#nightcrawler(2014)

[toastedp-ancakes]

I hate being in fandoms filled with dudebros or loving films which is seen as a filmbro film. There are barely any fics and the edits are all to phonk music, that's only the start of the woes

[tastylemonbread]

nightcrawler

[dragonclawz2007]

absolute nightmare blunt rotation

[girlvasectomy]

jake gyllenhaal over the years

[venacaava]

some pictures from the booklet of the limited edition korean release of nightcrawler

in case you want to read the whole booklet, here is a google doc i made with all the scans + here is an interview with dan gilroy which is in the booklet but i had to translate since it was not translated in english. a special thanks to @girlvasectomy for helping me with this before i posted it!

[gyllenhaalstuff]

hear me out....... very scary and very dom lou bloom with a blood kink.....

I hear you and I think you’re onto something… Now, trust me when I tell you that this fic is kinky. It’s not that long though, sorry <3

Switchblade

- Lou bloom ᯓᡣ𐭩

Summary: Your boss agrees to pay you extra if you sleep with him. He takes the chance to explore one of his fantasies.

Warnings: Knifeplay, sex for money, blood kink, oral (f receiving), mean Lou, dom Lou, piv sex, unprotected sex, overall dark themes.

Word count: 1058

Notes: If dark themes aren’t your thing, maybe skip this one<3

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You shifted on Boss's couch as he gripped your waist. See, money was money, and the LA rent was skyrocketing. Lou kissed you eagerly and roughly, with no concern. He pushed you down and pulled your top off. His blue eyes lightened up at the sight of your black, lace bra.

“I want to try something new,” he confessed and looked up at your now nervous expression. “What?” You asked, and froze when he pulled a switchblade from his pocket. He sighed at your wide, scared eyes, “I’m not the one begging for money here. If you’re not up for it, you can leave.” You swallowed and shook your head, “Just don’t hurt me.”

He looked condescendingly at you. “I wouldn’t do that, not in a meaningful way anyway. Cause if I did, we’d never get to do this again,” he shushed, like anything he just said comforted you in the slightest, before clicking the knife open. The cold metal ran across your chest, lightly scratching your skin. You thought your heart would stop from the adrenaline. Lou’s eyes followed the blade obsessively as it ran across your cleavage. The red scratches it left behind were far more enticing than he had expected. If he just pressed a little harder, maybe it would be even better…

You hissed at the sudden sting, “Ow!” Lou stilled and watched the tiny droplets run down between your breasts, down into the fabric of your bra. He placed his finger at the incision before following the blood trace, mapping it out. You tried to keep your breathing calm, but your rapid heartbeat commanded otherwise.

Lou opened his mouth and stuck in his bloody finger, sucking it clean. The metallic, sweet taste had his blood rushing down to his hardening cock. He placed the blade beside him before leaning over you to unhook your bra in the back. His bloody tongue entered your mouth, and the taboo element of it all affected your body in ways your head couldn’t, or simply didn’t want to, comprehend. Once your bra was off, he sat back up again and grabbed the switchblade. He let the edge carefully run over your peaked nipples, enough to keep you guessing but not enough to draw blood.

He then ran the blade down your stomach; you tensed up, not wanting any unexpected cuts there. Thankfully, Lou paused for a second, planned his next moves, and took off your jeans. You finally allowed yourself to breathe. He threw the blue denim to the side before putting the blade against your panties. The edge grazed the fabric before slipping inside the hem, cutting your underwear open from the inside. Lou slit up the front before sliding them down your legs.

The sharp metal found your inner thighs. Without warning, Lou made a shallow cut across the skin. You clenched your fist, not because of the pain, but because of the edge you were on. Tiny drops of blood sat above the surface-level cut. Lou salivated at the sight and leaned down to lick it clean. He followed the slit up, gathering the blood on his tongue, before spreading your legs and placing his mouth around your clit. Lou moaned at the taste of your blood and wetness, mixing together on his tongue.

When he slipped a finger into you, your face flushed with shame at how easily it entered you, at how wet this had gotten you. You hadn’t even noticed; you had been too busy being scared of him slipping up and tearing your guts out. Your wetness quickly exceeded the amount of blood smeared over your pussy. Lou didn’t have any options, but place the blade against your skin again.

