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snake-cabin · 3 months

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"Birthday Wishes"

Undertaker x Female Reader

word count: 3,700+

(@fanfictionsworld requested: spending your birthday with Undertaker from my Cause to Start a Vendetta AU.)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors dni! fluff with some smut at the end, oral sex (reader receiving), use of the word “Daddy”, reader is called “princess, baby, sweetheart”.

*ao3 mirror*

***

You’d been counting down the days for weeks now, your birthday circled on the calendar with a big pink glitter gel pen heart several times over, every day crossed off that crawled closer to the day— your day— making you more and more excited.

Because, as you’d quickly grown accustomed to being spoiled by Undertaker— special occasion or otherwise— your birthday was no exception to being showered with all the love and luxury he had at his disposal.

“Morning, princess…” he cooed, gently smoothing down some of your sleep-tousled hair with a big, cool palm, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you blinked open beary eyes, wrapped in his arms and the many layers of blankets that twisted and tangled about your bodies sprawled across the bed.

“Morning, Daddy…” you replied, voice soft and delicate as the lingering dredges of slumber clung to your tone, an angelic little grin curving up on your sweet lips as you nuzzled closer into Undertaker’s chest, seeking out his elusive warmth.

For a moment, nearly forgetting what today was as you drifted in and out of consciousness, your figure filling with the heavy weight of sleep once more, your eyelids fluttered closed and your breathing began to turn slow and shallow. Undertaker rubbed a hand up and down your back, stirring you back to the waking world and smiling to himself as you let out a big yawn, nose scrunching adorably with the expression.

“If you want to go back to sleep,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your nose and causing a fragile giggle to bubble up in your chest, “I won’t stop you. But that would certainly be a shame when we have so many fun things on our to-do list today.”

That was enough to entice you, your mind suddenly much more alert than before, and you snaked your arms up to gently rest over his shoulders. “Just a few more minutes…” you said, pressing yourself even closer to him, wishing you could bask in the safety of his touch forever. “Then I promise I’ll get up.”

A smooth, sonorous chuckle vibrated through his bones, the sound warming you from the inside out like hot milk and honey. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said, allowing himself to melt back to a more relaxed state as well. “Just a few more minutes…”

As the sun crept further through the cracks of the curtains, bright beams painting the ornate master bedroom with thin strokes of gold, stirring up the wispy clouds of dust motes swirling through the air, Undertaker coaxed you into finally rising, draping one of his big, fluffy black robes over your shoulders when you became burdened with a chill, the mansion’s usual temperature kept low upon his preference.

Once your feet were dressed in your favorite pair of fluffy socks and even fluffier slippers, you took Undertaker’s hand and let him guide you down the wide halls to the curving staircase, heading towards the kitchen where you could already smell your special birthday breakfast.

The long dining table was decorated to the nines with all kinds of balloon bouquets and bundles of black and white roses overflowing from crystal vases. Spelled out in gold glitter confetti at one end of the display was HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PRINCESS punctuated by a big heart. At the other was a full selection of all your breakfast favorites— souffle pancakes piled high with bananas and melty chocolate chips, strawberry french toasts drizzled with sticky maple syrup and sprinkled with a frosty snowfall of powdered sugar, fluffy scrambled eggs and yogurt parfaits and fruit arranged by color.

You sucked in a gasp of delight, hands clasped before your chest as you eagerly surveyed the scene, looking up at your Daddy like he’d outdone himself.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he said, extending a hand towards the chair at the head of the table— his usual chair, the master’s chair, the dining room’s throne— and pulling it out for you to sit in, taking the seat adjacent to it to join you in the morning’s sugary culinary experience.

Over the meal— you choosing a bit of everything to pile onto your plate in an orderly array, because why should you have to choose just one when today you could have whatever your little heart desired— you and Undertaker began to discuss the day’s itinerary.

There was a packed schedule planned indeed— a shopping outing at all your most beloved designer stores, afternoon tea at the Ritz, exploring some of the artsy nooks and crannies of the city and dropping into your favorite bookstore all before hopping on the Aurora Society’s private jet and taking the hour and a half flight to your favorite five star restaurant in Paris, sure to end the evening by enjoying your usual penthouse suit of the expensive hotel that gave the best view among any of the establishments around.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing,” Undertaker slyly prompted just as you were about to head upstairs to get changed and ready for the events ahead, thoughts already spinning trying to decide what you wanted to wear. You stopped and considered him with an adorably cute expression for a moment until he pulled a big gift bag from under the table where he’d hidden it from you, the glossy black packaging stuffed with glittering silver tissue paper and two perfect satin ribbons serving as the handles. “You know,” he shrugged as he slid it towards you on the table, drinking in your awe, never growing tired of how easily you seemed to be innocently surprised sometimes, “just in case you felt like going out in something new.”

Carefully, as if the wrapping itself was just as valuable as the gift, you plucked the sparkling tissue paper away to uncover the pristinely wrapped box beneath, a marbling of glossy and matte black swirling over the decorative paper like ink dropped into water. The moment the first half of your favorite clothing brand’s name was visible to you, you shot him a glance, as if to say, “you shouldn’t have” despite believing down to your very core that you deserved every expensive, extravagant thing that Undertaker placed in your cute little lap.

Once you lifted the garment from where it had been perfectly folded within its box, holding it up to your body as if to sample how it would look before trying it on, you heard Undertaker sigh, a dreamy, lilting hum tailing off the end of it. “Exquisite…” he remarked, and you now held the dress out from your body, studying the intricate craftsmanship that had been hand stitched into the garment as you smiled to yourself, eyes sparkling.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “It really is.”

But then Undertaker was by your side, having moved soundlessly, his even stride gliding across the short distance to meet you. “I wasn’t talking about the dress,” he murmured, big hands settling on your hips. “Now, why don’t you head upstairs and start getting ready.”

You turned your face up to his, met his lips when he was close enough for a kiss, and muttered out a sweet little, “Thank you, Daddy,” before following his instruction and heading for the staircase.

He watched you go, saw the skip in your step as you ventured off, only returning to clearing the table once you disappeared down the long second story hallway and out of his view. He was going to look forward to taking that dress off of you later, unwrapping you like his own special gift by the time night draped itself over the sky.

***

The afternoon had been like a dream, you and your lover floating from one location to the next to try on extravagant clothing and sample imported teas, the two of you practically waltzing through the downtown streets where you longed to see what new installments the local London artists put up around the city before you’d lost track of time perusing your favorite bookstore, a good two hours going by without you even noticing as you strategically searched for the next story to get yourself hooked on.

But as the sky began to fade from blue to gold, it signaled that dinner was soon approaching, which meant you two had a plane to catch if you wanted to arrive to your reservation on time.

The hostess greeted you two with a friendly smile, addressing you both by name, the entire restaurant staff made familiar with London’s most notorious boss and the beautiful girl who was always on his arm, Undertaker making short, lighthearted conversation with the manager in French while they crossed paths on the walk to your usual table, the man chuckling at something your Daddy had said, forever able to charm anyone if he set his mind to it, it seemed.

As you both enjoyed the delicacies of the six course meal, you continued to talk and laugh, never running out of topics to converse about, though tonight you were most excited to tell him all about the book you’d recently finished and your expectations for the new one you’d chosen on your earlier excursion, having heard nothing but praise for the acclaimed tale.

Once the horizon had lost its lilac blush and sunk deep into the velvet navy of nightfall though, you knew you were just about to enter into yet another phase of your luxurious birthday festivities.

***

You could smell the roses from down the hall before the doors to your hotel suite in Paris even opened. The entirety of the three connected rooms were decked from floor to ceiling in at least one hundred thousand dollars worth of florals, vibrant reds and sultry blacks, flawless creams and even a dash of lovely soft pinks.

You could’ve cried at how gorgeous it all was, blinking the mist from your eyes as you spun in slow circles about the place, taking it all in. Undertaker’s hands found your shoulders to steady you, stopping your awestruck turns to face the beautiful birthday cake on the hotel room’s center table, the special dessert shaped like a heart and iced in a rainbow of your favorite colors, several candles placed strategically on the top and already lit, small flames glowing and beckoning you over to make a wish.

