multi-fandom-imagine

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Never watched Gotham: By Gaslight

But this version of Bruce is hot.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Breeding kink Jason you say 👀👀

Tell me to do it!

And I'll do it 👀

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I also really have an urge to write a breeding kink fic with Dick Grayson or Jason Todd

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I really wanna write something for Hal Jordan and the TAS Peter Parker but I dont think anyone would reader them 😩

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Never apologize! I love going through hyperfixations with you!

Thank you!!

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I apologize for all the Marvel / DC fics I've been writing.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Yah! That's my girl || Adrian Chase ||

A/n: Part two of the Adrian Chase smut.

Adrian love's showing you off.

The moment you step into the headquarters, every head turns.

Because you are not wearing regulation gear.

Because you’re gorgeous, confident, and definitely not supposed to be here.Because you walked in holding Vigilante’s hand.

And because he immediately, loudly announces:

“HEY EVERYONE, THIS IS MY SUPER-HOT GIRLFRIEND. Don’t look at her boobs too long or I will cry and then murder you!”

You blink. “That’s… one way to say hello.”

Peacemaker spins in his chair, gaping. “Wait, wait, wait. You have a girlfriend?!”

Adrian puffs up like a peacock. “Yup! And she lets me go down on her for hours. Like a gentleman. Like a sniper with a tongue.”

Economos chokes on his soda. Harcourt groans. Adebayo mutters, “Oh my God,” under her breath.

Peacemaker stands, dramatically. “How the fuck does he get a girlfriend and I’m still dry-dicking it over here?”

“She likes my helmet,” Adrian says, completely straight-faced. “It turns her on. Right, babe?”

You smirk, tugging playfully on his collar. “It’s very… form-fitting. Shows off your assets.”

He beams. “She means my ass. She touches it constantly.”

“Because it’s nice,” you whisper, but loud enough for them to hear.

Peacemaker collapses onto the couch in despair. “I’m gonna throw myself out a window. Or find a fursuit.”

Later, while the team debriefs, you’re perched on the edge of Adrian’s lap—his arm around your waist, fingers teasing at the hem of your shirt.

“You know,” he whispers in your ear, voice thick, “I still have the taste of you in the back of my throat from this morning.”

You elbow him in the ribs. “Adrian.”

“What?” he grins, unbothered. “I’m just saying, if we disappear for ten minutes, no one will notice—”

“Everyone will notice.”

Peacemaker groans tossing his head back “WE’RE RIGHT HERE.”

Adrian grins puffing out his chest. "Exactly. No one will expect it.”

You duck into a side hall, hoping to cool off. Adrian follows you, grabbing your wrist, spinning you into the wall with a giddy grin.

“You looked so hot back there. All smug and confident like some kind of femme fatale spy. You know I’m gonna ruin you later, right?”

You arch a brow. “Oh yeah?”

He presses against you—armor hard, body harder—and leans in.

“Gonna make you scream my name while everyone’s pretending not to hear,” he breathes. “Gonna fuck you in the same suit I wore to kill a dozen guys last week. Just for you.”

You whimper.

Then Peacemaker’s voice echoes from the hallway:

“Are you two fucking behind a door again?! THIS IS A WORKPLACE!”

Adrian flips him off, not looking away from you.

“Later,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “I’ll make you forget your name.”

⸻

The next morning, Adrian walks in with a fresh hickey on his neck and a limp he refuses to explain.

He drops a protein bar onto Peacemaker’s desk.

“I don’t need this,” he smirks. “I get all my energy from pussy.”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Wrong Apartment, Right Girl || Adrian Chase ||

A/n: Pumped for the second season

Your night was supposed to be peaceful. A bath, a glass of wine, and one of those trashy reality shows you swore you didn’t watch.

Instead, you’re standing in your living room, in nothing but a satin robe—barely tied shut—as a man in full tactical armor and a visored helmet crashes through your window, rolls across your floor like a goddamn Power Ranger, and jumps to his feet with a pistol aimed dead at your face.

You scream.

He screams.

You both scream.

“OH FUCK—Wait! Wait! Waitwaitwait—Shit,” the masked man blurts, standing perfectly still like freezing will somehow undo what just happened. “Are you… not Ray?”

