matchamorphosis - Tumblr blog

matchamorphosis · 1 year

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love me by the light.

part one | masterlist

premise: bruce comes back into your life, pulling back the veil of those darkened parts of him; finally letting you in.

pairing: bruce wayne x (f)reader

word count: 12.6k

warnings: smut (unprotected sex, rough sex, f receiving oral, pain kink, scratching), a lot of time skips/jumps, death of a parent(s), declarations of love-ish, jealousy, slight batman spoilers, toxic relationships, angst, blood and violence mentions. 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI.

etc: did i mean for this to be that long? absolutely not, but it got away from me lmao. i hope the wait was worth the pay out, especially since it took me weeks to write this. writing soft bruce is hard for me so this is the closest we gone get!

i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!

It had been weeks since Bruce, or his alter ego, had darkened your doorway or saturated your bed sheets. Weeks of you trying not to wonder where he was, weeks of you trying to convince yourself that it was for the best, that those words spoken, those breaths shared and moans mixed, wounds reopened and pain shared; was a goodbye. It was the last time either of you were going to wallow in that shared unspoken pain—on Bruce's part—and try to come up with every excuse, every touch, every argument to not just let it go, to not face facts that the two of you were no good together, Bruce was no good for you.

Not your psyche, or the money you were spending on laundry; but most importantly your heart; that annoying little organ keeping you alive, keeping the blood pumping in your veins, those same tendons that Bruce has run his lips across. That same blood that doesn't mind being mixed into something shared and deranged with his, or those he’s beat down.

But no matter what reasoning, no matter what sound logic and sound mind of factual grounds as to why Bruce was no good for you, the two of you even worse together; your heart couldn’t seem to get the memo. Could not grasp on to the shed tears and broken shards of its melted shards back together over and over, that all of that meant that the two of you should stay away from each other.

And just like your heart was doing with all rationality; you ignored it. You were pushing the memories of Bruce in your bed, between your legs, and pressed to your body away with anything that worked. Once one good memory popped up you reminded yourself of another, a nasty argument, or by the fact that Bruce essentially knew nothing about you and you him. In which your heart would excuse that the both of you knew enough; tragic pasts, a weird addiction to pain (yours more emotional than his), parentless, searching for the wrong things in ways that would never fully be right, never fully making you feel absolutely whole because you’ve been stuck in the same mindset for far too long that in reality you didn't really remember what you were searching for, only that you kept looking even when you were blinded by something toxic and unsustainable than the reason why you started said thing from the beginning.

Your heart had painted a picture of ‘he knew how to kiss you in that way that it took your breath away, he knew that you despise your job, he knew that you didn’t want children, he knew that you spent extra time in the shower even when your day wasn’t entirely bad (the hot water relaxing you more than any other remedy could). He knew you picked out all of the healthy ingredients in your food when you ordered take out (knows because he busted through your door one night while said take out dish was in your hand being devoured and he insisted you finish eating first, since you were sure to lose your appetite once the two of you got started). He knew how to touch your body in ways that left your body feeling as if it had been in a sauna, knew how to completely mold his mouth against you in a way that felt illegal. His hips and cock knowing just the right way to thrust and move in and out of you, always leaving you breathless and clinging to him. And most of all, the thing you wished he didn't know, that you both could forget: you loved him.

So why should you give that up? Why should the fights outweigh that love? Those facts, those knowings? And the answer was at the tip of your brain painted in bold red letters: because Bruce wouldn’t let you see him. It was the answer to—most—everything, an answer that was more obvious than the sky painted blue. Bruce had let you see the bare minimum of him, had told you the basics that you could read in a damn paper, article, crazed fan post. And when you begged to know more you got silence or dismissal. You got another fight. You got more feelings hurt than hopefulness. You got nothing.

But then you remembered—your heart never letting you forget—you knew he was Batman. And no one knew that. He had taken off his cowl and had let you see his face, bruised, bloody, and painted black. He had trusted you with a needle to his skin. Had trusted you enough to come back again and again. To share a bed with him. To touch. To kiss. To fuck. He let you do that not only to Bruce Wayne, but to The Batman. It wasn't a small gesture. It wasn’t some run of the mill thing. Bruce was not the kind of man to just hand out chances, instances, information like that. He barely left his tower as his true self. In some ways he was more Batman than he was Bruce. As if this altered ego had overtaken him to the point where Bruce Wayne was a secondary character in his own life.

And that counted for something, right? Did that outweigh everything else? Did that paint away the bad and cover it in a different kind of sight, a different kind of love that was more sacred than your average one? Was Bruce showing you his true self, The Batman, the same as him sharing the darkest parts of his mind? His feelings? Was that what—who—Batman was? And if so, was that not a form of love in a way? A form of devotion in the only demeneted tragic way Bruce knew how to give, to show, to devote to you unspokenly.

Each night those very thoughts would cross your mind and you locked your doors tighter. Had closed your curtains. Had avoided any and all headlines with his name plastered on the front. You didn't linger at night, you went to bed timely. You kept busy. Kept locked away. From him and the chance that he might come back—that you wanted him to come back.

Which is also why you started dating. Or trying to at least.

You had been on a handful of casual dates that didn't end in anything other than you grimacing half of the night and them leaving you with the bill. There had been no sparks of romance and no goodnight kisses, or walking you to your door and asking to come in for a night cap. It had been going miserably and yet you had kept trying. Had kept seeking out something through people who were not him. Who could never come close to plaguing your mind as much as he did.

But there was one guy. One who was less of a nuisance than the others, one who actually paid for the meal the four times you had gone out. Had walked you to your doorstep and had hugged you—something that made your skin crawl. He was the only one you had seen on multiple occasions. Had given a chance to, even if it did take some convincing of yourself that he wasn't that bad of a guy. And he really wasn't. He had a decent job, was polite enough, cute enough (not letting yourself linger on the fact that his hair was the same length as Bruce’s and they kind of had the same eye color, and if you squinted the jawline might match up).

He would be a perfect match for you to get over Bruce, you were sure of it, betted on it, were only seeing him for it. But all your convincing and his nice smile did little to stop your mind from wandering to the man you really wished was sat across from you. Who stood at your doorstep. Who wrapped their arms around you; there was no spark, no delicious sting from impending hurt, that pain, that need to yell and scream because you loved this person so much that it was killing you, they were killing you. Tearing your heart into nasty shards and putting them back together with their touch, their kiss.

No, there was none of that and you knew there never would be. And it was truly fucked for both parties involved. But you couldn't find yourself worrying about the others feelings. Maybe you would grow to—would grow to care and something would blossom between the two of you. Something non-tragic wrapped in thorns and bloody knuckles. Something easy, non-toxic.

But was that what you truly wanted?