You whined when he left your clit, embarrassing yourself. He grinned at your neediness, “Dirty fucking girl.” He sat up and laid the edge over your hip bone. “I bet you don’t even need the money,” he continued before dragging the knife across your skin. You gave up and allowed yourself to moan; you didn’t have much to lose.

While your blood rushed to the wound, Lou tore off his shirt, throwing it over his shoulder, and unbuttoned his pants. He pulled his cock out of his white boxers and stroked it a few times as he watched your blood seep out. Your body’s overwhelming need for stimulation made you forget who was staring down at you, and you felt yourself clench around nothing at the sight of his cock. You felt yourself needing it.

Lou leaned down and licked a stripe over the cut before leaning back up and spitting the mix of your blood and his saliva onto the tip of his cock. He spread it over his length as his shaky breaths filled the air. “Turn around,” he ordered and gestured with a spin of his fingers. You did as told and stuck your ass in the air, waiting eagerly to finally be fucked and for this to be over.

Lou lined up before thrusting in, with little to no resistance from you. You cried out and moaned as he fucked you at a relentless pace, resulting in him shoving your face down into the couch. “Fucking whore,” he huffed, “you love this.” His slick back was all messed up, with strands falling over his face. If you had turned around to see it, you would’ve cum instantly; not that you ever knew.

The sound of skin slapping, your pathetic moans, and Lou’s groans echoed through his stale studio apartment. You really didn’t want to like this, but Lou was right about you. He always was. You also didn’t want to humiliate yourself by cumming around his cock, but of course you did. You tried to muffle your moans in the couch cushion as you clenched and pulsed around him, drenching his already soaked cock.

Lou scoffed at you before thrusting into you hard, sending a wave of pain through your core. He continued his mean thrusting until he came, adding his cum to the blend of blood, saliva, and wetness.

He pulled out, sat on the couch, and brushed his hair back again before pulling up his pants and underwear. He grabbed his wallet on the coffee table, pulled out $50, and placed it in your hand. “Next time, just say you wanna fuck.”

[franksaidso]

｡𖦹°‧ joining the dots - lou bloom pt. 1

sum. you wanted a story worth chasing. he wanted someone who wouldn’t look away. a crash. a headline. a pair of eyes that never stop watching. choose ur own adventure type deal, poll at the end determines next chapter. super slow burn, stalking/obsession, themes of manipulation, journalist! reader, nightcrawler 2014

wc. 2.8k masterlist playlist

Louis Bloom understood the world.

The crushing grind of selfish isolation that was the human condition, the haze of supply and demand that permeated it, the way flies swarm rotting meat.

He understood people, too: rats flushing in each direction, running furiously toward nothing but their own gritty cloud of noise. 

Lou stuck out. Not out of ignorance, but out of hate. 

He hated everything but the Eden he was determined to mold into creation—the fresh, green foliage of dollar-signs, the holy glow of headlights like stained glass, angels singing hymns of police-com discordance…

That was what he chased with unrelenting drive. The determination that permeated the silk stitches sewing him together, the fabric of all that he was. 

He knew exactly how to get what he wanted. Knew just the angle to tilt the chessboard to make his ambitions flourish. 

Louis Bloom understood the world. 

That was, at least, until he met you.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You wove through tables lit under flickering candlelight, sifted through the huff of classic Mexican films breathing through the projectors. You had a bright blue margarita poised in one hand and an ice water clinking in the other.

“Here you are,” you said, wearing your very best customer service smile as you set the drinks down. 

This was a two-top: a man with hollow eyes and an older woman with heavy eye makeup. A business dinner, maybe? The relationship between them seemed to bleed around the edges of professionalism—and something else.

The man turned to look at you while you thought, his big eyes boring into you with a detached sort of fascination. 

“Thank you,” he said slowly, a wide smile melting across his face. 

Something about it reminded you of the waxy-feeling masks at Spirit Halloween. Realistic, but not quite human. Not quite… there. 

It made that switch in your brain flip, the one that dug and dug and dug at a flicker of enquiry. 

What’s your story?

