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amethystarachnid · 1 month ago

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THE SERAPHIM

⤷ KURT WAGNER

ᯓ★ Pairing: Kurt Wagner x male!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: thriller, tiny bit of romance, mostly action

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Multiverse

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 6k

ᯓ★ Summary: In the dim-lit alleys of a city that doesn’t sleep, Detective Kurt Wagner and a private investigator find themselves unwilling partners in a case that goes deeper than either of them expect. But once the case is solved y/n understands that he wants to see Kurt again.

ᯓ★ TW(s): kidnapping, mentions of human trafficking and experimenting on humans, violence and emotional distress

ᯓ★ AU: noir detective

ᯓ★ Request: Noir detective au with Nightcrawler perchance? I never get enough of that sorta au :333 especially with a male or ftm reader I think it would be so cute and silly to see Kurt as a detective solving your case X3 (@scrimpswrites )

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The smell of rain-soaked asphalt greets you as you walk down the narrow alley, your coat pulled tight against the chill of the night. The city’s constant drizzle clings to you like the fog in your head, clouding your thoughts as you scan the dimly lit street. Another job, another night on your feet with only the city’s twisted arteries for company. But then, that’s what you signed up for the day you decided to call yourself a private investigator.

Tonight, you’re tailing a lead on a case that’s twisted its way into the darkest corners of the city—a string of disappearances, all connected to one seemingly harmless nightclub, The Seraphim. Rumor has it that people enter with money in their pockets and hope in their eyes, only to vanish as if the city’s belly swallowed them whole.

Just as you turn the corner, you see him. You’ve been hearing rumors about Detective Kurt Wagner for months now—blue-skinned, yellow-eyed, and sharper than a snake’s tooth. You’re not sure if you believed all the talk about his “demonic” look until this very moment, when he steps into the glow of the streetlight. He’s impossible to miss, standing there in a trench coat with the collar popped up.

Kurt’s face is cast in shadow, but there’s no missing the flicker of his amber eyes as he catches sight of you. His eyes narrow, and it’s clear he’s not thrilled to see you. The feeling is mutual.

“You,” he says, his voice thick with a German accent. It’s soft, but there’s an edge to it that tells you he’s not interested in small talk.

“Wagner,” you reply, letting his name roll off your tongue in a way that makes it clear you’re not impressed. You’ve had too many brushes with cops like him—the kind who think they’re the only ones who get to solve the city’s mysteries.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, crossing his arms. The movement makes his trench coat pull tighter around him, emphasizing his lean, wiry frame. His skin catches the glow of the streetlight in a way that’s almost surreal, like he’s cut from the night itself.

“Same thing as you, I imagine,” you reply, giving him a pointed look. “Following a lead on those disappearances. I’d say it’s none of your business, but we both know you’re gonna make it your business.”

Kurt’s lips twitch, not quite a smirk. “Is that so? And you think you’re equipped for something like this?” He takes a step forward, the heel of his boots clacking softly against the pavement.

“I’ve managed just fine so far,” you say, standing your ground. You know his type—cocky, confident, and probably a little too sure of his own abilities. You can see why he might be suspicious of a PI like you nosing around his case. But if he thinks he’s going to scare you off, he’s got another thing coming.

“So far,” he repeats, his tone dripping with condescension. “But so far only gets you so close to the truth in this city, mein Freund.”

Your jaw clenches at the familiar, almost mocking endearment. “Look, Wagner, I’m not here to get in your way. Just doing my job.”

“That makes two of us.” He tips his hat, casting his face in shadow again, a knowing look in his eyes. He glances toward the end of the alleyway, where The Seraphim’s faint neon glow pulses like a heartbeat.

The Seraphim. You both know it’s your next stop, whether you like it or not.

“Seems we’re headed in the same direction,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, like it’s the worst thing that could happen to him.

“Seems so,” you reply. There’s a mutual pause as you size each other up, two predators circling the same prey. Kurt’s gaze doesn’t waver; his tail flicks behind him with restless, measured sways.

When he starts walking, you fall into step beside him. Silence stretches between you like a taut wire, each step a begrudging rhythm in the rain. The tension between you is palpable, a static hum that thrums beneath the night’s cold veneer.