For all your convincing as to why Bruce was bad and that you were glad he was gone, your body and mind had not stopped calling you a hypocrite.

And when the two of you step out of the small diner, when his clammy palms grab your hand and lace your fingers together—the repulsion in your body starting from low in your belly—and just as he does it, just as his smile spreads and he’s staring at you with fondness; your eyes are pointed to the sky at the symbol plastered in the night fog that to most is a warning, a death sentence. But to you has your heart aching in your chest and wanting to follow it through the streets, buildings, towers, until maybe, hopefully, you find him and it’s his hand that slides home to your body.

As the two of you walk to your apartment, as the other carries the conversation, as your eyes seem to hover and seek out every dark corner, every alley painted black, every booted foot hitting the ground; it’s the thought of him possibly watching you, seeing you with this other man, the thought of jealousy and strain panging his heart, the lack of watch on the nightly creeps that could be terrorizing the city that are less important than you. Than him keeping a watch on you because he misses you. Because the two of you are fucking stubborn and this love is a sespool of depravity and hurt, but also undeniable lust and understanding. That's what has you smiling the whole way home. Not the others’ jokes or uninteresting conversation. It's Bruce.

It’s always Bruce.

It's crazy to think time goes by slower when your heart is aching. Like the world knows that your chest is bruised and tattered from the sting of your heart longing for something, something it can’t have, can’t touch, can’t possess. The world slowing down the hands of time just to prolong suffering. It was hard to say if that was a good or bad thing. If the longer your heart aches the easier it would be to let go of the reason causing the pain; your body rearranging its DNA to make even the slightest thought of the source of the pain kick your flight instinct up. Or did that prolonged ache make you long for that salve that sugar coated the pain, that hid itself away until the toxic cycle continued. You had always looked at addiction and love as two sides of the same coin. Two sides that caused people to either lose themselves or become friends with a tolerable pain if only for a little something in return; devotion, lust, euphoric highs. Both sides providing that painful ache in your chest when you go without it.

You didn't know if it was the latter when it came to your love for Bruce. It had been almost two months now and that ache was still embedded in your bones. Your revelations as to why this distance was good, why moving on to something more stable was better, had soon died off after the man you had been casually seeing tried to warm the same side of the bed Bruce usually did. You knew it the minute his lips pressed to yours—his clammy fingers trailing along your backside—that no matter how nice of a guy he was, or how many dates you tried to make work; he wasn’t Bruce.

And as pathetic as it was to let yourself give up on trying to stop feeling for the no-good-billionaire you decided to let it run its course through you. Like most addicts did. You had to let the memories and traces of him—that seemed to be more than just embedded on your sheets and furniture, the feeling running blood deep—course through you until there was nothing left. No traces of him ever being there; except your taped together heart.

Sometimes you caught yourself wondering if he was doing the same. If the bags under his eyes had turned more sickly black. If he let his punches go just a little bit harder, deadlier, all so he could be distracted enough to not think of you. To let his knuckles crack open from jaw bones and teeth if it meant the course of you running from his body.

It was wishful thinking on your part, pathetic thinking.

Even when seeing Bruce you expect nothing from him because you knew you'd never get anything other than the bare minimum. So making a fairytale out of him now was only fueling your heart with sickness. The only thing you felt most confident about was that you were never going to see Bruce Wayne—or the Batman—again.

You don’t expect, a week later, to feel the other side of your bed dip. Jolsting you in your sleep to awareness, your body frozen as the covers behind you are lifted and moved, pillows being rearranged, and then there's arms being wrapped around you—and you know it’s him. Knew it was him the minute you felt the bed dip. The smell of oil and something musky assaulting your lungs being the giver; Bruce. You anticipate the dreadful feeling of anger and hurt to bubble up inside your chest. To start a fire in your belly and rage all the way through you until your entire body is ablaze from all the screaming and angry tears you want to let out.

But the rage doesn't come. There's no fire in your belly. No deep pain in your gut that's telling you to kick him out, to not rid yourself of the progress you’ve made in getting over him—the progress that was barely there to begin with. The only thing coursing through your body right now is shuddered breaths. Your heart bruising your ribcage from how fast it's beating, and the deep flutter in your belly making you almost shake; angry tears turning into relief that he’s here. That he came back to you, that no matter how hard he tried he couldn't stay away, couldn't stop thinking of you.

And when you turn in his arms the blue of his eyes seem to stand out more than ever. The black paint around his lids setting the backdrop to accentuate that staying away was as agonizing for you as it was for him. The street lights peaking through your window illuminating his face in a beautiful glow that makes you feel like a fucking idiot for ever letting him go like that, for starting fights, for caring about anything else other than him being here; looking griefstickenly beautiful. All of your sensibility from the month earlier burned to ash from those addictive feelings of devoted love you have for this man. Much like Bruce has, he’s burnt them down. He’s avenged your heart into something that aches only from—and for—him; good, bad, painfully so. There was no more making sense of it, you didn't need to. He was here, and it didn't matter for what reason or for how long. That pain of those questions and answers could come another day, another night.

It was no longer the ladder for you. You knew that this man was your addiction. The love and pain you had and suffered through just to feel his warmth beside you was worth the toxicity that ran between the two of you like a rotten fruit; still beautiful on the outside but decaying on the inside, tragic, but not a waste. it could still be held and enjoyed on the surface. And that counted for something. For everything.

Neither of you acknowledge the time spent apart, or if he’s only come here because he’s hurt. There's no time for that, no thought, when the hesitation to press your lips together is a losing game. The passion and heat from the kiss so intensely between the two of you that your mind skips all thoughts except him, except pulling him on top of you and bruising the others lips to make up for the time spent away.

It doesn't take much maneuvering before your clothes are off, the press of his naked chest against yours burning right through you. The feel of his hands running along every inch of your body as if to remind himself how you feel, how you moan into his mouth when his thumb rubs along your nipple. Or how you love it when his cock runs through your folds, spreading your wetness, his tip continuously assaulting your clit to the point your legs start shaking. That burn of lust and a need that makes you want to scream; fuck you missed him. Need him.

Bruce’s mouth travels along your neck, your chest, your breasts, leaving dark smudges in his wake; highlighting the deep bite and wet marks from his tongue and teeth. The coolness from where his mouth once was devouring your body in that perfect way he does, making you shiver. Your eyes watching as he makes his descent down your abdomen. And if it wasn't for the desperate pulse and ache you feel between your legs to have his cock inside of you, that painfully beautiful stretch missed more than you’d realized; you would let him continue that descent.

“Bruce,” you're breathless and trying to pull him up by his shoulders, trying to relay the message of what you want by grinding your hips up into him. You didn't care about prep, didn't care about being ready for him. It was the kind of pain you loved from him, not being completely ready for him, for his cock to stretch you. You needed it right now—as if it would make the pain spent away that much more worth it, more addicting.

