want to take this opportunity as a lesson we can all learn from about how to write portray jealousy as a more nuaniced and interesting complex emotion rather than a one-note toxic trope we often see it reduced to. Obviously spoilers below the cut.

So going to assume you have seen episodes 1-4 up until this point so not going to spend long on setups but quick setup. Rouge and Gambit have have had an unofficial relationship that everybody knows about for some time now. But as Rogue’s old flame Magneto enters the scene she has been tempted by him. Meanwhile, Cyclops just found out that the mother of his child is actually a clone of the woman he loved instead of actually her and doesn’t know when the swap happened. Plus the original and clone share memories to make it even more complicated. Now that the clone, Madelyne Pryor, has left, Cyclops is unsure how to feel about the real Jean Grey.

I thought I would be starting further along in the episode but let’s talk about Gambit’s arrival in Genosha. Right away we get Magneto subtlety exerting superiority over Gambit yet Gambit stays cool and doesn’t show that it bothers him. He makes a comment about two being better than three though to show that he doesn’t like Magneto interfering in his relationship. But the character drama really begins when Nightcrawler talks to Gambit. He urges Gambit to marry Rouge but Gambit replies about how he knows that Rogue wants somebody other than him and he basically says that he doesn’t deserve love. You see, Gambit has done a lot of shady stuff in his past and while he may act cool deep down he feels like Rogue deserves someone better than him. So we have a dichotomy between Gmabit’s brain that approves of Rogue hooking up with another man and his heart who does still want her all to himself as selfish as that is. This internal struggle makes up the entire character arc for Gambit this episode.

But let us move on the first of many big shockers of the episode! Jean Grey kissing Wolverine! As Jean is reminiscing about what to do about Cyclops and how they have been distant, Wolverine tries to give her advice as a friend. But he also slips up and lets out some of his own romantic feelings for her. Unexpectedly she returns them with a kiss! I get the vibe that a lot of fans might have cheered in celebration, “Wolverine is going to get the girl like he should unlike that jerk, Cyclops!” But as Wolverine just reminded us, he is far more mature than that. In an act of true selflessness, he instead forgives her for her cheating and tells her to instead go patch things up with Cyclops. He made it clear that he loves her but also he has been down this road before and knows that he isn’t the best man for her and if he really cares about her then she needs to be with the right man for her, Cyclops. This is actually very similar to the dichotomy Gambit suffers but with a 100 more years of experience and maturity, he commits to his brain over his heart and without the same hesitation.

We get a quick cut back to Rogue and Magneto who gives this great line, “As with Gambit, loving you makes broken men whole." But let us have them on pause for just a little bit longer.

Instead let us focus on Cyclops having a touching intimate moment with who we think is Jean but instead it is the clone, Madelyne, having a psychic affair with him from half-way across the world. Not related to the topic of this article but a nice little extra detail is that Emma Frost, another telepath, totally 'saw' everything that Madelyne was doing. But back to the affair, Jean interrupts them and a drama-bomb explodes! Cyclops admits that he loves both Jean Grey and Madelyne Pryor but again I am not resorting to “non-monogamy is the answer here.” Afterall a psychic-powered clone is involved here, more than just a twin, so not exactly normal real life situration. But it does bring up hard questions of how to choose just one. Again Cyclops’s brain is probably telling him the one he loves is Jean Grey, that seems like the right answer. But his heart loves his son and therefor loves the one who he knows is the actual mother, Madelyne. As such we have the 3rd brain-heart romance dichotomy of the episode except this one has the most uncertainty and confusion involved. On the other side with Jean, we get into the philosophical question of having memories of loving someone versus feeling love for someone. It is deep! The Phoenix urging Jean to travel the cosmos might also seem unrelatable to real-life but I think you can equate it to someone that has a job opportunity to travel and make more money but they would need to leave behind their lover, something lots of people do struggle with.

One last thing I want to address is again I am sure some fans are extra mad at Jean in this scene. She just cheated on Cyclops and now she is mad at Cyclops for cheating on her. This level of hypocrisy might rub me people extra rough. But I want to ask this question, would she have been more or less mad at Cyclops’s cheating if she did not just cheat herself first? I think either has its arguments but I honestly think less. She knows she cheated and messed up so now she is putting in effort to mend and fix that. Just to see that Cyclops is also cheating but not repenting like she did. This anger she is taking out on him for cheating is amplified by her own guilt and shame for having just cheated as well. Maybe even more fueled by being rejected by Wolverine as well. It is spicey but also very realistic.

Back to Rogue and Gambit. How is Gambit going to find about Rogue’s relationship with Magneto? In what way will he discover them in the act and cause drama? Actually, she comes right out and confesses to him. I love them avoiding that trope and instead giving us a brutally honest heart-wrenching confession scene instead. And again, Gambit does not react like a 13-year child, instead he calmly asks if she is going to accept it. Explains how he has respected her wishes to not be official but this still hurts. Rogue unloads her heart upon him explaining her unmet needs, the physical incompatibility they have together. And we are given the very realistic question of physical needs versus non-physical needs. Are physical needs a deal-breaker in a relationship? The scene concludes with Gambit being as smooth as always by saying he bets Magneto will break her heart but until then he will respect just being friends with her and givers her permission to pursue Magneto. He maturely wants what is best for her even though it hurts him.

As we transition to the Gala itself we see Rogue living it up in her full splendor! Magneto joins her and they make a big spectacle of the two touching which Gambit sees. This is another scene I have seen some people have very weird takes on Gambit’s emotions here. Many read anger and jealousy as I am sure many in the same shoes would feel. But I see more of the dichotomy at war again. He wants best for her and sees outright that Magneto can give her something he can’t. He even says as much to Madelyn right beforehand. He is happy for her but it still hurts and is just too much hurt for him to handle so he has to step away to protect his own feelings out of respect for Rogue.

By the way, the animation on Rogue is beautiful here! There is so much visual storytelling going on with her feelings that shown more than told. We get the sense that she really wants this and indulges in it to the fullest. But there are still doubts in the back of her mind. Is it all for real or just a performance that she has bought into. She enjoys it and had fun but decides that she actually does want Gambit more.

Rightful so the rest of the episode from this point on does not have much time for romantic drama. What I do really like is we get to see the Gambit-Rogue-Magneto love triangle function under an emergency. A terrorist attack happens and they all put on their work face, because this is the work that they handle. Any romantic squabbles are set aside. Magneto asks Gambit the situation without any of previous boosting over him or even hard feelings that Rogue just admitted to choosing him. And then immediately they form a plan as a team to take care of the threat like they always would. They are professionals. We do get a scene of Rogue trying to save Magneto and Gambit needing to hold her back. Then Magneto protects not just Rogue but both of them as he sacrifices himself. Again understanding that feelings can’t get involved here, they have a duty to protect people.

Some people find the final scene extra tragic because Gambit died thinking Rogue choose Magneto over him. But I don’t think it matters. He would have sacrificed himself to save her regardless of what she choose.

To summarize they are some many scenes in this episode where I expected characters to follow troupes and throw jealousy-fueled temper tantrums. Instead it was one of the most refreshingly mature portrayals of adult jealousy I have seen in any show. No, the answer is not “Polyamory would have fixed all of this.” But instead we get, “Toxic monogamy is not the only way to write a story.” It makes the characters so much more relatable and enjoyable to watch just to see them not drown in toxic monogamy and petty jealousy. I hope more stories can learn from these examples.

#x men 97 #jealousy #non-monogamy #writting #Storytelling

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sonicslushie · 11 months

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When the Devil's Calling Pt. 1~P.P.

Summary: Y/n Stark is something of a nightcrawler, what happens when her antics become a little too much?

Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

A/N: we’re gonna say the reader and peter are both over the age of 18 in this for my sanity’s sake. slooooooow burn on this one and lots of angst, that’s just how Miley makes me feel lol. Based off of some songs off of Miley’s Plastic Hearts album.

part 2 is out now, also here’s a playlist to listen to as u read

TW: drinking and drug abuse, what reads like a suicide attempt but i promise it’s not (you'll see), peter doesn’t show up until the very end, probably some grammar mistakes

Word Count: 2.8k

“Did you hear about that Tony Stark’s kid? She was caught hooking up in a bathroom at some bar again. I swear she’s turning out just like her father.”

“Junior Stark; arrested for public intoxication… What is this? The 4th or 5th time?”

“I saw Y/n Stark down at the bar off 31st, and you will never guess what she was doing! Bumped a line then took a shot off of a stranger. I didn’t think the rumors were true.”

“Stark’s kid is in the news again, knocked a guy out with one punch over a seat at the bar, she never fails to amaze, huh?”

Rumors. That’s what it started with. Rumors that Tony Stark’s daughter was out almost every night of the week drinking or doing drugs, hooking up with strangers. Or at least, your father thought they were rumors, until he started seeing you headline the news or on the cover of scandal magazines looking like you weren’t even aware of your surroundings. Of course, you knew the so-called “rumors” were true. Honestly, the tabloids didn’t even know half of the truth. But to be frank- you didn’t care.

You didn’t care that the media had this bad perception of you, if anything it aided you. To be one of the most well known billionaire and superhero’s daughters wasn’t exactly what you expected it to be. Everything you did from the time the world accidentally found out about you was scrutinized, giving your father all the credit for your accomplishments. If everything they were going to say was going to be bad, why not give them something to truly write about.

That’s exactly what you did.

It started around the age of 17, it was easy to come by a fake I.D. and a few extra dollars to slip any bouncer who might have known who you were. They say money doesn’t buy happiness, but it sure as hell buys booze and silence. The first time you went out was actually because your friends wanted to see this local band at a bar not too far from your place, so why the hell not? The music was what kept you going out, it thrummed through your veins, as did the alcohol, which might have had a positive effect for the mediocre band. Bodies moved together, nobody seemed to care who you were, or better yet, who your father was. Everyone was there for two reasons; to get drunk and dance. You lived for it.

The feeling of drunken freedom took hold of you, filled every part of you that seemed to be lacking. No thoughts of living up to Tony Stark’s image, no thoughts of your late mother, nothing of the responsibilities you held in your everyday life. In those bars you were just you under a fake name, living through the music and kissing strangers and free to just exist.

It was fun, so you kept doing it. Once every weekend turned into entire weekends, turned into every other day of the week, turned into every night. Sometimes you wouldn’t come home for days on in, night crawling turned into going home with a different stranger every night. You fed the media lies until they weren’t lies anymore. It was just the sorry truth that turned into your life.

But the truth that was way deep down inside never surfaced when you were fucked up. So you kept doing it.

That is, until one day your dad held an “intervention”. Really it was just him locking you in a room with him and scolding you for being so reckless. Lasted for hours. He even called Steve to lecture you- which if you’ve ever had a Steve lecture you know it’s the worst possible thing in the world. Every bit of old wise man slang was used, and had you not been high out of your mind, you probably would have crawled your own eardrums out just to stop the ridiculous mix of your dad and Steve scolding you about the only thing that made you feel better.

Did it stop you though?

Nope.

Today was no different, you got ready in your nicest going out clothes, hair all done up and makeup on, even had a throwback playlist playing as you got ready. (Katy Perry and Taylor Swift are the best hype women out there.) Everything was normal, a few shots to pregame, then you were ready to see the night.

That is, until you hit the first bar, one right around the corner from the Stark Tower, a locally owned gay bar that was one of your favorites. Now that you were 21, you didn’t even need your fake and most of the bouncers knew you from the various times they’ve seen you there. But this time, they didn’t let you in.

“You’re banned,” one of your favorite bouncers, Jimmy, said to you as you were about to walk past him. You stopped dead in your tracks, they were playing one of your favorite songs and all you wanted to do was get a tequila sunrise and dance.

“Huh?” Was all you could get out before another bounce- Brody- stepped in your way.

“You’ve been banned. Sorry girl, but it’s from the higher ups.” Jimmy says, looking guilty. No this wasn’t going to stop you from having a good night, and honestly it’s not like it hasn’t happened to you before. If we’re going to be completely honest, you blacked out last time you were here, and when that happens it’s safe to say they probably had a good reason to ban you.

So you sighed and walked away, no need to make a scene at the best bar in New York.

You decided to go a little further, a few blocks away was another good bar. Not your fav, but it’ll definitely get the job done. You wait in line, and finally when it’s your turn to go in, you get stopped again.

“Sorry ma’am, you’ve been banned.” The bouncer says, not even looking guilty this time.

“I’m sorry, what?” You ask, this time your blood started to boil as the shots you took before you left started hitting.

“You heard me.” He said, then started talking to the girls behind you, who recognized you and were starting to talk. Fucking great.

But you tried to keep your cool as you ordered an Uber, this time you were going to go to Manhattan. You haven’t been there in a few months, there’s no way you’d be banned from any of those bars, right?

Wrong.

Bar after bar rejected you, and after the 11th one, you lost your cool.

“You’re banned, get lost.” The bouncer said to you, the rudest out of all the ones you had spoken to that night. And after 11 attempts, you were beyond pissed. The mix of the shots starting to wear off, the bouncer telling you to get lost, and the music you aren’t able to dance to playing in the background just got to you. Before you could even process it, you punch the bouncer. Then you swipe his legs out from under him (a move Natasha taught you), then you kicked the man while he was down, shouting something about how you “just want to dance” and “you can’t do this to me” and “someone’s going to get their asshole ripped out of them and stuffed into their piehole”.

In your rageful fit, the police were called and there in a split second, pulling you away from the bouncer who just got all of your wrath, and you were hauled away.

Only you weren’t taken to jail, like many times before. You were dropped off at the Stark Tower, your father waiting on you right outside the doors.

Oh. Oh.

He had done this. He had gotten you banned from all the bars within a 30 minute drive, probably in all of New York. As the police unhandcuffed you and told you to thank your dad for not being taken to jail, all you saw was red. Completely sober you was not a nice you, and that’s where you were at now. And all of your anger was pointed at one person; your father.

Once the police left, you stomped up to your father, “How dare you-”

“We’ve already talked about this. Get inside.” He says, absolutely no emotion in his voice. Tony Stark was not an easy person to piss off, especially hard for his daughter to piss him off, but he was done. He had enough of you embarrassing him in the media, you were all his colleagues talked about while he was around. All you were doing was ruining your life when you had every opportunity to be successful and looked up to. This is what it had come to.

“You’re not even going to listen to what I have to say?” You ask, following him inside the lobby. He shakes his head, “Honestly I don’t care what you have to say, Y/n. You’ve done enough. Tomorrow, you’re going to work with me and get your life together. This conversation is done.”

“No it’s not- Tony!” You try to follow him onto the elevator but he closes it on you, saying something to FRIDAY about a meeting he has to attend and to not let you leave this building. You stand there, dumbfounded. He had never treated you like this, and all you could feel was rage. Somewhere deep down, sadness started to bubble up but you pushed it down. You had liquor in your room, that would do for the night. Maybe some kicking and punching a dummy in the training room would help too.

You waited on the elevator, and finally it came back to take you up to your room. On the way up you try to plan your revenge but the only thing you could think of was the disappointment in your dad’s face when he saw you step out of the police car. Sure he had looked at you like that before, but never with so much sadness behind his eyes. You’ve never really seen sadness like that in your dad since your mom died, and it really just hurt. That sadness being because of you was never your intention, it hit a little too close to home.

You stepped off the elevator, shaking the tears away from your eyes. Alcohol, that was the plan. You just needed to find your stash under your bed compartment and-

It was gone. It was all gone.

At first you just stood there, once again dumbfounded. How many times in one night was this going to happen, I mean seriously? Of course he thought of everything he’s your dad, he knows you almost as well as you know yourself. And while you called it your “secret stash” it wasn’t so secret. For the daughter of a genius, hiding it under your bed compartment was not the best move.

Before you could even move for the door, FRIDAY says over the intercom, “Mr. Stark has asked me to keep you in the Tower and away from any substance that will take away your sobriety. I have locked your door, it will unlock at 7 am. Have a goodnight, Ms. Stark.”

“‘Have a goodnight, Ms. Stark,’” you mock the AI, spinning around and falling onto your bed.

“I heard that and I did not appreciate it,” FRIDAY says, you grab a pillow and scream into it. First your dad, now FRIDAY is disappointed in you. This was going to be the worst night of your life.

You leave the pillow on your face, but throw your arms down like an angry toddler. The immediate escalation of your thoughts surprised you, the fact that FRIDAY seemed mad at you- if an AI can even get mad at a human- was a tipping point. You were used to everyone else being upset with you, but FRIDAY? She was always in your corner. It hurt that everyone in your life seemed to be disappointed in you, always had been in fact.

You moved the pillow, needing air as tears threatened to fall. Nobody cared to ask why you went out every night and got fucked up. Nobody cared to ask why you never attended “family” dinners, never made any attempt to be friendly with your dad’s friends and teammates, anything. If they cared enough to want you to stop, why didn’t they ask you how you felt?

The fact of the matter was, you were never the same after your mother died. Your father was happier when she was alive, more attentive with you, made time. After, he fell into his work, leaving you- an 8 year old- to mourn your mother by yourself. He had Happy spend a lot of time with you, and you loved Happy, but he wasn’t your father. Your dad was the only one who truly knew how you felt, felt all the pain that you did, but he did nothing to help you. There would be days you wouldn’t see him, and little 8 year old you didn’t know how to get over the death of your mother. You ended up bottling it up because that’s what it looked like Tony was doing. It became hard to even talk about your mother, so you decided to pretend like it didn’t happen. It was like a flick of a switch, one day you were crying all day long, the next you were quiet, more reserved than you had ever been. You stayed like that until that fateful day you went to the bar with your friends.

But it didn’t matter now.

Everything that made you feel better was gone, everything made you forget and just live in the moment- done. Honestly it was worse than jail, you were locked in your own head with no way out. Everything just felt numb.

You were moving towards your balcony without thinking, a tablet in your hands to turn off the cameras and FRIDAY’s access to your room. You stood on your balcony, looking at the city that laid in front of you. The lights were so pretty, the skyline dark and blissful. You wanted that bliss.

Lord only knows how long you stood out there before you climbed up on the edge of your balcony, unrelenting tears streaming down your face. You stood, trying to keep your balance. Feeling the slight breeze on your body was nice until-

You slip, a scream escaping your lips.