“What’s your take on the club?” you ask, breaking the silence. “Think it’s more than just a front?”

His eyes dart toward you, a flicker of curiosity and skepticism mingling. “A man with your reputation should already know the answer to that.”

You bite back a retort, realizing he’s baiting you. “My ‘reputation,’ huh? Funny, I heard you’ve got one too. Rumors about a cop who doesn’t quite… fit the mold.”

You expect him to get defensive, maybe give you a piece of his mind, but he just shrugs. “Ah, so you’ve been doing your homework on me?”

A grudging respect begins to form, though you hate to admit it. Kurt Wagner is sharper than he lets on, and his reputation—earned or not—might not tell the whole story. But there’s still something about him that sets your teeth on edge.

When you reach the club’s entrance, Kurt pushes the door open without a word, casting a casual look over his shoulder as if to say, After you, if you dare. You follow, straightening your collar as you walk into the heavy bass and strobe lights that bathe the smoky room.

The Seraphim’s interior is all red velvet and shadow, a perfect hunting ground for whoever’s been making people disappear. You can feel Kurt’s eyes on you as you scan the room, looking for any faces that stand out.

“See anything?” he murmurs, leaning closer than he needs to. His voice is low, and you catch a hint of something under the sharpness of his tone—a sort of challenge, as if he’s daring you to prove yourself here.

You smirk, stepping forward and catching sight of a man near the bar with shifty eyes and a nervous tic. “That guy. Looks like he’s one bad poker hand away from giving something up.”

Kurt glances at the man, his lips curling in approval. “Not bad, Liebling,” he says, the word slipping out smooth and teasing.

You tense, hating the way the endearment sounds almost affectionate in his mouth. You shoot him a glare. “Keep your pet names to yourself, Wagner.”

Kurt raises his hands in mock surrender, a devilish grin playing at his lips. “Apologies. You seemed like you could use a little levity.”

He sidles up to the bar, his manner shifting seamlessly from abrasive detective to casual patron. You stay close enough to hear his conversation with the bartender, noting the way he plays his part with smooth ease.

“Whiskey, neat,” he says, sliding a bill across the counter. He nods toward the nervous man you pointed out. “My friend here—looks like he needs a drink on me.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it, pouring two drinks and sliding them over. Kurt waits until the man takes a sip before leaning in, voice barely audible over the music. “Rough night?”

The man’s gaze shifts, landing on Kurt with a wary look. “That obvious, huh?”

Kurt shrugs, taking a casual sip of his whiskey. “Could say I’ve been there a few times myself. This city… it wears on you.”

You stay close, letting Kurt work his angle. The man’s shoulders relax just a fraction, and he nods, sipping his drink as his eyes scan the room nervously.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “This place—thought I’d make a little money, but all I got was nightmares.”

“What kind of nightmares?” Kurt asks, his tone shifting slightly, a subtle edge creeping in.

The man blinks, suddenly aware of the interest in Kurt’s tone, but he’s too far gone to stop himself. He leans closer, voice dropping even lower. “People… they go back there, to the back rooms. They don’t come back out.”

Kurt shoots you a glance, his eyes sharp with the thrill of discovery, even as he keeps his expression cool and detached. “That so?”

The man nods, hands shaking around his glass. “I don’t know what goes on back there, but they don’t come out right, if they come out at all.”

Kurt’s attention is rapt, the intensity of his gaze pinning the man in place. You can see why people talk about his reputation—not just for his looks, but for the way he can bore straight to the truth.

But as he continues to question the man, you can’t help but feel a flicker of something else, something you don’t want to acknowledge. Admiration. Despite the chip on your shoulder and his infuriating smugness, he’s good at this—better than you expected.

As the man trails off, muttering about his regrets, Kurt leans back, his expression unreadable. He catches your gaze, his eyes gleaming with something that’s not quite arrogance, but close enough to make you grit your teeth.

“Well, looks like we have a little investigating to do, mein Freund,” he says, his tone full of challenge. “Think you can keep up?”

It’s a question, but not one you intend to dignify with a response. Instead, you move ahead of him, cutting through the club’s patrons toward the back rooms the man mentioned. You don’t need him to tell you what to do, and you’re going to make damn sure he knows it.