You clutch your chest, heart pounding, eyes wide as you shout, “No! Who the hell is Ray?!”

The helmeted intruder tilts his head, and for a second, he’s just… still.

Then he sighs, holsters his gun, and slowly raises his gloved hands.

“Well, this is awkward,” he says, voice muffled behind the visor. “I definitely broke into the wrong apartment. But uh… damn. You’re really pretty. That’s a plus, right?”

You blink. “You broke into my apartment.”

“I said I was sorry! Technically, it was a misfire of coordinates,” he offers, sounding genuinely sheepish. “In my defense, your unit and Ray’s are identical. Except his smells like old cheese and sadness. Yours smells like lavender and… boob sweat.”

You gape. “Excuse me?!”

“Not in a bad way,” he says quickly, throwing up his hands. “Like… sexy boob sweat. The kind that makes a man go feral. Which, in this suit, is very inconvenient, by the way.”

You cross your arms, the robe pulling tighter around your chest. “So, what, you’re just gonna… leave now?”

He pauses. “…Do you want me to?”

You hesitate.

This man — whoever he is — is standing in your apartment dressed like a dystopian sex fantasy. Black tactical armor, tight in all the right places, with those electric blue stripes across his chest and shoulders. A sword strapped to his back. Broad shoulders. Slim waist. He’s built like he could throw you through a wall… or against one. Hard.

And God help you, your body responds before your brain does.

“I mean… you did already break in,” you say slowly, lips twitching. “Might as well stay a little.”

The helmet tilts again. “Wait… for real?”

You shrug. ���I was bored. And you do have a nice voice.”

He makes a strangled noise. “You’re—holy shit, I think I love you.”

He removes the helmet first.

Underneath is a head of tousled brown hair, flushed cheeks, and the brightest, most chaotic grin you’ve ever seen.

“Hi,” he says breathlessly. “I’m Adrian. Adrian Chase. Vigilante. But like… not a crazy one. Well, I mean, technically I’m unhinged, but I’m also good in bed, so—”

You cut him off by stepping closer, grabbing the front of his armor, and yanking him into a kiss.

The second your lips touch, he groans—low, desperate—and cups your face with both gloved hands like you’re something breakable. His mouth is hot, eager, tongue sliding against yours with a messy hunger that leaves you dizzy.

When you break apart, panting, he whispers, “I’m… like, insanely hard right now. Just saying.”

You smirk and tug him by the chest plate. “Then do something about it.”

He growls, lifts you effortlessly by the thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist. The armor presses cool and hard against your bare skin, your robe slipping open just enough to make his eyes blow wide.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice deepening. “You’re not wearing anything under this.”

“Nope.”

“I think I might die. Like, from joy. Death by tits...Peacemaker is gonna be so jealous when I tell him”

He lays you flat on your kitchen counter—hood off, gloves still on—and yanks your robe wide open. The way he looks at you? Like you’re a goddamn feast.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, brushing a thumb over your nipple, “if this is a trap, I will walk into it every single night.”

You arch when he sucks one nipple into his mouth, hand trailing down your belly to cup your pussy with armored fingers.

“You’re so wet,” he growls. “All for me? From just breaking and entering?”

“You were hot,” you pant. “And you screamed like a Final Girl.”

He barks a laugh against your chest, then sinks to his knees between your thighs.

Helmet off. Armor on. And a masked vigilante’s mouth between your legs? Yeah, you’re never watching Netflix again.

He licks you slow at first, teasing, moaning like you’re the one giving head. Then he wraps his arms around your thighs and devours you like a man starved. His tongue flicks, swirls, sucks—your hips buck off the counter.

“Fuck—Adrian—”

He hums in approval, redoubling his efforts.

You come with a cry, thighs trembling against his armor, his name a chant on your lips.

He licks you through it, smiling against your pussy like a damn menace.

He doesn’t undress. Not fully. He unzips just enough for his cock to spring free—thick, flushed, leaking—and you stare.

“You gonna just look at it?” he teases, jerking himself slowly. “Or are you gonna ride it like a badass?”

You answer by pulling him closer and wrapping your legs around his waist again.

He sinks into you with a groan that rattles your bones, head dropping to your shoulder.

“Jesus fuck, you feel like heaven.”

