Somewhat belated V-Day entertainment

[nightbirdboy.livejournal.com]

(I suppose this is set sometime midday on V-Day, before NW's unfortunate brief experience of being Lucius and Narcissa's son-in-law. But chronology is for the weak, anyway.)

Nightwing was starting to worry he had an unhealthy fixation on red hair.

It was all he could think of, for some reason – Babs' hair, the hair of assorted other girlfriends (a disproportionate number had been redheads), the hair of the hot middle-aged woman who lived down the hall from him back in Gotham. (And a little bit about the hair of one of his college buddies, though he put that one down to a fluke.)

And especially he was thinking about Mystique's hair. It was so vivid, even brighter than Babs'. He wasn't drawing parallels of course – even though Babs would have looked really hot in Mystique's clothes, and vice versa - it was just something he had to contemplate.

Except perhaps not now, because it wouldn't be a good idea to be distracted during a practice session. Rounding the broom shack, he took a gander at the part of the grounds they had arranged to meet at, hoping he hadn't kept the older woman waiting.

Mystique was already there, clad in form-fitting black leather and polishing a gun. Intensely red hair, cropped just short enough to tickle teasingly at her shoulders, shone brightly under the sunlight as she leaned against a tree and rubbed the soft cloth over the barrel of the gun, movements sure and confident without being rough. Her hand slid up and down repeatedly as if caressing the hard metal, fingers curved into a loose fit and the black tip of it winking into visibility every time her hand shifted down again.

Seeing Nightwing arrive, she nodded at him and gave the gun a few more strokes, wondering if she should shift forms. Although not fond of seeing her own body, she was used to fighting in it. She handled it well. And since nobody here seemed to have a problem with it, why morph into a less-skilled body when she was accepted here, blue skin and all?

Pupilless yellow eyes flickered over him for a moment, and then she straightened up, breasts pushing outwards against the tight tanktop she wore, the low-cut black leather seeming to mould to her form. Likewise, her black trousers and gloves were clearly aerodynamic, even if the former was cut a little lower than necessary. Apparently unaware of Nightwing's obsession with her hair, she brushed it away from her face, and canted her head at him, "So, kid, how do you want to do this?"

". . ." Nightwing was trying very hard not to stare, but it was proving difficult. Extremely difficult. Not a gawking stare, disturbed and fascinated by Mystique's strange appearance; the vigilante's expression was closer to that of someone who had quite suddenly found an object of worship.

It was strange, but now that he actually saw the woman again, all thoughts of Babs fled from his mind. Mystique was beautiful. The blue skin struck him not as strange but as breathtakingly exotic; the pupilless eyes were fascinating; the body itself was, er, certainly nice. And the hair. . .

Shaking himself out of a stupor, he grinned with nonchalance he absolutely did not feel and said, "I was thinking –" wow was she hot "- hand-to-hand. I know a pretty sundry mix of styles myself, but you've probably got some tricks up your sleeve I haven't seen, so . . ." He trailed off again, fighting (and not entirely succeeding) the desire to blush.

"Hand-to-hand sounds just fine." Mystique purred wickedly, amused by his evident fascination with her. She'd been stared at enough to tell the difference between someone that thought she was a freak and someone who thought she was amazing, after all. Wrapping the cloth around her gun, she let it drop to the grass at her feet with a soft thud, then stepped away from the shelter of the tree.

The sunlight made her hair seem to blaze like a scarlet beacon, the rich, deep hue of it only accented as she started a series of quick stretches. Rolling one shoulder back, and then the other, apparently paying no attention to how that emphasized the low cut of her top, the curves of her breasts only made more visible as she laced her hands over her head and drew them upwards. Pushing herself to tiptoe for a moment, every muscle on her lean form was outlined clearly, defined as perfectly as if they'd been painted by a master artist, her abs looking as if they'd been sculpted to perfection.

Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she placed them hipwidth apart, then bent from her waist to touch the tips of her black-gloved fingers to the grass, then wriggled her hips for a second to work out any kinks in her spine. Instead of straightening up, she bent even further forward, hair falling wildly about her face though nowhere near long enough to hide the view Nightwing surely had of her tanktop - and its contents - as she switched her weight to her palms, then flipped herself to stand on her hands for a moment, back now turned to Nightwing. Mystique held the pose for a second, bending her arms just slightly at her elbows to check her balance and readiness, then let herself sink down and spring up again, twisting midair to land on her feet, once more directly facing Nightwing.