Dear god, this was it, you were going to die. You didn’t actually plan on jumping off of the edge, you just wanted to feel something that wasn’t sadness or anger. A rush of something that might take your sober mind off of all the heartache.

You screamed and screamed, you lived on one of the highest floors and in your terror the fall felt like forever. Of course even your death was going to take a long time, just your luck.

Your screaming was cut off but something running into you, or rather catching you. Your eyes had squeezed shut, bracing for the impact of the hard concrete. You forced your eyes open as you felt your body going up, in the arms of someone.

You were met with a masked man who you’ve seen in the media- Spiderman. He looked down at you, not saying a word as he swung you to a nearby roof.

He lands, still holding you as if afraid that if he let go, you would go flying off this roof too. After a breathless second you say, “Thank you.”

“I- you’re welcome, Y/n.” He says, saying your name like it was something sweet on his tongue. Of course he knew who you were, you were all over the media and your father employed him. You were just glad he didn’t say your name how everyone else said it, with disappointment or anger.

He put you down gently, still holding onto as you wobble and shake from the anxiety of almost falling to your death.

“Look, I know what it looked like, but I promise I wasn’t trying to… You know.” You say quietly, looking down at his gloved hands still holding your arms gently. It wasn’t something you were used to; gentle. The strangers you took home were always so aggressive and full of lust, but you didn’t get that feeling from the masked hero. He did it out of the goodness of his heart. He was kind.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself. I’m just glad you're okay.” He says, his thumb rubbing your arm in a comforting manner. When was the last time you’ve been held like this? God it must have been years ago. It was a foreign feeling, but somewhat nice.

“Well, thank you again…” You say, silently asking for his name. You know that he has a secret identity, but seeing as your father employs the guy, you figure it’s only a matter of time before you find out anyway.

He takes his mask off to reveal a dude around your age, eyes locking with yours.

“Peter. Peter Parker. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Part 2

#peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #peter parker x stark!reader #peter parker x y/n #spiderman x stark!reader #spiderman x reader #peter parker #spiderman #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman x you #spiderman fanfic #peter parker fanfic

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custardcrazy · 11 months

Note

Hi there! Idk if you're taking requests but here's one for now:

Ted Logan x reader

Reader works at a music shop (they bond over a love for music or a specific band). Reader doesnt play the guitar. They ask Ted for some pointers and hes all flustered trying to teach her.

you're so wild (and wonderful)

summary: It's not every day that a cute near-stranger offers to teach you guitar. (gn!reader)

wordcount: 5.2k

A/N: uhhh little to no beta so again. correct me if i terrifically fucked up some grammar thing or spelling and i'll be SO SO grateful

tagged: @kurt-nightcrawler

You'd worked at the mom-and-pop record store long enough to get a good feel for the place.

It wasn't small, but it also wasn't big and shiny like other popular outlets; tucked into a street corner in downtown San Dimas, it wasn't exactly noticeable if you didn't know where to look. Because of that, you mostly encountered the same people -- the lady always wearing cable-knit sweaters, the teenage punk with a pretty gnarly mohawk, and last but not least the middle-aged guy who came in every so often to check if you had any new Beatles records.

(You usually didn't, but it was nice to hear him talk about how his various fishing trips went instead.)

Sometimes, someone new wandered in now and then, drawn in by the faded sign and various music posters plastered around or on the door. Of course, not all stayed; some just found what they were looking for and left, others got overwhelmed and did the same. It didn't really matter, because most of what you did anyway was sit behind the counter and wait.

But it wasn't unpleasant in the slightest. The hours were excellent, the pay was good, and you got a discount if you wanted to buy a record for yourself. All in all, it was totally worth the occasional music snob who ranted to you about the newer generation "ruining music" or whatever. You didn't get paid to listen to that.

Today wasn't too different from any other -- you checked all the deliveries, made sure everything was in order, and double-checked the new arrivals. Then, you found your familiar post by the register, pulling up the familiar battered stool. It did nothing for your poor back, but it was better than standing for sure.

Your coworker, Alice, arrived a couple minutes after you. She was slight in build with more than a few piercings, always sporting an oversized band tee. You were generally friendly to each other, but since she usually killed time by looking through all the various records and other things on sale, or just straight-up vanished into the back; you didn't get many opportunities to speak to her. Which kind of sucked, because she was ridiculously funny. In a sort-of sarcastic, biting way.

An hour went by with nothing out of the ordinary. A couple of teenagers came in, and you watched somewhat amusedly as they attempted to pool their money to buy a Pixies record.

Unfortunately, they had to leave empty-handed.

You were staring at the wall when the tinny chime of the bell announced a new customer.

Abruptly, your attention snapped up, and you got a good look at the new arrivals.

One was around average height, with blonde curls in what looked to be a halfway-mullet and downturned eyes that made him look permanently sleepy. He looked around the store with unconcealed reverence, and it was a little funny -- but you respected it all the same. But it wasn't him that really drew your attention.

It was the other guy he came in with.

Tall, dark-haired, rather easy on the eyes and dare you say handsome, he carried himself with an easy, loping gait that immediately stuck out to you. It wasn't often you found someone attractive quite like this, and even rarer that you had to pause what you were doing to look. (Even though the fact remained that in this case you were doing pretty much nothing, it still counted.)

It took all of your effort to remain seated and wait for him -- well, them, to approach.

Thankfully, it didn't take too long. After maybe a minute or two, the newcomers looked at each other. For whatever reason, you waited with extreme anticipation.

Then they grinned. "Excellent."

You were a bit taken aback at the way they said it in perfect unison, but didn't get the chance to dwell on it; they were heading towards you, and you had to put on your customer-ready smile.

Though it didn't escape your notice that it came easier than usual.

"Hey," you said, hoping you didn't sound strained, "can I help you with anything?"

"Hi," replied Blond Guy. "Yeah, me and my esteemed colleague here would like to know if that two-for-one sign that is looking most ragged still applies." He gestured to the back, where all the various memorabilia and tee shirts were -- stuff that usually wasn't popular amongst customers, and were mostly things that the owners found in the depths of their attic. His "colleague" nodded in agreement, hair flopping around a little.

You mirrored the nod, but with less shoulder movement. "Yeah, it goes for basically anything, since everything over there is under ten bucks." Pausing briefly, you added, "unless you try to get a tee shirt for the price of a guitar pick. Then, no."

That earned another nod from Tall Guy. "OK, that makes sense. Thanks, dude."

He grinned, and his smile was bright enough to rival the sun; you were momentarily blinded, but were able to smile back. "No problem. Just ask me if you need anything else."

When the two boys turned away to inspect the goods, you heaved an internal sigh of relief.

And for once, it wasn't because the customers were being annoying.

You put in the bare minimum in pretending to not be staring; only glancing for a split second at the pages of your battered magazine that served as time-killing material before looking back up. But, seriously, even if you were doing a poor job, neither of the guys seemed to notice. They were pretty engrossed in examining a couple Garfield mugs.

After that, they actually moved on to the records -- lingering near Hendrix but not dwelling long on Herb Albert, and then making their way through the racks from there. It was a personal hobby of yours to guess what a customer would buy from their appearance and demeanor alone. But you'd been too … preoccupied to think of it, and you assumed it'd be considered cheating to take a stab at it now.

Eventually, they returned to your counter, and you looked up at their approach. As if you hadn't been watching intently out of your peripherals.

A single record was set in front of you, and you put down your magazine.

"Just this one?" Peering down at it, you quickly recognized the album cover: More Songs About Buildings and Food, by Talking Heads. "Oh, good choice."

"You really think so?" Asked the taller boy, and it was a little overwhelming with how much he was focused on you. It didn't seem like he was doing it on purpose, though. "I liked '77 a lot, but I'm not sure if David Byrne's delivery'll go well in this album. His voice is pretty distinctive, dude."

"Trust me," you grinned, "it's good. You won't regret giving it a listen."

Flipping the record over to peer briefly at the back, you put it back down. "That'll be $6.95."

It took a bit of frantic searching on their part, but eventually, you slid a couple crumpled bills into the register and gave them back a nickel in change.

For a moment, your hand just hovered awkwardly in the air, the coin in your palm. The boys exchanged glances, as if daring the other to take it. But, finally, the shorter of the two grabbed it, shoving it into the pocket of his jeans.

"What're you gonna use that for? A Tootsie Roll?" Grinning, the dark-haired guy looked proud of his joke.

You didn't miss how he glanced over at you, to check your reaction; completely unphased by how his friend shot him a near-murderous look.

"Shut up, Ted, you wanted it too!"

Unfortunately, you didn't catch the blonde's name, as they were already walking away from you, record in tow. The small bell chimed once more. For a moment, you just looked at the door, the store feeling empty again.

At least you had a name to attach to his face.

… But it was kind of embarrassing, how you didn't even think of asking him. Maybe you wouldn't even see him again.

Sighing, you picked back up your extremely entertaining reading material, attempting to bury your shame with a poorly-written article about a celebrity's affair.

The rest of the day was pretty boring, to say the least. Only a couple more customers came in, but at least you made a decent amount of sales. Alice emerged from the back a couple times to put a couple ancient-looking movie posters on the walls -- you recognized Barbarella and Yellow Submarine.

"Don't get run over," was Alice's way of saying goodbye to you, as you grabbed your stuff and headed home just after six.

You stayed up a bit later than usual, but it didn't matter, since you had to be at the record store at around eleven or so. And it wasn't like you got lunch rushes or anything that you absolutely had to be there to handle.

To be honest, it was barely annoying when that Ted kept popping into your mind; nobody could blame you, after all. It was rare that anybody you encountered at work was someone who legitimately had the power to capture your attention. So you entertained the feeling, right up until you arrived back at work the next day.

Sitting down at the counter with a purpose after doing the usual routine, you rummaged around for another crappy magazine. Now you were going to be professional and level-headed.

And that was what you did for an hour or so. Professional stuff, like helping out a confused-looking older woman find an Elvis record, or shooing away a group of what looked to be ten-to-eleven-year-olds who tried in vain to barter for the junk that was already considerably cheaper than everything else in the store.

Everything was going well.

Until, of course, the bell dinged again, and you just had to look up on instinct.

They were back.

This time, the shorter guy was wearing a backwards cap (bright red) with his blonde curls poking out the front. You appreciated that for a moment, and then, of course, your gaze slid over to him. Worn-out Megadeth shirt and all.

To your mild surprise, he met your gaze almost instantaneously. And then he was jogging -- well, practically bounding over.

"Dude!" He exclaimed, once he was directly in front of you. "You were so right. That album was truly heart-stirring."

It took you a moment to recall which album he was talking about. When you did, though, you didn't hesitate to return his once-again blinding smile. "Yeah, told you so. You should totally listen to more Talking Heads, if you liked the album that much." Unlike last time, Ted's friend was hanging back, but you were curious anyway, and gestured in the blonde's direction. "Did he listen to it, too?"

"Oh, Bill?" Nodding vigorously, Ted's grin didn't fade. "Yeah, he thought it was pretty good. But he didn't like it as much as I did."

"At least he still liked it." You shrugged. "I mean, you were the one who bought it, right?"

Ted glanced off to the side. "Well, I was the one who decided to buy it." He ducked his head a little. "Uh, we pooled our money, though."

"Oh, okay."

There was a bit of an awkward silence, before you spoke up again. "... Is there anything specific you're looking for today?"

"Oh!" At that, Ted perked up. "Yeah, actually. I was gonna ask if there were any other Talking Heads albums here, besides, y'know, the ones I've already listened to." Quickly, he added, "uh, and by that I mean '77 and More Songs About Buildings and Food."

"Sure, I remember." You put down your reading material, before getting off the stool and coming out from behind the counter. "Let's take a look."

He followed behind you as you made your way to the T shelf, and stood next to you as you thumbed through the records.

(If you concentrated just hard enough, you could feel how he was only inches away.)

It didn't take long to find what you were looking for, thankfully. Feeling victorious, you pulled out Remain in Light. And right behind that was Fear of Music. It kind of sucked that Speaking in Tongues wasn't nearby, but if you got lucky, maybe you could find it in the countless decaying cardboard boxes in the back.

"There," you announced, "here. This is good stuff, I think." You showed the album to Ted, and he leaned a little closer in order to get a better look.

"It might be kind of a weird listen for some people, but it's good in my opinion. Some of the songs are kind of similar to hip-hop, and they even use elements of African music -- it's pretty cool." When you offered it to him, he took it; he handled it as if it was a delicate piece of treasure, flipping it over to read over the song titles.

"Rad," he said, after a few moments of deep concentration. "Thanks."

"No problem."

You found yourself smiling along with him. "Need anything else?"

"I think I'm okay for now." His shoulders bobbed when he nodded, you noticed. "I'm gonna look at the other albums over here for a sec, I think."

"Sounds good. I'll be over there if you need me."

After you turned your back to walk back to the counter, you didn't catch how he looked up -- before glancing back at the records. Once you were seated once again, the only thing you saw was how engrossed Ted was in finding what he was after. Or maybe he was just examining the album art; who knew for certain?

It was a little while later when Bill traipsed over to Ted, and they quietly conferred. Their very hushed discussion ended pretty fast, and before you knew it, they were in front of you, and the album you'd shown Ted was placed in front of you.

"Just this one?" You wondered if they were going to keep buying singular records. "Same as yesterday. $6.95, please."

Again, it took a bit for the money to be collected from their pockets, but again, there was a nickel left in change.

You didn't miss how Ted gave Bill a smug look as he reached over to take the coin from you.

Ted's fingertips were callused as your hands brushed, and

chocolate brown eyes met yours, and

"Do you play an instrument?" You blurted, and then winced. "Sorry, that was -- "

" -- Actually, yeah!"

But before you could apologize, Ted cut you off. If he was thrown off-guard by your oddly-placed question, he didn't show it; if anything, he actually looked happy that you'd asked.

"I play guitar!" Proudly, he continued, "so does Bill! Which is great, because we can learn all the tough songs together." The previous brief animosity over the nickel completely disappeared as they exchanged glowing looks. "It is most productive."

"Oh." Briefly, you were still caught between guilt and embarrassment, but you recovered quickly. "Oh! That's neat, actually. Guitar's a cool instrument."

Bill seemed to take your praise in stride, but Ted -- he suddenly avoided eye contact. You carried on, though. "I've kind of always wanted to learn, but I've never really committed." Giggling semi-awkwardly, you shrugged. "Oh well, I guess. Maybe someday, right? Actually buying a guitar might be kinda hard, though. I've fooled around on a couple, but never owned one."

"That is totally understandable," nodded Bill solemnly, "it does take a decent amount of cash and time to be able to learn any instrument."

"Exactly," you agreed. Smiling, you nodded slightly in return. "Have a nice day, guys."

Suddenly, Ted's attention was back on you with an intensity. You looked at him -- did he have a question about the album? -- but no, he was practically radiating nervous energy, almost looking like a deer caught in headlights. You watched as his Adam's apple bobbed; he seemed to be steeling himself.

Before you could ask if he was okay, though --

"I could -- " he cleared his throat, "I could, uh, teach you a bit of guitar. If you wanna."

What?

"What?" You and Bill said, at the same time.

"I mean, I'm not, like, prodigy material, but… " Ted's face was gradually appearing pinker by the second. "I know some stuff, at least."

Ignoring Bill's extremely concerning look directed at his friend, you genuinely considered his offer.

This was actually a prime-time opportunity.

It wasn't every day that cute boys just fell out of the sky (well, walked through the door of the record store) and offered to give you free guitar lessons. Sure, it was true that you barely knew him -- but if you said no, would you even get the chance to get to know him? Probably not. You couldn't tell if he was the type of guy to back off if you said no to something like this; and that was a little scary.

He was shuffling a little, and looked pretty nervous by the time you came to a conclusion.

"Yeah," you affirmed.

"That'd be nice."

If anything, Bill looked more surprised than Ted; who, after a moment or two, seemingly remembered his ability to speak.

"Wait, really?" Ted's face displayed open shock, before fading beautifully into joy.

"Killer, dude."

Turns out the bookmark you'd been using also worked pretty well as a means for Ted to scribble down his (and Bill's, apparently) address. His handwriting was a couple steps up from basically illegible, but considering that you'd noticed his hand shaking, you'd take what you could get. You had a sneaking suspicion that, even on a good day, writing wasn't his strong suit.

The apartment building wasn't too far from your own home, thankfully.

You were only a bit nervous when standing in front of the door. Waiting for either Bill or Ted to answer it.

It turned out to be the latter, who looked partially disheveled as he opened the door for you, stepping aside.

"Sorry. It's a bit of a mess, dude," he said, sounding sheepish, "uh, but trust me, it's usually way worse."

Stepping inside, you looked around -- it wasn't the worst place you'd seen, to be honest, and it had a sense of familiarity radiating from all the stickers stuck on basically every surface, and posters, pictures, and other memorabilia everywhere. Most of the posters were of bands you recognized.

"It's fine," you replied, as he shut the door behind you. "Is Bill home?"

"No, he went out," came Ted's answer. "Dunno where, though. He just gave me a sorta squinty look and left."

"Oh."

An awkward beat, before Ted picked up the thread of conversation; thin as it was.

"C'mon, you can sit down on the couch or wherever. I'll go get the guitars." He smiled at you. "There's probably, like, cereal in the kitchen if you want something." And with that, he practically bolted into the next room.

Doing as he said, you made a place for yourself on the green couch, trying not to knock off any of the pillow and whatnot piled onto the surface. Not that you thought Ted would mind or anything, judging by the semi-cluttered state of the apartment -- but you didn't want to be a rude houseguest, especially during the first time he'd invited you over.

Ted returned pretty quickly, though, carrying two guitars. One was beige, the other black and red.

"You can take Bill's," he said, offering the latter guitar to you. "He won't mind, I think. Unless you break it or something."

"That's not … really comforting." Taking the guitar, you placed it in your lap. "Now I'm nervous."

"Oh. Sorry, dude." He sat down next to you, his own instrument placed on his leg in a position that looked much more comfortable. "I mean, if you did break it, it'd be most calamitous." Seeing your expression, he rushed to add, "but I trust you not to! Since you work in a record store and all."