But as you stalk down the narrow hallway, you’re acutely aware of him at your side—close enough that the scent of leather and some faint cologne lingers between you, filling the tight space with a tension that’s both frustrating and electric. You don’t like the way it makes your pulse jump, and you like it even less that he’s probably noticed.

He keeps glancing at you, like he’s trying to read your thoughts, figure out what makes you tick. And maybe that’s the worst part of all—that for all your bravado, part of you wants him to look at you, to see you for more than just another rival on his case.

The back room is ahead, the door marked by a single, faded sticker in the shape of a devil’s tail. Kurt reaches for the handle, pausing to glance at you with a smirk that’s as infuriating as it is enticing.

“After you,” he says, with just a hint of mockery.

You bite back a retort, stepping through the doorway and into the darkness beyond, your senses on high alert. But as you enter, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe this partnership of yours is about to get a whole lot more complicated than you bargained for.

The room is dimly lit, a small, bare bulb dangling from the ceiling casting a sickly yellow light over cracked tiles and crumbling plaster. It smells damp, like mildew and something metallic. You scan the space quickly, eyes adjusting to the shadows, and feel Kurt’s presence beside you, close enough that you can almost hear the steady rhythm of his breathing.

There’s nothing here at first glance, just another dingy storage room that probably sees more rats than people. But there’s something off about it, a kind of stillness that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

“You feel that?” you murmur, almost forgetting yourself. You’re used to working alone, not bouncing thoughts off a partner. Still, Kurt’s intuition seems to have led him to the same conclusion as you—there’s something here worth finding.

He nods, his gaze flicking to the floor and back to you. “It’s too clean in here,” he whispers, his yellow eyes gleaming. He glances at a portion of the wall, fingers brushing over it as he looks for something specific.

“You’d be surprised what I can see,” he adds, almost to himself.

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite yourself. You’re tempted to ask what he means, but before you can, his gaze sharpens, and he points to the corner, just where the wall meets the floor. A thin trail of something dark winds along the cracked tile—a faded stain, the color of dried blood.

Kurt gives you a meaningful look. “Think someone just cut themselves and forgot to wipe it up?”

“Not a chance,” you mutter, feeling your stomach tighten. Whoever owns this place clearly has something to hide. “This… doesn’t look fresh. It’s dried, but they didn’t try to clean it. Like they didn’t think anyone would come snooping around back here.”

Kurt nods, his gaze intense. “People come and go, but someone’s making sure they don’t leave traces.” He hesitates, frowning as he examines the walls more closely, his fingertips tracing a barely visible seam along the wall’s edge.

You follow his line of sight, piecing together what he’s looking for. “A false wall?”

A look of approval flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone almost as soon as it appears, replaced by that same mask of calm control. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he says quietly, pressing along the seam until he finds a spot that gives way under his fingers. There’s a soft click, and the section of wall pops open to reveal a narrow passageway, leading deeper into the building.

The air from inside the passage is colder, heavier somehow, and it’s clear that whatever secrets The Seraphim is hiding, they lie down that corridor.

You shoot him a glance. “What’s the play here? We go in quiet, or you wanna kick the door down and announce ourselves?”

His tail flicks thoughtfully behind him as he considers. “Normally, I’d say quiet is best. But with you around… maybe making a little noise wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Careful, Wagner,” you say, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Don’t let my charm distract you.”

He snorts softly, but you catch the glimmer of something amused—something almost warm—in his eyes. “Trust me, charm isn’t the word I’d use.”

The space is tight, forcing you to walk shoulder-to-shoulder down the narrow corridor, and it doesn’t take long before you reach another door. This one is thick, reinforced with heavy steel, clearly meant to keep intruders—or maybe victims—out.

You look at Kurt. He just raises an eyebrow, as if to say, After you, fearless leader. You roll your eyes and press your ear against the door, listening for any sounds on the other side. There’s nothing but a faint, rhythmic hum, like machinery.

Without waiting for his input, you reach for the door’s handle, glancing over to see him tensing beside you, muscles coiled like he’s ready to spring. He’s watching you, his face set in a look of focused determination that sends a shiver down your spine. For a moment, you forget the tension between you, forget the hostility that marked your first encounter. Here, in this cold, empty corridor, you’re just two men, working together to find the truth.

