#dc reader insert

I want reader who from another dimension (the DC universe) ends up in Invincible verse. While she starts searching for a way home, She starts off as enemies at first with the Viltrumites, seeing them as just blood thirsty brutes that are in her way of getting home since they have a special material that she needs in order to create a device so she can send herself home.

while they view her as a threat / a worthy conquest so many of them approach her to fight to prove themselves. Despite repeated fights, she easily defeats those she meet but spares their lives usually, unintentionally earning their respect in a weird way and a reputation for her strength and other abilities.

Enter young! Nolan / mark and Other Viltrumite, who are eventually sent to defeat / recruit her but is quickly overpowered. Humiliated yet intrigued, he returns for multiple rematches while still trying to recruit her, and she sees it as some kind of light training for herself. over time their rivalry softens into a strange bond. As they grow closer, Nolan / Mark begins to fall for her and awkwardly tries to ( Viltrumite Style ) court her by prove his strength to her.

( she's oblivious because she doesn't know much about Viltrumite culture) When he learns what she been looking for, Nolan / Mark ultimately retrieves it for her as a sort of a weird courting gift but is reluctant to give it to her after finding out what she needs it for since he doesn't want her to leave him. At least just yet anyway.

He contorts to hold the receiver between his ear and shoulder, ignoring the looks his coworkers send him. He supposes that he must be a sight to see, tipped back in his chair, case documents teetering on the knife’s edge of spilling out of a manila folder in one hand, the other twirling the cord of the landline around his finger. 

“The worst,” you agree with another sigh. It must be the fifth time you’ve done that in the past minute, and if Dick closes his eyes tight enough, he can imagine you in front of him, dragging your hand down your face. “They want my column in print tomorrow—not Monday—and this fuck-ass editor is crossing out everything in my doc.” 

You mutter something about what fucking loaded language and it’s a goddamn opinion piece while Dick shoves his case folder into the depths of some dark cabinet and starts clearing the mess of reports on his desk until he unearths the collection of takeout menus pinned under the keyboard of his computer. 

If you can’t make it to dinner, Dick could just take dinner to you. 

He weighs his options; you’re probably not in the mood for pizza or burgers, and Chinese gets crossed off because you don’t work well on an oily stomach. Vietnamese is out of question too, you had that last week; this leaves Mediterranean and Italian, both of which are too far a drive for him to even bother. The food would get cold before he’d manage to make it up to your apartment. 

(His coworkers think it’s strange that he has dinner dates with his best friend every week. Just friends, they laugh, you’ll be saying that even after you’re married. Dick doesn’t think anything about it— you’ve never thought anything of the teasing, so he won’t either.) 

“When’s the last time you got up and took a walk?” he questions, grabbing a pen and scribbling a quick grocery list onto the palm of his hand. The ink runs out midway through a ‘t’ with a pop, leaving a big blot on his skin. The pen soars into the trash without a single beat passing and Dick keeps scribbling on with another in a different color. “Let the blood go back to your brain. Take a long, hot shower or something.” 

“No time for that,” you say, but he knows that you know he’s right—it’s in the nth sigh you let out, crackling electric over the phone. 

“C’mon.” 

“Fine, five more minutes.” 

Dick smiles—wide, lady-killer, a thousand watts of brilliance—and shuffles all his loose-leaf papers into a stack bearing some semblance to neatness, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. “It’s getting late, gotta go.” 

“Sorry about dinner. Next week?” 

“Sure.” 

He presses the receiver down with ink still drying on his palm. Even when his superior clears his throat and reminds him that his investigative report is due tomorrow— yes, tomorrow, you would’ve remembered if you weren’t giggling to your girlfriend like an idiot— the giddy feeling knitting its way up his throat doesn’t go away. 

An hour later, Dick steps up to the ratty doormat before the door of your apartment, manila folder tucked under his arm, groceries in hand, keys in the other. He doesn’t take long to find the key to your apartment—he knows the shape of it better than his own. 

He’s barely relocked the door and out of his shoes before he’s setting the case folder right next to the reporter’s notebook and laptop on your coffee table, the plastic bag of groceries on the nearby counter. In the corner beside the ratty couch you bought off an online catalog, Dick thumbs through your collection of records (most of them his), picking out a slow jazz album from a long defunct band. 