But what could you possibly wish for when you already had everything you’d ever want or need— a gorgeous man who loved you, showering you in every stunning thing life had to offer, as simple as the snap of his fingers or a wave of his hand— besides to continue living this blessed life that had found its way to you, through trial and tribulation?

Taking a few steps forward towards the cake, you choked out through a shaky breath, “Oh my god…” unable to hold back your tears any longer, a few sparkling drops running down your cheeks, glittering like gold as they caught the amber of the flickering firelight. You looked back at Undertaker, who was not far behind you, and wondered if you’d ever be able to convey how much this all meant to you. It almost seemed unfair. He’d always be able to do more for you than you would for him, though he never seemed to mind.

For him, just having you— his sweet, precious baby girl to dote on and adore as much as he pleased— was far more than enough. All you had to do was exist. All you had to do was be his.

“Well, go on,” he lightly urged, a calm smile playing at the corner of his lips as he gestured towards the center table. “The candles won’t blow themselves out, now will they?”

You smiled, big and bright, and let out a sound that could only be described as pure joy. Undertaker was addicted to that sound, the way it rang out like the delicate jingle of bells, the way it warmed him like the sun’s rays after so much rain. It made everything he’d ever done, good, bad, or somewhere in between, all worth it. Just to see you smile at him like that, just to hear you laugh. Just to know it was him who’d been the orchestrator of such emotions.

And as you let out a strong gust of a breath, turning each melting birthday candle from flame to smoke, you realized you did have one wish you wanted to make afterall.

Let things be like this forever, you thought to yourself, like a silent prayer. Let us stay as in love for the rest of our lives as we are right now, in this moment.

Undertaker cut the cake, a piece for you and a piece for him, and then the two of you sat by the counter outlooking the spotless floor to ceiling windows that gave way to the sprawling view of the City of Light, the night sky clear and sparkling with little bursts of silver stars overhead.

You talked and joked and laughed while you both enjoyed your dessert, your chair pressed right next to his, close enough that you could lean your head over to rest against the side of his shoulder while his arm slung across your back, hugging you closer to him, his most cherished treasure.

“You know…” you began, gazing dreamily out the window at the romantic scene the city offered. Then, casting him a glance from where you were nestled into his side, you said, “I think this might really be the best birthday ever.”

Something in his eyes softened a shade then, and in response Undertaker lightly took your chin between his lithe fingers, tilting your mouth just ever so slightly upwards so he could lean down to meet it. You hadn’t expected the kiss, languid and savoring at first as you parted your lips to let him in, both of you tasting like your favorite flavor of cake, soon turning more hungry, having you straddling his lap and blinded by the blissful haze that was slowly filling you from the inside out.

When he finally broke away, leaned back just far enough to look you in the eyes, gently wiping the cool pad of his thumb across the plush of your bottom lip, glossy from your mingled saliva, a weak attempt to clean you up a bit, he said, “I guess that means I’ll have to go above and beyond next year,” and you laughed and nuzzled your head into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent as you felt yourself relax over him.

“No, but really…” you murmured. “Thank you, Daddy. For everything. Always.”

All you got as a warning for what happened next was a low, lilting chuckle humming in his chest before he was hoisting you up, big hands splayed against the backs of your thighs as he began to carry you elsewhere in the suite.

“Where are we going?” you playfully asked, though you already had a pretty good idea.

“There’s still a few hours until midnight,” he remarked, a new kind of vigor in his voice and stride. He set you down on the edge of the king-sized bed, beginning to shrug off his jacket and tug his belt buckle free of its loops as he added, “Which means your birthday’s not over yet, princess.”

The smirk that spread across his face then made that fluttering creature resting in your lower belly roll over inside of you, beginning to wake, soon asking to be satisfied like a dog scratching at the door begging for treats, relentless until it was given its desired reward. It wasn’t long before Undertaker was hooking his grip under your thighs again, pulling you further down the bed where he then knelt at the foot of it.

You gave him an uncertain and slightly suspicious look as he flicked his emerald gaze up to meet yours. Usually, he liked to undress you, strip you down piece by piece before ridding himself of his own clothing, admiring every inch of your bare body like it was the most masterful work of art. Then he’d pin you down, his prized butterfly, and get to work at soaking both your bodies with pleasure before wringing them dry, squeezing you for every last lustful drop he could.

But tonight— on your night— he figured he’d do things a little differently. Give you one last birthday surprise before the clock struck twelve.

“Just relax, sweetheart…” he cooed, carefully bunching your new dress up around your waist, exposing the expensive lace clinging to the most delicate parts of you and drinking in the sight like it rivaled even that of the one just beyond the windows. “Let Daddy make you feel good…”

Undertaker pressed gentle kisses to the soft raise of your lower belly, and you felt your tight little hole futter and your sensitive bud pulse as he slowly removed your panties, your already damp core causing them to cling to you a moment before the cool air sighed against your damp slit.

Undertaker ran a long finger through your dewy folds, making your next breath catch as he slipped it inside of you to gather more of your slick before rubbing it against your puffy clit, already swollen with arousal, pulling one of those adorable whines from your throat as you lay one arm over your eyes, the other sprawled out across the bed, little fingers twisting into the sheets, trying to grab hold of anything while you still had the chance.

“That’s it, baby…” he praised, helping to spread you wider for him, a leg thrown over one of his broad shoulders as he continued to tease you. His next words sent a puff of his warm breath against your cunt, and you squeezed your eyes shut in anticipation, exhaling a shuddering sigh. He whispered, “I’m gonna take good care of you, baby,” and when he licked a flat-tongued stripe up your pussy, you let out a soft, broken whine, back already beginning to arch a little at the sinfully sweet feel of him.

Undertaker was skilled at a lot of things— running a business, making money, getting away with murder— but the thing you thought he was best at, above all else, was pleasuring you.

It was effortless, the way he knew exactly what to do that made you body bend to his command, melting your mind until all you knew was the press of his hips or the wet warmth of his mouth, the indents of his teeth, his fingerprints, all of it branded into you so no matter where you looked on your own body there would be a reminder of him, like a promise, a gift.

You were clenching the silky sheets in your trembling fist as he speared his tongue into you, his sharp nose nudging against your clit every time and forcing moan after delicious, high-pitched moan out of you like that was the only sound you’d ever known how to make. If he thought your laugh was syrupy sweet, then your moans were something else entirely, something far more addicting or satisfying than sticky, sickly sweet sugar. More like a drug to him, making him addicted in a way that, once he got a taste, he couldn’t stop. Not until you had nothing left to give, his pursuit at seeing just how far or how long he could make you go merciless time and time again.

“P-please—” you sobbed, the new veil of tears that had welled in your eyes causing your lashes to clump and spike together with every fluttering roll of your eyes back into your head. His pace was voracious, wanting to devour you down to your very core. You could barely get half a broken plea out before it was interrupted by a surrendering mewl or a soundless gasp, mouth hung open in ecstasy before he prepared to shatter you. “Please— I’m gonna—”

But before you could even speak the last word of your sentence, let alone remember it, Undertaker had you coming undone, unraveling you like a frayed thread on a silk scarf, pulling you apart until there was nothing left but a tangle of string he could then rearrange into any shape he pleased.

Your chest rose and fell with short, shallow, panting breaths, rigid form relaxing back into the mattress, body gone all pliable and boneless once the remaining tension melted away. Meanwhile, Undertaker pressed gentle kisses to the sensitive insides of your stained thighs, palms gently petting you as you drifted down from the high and back into the garden of Eden he’d planted, nurtured, and grown just for you.

Normally, he’d barely give you enough time to recover before commencing round two, but, as he seemed to be a little more patient with you on this most special of days, he allowed your heart to slow to a steady rhythm and your breathing to smooth out into even inhales and exhales before shifting over you, darting out his tongue to lick at his own lips to catch one last obscene taste of you before wiping away your glistening arousal from the bottom half of his pale face with the back of his hand.