With a quick nod, you turn the handle, and the door creaks open. The room beyond is larger than you expected, filled with strange, humming machines that emit a dull, greenish glow. And then, in the far corner, you see something that makes your blood run cold.

It’s a row of chairs, all bolted to the floor, each one equipped with heavy leather straps. The leather is worn and stained dark, and there’s no mistaking the purpose of those restraints. This isn’t just a club; it’s some kind of holding area, a place where people have been brought against their will.

Kurt’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenched tightly as he takes in the room. His tail lashes behind him in agitation, and you can tell he’s holding back a storm of anger. “They’ve been… keeping people here.”

You nod, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. The case has just taken a darker turn, and you can see it in Kurt’s expression. This isn’t just another assignment for him—he takes it personally, with a kind of righteous fury that resonates with you.

“We need to get out of here,” you say quietly. “Take what we know to someone who can help us shut this place down for good.”

Kurt nods, but he doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on the restraints. “If we leave, we might not get another chance. Whoever’s behind this could disappear, just like these poor souls…”

He’s right, but there’s something else in his tone, something that makes you pause. It’s a vulnerability, an unspoken understanding that resonates between you. For the first time, you see past the sharp edges and cold stares. You realize that Kurt isn’t just driven by duty—he cares, deeply, more than he’d ever let on.

You put a hand on his shoulder, surprising even yourself. “We’ll find them. All of them.” The words sound hollow, but you mean them, and Kurt seems to sense that. His gaze softens, just a fraction, and he nods.

Together, you make your way out of the room, retracing your steps down the narrow passageway. The club is still pulsing with music when you reemerge, the oblivious patrons drinking and laughing, unaware of the horror hidden just beneath their feet. Kurt glances around, his shoulders tense as he scans the crowd, like he’s memorizing faces, looking for someone who doesn’t belong.

Standing here, side by side in the heart of the city’s darkness, you realize that maybe there’s more to Kurt Wagner than you ever would have guessed.

As you turn to leave, Kurt places a hand on your arm, stopping you. You look up, meeting his intense, amber gaze. “If we’re going to work together,” he says quietly, his voice barely audible over the music, “then maybe it’s time we started trusting each other.”

The words hang between you, a silent challenge, an invitation. And in that moment, you know you’re both thinking the same thing: This partnership—this strange, uneasy alliance—is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

“Trust, huh?” you reply, smirking. “I think you’ll have to earn it, Wagner.”

Kurt’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The case twists around both of you like a snake, its secrets tightening with each revelation. As you and Kurt dig deeper into The Seraphim’s hidden horrors, the animosity between you shifts, replaced by something strange and unexpected: respect, maybe, or something that sits heavy in your chest, a feeling that lingers long after you part ways each night.

Days pass with late nights and long hours, as the two of you comb through leads, chasing down every dead end and half-truth until your leads point back to the club’s enigmatic owner, a man by the name of Isaiah Blackwood. Blackwood is as elusive as he is dangerous, with connections snaking through the city’s underworld like arteries to a rotten heart. Every question you ask about him leads to silence or threats.

It’s another long, damp night when you and Kurt find yourselves at the dockside warehouse Blackwood supposedly owns. The place is vast and empty, abandoned but for the scent of salt and mold, and the muffled thud of waves against the pier. Your breath mists in the cool air as you scan the room, senses on high alert. The place is silent, save for the creaks and groans of the old building, and the steady beat of Kurt’s footsteps as he follows you into the shadowed space.

“According to the records, Blackwood rented this place months ago,” Kurt says, his voice low but carrying across the silence. “Supposedly for storage. But the man’s too paranoid to store anything in plain sight. He’s hiding something here.”

You give him a sidelong glance. “You don’t say. Glad to know you’re not just a pretty face, Wagner.”

He snorts, amused. “I’ll remember that next time you accuse me of slowing you down.”

“Never said you were slow,” you mutter, and you don’t mean for your voice to soften, but it does. Kurt catches it, looking at you with a glint of something you can’t quite place.

The two of you move further into the warehouse, picking your way through abandoned crates and rusted machinery. The air grows thicker, charged, and the weight of what you’re here to find hangs between you like an unspoken promise. There’s a tension in the way he walks beside you, his movements measured and careful, and it hits you that somewhere between all the late nights and close calls, he’s stopped being just your competition.