The vinyl is set on the mount of your record player (another thing of his, again, from when you finally escaped the bullpen) and he lays his jacket across the arm of your couch just as the trumpet and saxophone begin a gentle, crooning dance. You stumble out of the bathroom with your skin still dewy when the butter Dick is pushing around the pan begins to sputter. 

He watches you settle down on the carpet with your back to the couch, level to the coffee table. 

“Thought we postponed dinner,” you groan, popping your neck. Dick can see the red lining your sclera, highlighted starkly with the blue light from your laptop. The lines of your article fly past your glassy irises. “What’s on the menu, Chef Grayson?” 

“Linguine.” He folds his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, and he swears that your eyes are following his fingers as he twists the cuffs over themselves. But that can’t be true, because people don’t watch their best friend with great interest as they roll their sleeves. “Capers or cilantro? Or both?” 

“You know me,” you say, dragging his manila folder towards you. “Proof yours if you proof mine.” 

Dick laughs, tapping the butter off his spatula and turning down the heat. The blue flames simmer as another song begins with a swaying piano solo. “Well, mine’s classified.” 

“Don’t see a big red stamp anywhere.” 

“I’m kidding, those copies are redacted.” 

You grab your laptop and climb up onto the couch, dragging his jacket over yourself as you sink into the cushions, “Yay.” 

The linguine flops into the colander, steam rising in a veil that is pierced when the streetlight beside your window flickers on, bathing your apartment in an orange, yolky hue, the kind that comes from those eggs you love buying from the Japanese mart two blocks down. 

Somewhere in the near distance, a train rattles along its track and sends tremors up the foundation of the building. 

A particularly loud grumble from your stomach punctuates the hiss of the gas turning off. Dick strides over with two shallow bowls, two forks, two mugs. 

Dinner is quiet, quaint affair, interrupted only by the scrape of your fork and the clink of your mug as you set it down. 

“This would be good with wine,” you say, stretching your legs along the length of the couch. Dick looks up from his spot on the carpet, slowly as to not further the ache building in his curled neck. 

You’re painted in the dim, clementine halo that’s streaming in from outside and he swears that the shadows are sublimating right off you. 

He has to fish around in the dark for his words, string them along in a fishing-line sentence, “Uh…next time. I’ll bring over something from the store.” 

“Maybe you should make dinner more,” you suggest, setting down your bowl with nothing more than a soft clink against the coffee table. “Prices are going up, y’know.” 

It’s not like expense is a problem; you know that Dick has quite the sum of money, and you’ve met Bruce before. Still, that doesn’t deter you from fighting for the bill. 

Dick agrees with a smile, and you reach over the table with your computer dangling out of your hand by the corner of the base panel. He swaps it out wordlessly for his case report, swiping back and forth on the mousepad to awaken the screen. 

VIGILANTES: UNINTENTIONALLY HARMFUL 

You start talking about an upcoming journalist’s banquet that your company is hosting at a theatre in Gotham—yea, you say, Gotham, as if isn’t better than Blüdhaven. 

Dick is only half listening, scrolling slowly down your article. 

Growing up in Gotham, encountering vigilantes was anything but rare. I was thirteen when I first caught sight of Batman’s sidekick, Robin. The boy wonder swung right over me with a hand clutching the vine of his grappling wire and five minutes later, authorities issued an evacuation order for that block— 

Scroll. 

—that day, Robin did save me. If I hadn’t seen his shadow fall over the ground, I wouldn’t be here today. For that, I am grateful, but seeing the aftermath I so narrowly escaped from changed me. Do the lives lost really outweigh our growing dependence on vigilantes? 

Scroll. Vaguely, he registers that you’re scribbling notes in the margins of the copy of his report. 

—while it is impossible to dismiss the corruption within legal law enforcement, the question is still raised of whether illegal enforcers truly benefit the wider public or only culminate in bigger threats from worse people like the Joker— 

Scroll. You yawn and draw the jacket that’s been laying over your chest up to your face, pressing your nose into the worn leather. 

—doing what they believe is good at the risk of causing more harm. Even with the presence of vigilantes guarding our streets, it still is not truthful to say that we are entirely safe. 

“I think,” Dick says, and you draw your face out of where you’d buried it in his jacket, “that your editor is one crazy son of a bitch.” 