As he stared down at you through half-lidded eyes, the vibrant green of them almost glowing through the dim dark of the bedroom, he said, as if only to himself, “Just look at you… So gorgeous… My beautiful girl…” as he helped free you the rest of the way from your pretty birthday dress, mindfully folding it and placing it on the nearest bedside drawer so it didn’t get ruined.

Because he did intend to ruin you.

He intended to ruin you in all the right ways.

As he shed his own clothing like a black-skinned snake, all those silvery scars wrapped around alabaster flesh now on full display, you reached out for him, wanting, craving, needing to feel the press of his body back on yours before the ebbing pleasure made you drift off to dreamland. Though, with Undertaker, reality could often feel like a dream, so perfect your conscious mind almost struggled to comprehend it was real at times.

But, as he began to lean back over you, your fingers interlocked as he pressed your hands down into the comforter on either side of your head, both your legs thrown over his shoulders to have you splayed wide and vulnerable for him, just the way he liked you, one thing was for certain. Undertaker had been ahead of himself when he’d said he’d have to find a way to outdo your birthday next year. After tonight, you had no idea how things could get any better than this.

***

(Hello and thank you so much to @fanfictionsworld for your request! I hope I did it justice and thank you for being so patient with me while you waited for it. I know you’ve been following me for quite some time and I always recognize you when I see you pop up in my notifs, so it was truly a pleasure getting to write for you <3

Also want to give a big thank you to everyone else for reading as well! I hope you enjoyed and I hope you have a wonderful day!)

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sylasthegrim · 5 months

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Mine Must Be The Shame ✦ Part 1

Dom!Ettore x Sub!reader/unnamed OC

TW: hard BDSM

Ettore is a professional Dom. Every Thursday he enjoys a session with a particularly pain-oriented client, until one night she reveals to him her darkest fantasy...

Proceed with caution ✦ consensual BDSM, dom/sub dynamic, restraints, pain play, nipple clamps, clitoris clamp, choking, discussion of non-con, reader insert (third person narrative)

A/N: This is extremely dark content. Before you venture further, please know that everything happening between the two characters is consensual. In this work, the reader/unnamed OC expressly asked for all the acts Ettore performs on her, they both have consented to them, and they have signed a legit BDSM contract. Mind the tags.

If any of it sounds triggering to you, DO NOT READ. You are responsible for the content you expose yourself to past the trigger warnings.

The apartment was bright but almost bland, with dark, shiny wooden floors and even darker walls. She had thought they’d been black the first time she had set foot in the main room, but as time went on she realized they were actually midnight blue. The large windows brought light into the wide, neat space, but as soon as the thick blinds were closed, it became dark and almost entrancing, just like the man who inhabited it.

Ettore came highly recommended.

He was the Dom people came to when even the hardest, most experienced Dom did not cut it. It was said that he did not have limits, that he took pleasure in hurting and humiliating his submissives in any way they asked, as long as he got to inflict pain.

Pain was his only limit, in the way that any practice that didn’t inflict it was refused.

Ettore was unhinged, even among professionals. He was talked about as though he was a ghost, a spook, something that made people tremble and watch over their shoulder at night. There was something predatory to him, even in the way he looked; from his pale, freckled skin to his cold blue eyes, he looked like a shark in human flesh.

When he had handed her his chart, and she had seen every single practice she could think of ticked in black ink, confirming his consent, she had wondered if he was serious, or if it was all a farce. It had taken her one session to understand that it was indeed real. Ettore was the real deal.

He was more than a Dom, he was a true sadist. There was more than an air of danger to him, the danger was contained in his slim frame, in his long fingers and calculating eyes.

There was only one thing Ettore had refused —she would not see him naked below the waist, and he would not penetrate her. The contract she had signed with him went beyond sexual gratification, and although he was quite physically attractive, she understood he must keep one thing for himself.

It also gave him an edge she had never considered before; during sessions where he didn’t not blindfold her, she would see the hard line of his cock through his pants—gray, cotton, plain, soft and practical.

He obviously took pleasure in inflicting pain and did seemingly find some form of sexual gratification in it. Even though she was only seeing signs of it, the silent threat that was his obvious masculinity and arousal were enough to satisfy her.

Tying her up, whipping her ass, nipple clamps, clitoris clamp, overstimulation, choking her, forced orgasms (with a vibrator maybe). He has always refused to fuck her.

She had come to him with a void in her very bones, a whirlpool of wild and furious thoughts taking over every aspect of her life until she could barely function.

She had needed someone to touch her at the very core of her vulnerabilities, to bring down every wall she had ever built—Ettore did that with ruthless precision, and session after session, she felt herself come back into alignment, her troubled thoughts settling again, resting easy in the reassurance that she had found an outlet in his services.

Every week on Thursday nights, she would enter the code he had given her, let herself in the chic marble lobby, ride the elevator to the last floor and walk down the hallway until she came to a thick, dark wood door. There, she would ring the bell and Ettore would open the door at 8pm on the dot, not a minute earlier or later, and she would enter her Dom’s dungeon.

On this particular night, one of the windows was open, letting a cooling breeze wash over her bare skin as she was tied to the Saint Andrew's cross, a blindfold clouding her vision until she could barely see shadows. Her mouth was dry from her excited panting, and there was still a smile on her face—she knew Ettore would wipe it away soon enough.

For now he seemed content to play with her as he wished, pinching her nipples until she squealed and he chuckled, pressing his thumbs into the bruises he had left during their last session, enjoying his work before they would fade.

Resting into the restraints despite the discomfort, she was content to be poked and prodded for his enjoyment, tension mounting inside her as she knew he would soon grow tired of the tame play and turn to more violent gestures.

It started with a low hum and a hand at her jaw—he never left any marks on her face, or anything that couldn’t be concealed by clothes or makeup. It was one of the clauses of their contract, but beyond that, any bruise was allowed.

“The bruises are fading,” he said, practical, and she obviously shivered.

Ettore had felt a dark shudder go through him as she had walked through his door the very first time, coming with a recommendation from a fellow Dom that couldn’t satisfy her to the fullest. She was short and slender, like a little bird in the palm of his hand, and she squealed and cried so prettily as he tortured her, it made him hard as a rock every time.

There was an edge to her, something he rarely saw in his clients, a profound need for pain that he knew was rooted in years of trauma. Trust had not even been part of their initial conversation, all she had wanted was the pain he could inflict on her, and the disregard for her own well-being had made his blood boil—most Doms in the industry thrived on trust, on feedback, on some sort of emotional connection he found himself incapable of providing.

But there she was, sweet-looking and seemingly innocent as a virgin, dismissing the emotional needs of any functioning Dominant and Submissive partnership, requesting the sharpest, most cruel pain he could inflict, assuring him she could endure it.

He had been skeptical, but their first session had been a revelation.

Ettore had never seen such beauty in her surrender, and as she had fallen hard and fast into the hazy space where pain often led submissives, she had taken each blow and each bruise with a desperation that he had rarely seen.

The harder he had hit her, the more incensed she had become, and as he had crossed the threshold where most of his clients placed their hard limit, she had unraveled and pleasure had wracked her frame until she had fainted.

She was all that he had even fantasized about and more.

Each time she delighted him, feeding the ravenous beast inside him with her cries, whimpers and wails, and seeing the fading bruises changing color week after week filled him with pride. She was his prize, his possession, whether she knew it or not.

“The bruises are fading,” he repeated as he laid a hand flat on her chest, feeling the thruming of her heart and the slow rhythm of her breaths. “You need fresh ones.”

A choked gasp left her mouth as he curled a hand around her breast, pinching her nipple between two of his fingers. He released it for a short second then pinched it again, viciously, hard enough that the rosy skin turned bright red then white as the circulation was cut off.

He pressed his mouth to hers and swallowed her throaty cry, growling when she parted her lips and he took control of her mouth. He licked inside without any finesse, tasting the salt of her tears as they spilled from below the blindfold and rolled along the curve of her cheeks to her lips.

"Crying already? This is nothing," he crooned as he pulled back slowly, making her feel the bite of his canine, and she shook her head.