You bite his shoulder, hard. “Then move, Chase.”

And he does.

The pace is relentless, desperate. Your bare back against the wall. His armor cool and hard, rubbing your clit with every thrust. He holds you like you weigh nothing, slamming into you with a bruising rhythm, lips crashing into yours between gasps.

Your second orgasm hits mid-thrust, and he nearly sobs.

“I’m—God, I’m gonna come—fuck, where do you want it?”

“Inside.”

“OH MY GOD,” he wails. “You’re my wife now. This is it. I’m ruined for everyone else.”

He buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a guttural moan, hips jerking as he holds you close, shaking with the force of it.

Ten minutes later, you’re curled in his lap on the couch, still barely dressed, drinking wine while he lets you wear his gloves.

“Should I fix your window?” he asks, chewing on some of your cheese crackers.

“Nope. I kinda like the idea of you sneaking in again.”

He grins, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Next time I’ll bring condoms. And maybe some waffles.”

“You’re such a dork.”

He beams. “But I eat pussy like a goddamn legend.”

You can’t argue with that.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Have you ever watched Cobra Kai, if you have do you write for that fandom. I had lots of ideas and requests for Cobra Kai x readers, but can't seem to find anyone that makes cobra Kai works that are taking requests. And If you haven't watched it, please 🙏, can you watch it, it only has 6 seasons and it is very good.

ITS ONE OF MY FAVORITE SHOWS!

Please send me some

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Really wanna write some Adrian Chase / Vigilante smit rn.

I'm just obsessing over Marvel / DC things at the moment

Let me know if I should do this.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Double Trouble || Johnny Storm ||

A/n: Johnny finally meeting his child

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic, buzzing softly with machines that looked like they belonged in a science lab. The air was thick with tension and pacing shoes — Johnny’s, specifically.

“Mr. Storm, please sit down,” the nurse gently pleaded for the fifth time, holding a clipboard with your name scribbled neatly across it.

“I can’t sit down!” Johnny snapped, not out of rudeness — but panic. His fingers curled in his perfectly pressed slacks as he paced the floor of the waiting area, suit jacket tossed aside long ago, blonde hair mussed from tugging. “My wife’s in there! She’s having our baby—babies—baby, I mean baby.”

“You said ‘babies,’” murmured Sue Storm from her chair in the corner, brow raised over her knitting. “Freudian slip?”

“Don’t say that!” Johnny barked before immediately backtracking. “Wait—wait, what? You think it’s twins?”

Reed didn’t even look up from his newspaper. “Statistically possible. Your wife has been rather…large. Not in a bad way, of course—”

“Stretch,” Johnny growled through his teeth, “if you finish that sentence, I will set you on fire.”

“Just saying,” Ben added from the corner, “Y/N was waddlin’ around like she was hidin’ a pair of bowling balls under her dress the last time we saw her. Could be twins. Could be a linebacker.”

“BEN!”

Johnny collapsed into the nearest chair, shoving his face into his hands. “Oh my god, I can’t do this. I can’t be a dad. I’m the Human Torch. What if I burn the kid? What if I mess up? What if I forget how to—how to change a diaper?!”

From down the hallway came a sharp, agonizing scream — your scream.

Johnny shot up like he’d been electrocuted. “THAT WAS HER! I HAVE TO GO IN THERE—!”

“Absolutely not!” barked the attending nurse, physically blocking him with her 5’4” frame. “She’s in good hands. And unless you want to pass out mid-delivery and become the other patient, I suggest you sit your flaming ass down!”

Johnny stared, stunned.

Sue grinned. “I like her.”

Inside the delivery room

You gritted your teeth so hard it felt like they might crack. Your entire body shook from the force of the contractions. Sweat slicked your brow, the room spinning, hot tears brimming in your eyes.

“I changed my mind,” you wheezed, voice hoarse. “I’m not doing this anymore. Tell Johnny I love him—but this kid can STAY IN THERE!”

The doctor chuckled from between your legs, completely unfazed. “You’re doing great, Mrs. Storm. Deep breaths. Just a few more pushes.”

Your nails dug into the hospital bed rail, your swollen belly clenching painfully.

“I feel like a freakin’ parade float,” you cried. “God—he better still love me after this.”