You smile, soft and smudgy in the clementine light that evaporates all the shadows around you. He almost forgets about all the secrets he’s harboring in the cabinetry of his anatomy. 

(Scars on the back, memory lapses from one too many concussions, a deep-seated ache in his knee that never really goes away.) 

“Told you so,” you sing, pen dancing around your fingers. “Yours is fine, just read my notes.” 

He barely catches the folder when you toss it back— luckily, anything that’s loose-leaf doesn’t slip out. “Careful, I don’t wanna reorganize my report.” 

“Paperclips are in my room,” you punctuate this with a tilt of your head towards the hallway. “Go take a shower too.” 

Dick raises an arm and feigns a couple of confused sniffles. “Do I stink that much?” 

“Yea, you smell like the shitty drip coffee at the office.” 

“You act like we can afford the nice espresso you guys get.” 

You scoff, sliding off the couch to grab your laptop and lead him to your room. The floorboards give with a small creak under his weight; you let the device fall onto the bed and rummage around your drawers for the clothes he always leaves here and the towel you’ve set aside for days like this one. 

“Hurry up,” you say once you shove a bundle of pajamas into his hands. You put your palms on his sternum—he wonders if you can feel the fight his heart is putting up—and push him towards the bathroom. “I’m making you watch a movie with me for the entertainment page.” 

His smile is barebones, a gentle twist of his mouth. It’s the kind that feels like a secret between the two of you. “You’re not usually this excited for an assignment. Is the entertainment editor cute or something?” 

“Shut up,” you blurt, pushing harder with a spark of panic in your eyes, and Dick catches himself stumbling backwards into the counter. 

“Oh, you have a crush, you like him!” The words feel uglier than they should be, rearing a twist of hurt-envy-why around each vertebra in his spine. 

“Talk to me when you aren’t stinky!” You slam the door close, but not before Dick can see the embarrassed look flickering over your face. 

The water starts running cold as he watches the shampoo gather in sudsy clouds around the drain—he’s quick to go through the rest of his routine and slide back into your room with a hand still toweling his hair dry. 

You’ve calmed down since, checking your inbox mindlessly. Now that he thinks about it, Dick can’t remember a time you’ve been without that computer. You look up, and though the light in here isn’t clementine and only comes from the singularity point of your screen, he can still feel his breath tighten. 

“So,” Dick starts. When he climbs into your bed, he finds that you’ve already made room for him. “Tell me all about this lucky guy.” 

You roll your eyes, leaning against his shoulder almost as if on instinct. You’re warm against his cold skin. The tide behind his ribs swells until he’s about to burst. 

“He’s cute, I guess. Funny, smart, dark hair” —then you’re reaching up to card your fingers through his hair, and selfishly, he thinks that no matter how hot this editor guy is, he’ll never get what Dick has with you— “kinda like yours, almost the same cut, but his eyes are green.” 

He hums, taking the laptop from you and navigating to the movie. You continue to play with the hair at his nape absently, sending frisson down his spine. 

“Not gonna say anything else?” you ask, and Dick just puts his arm around your shoulders despite the ache it agitates in his side. 

(He should’ve iced that bruise.) 

He cranes until his lips are half a breadth from the shell of your ear, whispers into the conch of it: no talking in the theatre. 

Y’know, apparently this is his favorite new movie right now— 

Shhhh. 

The plot is so convoluted that Dick starts wandering, and it seems like you are too. Wandering in dreamland, that is, slumping until your breaths puff into the hollow of his clavicle. 

The silence of the aftermath—when the credits run through and he’s not entirely sure whether he should wake you up to brush your teeth (no, it’s almost two in the morning now and you’re too comfortable)—is broken only by the faint wail of a siren. 

It fades as quickly as it had come. 

But Dick can’t get it out of his head. He’s drawn to the fight like a moth to the flame. 

You’ll get up around nine, he thinks, because tomorrow is the weekend and your article is already being printed. 

VIGILANTES: UNINTENTIONALLY HARMFUL 

The words flash through his head, louder and brighter than sirens. 

He knows he’ll hurt you if he gets up right now, leaves a pillow in the hollow of your arms and dons the suit hidden under the false bottom in his car’s trunk. You’re right, everything you wrote is so fucking correct that it makes something in his chest— 

Dick slides—gingerly, with care, because that’s how he’s always treated you and that’s how he always will treat you—out from under the covers. He can be back before nine, with breakfast from that bakery you like and a newspaper tucked under his arm. 