When he pulls a flashlight from his pocket, casting a thin beam over the walls, you catch a glimpse of his profile in the dim light. The angle of his jaw, the concentration furrowing his brow. You don’t know when you started noticing these things about him, but it’s too late to deny it now.

He pauses, studying something on the ground—a faint set of footprints leading to the back of the warehouse. He looks up, catching your eye, and gestures for you to follow him down a narrow staircase that winds into darkness. As you descend, the walls grow damp, the smell of salt heavier as the narrow stairwell opens up into a series of underground rooms.

You scan the walls, thick and covered with peeling paint, and hear Kurt murmur under his breath, “This city has too many secrets buried beneath it.”

“Just the ones men like Blackwood want kept quiet,” you reply, your voice low.

Kurt’s eyes flick to yours, his expression softened, just for a moment. “And men like us are the ones who dig them up.”

In the silence that follows, you realize he’s not just talking about the case. He’s talking about you, about the unspoken understanding that’s settled between you, the way each of you can anticipate the other’s movements, read each other’s thoughts with nothing but a glance. It’s a partnership, but it’s something else too—something you’re not ready to name.

You both move forward, passing through another room with an odd metallic table in the center. There’s a file on it, filled with photographs—gruesome shots of the missing people, bound to the very chairs you’d seen in the club. Kurt’s jaw tightens as he scans them, and his fingers graze the photos, lingering over each one as if he’s taking in every detail, memorizing their faces. He doesn’t say a word, but his anger is palpable, a barely contained storm that hangs around him like the scent of ozone before lightning strikes.

“Blackwood’s not just making them disappear,” Kurt mutters, voice low and fierce. “He’s…” He swallows, his anger clear. “It’s not enough to kill them. He wants to make them suffer.”

You nod, your voice a whisper. “He’s a monster, Kurt.”

Kurt meets your gaze, and for a moment, the anger fades, replaced by something raw and painful. “That’s why we can’t stop until he’s caught.” His voice is tight with determination, his gaze hard. “I won’t let him slip through my fingers.”

You find yourself stepping closer, reaching out without thinking. Your hand lands on his shoulder, and you feel the tension coiled in his muscles. You give him a reassuring squeeze. “We won’t let him get away with it, Wagner. Not this time.”

Kurt’s gaze softens, the fury easing as he looks at you, and a faint, reluctant smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t know how you manage to make sense half the time,” he says, his voice gentler than usual, and it catches you off guard. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

The words hit you harder than they should. You let your hand drop, a sudden warmth spreading in your chest, and turn your attention back to the task at hand, reminding yourself that there’s still work to do.

Together, you press on, passing through the labyrinth of rooms until you reach the last door. It’s heavy and marked with a familiar symbol, the same devil’s tail you saw at The Seraphim. Kurt hesitates, a flicker of unease crossing his face, and you know he’s thinking the same thing you are—that whatever’s behind this door, it’s likely the heart of Blackwood’s operation.

With a single glance, you both know it’s time.

You reach out, grabbing the handle, and Kurt moves to your side, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. You exchange a nod, a silent vow that whatever you find in there, you’ll face it together. Then you push open the door, stepping into the room beyond.

The sight that greets you is as dark as you expected—rows of folders, files, photographs, the faces of missing people staring back at you in faded snapshots pinned to a corkboard on the wall. In the center of the room stands a massive, mahogany desk, littered with papers and what looks like medical instruments, glinting coldly under the dim light.

A slow anger burns in your gut as you take it all in, the twisted evidence of Blackwood’s crimes laid out before you like a grotesque trophy display.

Kurt swallows, his face taut with barely contained rage. “This… this is more than a club,” he whispers. “He’s been experimenting on them. Treating them like…” He chokes on the words, and you see the strain on his face, the pain in his eyes.

Without thinking, you step forward, placing a hand on his arm. “Hey. We’re putting an end to this. Together.”

He meets your gaze, a flicker of relief passing over his face. And in that moment, standing together in the midst of Blackwood’s horrors, you feel a connection between you, something forged in shared purpose and understanding.

“We’ve got him,” you say, your voice steady. “He can’t hide from this.”

Kurt nods, a fire in his eyes. “No. He won’t.”