His lips kiss above your belly button, his eyes looking up into yours and they're just as needy as yours; his dark makeup smeared half away down his cheek making him look even more desperate. “Please,” his voice is just below a whisper, the heat of his breath hitting your skin. “I’ve missed you.” And if you were already breathless, this was the punch to your heart that knocked the rest of the breath out of your lungs. A white heat of something that wasn't lust washing over you, and you know the tears that burn your eyes are not from the frustrations of it either; it's something so sweet, too sweet, that it makes your mind even more hazy. Makes you want to shed those tears, makes you want to switch your positions and show your love for the Prince of Gotham with your mouth and tongue until your throat burns and is filled with cum.

Bruce doesn’t wait for more of a confirmation before he’s pressing a kiss to the top of your mound, his arms positioning themselves behind your thighs so he’s completely bracketed between your legs. His eyes look back up to yours as he runs the flat of his tongue over your wet folds, a small gasp falling from your lips that quickly turns into a hitched moan when the tip of his tongue snakes out from between his lips to swirl around the surface of your clit. His mouth and tongue lick and suck over your folds, inside of you, refusing to touch your clit directly until your whining and gripping his hair, the huff of pain from your fingers making a moan vibrate against you when he finally wrap his lips around the throbbing bundle of nerves. The way you arch your back and shake around him from the pleasure of the warmth of his mouth on your most sensitive part, devouring you, savoring you, making that burning heat tingle through your legs and settle in your lower belly, to the point you want to scream.

You know you've missed his cock more, but the way his mouth feels on your cunt is just as addicting. It was never in question whether or not Bruce was good with his mouth—he was and then some. He’s eating you out like it’s the first time and he’s taking his time to savor every taste, every moan, every movement of your hips when he does that thing with his tongue that always makes you say his name; he has you spewing words and praising him like he’s your God. And if the moans against your swollen cunt tell you anything it’s that he loves it just as much—if not more—as you. As if it’s just another way for him to see your devotion to him, to give yourself over to him, to let him continue to completely consume you. Maybe that's why he keeps coming back, maybe that's really where his love lies; being addicted to the way you love him, the way you let him completely plague your mind, body and soul, with his mouth and his cock.

Whatever it is you know you’ll never give it up again.

Never want to feel anyone other than him between your legs eating your pussy like this, sucking on your folds and clit, two of his fingers fucking into you and hitting that spongy part of your cunt that has you seeing stars and squeezing your thighs around him as that euphoric high crashes through you so roughly. Your entire body shaking as you scream out. As you cum against his tongue and fingers.

And Bruce doesn’t stop. He keeps going until you’ve cum again, your hips stuttering and body twitching from the sensitivity of your clit. Your body already feeling limp and fucked out—and yet his tongue keeps going, his fingers still fuck into you, your walls even more sensitve as they spasm around him. “Bruce, I need-”

“Just one more, please.”

There were few opportunities in your line of work that you could deny, whether from uncomfortability, or the payout for the piece. And when it came to good pieces that didn't include The Batman, or some dirty politician getting taken down, there wasn't much that really captured the gossiping eyes of the people in Gotham. Misery and crime really did sell, a picture of someone corrupt dead and plastered across the paper was more likely to sell than the reasons why you shouldn't ingest this or buy that. It wasn't too shocking to you though, having written many pieces that fell flat and barely gave you the money to make rent, you had learned long ago that the more blood that a paper helped continue to spill, shed, martyr, the more money, the more engagement.

And at the end of the day you needed to survive, needed the money to continue to keep a roof over your head no matter how dingy that roof was. And after staring blood in the eyes, cuts, gashes, wounds that never healed right; stains under your nails that seem to never come out no matter how much you scrub, no thanks to Gotham’s headliner. There were little to less stories that made you too uncomfortable to write, to cover, to make money off of someone's death using adverbs to paint them as the sad little victim when really Gotham was a better place without them.

When you delve into the dark parts of your past you think there are the stepping stones to how you got here. To make you conditioned to not bat an eye at looking the evil dead in the eye and writing about them. To hiding Bruce’s secret, stitching him up, to kissing his wounds and the one to reopen them.

Which is why when your boss suggested that you write a piece on Oswald Cobblepot’s infamous club the Iceberg Lounge, you didn't think much of it. No sirens or red flags went off in your mind, not even the worry of being surrounded by dropheads, or the gangster himself. The only thing that had flashed through your mind was the pay out, the check that was surely to be big from such a piece on the man sometimes referred to as The Penguin and his place of lounging.

Your boss guaranteeing you it was a sure thing, that Oswald knew him by name and to simply say it at the door and it would get you in without trife. It was a sure thing and that there was no need to pay any mind to the various rumors of the man being as bad as some people had said. Within that same reassuring breath he had suggested you wear something nicer than your everyday work attire.

“Don't be afraid to show some skin, might make the interview go…better.” He had given you a wink and his smirk went to the pit of your stomach. Your boss wasn’t a creep, shockingly. And so the only thing about the exchange that had set your nervous alight was his suggestion to wear something skimpy, that the sluttier you looked the more The Penguin would possibly be more persuaded to spill all. But men were men were they not? Some better than others, some more simple than the rest that gave their secrets away by a flash of a nice smile or the dip of a woman's cleavage.

And as you stood and stared at yourself through the mirror, your reflection was almost laughable at how hard you were trying; money could truly be a big motivator, and motivated you were. If the sequin dress that barely reached mid thigh, and the large cut out at the chest, didn't say just how much of a motivator it was for you. Maybe it was stupid for you to be dressed as such, it might send the wrong idea, an invitation to some dimwitted men. Having never met the infamous crime boss before you wouldn't exactly say where he fell on the spectrum of man. But rumors flew around Gotham like a plague and talks of girls receiving black eyes and bruises all over their bodies, and the deaths that mysteriously always went cold when someone’s carcass was found on the property did not fall on deaf ears.

You had swallowed down your nerves with a few shots of liquor, had read and reread every question you had written down to ask, had triple checked with your boss that he actually knew you were coming and your boss wasn’t just hoping your promiscuous look would be the only thing that would actually be landing you the interview. You didn't know if you were up for having to work with your vagina rather than your brain tonight.

The only thing your vagina got you into was messes, example; Bruce Wayne.

Someone who you don’t expect to see when you exit your bathroom, or a version of him. His body adorned in his armor. You hadn't expected him tonight, hadn't thought you'd see him for at least a couple days since he had stained your bed dusty black just last night. He usually gave it a few days, usually let the missing and longing sink in before he came back to you.