(Your newspaper, your article, your words.) 

“Dickie,” you stir, fingers catching on the hem of his old sleepshirt. 

“Relax, I just gotta pee.” 

He’ll give you one truth for now, even if it stains his mouth sour, like the stale aftertaste of the bad coffee at work. 

Dick—no, Nightwing tries not to dwell on it too much. He has people to protect. 

You were used to the fizzling rush of zeta-tube travel by now. The feeling that every particle in your being was dissolved, shaken up, and reassembled within milliseconds, displacing you in an entirely different location in the time taken to blink. Initially, it knocked the wind from you. Now, you were a veteran. Casting a glance over your shoulder, you saw that your machine survived the transport with you. What fortune. 

You arrived at the Watchtower today because Dinah had informed you that the Titans (formerly ‘Teen’) were meeting in the break room over lunch. You were desperate for a subject, and knew that the gaggle of young adults were more likely to be willing participants than the remainder of the Justice League that flitted in and out of the Watchtower with haste. Wrapping the power cord around your palm like a tether, you tugged the machine in tow. 

As you entered the break room, there they were. Dick Grayson, Nightwing, statuesque, reclined with his hip cocked against a side table. He was chatting freely with Koriand’r, who was giving him a run for his money in the looks department, her amber curls cascading down to her ankles, shaking loose while she laughed at Dick’s dumb banter. Donna concentrated on a small notebook pitched open in her palm, scribbling lazily as she eavesdropped on external conversation and smiling to herself at what she overheard. Garth perched upon the back of a chair, his knees curled close to his chest while he chatted with the former Kid Flash and Speedy. Wally talked with wild gesticulations, pulling a clap of laughter from Garth. Roy chuckled lowly as he sharpened the arrow points that remained in his quiver. 

Your presence seemed to ignite the air in the room, drawing the attention of the Titans, yanking them from their preoccupation. Your shoulders stooped with mild shyness at the sudden attention, painfully aware that you were clad in your daytime uniform and not the heroic garb that you were known for in this environment. The vulnerability of your lowly citizenship made you hide behind your apparatus, before you cleared your throat to address the room. 

“Um, hi guys.” You said, voice significantly meeker than your boisterous heroic persona. “I’m making an instructional video for the medical school. On ultrasound.”

You gestured to the equipment perched in front of you. A state of the art machine that had appeared in your department shortly after you had complained openly about your outdated appliances at a Justice League meeting. Courtesy of the Wayne Foundation, of course. 

“I need a model.” You cut to the point. “If you wouldn’t mind me scanning you and appearing in the video. Purely educational, of course.”

You watched the Titans cast glances between each other, communicating in silent telepathy that was only effective from the sheer number of years that they had worked together in close proximity. Feeling your intense status within the outgroup, you were determined to make your leave sooner rather than later.

“Anyway, if anyone’s willing,” You said, leaving the bait to the crowd. “You’d be doing me a real favor. I’ll be in the other room.”

You took your exit, dragging the machine behind in your path. You tried the door at the first available room, sighing in gratitude when it opened without complaint. Setting your phone up on the table for a most professional recording, you dragged the recliner from the corner as a makeshift gurney within the frame. You tucked your scrub shirt in and began preparation, ripping open a packet of ultrasound jelly with your incisors. 

What you didn’t witness was the scramble that had occurred in your wake. At your appearance and humble request, Wally smoothed a hand over his auburn curls, making predatory moves to narrow in. He swaggered a couple of steps, yanking up his pants by the belt loops. Before he could get up to speed, Roy jabbed the tip of his bow to Wally’s sternum. 

“Over my dead body, West.” He growled lowly, all of the tease sapped from his eyes. 

Behind the altercation, Dick let out a bright clap of laughter, pulling Roy and Wally from their scuffle of machismo. As the two turned, they saw Donna’s face pulled into a knowing grin, Kori’s expression glowing with fondness at Dick’s chuckle, the end of a jovial eye roll from Garth’s blue irises. In the aftermath of the short argument, each Titan realized how instantly the quarrel had sent them back to adolescence.

“It’s only because Roy has a big fat crush on Y/N.” Donna teased, pursuing the immaturity. “You’d have to be blind not to notice.”