"That's a good point." Looking at him, you hoped you didn't appear too lost, and you adjusted the way you held your guitar to mimic him.

"So, uh." Ted didn't seem to notice. "You wanna learn a couple basic chords? It's gonna be a bit weird at first, but you'll get used to it pretty quick."

"Alright."

"Stellar." Rolling his shoulders, he grinned. "Here's an A major chord." He demonstrated the finger position, and then strummed his guitar -- it looked easy enough, but still took a couple tries for you to put your hand in the right spot for it to sound right. Eventually, though, you got it, and Ted beamed.

"That's it. Probably the easiest chord. Wanna move on?"

"Sure," you said, "how long will it take to get used to the strings? They're a little tough to keep down."

"Don't press too hard, it'll kill the quality." Ted adjusted himself in his seat, but didn't take his eyes off you. "If you play regularly, you'll get calluses in no time. Don't worry."

"I hope so." You unconsciously mirrored his movement, but weren't able to hold eye contact for as long as him, and dropped your gaze to the guitar in your hands. There were a couple small scratches here and there, which was comforting; because if it could survive a few dings and scrapes, it could survive your amateurish playing.

"I know so, dude." Ted was completely relaxed. " 'Kay, moving on -- C major chord, right? Also pretty easy." He repositioned his fingers, and strummed once more.

Again, after some trial and error, and maybe a little help, you caught on. Ted looked pleased. "See, you got it! You're learning way quicker than I did."

You weren't sure if it was empty praise or not, but judging from how blunt he'd been so far, you doubted it. And it wasn't like you weren't going to take the compliment -- not with how it brought a supremely light feeling into your chest.

Ted had you practice going between the chords a couple times, to get used to switching finger positions. It was awkward, to say the least, but not outright difficult or challenging. You supposed that, with enough practice, it'd get way less fiddly.

"What's next?" You asked, after that. "More chords?"

"You got it!" He'd been demonstrating how to switch positions efficiently, and you tried not to focus on how his fingers easily reached across the fretboard with little to no effort. "Next, we've got the G major chord. Three fingers again."

It was the same process as before, you thought. However, this time, you just couldn't get it right; his fingers and hand were positioned in a way that made it difficult to tell which frets he was pressing. A little frustrated, you tried for the fifth time, and yet. No dice.

Ted didn't seem too bothered, but he sounded empathetic when he spoke up. "Oh. Lemme help, dude."

If you were expecting anything in particular, it probably wouldn't have been him reaching over to move your ring finger onto the correct fret, and then nudge your index finger over a little.

Your heart did a traitorous little skip.

His hands were warm.

"... There." Even he looked bashful as he pulled back. "Uh. That should be good now."

It took you a moment to breathe a "thanks."

Wonderfully, and finally, you got it right. The chord was a little shaky, but you reveled in your triumph.

There was something thick in the air,

but it quickly dissipated as Ted cracked another smile. "See? You got it!"

"Yeah," was all you could muster.

"Let's go between those three for now," he said, mercifully not picking up on your current state of mind. "I think that's a good spot to kinda review, right?" Flicking back his head to get his bangs out of his face, he continued. "I'm not going too fast, right? I'm not, like, a professional music teacher or anything, so…"

At last, you recovered your ability to find words. "No, you're fine. The chords aren't too hard to remember, anyway."

"Right," agreed Ted, "then, can you play the A major one again?"

That was easy enough. You got C major right rather quickly too, much to Ted's delight. And you even remembered how to shift between the two positions in a way that didn't result in uncomfortable finger-twisting. Your fingertips were steadily growing sorer, indented by the strings, but you tried not to focus on it; you'd get used to that later.

However, when you got back to the G major chord… You tried once. Nope. Once more? Couldn't get it.

Third time could be the charm.

No dice. Your guitar emitted a sound similar to that of a severely out-of-tune violin.

"That one trip you up again, dude?" Ted frowned, but it wasn't in a disappointed way at all. More like the sympathy from earlier -- and he sounded a bit guilty, but you didn't know why.

"I swear it's not on purpose," you grumbled, "sorry."

" 'S fine, really." His frown melted into that same easy smile. "I get it. Imagine how long it took for me to get that one right. I didn't have a teacher at all."

Your mind abruptly conjured up an image of Ted, just as frustrated as you were, sitting on the same couch. Struggling to learn the chords you'd gotten in mere minutes. Maybe Bill and him struggled together, when they were both unfamiliar with guitars. Like you were now.

It was kind of a funny image. You were wondering if it was rude to think so; it probably was, right?

But your train of thought was quickly interrupted.

As Ted moved over.

Closer than the last time.

"I have a trick that helped when I first learned the G chord," he began, "uh, you just gotta remember that your middle and ring finger are on the same row, right? And the pointer is just up there." He made a couple hand gestures that didn't really help with the explanation. You understood what he meant, however…

"Where's the pointer finger supposed to go, again?" You asked, a little embarrassed that you'd already forgotten the correct hand position.

Ted opened his mouth to say something. His brow furrowed as he hesitated, before apparently giving up on trying to detail it with words. Gingerly, he placed his own guitar the side.

"Just -- here. Hang on."

Your heart swooped as he reached out again, and --

he was so gentle in how he guided your hand to the correct spot, before carefully nudging your fingertips onto the frets, pressing them ever so slightly onto them.

It took him a moment to speak, and when he did, he hadn't removed his hand from on top of yours yet. He was turned entirely to face you, having been so focused on his task of helping you that he hadn't noticed -- until now.

"Uh," he said, before clearing his throat. "So, see? Middle and ring on the same row, like I said."

His voice was quieter. "And … pointer to the side. There."

You risked a glance up at his face.

It was a brilliant pink.

But he still hadn't moved away.

Every single nerve in your body felt like they were migrating to where your skin met his.

"... There?"

You echoed.

Ted finally seemed to snap back to reality -- pulling his hand back, nearly scrambling backwards on the couch, almost bumping his guitar off it in the process, with how he bounced back on the cushions in his rush to get out of your personal space.

"Yeah!" He blurted as he did so. Face scarlet. Hand flying up to scratch at the back of his neck.

"That -- that should be good."

And now he was avoiding eye contact.

"Okay," you replied eloquently, mentally kicking yourself afterward.

You had to admit, there was a little bit of suspense before you finally strummed your guitar.

And as if from the heavens above, the correct notes finally rang out, just as Ted had demonstrated earlier.

"There!" You declared, and couldn't help your sigh of relief. "I think I'll remember it next time."

It took Ted a second to respond, but when he did, he'd recovered, and was grinning; even if he was still a little pink.

"... See!" He dropped his hand back to his lap to join the other. "The same goes for other tough stuff in music. If you're having trouble, just try to find a pattern." Sagely, he nodded. "Even if it takes you a while to find the pattern, it'll be most gratifying in the end. Makes it way easier to remember stuff."

"Yeah, thanks." You loosened your grip on your guitar. "Actually, that helps a lot. Should we go back to reviewing all the chords again?"

Ted reached back to grab his own instrument, before flicking back his head to get his bangs out of his face.

"Let's do it, dude."

It was about an hour and a half later when your fingertips really started to get sore; even after said hour and a half was interspersed with several breaks, in which your very helpful teacher showed you a couple records from his own collection. And played a couple songs from said couple records.

Most of the songs were from the albums you'd chosen for him.

However, when it came to continuing to practice guitar, half of you wanted to bravely persist, and the other half wanted to stop. Though it was inevitably Ted that made the decision.

"I said it'd take time for you to get calluses, but you shouldn't push yourself too hard," he said, after you winced for maybe the third time. "It hurts, right? And that sucks, that was exactly what it felt like for me during the first, like, few weeks or so." Idly, he pushed back a lock of his hair which had migrated into his face. "I think we could stop for now."

"Yeah, okay." You put down your guitar. "You're right. I should head home to eat, anyway."

"Right," he replied.

There was an awkward beat, before you finally stood up. Ted followed suit.

"Yeah," you repeated, not being able to stop the smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth. "Thanks. Really, it was really sweet of you to offer to teach me a bit of guitar. I only mentioned it in passing, too."

His hand was back on the back of his neck as he walked the short distance with you to the entrance. "It's nothing," he deflected, but his expression said it all. "I'm just glad that I didn't turn out to be a horrific teacher, or something."

"No, you were fine!" Giving him another 'thanks' as he opened the door for you, you stepped out of the apartment. "I'm just glad that I wasn't a horrific student."

Turning to face him, you inclined your head, speaking before he could object.

"Bye. And thanks -- "

"-- you wanna do this again?"

It seemed even he was surprised at the question, taking into account how his face reddened. Once again. "Uh," he added, "I mean, it was fun. To hang out and teach you a couple chords. It'd be nice to hang out again." His tone was wavering. Stilted, almost. "Yeah."

It was cute.

"Sure," you answered without missing a beat. "Give me your number and I'll call when I get home."

His answering grin was powerful enough to power a thousand solar panels.

You probably broke a speed limit heading home, to say the least.

#ted logan x reader #ted logan imagine #ted logan imagines #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #ted logan x you #bill and ted imagine

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your-regular-toast-enjoyer · 1 year

Note

as he's such a softie, im curious to see your take on general headcannons (or a one shot, if you're inspired enough for it) of yandere kurt wagner with his mutant best friend who also has a (even if way less unhealthy) crush on him.

found your blog yesterday, it's been great, your writing is so nice! have a good day!

Yandere Kurt Wagner x reader , Yandere Nightcrawler x reader

Kurt Wagner x reader. Yandere!Kurt Wagner x reader/ Yandere Kurt Wagner x Reader

Nightcrawler x reader. Yandere!Nightcrawler x reader/ Yandere Nightcrawler x Reader

Word count: 4254 words

TW: GN reader, Yandere, isolation, obsession, manipulation, bl*od.

Ok, so I imagine that you guys met at the Xavier school for gifted youngsters. Whether or not you came from a family who accepted your mutant powers, you’ll be living at the school much like everyone else, isolated from most non-mutants.

Maybe you met Kurt during breakfast one fateful autumn morning. You were the first two in the feeding hall, no one else in sight. Kurt was always early since he liked to admire the sun rising in the distance and could simply teleport to the hall whenever he got hungry. And you? Well, either you were just an early bird or perhaps you had forgotten to adjust your alarm clock to the changing daylight saving times. Either way, it was just the two of you.

You two had initially sat relatively far away from each other, on account of being strangers and you hadn’t paid any attention to the other presence in the room. Kurt usually held his head low whenever he was surrounded by people he didn’t know, but he had risked a glance at you. Just one. And had immediately been struck by how beautiful he thought you were. It didn’t matter that you looked so tired that most would have wondered whether you had just woken up or if you had stayed up for five days straight, nor did it matter that you had a small white streak of toothpaste by the side of your mouth. It was all cute to Kurt.

He kept staring at you until you finally felt his eyes on you and turned around, coming face to face with the demonic-looking young man. You might’ve reacted with either brief fright or an awkward wave, whichever it was, Kurt quickly tried to reassure you of his pure intentions by asking to sit next to you, softly treading over his two-toed feet, hoping that his appearance didn’t scare you.

It didn’t, or at least not enough for you to mention it. You smiled and waved him over. Kurt couldn’t hide the bright smile that emerged, revealing his fangs, as he sat next to you. You two started to chat, mostly about unimportant stuff like your homework, your powers and anything else of the like. While on the topic of his powers, you mention finding his teleportation cool, to which he quickly scrambled to stand up, accidentally pushing his plate all the way to the middle of the table. The scratchy sound of porcelain scraping against the table’s wooden surface made you flinch, but you kept your eyes on the blue man in front of you.

He’d feel an intense heat in his face as he observes your eyes on him, smiling shyly attempting a suave wink, which ended up looking more like he had gotten something in his eye, before disappearing from your sight with a pop. You gazed around in confusion, trying to spot where he’d gone, only to hear another pop and feel the tap of one of his three claw-like fingers on your shoulder. Turning around, you found that he stood behind you with an outstretched hand, offering you a white rose that he had plucked from the garden behind the school. With a giggle you accepted it and Kurt’s heart warmed at the sound, he realised that he would do anything to hear that sound again, it was like music to his pointy ears.

Gently pulling him down to sit again, his leg accidentally hit yours and he felt an electrical jolt go through his entire body, for a brief second, he considered if he had lost the ability to breathe. Letting his yellow eyes glide up to you, he found you looking at him in concern. “Are you okay, ehh-”, you tried to ask, not knowing his name. “Kurt, Kurt Wagner”, he supplied breathily, his Bavarian German accent shining through. You smiled awkwardly, gently rubbing his back as he leaned over the table “Are you okay Kurt?”

It took him a while to answer, but when he did, he returned your smile in full, gently taking your hand away from his back and holding it in his hands. “Yeah, I’m fine, just… vertigo”.

It would become a tradition for you and Kurt to enjoy breakfast together every morning, early, before anyone else would come down and disturb you. Kurt enjoyed this in particular. He always felt so exposed when surrounded by all the other students, feeling their prying eyes drilling into his odd features, but when he was alone with you? He felt like he could just be a regular 18-year-old, talking about things other than mission plans or his appearance. It felt refreshing, like a cold shower during a heatwave.

The two of you rarely spoke outside of breakfast, though. You had a little group of friends who would tug you with them everywhere they went. It annoyed Kurt deeply, they didn’t treat you like the borderline royalty, that you indeed were in his eyes. They didn’t really deserve to be grazed with your kind smiles, beautiful stares and oh-so-wonderful laugh. Not that Kurt felt exceptionally worthy himself, either, but at least he felt confident that he could protect you and treat you better than those ungrateful friends of yours.

It wasn’t that Kurt didn’t have any friends of his own, though. He was actually surprisingly popular thanks to his agreeable personality and eagerness to help his fellow students in any way he possibly could. He also had a close bond with both Wolverine and Colossus, the former of which he confided his feelings in. Logan was of little help, though, simply confirming what Kurt already knew. “Ya’ down bad, kid. That’s what we in the business call a ‘crush’”, the bearded man had laughed thunderously, shaking his head as he lit up a cigar, blowing the smoke away from the blue-skinned man

Kurt felt so alone in his feelings, he didn’t want to force himself upon you. You deserved better than a misformed creature like him. Still, he couldn’t stop fantasising about a future where you two would wake up next to each other every morning, you kissing him good morning and him cooking a better breakfast than what was served at the Xavier school for gifted youngsters.

Imagine his shock when he spotted your obvious blush one morning when he accidentally brushed your cheek with his tail. It truly hadn’t been on purpose, but with the way you reacted to his touch, he wished it had been. He actually refused to believe that it was a blush, instead getting worried that you might have been sick. “Are you okay?” The blue man whispered as he gently let his three-fingered hand touch your forehead. You were warm, and he quickly pushed you towards the medical wing, wanting the nurse, who was constantly on duty, to check up on you. However, you reassured your yellow-eyed friend that you were fine, that you were just tired… or something like that. He didn’t believe you, the sceptical quirk of his eyebrows told you as much, but he relented. He could never force you to do anything. Not yet, anyways.

After that morning, Kurt kept a closer eye on your reactions. He would graze you with his tail, on purpose this time, letting it pick up pieces of your hair, (if it’s long enough, if not, he’d go with your shirt instead), and twirl it around, eliciting a nervous yet jovial chuckle from you, which he ate right up. Sometimes, he’d bring you a rose from the garden, although he would do this semi-rarely to not fill up your room with rotting blossoms. Still, the shy smile on your lips every time he’d hand you a red, pink or purple rose filled him with such an intense love that he almost thought he’d burst. It was all too much, you were just so perfect.

Kurt would slowly realise that you returned at least some of his romantic sentiments. Of course, he’d remain insecure about this conclusion, because… Well, how could you possibly return his feelings? He looked like a monster, he had literally lived most of his life in a German circus because that was the only place he wouldn’t be hunted down for his appearance. And even if you seemed to never mind the way he looked, even appearing to find it fascinating or admirable, he had such a hard time believing that anyone could look past his blue skin, yellow eyes, talon-like hands and feet and everything else that distinguished him from all the normal looking mutants.

Feeling bold one morning, Kurt tentatively attempted to ask the question that had plagued his mind ever since he met you, “Do you not see my appearance at all? Or are you just pretending not to for my sake?” His German accents enunciated the Rs and Hs in a way you usually found adorable. However, you had clearly become offended by the accusation, feeling as if Kurt simply saw you as another shallow individual, only caring how others looked. You took so long to answer that Kurt had panicked and grabbed onto your hand for comfort, which melted away most of the animosity you had previously felt towards him. “Of course, I see the way you look-” you started, suddenly feeling Kurt’s hand tightening around yours. Taking a deep breath, you admitted the last part with a quiet whisper, searching for the right words to say, ”-and I think you look… enchanting.”

Yeah… so, Kurt’s heart definitely stopped for a second. Enchanting? Were you making fun of him? His scepticism was made obvious to you through his tightly scrunched-up eyebrows, the tiny fold created between them held so tightly that you were almost worried that it’d pop like a tiny blue balloon. Hesitantly reaching forward, you let your thumb caress the crease in his forehead, slowly massaging out the tension Kurt held in his face. “You’re mocking me, Y/N.” While it was meant as a question, it ended up sounding much more like yet another accusation. You would’ve gotten enraged if it hadn’t been for the way small tears collected at the bottom of long blue eyelashes. Letting your hand slide from his forehead to his eye, you gently swiped away the salty water droplets, wetting the underside of your hand. “I’m not.” You reassured your demonic-looking friend. Almost as if to prove you wrong, Kurt leaned forward, turning his head to the side as he let his free hand carefully grasp your neck, nearing your lips. He stopped himself right before he made contact, giving you ample opportunity to pull away, you didn’t, and though his face was blushing a dark shade of indigo, he uttered a fearful confession, “I love you”. He cringed at the clichéness of the confession, but it was true, he did love you, adore you even. He desperately wanted you to repeat the words to him, but you did not. However, you did the second-best thing, slowly turning your head as well and connecting your lips in a searing kiss.