Dusting her hands together, she gave him a fearless smirk, lips as red as her hair curved in invitation. "Ready when you are."

"Um, great." And her voice was as beautiful as the rest of her! Nightwing watched her walk, reverent. I should really talk to her about not using guns, and not teaching other people to use them, but – I . . . she's . . . All further thoughts could have been nicely summed up as Guh.

And more Guh when his goddess started to stretch. It wasn't that he wasn't well accustomed to the appearance of a well-honed female body; attractive women were as common in his line of work as silly pseudonyms, and normally he was adept at blocking out appreciative thoughts. But for some reason, Mystique had breezed right by his defenses, and he was unable to tear his eyes away. She was so beautiful it hurt, a little.

A tiny little voice of responsibility struggled through the dense fog of adoration clouding his mind, reminding him that he should maybe be doing that stretching too, unless he wanted to do his body injury (and if he did a sidestretch right now, the voice helpfully added, he'd be able to see her breasts even better). So he followed suit, though he was visibly distracted and giving the matter only the most cursory thought. How was he supposed to do it properly when she was doing something like that in front of him, honestly?

". . . . ." It took him a minute to stop blinking, after the display of acrobatics. "I, uh, yeah, sorry, got distracted." Even dazed, there were some things that had been drilled into him past the point of requiring conscious thought, and taking fighting stances was one; he shifted gracefully into a good defensive position. "Ready."

Eyeing his stance, Mystique nodded approval. It was balanced and ready, which showed an expert degree of skill. Who knows? Kid might even be able to put a good fight against her, which would be far more fun than whipping some teen's ass like she expected to have to do once she started to make good on her bribe. Well, at least the first few times. Long as she didn't choose anything too difficult for them to learn, it shouldn't take too long to drill a few moves into them, and quite a few of them already knew how to fight, or at least said they did. Mystique wasn't too fond of dealing with amateurs, but in the case of the students at the school, she was more willing than usual to believe their claims to martial arts skills.

She slid into a strong stance herself, one foot placed a little behind the other, weight shifted back and shoulders in alignment with her hips. For a second, Mystique scanned the other, looking for any possible weakness - since he'd taken the defensive, they left her with the offensive. Tall, muscled, long hair - wait, hadn't that been blue last time she'd seen it?

She could ask about that later - she'd spend long enough in preliminary assessment. It was now time to attack.

Darting forwards, snake-fast, she aimed a blow at his neck with an open palm strike, simultaneously kicking off the ground with a sidetwist so she could lash out with a foot at his midriff. The shapesifter prefered combinations, mixing and matching kicks with punches so that she had a better chance of connecting. Her style of fighting was fast and skilled, precision blows delivered in rapid succession and her body twisting almost bonelessly, often in midair if needed so she could attack from above.

She wasn't planning on using any of her other advantages though, like wings or body armour. Right now, Mystique wanted to win this the normal way, with nothing more than good old-fashioned speed, strength and skill, though she rather thought Nightwing had her beat where the second criteria was concerned.

Initially, Nightwing made a strong showing. Even with his head clouded by Eros's arrow, fighting was what he did, and his instincts knew what to do even when the rest of him was . . . preoccupied, shall we say. Her first blows he evaded and deflected, returning tit for tat with easy grace. And he certainly did move fluidly; every dodge and strike flowed seamlessly together, taking full advantage of well-honed muscles and flexibility.

Still, when the brain wasn't into it, even the best training couldn't do much. Her first few kicks he had evaded easily (and matched with a few well-delivered strikes of his own) but, distracted by the sweep of crimson hair as she dodged a punch, he foolishly left himself wide open to a well-aimed sweep of the legs – and, well, what fighter would have missed a golden opportunity like that?

"Ooof!" Caught entirely off guard, he landed heavily. Flat on the ground, the vigilante stared up at her in wide-eyed surprise, too startled to even think of what to do next.

Instead of flinging herself on him and continuing the fight, Mystique stood over his prone body, hands on her hips and heaved an exaggerated sigh. The sun was behind her, and caught her firey hair to make it blaze up around her face like a crimson aura, attractive in a wickedly dangerous way, like a warning sign and lighthouse beacon at the same time. Red to slow down, and red to call to the sharks.