It wasn’t just the fact that he unsettled you that made you lean into curiosity rather than caution. It was the fact that you couldn’t pinpoint what made him so. At first glance, he was normal. Slick hair, suit ironed so perfectly it looked like a figurine’s. A little gaunt, maybe. But you just couldn’t seem to classify him, not yet.

After a long moment, you realized you were staring.Waiters—ones who got tips, anyway—didn't stare. They smiled and scuttled away. You coughed, laughed nervously. 

“Ah—Of course! Can I get you guys started with some entrees?”

The woman rolled her eyes, nails clinking against the table. “Finally.” 

But his gaze never left you. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The whole night, you never stopped feeling it—his eyes burning cold into you, liquid nitrogen dripping down your spine every time you walked past. 

It didn’t matter if you were bringing a fresh basket of tortilla chips to another table or refilling his ice water, those eyes were glued to you—dissecting you, learning you. 

Finally, as you were clearing their plates, trying desperately not to intrude, his voice cut in:

“In the last twenty-five minutes, you’ve refilled my drink three times.”

You blinked. “...Sir?” 

“Well, what I’m trying to say is that you are very efficient,” he was nodding up at you like he was giving you some sort of profound compliment. 

“Oh, thank you.” You forced a polite smile, stacking cool porcelain dishes in your arms. 

You tried to decipher his words, the way he was so calculated, yet something almost manic flickered in his wide eyes. This man—whoever he was—made your head fog up li

“We’re ready for the check,” the woman snapped, like she was annoyed with you, of all people. 

It was interactions like that, the ones that left you off-kilter and knotted up, that served to remind you what you were working for. 

Just as you thought they were gone, just as you started to head toward the break room, a cold hand clasped onto your shoulder. Large, bony, black hair-tie on his wrist. 

You reeled around, jumping at the proximity of the man in front of you. Lou. He was much taller than he looked sitting down, and too close for comfort.

 His voice was low, his eyes honest, unblinking. His fingers tightened on your shoulder before pulling away, leaving you 20 degrees colder than you had been.

“You’re very good at what you do. I hope you’ll still be here next time I come.”

And then he was gone. 

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it wasn’t odd that he said it like a threat and a compliment rolled into one unsettling comment.

Either way, you had work to do. Tables to wait and stories to write on your breaks and dreams to chase, because how else were you going to get out of here? 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You wanted to be a journalist more than anything.

That was the dream that coiled itself into your chest, right between your lungs. 

When you breathed in deep from your diaphragm, it pulled your chest tight like the ache of sunburnt skin. 

Late at night, you’d finally stumble into your apartment, smelling like salt and your feet aching like wilted petals. You’d sit hunched over the dim glow of the laptop you’d had since middle school, writing and researching until your eyes burned.

Searching for a story.

The story. 

The one that would get you noticed, get you out of here. Get you published, if you were lucky. Maybe even signed on to a station.

When the sun would begin to stir the sky awake, and the moths stopped trying to chase the moon and instead beat their wings against the words you built, crashing into the screen with paper wings…

That was when it all began to seem pointless. 

When it began to seem like you were no different from them. A moth trying to reach the moon, but you could only flutter against the 10-point barricade leading you nowhere because you couldn’t see the difference. 

But the alternative made you too sick to imagine. So you had to try. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Lou was fascinated with you. 

Fascinated with the recognition he saw in your eyes—the quick dilation of your pupils, the hesitation in your breath—that told him you saw what others didn’t. 

You saw that he was different. 

He was used to repulsing people. Used to watching the recoil, the nervous smiles. But you didn’t do any of that.

Instead of pulling away, you held his gaze. Instead of pulling away, you leaned imperceptibly closer, your eyes trying to pull him inside and convert him into something tangible. 

In that delicate moment, he believed he’d found something rare: someone who might not turn from him. 

That was significant.

That was data. 

He stayed in the parking lot long after Nina left.

He sat on the top of his car and watched.

He stared, entranced, as you mopped the floors, laughing tiredly with your coworkers. Observing.

Lou found an odd spectacle in your ordinariness. You let yourself be raw, messy, exhausted. You let yourself be broken, and still shake with laughter as you poured dirty mop water down the drain. You weren’t performing for anyone.