After that morning, Kurt refuses to leave you alone. You two had made out the entire morning, yet you had never specified what exactly your relationship was now. Kurt couldn’t pretend he wasn’t utterly obsessed with you any longer nor would he allow you to end the friendship. The day after the kiss, Kurt approached you while you hung out with your other friends, something he had never done before. Your friends clearly had no idea of your companionship with the blue man as they gave him wary glances as he requested that you follow him to the gardens for a quick chat. One friend of yours in particular had been bold enough to attempt shooing Kurt away, a bad decision as Kurt simply gave them a death glare, memorising their features and tucking them in the back of his head for future reference. You had conceded to Kurt’s wishes, joining him amongst the many roses, carnations and other greenery.

“What are we?” Kurt had immediately blurted out once you were out of earshot from the other mutant students. “I don’t know”, you had admitted honestly, but that was simply not good enough for Kurt. “Well, we gotta figure it out, because…”, he couldn’t push out the words, he had already confessed the day before, you knew. Still, you pushed for him to say the words once again. Kurt tried but it felt as if a lump of clay had filled his throat, preventing any words from coming out. Taking a deep breath, he decided that if he couldn’t make himself articulate it in English, he would do it in German, “Ich liebe Dich, Y/n… Ich liebe Dich mehr als alles Andere”. Even if you don't know German, the meaning came across and it took your breath away. You had a crush on Kurt, obviously. How could you not? He was such a sweetheart. Still, he was so much more popular than you, everyone loved Kurt, and on top of that, he had been on actual X-men missions, something everyone else could only dream of. He was even buddies with legends like Wolverine and Storm. You were at a loss at how someone so cool could be your friend, let alone in love with you! If Kurt hadn’t grasped both of your hands in his, you would’ve thought this was nothing more than a beautiful dream. “Y/n? Could you say something, please… I would never want to force something on you, but-”, you cut him off with a kiss, thinking it’d be enough. It wasn’t. Kurt needed a vocal confirmation of your feelings and the clear exasperation in his eyes as you pulled away told you that he wanted something in particular. You didn’t have to ask though, as Kurt breathed out a clear, “Tell me how you feel, I beg of you”. If he hadn’t looked so obviously on the verge of bursting into a crying fit, you might’ve considered teasing him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be so cruel to a man who looked so frustrated. “I like you too, I thought that was obvious”, you chuckled at the end, trying to lighten the mood of your conversation.

One can’t help but wonder if you would have confessed so willingly if you knew the crimes Kurt would end up committing. There is a world of difference between a high-school crush and an intense obsession with another being. Still, after that walk in the garden, you re-entered the school as a romantic couple.

Kurt’s obsession wasn’t too obvious in the following weeks, not to you at least. He would follow you around like a lost puppy, kissing you at any time you’d allow him, preferably in front of your friends, to stake his claim on your heart… he, of course, did not tell you the latter bit. To you and those outside of your friend group, Kurt simply seemed like a doting boyfriend, however, your friends, especially the bolder ones of them, were horrified of him. The threatening glares he’d send them were bone-chilling and promising death, not made better in the slightest by the fact that his eyes were such a bright yellow.

Still, you didn’t believe them when they told you about Kurt’s eeriness, you felt as if they were all just jealous that you had entered a relationship with such a doting guy, a thought introduced to you by Kurt himself. The way that they were seemingly the only ones seeing anything bad in him, your less close acquaintances backing you up in your perception of Kurt as a cute and great guy, made them increasingly suspicious. Some of them might stop their attack on the blue man when you lash out, telling them to mind their own business. If one of them foolishly continued, well… Kurt is a pretty popular guy, and whoops! Would you look at that! Suddenly multiple terrible rumours are spreading about them, none of which can be traced back to Kurt, of course.

His yandere tendencies really come to a head one day when the school is attacked by Magneto’s troops, and both you and Kurt are chosen by Charles to aid the X-men. Partially because you’re some of the oldest students, both being over eighteen, but also because you both have a great grasp on your powers. You’re ecstatic to finally be able to help the actual X-men. Kurt, however, is deeply upset. He’s a nervous wreck. What if something happens to you? What if you get hurt?

The battle is long and hard. There were casualties, some of the less experienced mutants. At one point you were about to become one more on the list of the dead. You had spotted one of the younger students, a little blonde girl no older than nine, she had somehow avoided being evacuated along with the rest of the non-fighting students and she was standing right in the blast zone of one of Magneto’s mutants. There hadn’t been enough time to formulate a proper plan and instead of simply standing there, you had jumped in front of the girl, her blonde locks beating against your cheeks as you tackled her to the floor, the pain of the other mutant’s attack just barely grazing your back before you heard two pops in quick succession of each other. Suddenly you were outside, on the grass in front of the manor. Your arms were still tightly curled around the blonde girl’s little body, her thin arms holding onto your waist like coils. However, another set of arms, much stronger, were wound around your shoulders protectively. “You’re safe, meine Liebe, both of you are safe”. Kurt, you realised. The three of you sat like that for a long while, letting your hearts calm down. Once you had comforted the young girl and led her to the other non-fighting students, a stern glare sent to the teacher in charge of gathering them, you let Kurt drag you somewhere else.

His clawed hand had been gripping your wrist like a vice, which you had found curious. “Kurt?” you had tried, but the blue man didn’t answer. Something was wrong, but you didn’t know what, not until he turned you around in his arms. “You could’ve died!” He screamed loudly. You caressed his cheeks, not sure what else would calm him down. His eyes were wild and his talons dug into your skin. “I’m fine”, you reassured, but this only made him shake his head wildly. “Only because I was there! What if I hadn't been?!”

It was then that Kurt decided that he could no longer trust that you’d be safe at the school. He had to do something, what if another attack like this ever happened and he wasn’t there to help you. No, he wouldn’t let that happen. He decided right then and there that the X-men were too violent of a group for him, and by association, you too. Kurt decided that he would fight this one last time, before asking Logan to help bring both of you back to Germany. He could count on his last living adoptive sibling, Jimaine, to set you two up with a small hut in rural Bavaria. He, of course, did not consult you on any of this. He didn’t consider it necessary, he was simply protecting you, and you wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

Kurt refused to let you rejoin the battle. Begging you to stay and protect the non-fighting mutants instead, you relented, trudging back towards them. Popping back into battle, Kurt let his most vile nature out, slaying Magneto’s mutants like the daredevil demon he looked like. It was his sweet revenge for them almost killing you. Grabbing his trusty swords, he sliced and punctured everyone that wasn’t wearing the yellow X-men suits.

He was dripping in thick red blood when he encountered a personal foe of his. The friend of yours who had tried to push him away from you the day the two became official. He had caught them alone. They were wounded, a large gash running across their lower leg. Laying down his weapons, to ease their obvious fear of him. He approached them. Kurt had initially offered a hand, which they took without suspicion, helping them up, only for his tail to wrap around the hilt of one of the discarded swords, driving it through their midsection. Their eyes widened for only a second before they tried to scream. They couldn’t. He had punctured their lungs. Slowly dragging out the now red blade, Kurt admired the way it glistened in the few rays of the sun making it through the broken windows. Kurt still held up your friend by the hand as they slowly bleed out, the colour draining from their face.

When he was sure that they were dead, Kurt left them there. No one would suspect him. Not only because of his image as a sweetheart, but also because they weren’t even close to being the only one who fell that day.

You were inconsolable when you found out about your friend’s untimely end, clinging to Kurt as he tried to comfort you. He used the opportunity to highlight how. “That’s just the risk that you run when you associate with the X-men”. Yes, indeed he exploited your grief to make you agree to run away to Germany with him, cutting off all ties with the X-men as an organisation.

Logan agreed to take the two of you with him on his next travels, where he planned on briefly stopping in Germany. Charles, on the other hand, attempted to stop you from going. He had been worried for his young blue pupil for some time, and against his better judgement, he had entered his mind after the Magneto attack, seeing everything from Kurt’s obsession to the murder of your friend. You didn’t believe him though. You were brainwashed enough by Kurt’s honey-coated damnation of the team of heroes which Charles led, that the bald man’s attempt to keep you at the school only served to solidify your doubts about him. No matter how much Charles wanted to, he couldn’t keep you there against your will, you were an adult and you had made your choice, he simply hoped you wouldn’t come to regret it.

Life with Kurt in Bavaria started out fine. You got married relatively quickly with very few attending, only Logan, Jimaine and a few of your family members. You owned a hut and a small plot of forest, which Kurt successfully used to produce and sell timber. Everything seemed to go so well. That was until Kurt got jealous of the townsfolk which you oh-so-loved to interact with. Every so often, a person you had befriended would either move away, refuse to talk to you or simply disappear. The only connections you really managed to keep were Kurt himself and his sister Jimaine, who would visit on a semi-regular basis.

You didn’t suspect Kurt of anything nefarious until one day you found a young man, whom you had taken to talking to every morning while on your daily walk throughout the alpine village, laying on the kitchen floor. He had multiple puncture wounds and what looked to be bite marks as well, he looked like he had been mauled by a wild animal… or perhaps more accurately a demon. Glancing away from the man’s face, you found your blue husband, holding a dirtied knife, with blood splattered across his long and white fangs. You had tried to run, but it was too late, Kurt had already seen you, teleporting in front of you and manhandling you back into the hut, locking you in your shared bedroom. You had screamed and banged on the door, but it had done nothing.

You would stay locked in that room for weeks, your only company being Kurt, who would only come three times a day to hand you your food. After the first week, you became less hysterical, realising how blind you had been, how you had ignored all warnings from those who actually cared for you. You no longer doubted Charles, but you also recognised that it was far too late. You had dug your own grave and now you would have to lie in it. By the fifth week, you began talking to Kurt again, having remained entirely silent previously. “He was trying to take you away from me! He was dangerous!” Kurt had attempted to explain, as he did every day, but when you finally replied, it was a simple, “Okay”. Nothing more.

You would never love him like you once had. He would let you roam the house again, once he felt he could trust you, perhaps even wander the forest with you, but you would never again see another person regularly other than Kurt and Jimaine, who was very clearly aware of the situation and of no help to you whatsoever. Perhaps, after years of re-conditioning, Stockholm syndrome reinstates and a healthy dose of existential dread, you start caring for your blue sweetheart of a husband again, maybe you’ll get a letter or a visit from Logan once in a while, but truly, you have no one else other than Kurt in this foreign country, where you are inhibited from forming new friendships. If you ever get kids with Kurt, he’d treat them just like he treats you. Sheltered and isolated. “It’s all for your safety”, he’d always defend, and you'd end up thinking, “Perhaps he’s right… perhaps-”

A/N: Yes, you can just ignore this, it's mostly for the user who sent in the request. Thank you for this idea! I know it took a while for me to get it out, I have a smaller exam period ATM, so sorry for that! But Thank you so much for this request! It brought me right back to when I was a kid and Nightcrawler used to be one of my favourite heroes, (my second favourite X-men character), since he was German... And as you can probably tell from the German phrases I shoved in this one... and the fact that I have my Bundesland flag as my Tumblr header image...I too am German, well, half-German. Also, I have always had a soft spot for teleporting characters! I hope I did your request justice! Anyways, thank you for the request!

#kurt wagner x reader #yandere kurt wagner #yandere x reader #nightcrawler x reader #yandere nightcrawler x reader #yandere nightcrawler #kurt wagner #kurt wagner x you #yandere kurt wagner x reader #x men #x men x reader

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tywrites · 1 year

Text

not your babe | the lost boys [marko x reader]

a/n: hi! this is my first time actually writing in around 9 months? so i apologise if it’s bad :’) it’s also my first time writing for the lost boys! i just can’t get this man out of my head >.< i found marko pretty difficult to characterise so i apologise if he’s ooc <3 as always feedback is super appreciated!

summary: you get stood and marko wants to make you feel better :( inspired by this post by @kurt-nightcrawler

pairing: marko x gn!reader (i’m pretty sure i didn’t use any gender terms-)

word count: 2.2k

warnings: cheating :0, i think that’s it? maybe ooc marko

---

A sigh fell from your lips. The bright lights from the boardwalk shimmered around you, taunting you. Intoxicated whoops and screams of laughter echoed and swirled through the air. Your arms were comfortingly wrapped around your body despite the warm summer night. Gazing longingly at the people around you having such a good time caused your heart to ache. As much as you wished to join in with the festivities, there was a heavy bitterness lying inside you.

Your boyfriend wasn’t the most punctual person in Santa Carla, but standing you up completely was new. After waiting for nearly 2 hours, you were close to giving up and going on home, maybe drowning your sorrows in a bottle of wine and shitty late night TV. You glanced at your watch once more, the neon numbers only succeeding in making you feel worse. I mean, really? What kind of person leaves their partner waiting for this long? Had he forgotten or could he just not be bothered to drag his sorry ass here tonight? You’d only been dating for about a month, but you really couldn’t believe that you meant so little to him.

You surveyed the boardwalk, taking notice of all the familiar faces. You were a regular there, having lived in Santa Carla for pretty much your whole life. It may be dangerous, but it was home. In the distance, you could make out a gang of Surf Nazis messing around with Big Ed, the boardwalk’s night guard, as per usual. Clumps of people were scattered around, chatting at the top of their lungs; drunks and junkies wobbling their way around the stalls. The boardwalk was particularly crowded tonight, probably due to the weekend; but there was no sight of him. Biting your lip, you decided that enough was enough and began to gather your things ready to leave. It was particularly frustrating since you’d put so much effort into your appearance tonight. But whatever, dude didn’t deserve to see you looking so good if he couldn’t even be bothered to show up.

A sudden cacophony of motorcycle engines broke you from your thoughts. You dropped your bag back onto the bench and whipped around, hoping to see your boyfriend. He was never seen without his bike. Instead, you were met with a gang of boys who you were all too familiar with. Clad in leather and showing a tasteful amount of skin, they were definitely a hard bunch to miss.

A few of them frequented the record shop you worked night shifts at, usually the two blonds (the natural ones anyway...) They’d always been sweet to you, despite their reputation – even going as far as to chase away some guys who’d been harassing you one time. That happened all too often around here so you really did appreciate the gesture. Those guys never entered the store again. You understood why people found them intimidating, but to you, they were really fun to be around. Always laughing and joking around in the store, and more often than not, flirting too. Especially Marko. You’d found yourself drawn to the wild guy in a way you’d never been before. His fashion sense, his humour, the way he always made a point of making conversation with you whenever he’d come in. You kinda had it bad for him. Maybe he flirted a bit too much for your taste considering he knew you were taken, but he was funny and definitely easy on the eyes. Your boyfriend really didn’t approve of your friendship, he always seemed to pull you away the moment you started getting too close for comfort. The two guys really didn’t get along.

You struggled to tear your eyes away from Marko as he and his friends parked on the side of the boardwalk. They bantered good-naturedly, giggling with each other as they dismounted their bikes. The girl and kid that always hung around with them hopped off the bikes and wandered into the fairground, the rest of them speaking for a moment before Marko turned and headed into the crowd with Paul. They strutted around for a bit, looking around the area before Marko looked in your direction. You quickly averted your eyes, the ground suddenly becoming very interesting. He brought Paul in for a moment to whisper in his ear. When he pulled away, a large suggestive grin was plastered on Paul’s face and he clapped Marko’s back as if wishing him luck before continuing on. Marko rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics while heading over to you.

“Hey there babe,”

“Not your babe,” you reminded him, looking up to meet those mischievous blue eyes you’d grown so familiar with.

He smirked as he advanced towards you, looking at you intently. He was pretty close now, standing in front of the small bench you were sitting on. He bounced on the heels of his feet as he glanced around, gently nibbling on the skin of his thumb. Cute. “So… Where’s your little boyfriend?” He asked, quirking a brow.

You looked down, shuffling your feet. God, this was humiliating. “He, uh...”

“Didn’t show?”

You let out a short, half-hearted laugh. “That obvious, huh? Yeah, you got it right,”

“Asshole. Clearly doesn’t know what he’s missing. You look really fucking good tonight.” He grinned when he noticed the blush that rose to your face at that. You realised that you were genuinely smiling for the first time tonight. “So since he’s not here… you’re free tonight, right?”

“I mean, technically. But I was honestly just planning on heading home, not really in the best mood y’know? Wouldn’t wanna bring the vibe down,” you replied, fidgeting with the strap of your bag.

“Aw c’mon!” He took your hands in his, the leather of his gloves sliding against your soft skin. “The night’s still young, don’t let that tiny dick asshole ruin it for you,”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, your laugh only making Marko smile wider. God, your laugh did things to him. You knew this might be a bad idea. You were still taken. But right now, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. He was the one who fucked up, why should your night be ruined because of him? You mulled it over for a moment before replying.

“Fuck it. Why not?”

“Then let’s bounce, babe.”

–

Your arms were wound tightly around Marko’s torso, gently tracing patterns onto the bare skin of his stomach exposed by his crop top. The firm denim of his jacket was rough against your bare arms, the many patches layered over each other creating an uneven texture. You leant your cheek against his back as you sped through the night, sand flying up into the air as you rode. It was exhilarating. Your boyfriend never let you near his bike; it was his pride and joy. At this very moment, as the wind whipped through your hair, splaying it out behind you – you’d truly never felt more alive. You screamed in excitement and tightened your grip when he suddenly lifted the bike back into a wheelie, whooping wildly. The engine roared deafeningly. Your eyes clenched shut involuntarily as you felt the bike lean back, your stomach dropping. You could hear Marko chuckling at the screams coming from your mouth and found yourself laughing along.

The moon and his headlights lit the way in front, showing nothing but a long expanse of sand. To your right was the most gorgeous view of the ocean, to the left the vivid lights from the fairground. It felt as though the moonlight was stalking you both, following you through the shadows and bouncing off the waves. Part of you didn’t want the night to end. It was like a dream.

Unfortunately, the ride was finished too soon. Riding bumpily back up the stairs to the boardwalk, Marko parked his bike back where you’d first started nearly two hours ago. After that ride, your boyfriend wasn’t even a passing thought in your mind. All you could think about was the pretty boy who was currently helping you off the back of his bike.

“How was that?” He grinned as he slung his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side.

“Well, it was definitely worth the absolute mess that is my hair right now,” you giggled, trying your best to smooth out your locks but to no avail. Not that it mattered when two seconds later Marko’s hand found it’s way into your hair, messing it up once again. You glared playfully at him.