But since the two of you had made up—or done your version of making up; not talking about the matter anymore than shared I miss you’s mixed with moans, bites, and scratches, the only communicating Bruce knew how to do—he had found his way to your bed more often than not. Had even let himself stay until the early morning just as the sun was peeking over the city. There were still blood stained nails and wounds needing fixing. But mixed with antiseptic had been the looks of longings and forgiveness shared. Your heart still ached more times than not and you knew it couldn't be that far off that a fight was soon to break out again. That he would leave you for a month again, or the two of you would fuck for a week straight, letting everything else say your apologies than actually muttering them yourselves.

Your mind always reminding you that it can't be nice forever. That's not how you and Bruce were. That's not the type of relationship you had; a nice one, a one filled with love affirmations and calming touches and ease. Your love was more demented, it had bite marks, blood, cruel words turned into whimpering pleas of devotion. You two were not meant for some classic romance. And you don’t think your heart could bear it if it were any other way, it growing to used to pain and calling it love. Needing it to survive in an already cruel world.

A world Bruce unintentionally made even crueler.

“I didn't expect you tonight,” you walk to your table, rifling through your essentials for the night. “Are you okay? Unless you’re bleeding out you might have to take a bandaid and call it good.” You joke, turning to flash him a smile but it falls once you see his pensive look. Or as much as you could tell, his mask is really doing its job to hide everything about him from the world.

“Are you going out with that guy, again?” The edge in his voice surprises, makes a half smile creep on your lips you try to cover up; so he was watching you, had seen the many dates you went on to try and wash him from your system. The knowledge makes something in your stomach flutter, that edge in his voice the only thing that you are sure he would show of jealousy, or worry.

Or so you thought, until your next sentence of “no, actually I have an interview with Oswald Coppletop,” you smirk. “The Penguin, someone I’m sure The Batman knows well.” Your tone is teasing and it lands flat when the furnace of rage seems to start in the tick of his jaw and spread throughout the rest of him like a house fire.

“Your what?” His voice booms, hits your ears like a loud freight train making you jump in your spot. Your nerves now showing themselves—and you might of that you would have gotten used to his loud voice, his yelling, his anger. But this seems different, the heat in his eyes not his usual fire aimed at you.

“My boss got me an exclusive interview with him,” you fiddle with your purse. “Apparently he knows him, so I’m headed to the Iceberg Lounge.” You try to make a show of running your hand along your outfit to show it off, with as much of a smile as you can muster with all of his negative energy being thrown at you. Of course he was going to ruin this for you. Going to rain down on the piece of work that could not only provide you with a couple months rent, but also land you more serious stories. Something you don’t think he truly understood, having come from money after all. Being a hermit in your tower for two years making him forget that people actually had to make a living and not just sneak off at night and pummel someone.

But maybe that wasn't it. Maybe he did understand, maybe you should of given him the benefit of the doubt, not let him drag the mood down into the trenches where he seemed to love to hangout.

“If you need me to help you tonight I can when I get back.” Because why else would he be so upset right now? You weren't always going to be on call when, or if, he needed you. “I’d say you could join me but we both know your bat isn’t welcomed in most places, and I don’t feel like supporting another black eye.”

“That's not why-” he shouts, snarls, stops himself to let out something as close to a growl of frustration. “It’s dangerous, he’s dangerous.”

“He’s not going to-”

“Because your boss knows him?” He scoffs a little, “he’s done worse to the people he knows than strangers on the street. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

“Well, I didn't know what I was walking into when I followed you, and look how good that turned out.” You give him a mocking smile, the innuendo diverting to many different directions that makes him give you a searing look. Your insides twisting at which direction could be the one adding fuel to his fire of rage; that the two of you ended up fucking, or that you ended up with more than a black eye in the long run, a darkened heart that both bled and beated for him. Jealousy or remorse. Both sat in the pit of your stomach like a brick.

“You’re putting yourself in danger.”

You can't help the laugh that you let out, because was he serious? “You put yourself in danger every night, Bruce. And the minute I bring it up or even remotely hint to you not doing that, it’s like taking a bone away from a ravenous dog. But let me guess, that's different right?”

“It is!”

“Why? Because I don’t have a suit of armor to hide who I really am? Because I can’t take a punch? A knife?” You roll your eyes, “well news flash, you can barely take it. Should we go over the reason why you end up here every night? Because we both know it couldn't be just for my great company or companionship.” You shake your head, curse under your breath at the rage you now felt radiating through your veins thanks to him and his audacity.

It wasn't different. You had wasted your breath many times, pleads and begs of asking him to get his drug of vengeance somewhere else. To use his name and status instead of his fists and body riddled with scars, that would surely only get worse. He couldn't do this forever and it would surely kill him. And his anger and protested yells in your fight had taught you to keep your mouth shut. To not bat an eye anymore at the wounds that you had to fix, at the ache in your heart to see him not care for his own well being.

And you were sure this argument was going to end the same as the last one; guess you should redownload the dating app. Maybe you’d fuck Oswald out of spite. It wasn't that hard to close your eyes when a man who was less than attractive was behind you, and the only thing you wanted was that ten minute pleasure from his cock.

Your chest pang at the thought. Because you knew you wouldn't, and even if you would, the only thing you'd see if you tried, or closed your eyes, would be Bruce.

Fuck him.

“I don’t have time for this.” You give him a scowl and head for the front door. Your hand grabbing the doorknob the same time his gloved one grips your wrist in a death grip. Your scowl only deepens when you turn to look at him, as you try to free yourself from his hold—something pathetically useless with his strength.

“It’s not safe, not like this.”

“Like what, Bruce?” You huff, continuing your protests to have him let you go. Your wrist now burning from your attempts more than his actual grip on you. “Don’t ruin this for me! Not all of us can be born with a silver spoon in our mouths!”

“I’m saving you!”

“I’m not in danger!”

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be. Men like him are not the kind of men who would take a slam piece with a smile.”

“I’m not writing a slam piece, Bruce.”

“Even worse. Men like him don’t deserve praise, especially when he wouldn't bat an eye to wrap your dead corpse in that same paper from you printing one word wrong to make him look like a villain.”

His words stop you, make your blood run cold. Make those nerves turn into something with more edge that pricks and pokes holes in your optimistic outlook—your motivation for cash. And you don't know if your heart is beating so hard from anger, fear, or the fact that Bruce could be right. His points, frustratingly, laced with some possible truth to them. People have died at the Iceberg Lounge for less, you were sure.

“It’s not fair of me to ask you not to do this, I know.” Bruce’s voice slips from that anger and frustration, and back to his whisper; deep and pointed, calmer. “I’m just asking you to trust me on this. If there was a chance that…something…anything, could–would, happen to you-” he swallows, looks down for a second like he can’t look at you when he says the words, if he says the words—as if he himself isn't sure what words he wants to get out because this was new, all of it; the crumb of care he was showing you right now, the hint of more feelings than indifference, anger, and lust mixing in the air between the two of you right now. “Just don’t go.” Your stomach sinks, your heart following it into that bottomless pit of ache from him not being able to say those words that were on the tip of his tongue. Words that would do more than cut deep, would put a label on whatever this was between the two of you; something dangerous.