But in your heart, you knew he would.

Because despite his showboating, despite the fame and fire — Johnny loved you. Fiercely. Fully. The kind of love that wrapped around your soul and didn’t let go, even when you felt big, bloated, or broken.

You took another deep breath.

You pushed.

A scream tore from your throat—

And then—

“Wah!”

A cry. A baby’s cry.

Then another.

Your eyes flew open. “Wait—another?”

The doctor blinked. “Well, what do you know… It’s twins. Congratulations, Mrs. Storm. You have a boy and a girl.”

You burst into tears.

Five minutes later

The door to the delivery room opened slowly. Johnny’s head peeked in, hesitant.

“Sweetheart?”

You looked up from the hospital bed, exhausted but glowing, with two tiny bundles nestled in your arms. One was wrapped in pink, the other in blue — both squirming, their little faces scrunched like peaches.

Johnny froze.

There were two.

His brain glitched like an old radio switching channels.

“Two? You—you had two—”

“Surprise,” you whispered, a tired laugh escaping your lips.

Johnny stumbled forward like a man seeing heaven itself.

He looked at the girl first — a delicate little thing with his golden hair and your button nose. Then the boy — all plump cheeks and a fiery little shriek, red in the face just like his daddy.

“I…” Johnny’s knees nearly buckled as he sat on the edge of the bed. His voice cracked. “I didn’t—I mean—I thought it was just one—”

“Apparently not,” you grinned softly. “Guess your flame burned a little brighter than expected.”

That earned a choked laugh. He reached out, trembling fingers brushing over the soft curls of his daughter.

“They’re perfect,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

“You sure you’re ready for this, Daddy?”

He looked at you — really looked at you, this woman he adored, glowing and curvy and strong as hell.

And with a tearful smile, Johnny Storm leaned in and kissed you softly, reverently.

“I was born ready.”

Later that night-

The hospital room was quiet, lit by soft golden lamps. Johnny was fast asleep in the armchair beside your bed, one baby on his chest, the other cradled in your arms. His head was tilted back, lips slightly parted, snoring lightly.

The twins had finally worn him out.

You glanced down at your daughter — sleepy and calm — then at your son, already stretching his little fists like he was ready to fight the world.

You leaned back against the pillow, heart full.

From hotshot to husband.

From fire to father.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Baxter Building — Three Days Later

The elevator doors dinged open as Johnny stepped out with a cocky strut that didn’t quite hide how carefully he cradled the two bassinets in his arms.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice louder than it needed to be, “The Storm family has officially grown by two.”

Sue dropped her magazine.

Ben dropped his sandwich.

Reed actually dropped a screwdriver — and he never dropped anything.

“Wait—two?” Sue blinked, stepping forward, her heels clacking against the tile. “Johnny, did you steal a second baby?”

Johnny huffed. “Ha ha. Very funny. No. We didn’t know it was twins until they showed up.”

Ben leaned forward with wide eyes, peering into the bassinets. “You mean your girl popped two at once? She deserves a freakin’ medal, flame brain.”

“She already has one,” Johnny said, voice softening. “Me.”

“Yeah,” Reed muttered, pushing up his glasses. “That’s…not the medal I’d have gone with.”

Johnny didn’t dignify that with a response.

He instead turned to the first bassinet, gently scooping out the sleeping baby girl wrapped in pastel pink. “This… is Lucille Estelle Storm. We call her Lulu. She’s already got that dreamy ‘I run the world’ look. Just like her mama.”

Sue gasped. “She looks just like you when you were a baby!”

“She better not,” Johnny whispered. “I was a menace.”

Next, he carefully lifted the slightly fussier bundle wrapped in pale blue, who was squirming like a matchstick ready to spark. “And this—this is James Victor Storm. Or Jimmy for short.He already tried to throw up on me twice, so I know he’s a fighter.”

Ben grinned wide. “You named your kid after a megalomanic.”

Reed blinked. “Wait—Victor?”

Johnny smirked. “Relax, not that Victor. It’s a strong middle name. And he already has a mean little scowl. Just look.”

Sure enough, little Jimmy narrowed his eyes in his sleep, his forehead scrunching with dramatic disapproval — as if someone had just dared to serve him cold formula.