“It’s cute, you should keep it like that,” he winked. “C’mon!”

He grabbed your hand, dragging you into the fairground before you could protest. Not that you would have. You weren’t 100% sure where all of this was going – whether he was just trying to cheer you up because of the whole boyfriend thing or whether it was something more. But you put all of those thoughts to the back of your mind. You just wanted to have a good time.

And you did. He dragged you on pretty much every ride, no matter how many times you was chased off by the security guard. Laughing delightedly together on the biggest roller coasters, you clinging tightly to his arm as the cart teetered over the edge of steep inclines. The teasing quips he’d make about you being scared. It was a rush, a breath of fresh air. The pounding in your heart and lungs as you sprinted away from Ed hunting the two of you down. Of course Marko hadn’t told you about his ban from the boardwalk. You weren’t one to get in trouble a lot, but this was exhilarating. After getting pursued all throughout the fun house (you’d lost Ed in the mirror room, and Marko for a short while too, but you’d reunited outside the fun house), the two of you sprinted down to a ride at the very end of the fairground. A boat ride on a track tempted you, one you hadn’t seen before. Must be new. But hiding in the tunnel seemed like a good shout.

“Quick, on here!” You both hopped onto the ride, the boat rocking creakily in the water, and frantically urged the operator to start.

The bored teen cranked the lever and you were off, heading towards a tunnel lit up with pink tinted lights on the inside. You looked up just in time to see the lit up banner pasted on top of the tunnel. The Tunnel of Love.

Go figure.

You breathed heavily, desperately trying to catch your breath, clutching the side of the boat. Looking at your companion, you couldn’t understand how Marko seemed so unbothered while you were still fighting the stitch in your side. Instead, he was far more distracted by the inside of the tunnel. Huge heart-shaped arches lead you through the ride, flower petals were scattered across the water. Neon bulbs emanated a pink glow as a subtle, sweet smell spread through the air.

He looked at you, smirking. “Just wanted to get me alone, huh babe?”

You rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder with your own. “Not your babe…” you said quietly.

He giggled, intently gazing into your eyes. Carefully, he reached out and took your hand. You felt the cool leather of his fingerless gloves and rough callouses as he gently played with your fingertips. He smiled lopsidedly at you. Your heart fluttered.

“You still thinking about him? Your night still ruined?”

You bit your lip, shaking your head. “He’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

His gaze was intense, you felt so analysed. One of his hands left yours, coming up to cup your cheek. Your breath hitched but you leant into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed. You waited. Soft lips pressed against your own, capturing your mouth in a sweet kiss. It was so different than you expected, gentle and slow. Until he took his arm and moved it to your back, manoeuvring you onto his lap. His hand dropped to your waist, his grip firm as he deepened the kiss. You arms came up to settle around his neck, one of your hands tangled in his blond curls. He held you tightly against his body as his lips moved in sync with yours, the kiss becoming gradually more messy as it went on. You were breathless, chest heaving but unable to part from him. The gloved hand around your waist became more and more confident, playing with the hem of your shirt before sliding underneath. The cold leather made you shiver as it slid against you, tracing patterns on your side. It was so sudden when he bit your lip, a high whine escaping you. You could feel him smirk against your lips. Your head was foggy as he reconnected your lips, almost possessive with the way he held you against him.

“That’s enough kids, break it up!”

You hadn’t even noticed the ride stop. You sprung apart from him, still feeling as though your were under a trance. Looking up, blinking in the bright lights of the fairground, you saw the night guard hovering over you both, a triumphant scowl on his face.

“Uh oh-”

“I’ve got you now!”

Marko yanked you up, leapt out of the boat and – narrowly escaping Ed’s arms – the chase began once again. You ran side by side into the night, laughing manically. You’d definitely be giving your boyfriend a call tonight.

#the lost boys x reader #the lost boys #the lost boys imagine #the lost boys marko #the lost boys marko x reader

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catholic-character-tournament · 11 months

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Round 1 - Side A

Propaganda below ⬇️

Abuelita Alma Madrigal Propaganda:

There's a church in the Encanto as well as a priest and given how strong her grip is and how much of a control freak she is, I would very much doubt she'd allow people to believe in other miracles than Pedro's if she wasn't, herself catholic. Also I mean south american turn of the century family they're probably catholic.

Listen at least Alma is!!! The candle!! The importance of the church!!! The vibes are just there!!!! The idea of being a savior by sacrificing yourself (or at least your personality/grief) for your people? That’s SO catholic coded PLEASE

Kurt Wagner/Nightcrawler Propaganda:

good lord where do i start. in the animated series he converts logan to catholisism and then fucks off basically thats the main thing he did there. i think one time they tried to make him a demon to explain how he looked but everyone hated that. he sold his soul one time to help his friends out after he died. he and logan have a weird little gay thing. he was a priest one time but he was made a priest by a fake bishop from a religion that hates mutants iirc so he just wasnt a priest. like 3 people have written him in a way i like and one of those is my friend just talking about how they view him.

wow marvel loves making catholic characters dress/look like demons

Kurt is a mutant who was born to mystique who looks a LOT like a devil (technically is half one but that cannon truth isn't real go back to bed), his mother dropped him off a cliff when he was born and he was picked up by a Romani group/circus (fuck old comics man) however he then narrowly escaped being sold to a freak show and found himself in a small German town. There he met a kind priest, who showed him God, and he quickly grew attached to the idea- However, it wasn't long before people began labeling him a demon and soon the whole town was against him with pitchforks and fire. Cornered and injured, Kurt thought this might be the end for him- maybe he would see heaven so long after finding it- but he was then saved by Charles Xavier who invited him to the X-Men. AND ITS BEEN SO MANY YEARS AND HE HAS BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH THERE. SO MUCH. SO GOD DAMN MUCH. BUT THE MOST AAAA THING TO ME CONCERNING HIS FAITH HE WHEN HE LITERALLY DIED AND WENT TO HEAVEN BUT THEN BECAUSE OF DRAMA WITH HIS FATHER HAD TO BRING HIS FRIENDS IN WITH HIM FROM THE BEYOND. THEN WITH ALOT OF TROUBLE THEY FOUGHT HIS FATHER AND THE ONLY WAY KURT SAW TO STOP HIM WAS IN A MOVE THAT STRIPPED THEM BOTH OF THEIR SOULS AND PUT THEM BACK ON EARTH. SO KURT CANONICALLY HAS NOW LOST HIS ABILITY FOR ETERNAL PEACE, LOST HIS VERY SOUL, TO SAVE PEOPLE- AND ALSO TOLD NO ONE NOT EVEN HIS GAY LOVER WOLVERINE.

Nightcrawler is a mutant vigilante who looks like a classical demon. He can't even go to church without people panicking and trying to exorcize him. Despite it all, he's so full of faith and hope and compassion, and he wants to believe the best of everyone. Also, he's bffs with an extremely angry Jewish sword lesbian. That has nothing to do with anything, but it's important to me that you all know that.

What if you were a devout christian and literally looked like the devil? He nearly became the pope, which was a plot by some supervillains that also involved faking a rapture? There is nothing like comics I swear to god.

A catholic who is half demon I don’t think I can better explain a struggle than that. But his character is so relatable to people who feel unwelcome with their congregation because of something that is a part of them but still feeling a connection to the faith. Kurt actively engaged in his faith and shares how his faith helps him through all the things he has faced in life and how he found a home with those of the church who leave the judging to God.

so they made kurt a priest briefly before deciding to retcon it, resulting in nightcrawler actually being part of a plan by villains to promote him to pope then reveal to the world that the pope is a demon. wild.

I have a side blog and a tattoo about him and i really really want him to win

Wisecracking devil-appearing devout Catholic with the Best superpower (teleportation)? HECK YES

German Catholic circus acrobat who looks like a demon & can teleport through a hellish alternate dimension with a puff of sulfur. Character of all time.

hes catholic and his dad is the devil. what could be funnier than that. also hes my silly little guy.

Nightcrawler is the world’s most fun catholic priest. I first was introduced to this kindhearted teleporting acrobat while he saved a boat full of stowaway refugees from inter dimensional pirates with swashbuckling gusto!

#encanto #alma madrigal #abuela madrigal #x men #kurt wagner #nightcrawler #marvel #cct polls #tumblr tournament #tumblr polls #tumblr bracket

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raepritewrites · 2 months

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If Heather were ever to write a memoir about being a superhero, she was going to include an entire chapter about what to do when you get sucked into a portal, because it was a surprisingly frequent hazard of the job and was confusing as hell if you didn't know what you were doing.

Fortunately, she’d been through this song and dance a few times, so she started with gathering the basics. Who, what, where, how, and when?

First, who? Some c-lister villain who called himself Vibe. The team had been working on a case of break-ins where banks would be robbed through some sort of portal technology. In and out, easy as pie, with almost no trace left behind. The guy was slick she could give him that.

Nightwing had theorized the guy might have a teleport ray, judging by the tachyon readings they were getting. Further investigation, however, and a quick conversation with Flash had revealed that Vibe was a meta created from the particle accelerator explosion of Central City, which had given the speedster his own powers. It hadn't been too hard to track the guy down from there.

Second, what? Well, bad guy plus warehouse equals superhero fight. It had just been Nightwing, Superboy, and herself who went to track down and capture the meta. The rest of the squads had all been busy on other assignments, and really, how hard could it be to take this guy down with three of their heavy hitters on it?

Apparently, harder than they'd thought.

Vibe, it seemed, was just as slick at evading capture as burglary. The idea had been for Nightwing and Scarlet Spider to wear the guy out and keep him distracted until Superboy could get in a final hit. It had briefly worked, and then everything went wrong.

Scarlet probably shouldn't have antagonized Vibe so much, but it was fun winding bad guys up. She and Nightwing had come up with some good lines as they danced around the teleporter. She had so much experience fighting alongside Nightcrawler that she assumed she could guess this guy's next move without any trouble. He would zig, she would zag. She'd been... a little too confident. Her spider sense had warned her of the danger as she swung towards Vibe for one more kick to the gut, but her momentum had been too strong, and there was no avoiding the inevitable.

Vibe had realized the game they'd been playing with him and grabbed Superboy as he'd tried to sneak up from behind, flinging him over his shoulder and into her. They'd crashed into Nightwing in a pile of tangled limbs and curses.

By the time Scarlet Spider looked up, Vibe had a new portal open behind him. "As fun as this has been, I'll be taking my leave now. This earth has always been a little too hero-happy for my tastes," the man smirked and saluted them, stepping backwards into the swirl of blue and white light.

If Heather had a nickle for every time she made a very stupid last-minute decision, she and Bruce Wayne would be in the same tax bracket. This was just another five cents in her fictional bank account. She sent a webline to the ceiling, propelling her up and off of her teammates and into the portal, which promptly closed behind her.

Third question, where?

On the other side of the portal, it dawned on Heather very quickly how stupid she was as she found herself free-falling. High-rises and skyscrapers rushed past her in a blur as she struggled to orient herself.

Some part of her brain that sounded a lot like her step-father screamed at her to throw a webline, and after two desperate attempts failed to land on anything, her third try caught a gargoyle. Her arm wrenched in its socket from the abrupt change in trajectory, and she gritted her teeth to stifle the howl of agony that crawled up her throat. She looked around desperately and spotted a rooftop not far away that she could reach.

Her landing was less than ideal, tumbling head over heels before rolling to a painful stop on the tarmac. She lay for a moment to let the panic subside, panting heavily from the spasms radiating from her arm and down her torso. She stared up at a smog filled night sky and the glowing neon sign of an office building as her brain rebooted.

Once she could hear more than just her own heartbeat thundering in her ears, she took stock of her situation. While she'd torn a few muscles in her arm, the damage was minimal compared to being a smear on the sidewalk. She'd twisted her ankle when she'd landed, and it throbbed in a familiar way - not broken, but definitely sprained. Everything else seemed negligible; cuts, scrapes, and general bruises. She would deal.

She sat up slowly and frowned at the office building's sign, declaring it to be one of Wayne Enterprises' headquarters. Why Vibe had thought running to Gotham was a good idea was anyone's guess.

She checked her comm, but only received static in reply, no matter what frequency she tried. Maybe it had been damaged in the fall? Her phone worked, but had no signal at all, not even wifi. That was strange; WE had public wifi available at all there buildings. She needed to reach the team somehow to let them know her status, and that despite her best (very stupid) efforts their suspect was in the wind. She wasn't sure where the closest zeta beam was from here, but maybe she could reach Nightwing a different way.

Did Heather feel bad breaking into the department store? Yes, a little, but desperate times and all that.

She'd grabbed a pair of jeans, a belt (because of course the jeans didn't fit right, but she didn't have the luxury of time on her side to find a pair that did), and an oversized sweatshirt. She dropped a pre-paid credit card on the counter with the tags of the items she was stealing, hoping the owners wouldn't be too mad at her. She then made triple sure that all the cameras she'd covered in webbing were still technically functional -just ineffective for a few hours - and grabbed a shopping bag from the register to stuff her gear into it.

Outside the store, it had begun raining, because this was Gotham and she had Parker luck. It was only natural. After trudging through the rain for a few blocks, Heather finally hailed a cab in a more populated part of the city. The clock on the dash of the taxi read a little after four am, and the driver looked like he wasn't thrilled to have found a customer.

"I need to get to Bristol," Heather told him, trying to be short but polite.

The cabby raised an eyebrow at her, blowing smoke from his cigarette out his cracked window. "That's going to cost you, lady," he told her flatly. "If you hadn't noticed, this is the Diamond District, that's a long drive."

"If you can get me there quickly, I'll pay you double the fare in tip," Heather promised.

Both eyebrows went up at that. "You're the boss," he shrugged and pulled away from the curb.

Once they reached Bristol, Heather had the cab drop her off at the Drake Estate, a few miles from Wayne Manor. She didn't think the cab driver really cared about where this woman in ill-fitting clothes was going at the crack of dawn out in the most expensive neighborhood in Gotham. But just in case someone asked him about it later, she didn't want him saying he'd dropped the weird woman off at Brucie Wayne's mansion. Never could be too careful.

True to her word, Heather had tipped extra generously, and the cab had taken off as soon as she was out of the backseat.

She glanced down the Drake's long driveway to where their modern estate could be seen peaking out between the tall trees and frowned distastefully. Shaking off her feelings towards Tim's parents, she settled into a fast walk and headed towards Wayne Mansion in the thinning rain.

By the time she reached the front gates, the rain was just mist that was slowly being burned off by the morning sun, and she was soaked to the bone. Wiping water off her face, she buzzed the intercom and hoped Alfred wouldn't be mad at her for the early morning call.

"Wayne Residence, may I help you?" His British accent came through the intercom sounding slightly tinny.

"Good morning, I need to speak to Dick Grayson or Bruce Wayne. It's Heather Reilly."

There was a long pause, too long. "Do you have an appointment?"

Heather frowned. "No, not exactly. Listen, I know it's early, but I really need to talk to Dick or Mr. Wayne."

"Master Wayne is a very busy man, young lady," Alfred began, in a clearly dismissive voice.

"Wait, please! It's..." she frowned harder, brow furrowing as an uneasy feeling filled her gut. "It's Heather, Mr. Pennysworth. You know, Heather? Dick's friend? We've... I mean, don't you know who I am?"

"I'm afraid your name is not familiar to me, and young Master Dick no longer resides here at the manor. Good day, young lady." The intercom clicked off and Heather stood blinking at it for several seconds.

"What the actual fuck?" She finally muttered.

Alfred Pennyworth did not know who she was. He had dismissed her with the same polite but frosty way she'd seen him dismiss hopeful gold diggers who hung off of Bruce at parties. As her brain processed this information, something else occurred to her as well.

Vibe. He had said something just before he disappeared. That their earth was too hero-happy. Their earth. As if there was more than one.

"Well, shit," Heather sighed sharply, rubbing at a pounding headache that was beginning to build behind her eyes.

Apparently, Vibe wasn't just a teleporter like her fiance, and perhaps their assessment of him as a c-lister villain was a bit hasty. Because apparently the sucker could warp not just around the world, but also apparently around the freaking multiverse?! And Heather, dumbass extraordinaire, had followed him to a parallel universe. Which meant that the only way she was ever going to get home was to find the bastard again, and there was no way she'd be able to do that on her own.

Fourth question, how?

Heather felt significantly more guilty sneaking onto the Wayne Manor estate than she had breaking into the department store.

She hoped that her Dick and Bruce - if she ever saw them again - would understand that she hadn't meant to memorize the defenses around the estate. Really, it was more Bruce's fault than hers.

She'd spent so much time working for the man, digging through the batcomputer's files and doing the menial grunt work to help hone her skills, that of course at some point she'd gotten bored and started studying the layout of the grounds and where all the motion detectors were hidden. She was only human... well, kind of. Sort of. Not important right now.

She didn't know for certain that this version of Bruce Wayne would use the same layout for his home's defenses. Hell, she wasn't even certain that this version had even become Batman. Maybe the man actually was a clueless socialite in this universe. But Heather had a gut feeling that she couldn't shake.

Like, sure, maybe there were universes out there where that was true. But... could there really be a universe where Bruce Wayne had never become Batman, and yet he'd still taken in Dick, who then would coincidentally also have a falling out with the man and move to Bludhaven? The whole reason her Dick had moved to that awful city was to establish himself as Nightwing.

Heather knew she was holding onto a thin string of hope here. But if she was wrong, she might never make it back home, and that possibility was too terrifying to even consider.

Her universe had found multiple ways to kick her in the teeth and drag her down, over and over again. Yet, that universe was her home, and she was still standing. She'd gotten back up each time with the help of her family and friends. She would figure this out, and she would come home to them.

There wasn't an option for failure.

By the time she was standing in front of the massive doors of the manor, her shoulder and ankle were starting to throb in time with her heartbeat. The sun had burned off the remaining rain and she estimated it was closer to six or seven am now. Despite knowing she looked like a drowned rat, Heather attempted to have some dignity as she straightened her clothes, pushed back her slick hair, and reached up to knock.