"I need more," she confessed with a touch of shame, and his cock throbbed at the sight.

Ettore bit his tongue and ignored her sweetness, instead fastening the clamp he had kept in his palm to the nipple he had just pinched. This time, the cry choked her but he didn't leave her any reprieve, and within a second the other clamp was pinching her second nipple.

She quivered and squirmed as the pain irradiated her body, starting from her chest and echoing deep in her core. "Thank you," she moaned, and Ettore chuckled.

"Don’t thank me yet," he warned, and she grinned through her own anticipation.

Ettore kept humming his satisfaction as he ran the back of his knuckles along the crease between her breasts, following the crease that led to her navel, then down again.

He allowed her one second of softness, of sweet pleasure, pressing the flat of his thumb to her sensitive nub. She sighed as heat licked up her core—she was already soaked from the anticipation, and the pain had only made her ache even more, her chest throbbing in time with her clit.

“What a slut you are. Wet already, hm?” he taunted. “I’ve barely even touched you.”

He twirled the third metal clamp that he had kept in his palm and brought it to her warm flesh. She mewled as he dragged the smaller instrument along her folds, and she braced the excruciating pain she knew was to come. Ettore chuckled again as he watched her squirm, growing more restless as the seconds passed.

Her cry was great and strangled as he finally fastened the clamp on her nub, and he grunted behind his gritted teeth as tears spilled freely on her face and she wailed, struggling against the restraints.

"Thank you," she sobbed as her core pulsed painfully, agony crashing through her in waves, breaking on the shore of her pleasure. Ettore hummed again, admiring the sight she made.

"Oh don’t thank me, girl, we’re only getting started,” he warned, his cock pulsing. “Don’t forget, you’re at my mercy. I can do anything I want to you… I could rip that pretty clit from your body, pinch it so hard it comes off,” he threatened as he took hold of the clamp again, shaking it roughly.

She sobbed again and he grinned, adrenaline coursing through him, victory spreading an iron taste on his tongue. "You’re my little toy, I can do whatever I want with you and there is nothing you can do to stop me."

Sweat was pearling at her temples, making the thin hair there curl, and Ettore dipped his head into the crook of her neck, smelling her. There were nights where he played with her this way and only this way, pressing bruising kisses all over her, sinking his teeth into her flesh and tugging at the clamps until she was quivering and begging for him to stop.

On rare occasions, when she was blindfolded and drunk enough on pain, he would lower his black sweatpants and jerk himself off until he came on her thigh, coating her soft skin with hot pulses that always made her mewl and spread her knees.

She was a whore, he knew, and he derived a twisted sort of pleasure at denying her his cock—any man could give her that, but he could give her things no one else could.

“Now, it’s time to really start,” he warned, his mouth curling into a vicious grin.

Without another word, he reached for the last item he had prepared for their session and kept it securely in his right palm—with his left hand, he trailed his knuckles up from her navel to her neck, watching as understanding dawned on her and her breathing deepened, silent words coming from her dry lips.

She rasped as his hand came to the hollow of her throat, and he retracted it, hovering over her porcelain skin. His nostrils flared as he watched her, tied to the cross, blindfolded and pinned in place by the clamps that pulled and tightened around her nipples and clit with each smallest movement she made.

After an excruciating thirty second that he counted in his head, he grasped her in one smooth motion, his fingers on either side of her throat, so tight she couldn’t even produce sound and breath seized in her chest. She jerked against him and he felt her pulse jump beneath his hand—the shackles rattled and her face flushed as her mouth dropped wide open.

He breathed in her mouth, tasting the desperation on her tongue as she fought for breath, and swallowed her gasp as he released her throat. He shared his air with her as she settled again, an overwhelming feeling of relief coursing through her body and the clamps pulsing painfully, the three sensitive spots burning.

But before she could settle fully again, the hand returned without warning and this time Ettore pulled his mouth away. Speared to the spot, with nothing grounding her but his touch and the cuffs, she let herself float in the space he allowed her—there was nothing more to her than the breaths he kept stealing and the three clamps making her chest and core throb.

Release after release, stolen breath after stolen breath, her body grew lighter and heavier at the same time. The bite of the cuffs disappeared and she felt as though she was pulled out of her body each time he allowed her air again, until there was nothing left of her but the pulse he held in his hand.

He could end her life, right there and then. He owned her, body and spirit, and this state of surrender made her float above all her worries, insecurities and pains. She was nothing but breath and blood, nothing but a toy for his sick pleasure.

She was safe.

As he choked the breath from her throat, swallowing her airless gasps whenever he wished to have a taste of her, he turned on the item he had been keeping in his hand and as the egg started to vibrate, he brought it to her lips as he released her once more.

She gasped and panted, her tongue coming out to lick at the small vibrator, but before she could suck the tip into her mouth, he replaced it with his own tongue and growled in her mouth as she lapped desperately—her words had gone but he knew what she was begging for.

Her whole body was buzzing with excitement, pulsing with arousal and pain alike, and she whimpered as Ettore trailed the vibrator down her body, pushing it against the clamp until she squirmed before reaching further down and circling the entrance to her vagina.

She choked on her own breath even though his hand was resting loosely against her collarbones and she tugged on the cuffs at her ankles, her hips grinding into his touch.

Ettore chuckled darkly. “Dirty slut, dripping all over my hand,” he groaned, pushing the vibrator further in then out as he taunted her.

“Ettore,” she rasped, her throat raw and he chuckled again, dipping his face into her neck and breathing in the scent of her sweat. It was making the thin hair stick to her skin and he licked her there, breathing deeply and pressing himself to her thigh as he slowly pushed the vibrator in her.

She arched against him, pressing up against his cock and mewling in his ear as he did so, his left hand tightening around her neck slowly, letting her feel the mounting pressure.

He ground against her a few times, unable to stop himself, and as he pushed the vibrator as deep as it would go and maintained it pressed against her deepest sensitive spot, his thumb coming up to toy with the clamp.

He grinned, great shivers going through him as she squirmed and struggled to get free, but there was nowhere to escape; like a butterfly caught under a glass bell, slowly suffocating. He let go of her neck as he pulled the vibrator out suddenly and she gasped, hissing through her sob.

“Please,” she begged, breathless. Her pleasure for her breath, that was the deal she made with him, with her personal devil, the one she had picked and paid to inflict this punishment on her.

And so time and time again, Ettore pushed the vibrator inside of her, grinding it against the spots he had learned with ruthless precision, settling his fingers on either side of her throat and pressing against her pulse until her head swam and her vision went white beneath the blindfold.

As the pleasure mounted slowly but surely over the course of his repeated pattern, her whole body felt on fire, from her throat to her nipples to her core where the pressure of the clamp felt unbearable. She was on the edge of madness, of something snapping inside of her—her sanity, her sense of self, her consciousness, she couldn’t tell.

“Please, stop, please—” she gasped, great shudders wracking her frame as he left her suspended over the edge for too long, and she felt him laugh against her face, inhaling the smell of her sweat and taste her tears on his tongue.

“Stop,” she sobbed and Ettore bit the lobe of her ear as he tugged on the clamp, agony ripping through her as he choked her fully, pressing the palm of his hand against the front of her throat as his fingers squeezed under her jaw. She felt as though her heart would stop and her ears started ringing, and finally, finally—

She wailed as her orgasm tore through her, the pain ripping her insides so sharply she thought she would pass out—but instead it only riled her up even more as she coated Ettore’s hand in her wetness. Wave after wave of pure ecstasy and relief washed through her and her whole body pricked with her nerves coming alive as her chest burned.

As Ettore released her and turned off the vibrator, loosening the clamp, her breath came to her in a rushing of air that left her mind spinning. A whirlwind of panic took hold of her and terror made her stomach roll—she was caught on the edge, the pain and the pleasure only touching the surface of her desperate desire.

He had given her exactly what she wanted, and coming down from the great high he had taken her to felt like the sudden drop of a rollercoaster, except she could find the ground again.