“Look at those cheeks,” Sue cooed, gently stroking Lulu’s downy blonde curls. “They’re perfect.”

“They get it from their mom,” Johnny said proudly. “Everything good they have, that’s her.”

Ben leaned over Jimmy’s bassinet and gave a gentle poke. “Tiny flame. You think he’ll get powers?”

Johnny puffed up. “Dunno. But if he sets his diapers on fire, Reed, I’m sending him straight to your lab.”

“Absolutely not.”

An Hour Later – Baxter Lounge

The twins had been tucked into two bassinets parked on the coffee table like tiny royalty. Sue sat cross-legged beside them, rattling a rattle like a pro. Reed hovered nearby, scribbling observations while muttering about genetic traits and temperature adaptability. Ben was hand-carving tiny wooden toys the size of his thumb.

Johnny stood nearby, beaming like a man who invented love itself.

You sat on the couch, feet up, wrapped in a soft robe with curlers in your hair and a lemonade in hand. “I told you I felt bigger than one baby,” you said, taking a sip. “You all said it was just the pie.”

“We weren’t wrong,” Johnny said, winking. “But turns out it was pie and plot twist.”

Sue chuckled. “So what now, Papa Storm? You gonna take paternity leave from saving the world?”

Johnny leaned over his son and daughter, gently adjusting their blankets. His voice turned serious for a moment.

“I’ve flown higher than most men ever will. I’ve stared down monsters, punched a Skrull, and set half of Latveria’s forests on fire by accident—but this? This is the wildest adventure I’ve ever signed up for.”

He looked up, eyes gleaming.

“And I’ve never been more ready.”

Ben grinned. “You say that now. Wait ‘til the first time one of ‘em craps on your lap.”

As if on cue—Jimmy let out a loud, suspicious gurgle.

Johnny froze.

“Oh no. No no no—REED, WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY—!”

Sue burst out laughing.

You didn’t even flinch. “Welcome to fatherhood, babe.”

Later That Night — Quiet in the Nursery

Back at home, the city outside their window glowing soft orange and violet, Johnny stood beside the twin bassinets again — this time alone. Both babies slept, tiny fists curled, chests rising and falling with soft breaths.

He bent down, gently kissing each of their foreheads.

“I’m gonna mess up sometimes,” he whispered. “I know that. But I’m always gonna try. I’ll be there for your first steps, your first words, your first fires—hopefully not literal ones.”

He paused, fingers brushing Jimmy’s cheek, then Lulu’s nose.

“You’ve got your mom’s heart. And hopefully not all of my ego.”

From behind him, you appeared in the doorway, voice soft. “You’re already everything they need.”

Johnny turned, eyes a little misty. “So are you, sweetheart.”

He held you close, two exhausted parents surrounded by love and the sweet scent of baby powder.

Outside, the city twinkled.

Inside, the real fire — the kind that burns gentle and strong — had just begun.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Awesome how my depression is just suddenly hitting me right now

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝗦𝗮𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗪𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 || 𝗞𝘂𝗿𝘁 𝗪𝗮𝗴𝗻𝗲𝗿 ||

A/n: I can't believe I've never written anything for my favorite X-Men boy! I have failed.

⚠️ Warnings: Smut / Explicit Sexual Content, Virgin!Kurt, Soft Dom vibes, Religious guilt/conflict, praise kink, German pet names, worshipping body talk, first-time tenderness, use of tail, mutual consent, very loving.

The chapel was dimly lit, only the flickering candles casting golden halos on the stone walls. You found him there—again—kneeling before the altar, head bowed, tail still.

You knew that stillness.You knew he was struggling.

“Kurt,” you whispered gently. He didn’t move. Only the slightest twitch of his pointed ear told you he heard.

You stepped closer, your hand brushing his shoulder. “Kurt. Please talk to me.”

His eyes slowly lifted, golden irises shimmering with something too deep for words. Sin and longing. Guilt and devotion. For God. For you.

“I should not feel these things,” he murmured in that velvet accent, voice roughened by restraint. “Not for you. Not in this place.”

You crouched beside him. “You’re allowed to feel, Kurt. Love isn’t wicked.”

“But it is not just love I feel,” he confessed, fingers tightening around his rosary. “It is… want. Desire that makes my hands ache. My thoughts unclean.”