"I'll get it, Alfred," She heard a young male voice on the other side of the door, and she had just enough time to think Tim when a seventeen year old boy with dark hair opened the door.

Heather blinked. This... was not her Tim. Her Tim was still thirteen and only recently reached her shoulder in height. Yet, the haircut, the blue eyes, the sharp features, all of it definitely screamed Tim Drake.

The boy frowned at her. "Can I help you?"

"Uh," Heather floundered for a second, unsure. She hadn't anticipated speaking to anyone other than Alfred, Dick or Bruce. "Yeah, I'm sorry. It's um, it's been a rough night. My name is Heather Reilly. You're Tim, right? I'm a friend of Dick Grayson's, and I really need his help."

"You again?" Alfred was suddenly behind Tim, wearing the most severe frown she'd ever seen on the man.

It immediately made her step back a half pace and her shoulders hunch. No one, not even her own parents, could make Heather feel like a small naughty child the way Mr. Pennyworth could. There was a reason even Batman deferred to him. "I was quite firm young lady. How did you manage to get past the front gate?"

Translation: How did you avoid all of Batman's security? Heather thought, but of course they wouldn't know that she knew about any of that.

"Please, Mr. Pennyworth, if you just let me explain the situation," Heather began, trying not to wither under his stony stare.

"How do you know Dick?" Tim interrupted. He looked just as suspicious as Alfred, but there was something else in his stare, curiosity or something like it. Tim, like Bruce, was a detective and Heather could tell she'd piqued his interest.

"Dick and I are old friends," She said quickly, latching onto Tim's interest like a lifeline. "We met when we were teenagers. We, uh, had a lot in common. Listen, if Dick isn't here could I at least use your phone? I lost mine, and if I can't talk to Dick, then I need to try and call another friend."

"Are you in trouble?" Alfred asked, looking a modicum less severe than before.

"Very much so, sir,'' Heather nodded, shifting her weight only to wince as she placed too much onto her bad ankle. "Shit," she hissed, unable to keep the curse in.

"What happened?" Tim asked, opening the door wider.

"I... fell," She said lamely, scratching the back of her neck. How could she explain that it was from a height of several stories? Oh, right, she couldn't. "Twisted my ankle. It's fine, I'm a fast healer."

Tim and Alfred exchanged a long look, and only years of working with the bats helped her parse out its full meaning. They didn't trust her, clearly. They thought she might even be lying, but they weren't going to leave someone soaking wet and obviously injured outside on their doorstep.

Alfred hummed, still displeased, "You may use the phone in the library, follow me. Master Tim, would you please bring me the first aid kit?"

"Sure, Alfie," Tim sent one more scrutinizing stare her way before disappearing into what she knew was a supply closet.

She followed the butler into the library, wincing as she dripped rainwater onto the expensive rugs. He led her to an antique secretary desk with a rotary phone on it, because apparently in every universe Bruce Wayne was that kind of old money rich, and insisted she sit down on the oak desk chair. Tim reappeared shortly, carrying both a first aid kit and a towel, the latter of which Heather took gratefully as she sat her plastic bag full of gear onto the floor.

Heather carefully squeezed water out of her hair, mindful of her shoulder as Alfred looked through the kit. "If you would remove your boot, Miss Reilly, I will check your ankle."

"Oh, I mean, you don't have to-" Heather began, the towel now draped over her shoulders.

"I insist," Alfred said firmly but not unkindly.

"You might as well let him look," Tim said with a chuckle. He was leaning against one of the many floor to ceiling bookcases. "He won't take no for an answer."

"Right, I knew that," Heather muttered, shaking her head. She missed the puzzled frowns Tim and Alfred shared as she reached down and started unlacing her combat boots.

Spider-Man and her father preferred their costumes with matching boots and gloves, the web design visible from top to bottom. But she'd long ago chosen steel toed black boots and fingerless black leather gloves for herself. She liked that it made the uniform her own, along with a modified version of her father's blue hoodie - cropped, slightly darker in hue, and made of a resilient Kevlar. The Scarlet Spider silhouette was still recognizable as the one Ben Reilly once wore, but she'd made it hers, and she knew her dad would have approved.

She got the boot off and peeled off her wet sock, hissing as the fabric stuck around the swollen ankle joint before finally coming free. Of course, it was the ankle she'd broken previously, that was just her luck.

"Okay, it's a little worse than I thought," she admitted quietly as Alfred examined the injury.

"You seemed pretty confident it was just a sprain," Tim observed casually.

Bruce hasn't taught him all his tricks yet, Heather thought as she considered how to answer Tim's obviously prying question. "Not the first time," she said as she watched Alfred pull out a roll of bandages. "I'm clumsy."

Before Tim could form his next question, a voice called out, "Drake? Pennyworth?" This was followed shortly by a boy, maybe fourteen years old, coming into the library. He was also dark haired, but much tanner than Tim and his eyes were brown. There was something oddly familiar about the kid that Heather couldn't put her finger on.

"Who is this?" The boy demanded.

"Manners, Master Damian," Alfred chided him as he finished wrapping Heather's ankle. "It's best you remove your other boot as well, Miss, to give them a chance to dry out."

Heather nodded, "right, thank you, Mr. Pennyworth."

"Damian, this is Heather. She says she's a friend of Dick's," Tim explained.

"Richard has never mentioned you," Damian said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. He spoke with the slightest accent, something Middle Eastern that Heather couldn't pin down, and the more she looked at his face the more she was sure she knew him from somewhere.

"We're, uh, very old friends," Heather explained awkwardly. "We haven't seen each other in a long time." Or ever, in this universe's case.

"Tt," Damian scoffed, sharing glances with Alfred and Tim. He wasn't even attempting to hide how suspicious he thought she was. It was sort of refreshing. "Richard isn't home. He's running errands with Father."

Now Heather was narrowing her eyes, her head tilting to the side as a memory came to her. Of a painting that hung in her universe's version of Wayne Manor featuring Thomas and Martha Wayne posing with their young son. Bruce was solemn, even as a child, and Damian had the same set to his jaw.

"Oh my god," she breathed as it clicked, suddenly standing as she pointed at the boy. "You're Bruce's kid. Like, his bio kid, aren't you?"

The others gave her various confused reactions. Alfred raised one eyebrow, Tim frowned, and Damian crossed his arms haughtily.

"Of course, I am," the younger boy snapped, like he thought Heather was an idiot. Which was fair. She kind of was most days, even she could admit that. "How do you not know who I am?"

"I -" She dropped her arm and rubbed her neck. "Right, yeah, that's an excellent question." She sighed. "Okay, truthfully? I am friends with Dick, but... not your Dick?" They frowned at her, and she couldn't blame them.

"Look, I'm going to level with you. I'm not from this universe. I work with Dick on my earth with a team of heroes. We were fighting this guy - Vibe? I did something monumentally stupid, and I ended up here. I didn't realize until I was already talking with Alfred that I was even in the wrong universe because my Alfred has known me for years. I worked with Batman for a while when I was a teenager, back when Dick was still Robin, and-"

"What are you talking about?" Tim interrupted her nervous ramblings. "Why do you think we know anything about Batman?" He added angrily. Damian looked ready to commit murder, and Alfred had disappeared at some point.

Heather groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Look, let's just cut past the song and dance, okay? I know all about Bruce, I have for years. In my universe, he gave me almost full access to the batcomputer's files. I trained with Robin in the batcave. I know about the entrance behind the grandfather clock in Bruce's study-"

Heather realized a few beats too late that was probably not the best way to break the news.

Damian was suddenly in her face with a knife at her throat pulled from seemingly nowhere. She reacted instinctively, grabbing the boy's wrist, twisting it down until he dropped the dagger. She pushed him into Tim, who'd been pulling out his collapsible bo staff. She'd turned with the intention of escaping through the library's other exit, but only made it a few strides when the sound of a shotgun being loaded stopped her dead in her tracks.

Right, that would be Alfred, she thought numbly, lifting her hands up as high as her injured shoulder would allow before dropping to her knees.

"Do not move," Alfred ordered.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"How did you disarm me so easily?" Damian demanded, stomping around to glare at her.

Heather gave him a small smile, which only made him angrier. "You remind me of my sister," she said instead of answering.

"I don't know what your game is," Tim told her, "but we're not playing. What do want with Dick?"

"First, poor word choice," Heather smirked at him over her shoulder. He glared back at her flatly, and she rolled her eyes. "My Tim has a much better sense of humor. I already told you exactly why I'm here. I'm in the wrong universe, and I need Batman and Nightwing to help me get home."

"Why do you keep insisting my father is the Batman?" Damian asked.

Heather sighed. "Look, we could keep going around and around on this all day, but I don't have that kind of time. Either call up Dick and Bruce so we can discuss this like adults, or-"

"Or what?" Alfred asked, suddenly reminding her there was a very protective butler with a gun pointed at her.

Heather pursed her lips, considering. "Why don't you take me down to the cave? You guys probably have a holding cell like my Batman does. You can keep me under lock and key until I can convince you I'm telling the truth, or until you can get someone from the League to come down who can wipe my memory if I can't."

"Or we could take you to Arkham Aslyum now," Damian suggested.

Heather took a deep breath, trying to be patient. Not like it could hold me. "It's up to you," she finally said.

Damian walked behind her so the three could share a whispered conference. Heather tried very hard not to hear them by humming under her breath, but it was a lost cause. Damian was coming up with some very creative forms of interrogation tactics, but was ultimately overruled by Tim and Alfred.

"Alright, let's go," Tim finally sighed. "Hands behind your back, and just keep in mind Alfred is a very good shot." She saw him pulling a pair of handcuffs from the corner of her eye.

"You're going to want to use something stronger than that," she told them mildly as Tim grabbed her wrists and yanked them behind her back. Tim hesitated for a moment, before Damian handed him something she couldn't see. She bit back a hiss of pain as they used what felt like metal cording from a grappel gun to bind her hands, then used the remaining cord to wrap around her arms and chest.

Better, she thought as Tim and Damian pulled her to her feet, but still not enough. Ah well, I'll let them have this one.

They blindfolded her before taking her to the batcave, maybe so they could still have plausible deniability. Heather let the boys lead her to the elevator, her spider-sense keeping her aware of Alfred's shotgun aimed at her chest. When the elevator stopped, her bare feet were treading the rock of the cave's floor as the boys prodded her along, her injured ankle really resenting the cold seeping into her bones. She couldn't surpress a small shiver, suddenly aware of her still soaking wet stolen clothes that were clinging to her.

"Relax, we're not going to hurt you," Tim murmured, misinterpreting her shudder.

"Unless you give us a reason too," Damian added, less meanly than he could have.

Huh, maybe the kid wasn't as blood thirsty as he seemed. I wonder who his mom is? I don't think it's Selina. He doesn't look anything like her. Heather pondered this little mystery until she heard a metal cage door opening and she was gently pushed inside the holding cell. Someone pulled off the blindfold before they locked her in. She blinked her eyes to help them adjust to the new lighting, taking in the somewhat familiar landscape around her.

"Good to know the giant penny and t-rex are consistent in every universe," Heather observed. "Still ridiculous, but consistent."

"Master Bruce and Master Dick are on their way," Alfred said, lowering the gun slightly but not putting it away.

Heather nodded. "I figured. So... bio kid, huh?" She added, conversationally.

Damian narrowed his eyes at her, but didn't reply.

"I totally see it now," Heather admitted, taking a seat on the cot in the cage. She brought her legs up to fold beneath her, trying to get comfortable. "I thought at first that Bruce's adoption habit was worse in this universe."

"What makes you think I'm adopted?" Tim asked, taking a seat on a stool he'd brought over.

Heather blinked in surprise. "Oh, my mistake, sorry. My Tim Drake is, so I guess I assumed."

"What happened to your Tim's parents?" Tim frowned, but there was something in his expression that Heather couldn't read.

Heather pursed her lips, considering how to explain. "They were very neglectful. At first, Bruce just had emergency custody of Tim while the state investigated why he was being left alone for long periods of time with only a maid checking on him. When they realized how shitty the Drakes were, that's when he put in the paperwork."

"So they're... still alive?" Tim asked in a much quieter voice.

Heather's heart stuttered painfully. "Oh... I'm so sorry."

Tim shook his head. "Not your fault," he said it like it was something he told people a lot, which only made Heather feel worse.

"I really am sorry. This world is so different from my own," Heather said, mostly to keep the conversation moving. She'd always hated awkward silence. "My Tim is younger, and I've never even met him before." She tilted her head towards Damian. "I mean, he might exist on my earth. Who's your mom?"

Damian tutted again, which she was beginning to suspect was a habit. "Not that its any of your business, but my mother's name is Talia Al Ghul."

Heather blinked and sat forward. "I'm sorry - the daughter of the Demon's Head is your mom? One of the most dangerous women in the world, and the next leader of the League of Assasins?"

Damian gave her a haughty nod. "I see my mother's reputation precedes her even in another universe."

"Okay, mental note," Heather muttered. "Interrogate Bruce when I get home to make sure he actually knows how condoms work."

Tim let out an involuntary snort and Damian's pride disappated back into disdain as he muttered something in Arabic that she was sure was unflattering.

"Alrighty, anyway," She sighed. "I'm assuming you have questions you want me to answer?"

"I am not sure what we could ask you that could prove your worthiness," Damian snapped. "You are a stranger to us."

Tim nodded reluctantly. "I've never heard Dick mention anyone like you." He picked up the plastic bag they must have brought from upstairs that had her gear in it, pulling out her mask and frowning at it. "What's with the spider webs?"

"On my earth, I'm called the Scarlet Spider," Heather explained, waiting for any hint of recognition on his face, but nothing came. "You know, ally of Spider-Man? Friend of the Avengers?"

"Who?" Damian asked.

"Whoa, okay, I didn't think our earths were that different," Heather shook her head. "Wait, if Spider-Man and the Avengers don't exist in this world, does the Justice League exist?"

"Of course," Tim and Damian answered almost in unison, then glared at each other in annoyance.

"That's a relief. So the team must exist too," Heather said, only to receive another frown.

"You mean the Teen Titans?" Tim clarified.

"No...? I mean the team. We work for the Justice League? But, like, covertly. We handle missions that the League doesn't want a lot of attention on, but that still needs a lot of skill." Heather explained, "There's me, Nightwing, Superboy, Miss Martian, Robin, Batgirl, Bumblebee, Beast Boy-"

"I only recognize some of those names," Tim admitted.

"Weird," Heather muttered.

"This is a waste of time," Damian exclaimed, "She's clearly lying, Drake, we should take care of her before she can reveal our identities to anyone."

"Let's pump the breaks on the murder, alright Shortstack?" Heather couldn't help but snap. "Does your Batman actually kill? Because that's seriously messed up."

"He does not," Alfred confirmed, giving Damian a reprimanding glare.

Damian rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, muttering to himself. Tim and Alfred couldn't hear it, but Heather could perfectly. "This never would happen with Mother and Grandfather."

Tim's phone suddenly chimed at the same moment Heather heard tires crunching on the gravel outside the manor. "I'm guessing Bruce is here?" She asked Tim as he checked his phone.

"How did you-?"

"Lucky guess," Heather deflected.

Alfred finally lowered his gun and left, presumably to meet his employer and pseudo son at the door. Damian seemed to take this as an invitation to take out another dagger from some pocket and begin fiddling with it. Heather guessed this was his way of intimidating her, or it could have been a nervous habit. She didn't have the heart to tell him it was more cute than anything else.

The kid looked like he'd barely hit puberty. He reminded her of her own little brother and sister, which just made her homesick. She wanted to pull her phone out, just so she could see her photos and reassure herself that they were still out there, waiting for her, but she stopped herself from snapping her restraints. She needed this world's Batman to trust her, or she'd never get home.

"I'm assuming you're a meta human?" Tim asked her after he finished sending another text. He put his phone in his pocket so he could focus his attention on her fully.

"In a sense," Heather said reluctantly. "It's complicated."

"I have a friend who's the daughter of a demon, try me," Tim challenged.

"It's not that I'm refusing to answer the question, it's just seriously complicated," She explained. "Does this world have stable cloning technology?"

"Are you somebody's clone?"

"No- well, yes and no," She shook her head when he gave her an exasperated sigh. "Complicated! Ugh, okay, so my story starts way before I was born. On my earth there's a hero called Spider-Man. He was a regular guy who was bitten by a radioactive spider, giving him super powers."

"Usually when someone has a backstory like that, they turn to a life of crime, at least in my experience," Tim commented.

"Yeah, well, he didn't. I mean, he used his powers to win money in wrestling matches at first," Heather admitted, rolling her eyes. "He was young and dumb, don't worry about it - not important. The important thing is years later, Spider-Man gets a new rogue who called himself Jackal. The guy was crazy, but brilliant."

"We are familiar with the type," Damian commented quietly.

Heather snorted. "Trust me, I know, but unfortunately he was way less Nygma and his puzzles, and more like Crane with unethical experimentation. The guy manages to clone Spider-Man, except - plot twist - Spider-Man suddenly has a case of amnesia and he and the clone can't remember which of them is the real deal."

Tim whistled, "complicated."

"Oh trust me, tip of the iceberg," Heather complained, shaking her head. "I'll skip forward, or we'll be here for hours. The clone, he went by the name Scarlet Spider, eventually comes to a truce with Spider-Man and they become allies. In the meantime, Scarlet Spider and the woman who was once Spider-Man's fiance fall in love. Eventually, they have a kid." She shrugged as much as her restraints allowed her to.

"That was you," Damian guessed.

"Yep," Heather nodded. "Again, I'm going to skip forward for brevity's sake. I developed powers as I aged, but then suddenly one day my body freaks the fuck out. My DNA wasn't completely stable, being half human and half - er, clone slash radioactive meta slash freak lab accident." She sighed. Sometimes she couldn't believe this was her life. "My body mutated."

"It didn't kill you?" Tim asks, surprised.

"It almost did," she admits quietly. "Spider-Man saved my life. I was only nineteen."

"How old are you now?" Damian asked, almost politely.

"Almost twenty-four," Heather smiled. "My fiance, Kurt, is trying to plan a surprise party for me with my Dick Grayson's help. They're not succeeding, but it's adorable to watch so I'm letting it go for now."