And when the night finally ends, when Blackwood is in custody and the survivors found, when the precinct is silent and Kurt stands with you on the station’s steps, the city sprawled before you like some dark and endless dream, he looks at you with a new kind of warmth.

“Danke,” he murmurs, the German word slipping out, soft and heartfelt. “For having my back.”

You give him a small, exhausted smile, one that feels more real than any you’ve given in years. “Anytime, Wagner.”

And as he lingers there, his fingers brushing yours in a way that speaks of possibility, you realize that somewhere in the shadowed maze of this case, you found something else—a partnership you never thought you’d want, and the beginnings of something even deeper.

The satisfaction of solving the case lingers like the final chord of a song, resonating through you as Kurt steps forward, handcuffs glinting in his hand, to arrest Isaiah Blackwood. You watch Kurt, a silent intensity radiating from his every movement, his gaze locked on the man who has haunted your investigation since the beginning. Blackwood’s hands are trembling as he backs away, cornered, stripped of his power and facade.

“Isaiah Blackwood, you’re under arrest for kidnapping, human trafficking, and conspiracy,” Kurt says, his voice steady, each word dropping like the final nails in a coffin. He approaches Blackwood with calm, controlled steps, his amber eyes hard and unyielding, as if any shred of mercy he might once have felt has been burnt away by the horrors he’s uncovered.

Blackwood’s face contorts with fury and fear, his eyes darting around the room for a way out that doesn’t exist. “This isn’t over!” he spits, venom in every syllable. “People like me don’t just go away! You think you’re safe, that anyone is safe? I’ll—”

Kurt snaps the cuffs onto Blackwood’s wrists, cutting off his rant. “You’ll rot in a cell,” he says, voice low and final. “Where you belong.”

You step up beside him, arms crossed, adding a level gaze of your own. Blackwood’s protests fade, the finality settling over him as two uniformed officers enter the room to take him into custody. As the officers escort him out, you feel the tension in your shoulders loosen, a quiet relief unfurling as you finally let yourself breathe.

In the silence that follows, Kurt stands beside you, shoulders squared, eyes cast down as if in silent thought. You realize he hasn’t moved, and the handcuffs dangle from his fingers, a faint reminder of what you both had to endure to get to this point.

“You all right?” you ask, nudging him gently with your elbow.

Kurt looks up at you, his face softened, though his voice is still strained. “Yes,” he murmurs, nodding. “It’s… strange. Cases like this, they take a part of you. I’m just glad it’s over.”

“Me too,” you reply quietly, the words carrying more meaning than you intend. For a moment, you simply stand there, side by side in the dim room, the weight of everything you’ve been through resting between you like an invisible tether. You think about the moments when your lives might’ve ended down here, in these rooms, when a slip or a wrong turn could’ve meant never walking out of that warehouse. You can’t shake the feeling that it’s time to take another risk—one that has nothing to do with the case and everything to do with what’s been building between you.

A warmth rises in your chest, and you look over at Kurt, your pulse quickening. The soft light from the flickering overhead bulbs highlights the planes of his face, making his amber eyes appear almost golden, softer, brighter. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you—tentative, almost uncertain—that makes you want to say what’s been on your mind. But as you open your mouth, the words catch, and you feel a new kind of tension settle over you.

“So…” you begin, forcing a casual tone that feels out of place even as it leaves your mouth. “We did good, huh?”

Kurt blinks, surprised, but then a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “We did.” There’s a warmth to his voice that wasn’t there before, something closer, something unguarded. “Turns out I might have underestimated you after all.”

“Oh, so that’s what this was? You underestimated me?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow. “Guess I’ll have to prove you wrong again sometime.”

He laughs, soft and real, and the sound sends a flutter through your chest. His eyes meet yours, and for a brief moment, the space between you seems to disappear, everything else fading away. The officers’ footsteps echo down the corridor, fading as they take Blackwood away, and you realize that you’re alone with him for the first time in days.

It would be so easy to ask him now, to invite him out, to see if whatever this is between you might mean something. But as you meet his gaze, a flicker of doubt catches you off guard. You don’t know if Kurt… well, if he’s interested in men, in you, in any of this. The thought sends an unexpected wave of anxiety through you, one that settles uncomfortably in your chest, and you’re not sure how to begin.