Your heart pounded. “And if I want you too?”

His tail curled, slowly coiling like smoke. “Then I will fall willingly, liebling.”

You didn’t hesitate. You reached out, taking his hand—still warm from prayer—and brought it to your lips.

“Kurt,” you whispered. “Take me.”

He stared at you, unmoving, as if daring you to take it back. When you didn’t, his breath shuddered. Then—bamf—the scent of brimstone swirled around you, and suddenly, you were in his quarters. Candles flickered across the room, casting soft light over sheets and shadows.

He stood before you now—taller, trembling, tail lashing once with restraint.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.

“I won’t.”

A growl—low, feral, buried in silk—rose in his throat. His hands moved to cup your face, rough thumbs brushing your cheeks as if you were something sacred.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “Too good. I do not deserve you.”

You kissed him before he could spiral again, your fingers tangling in the soft, indigo fur of his nape. He gasped, wings fluttering. His tail wrapped slowly around your thigh, possessive, trembling.

“Kurt,” you whispered against his mouth, “please don’t be gentle just because you think I’m pure.”

His breath hitched. Something cracked in him.

“I will still worship you,” he said darkly, voice husky, “but not like a saint. Like a man who has hungered.”

His lips descended, fierce now—desperate. You tasted incense and wine and need. His fangs scraped your bottom lip, his tongue tracing devotion along yours. He kissed you like he was starving.

Your clothes vanished—teleported, perhaps—leaving you bare before him. He stepped back, eyes sweeping down your body like an oath. Then he sank to his knees.

“Mein Gott…”

His hands were reverent as they touched your thighs, as though afraid to sully you—but his mouth said otherwise.

“You are a gift,” he murmured, lips brushing your belly, your hips, your thighs. “Danke… for you.”

Then his tongue was between your legs—hot, skilled, sinfully gentle. You moaned, clutching his shoulders, thighs trembling around his head.

“Kurt—oh God—”

He groaned in response, as though the name tore through him. “Do not say His name while I do this,” he gasped, voice low. “Say mine.”

You gasped, tugging at his hair. “Yours, yours, Kurt—”

He pulled back, face flushed, lips slick with your arousal. You’d never seen anything more beautiful. He rose, caging you gently against the bed, his chest heaving.

“Are you sure?” he asked, one last time.

“I want you,” you promised. “Every wicked, sacred part.”

Kurt shuddered. “Then… forgive me, liebe. I will not be gentle this time.”

His cock pressed against you, thick and flushed dark purple-blue at the tip. His tail coiled behind your back like a tether. When he entered you, slowly, you both moaned—his voice cracking in German, yours in broken syllables.

It was so much—stretching, burning, perfect.

“So tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “You feel like—like heaven and I am a beast—”

“You’re perfect,” you whispered, arching into him. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved—slow, reverent thrusts at first, then faster, rougher, his hips slapping yours in rhythm. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting them to wrap around his waist. His tail slid around to toy with your breast, tracing a circle around your nipple until you gasped.

“Kurt, please—I’m close—”

“Komm für mich,” he whispered. “Bitte… let me feel you.”

You shattered. Moaning his name like a prayer, you clenched around him, dragging him with you into ecstasy.

He came with a broken cry, fangs at your throat, tail tightening around your leg. His whole body trembled as he spilled inside you, wings flaring once—glorious in the candlelight.

After, he held you close, forehead to yours, whispering soft apologies and blessings in German.

“I should not have taken you like that,” he murmured. “Not here. Not when my soul is already half-torn.”

You cupped his cheek, brushing your thumb along the sharp edge of his jaw.

“You didn’t take,” you said. “You gave. All of you.”

He kissed your hand. His golden eyes softened.

“Then I will give again. As many times as you let me.”

And he did.

Again. And again.

Even as the candles burned low and the line between sacred and wicked blurred beautifully in the dark.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Consider Me Gone || Bruce Wayne ||

A/n:Angst fic with a happy ending

Song Inspo:

Gotham City never slept.Neither did you.

The clock ticked past 3 a.m., casting long shadows against the penthouse windows. The cold side of the bed was always cold—no warmth, no imprint, just the constant echo of a man who gave more to a city than to you.