The pain receded as Ettore loosened the clamps and she felt empty, sorrow and grief hitting her like one of his punches. “You’re not hurting me,” she whimpered uncontrollably, and Ettore’s demeanor instantly changed. “You’re not hurting me…”

“I need you to hurt me, I need it to be real,” she pleaded, and still Ettore stayed a step away, coiled in on himself like a snake ready to strike, and she could tell in the way he rolled his shoulders that he was holding something back.

“What do you need, little slut?” he asked viciously and she shook her head.

“Please, hurt me,” she begged again, and Ettore chuckled in her ear.

“It’s not about what you want,” he crooned and she shuddered; the sound of his amusement was making her skin crawl. “It’s about what I want, and right now I want you to be nice and pliant.”

He tightened his hold around her throat and she fell against him, the invisible noose around her neck loosening slightly; she could breathe again. “That’s it, that’s a good little slut,” he praised in her ear, and she closed her eyes, a heavy sort of sleep pulling her under.

She was vaguely aware of Ettore untying her and lowering her down to the floor. The full contact with the cold hardwood loosened her muscles and she allowed herself to drift in and out of conscious rest. Between the waves of her thoughts and Ettore’s steady touch, she came back into her body slowly.

“What happened?” she asked, her throat raw. She was sprawled across the shiny floors at the foot of the cross, covered with a thin blanket, Ettore holding the back of her neck firmly enough to ground her. He was sitting beside her, an unzipped hoodie covering his arms and shoulders.

“You had a panic attack,” he said as he handed her a bottle of room temperature water.

She took it but she found she had no strength left, and Ettore popped the cap open for her with a quick twist of his fingers and brought the neck of the bottle to her lips. She drank in small sips despite her thirst, her throat still feeling tight.

“Do you remember what you asked of me?” he hummed as she let go of the bottle and he twisted the cap back on, setting it down.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t,” he said quietly but sharply, like the crack of a whip. she almost startled, but she contained her reaction, simply nodding. She knew how much he hated apologies, even during sessions.

“What did you want?” he asked directly, no ounce of hesitation nor curiosity in his voice.

Just a plain, matter-of-fact request for information. Still, despite his lack of emotion, she was still drowning in her own, slowly but surely. The panic from earlier had receded, leaving behind a frightening emptiness and a silent tornado of shame, desire and utter devastation.

“Even in your panic, you wouldn’t tell me,” he continued, and she closed her eyes, hoping to catch even one coherent group of words from the raging storm of her mind, but she could not.

“Tell me,” Ettore said and the command cut through her spiral of self-doubt, pulling the words from her mouth without allowing her brain the time to process them.

“I want you to rape me,” she confessed quietly, discovering the admission from sher own voice before the thought process registered in sher mind. “I don’t want it to be play, I want it to be real.”

The confession hung in the air between the two of them as Ettore waited patiently. He always knew when to speak and when to allow her silence; he was in tune with her emotions even when she wasn't so sure she had a grasp on them anymore. The corners of her eyes burned as she took a shaky breath in.

“I want you to rape me,” she sobbed, relief coursing through she as she confessed her deepest, darkest secret to the only man who could understand she, perhaps even fulfill it. She didn’t beg, for she knew he would hate it, and she didn’t ask either.

“You said you don’t want it to be play. I’m going to need you to be more specific than that,” he said, and there was an air of danger to him. There was a glint she had never seen before in his eyes, and fright took hold of her.

There he was. The shark. The inhuman predator.

“I want you to rape m,” she repeated slowly. “I want you to ignore my safeword,” she added, crossing the one limit that should never be crossed. There was no coming back from that; it was open water, the pitch black depth of the ocean.

Ettore’s nostrils flared, the muscles in his shoulders bulging as he squared them subtly. He was holding himself incredibly still, poised, ready to bounce.

“I want it to hurt. I want to cry. To choke, to bleed. I want you to do whatever you want to me,” she detailed with an edge of desperation to her voice, but she still refrained sherself from asking. “I want to plead and to beg and— I want to want it to end, fully knowing you won’t stop until you’re satisfied, regardless of my limits.”

“No Dom in this industry will ever agree to that,” he replied, matter-of-fact as always.

“I know.”

“You're asking me,” he continued as though this sentence and his previous statement had no connection at all. There were other doms and there was him; two entirely different species.

“I’m not asking a Dom. I know what you are, deep inside,” she murmured slowly, and it didn’t escape either of them that she had said what and not who. Ettore tilted his head to the side slightly, that blank look tracing her features silently.

“It will hurt,” came the answer, his voice so flat his lips barely moved.

“I know,” she simply said.

“You would be entirely stripped of your control, of your identity,” he said with a coldness that chilled her to the bone as much as it made her burn with excitement.

“I know,” she replied, voice trembling, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’ve done this before,” she added carefully, even though there was little doubt in her mind.

“A few times,” he admitted.

“That’s why Boise recommended you to me, didn’t she?”

“Any hard Dom would have done the trick. Except for this,” he confirmed.

“You should be putting an end to our contract. You should be sending me away,” she said with a shiver of terror as the realization dawned on her. “You could go to jail for what I just described.”

Ettore stood up in silence, turning his back on her for a minute and she waited until he made his decision. Then, as she was about to bury that fantasy back in the cold ashes at the pit of her stomach, Ettore turned.

His back to her, his profile crisp and sharp against the low lights of the living room, his piercing blue eye trained on her as he spoke in a slow, chilling tone.

“Tomorrow night. You’ll stay in the client bedroom. I won’t tell you what time I will come, and I won’t tell you in advance what I’ll do. Your safeword won’t work and I won’t stop until the next morning. You'll be at my mercy.”

Requested by @babyblue711

Dividers by @djarrex ✦ Beta read by @annikin-im-panicin

Ettore Masterlist

Ettore taglist: @arcielee @babyblue711 @megatardisbaby @hb8301 @written-in-flowers @afro-hispwriter @fan-goddess @shiranai-atsune @sarahkimtae @immyowndefender

#fanfiction #fanfic #ettore high life #high life #ettore #ettore x reader #ettore x oc #ettore smut #ewan mitchell #ettore fanfiction #ettore fanfic

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preciouslandmermaid · 1 year

Text

from high above, Gotham glows (battinson x f!reader)

Note: First Time writing Battison lol and uhh this one really got away with me so there’s a decent amount of Plot and Yearning before you get to the smutty stuff. LMAO. Takes place pre-movie with some generous fuckery with the timeline and off-hand original characters.

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. Dubious consent drug use (reader is required to take the drug to keep her cover secret). reader suffers from claustrophobia/fear of tightly enclosed spaces (only mentioned/experienced during the "fear scene"). established childhood friends with Bruce. cursing/explicit language. minor hurt/comfort. enthusiastic consent during sexual content. no physical descriptors are used for the reader.

prompt: cockwarming, clothes ripping, balcony/window | pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list

“You’ve got Gotham under your nails, girl.” Falcone hisses, close enough to smell his shitty cigar breath, “More than that. You’ve got her in your blood. I can tell. And I could use a girl like you.”

You ignore your roiling, empty stomach that sloshes with alcohol. Someone leans down to whisper in Falcone’s ear – some goon, you gather – and it’s just enough time for you to slip away from the crowded booth. Your hands are clammy, and you wipe them off on your short dress.

Your bones practically vibrate beneath the thumping bass of the club’s techno music. The lounge is an assault on every sense. Sight: nauseating flashing lights. Sound: the music that rakes claws down your spine. Touch: sweaty, clammy hands reaching for your dress, your arm, your shoulder. Smell: cigars, and marijuana, and sweat, and cigarettes. Taste: harsh, clear vodka that burns and strips layers of your throat going down.

You stumble out into the misty and glossy Gotham and press your hand to your racing heart.

Was the intel you gathered about Falcone worth his grubby hands and gross breath? Surprisingly, the answer is yes. You eagerly get into your car and verbalize everything Falcone told you into a tape recorder. You’ll write down the rest when you’re home.