“So… what now?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. “Now that this case is over?”

He hesitates, his fingers brushing over the worn cuffs in his hands. “We go home,” he says softly. “And wait for the next storm to roll in, I suppose.”

Something in his voice stops you—something that sounds less like duty and more like loneliness, like the weight of this case and cases before it have been more than he’s willing to admit. It takes you by surprise, and for a moment, you wonder if he feels the same about you, if he might want more than this—than just cases and cold nights spent alone.

“Kurt,” you say, barely aware of how your voice trembles. You clear your throat. “I, uh… I was thinking. Maybe once we’ve wrapped all this up, you’d like to… grab a drink or something?”

His eyes widen, and he stares at you, caught off guard. You can see the faint blush spreading along his cheekbones, a rare hint of vulnerability. “With me?” he asks, almost like he can’t quite believe it.

You give him a small, reassuring smile, even though your heart’s pounding in your chest. “Yeah, with you. I figured we’ve been through a lot together. Thought maybe you’d like to unwind. With company.”

Kurt’s tail flicks slightly, an unconscious twitch that betrays his nerves, and he looks down, biting his lip. “I—well,” he stammers, his voice softening as he hesitates. “I… I’d like that. It’s just…” He swallows, his voice lowering, suddenly shy. “I don’t… I mean, I’m not sure…”

You realize then what’s holding him back. He’s unsure, not just because of you, but because he doesn’t know if the world you’re inviting him into is one he’s allowed to be part of, one where he can be himself.

The anxiety in your chest gives way to something warmer, something braver. You step closer, close enough that the faint warmth of his skin reaches you. “Kurt, I’m asking because I want you to be there with me. Just you. No one else.”

His gaze meets yours, and you see a flash of something vulnerable in his eyes, something raw and uncertain. For a moment, he’s silent, as if he’s processing your words, trying to believe them. Then, his shoulders relax, and he nods, a faint, grateful smile breaking through the hesitation.

“I’d… I’d like that very much,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than you know.”

The warmth in his eyes is answer enough, and your heart feels light as he holds your gaze. You realize, standing there with him, that the case may be over, but something new is beginning—something that feels more certain, more real, than any case or victory you’ve ever known.

The night of the date, you find yourself outside a cozy, dimly lit bar on the city’s edge, nerves swirling as you wait for Kurt. When he arrives, his usually sharp look softened by a rare, hesitant smile, you can’t help but smile back.

The evening is easy, surprisingly so. You talk about the case, laugh about the close calls, and somewhere between the drinks and the shared glances, the air shifts. Kurt’s warmth, his quiet laugh, the way his eyes catch the light—it’s all familiar but new, something you can’t help but want more of.

As the night stretches on, the conversation drifts from cases and work to lives and memories. He tells you about his childhood, his love for travel, his complicated past. In return, you share stories of your own, finding a strange comfort in the openness between you.

Eventually, the bar grows quiet, the night wrapping around you both like a blanket as you step outside together. The streetlights cast a soft glow over the pavement, illuminating the quiet look on Kurt’s face as he turns to you, his expression open, vulnerable.

“You know,” he says quietly, his voice steady, “I never thought… well, I never thought I’d be doing something like this.”

You smile, your hand finding his in a way that feels almost instinctual, and his fingers tighten around yours. “Neither did I. But I’m glad you’re here.”

He hesitates, but his eyes are soft, warm as he looks at you. And then, in a quiet, tentative movement, he steps closer, closing the space between you until he’s so near you can feel the warmth of his breath. He looks at you, searching, waiting for a sign that this is okay—that he’s allowed to want this.

And so you give it to him, leaning in until your lips meet his in a gentle, unhurried kiss, one that feels like a promise and an invitation, something real that neither of you can deny. His hand slips to your shoulder, pulling you closer as his lips press to yours, a soft, careful exploration that grows more certain with every second.

When you finally pull away, his face is flushed, his eyes shining with a happiness you hadn’t dared to hope for. He doesn’t say anything, but his smile speaks volumes, and in the quiet that follows, you realize that whatever happens, whatever cases or storms might come, this—this is the beginning of something worth holding onto.

kurt my baby <3 if you liked the story drop a like a reblog and a follow if you want to read more!

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