“Bruce..”

“I’ll let you do a story on me.” He huffs frustrated, “Bruce Wayne. Just stay.”

Stay.

He was asking you to stay instead of it being the other way around.

“Why do you care so much,” you can't help the bluntness dredging up, as if your heart can't wrap itself around this close-to-softness, to something other than pain and cuts from knives being shown from the man in front of you. Your gut instinct impulsing you to not trust it, to not let this man sink any further into the open parts of your heart that have the potential of being more than jagged. “Like I said before, I’m not even your girlfriend, just someone you-”

“No.” He says clipped, and it makes your gut instinct shine out, smirk, a sickly saddening feeling spread through you in an ‘I told you so.’ And you go to pull yourself from him again, but instead he’s pulling you closer, your forearms pressed to the hard armor covering his chest. His gaze burning into yours, “You’re more than that, and we both know it.” The tears that burn behind your eyes make you feel pathetic, make you want to fight to get away from him again. But you’re ensnared in his gaze, held by the light in the darkness around his eyes, his words that make those flutters come back. “You stepped into my world once before, I don’t want you to have to be subjected to it again. It’s worse enough I allow you to see the aftermath of it.”

And it’s the first time Bruce has ever, truly, outwardly expressed the shared knowledge that the two of you know; this nurse and patient relationship was fucked and no one should have to put a needle through his skin then beg him to stop so you would never have to again, to ask for more, to devote yourself to a person stuck in a bleak and black world of darkness hooked on the drug of venegance and justice. But the both of you knew you’d never turn it away. Shy away from the darkness of the blood and gashes. And maybe that was a problem in and of itself, that you had grown numb to it, something someone probably shouldn't do. Even if that numbness hadn't started with Bruce, it grew, festered, led to fights, anger, dangerous feelings mixed in that turned into love. At least for you.

You’re more than that.

His words. Proclamation. Spoken out to you. Not to the ether, not hidden in touches and orgasms. You were more than a girlfriend to Bruce.

But was it love? Could someone like him even love after seeing so much darkness. You had. Had seen the depths of darkness and still loved, still felt for him, and knew would continue to. Knew it deep down to your merrow. Bruce didn’t want you a part of that darkness but you had already stained your skin for him, and if that doesn’t give the true meaning of the darkness of love and devotion you don't know what does. What could.

“I will let you see the other half of me. But not this part. Stay.”

And how could you not?

When you return to work the following day your boss is less than pleased, looks more squirrley than normal. Talking about how you could have tarnished his name, his word, his honor, as if this interview was something that the both of you would highly regret in more ways than a simple ‘missed chance’. Him seeming more worried about his own fate than yours, something you try not to dwell on or let his words defer you into fear when they usually held no backing to begin with. While your boss may have been a good one, you wouldn't doubt he was on someone's payroll and that was the only way he could keep this place running, and you had no desire to delve into his life—especially when he couldn't care that much about yours.

But as soon as the words “I got an exclusive interview with Bruce Wayne” slip from your mouth his tone–and demeanor—shifts completely into something ecstatic. His words now turned into compliments and waving off the missed interview to one of the girls who work in the office, saying you were more suitable for this type of work anyway—whatever that had meant, you tried not to look too much into. Since the night Bruce had brought up the offer, promised, you had felt those annoying little flutters the closer the day came. The more you thought of that night, his burning touch to keep you safe, the pleading in his eyes that couldn't be engulfed by the fire of rage inside of them.

Not to mention the infamous Prince of Gotham barely showed his face let alone had ever let anyone interview him. So this was a big career opportunity for you, Bruce having promised to make up the difference for whatever your interview with Oz was going to pay off. But deep down you knew it wasn't the sentiments of your career gaining traction or even the money; he was finally letting you in. Even if it had a ‘strictly business’ bow wrapped around it. And maybe he was just grinning and bearing it so you wouldn't be caught up in the other half of his world anymore than you already were, maybe this was truly just about the safety of you. Him continuing to hide that darkness, even if you’ve seen the brunt aftermath of it. It didn't stop the flutters or the tightening in your chest as you type up your questions for him, as you let that silly school girl joy seep further into the cracks of your molten heart. Let yourself ignore the looming ‘things can only be good for so long between you two, before the worst comes back’ in the back of your head.

When the day finally comes you had expected him to show up late at night in your balcony door way, had counted on it actually. Him clad in his batsuit, hopefully minus the blood and woundage. But when you hear a knock on your door, opening it to see him, Bruce in the flesh, no armor in sight; you're shocked into silence. Your eyes taking him in for all his glory; this being the first time you had seen him in actual clothes, his clothes, his billionaire clothes, long jacket, dark shirt and pants. His hair not wet from sweat or a shower, his eye sockets unpainted. This was the real Bruce, or the one he let the public see. Something in the back of your mind telling you the Bruce who was usually dressed down and bruised in your bed was the real him. The Prince of Gotham was more myth than man.

And you’re even more shocked into silence when Bruce tells you that he wants to do the interview at his tower. The manor that hangs high above Gotham like a watchful eye, waiting, seething. Like a looming threat in the sky no one quite knows.

You don’t know what you expect when you walk through his doors, don’t know why you’d think his money would show in the form of fancy statues, paintings, expensive furniture, decorated in the ways his parents might have liked. But once you step through the threshold, let your eyes take it all in, the architecture that superasses the look of the outside; you know that this is completely Bruce. The dark vintage look, the gothic curve of the molding, ceiling, the furniture, the slight draft. The only thing that seems the most non-Bruce thing being the immense light that the many windows bring in. But then you even question that once you look out from the largest one that seems to show the city in its entirety, being able to gaze down at those below him, those who probably look up to his tower with a sneer of envy, despisement, maybe even fear.

You had never really had a second thought of Bruce himself before meeting his counterpart, had never blinked twice when people would bring him up in passing, in the papers. Ironically he was more myth than man to some—more than people really knew.

Bruce watches you as you look around, like a kid in a candy shop you are sure. And you think you see the corner of his mouth quirk up when you ask him about some of the pieces displayed throughout the place as he leads you through his vast estate. You had every right to feel self conscious about your shit apartment the first time he followed you home, you now realize.

After you’ve finished the interview, Bruce answering more than half of them—more than you expected him to actually answer, hence why you wrote out at least three pages full of them just in case he wanted to skip most of them. His face was stone, stoic, held together as he answered. Some answers more dry than others, sometimes he would let the air between the two of you sit, a tensed silence spreading as he stared at you, his thoughts louder than anything—and yet you couldn't hear them, couldn't read them as much as you wanted to—when you asked him certain intrusive questions, when you spoke of his parents, of his personal life; other than what you knew obviously. The look on his face one of debation you soon realize, debating on how deep he wanted to have you delve into his world, into this new part of him that wasn't just going to be news to the people of Gotham, but to you as well. You were learning parts of him that you now realize you should already know based on whatever it was between the two of you.