You stared out over Gotham, arms wrapped around yourself in your robe. The words in your head spiraled and stung. You had rehearsed them so many times in silence, but now you would say them aloud. Even if he wasn’t here to hear them.

“You say you’re doing me a favor, by hangin’ around…”

Your voice broke in the quiet. “Then why does it feel like you’re doing everything but loving me?”

You turned back toward the room. Everything was his. The cufflinks left on the dresser, the faint scent of leather and whiskey, the flicker of the Bat-Signal sometimes reflected in the mirror when you stood there brushing your hair.

You had asked for more. Not his secrets. Not the cowl. Just him. Something real. Something that didn’t leave you tracing bruises and lipstick on a pillow.

But every night, he left.

And every morning, you woke up alone.

The note was short.

A single sentence written in your hand, folded on his pillow:

“If I’m not the one thing you can’t stand to lose… consider me gone.”

Three Weeks Later

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten right.

Alfred noticed, of course. So did the others. But they knew better than to press him when it was about her.

Bruce stood in the Batcave, hands clenched, your note worn and crumpled in his palm. The city had been quieter lately—he’d made sure of that. He hunted with precision, as if each criminal might be the one who could make the ache go away.

He thought about seeing other people, hoped that something would help the ache in his chest.

But none of them were you.

None of them had your voice, your touch, your smile. None of them stayed.

“If you’re gonna walk, you better walk your walk, and you better back it up…”

Your voice, in his mind again. God, he missed you.

He had told himself it was safer this way. That you deserved more than the fragments of a broken man. But all it had done was leave two people hurting—one in silence, and one trying to be brave enough to leave.

And he had let you go.

That Night – Your Apartment

You didn’t expect the knock.

Not at midnight. Not with rain hammering the windowpanes like a storm trying to break in.

When you opened the door, your breath caught. His black suit was soaked, hair dripping, and for once, Bruce Wayne didn’t look put-together. He looked wrecked.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You hesitated. His eyes flicked to the duffel by the door—yours. Packed. Ready.

“You’re leaving Gotham?” he asked, a flicker of something desperate behind his voice.

You didn’t speak.

Bruce stepped forward, taking your hand gently. “I didn’t think I needed anyone. But I was wrong. I need you. I love you.” He paused, searching your eyes. “I thought I was protecting you by keeping you at arm’s length. I didn’t realize I was pushing away the only peace I’ve ever had.”

Tears pricked your eyes, your lip quivered for a moment as you turned your head away from him.

He swallowed hard. “Don’t go.”

You whispered, “Do you mean it?”

“I mean all of it. You want me to walk my walk? Here I am—drenched, terrified, and standing in front of the only person who ever made me want to stay.”

Your arms wrapped around his neck. His around your waist. You both stood in the hallway, rain and all, letting everything fall away except the moment.

Later that night, wrapped in blankets and heartbeats, he whispered into your hair, “Don’t ever consider yourself gone again.”

You smiled softly. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice cracking. “Not ever again.”

Because this time, when he said he loved you—

He Stayed

[multi-fandom-imagine]

[Key]

-💔means it is an angst fic

-🥹means it is a family fic

-💘means it is an angst fic with a happy ending.

-🚫means it contains a Trigger Warning.

-🌻means its a HC / Imagine

-💞 means it is smut.

•Johnny Storm / The Human Torch•

“Too Much for You?” -💞

I'm gonna be a dad?

Fucking Divine-💞

Double Trouble.

•Reed Richards / Mr Fantastic•

N/A

•Sue Storm / Invisible Woman•

N/A

•Ben Grimm / The Thing•

N/A

[multi-fandom-imagine]

⚡️“Fastest Man Alive” || Barry Allen ||

A/n: I fucking love Barry man ( all the Barry's minus Ezra Miller's Barry )

⚠️ Rating: Explicit / NSFW

🛑 Warnings: : Mask kink, power play, use of powers (speed, vibration, phasing), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, overstimulation, creampie, praise/possessiveness, reveal scene,Language, rough sex, voice mod kink, suit kink, mutual obsession

📝 Setting: Reader is a civilian Barry has saved before. You don’t know his identity — yet. He’s obsessed. So are you.

You always wondered what it would feel like to kiss a man who could outrun lightning.