Roy’s head whipped over at her snide comment, which sent Kori into further giggles. His cheeks, translucently pale with a sparse fleck of freckles, illuminated an alarming red. Wally broke out in a crooked grin at his reaction. 

“My bad, man.” Wally replied, easing back to sit on the table. “I didn’t know they were already accounted for.”

“You guys suck.” Roy grumbled under his breath. 

He tossed his quiver from over his shoulder to rest in the corner of the breakroom, propping his bow up to nestle alongside it. With a scathing look tossed over his deltoid, unable to argue against the allegations, he strode with the remainder of his intact confidence to follow your path. 

At the gentle rap of his knuckles upon the ajar door, you turned, your expression erupting into a brilliant smile at the sight of Roy Harper’s figure. The flush that he had been desperately trying to suppress threatened to rage wild. How could he help himself when you were looking at him like that?

“Thank you so much, Roy.” You said. “This will be so helpful for the students. I’m so grateful.”

He settled into the angled recliner, palms overlapped on his belt line. His analytic eyes watched you as you angled the camera, getting the perfect frame for the video. Of course, he was more than distracted with your figure. You turned to him after starting the recording.

“I’ll need your shirt off.” You said.

“Uh - for the video,” You corrected quickly, your face boiling with heat at the insinuation. “The exam is on the torso.” 

“Sure thing.” He responded, tugging his vest over his shoulders.

As you turned back from adjusting the video, your jaw threatened to fall to the floor. You had figured Roy was built, from the years of training as Green Arrow’s protege and his own crime fighting antics, but you weren’t prepared for the washboard abs, tight pecs, and most of all, deliciously defined v-line. You were sure he caught your oogling, but averted your gaze to preserve the remainder of your dignity. 

Despite your internal insecurity, you drew closer to him, magnetized. Unconsciously biting your bottom lip, you moved both hands towards the cut of his cheekbones. He closed his eyes, gorgeous long blonde eyelashes, in anticipation of your touch. Despite his expectation of your sensual caress, your fingers had simply moved to remove his mask. As you retracted it from his face, you gave him a shy smile.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin your secret identity.” You said, with a jagged smirk. “I’d have a lot of explaining to do to my students on how I recruited Arsenal for my demonstration.”

Roy found himself too breathless to reply, concentrating his energy on calming down. You took the opportunity to apply a generous amount of gel to your probe, pulling the ultrasound screen in view of the camera. You leaned down, close enough that your breath blew across the plane of his face, before speaking in confidence to him.

“I can always edit the recording,” you said. “So if we make a mistake, that’s okay.”

Roy let out a rough exhale, nodding with closed lids. Once your probe was set, you turned to the camera for demonstration. 

“Hello, I am Dr. L/N with the School of Medicine, working today with my model Roy.” At this, you turned to him and gestured. He looked awkwardly at the camera, mouth still slightly agape. He cursed himself internally for making the first impression of a dumbass. “We will be demonstrating for you a FAST ultrasound today.”

Quickly recalling that he was on camera, Roy concentrated on fixing his face. He trained his eyes on the blinking, red dot of your phone and provided his most confident look as you continued your introduction. 

“A FAST ultrasound - or Focused Assessment with Sonography in Trauma - is indicated when there is blunt or penetrating abdominal or thoracic trauma.” You instructed. “There are four necessary windows.”

At the termination of your sentence, you leaned over Roy with your equipment in hand. His eyes were absorbed on your expression, paying no mind to the recording or equipment in the room with you. Your hand levitated above the bundled muscle of his stomach. 

“Is it alright if I rest my hand on your abdomen?” You asked. 

His eyes fluttered at the request.

“You can do anything you want to me.” He admitted. 

At the confession, you laughed with mild surprise leading into embarrassment. Your head turned abruptly to the camera and back again. 

“I’ll have to cut that from the recording.” You reprimanded, only to him, no heat in your tone. 

Clearing your throat, you continued with your presentation. 

“The first window is Morison’s pouch - or the hepatorenal recess - to check for free fluid in the abdomen.”

A shiver traversed down Roy’s spine at the contact of cold gel, a remarkable contrast from the warmth boiling underneath his skin. He continued to remind himself that he was on camera, being recorded, and tried to control his impulses. Your hand glided with precision underneath the curve of his right-sided ribs, angling the screen for optimal viewing.