*********

Home is a single-bedroom apartment that’s only redeeming quality is the little balcony that views the sunrise on precious mornings. When the sun touches Gotham, it paints everything a reflective orange and yellow, igniting the city on fire without a touch of smoke. More often than not, you went to bed on the couch, watching that sunrise, watching Gotham burn.

You don’t bother scrubbing off your glittery makeup or removing your tight dress. Your fingers itch to fly across the keyboard. This frantic determination is what earned you the nickname “Quicksilver” back when you were a pulp journalist writing about missing cats and happy birthday columns.

Despite your hard work, both in the field and out, the Gotham Gazette refused to promote you. In attempt to prove yourself, you singlehandedly wrote an article that revealed the corruption of several Arkham State Hospital doctors. When you dropped the story on your editor’s desk - they fired you. You went freelance after that.

It’s a shame the Gazette wiped your files and withheld your work laptop. Your current laptop wheezed to life; their fans mimicked a jet engine about to take flight. Corruption ran into the very veins of Gotham. Her blackened, wet streets were littered with petty crime and shady corporations. Sometimes it felt like you and the Bat and Gordon were the only people left with a shred of moral integrity.

You click on the multi-colored lights that framed your balcony window. You are the only one in the building that kept the lights up year-round. They are your very own, personal bat signal. You flipped them on whenever you had important news to share about Gotham.

The blue light of your computer screen frames your face as you start transcribing your notes from your tape recorder. The soft click-clack of the keys and the sharp, heavy ‘clunk’ of the play and pause button are the only sounds that fill your apartment for a long, long time.

Batman’s voice is gravel scraping against your skin, “what’ve you found?”

You jolt. “Jesus.” Your gaze narrows at him, “we talked about knocking, didn’t we? Just a little tap-tap on the glass will do.”

“I don’t have time, Silver.”

You roll your eyes. No time for pleasantries, huh? Not even a shred of basic, human decency. You’re not sure what you expect from a guy who runs around dressed like a bat. Still – he’s your ally. You turn the laptop around to show him your notes.

“It’s worse than I thought.” You say, brow furrowing, “I thought – I theorized that Falcone was just using the girls to run drugs, maybe help establish meetings, but he’s – he’s got them testing some kind of psychoactive drug for him.”

“LSD?” Batman rasps, his shadowed eyes scan the screen.

“Something else.” You drum your fingers against your coffee table. It’s always a little silly seeing Batman, decked out in his heavy armor and big cape, in your cramped living room. It’s big enough for a couch, a coffee table, and your overflowing bookshelf – but that’s it. Batman swallows the space like a hungry black hole.

“Injected – is my theory – based on his linguistic tell.”

His eyes meet yours over the lip of your laptop.

“He mentioned Gotham being in my veins. Said he could use someone like me.” The term ‘use’ was slang for junkies when they blissed their brains out with drugs. You look down at your exposed skin, at the translucency of your inner elbow, where a needle impresses, where wandering, greedy hands at the club try and grab. You suppress a shiver.

Batman’s question comes as a surprise; “How long were you with Falcone?”

“Few hours.” You shrug. His concern is sweet, but unnecessary. There is some truth to Falcone’s words. You were born and raised in Gotham. And very little in this city could scare you. Hell, when Gordon introduced you to Batman in a dark, shadowed alleyway, you merely blinked at Vengeance and proclaimed you needed some food if you were going to have this conversation.

You start to pace, because moving helps you think, “he didn’t give up much. He was too busy trying to impress me with expensive drinks and flattery. But he threw the word opportunity around a lot. He kept mentioning how he was the one on the ground floor of this thing.”

You fold your arms across your chest and stare out your balcony sliding glass door. “We know Falcone is involved in a drug trafficking, and maybe even human trafficking too. I’ll go there again tomorrow—”

“No.” The word tears from his throat. You spin, expecting him by the table, and your heart gallops in surprise at his close proximity. He practically looms over you. You peer up, and the second surprise comes in the color of his eyes, striking and watery blue, smudged with some type of black paint or makeup.

He says, “you’ve got enough.”

You almost laugh. “I’ve got shit.” You shake your head, “I don’t have anything to pin Falcone with. I’ve got conjecture. I’ve got a half-remembered conversation thanks to all the booze they plied me with. I don’t have names, or details, but if I go in again—”

“You said he wanted to use you.” Up close, you see the chest plates of his body armor flex when he inhales deeply. “You could get hurt.”

You shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

You stare into Batman’s impassive, stoic expression and his tense, tight jaw. Your resolve flares white-hot. The girls working for Falcone are actively getting hurt, being hurt, the longer you take to crack this case. Yeah, sure, you’re just a freelance journalist. But lots of people in Gotham read your articles. A big enough article should garner enough public backlash to cause the Gotham PD to investigate. That was your hope anyway. And if not—well—you had Batman in your living room. You’d give the evidence over to him.

You lift your chin and set your shoulders, “I can bear the pain if it means saving others the trouble.”

Something ripples across his half-masked face. Something – you think – like empathy? Until his eyes drop pointedly to your mouth. Your thoughts dry up, your mind a wasteland, and a new, sudden pulse reverberates across the muscles of your heart. You slowly release your lower lip from your teeth. If you had any space to move, you would slink around him, return to the solace, and comfort of your couch and start digging through Falcone’s contacts. But – tiny living room, big Bat. Outside, you hear a deluge pattering on the balcony railing and the rooftops below. A low and distant rumbling thunder vibrates through the skyscrapers.

Batman edges impossibly closer and the front of your chest brushes against his armor. Your neck aches from craning upward to look at him.

“Don’t go back to the lounge.” Says Batman.

“You’re not my boss.” You quip. “No one is. That’s kinda the point.”

“What about Gordon?” His lips thin. “I thought you worked for him.”

“Nope!” You respond brightly, “I just dig around in sketchy business and stir the pot, so the PD gets off their assess and does their actual jobs.”

Batman grumbles lowly.

“I can handle Falcone from here.”

“I’m sure you can, Vengeance.” You agree with just the barest touch of sarcasm.

Handle Falcone? Yeah. He’ll probably go break a few of Falcone’s ribs. Effective for intimidation, but not effective for the truth. You’ve seen Vengeance in action more than once (he’s got a pesky habit of turning up in the same circles you’re investigating). But would his technique of busting skulls help the girls in trouble? No. It wouldn’t. Based on your assumption of Falcone, if Batboy was busy fighting, then Falcone’s men would just transport the girls – and the drugs – to another location.

You reach behind yourself and tug the door handle, “I’ll call you with an update.” You slide the door open and burst of wind pushes chilly rainwater onto your floor and your back. “I promise.”

Batman glares down at you. He looks ready to say something else but thinks better of it. You step to the side to let him pass. You release a relieved sigh once he’s gone. What was that? Why did it almost seem like he was going to kiss you? You shake the foolish thought from your mind. You and Batboy? Hah! In your dreams maybe.

*********

A single phone call changes the trajectory of your entire day. You find yourself at Bruce Wayne’s Tower. You never thought you’d be here again. You use a tissue from your car’s glove compartment to try and wipe off the residual clumped mascara from last night. You aren’t as blue-blooded as the Wayne family. But the closeness in age, and the friendship your mother had toward Martha Wayne, meant that you and ‘Brucie’ were set up for playdates when you were old enough to talk. You despised him instantly.

On your first playdate, you bit him. The Bruce-Free days only lasted so long before the mothers decided to try again. On the second, he wouldn’t give you your favorite toy back. This caused quite a rift. He was forced to handwrite an apology. You still have it – somewhere – in a shoebox.

By the third or fourth playdate, things changed. Bruce stopped some older kids from picking on you and shoving your face in the dirt. He earned a busted lip and your unwavering, childish loyalty. You started looking forward to those scheduled, routine meetings in his big, fancy penthouse.

Until his parents were killed and whatever fondness that was born beautifully between you as children grew distant and cold.

You frown and count backward on your fingers. Jesus. It’s been years since you’ve seen him. Granted, it’s not like you tried to reach out either. After the years of ignored calls and radio silence in the fresh, tender years after his parent’s death—you gave up on trying. Was it shitty behavior? Maybe. But you were like ten. You didn’t know how to handle the grief of losing anyone either.