Now you knew.

The Flash — the actual Flash — had saved you twice. But this time, he hadn’t vanished. This time, he stayed.

And when he pressed you to your balcony wall and kissed you, it felt like the world tilted on its axis.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you gasped between kisses.

His gloved hand cupped your jaw.His voice, when he spoke, was not human.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

It vibrated through you — literally. Distorted. Modified from the inside out.

You were soaked before he ever touched you below the belt.

He carried you inside like a thunderclap, lips never leaving yours, suit — bright red, gold accents, that crisp white chest emblem. His face was covered. Only his eyes, burning, watching you like prey.

He laid you down on your couch.And devoured you.

⸻

Your panties hit the floor before you could even process it.

The Flash — a literal superhero — was on his knees between your thighs, tongue working your clit with devastating precision. His gloves were off. His fingers curled inside you as if he’d spent years fantasizing about it.

And Maybe he had.

“Taste better than I ever imagined…You gonna come, sweetheart? Right on my tongue?”

The voice did something to you — so wrong, so filthy, so hot — like being fucked by a fantasy.

And then the vibrations started.

His tongue.

His fingers.

Everything.

You came like you were being electrocuted — shaking, screaming, drenched. Tears in your eyes as your chest heaved.

You were still coming down from your orgasmic when he climbed over you, cock flushed and heavy in his hand, suit peeled just enough for access.

“You want it, baby? You want the Flash to fuck you?” voice cocky as a hand gripped your thigh.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please.”

He thrusted in, deep, and you lost your mind.

The suit squeaked beneath your thighs. His hands gripped you like he was barely holding back. You were half in his lap, bouncing on him with messy, soaking strokes when you reached up — heart hammering — and whispered:

“…Take the mask off.”

He froze.

Then slowly… wordlessly… removed the cowl.

And your heart stopped.

“Barry?”

Barry Allen. The sweet, awkward forensic chemist who brought you coffee. Who blushed when your fingers brushed.The blue eye'd man that would crack jokes just to see you smile tightened his grip on your hips involuntary.

You looked down.

You were riding him.

And he was losing his fucking mind.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, panting. “I just… I had to feel you first...okay that came out wrong...I like you a lot and I didn't-.”

Your lips crashed into his. Cutting him off, And you rode him like your life depended on it.

His hands were everywhere. His voice, now his, was shaking with praise:

“So good, baby.That’s it, ride me—fuck—feel how deep you are?”

You milked him to orgasm, every pulse of his cock flooding you as you came too — dizzy and trembling.

And when you finally collapsed on him, he wrapped his arms around you and whispered:

“You’re mine now. You have to be.”

But that wasn’t the end.

Because when you caught your breath, tangled in his arms, you smirked and said:

“What happens if you don’t go slow?”

His eyes darkened.You never even made it to your room.

He slammed you against the hallway wall like you weighed nothing, suit fully on this time, mask back in place.

His voice returned — deep, vibrating, inhuman.

“You said you could take it.”

His cock was already hard again, flushed and leaking as he shoved your legs around his waist and drove into you in one brutal thrust.

You screamed,head tossed back in pleasure as tour nails dug into his shoulders.

The wall shook.

And Barry Allen — The Flash — fucked you like he’d never do anything slower than the speed of sound again.

He pounded into you at Flash pace.Every thrust a blur.

Every growl vibrating through your bones.

Your back scraped the wall, your nails then clawed at the lightning bolt on his chest, and your moans bounced off the hallway as he wrecked you.

And then-

He phased.

Just enough. Just the tip. Inside you.

Your voice now raw, hair clinging to your skin, his name a half sob on your lips.

“That’s it,” he snarled. “Come for me. You’re mine."

You did.Hard.

And when he came, it was with a choked gasp and a flood of warmth as he filled you again — buried deep, body shaking, mask pressed to your shoulder like he could melt into you.

Afterward, you sagged against him, barely able to breathe.

He held you, his voice soft again.

“Still think I’m sweet?”

You giggled breathlessly. “Still think I can walk?”

He carried you to bed.

Still in the suit.

Still yours.

Forever.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Still in my DC / Marvel mood so in gonna write some stuff

( gonna be posting some Barry Allen smut soon )