“As you can see, Roy has no free fluid between his right kidney and the tip of his liver.” You replied. 

“That’s good.” You translated, intimately and only to him. 

His reply was a soft exhale through his nose, the movement rumbling through his belly and obscuring your view for just a moment. You used the end of the probe to scrape the gel from his right flank. 

“The next view is the perisplenic area. Looking for the same thing - free fluid around the spleen or underneath the diaphragm.” You explained to the recording. 

At this, you moved your arm across his waist to rest the probe against his left side, your body draped above his now. You bit down on your bottom lip and focused your attention on the ultrasound screen, trying to ignore the dilation of Roy’s mossy eyes and the way his gaze trained on yours with a slight slack of his lips. You adjusted the probe for optimal viewing, brushing the pad of your thumb underneath his left pec. 

“Again, we see the edge of the spleen and the retroperitoneal space.” You instructed. “An absence of anechoic striping that would indicate blood or air in the peritoneum." 

Once again, you gathered the gel, now warmed by the simmer of Roy’s skin at your proximity. As you turned away from the recording, you leaned in impossibly closer to whisper to him in confidence. 

“The next window is looking at your bladder.” You murmured. “Is it okay with you if I unbuckle your belt so I can tuck in the towel? Wouldn’t want to get ultrasound gel on your pants.”

Roy siphoned another breath from his lips, internally affirming to himself that he definitely would have put Wally six feet under if he had insisted on being your model in his place. With a sober yet drunken smile, his eyes never daring to leave your stare, he nodded to give you consent. You shot him a grateful look. 

Desperately reminding yourself that this was an educational experience, with the eyes of your eager students at the other end of the screen, your fingers moved to his hips. You tugged the tail of his belt from the loop, unfastening the buckle, leaving it draped to the side. Your digits moved to the button of his pants, pulling down the zipper just far enough that you could gingerly tuck in the sterile drape. 

Roy swallowed a moan at the brush of the back of your knuckles against his bare skin, realizing he was going to die and the whole thing was going to be recorded and broadcast to a class of aspiring doctors. ‘There are worse ways to go,’ he assured himself. He didn’t notice you turn back to the viewfinder.

“The last abdominal window is the suprapubic region.” You clarified. “You’ll see the outline of the bladder and the pelvic anatomy. Again, no free fluid of concern.”

He relished the scrape of your thumb in another effort to conserve the gel. He was consciously restraining himself from throwing the probe from your hands and pulling you down into his embrace. Recording be damned. In fact - even better. Evidence of your passionate embrace to return to later.

His thoughts erased instantly at your bare palm along the stage of his upper chest, brushing against the sparse reddish-blonde hair as you moved to position the instrument for the last time. His mind was torn between bliss and schemes of how he could keep your hands on him for as long as possible. The pads of your non-dominant hand danced down his sternum to feel for the apex of his ribs. You dug the probe in at the junction where his ribcage met his abdomen. 

“Lastly, of course, we want to check out the heart,” You said, trying to put enough pressure into your exam without causing him pain. “This view can be a little difficult and can take some maneuvering, but you want to get a good look at the pericardium.”

You adjusted the bell of the wand, edging it along his skin. Unbeknownst to you, Roy enjoyed the slight discomfort in your positioning. He made a mental note to restrain his freakier tendencies from you… until later.

His blissful gaze still set upon you, he noticed you break into a soft, subtle smile. His neck craned to look at the ultrasound screen, and you turned it so that it was optimal viewing for the recording and for him to see.

“And there’s his heart.” You said, gently, with a noticeable reverence. 

His eyes scanned the screen, and even to a novice, he could identify four chambers, beating in synchronicity. He marveled at the sight for a moment, before your voice broke him from his stupor again. 

“Beating maybe a little fast.” At this, you bit your lip. What a tease. “But regardless, no strain on any of the chambers. No fluid constriction or abnormal wall movement. A perfectly healthy heart… beautiful.” 

You couldn’t help yourself from adding the final comment, slipping from your lips before you could realize. You pulled away from Roy’s bare form, and he restrained a whimper, devastated at the absence of your touch. 

“And that concludes the basics of the FAST exam.” You announced, turned towards your cell phone. “We will practice more in class on Monday, but I thank you for your attention to this video, and most importantly, a huge thanks to Roy for being such a willing model.”