Extending a hand down to Nightwing, the blue skin of her fingers hidden under the loose black leather of her gloves, Mystique asked impatiently, "Kid, are you even trying? You're a pro, I can tell that by the way you move. Either you're going easy on me - which I don't need - or,"

She paused and flicked a strand of hair away from her face, eyes taking on a teasing light, "You're distracted."

". . . Yeah, a little bit." A lot. Nightwing took a deep breath, trying to clear the fog from his brain. There was something slightly off about the whole situation, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. It was so hard to focus, for some reason.

Somewhere, Bruce was probably feeling inexplicably irritated with him.

Sitting up, he brushed the grass out of his hair and flashed her a grin. "Sorry, don't know what's gotten into me. Lemme see if I can keep my mind in the game this time." Can't let her think I'm not good at this, wanna impress her, god I love her hair, really gotta impress her . . . Accepting the brandished hand, he pulled himself up, pausing for a moment to take another deep breath - gotta impress her gotta impress her - and then abandoning the defense and springing to the attack.

Now that he was focusing, Mystique had to admit that Nightwing was an excellent fighter. Quick and graceful, with a lot of strength behind his strikes, he equaled Mystique's more lithe, agile style and by the time the fight ended, the two of them were both thoroughly exhausted. Mystique had Nightwing pinned to the grass, breathing rapidly but evenly, and she didn't think the younger male would be able to get up. She wasn't sure, since there had been a couple of other times where she'd got him down and he'd thrown her off - as well as vice versa, of course - but she was pretty sure this was it. Game over, the end, she'd won.

By a margin that was far, far narrower than it should have been.

Red hair swinging down down around her face, dancing back and forth with every breath she took, she managed to smirk at him through her fatigue, and was proud of how her voice failed to betray her fatigue as she asked him triumphantly, "Yield?"
In another situation, Nightwing might have kept fighting; nobody could quite beat out a Bat-trained vigilante for stubbornness, and even by the family's standards he was remarkably hardheaded about things like "admitting defeat". But it wasn't a serious fight, and there was no reason to keep going to the point of real injury, and also he sorta enjoyed the sensation of being pinned down.

For entirely innocent, non-prurient reasons. Of course.

"Uncle," he said, giving a short, breathless laugh. "/Damn/ you're good. Could give Batman a run for his money." Loser or not, he was grinning like a loon. "I haven't had that much fun in . . . oh man, months. We gotta do this again." This was probably the time to ask to be allowed up, but he really wasn't too keen on that idea. Because he was too exhausted to move. No, really.

Mystique laughed as well, every bit as breathless as Nightwing and smirked down at him again. "Sure thing, kid. Soon as I recover from your beatdown - you're pretty good yourself." And definitely wasn't just an empty compliment. Working out with him would be perfect for her, since it would keep her in shape and on her toes in a way that just practicing on dummies wouldn't.

Besides, he wasn't hard on the eyes either, and Mystique appreciated having something pretty to look at. Seemed like a shame to bruise him just for the sake of practice, but having a good-looking opponent would be a very good incentive for her to spar often. Or least haul her blue ass from shooting practice out into the fields to practice hand-to-hand combat.

Realizing that she still had him pinned to the ground, she stretched slowly, leaning down to press against him and work the knots out from her spine, then pulled back, in much the same manner a cat would, back arching as she wriggled her shoulders from side to side for a moment, movements fluid and sinuous. Stretching after a workout was advised to stop your muscles from cramping up as they cooled down, so Mystique figured she might as well get those ones done before getting off him.

Satisfied, she gave a low, throaty purr of a laugh, then pushed up to flip off him, landing with her feet on either side of his hips just like they'd been the first time she knocked him to the ground, and then extended a hand to him again. The flip had taken the last bit of her energy, though. If he accepted her offer, she'd need to brace herself to pull up, otherwise she ran the risk of getting pulled down to land on top of him again.

Nightwing was in love. Granted, most of that was going to wear off in several hours, but in the interim he was having a perfectly grand old time. Attractive, red-haired, smart, experienced, a fantastic fighter – she was perfect. Factoring in that he was flat on the ground, dirty and grass-stained, shaky with exhaustion, and feeling the twinges of bruises starting to form, he looked really ridiculously pleased with life.

If he had been just a little less exhausted, her stretches would have been exceedingly difficult to handle without embarrassment; as it was, he flushed crimson, knowing he ought to behave like the well-bred fellow he was and not stare, but finding that exceedingly hard to do. Because . . . well, wow. Just . . . wow. He was a gentleman, but he also wasn't made of stone.