Facts that someone usually found out along the way when you have been fucking someone—stitching someones skin—for as long as you had. You tried not to think too much about it, tried to ignore those weird pricks of bitterness and melancholy that picked at your stomach the more you realized that Bruce was a mystery to you; if it wasn't darkness, blood, or wrapped in flesh, bone, and moans you didn't really know him.

Batman. That's who you knew. But much like your earlier thoughts, Bruce was more the Batman than he was really himself. Was more the true himself in bed with you than through the recording of his poised voice answering questions. So these silly feelings shouldn’t be picking at you.

But once the interview is over and the two of you sit across from each other in silence, the reality of how weird this all really is makes you laugh softly.

“What?”

“This,” you wave your hand around, the room you were currently in, the chair you were currently sitting in costing more than any salary you knew you’d ever make to live, let alone live in. “It’s kind of..”

“Weird.” Bruce finishes for you.

“Yes,” you smile and your stomach clenches when he returns it. It actually reaching his eyes. “I’m sure you never thought you’d have a journalist in your house, let alone your nurse and sometimes bedmate.” You tease.

His chuckle is soft as he shakes his head, “no, can’t say I ever really thought of it.”

The silence returns but this time it’s more comfortable, your eyes continuing their gazing throughout the room. Each time you find something new, something you didn't see before, some new weird object, or piece of furniture. You wonder if Bruce had decorated the place himself, you can't see it being one of his main priorities in life; a beautiful home.

Which makes you wonder, “where do you do all your vengeance stuff?” You turn back to him, see the amusement on his face falter just a bit, “the infamous Batman does have a lair does he not?”

And have one he did.

You hadn’t expected anything more than maybe a desk, his bike, and whatever else supplies it took to be Batman. But when you step from the elevator, your ears ringing with the sounds of flapping wings and screeches, the scent of motor oil and cleaning product, the source of the cold draft making goosebumps scatter across your flesh; it was not as you pictured it all.

It had been less spacious but at the same time vast, more cave-like. Your eyes going every which way as you watched the nighttime creatures flap around, Bruce showing indifference on his face, as usual. You couldn’t imagine getting anything done with those things around, but maybe that was just another peek into who Bruce was; he felt more comfortable around these creatures than he did people. Related to them in more ways than one, you were sure. So you hesitated to let your mind outwardly judge him for it, to paint this space something else other than what it was used for, what Bruce himself seemed to use it for, need it for; everyone had their own sanctuaries, safe havens, where they could take off the mask of the day and just be. This space was that for him, and by the look of slight unease on his features as you looked around, touched this, glanced at that, stared a little too long at his computer screens that display a gruesome scene, Bruce quickly turning off the monitors, worry is in his eyes; he had never brought anyone here before, let them into this crevice of his being.

Your heart ached at that knowledge.

Your fingers run along the hunk of metal on wheels that seems to take up most of the space, the dents and bullet holes indicating all you need to know of what it’s used for, or when he drives it. Impressive nonetheless.

“I bet this gets all the girls, huh?” You turn and shoot him a teasing look, your chest leaping when he gives that soft chuckle for the second time today. Hell must've froze over.

He doesn’t respond, only makes his way over to you. Watches you, takes you in fully like he can’t really believe you are here and that he’s shown you all that he has. You feel his fingertips graze against yours, feel his heat as he closes the distance between the two of you, slowly, cautiously. The tension in the air drifting to something else, back to what the two of you are used to. And when his lips press to yours, your back flush against the hunk of metal, his hands splayed across your hips; your insides are burning with feelings that are much different than you usually feel when his lips are to yours, or his hands on you.

It doesn’t take much scattering around your brain to pinpoint that it could be a dozen different feelings, but you settle on gratefulness. It had been a spoken—screamed—sentiment that you wanted, needed, more from him. Needed for him to let you in and actually see him for more than just what he was showing, letting you peek at a safe distance. The bloody gauze of wounds and torn hearts trailing the way to how the two of you finally ended up here. At this moment. With Bruce actually giving you those things—some of those things, the interview being the real only reason you were here, how you learned what his favorite color was, nothing else, you had to remind yourself.

A reminder that sizzled and threatened to burn out the deeper the kiss got. The more you felt the cold of the metal, felt his hands run up your sides, his cologne engulfing all of your senses, the creaks and cracks and drafts of the manor; you were here and Bruce was trying. You couldn’t ask for more right now, nor did you want to. Poking holes into the reality of everything could come later. Right now you were here and his fingers were dangerously close to slipping past the top of your jeans, the heat of his mouth hazing your brain. Morphing your thoughts to only Bruce Bruce Bruce. Feeling him, tasting him, letting him grip you from the inside out until you were nothing but a mess for him.

His lips pull away from yours, the look in his eyes that dark wanting you know so well. He parts his lips like he might say something but the words never come, just hot puffs of air from heavy breath.

And before you can think twice about ruining the moment, to just go back to kissing and his fingers resting on the button of your jeans; you’re already throbbing for him. Your heart speaks before your mind can, “Thank you.” His brow quirks a little, but he says nothing. “I know how hard this is for you, to bring me here, to let me see all of this.”

You’ve screamed at this man, yelled, declared your love, your hate, devotion. Moaned his name, begged to taste yourself on his tongue, and yet your voice is more shaky than it’s ever been. Almost timid. Cautious with your words, hoping, praying that what you say doesn’t make him turn in on himself again. To swiftly drag you away and back to your shitty apartment and only seeing him bloodied, once again. Returning to old habits and notions.

“I wish I knew how hard, the depth of it all.” You admit, not hesitating to add that you are grateful for what he has shown you, for his unspoken vulnerability. “You can trust me, Bruce. I have blood on my hands too, thanks to the Batman.” You joke softly. Your arms wrapping around his neck, forehead pressed to his. You see him close his eyes, take in a few long breaths.

His mouth opens to say something but then the elevator is moving, indicating another person coming down. Bruce pulls away from you, that rigidness back in his shoulders as his attention is turned to the graying man who steps from the elevators open doors.

Alfred.

“Ah, I believe we have yet to be introduced.” The older man smiles, holds out a hand for you as Bruce steals your voice away and does the introductions for the two of you; flashing Alfred a look that makes you bite back a smile—was he nervous? “It’s nice to finally meet you. I wondered when I would be so fortunate to meet the person who’s stitching is almost as good as mine.” He playfully jabs and it makes the two of you laugh. Bruce looking more brooding than ever as he watches the interaction, a strand of hair falling just across his eye, your fingers twitching at the urge to move it out of his face; flashes of times when you’d moved his hair from his eyes in more intimate settings scattering your brain. And you didn't know how much he had told Alfred about your relationship—whatever it was.