You smooth the wrinkles on your slept-in shirt and pop a piece of gum in your mouth to calm your nerves. Oh, well! You can’t hide in the car forever.

You’re led inside his glossy, gothic penthouse. Your eyes snag on the polished, wooden table holding a vase. You’ve got a tiny, white scar from where you smashed your face into that exact table from running through the hall. Alfred gives you a polite, well-mannered smile before pouring tea.

He says, “it’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks.” You accept the pretty, floral teacup, “can’t say I was expecting a phone call from the Wayne house.”

“Hm. Indeed.” His eyes sparkled, “I, myself, was quite surprised when Bruce told me to contact you. He said he could trust no one else with it.”

You squirm a little in your seat. “Being vague to a pseudo-reporter is like the literal worst thing you can do. Care to enlighten me as to why I’m here?”

The only tidbit of information Alfred gave on the phone was that Bruce had a job for you. Although it felt a little weird to be meeting up with your old childhood friend under the blanket of professionalism and employment opportunity, your pathetic bank account is two overdraft fees away from being closed completely, so you really couldn’t be prideful or finicky.

“I’m afraid I cannot. He will explain everything.”

In that moment, the man of the hour decides to bless you with his presence. Your teacup clatters shakily against the porcelain saucer. His damp hair hangs in wet, slinky tendrils along his pale forehead. A shadow of dark stubble crests over his square, handsome jaw. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping based on his hunched posture and the dark half-moon circles under his baby blue eyes.

“Did you not consider getting dressed, sir?” Alfred tuts and shakes his head. Bruce sinks into the chair opposite to yours with a sigh. His dark, large hoodie and gray sweatpants drape over his frame like a blanket. His feet are bare which you find both funny and startlingly intimate.

“Quicksilver’s seen worse.” He grumbles.

You smile at the old moniker. “You’ve been following my career have you?”

Bruce’s lips quirk, something boyish and bashful crossing his features for a mere second, before he tamps it down.

“Here and there.” He shrugs, reaching for his tea, “I heard about you leaving the Gazette.”

“I wish it had been a more dramatic exit.” You sigh, “I can see the headline now. Sacked journalist gags Gazette with gory tell all of Gotham’s crime grime!” You drag your hand across the air as if smearing the headline into space.

Bruce exhales through his nostrils, a short and huffy sound. “Does it have to rhyme?”

“No, but it’s more fun if it does.” Your heart flutters when you look over at him (when did the gangly boy who hid behind pillars at charity events get so handsome?) You look away and focus on the ever-blooming pink roses on your teacup.

“Which brings me to my next point – why am I here?” You ask.

He sips his tea.

“How much did Alfred tell you?”

“Close to nothing.” You half-heartedly glare at the doorway where Alfred exited. “Said you had a job, said you asked for me.” Your heart does a strange twist. “Said you’d only trust me with it.”

Bruce stiffens. You notice it in his shoulders hidden beneath his baggy clothes. You’ve never known Alfred to lie but his statement, however true or not, made Bruce uncomfortable. You attempt to read his exhausted, sullen face, but it’s like trying to read a street sign within the reflection of a puddle.

Bruce avoids your eyes, “it’s about Arkham.”

Your eyebrow quirks upward. How did Bruce hear about that? Or was this unconnected? You shift in your seat again, sitting upright, attentive, and a scent not unlike blood fills your nostrils. Your old editor used to say: ‘Quicksilver, you got the instincts of a fucking shark.’ It’s a shame the bastard didn’t bother to fight to keep your big story afloat. Before Bruce even opens his mouth again, you can taste it—The Story. There’s something under the soil waiting to be dug up and brought to the light.

“I’m listening.”

“I heard about the story the Gazette wouldn’t publish.” Bruce sucks in a breath, “I want you to write it.”

The floor dips out from underneath you. You’re glad you’re not holding the expensive, delicate teacup because otherwise it would be shattered on the hardwood floor.

You balk. “What?”

“Write it.” He says with more certainty this time. “I’ll pay you.”

“Bruce.” You shake your head, immediately worried for his reputation, “if people find out you’re footing the bill to uncover Arkham’s dirty laundry…”

Something scared and small inside of you cringes at the idea of going into Arkham again. Then, abruptly, the face of one of Falcone’s drugged-out girls surfaces to your mind. Shit. If you do this, you’ll be fighting two monsters. Falcone’s dangerous corruption and obvious viciousness, and Arkham’s cold, claustrophobic corridors and placid doctors who – if you’re honest – have plastic smiles that freak you out more than some of the dangerous patients.

He says, “it doesn’t matter.”

God, he’s dumb. He’s all that’s left of the benevolent Wayne family name, and he wants to spend his days a shut-in recluse paying an ex-journalist to write a story no one wants? You want to shake sense into his shoulders.

You nibble your lower lip before asking, “why me?”

Bruce actually looks at a loss for words (not that he’s been a man of many words but whatever). His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the left. His eyes narrow imperceptibly. You twist the tiny sugar serving spoon between your fingers for the sake of movement, so you don’t start pacing in his parlor.

“Alfred already told you why,” murmurs Bruce.

All air whooshes out of your lungs in something that resembles a chuckle but is far too warbled to be an honest laugh.

“Even if I write the story, Bruce. What happens next? If I post it online, people will call me a conspiracist, or a liar, or both! And if it comes out that you’re involved, they will drag your name through the mud for supporting it.” You explain a hurried rush, desperate for him to understand, “there’s no way in hell the Gazette will publish it. And none of the smaller papers either would risk the Gazette’s wrath.”

You continue, “And this is all assuming my old contacts will even speak to me.”

You had walked in, ready to accept the job offer with a smile on your face, and now you were arguing against it. Why? Because you don’t want Bruce to have his name slandered? Because it looks hopeless? Or because you don’t want to face Arkham again? Or because you already have your hands full with the Falcone drug ring investigation?

You are uncertain of the answer. It feels like a little of everything.

“Write the story first, then we’ll figure out what to do with it.” He slides his palms down his legs, from his thighs to his knees. “There are papers outside of Gotham. As for your contacts…well…the ones who won’t speak to you are likely paid off by the Gazette, right?”

You blink at him. Holy shit. He’s serious. He wants you to rewrite the story. The damp, musty air of Arkham clings to the vessels inside your lungs. Can you do it? Can you tell both stories? Save the girls from Falcone and save the patients in Arkham? It’s a Herculean task.

But it’s not impossible. You told Vengeance last night that you’d suffer pain for the sake of others. And ‘others’ included the criminally deranged patients in Arkham.

You pinch the upper bridge of your nose and close your eyes. “Fuck…”

“You’re going to say yes.” Although you’re not looking at him, you can hear a faint smile in Bruce’s voice. A molten, nostalgic, and hungry heat unfurls through your bones. Goddamnit. At the end of the day – it’s Bruce, the scrappy boy who took a blackeye and busted lip for you – that’s who is asking you for a favor. You can bite and bark all you want. But you know you’re going to agree. Doesn’t explain how he knows it, though.

You meet his steely, blue gaze, “how do you know?”

Bruce shrugs.

You groan. “Fine, fine. Yeah. Yes. I accept. Show me the paperwork to sign.”

The rich bastard does actually have paperwork for you to sign. Which is like – hilarious and also ridiculous and your leg bounces under the table with each shiny, wet signature you leave behind. It’s basic non-disclosure agreement and ownership stuff that you’ve seen a hundred other times. You mutually agree to not reveal whose paying you, you keep your contacts private and secure, and Bruce agrees that once the article is complete—it’s his. You can choose to strip your name from it completely. He’s free to sell it to the highest bidder outside of Gotham.

Though, with minor hassling, he agrees to consult with you beforehand before it goes anywhere to print.

Once the business is done, you find yourself falling into sort-of-easy conversation. It’s mostly one-sided because Bruce’s life is incredibly fucking boring. He’s unlike the other rich elites of Gotham – those with their smiling, plastic faces on glossy magazine covers.