But then the show was over, and he was blinking owlishly at the proffered hand. Wryly, he asked, "Do I have to get up? I was thinking of maybe laying here for, I dunno, a week. Maybe two." But the little voice of responsibility in the back of his mind (which sounded distressingly like Bruce) reminded him that he would regret it if he didn't start stretching soon, and he reached up with one hand, the other pushing against the ground to provide a little leverage.

"I think you're going to regret it once night comes and you find yourself a frozen little superhero, all alone in the dark." Mystique flashed him a grin, teeth white against her azure skin, and laced her fingers over his hand, her leather gloves sliding against the spandex far too intimately. Not that she seemd to care as she firmed her grasp, thumb pressing against his palm, then rocked back a little on her heels to make sure her weight would be supported.

Shit. More tired than she had realized, she managed to give a hard enough pull to hopefully have Nightwing come to his feet as she stepped backwards, but that drained the last of her meagre store of energy, causing her to lose her sense of balance momentarily and half-stumble, as if about to fall. She really, really shouldn't have tried to help him up. Really. But she wouldn't have been Mystique if she hadn't added just that final finishing touch to her victory either. Who could pass up the chance to play 'gracious victor', after all?

"Well, I could practice my brooding. It works best when you're all alone in the cold dark night." His smile hovered just this side of a smirk, though it took on a /much/ more distracted edge when her hand grasped his – they had been in physical contact for an hour, so it made no sense that he was really very affected by the way her fingers felt, but . . . he totally, totally was.

"Thank yo – aw, crap." His gratitude at the assistance quickly turned to distress when the woman's balance slipped. Operating entirely on instinct, Nightwing corrected his own somewhat precarious balance – mentally making note, as he did so, that he was going to have to spend a bit of extra time on the left leg, there was a twinge there that he didn't like the feel of - and reached out to grab her arms, with the aim of steadying her.

More than a little embarrassed by needing to be caught, Mystique steadied herself by grabbing onto his forearms in return, curling her fingers around the compacted muscle. By way of thanks, she gave it a light squeeze, looking at the ground instinctively to check where her feet were going. Able to stand on her own now, she let go only to run her fingers lightly up his arms, tracing the lines of his biceps so that her hands finally rested on his shoulders, she looked him right in the eye, catching his gaze deliberately and giving him a slow, lazy smile.

"Mmmm," She purred by way of a prelude, shaking her hair away from her eyes in an attempt to buy herself some time before needing to get let go and see if she really had got herself that exhausted just to win, tone amused and self-mocking in a casual way, "Looks like you tired me out better than I thought."

Mystique laughed, and added with a wicked smirk, "Must mean your stamina's better than mine."

Today, Nightwing decided, staring at Mystique like she was a wonderful, unexpected present from the universe, is the best day ever.

He flashed her a smirky grin, attempting for a calm, laid-back attitude – but she could hardly miss the adoration in his eyes. Or, for that matter, the fact that he shivered at the feel of her fingers on his arms. "Sorry to hear it. You probably coulda kicked my ass if you'd gone full out, though. Thanks for not completely humiliating me." He would have liked to have tacked on something funny, made a cute joke, but he was too exhausted to. Yeah. That was it. It wasn't that he was distracted, or something.

Yeah, distrac – oh, screw it. "Mystique, I . . . " C'mon, Grayson, you can do it. ". . . This is totally lame, but god, you're amazing. Even falling-down-tired you're more gorgeous than anyone I've ever seen."

Awww, wasn't that sweet? Puppy love indeed. Amused by cute Nightwing looked, and how very easy it was to get to him, Mystique favored him with a laugh, and a teasing wink. She wasn't used to people being quite so, well, adorable around her, seeing as she usually tended to prefer more mature men. Still, Nightwing was certainly easy on the eyes, and seemed intelligent enough, despite his awkwardness around her. And even that was endearing in a 'You are so amazing you make me act like an idiot' way.

Though he'd hopefully grow out of that as they got used to each. It might be cute at the start, but Mystique had the feeling it would get old fast once the novelty of it wore off.

For now, though, she found it rather sweet. Especially considering she was still in her normal form, meaning blue skin and yellow eyes, a body that she personally loathed seeing. And yet Nightwing seemed to have no problems with it.