The two of you slip into casual conversation, Bruce contributing with a few soft grunts and pointed comments here and there but otherwise still silently watching on. You feel his eyes linger on your face, the movement of your lips as you talk. Feel the heat of his gaze making your stomach queasy with nerves and flutters—that you don’t trust yourself to steal a glance over at him. Afraid that whatever look was currently on your face would have you stuttering or worse.

“You should stay for dinner,” Alfred smiles. “Bruce barely eats as is and this will be a good excuse for him to actually join me at the table for once–not to mention get more nourishment than a few berries.” He’s giving a pointed look at the other, you see Bruce swallow down a grimace—does he not want you to stay? Or did he just not like Alfred’s caring, almost fatherly, sentiments. You didn't know as much and you figured, for the sake of not ruining the good day Bruce and you were having from stepping on his toes unintentionally; maybe dinner would be taking it too far, maybe he wasn't ready for that yet, you planned on saying no.

But then Bruce is mumbling, “Stay”, that word seeming to be your kryptonite when it comes to this man. The one word that could ruin you and put you back together.

And so you accept.

The dinner goes just as you suspected it to; Bruce only adding to the conversation here and there, him picking at the food on his plate, much like a child would. But by the look of joy on Alfred’s face it's probably more than he’s eaten in a while. Alfred shares stories of Bruce’s youth when his parents were alive, after they passed, Bruce looking elsewhere and adding nothing to this part of the conversation; you see him tightly grip his fork when one sweet story is told about him and his father—and you know, everyone knows, the tragedy that Bruce must of felt and gone through upon losing his parents. But seeing his body go rigid from the conversation and his neutral demeanor turn dark, you understand just a little bit more why he would never give up his alter ego, stop living his double life. You can see that pain, and why the Batman is the salve for it.

When the conversation deverts to you—unfortunately—you answer Alfred’s questions with a smile, “I think what drove me to be a journalist was my mother,” you explain. “I remember her reading to me, not just storybooks before bed, but even the morning paper sometimes,” you laugh, “which surely did not have things a young child should be hearing. But that’s something I always loved most about my mother, she never sugarcoated anything. Never kept me from the real world, the cruelty of it, the darkness of it all. She always captured the importance of the story when she read it back to me, making sure I knew how important it was for people to know the true colors of others. How one false statement could turn someone into a god or a decibel, when they were actually really the devil.”

You don't realize how lost in your thoughts you are, and the words spilling from your mouth like word vomit until you look over to Bruce and his expression is unreadable, but makes your stomach tense with something. You quickly grab the wine beside your plate taking a long sip, swallowing down those feelings.

“Is your mother still in your life?” Alfred asks, gently, politely.

“No,” you frown, your voice going just above a whisper. You never really talked about the tragedy of your mother. Choosing to dismiss it all together to save yourself the headache—and therapy bill. A method that's worked for you thus far. “She died when I was around thirteen. My father, he uh…cared more about his next drink and putting hands on my mother, than all else. And one night he hit her a little too hard and that was all it took.” You take another sip of your wine to distract yourself from looking at both of their surprises eyes, and devastatingly pitying faces. It never bothered you to speak about your mother and her passing anymore, or your shit father. The only thing that seemed to bother you from speaking of it was how everyone reacted. Like they were now putting the pieces together in their head as to why you did this, said that, acted the way you did and it all made sense. And you hated that. Thought it was pathetic to label someone with that type of judgment for their past.

But had that not been what you had done countless times with Bruce?

Your stomach sinks at the thought. By the way his eyes shift away from yours when you finally look over at him.

“I’m so very sorry to hear that, dear.” Alfred gives you a soft smile, and like he understands completely, he changes the subject promptly to better topics.

“I didn’t know about your parents.” Bruce is looking down as he walks beside you to the front door. The evening coming to an end, the time you spent in his space, the only calm in his life—that you know he barely allows himself to stop and enjoy. The feeling in your stomach is bittersweet.

“How could you,” you laugh softly. “We only talk about you and your counter-bat.” You give him a teasing smile but there's a slight wounded look on his face from your joke—that maybe came off more as a dig.“I guess I’m like you in that aspect, if no one asks I dont have to tell. I have my mother to thank for my ability to keep secrets. It's one of my best attributes, I think you would agree.” You give him a small reassuring smile, which he returns. The corner of his mouth pulling up in a lopsided grin. You think you’ve lost count how many times you've seen that smile today, can't wrap your head around this alternate reality you've stepped into. But know you don't want to leave it. Not yet. Not ever.

A silence falls over the two of you, Bruce looking at you with that same expression you can't quite decipher; it still leaves your chest with an ache and stomach in shambles nonetheless. The sun has set by now making the light from the moon cast an eerie glow around the manor, the gothic features and architecture washed in a nightly glow more suited for them, more ominous.

“I should go, it’s late.” The two of you had planned to leave and head back to your place as it is, this little tryst in the hall halting your actions mere feet from the door before you passed the threshold of the manor, of this side of Bruce you craved to burrow yourself in, to stay. But deep in your gut it was telling you that this moment of calm between the two of you was impossible to stay unscathed. There would always be knives, scratches, and blood when it came to the two of you. Darkness and apprehension. Terror and fear of ones heart and ones darkened outer edges that would bring on more fights, more wanting, more misunderstandings. You didn't think, even after everything, that this new ground between the two of you could make anything better, easier. Because you knew Bruce, knew how he liked to close in on himself once he showed you his sides, let you in only to shut you out when things got too dark.

And it made your chest sting, ache, crack. You had been engulfed in another part of him, peered into his head, his home, his darkened heart and you didn't want out. Nails and torn skin were only to come when he dragged you out of it.

You turn from him, take a step to head for the door, but then his wrist is wrapping around yours to stop you from moving, keeping you still in time. “Stay.” Your heart lurches in your chest. Bruce pulls you back to him, so your fronts are pressed close together. His palm going to the side of your neck, his thumb pushing your chin up to you’re looking up at him, into his murky blue eyes. “Stay.”

You've been a fool many times, with many things, but right now, this moment, was not one of them. How could you deny this? Deny him? How could you ever leave this manor feeling whole if you didn’t stay, do what your heart desires, what your insides flutter and soar over. Of course you’d stay, you’d always stay for him. Every part of him.

And when his lips touch yours and the two of you don't pull away until you are inside of his room; Bruce helping you slip out of your clothes, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, the top of your breasts, your abdomen, your hips, as he does. Until you are completely naked in front of him and he pulls you to the bed, where he crawls on top of you, lets his heat sink into every pour on your skin, continuing his singeing of every nerve of your body, every opening, until he’s blocked it, consumed it with just him.