He couldn’t wrap his head around it, the laughter.  It was alien—an inefficiency, a chaos he didn’t understand.

He couldn’t comprehend that for you, laughter was part of survival. Connection in the face of futility. 

He wished he could take a scalpel, glittering with the sterility of ammonia, and slice you open.

He imagined peeking behind your skin, peeling back the layers, laying your curiosity bare like wet muscle under fluorescent light. He wanted to learn the texture of your thoughts, the pattern of your breath. He wanted to spread you open like film, frame by frame, to learn what made you glow.

Not tonight, though. 

This was delicate. He had to take his time.

Patience was, after all, the purest form of devotion.

So he exercised some restraint: He didn’t follow you home when he saw you unhook your bike from its rack or pedal off into the night. 

He didn’t even allow himself to move until you were long gone. 

When he finally pulled his phone from his pocket, buzzing and chirping like a cicada, the screen lit up with several missed calls. Two texts.

Rick: Dude 

Rick: We missed something big. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

When you finally got off work, the moon had climbed its way to the top of the black-hole sky, taunting you. Come and get me.

You pulled your bike from the empty rack, rusty pedals glinting in the night in all of its hideous glory. It was the color of oxidized pennies and the statue of liberty.

Pedal, pedal, pedal. You rolled past the nicer apartments through Echo Park. Past the news stations on Sunset Boulevard. 

You were just three turns from home when the night split open. 

As you turned a corner, the despairing wail of ambulances and fire trucks and police cars smashed into your head like a dumbbell.

Eardrums ringing, you noticed the artificial blue and cherry red glittered against the damp asphalt, and you slowly rolled to a stop as you squinted to try and see through the haze of Pandemonium unfolding before you. 

Two cars laid discarded on the road, silver and crumpled like aluminum foil. One of them flipped. 

You stopped breathing. 

Fire bloomed from both hoods; the smell of rusty nails burnt into the rising cloud of smoke.

You stepped over your bike, letting it tip over while your feet drifted you closer without asking your brain for permission. 

A child’s shoe lay discarded on the ground, its owner screaming where you couldn’t see. EMTs and paramedics loomed over the scene like angels with wings of morphine and latex, pulling wax bodies from the wreckage. 

Your heart was clanging like a firebell, everything moving like stop-motion before you. The heat of the fire warping against the chilly wind made condensation fog behind your eyes.

Their faces all looked fuzzy. Someone must have blurred them out with an eraser. The sticky vapor clinging to your eyes only let you see so much; crumpled legs, strawberry jelly oozing out. Tendon ribbons no longer anchored by sugary bones.

The gore made your brain mold over with cotton around the edges, your teeth clattering like dice being cast. 

You didn’t know how long you stood there watching, floating. 

You only snapped out of it when another metal beast rolled up beside you, headlights mouthbreathing into the cold. 

The van doors slid open with a snap, and more people than the van looked like it could fit flooded out of the clown-mobile, shouting about angles and shots and light in a language you couldn’t understand yet. They all grabbed giant spaceship cameras with lights and gadgets, hauling them over their shoulders.

You blinked, watching them scurry into the flaming halo of death, circling like vultures and coyotes. Hungry.

One of them followed a man, groaning on a stretcher, face slick with blood. The camera was steady above his head, swallowing his agony and immortalizing it. The fluorescent light turned him into something other than human and more like a renaissance painting.

“Stop…”

But nobody heard it. 

Nobody was listening.

You didn’t sleep that night. You didn’t remember getting home. 

It was all branded into your retinas like burnt sugar, glowing sickly sweet against your pupils every time you closed your eyes. 

Staring up at your ceiling, cracked and water damaged, you felt the bile rising in the back of your throat for the upteenth time. Not again.

Whatever that was, it was sickening. 

Wrong. 

Unethical. Did anyone know about this? 

You paused, the thought making you sit upright. 

That was it. Inspiration detonated in the base of your head like the bloom of flowers at the height of spring. 

You found it. 

That was your story. The one worth chasing. 