"You weren't lying when you said you were close with him, were you?" Tim said, almost sounding like he was talking to himself.

"Robin was always one of my biggest heroes," Heather admitted. "When we finally met, he became one of my closest friends. He's practically my brother."

"That's why you were sure he would help you," Damian concluded.

"He's my best shot," Heather admitted as Bruce finally stepped into the cave, Dick right behind, followed by an Asian woman with short dark hair, and finally an African American teen about Tim's age.

Heather tilted her head at the woman and teen in confusion. The woman only smiled mildly and waved, while the teen mirrored her frown. Well, that's definitely new. Maybe this Bruce does have more of an adoption problem than mine.

"You got my message?" Tim asked.

"Yes. We've been watching the security cameras," Bruce muttered, eying Heather like she was one of the Riddler's newest puzzles. Which, ow.

"Hello," Heather said, giving a cheery smile despite the increase in suspicious eyes on her. "I'd get up to greet you, but..."

"Oh, this one has jokes," Dick said, coming to gently take Damian's dagger away. "That's refreshing. Last time we got someone from a parallel universe, they weren't any fun. Remember Bruce? The Stephanie doppelganger?"

"Dick," Bruce reprimanded before his eldest could go off on a tangent.

"Oh yeah, no, that one was no fun," Tim agreed, ignoring Bruce’s sigh. "This one says she's known you since you were Robin."

"Hey, I have!" Heather protested. "C'mon, we were all getting along so well. I mean, aside from the stabby child over there... but I have a feeling he's like that with most people?"

"We're trying to break him of the habit," Dick commented dryly.

"Did Damian stab her?" The black teen asked.

"Not quite," Tim shrugged. "She's fast."

"Aw, thanks Tim" Heather beamed. "That's like the nicest thing you've said to me all day. When I get home, I'll be sure to tell my Tim you were nice. Even if you do need to lighten up a little."

"What makes you think you're going anywhere?" Dick asked, but Heather couldn't hear any real threat in the words. She had a feeling this Dick had just as big of a heart as her world's.

"Look, obviously me being here is upsetting for multiple reasons. You guys love your privacy, and you hate having someone around who compromises that, I get it. Not to mention, it's probably not a good idea for someone from the wrong multiverse to stay here long term. I mean, I'm a biochemist not a theoretical physicist, but I'm assuming it's probably bad," Heather shrugged as much as her bonds allowed. "So, the way I see it is, you help me get back home, and we're all happy in the end. Right?"

"How can we trust that you're telling the truth?" Tim asked again, but she could tell Bruce was thinking it over.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Timmy," Heather told him honestly. "I mean, I could sit here all day telling you things that are true of my universe? Like, I know that Dick’s first pet was Zitka, the circus elephant. I know that my Tim basically blackmailed Batman into making him Robin. I know that my Alfred never uses cloves in his cooking because Bruce is allegic, which is why he never drinks the eggnog at the Justice League's Christmas party. Is any of that true in this universe? I don't have a clue. What I do know for certain is that you all are my only shot of getting home. If you won't help me..."

Heather swallowed, staring at nothing as the despair of that possibility hit her full force. "I'll never see my family again, and Kurt will never know what happened to me. Please, I'm begging here, help me get home."

Bruce crossed his arms and looked at the Asian woman that hadn't said a word so far. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, a little younger than this world's Dick. Heather had tried not to let it bother her, but the younger woman had been watching her intently the whole time they'd been talking. Heather couldn't help feeling like she was missing something as she watched the woman turn to Bruce and smile.

"Not lying. I trust her," She finally said.

The words were stilted in a way that normally Heather would associate with learning a new language, but the woman had a distinct Gotham accent. It almost reminded Heather of how her little sister used to talk when she'd started speech therapy, like the woman wasn't sure how to put her thoughts into spoken words.

"Okay, as much as I appreciate the vote of confidence, I have to ask - who are they?" Heather asked, unable to hide her curiosity.

"You don't have a Cassandra Cain or Duke Thomas in your world?" Dick asked.

Heather shook her head, "Doesn't ring a bell, but that doesn't mean they don't exist. Like I was saying earlier, my timeline seems a little skewed from this one. My Tim is younger, and as far as I know, my Bruce doesn't have a bio kid. It's just Dick, Tim, Babs and me around."

"What about Jason Todd?" Bruce asked quietly, and if she hadn't known another version of this man so well she might not have heard his trepidation for the answer.

"That's... I mean..." Heather blew out a somber breath. "Jason was murdered by the Joker," she admitted reluctantly. Every face in the room fell, but there was an air of recognition to the grief. Clearly, the same fate had befallen their Jason as well.

Heather continued after a moment, "That was a few years ago. Recently, he, well... came back. Things are still a little delicate, so he's been staying with me and Kurt for the time being."

"Why isn't he home with us?" Dick asked.

Heather grimaced. "You have to understand, he wasn't in his right mind. He - well, he attacked our Tim and hurt him pretty badly. They're both doing better, but Jason hasn't forgiven himself and still has things to work through, and Tim needs time to recover mentally and emotionally. We're giving them both space until if and when they're ready to be in the same room."

"Wow, what a concept," Tim deadpanned, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Bruce and Dick looked uncomfortable. Heather narrowed her eyes but decided not to ask. Not her circus, not her monkeys. She could only do so much for the Wayne family in her own universe; she couldn't possibly fix an entirely different one as well. Especially when she didn't have the complete picture.

"Ya know, I kind of wish we had a version of her," Duke spoke up. "That's like the most level headed decision I've heard from someone in this family in... no, scratch that, ever."

"Don't give me too much credit," Heather smiled, but it was self-derogatory. "I've had my fair share of screw ups, too. Sometimes, you just need an outside perspective." She sighed, wishing she could rub her eyes. "Look, I get that this is a lot to ask, but I have to track down Vibe before he disappears from this world, too. I can stay right here if it makes you all feel better, but I need help finding his tachyon signature so I can catch him and make him take us home. The batcomputer is my best chance."

"Quick question," Dick lifted a hand, frowning at her. "What do you mean by 'make us feel better'?"

Heather clicked her tongue and stood up, walking to the far wall of the cage, opposite the door. She flexed her muscles, snapping the metal grappeling cord like it was dental floss. As the cord fell into a pile on the floor, she reached forward and using two fingers on each hand, bent two of the steel bars towards each other into an 'x'. She stepped back from the cage wall and put her hands behind her back, shrugging sheepishly.

"You could escape at any time, couldn't you?" Duke guessed.

Heather nodded, chewing her cheek.

"You could have broken in here without alerting anyone, gotten what you wanted, and left without a trace," Tim added. "Just like how you got passed all of the security on the grounds."

"Well, I don't know about completely leaving without a trace," Heather hedged, rubbing the back of her neck. "I'm not Kurt, I can't teleport, and I don't have invisibility either."

"Hn, perhaps you could explain your powers to us in detail while we start searching for your missing rogue," Bruce said.

She didn't know this Bruce or what had happened in his life to alter it from the man she did know, but she could hear the world's greatest detective in his voice and it made the anxiety in her chest melt. They weren't going to abandon her, they were going to help.

The only question left, was when?

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holycryptid · 1 year

Text

Nightcrawler

Bruce Wayne/Batman x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 6.3k

Tags/warnings: descriptions of blood/injury, angst, allusions to sex, groping/touching, descriptions of medical treatment (suturing), fingering/pussy play, explicit language, unrequited feelings (let me know if anything was missed!).

Summary: Bruce confronts his feelings after you put him back together. Again.

Notes: wrote this all the way back in 2020 right after the first trailer came out…found it sitting in my computer files and figured i shouldn’t let it go to waste! since it was written before the movie came out, please excuse/forgive any inaccuracies regarding the batsuit, terminology, setting, and characterization (and the painfully amateur writing) 😣

The cave is always a little too frigid for your liking.

Especially when it’s already well into the late hours of the night—a time you definitely shouldn’t be awake. The long fluorescents buzz and highlight the metallic sheen of everything, while still piercing through any inch of unguarded darkness in the gloomy room.

A light breeze swirls around your huddled figure every so often, and the rhythmic sound of water continuously dripping onto floor somewhere echoes throughout the quiet, isolated space. There’s still some changes and additions that need to be made to the current set-up he has, but it does the job for now. You don’t bother taking note of what needs to get done—you’ll probably forget it all an hour from now anyway.

You let your head roll back onto the chairs headrest, and your eyes skim over the time at the bottom of one of the monitors screens.

3:43am. It’s been almost four hours—you always wait.

You wait even though he tells you not to, and even though you know you maybe shouldn’t sometimes. But you can’t help it. It’s habit at this point. You’re down here at 10pm on the dot. Daily.

You don’t need to be, but you are; it’s tradition for you to be part of his prep and routine before the nightly endeavour out into Gotham, even if you just sit and watch as he slowly works his way into the suit piece-by-piece, fiddling with various tech accessories that you don’t even know the names of yet.

You try to pass the time by organizing and sorting his skewed files, papers, and small pieces of armour that have been damaged beyond repair—meticulously placing them in their rightful spots on the seemingly never-ending line of desktops, shelves, and hidden drawers.

But mindlessly arranging anything and everything only lasts for so long before there’s nothing left to do but sit. And think. And then sit some more.

Not knowing how long you’ll be rolling around in one of the padded office chairs for is one of the prices you have to pay for caring too much, and he reprimands you for it, even as you furiously dump an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol onto his body, and he never shows that it affects him in the least.

He’s stubborn. He’s stupid.

Your eyes wander along the blank stone walls as you slouch further into the chair, stopping when you see the time again: 3:47am.

You let out a heavy breath through your nose as you repeatedly click the tip of a pen in and out. You push yourself around in slow circles with the toe of your foot, letting the spinning room distract you for just a few moments just to pass another minute at least.

This isn’t necessarily part of your job. He knows that, and you definitely know that. A lot of things have changed with your workplace duties, clearly, as you notice some earlier pieces of his armour piled in one corner of the room.

Unsurprisingly, things have…happened here and there. It’s becoming a more common occurrence, but it feels circumstantial and…convenient. Maybe it’s all meant to happen at this point. You think about it often enough—too often. Enough to make things awkward for yourself sometimes.

Another anxious glance at the leering clock: 3:51am. “This is fucking ridiculous,” you reason with yourself, getting up from the chair and tossing the pen on the desk.

You resort to pacing around the grand floor space, now closely watching the entrance and exit as you circle by. All you can do is wait—

And just as you turn your back to the computer displays and monitors, the clocks turn to 3:59am.

You cut back sharply to begin another circle, and there he is. Four hours later. Alive.

The broad shadow makes your heart stop for a split second, but the only physical reaction you have is your knees locking, keeping you in place and giving you no choice but to stare at the familiar, broad outline of him.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Bruce.” It slips out, a little rushed and aggressive, but you mean it. He knows you well enough to not take any literal offence from it.

Your harsh acknowledgement prompts him to walk in further.

“Yeah, you said that last time,” he points out casually, sauntering into the blinding lights with calm steps, coming around to the front of the desks.

You observe his gait with a hard stare—you take notice of how he hesitantly bends and twists at the hip when he leans back to rest against the edge of the metal desk, rolling his head back until his neck pops with a relieved grunt.

He’s already got the cowl, cape, and gloves off, so whatever the problem is, it must be worse than what he’s playing off, as usual.

And then you see the issue. “Do you need help with that?” You point at his stomach and drop back into the chair, deflating with concern.

Your alert eyes study the suit, looking at the damage.

“With what?” he counters, seeming unaware—avoiding; yet his dark eyes confidently meet yours as he rests back on his hands, trying to find some comfort and seem unbothered by whatever desperately needs your attention underneath the sturdy armour.

A very thin layer of blood has seeped through a small displacement in the suits plating, soaking into the tri-weave fibers that cover the titanium. You roll your eyes and scoot back to a shelf where a med-kit sits, one that you put together specifically for nights like these, which is every night.

Positioning yourself back in front of him, the chair brings you to the perfect height to get a good look at the impairment. You can already tell it’s a knife wound just by the location. It’s at the perfect height. It cut perfectly in-between the overlapped layers of plating, perhaps the biggest flaw the suit has. You’re sure he’s aware of that now.

You inspect it briefly, tugging up on the bent piece slightly to see the amount of blood beneath. He takes a deep breath as the dense pressure is relieved from the tender area.

“Shit—” he breathes in relief. You’ve only heard that clipped tone slip out of his mouth on very few occasions, one of which was barely a week ago, yet you still tense at the vivid memory that you never really want to let go of.

He’s not one for reminiscing, but unfortunately, you are.

“It’ll only be a few stitches,” you say gently, letting the plate mold back into place softly. You tap the hard armour pointedly. “Take it off.”

You flick your eyes up to his—the black paint has smeared around just a bit more compared to when he smudged it on with no real technique earlier.

You’ll help him get it off later.

He brings a quick hand through his damp hair and starts unclipping the few clasps hidden on his shoulders and chest. One by one, the durable pieces are detached, and you carefully place them off to your right as he hands them over.

“Can you get the one in the back?” He motions over his shoulder. You nod and mumble a thoughtful ‘mhm’ as you both push yourself onto your feet again.

He turns his back to you, leaning forward on his palms and presenting the last clasp that sits in the middle of his spine. You know he can reach it, you’ve seen him do it before. You flick the clip, carefully pulling away the last plate. He physically relaxes his already tense muscles as soon as the extra weight is removed.

“I don’t know why you do this every night. It’s not worth it,” you confess while rummaging through the med-kit for a needle, surgical thread, topical antiseptic, a gauze pad, and a self-adherent bandage wrap to hopefully hold it all together.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment as you carefully lay out the supplies next to him on the desk.

“I have to…” he whispers, trailing off, but you catch it, shaking your head as you thread and ready the needle with severe concentration.

“Turn around, please.” He shifts back to where he originally was without a word, leaning back against the cool steel with hesitation once again.

You grab the bottle of antiseptic and apply a generous amount onto the pad, delicately holding it as you take a seat in front of him once again.

“Are you sure you wanna stand for this?” you grimace. The hot sting of a sterile compress isn’t the most enjoyable sensation to experience, especially while bearing weight.

He looks down at you, looking rather uninvolved with the priority. Dazed and distracted; something that could be mistaken for the potential amount blood loss, but the gash isn’t big enough for that possibility.

This is something you’ve seen more often than you’d like to.

“Just get it done,” he starts, “You know I can handle it.” He dismisses the option, letting his head roll back with a deep inhale as he waits for you to start.

You say nothing in return. Carefully balancing the compress in one hand, your other cautiously pinches the soft, spandex material of his base-layer shirt. It fits comfortably, hugging tightly around the curvature and muscle of his body, improving his movement in the suit.

The shirt is slowly pulled away from his stomach. The thick blood sticks around the tear in the fabric, making it peel away instead. You drag it halfway over the rest of his lower abdomen, pulling and letting it bunch up tightly, staying isolated from the torn skin below.

You stare at the ugly cut for barely a second before you quickly dab the antiseptic around, patting it into the irritated, puffy flesh and watching it fizzle with each pull back.

Sometimes, you feel like he likes the pain. Like he purposefully seeks out the discomfort of an incapacitating injury in hopes of suppressing the turmoil of concern…worry…love…

It gives him something else to focus on instead of the sorrowful emotions that avoiding you doesn’t seem to fix. It’s only been making it worse, and things are beyond saving now.

Your free hand gently rests against the burning skin of his waist, and his head drops forward at the surprising contact.

“Calm down. It keeps me steady,” you chuckle, shaking your head lightly.

He hums thoughtlessly in response, unconvinced with your excuse, maybe.

There’s that sudden anxious tension in the room from nothing but a fleeting graze of fingertips. The uncertainty of who’s going to make the first move this time.

You do one more press and then pull the soaked pad away, examining your progress before discarding the bloody material.

“It might only be four sutures or so,” you determine while gently squeezing the inflamed edges closer together to try and gauge the amount of work needed.

He inhales sharply, tightly gripping the rim of the desktop. “Well, the faster you stitch it, the faster I’ll be able to—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.” You cut him off with a harsh but accidental hard squeeze of the torn flesh, making his words die in his throat with a groan.

That wasn’t something you really needed to hear right now, let alone think about as if he wasn’t just bleeding out in front of you only minutes ago.

You know how that sentence ends; you’ve heard him say it more times than you’d like to admit, but you can’t let him have his way tonight.

You glare at each other for a moment. Your eyes hold a tired frustration behind them, but his hold a different kind…something that is able to get you to do whatever he says, something that makes you giddy with anticipation, and something that makes you feel just a little more alienated afterwards.

“You can’t lie to yourself anymore,” he says instead.

You laugh coldly. “Well, neither can you. I’ve stopped doing that a long time ago. You should try it sometime,” you counter, snatching the threaded needle with anger while maintaining your unimpressed gaze.

He sighs, messing with his drying hair again as you begin suturing quickly—not so you can get to what he was alluding to, but the opposite.

For once, you don’t want that, and you don’t want the burden of sadness that comes with it.

But it’s so…tempting.

He gave himself away. You haven’t. And of course he’s leaning against the very spot you were pinned down against a week ago, feeling the contrast to the emotions you’re feeling now: excitement, passion, comfort, love—

It puts you into a conscious daydream for a moment. But you’re awoken from it when you feel his body jolt suddenly. You see the needle poking into the tough muscle of his side instead of the spongey cut.

“Shit— sorry,” you mumble, shifting your focus back to the final suture and looping it through itself securely in a rush.

Seven stitches in total, you notice. You were close.

You grab the bandage wrap and press it firmly over the closed wound before snaking it around his back. You’re able to get two layers from it; the pressure should stop any possible bleeding, but he always manages to tear it open anyway. Sometimes you think he does it on purpose just so he has a good excuse to see you.

“Done,” you sigh, packing up the med-kit and rolling back to its shelf.

You stand from the chair and go to make your way to the exit without another word, not interested in any other interaction tonight. Well, that’s what you hope for, but you’ve learned that he will never let you go peacefully.

You go to pass by him mindlessly as he’s carefully pulling his shirt back down, but he manages to grab ahold of your sleeve quickly when he sees your destination. The effortless pull makes you skid to a stop, twisting back towards him with your inverted momentum, almost smashing your face in his chest, but you stop yourself with your forearm.