His hips move languid and slow between your legs, his cock drags and fills you with a new notion, a new feeling, a new promise. His praises landing on your lips and swallowed down by your devotion, your love. This type of fucking is soft, intimate, its an act of lust so filled with other feelings that it hurts, but mends within the same thrust. Within the same kiss, suck, bite. It fills you and takes away, it promises more but still adds that fear of going away forever.

You’re not used to it, so much so that you feel in agony, feel like a fucked out mess more than you do when Bruce takes you roughly, unrelenting. It makes your stomach churn and bubble with things that won't last, that need it to last. It's more painful than his teeth sinking into your skin; and yet you want to feel it over and over again.

When you wake it's in the middle of the night, the cool air of the room nipping your back as you lay half across Bruce’s chest. You're surprised to see him sleeping, smile at how calm he actually looks. The deep sighs and intakes of breath as he actually lets himself get rest. You can't recall a time ever seeing him sleep, let alone spending a full night with him. It warms your heart in the same way it burns it.

You brush the strands of hair that have fallen across his eyes, let your fingertips linger against his skin for a beat, a second, let the beauty of this man make your chest heave and long for him. Deepen that love for him, that want.

You try to fall back asleep but can't seem to silence your thoughts, your mind asking a million questions you do not have the answers to, and may never have the answers to. Deciding that slipping out of bed to distract yourself is your best bet, grabbing Bruce’s black t-shirt to cover you as you quietly leave his room and explore around the manor.

Once you get far enough you curse yourself for not putting on pants, or at least the clothes you came in. What if Alfred didn't sleep, much like Bruce; Imagine the awkwardness that would ensue if he happened upon you only wearing a shirt and underwear. You turn to tip toe back to the room, but then distraction takes over and you find yourself stopping at a door on the way; opened enough to showcase the massive collection of shelves filled with books, and when you push the door open wider you can see the somewhat set up of an office—mostly books, a small library more like it.

You find yourself gravitating into the room, running your finger along the shelves and book spines. Smile at all the classics that seem to be taking up the majority of them, wonder if Bruce has read them all, or if all of these belonged to his parents, or maybe even Alfred. Grabbing one of the books, you lean yourself against a shelf and flip through it mindlessly. Let your eyes scan over a paragraph here and there. Your mind drifting to a place of solemn calm that you don’t hear, or see, the figure at the doorway. Not until it’s said something and you’re jumping out of your skin.

“Looking for family secrets?”

Bruce’s voice is filled with sleep, deep and rough. There's still exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles around them still apparent. A small smile creeps up onto his lips that eventually turns into a laugh that the two of you share as you try to catch your breath from being spooked.

“Have you read all of these?” You ask, turning the book over in your hands before you turn to place it back in its rightful place. Your eyes skating over the rest on the shelf.

“Yes,” he answers softly. “Most of them.”

Your eyes continue to scan the shelves, pulling out a few to gaze at their covers before pushing them back in place. Bruce is silent behind you, his footsteps light as you hear him make his way into the room; don’t know he is right behind you until you feel the heat of his chest radiating off of his body and onto your back. His fingers run up and down your arms making you shiver slightly, making reality come back to you. Making you want to speak words of sentiment and questioning, when you know deep down you won’t get the answers you seek. You’ll only ruin this moment, this time spent with him in this house; burning it to ash like every other sweet moment between the two of you ends up.

But you can’t help yourself. Can’t hold your tongue any longer. The feelings bubbling up inside of you from everything that happened earlier tonight.

“What are we doing here, Bruce?” Your voice is soft, gentle.

You expect to feel him go rigid against you as his fingers stop, as he grips your arms with a light hold. Instead you feel the press of his forehead against the back of your head, feel his deep breaths fan across your skin. There’s a slight shake to his voice when he finally speaks, “I’m trying. I don’t know how to offer more—what you need.” He sighs, “but I’m trying.”

Flutters, lurches, concaving. It’s all you feel your insides doing, leaving you barely breathing. Shaking. When you turn, let your eyes meet his and see the desperate look of understanding, hope, need, desire, your response dies on your lips. It swallowed down shakily, dismissed entirely. You don’t think there is truly anything you could say right now, could bring to the surface that would make this moment anymore ardent than it already is.

He’s trying. It’s all you wanted all along, all of this. For the both of you. Even if no matter how hard the two of you try it will be covered in blood and scars at the end of the day. It’s yours. You’re together. For worse or for substandard; Bruce was all that you wanted.

You press your lips to his, passion quickly turning into greed; teeth and tongue mixed. Hands removing clothes, Bruce’s palms on the backs of your thighs as he lifts you up, your back pressed against one of the shelves.

His mouth is hot and unrelenting, bruising your lips with how rough he kisses you, how deeply passionate it conveys. Those ever known unspoken words continue to write themselves in these kisses you share together.

You can feel the heat of his cock against your thigh, the warmth of it burning an unfathomable desire through your skin and to your core. That’s growing slicker and slicker by the minute, with every grip of his fingers, every bite of your lips, neck, ear. Every touch of his tongue. The two of you having had each other mere hours ago, but needing more. Craving more, like your last meal, last breath, your body getting carried away to the guillotine; imprinting the need and desire to feel him, to be completely consumed by him no better than a beautiful death, a death worth succumbing to.

“I want you,” his voice is merely a whisper against your lips, his hair falling in his face, chest heavy.

You swallow down the emotions that are begging to be released; tears, screams, love notions. Your palms move his hair from his eyes so you can see him, so you can press your hands to his cheeks, “I’m yours.” You whisper before pressing your lips back to his.

One of his hands moves from your thigh to guide his cock to your entrance, and when he thrusts in it’s hard and makes your back slam against the shelf behind you. Makes you moan loudly against his mouth, his own groan coming out like rough gravel against your tongue. Cutting you deep and beautifully. And then his hand is back on your other thigh gripping, keeping you in place as he fucks into you hard and fast.

The two of you completely ensnared in each other, completely taken and consumed by what this is now, what it’s grown to be.

Your nails dig into Bruce’s back the harder he fucks you, your walls clenching around him, sore and swollen. His breath is hot against your neck, his pants and groans deep and animalistically fueled with pleasure and lust.

You don’t pay much mind to how bruised you’re sure your back is getting from how hard he is fucking you, or the books that have fallen from the shelves around the two of you. Or how much noise you are making—not caring if you were to wake anyone. No, all that matters is right here, right now, how good Bruce’s cock feels, how sharp and deep his thrusts are. How you’re sure you’re leaving deep welted scratches on his back, how the pain mixes with pleasure, with your love; how you never want it to end.

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