You tore open your laptop, reading articles, interviews, anything you could find about what it was that you saw. You started your rough draft, weaving together syntax and spiraling questions about humanity, ethics, morality. Threading it all into the bones of something bigger.

 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Lou was disappointed he’d missed the crash. Rich neighborhood, women, children, fire… it was a missed opportunity, that was for certain. Rick was relieved he didn’t have to see it. 

But sacrifices had to be made. He had piqued an interest with you, and he intended to see it through. 

It had been a few days since the two of you had first spoken. Lou spent his time laying low, content with watching you, for now. Memorizing your routine. It had proved informative. 

Some things he had learned: You either didn’t own a car, or didn’t live very far—hence the bike. You worked doubles almost every day, leaving very little time for a social life. You must have been working for something. If you had any friends, they were coworkers. You were isolated, hungry. Things that resonated with him, words woven into his ribs. 

He felt like he knew you. Like he could see the determination shimmering inside you, mirror to his own. 

But watching, feeling, imagining… It wasn't enough. He had to get closer. 

He could see you rolling silverware through one of the windows behind the building, yellow fluorescents practically broadcasting the interiors through the night. Coworker #2 was sweeping the carpet in the dining room, #1 clocked out an hour ago. 

All clear. 

It was too easy, really. He knew which bike was yours. 

It only took a second. He crouched down, bone-handled knife comfortable in his grip, sunk it into the tires—one hiss, then another. He felt himself smile. 

“There we go.”

… 

The music in Lou’s head swirled to a crescendo as he watched you leave, your bag slung haphazardly over your shoulder as you walked toward the bike rack. Anticipation burnt like sparklers in his fingertips as he thrummed them against the steering wheel. 

He watched you pull your bike out, swing your leg over the seat. It felt like watching a TV show, Observer knowing what Participant didn’t. That won’t work, silly. 

You only rolled a few feet before your tires drooped to death–buckling like lungs under water. 

He saw you get off, crouched and cursing, trying to see if the chain had caught, if the rim had bent. You scrubbed your hands over your face, exhaustion giving way to panic. You kicked the frame, shouting angrily into the empty night. 

Lou couldn’t have that. He only wanted to let you panic for a moment. 

The car was already on, so all he had to do was shift it into DRIVE and roll up to you. The window was halfway down when you turned around, startled and embarrassed he had heard you yelling at a bike. 

“Are you stranded?” 

You blinked at him, recognition flashing in your eyes. Beautiful. He smiled, hopefully an inviting one.

“I can take you home.” 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Your mouth went dry as the man from three nights ago rolled down his window, offering you a ride. Your ears were already burning, and the cold air was eating into your bones. 

The cautious chunk of your brain was screaming, red alarms flashing and putting your nervous system on lockdown. What a coincidence! Do you really need this guy knowing where you live? He looks strong. Even in fight or flight, he’d probably win, if we really wanted to kill you…

The other half of your brain was telling you that you were overreacting. You were lucky.You’re not Sherlock Holmes, you’re in need of a ride. 

But more than that, below your brain and the reason warring up there, was that gnawing curiosity behind your ribs. Termites digging into the oak of your heart, itching at the sight of Lou and his big, unfathomable eyes. It was a feeling you couldn’t rationalize, but you couldn’t deny either.

Lou leaned a little closer out the driver’s side window. His smile was thin, patient. “You don’t want to stay out here alone. Not this late.”

His eyes glittered like cicada shells, gleaming with something. Interest. Calculation. Both.

Neither end of the tightrope you walked seemed promising. With every second that passed, it seemed more like a spiderweb you were already trapped in, just with the illusion of choice. 

Lou’s head tilted. He was studying you like a specimen, pressed up against the glass, waiting to categorize you. Waiting to see which instinct you obeyed—self-preservation, or curiosity.

You realized—your heart crashbanging against your chest—this wasn’t just a ride. 

This was a test.

“So, what’ll it be?”

Refuse politely. Protect yourself with a lie: “I’ve got a ride on the way.”

Accept Lou’s offer, let your curiosity win and say yes to him driving you home.

Voting ended onSep 9, 2025

[the-girl-who-loves-monsters86]

Nightcrawler (2014, Dan Gilroy)