Roy entered reality from his daze, shooting you a crooked smile before turning to the camera to give a confirmatory nod and exit wave. You moved to stop the recording, pocketing your phone before approaching him once again.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to be my model.” You said. You extended an arm to help him sit up from his reclined position. “I really appreciate it, Roy.”

“No problem.” He replied, fixing his cap, pitched backwards upon his head. “I’m all about education.”

With a stuttering motion, you pivoted to grab another unused washcloth, thrusting it within his grasp. 

“Here’s this for the gel.” You said. “Sorry. It can be a little… sticky.”

He chuckled at this, and you averted your gaze from watching the sound roll through his pecs.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” He replied. 

You turned away from him to clean the machine, powering it down and turning the settings back to baseline. Biting your lip, you didn’t know what to say until you felt a warm hand on the crook of your elbow. 

“You know,” Roy said, a mischievous look on his face when you faced him yet again. “Anytime you need a volunteer, I am more than happy to help.” 

Teeth to your tongue, you gave him an honest smile, heat bubbling to the surface of your face. 

“Be careful.” You warned. “I’ll take you up on that, Harper.”

As you rolled the machine back to the apparition platform, you prayed to a higher form that any of that footage was even remotely usable. 

Divider by: andromeda-graphics

Prologue chapter two

————————————————

It was hard at first, accepting that you died. Hey but at least you gained control over all the electronics at the tech store you used to work for? To be fair your crash out when you it hit you that you had been murdered made the store lose power. It was odd messing with the electronics, you couldn’t really do much then. That was until you noticed that your case was going cold. What the hell man? Can’t the police figure something out? You literally went to them months before your death, afraid that your internet stalker was going to do something to you. God they’re so useless- Maybe you could do something to ensure justice was served. The thing is, you don’t remember the face of your stalker. That’s the only thing that blurry from that night, but then you remember.

They were harassing you for months online :)

You could work with that; one way or another you’d make sure you’d get revenge. It took months to gain access to the internet through your possession. It was also difficult to understand; it was all binary. After you learned to understand it though was when you had to mentally check out for a while. The internet did have an ever growing library of knowledge. It felt like your brain grew by the size of a million but exploded at the same time. When you returned back to the internet, it had been a year since your death; that’s when you knew it was time to catch the loser who caused all of this. It wasn’t that hard, once something was on the internet it never disappeared. Before you knew it you were staring at the bastard through their webcam. They never noticed that it was constantly blinking red, probably too busy being a loser. You started by messing with them, locking them out of their accounts, signing them up for spam mail, draining their bank account, frying their plugs, etc. You even sent 50 pizzas to their place. Overall just making their life a living hell. You tried sending receipts of the messages to the police from your stalker, practically doxxing them and how obsessed with you they were.

It didn’t work :)

Then that wasn’t enough for you anymore. That’s when you started to psychologically mess with your murderer. You began by sending them messages from your accounts. They knew you were dead after all, they’re the one who strangled you to death.

Messages like: “I know what you did.” “You’re the reason I’m not here anymore.” “Scared?”

It made your former stalker paranoid beyond belief, aren’t you supposed to be dead? This has to be some sort of joke, maybe someone you was messing with him with your old accounts. Right?

Mentally torturing the stalker for months on end was fun for a while, but then you got bored. You had gained the ability to recently move things in the real world, maybe it was time for pay back. Your case had long since been cold and looked like justice wasn’t going to be served anytime soon. Why not take care of the issue yourself?

You did it on the two year anniversary of your death, strangling your murderer with computer wires. The same way they took your life. Watching them struggle to claw the tightened wires from their throat, losing oxygen. The same way they watched you struggle when the life drained from your very being. Their hands stopped clawing at their airway as their body slumped over their keyboard. Wires leaving bruising on their throat the way their hands had bruised yours. You arranged everything back into its place, leaving a message on their screen.

“Karma really sucks huh? :)”

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Hi hi hi! :3 Ima be so honest I’m so excited with the way I’m planning out this fic so far! I lowkey even yapped about it to my brother because I couldn’t help it. I’m going to yap about IG! Reader and how they are in a smaller little silly post, considered they possessed a part of the internet 😭☝🏼Also also! Feel free to send in asks about them! I’m itching and scratching to talk about them >:3

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