He holds onto you tightly, with a purpose, as you share a moment of mutual hurt and resentment. His dark eyes, the opaque paint making them look just as black in the hazy lighting, search your conflicted ones desperately.

“If I asked you to stay, would you?” he asks quietly. There’s no demand behind it, seemingly afraid it’ll scare you away.

His face softens, perhaps relief from asking. He’s never had to before.

You furrow your brows together in shock, dumbfounded at his apparent stupidity in this continuous situation. You scoff lightly at his rather domestic request. “Why? So we can just dance around the truth like always?” Your voice never raises in volume, but your tone gets harsher as you continue.

“So I can hope that maybe you’ll come to your senses and fucking realize that I lo—”

The hand he had wrapped around your arm moves to the back of your neck before you can even say the word or finish your passionate rant. He promptly pulls you right to him, his deft lips quickly doing the much-needed apologizing in that moment.

It’s feverish and assertive, seeming out of place in the cloud of desolation and melancholia…yet you don’t stop him. You don’t want to.

He knows you’ve needed this. Not the rushed, messy, convoluted kisses that come from your desperate fucking after a hard night or a close call, the ones that seem to happen almost by accident, by pure circumstance. There’s just always something missing…

Fervour. That’s what you feel now—that’s what you’ve wanted from him every single time he took control of you with ease for the night. You’re never able to make it back up to the manor either.

You shudder slightly when his hand moves to your jaw, gripping it firmly as he slides his mouth against yours consumingly, sucking your lips gently and teasing your tongue with his cautiously. You moan when he deepens the kiss further, letting his tongue fully overlap yours with a practiced versatility. It subdues you, inviting him to give and take as he pleases.

Several whimpers fall against his lips as you stretch onto your toes to meet his height as best as you can, trying to get more even though he’s already giving you plenty. It’s pensive. Each movement thought out and executed with a purpose, something that you can feel has a very clear destination in his mind.

You let him maintain authority, let him kiss you with a force that could bruise if he didn’t soothe the pressure with his soft tongue occasionally, dipping it back into your mouth quickly after. Your taste seems insatiable to his starved soul.

It all draws you in further, and your hands find themselves grasping at his shoulders instinctually when a forceful hand snakes through your hair to gain better control of you.

Your mouth feels a little numb and swollen from the welcome force, and he pulls away hesitantly when he feels your soft touch finally rest at his collar delicately. He barely lets more than an inch get between your lips, and you can feel the reluctancy in his movements as he pulls back.

You open your eyes slowly and see his sombre expression—more sombre than usual. The sorrow in his eyes and the agony on his brow is enough to force you to speak up first.

“I wish you told me months ago,” you whisper, lightly resting your forehead against his own as you wrap your arms around his neck, confident that he won’t pull away like he has before.

He looks longingly into your forgiving eyes, taking his hands and sliding them down to your hips in solace; an abrupt switch from from their dominant spot around your face. You understand the conflicts he has to live with. Most of them are caused by his vigilant habits in the night, yet you expected everything outside of that to still be easy for him.

Unfortunately, trauma picks and chooses its victims at random.

You find yourself looking for words. Maybe for the moment you realized he was different, when he changed.

“I wish it wasn’t so hard for you, Bruce.” You try to comfort him, provide some ease for his always anxious mind.

He squeezes your hip, silently reassuring you that it’ll be fine, that it won’t kill him.

“I wish it wasn’t so hard for you,” he retorts in an indignant tone, irritated with himself.

He regrets all of it. Most of all, he regrets making you feel unloved. The nights where he used you as a release, when he would act like nothing happened, when he would unconsciously ignore you, and when he ultimately closed himself off in the end.

“It wasn’t fair. It was…selfish,” he finishes forcefully, taking a quick breath to regain some composure.

“I just don’t want you to be part of that life,” he admits tentatively.

You can see he’s telling the truth. The way he doesn’t meet your gaze again. He does it to avoid the confrontation that comes with honesty.

You pause to take in his confession, closing your eyes for a moment with relief, but his tone is like a bullet to the heart. The dejected feeling of you possibly not wanting to be here with him in this moment.

“‘That life’?…You mean your life?” you reason, sounding surprised with his absurd claim.

You’d think that having done this religiously with him for a year would make him think otherwise, regardless of your acts together. You always showed up no matter the circumstances or emotions.

He pushes against your hips lightly, making some space between your bodies, and you shuffle back without hesitation. You let your arms fall away from his shoulders, and he does the same as you distance yourself.

“My life is your life,” he explains. “What happens to me affects you, why can’t you see that?” His face falls slightly. The realization of you not knowing you’re significant enough to be considered part of his life is…heartbreaking.

There’s so much you could say to that.

You let the silence linger briefly. “Maybe I’d be able to see that if you weren’t afraid to be in the same room as me,” you say, voice quiet as you test your reasoning.

You don’t want to start a fight. You just want to understand. You want to know why.

You notice how he hesitates when around you, and not in a flattering or complimentary way. It’s avoidant, scared, and even worried. Worry of confrontation.

He takes a deep breath and wraps his arms around his stomach in comfort, carefully avoiding the fresh bandage.

“I…I’m not…scared. I’m—” Batman doesn’t get scared from feelings, but maybe Bruce Wayne does.

“You’re unsure,” you finish for him. His eyes meet yours with a sense of hope that you’re understanding.

“I just…don’t know how to go about…all of this,” he motions between you with a flick of his hand.

All of this…meaning—

“Love?” you try, making it more of a rhetorical question.

He presses his lips together in surprise before offering a firm nod. He doesn’t trust himself to say it. It’s hard to wrap your head around. It couldn’t just be that, it had to be something more problematic? Complicated?

But yet, it all makes sense because he’s him—he doesn’t necessarily do romance; there’s no time. You know that. You’ve seen how he is, nothing but a fleeting moment in the night to most, even to you.

It all clicks, and you rub your face in relief and exasperation. You can’t blame him for it all. You can for some, of course, but a relationship needs communication from both. It can’t be a one-person effort, but that��s what it ended up being.

He was just trying to protect you. That’s all someone can really ask for, but the execution wasn’t right. He abandoned you emotionally to protect you physically, and that’s not the right balance.

“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth at the beginning? So I wouldn’t spend all this time thinking I was doing something wrong,” you pleaded, stepping closer to him again to pull an answer from his huddled form.

The closer you get, the higher you have to tilt your head to hold his gaze.

He looks right back, overwhelmed. “I didn’t know how to say it…I didn’t know if you felt that way. When I realized you did, I thought it was just…too late,” he admits, stuttering briefly at the end.

It was clearly hard for him, too. But was it not apparent that you were waiting? For him. For anything.

You look down, nodding your head in understanding. “I don’t think I could’ve made it any more obvious, but lust can be confused for love, so I understand.” You were serious, but some sarcasm slipped through at the end.

Lust is deadly; it will bait you, hook you, and then drag you under it’s pleasurable and irresistible cloud of euphoria, disguised as the domineering man in front of you.

“At least you know now,” he says, matching your tone.

He straightens his posture and locks his cold stare onto yours momentarily, searching for something he still can’t seem to find.

Giving up, he turns to collect each piece of armour you set aside, and he busy’s himself with meticulously putting it back in its rightful spot for tomorrow.

You watch him with surprise, but there’s no anger at his dismissal. You feel relieved. Relieved that you know. You don’t expect things to be normal right away, not with him.

You know he’ll come around, but you can’t help but ask a prying question just to entertain your already validated thoughts. And to keep him talking. There’s still so much you want to know.

“So…” you start lightly. “You said you weren’t sure if I was interested at the beginning,” you say carefully.

He stops moving the instant he hears the curiosity in your tone. He turns back to you slowly, an amused expression on his face. Shit—

You hesitate when you catch his look, but continue cooly. “So, if you didn’t know…then why did you keep, uh…” You lose your words, too afraid to be so blunt and direct about your past endeavours.

It seems taboo to discuss it while not in the moment itself. Sometimes you wonder if it’s just a dream. Too good to be true.

He raises his brows knowingly as you trail off, entertained with your hesitation and embarrassment.

“Why did you— why did we continue…”

“Fucking?” he finishes for you bluntly, a small smile playing on his lips, yet it’s devoid of genuine humour. It screams danger.

He chuckles when you nod your head wordlessly. “Like you said, lust is confusing. You can never seem to get enough, and I don’t think I wanted to.” He pulls the sleeves of his tight-fitting shirt over his forearms, watching you carefully as you consider his words.

His tone was suddenly light, confident. He could feel that you were walking the fine line of giving in or leaving without another word.

“I’m not trying to persuade you into doing anything, if that’s what you’re thinking about,” he clarifies softly when he sees your eyes dance across the floor rapidly.

You laugh lightly, glancing at him reluctantly. “I’m not, but you wouldn’t have to, anyway,”

That makes him narrow his gaze in question.

You raise a brow in response. “What?”

He glances over his shoulder at a monitor, very obviously reading the time: 4:29am.

And you realize exactly what he’s doing. Why would time matter unless you were to suddenly become busy. Tonight was on the shorter end of time spent putting him back together, and you never fall asleep quickly or peacefully anyway…that’s if you were to attempt it or even make it that far.

You watch him speculatively, still mindful that he’s injured, and probably very, very sleep deprived at this point, even though you can never say for sure.

He doesn’t sleep much. You seem to be his biggest distraction.

He twists a dry strand of hair between his fingers as it’s brushed back from his face, black eyes full of self-assurance as he turns to you for what will be the last time tonight.

“You think we can make it back to the manor?” His relaxed yet serious tone startles you, making you consider the options quickly.

Hard and cold floor, small and cold desktop, small rolling chair—none are ideal, but you’ve made all work before…when he didn’t offer another option, mind you. It was never momentous enough to have taken place outside of the cave. But the manor is…farther. There’s a buffer you don’t think will be beneficial.

Who fucking cares—

“Here seems to work just fine,” you quip nervously. You haven’t taken notice of how your legs have gotten…shaky.

There’s a burning heat between your thighs, an ache that blazes bright from anticipation and just him. Just knowing what’s to come. It feels like you’ve done everything imaginable at this point, but that doesn’t lessen your excitement.

He gives a small smirk that fades just as fast. “Figured you’d say that,” he finalizes.

Stepping back to you with graceful movements, you’re chest-to-chest again in an instant. He glides a delicate finger up your neck, hooking it under your chin and tilting your gaze to his intimidating one.

“Tell me what you want.”

You desperately want to say ‘anything’, but you know he won’t settle for that.

You get lost in your thoughts, thinking of the possibilities you can choose from, and he waits for your answer patiently.

“A week ago…when you came back with a torn rotator cuff in y-your shoulder—” you stumble through the sentence but never break from his studious eyes.

“You, uh, didn’t pay any mind to it even though you definitely should’ve, and you had me down against the desk,” your voice turns to a whisper as you recount the events—as vague as possible to save you the embarrassment of being too vulgar in, perhaps, an irreplaceable moment.

As soon as you finish, you swear you see a flame flicker in his eyes. The same one you feel grow stronger in your cunt at the same time. Your knees almost buckle from anticipation, and he can only make it worse from here.

“That’s…a good choice, even though it was kind of impersonal,” he ponders, clearly running through the events of that night.

He’s not wrong. He kept your chest pinned tightly to the surface of the frigid desk, taking you from behind. No hand-holding, no kissing, no eye-contact, no nothing.

You went on to figure that it was better—easier for him that way. You never seemed to mind anyway.

“That’s nothing I can’t fix,” he mutters, finishing the thought; already set on an alternative for both of you.

Your brows pinch together, curious of what he means exactly. But you don’t have much time to think about it.

His hands quickly curve around your jaw, keeping you still as he swiftly interlocks your deprived lips again. It’s zealous and luring, pulling you even further under the crashing wave of temptation and craving.

The soft joining of your mouths makes your stomach jump with exhilaration and eagerness, clawing your hands into his hair with a gasp of bliss as he grabs your waist just as hard in response. You let out a soft sigh of relief, feeling brave enough to gently bite at his bottom lip as his warm, encompassing hands slide under your shirt.

He barely lets you break for air, delving back into your mouth just as fast as he left it to reposition. The intensity of the heavenly moment builds its tempo, and you find yourself pushing against his chest. Not to pull away, but to try and push him towards the cold, awaiting desk behind his wide shoulders.

You manage to get a single word out in between the consuming and now sloppy kisses he offers. “Bruce—”

He hums contently as he swallows your thoughts, connecting your tingling lips forcibly. He’s too fixated on the passion. He wants it to last forever, but there are more demanding impulses that will be tended to first.

“Bruce,” you gasp when you break apart again reluctantly. He notices the calm assertion in your voice, and only slows the onslaught of kisses enough to reply.

“I know,” he soothes your neediness, now delicately pressing his greedy lips to yours repeatedly in understanding. The heartfelt action controlled by nothing but spirited lust.

His hands glide back up to your jaw, cradling your face in comfort as you twirl the long strands of hair at his neck between your fingers. Heavy breaths cloud your already tangled thoughts, leaving him to take the lead again.

He gives you one last intense taste of him, stroking his tongue teasingly over yours, firmly capturing your lips together in the process with a pleased moan. You’re almost chest-to-chest, a minute sliver of space keeping your bodies just distanced enough to not completely lose what little control both of you have left.

He’s taken note of how tight your thighs have been pressed together, and how your breaths are becoming shaky with each passing second he uses to dominate your mouth.

You’ve taken note of how his tactical pants, in fact, can’t hide his very prominent arousal for you, and how you can feel the warmth finally releasing from his exerted and thoroughly worked muscles. The heat seeps through his shirt and goes directly to your body, making you shudder when you feel the change in temperature.

You draw in a breath when he finally pulls away. His obsidian eyes wild with excitement and dominion. You’ve seen this look a lot, and you’re ready to hop on the desk without another word.

He floats his eyes down your body observationally, but you don’t notice. All of this is a lot slower than you’re used to. Well-paced. If it were any other night, you’d be on round two by now at least. You’d be whining with pleasure, shaking from release and overstimulation, dripping around his cock as he buries himself as deep as your cunt will allow, over and over until he simply feels better.

He was always generous with what he gave you.

You press a hand against his chest again, and he moves this time. Taking a long stride back, he tries to conceal an amused smile as you push him toward the desk. Your eyes light up when you see the knowing and teasing look on his face.

A quiet laugh rumbles against your hand. “This isn’t how it usually goes…” He smiles lightly.

You smile with him. “I never said it’s gonna stay this way,” you challenge, your eyes twinkling with mischief.

You never take charge. You never dominate. He’s more well-versed with it, and you won’t dare to try to match his competence.

The backs of his thighs bump the rounded edge of the desk, and your stomach jumps with elation when his index finger instantly hooks into the waistband of your pants, pulling you just a little closer.

But he leaves it there. He slides it side-to-side along the hem, gently caressing the sensitive skin of your lower stomach playfully. You look into his eyes as he casually continues the slow motions.

Your eyes flick down to his hand instinctually, out of pure reflex, and you watch his finger disappear further as he smoothly twists his wrist, palm resting against your lower stomach momentarily before his shoulder shifts too…angling his hand to travel down.

His fingers graze lower, creeping to a spot that so easily welcomes him.

One of your hands grabs onto his shoulder, simultaneously steadying yourself with a gasp as you bring your faces closer again. He gives a fleeting, comforting kiss, not leaving much behind.

His towering height makes it easier for his hand to reach its destination all too quickly. And when a careful and precise finger slips in-between your folds, your eyes close in anticipation and with the thought of relief.

Your minor reaction makes him smirk. Thankfully, for him, you don’t see it.

It’s sad just how wet you already are, but it spurs him on. He let’s his fingers explore, alternating between rubbing you and slipping a single digit inside, only doing so to gather your arousal to rub across your clit smoothly.

A quiet moan gets caught in your throat as he repeats that process a few times, building you up and teasing you onto the edge continuously.

“Mm— please, f-fuck—” you whimper, fisting the shirt in your grip on his shoulder.

You don’t need to finish that sentence for him to know exactly what you mean. He needs it, too. His tactical pants have become increasingly uncomfortable.

Your plea makes him apply more pressure to the slow strokes he gives your throbbing cunt. You all but drip onto the two fingers that glide over your aching clit and back to your slick entrance, occasionally giving you what you want.

He pulls them slowly in and out of you, making sure you feel them nice and deep before he drags them against something that makes you pant with desperation. Your eyes remain shut, brows pulled together tightly as you focus on the sensation of his intent touches, but he watches your face appreciatively, analyzing your pleasure with each movement he makes.

A particularly harder jolt of his fingers up into you makes you choke, caught between a gasp and a whiny moan. That makes his eyes drop to where his hand disappears.

He hums in satisfaction. “Is that the spot?” he questions with a mocking tone, knowing full well what the answer would be. “I think it is…”

You nod your head quickly, eyes reopening ever so slowly to meet his.

His eyes are full with devilish aspirations, and your knees almost give out when he roughly thrusts his fingers back in again for a final time. You let out a small cry of bliss and dissatisfaction when he slips them out of you, wiping them off on his pants carelessly.

You were decently wet before, and you are definitely abundantly wet now.

“I think you need to lie down.” He sounds concerned, but you know it’s just for show to make your heart pound harder.

He takes your hand from his shoulder, holding it securely as he shuffles your bodies around, putting you in his place and himself in yours. Now your thighs rest against the desk, and he crowds you against it.

“Lift your arms,” he says cooly, observing your dazed expression with care.

You raise them, and he pinches the hem of your shirt, delicately dragging it up your torso and over your head with caution. He tosses it on the chair off to the side.

Your eyes catch the mangled slash at the bottom of his shirt again, and you quickly reach for the thin material.

He doesn’t question your intentions, letting you maneuver the thin fabric over the bandage, his chest, and extend onto your toes to pull it over his shoulders. He peels it from his arms, and your hands can’t help but wander across the firm muscles that stretch around his entire body.

The power he holds within him—the Batman—is unparalleled to anything you’ve ever seen. It was terrifying. It was unbelievable, the things you’ve seen his body do. And he would continue to push his limits.

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