She leaned in a little closer, resting her forehead against his so that a few locks of her carmine hair brushed against his cheeks, and murmured mock-thoughtfully, "You know, I think that was good enough to earn you a kiss."

Someday, Nightwing was going to find a way to get back at Eros. Something clever, something diabolical, something that preferably wouldn't get him caught in the act and made to fall in love with Cthulhu. Normally he could rein in the tendencies towards painful adorability in the face of love, but sudden, head-over-heels infatuation wasn't fair.

Blissfully unaware that a few hours in the future he would be hoping for the feathery bastard to get sucked into a jet engine, he kept right up with the puppydog routine. One hand tentatively went to her waist, carefully avoiding a spot he had twenty minutes earlier landed a very nice (if he did say so himself) kick to. "I was kinda hoping it would be," he said, trying for a joking tone. "I can think of some more nice things to say, if you're not quite sure."

"That won't be necessary." Mystique purred back, letting her eyes slide close as she leaned in for a kiss, black eyelashes dark and feathery against her pale blue skin. The hand on her waist was warm, strong fingers splayed out to cup her side carefully, and the care in his touch was flattering - not as if he thought he would break, but that he didn't want to hurt her. Much better than most men were capable of.

And besides, sparring always relaxed Mystique on a physical and emotional level both. When the adrenalin drained away, it left her feeling calmed, detached and kinda floaty, even. Extreme exhaustion could be as heady as any drug, and well, new school, new leaf. Nobody had to know anything about her, and there wasn't any harm in kissing a handsome near-stranger, was there?

Nightwing's lips were a millimeter away from happy, happy contact. And then, because the universe enjoyed toying with him, a bony figure rounded the corner of the broomshed.

EXCUSE ME, said the tall, skeletal gentleman, striding over as if he hadn't picked the worst possible moment imaginable, BUT WOULD EITHER OF YOU HAPPEN TO KNOW A RHYME FOR "WEATHERWAX"? IT'S FOR A POEM I'M WRITING. The voice was a Voice, deep and resonating . . . and quite possibly the best mood-killer in the known universe.

On the short list of people Dick Grayson, professional superhero, did not want to see when about to make out with someone:
1. Batman
2. Alfred
3. Death, Destroyer of Worlds

"Oh come on!" the young man demanded of the universe.

"Leather tax." Mystique snapped at DEATH, letting go of Nightwing and taking a step away from him. Worst timing ever, that man... creature... THING had. And it was a giant skeleton too. Highly unattractive, not to mention inducing Mystique to think of the last skeletal figure she knew...

Brushing a few locks of brilliant red hair away from her face, she placed her hands on her hips and sighed. Oh well, it hadn't been just her that was disappointed from the sound of Nightwing's exclamation. Wry smirk quirking her lips, she shot him an apologetic look, then rolled her eyes at the universe's stupidity.

I DON'T THINK THAT'S VERY ROMANTIC, said Death, doubtfully, completely oblivious to how much his presence was unappreciated. I WAS HOPING FOR SOMETHING WITH A BIT MORE . . . SPARK. MAYBE SOMETHING LIKE –

"- Use 'leather tax', or 'together max', or, I know! Find somebody else to ask, because we were about to - argh!" Nightwing gave in and resorted to an inarticulate noise of rage.

Death eyed him bemusedly. I'M SORRY, AM I INTERRUPTING SOMETHING?

"No, I was just on my way back to the castle." Might as well accept defeat with a good grace, right? There'd be other days, after all, and more sparring matches. She could always try again then.

Mystique sighed deliberately, and then stretched once more, hands folded behind her head and her hips shifting from side to side to work out any soreness in her abdominal area. Bruises were starting to form, the red dark against her blue skin, but that didn't detract from the muscled grace of her form as she dropped her arms back to her sides again, and shot Nightwing another wink. "See you around - I'm off to take a shower."

With that, she turned and walked away, swaying her hips deliberately as she moved, tight black leather hugging her in all the right places.

". . ." Nightwing stared after her, wordless, with a face like someone had just informed him that Christmas had been cancelled.

THEN IF I'M NOT INTERRUPTING, COULD YOU MAYBE –

"NO." Throwing his hands up in the air, Nightwing turned on his heel and stalked angrily away, bristling with indignation. "Take your poem," he called, over his shoulder, "and shove it!" The anthromorphic personification watched him leave, nonplussed.

HONESTLY, said Death to the world at large. SOME PEOPLE.