“What?” Your prompt, leaning your elbows on the table, “Not even a single torrid and gut-wrenching love affair to share with your old friend?”

Bruce deadpans, “no.”

“What about Alfred?”

“No.” A little line appears between his eyebrows. It’s cute. You stifle a giggle in the back of your throat. “Unless he’s keeping secrets.”

You lean back in your chair, “I’ll ask him on my way out.”

You talk about work because it’s easiest. You tell him about your other articles – both published and tossed aside. You tell him about your brief period, post-Gazette, as a private investigator (“It was mostly trying to find out if partners were cheating on each other and I got bored fast” You clarify, “money was good though”). You tiptoe around any topic that implies you have a life outside of your work. Simply because you don’t. You fall asleep staring at your computer screen, up to your neck in research, and you wake up staring at the same screen. It’s a little…embarrassing…to consider how hollow your life is, but Bruce doesn’t leave his house. It’s not like he can judge you and you’d give him hell if he tried.

A notification on your cracked phone screen informs you that you need to go. You’ve got a meeting with Gordon in an hour. You already passed information off to the Bat. Now, it was time for Gordon to follow-up with you on the leads you gave him last week.

“I’ll walk you out.” He offers, falling into quiet step behind you.

You tease. “Always a gentleman.”

His lips twitch. You think he almost smiled. Now, It’s not perfect. You’re not slotted together at the hip like you used to be when you were kids. And he’s practically your boss now. But at least you’re talking again. At least it’s something. That’s better than the years of static and loneliness and complicated, yearning feelings you endured in your youth.

You press the button for the lobby with a short wave to Bruce in farewell.

His long pale fingers suddenly wrap around the silver, polished elevator door and he stops it from hissing shut. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your nose, the bow of your lips, and the arch of your brow. He looks …haggard – a little wild…like whatever he’s about to say or do is being ripped from his ribcage. Bruce is on a flimsy tether and he’s one rough pull from unraveling.

His voice dips low, stoking at an ember you weren’t aware of in the depths of your belly.

“You always used to close your eyes before saying yes to me.” His eyes pin you, their gaze darkening, and the rumpled slump of his shoulders tightens.

You grin. “That’s because you were an insufferable brat who always got his way.” You rapidly press the ‘close door’ button a few times. It doesn’t do anything, of course, because Bruce is white knuckling the door.

“Anything you need…” He trails off, then finishes his sentence with a gruff, “– just call.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You wave a hand, trying to be as nonchalant as possible with your heart trying to fucking escape from your chest like an Olympic acrobat. “I’m on the payroll now. Got it.”

You’re about to become the Queen of Multi-tasking.

*********

Fuck this fucking club, you think, as Falcone places his arm around your waist. It sends a clear message to the other creeps in here. He’s interested in you. Everyone else better back off or they’ll lose an eyeball. Your skin crawls. You put on a brave face. You giggle at his jokes. You pet the front of his blazer, curling up next to him in the booth, enduring his cigar-breath and fingers groping your thighs.

“How ‘bout we get outta here, sweetheart?” He asks, “I got something I wanna show you. Something that’ll make you feel good.”

You flutter your eyelashes, playing dumb, “really?”

Gordon followed some of Falcone’s cars to the shipping district and confirmed that Falcone was keeping the missing girls somewhere else. Gordon couldn’t breach the private warehouses without a warrant. And Batman has been MIA for the past two nights. You hope and pray that Falcone is planning to take you there now. You’re desperate for a lead.

“Yeah, baby.” He grins. “Remember how I was telling you that I’m getting into something big? Something groundbreaking? Well – tonight, you get to have a taste of it.”

You don’t want to be too eager. “Can’t we just go to your office?” You wine.

“No, no, baby.” He takes a long pull of his cigar, “I don’t keep it here.”

He signals for one of his boys to bring a car around. You don’t bother to hide your nervous and bouncy excitement. You mentally and emotionally prepare yourself for the car ride. So far, you’ve avoided Falcone’s mouth by dodging and playing coy and leaving before things get heated—but he’s a brute and a criminal. He’ll take advantage of the small space of the backseat. You’re sure of it.

Plus, he thinks you’re a runaway who is desperate for her next fix. He thinks you’re vulnerable and weak. He has no idea how wrong he is.

You hold the image of the missing posters at the forefront of your mind. You repeat their names as Falcone shoves his tongue between your teeth. You climb onto Falcone’s lap so he can’t reach between your legs and fantasize about Batman punching into Falcone’s slimy face.

Thankfully, it’s a short ride. You make a big show of pouting when the car door opens and then giggling as if you’re drunk at Falcone’s goon. Falcone leads you past some of the warehouses and into a small receiving office. You’re confused until he opens the door at the far end of the wall which leads into a narrow staircase.

Your lungs shrivel. It’s underground. You take Falcone’s offered hand and follow him down the stairs, counting each step, counting every breath. You hope the stairwell will open up into a larger space. You never did well in tight, confined spaces. You swallow thickly. You repeat the girl’s names over and over again like a mantra to salvation and sanity. Nearly halfway down and you start to hear low, echoing moaning. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting. Falcone doesn’t look back at you.

The universe is downright cackling at you when the stairwell ends, and you’re confronted with a wider-than usual hallway pocketed with doors. The air is chillier than above and you’re in a black mini dress and fighting off a panic attack. A full body tremor wreck through you. The urge to bolt, to run upstairs, digs its claws into you.

Falcone misinterprets your trembling, “don’t worry, honey.” He nods to one of his boys and they open one of the doors, “you’ll get what you want.”

You come face to face with one of the missing girls. Her cherry blonde hair is mussed over her damp, tear-streaked face. She’s curled on a mattress and muttering, quietly, to herself. It almost sounds like a song.

All self-preservation flies out the metaphorical window. Your heels click toward her, you crouch, and smooth her hair away from her face. Her big, brown eyes are glossy and distant. Wherever she is – it’s not here. And you’re thankful for it. Her hair is longer than her missing photo, but you recognize her. Her name is Karina. She broke up with her boyfriend and ran off after they had a fight. Falcone – or one of his people - must’ve grabbed her during the emotional turmoil and fallout.

Now, you’ve found her and there’s a high chance the rest of the girls are in the other rooms. You need to get to them. Gordon might not be able to shut this place down in time. The silver lining is that Falcone has limited security here. This is where he keeps the girls – not where he keeps the drugs. The few security goons you saw only carried pistols. You will get your hands on one. You’ll get these girls out.

You’re a journalist, not a hero. But doesn’t stop you from formulating a plan. If all else fails, you’ll reveal the ace in your sleeve, and tell Falcone about the tracker in your phone. It had been Batboy’s idea. It’s a one-of-a-kind program. Once activated, if you don’t check-in after 2 hours via a passcode, it alerts Gordon.

Come to think of it, it probably alerts Batman too.

“Don’t worry.” Falcone croons, “it’s more than pleasant.”

His goon grabs your arm. You almost jerk away until you remember yourself and let your wrist fall limp in their hands. You flinch at the bite of the needle. The world swims in vibrant, pulsing color. You cling to reality as feebly as you can. Whatever lucid part of your mind rationalizes that the high cannot last too long. Your tongue rests heavy in your mouth. The door echoes shut with a loud bang.

The walls close-in toward you. Shit, fuck, what the fuck?! Is the room collapsing? You press your hands to the concrete with a panicked gasp. Yes, yes, you feel vibrations. An earthquake? In Gotham!? It sounds implausible. Your mind is foggy, formulating thoughts through a haze of animalistic panic, your heart thundering so loud in your ears that you hear nothing else.

You hiccup, unaware when you started crying, your sluggish fingertips clawing at the flat, immovable walls that press closer and closer with every ragged inhale. A swarm of black spots dance like demons in front of your eyes.

You’re not even sure why you say—“Bruce?!” until you realize it’s because an earthquake is happening, and you’re stuck underground and he’s at Wayne tower and it’s going to collapse! And no one is going to be able to warn him and no one is going to be able to save him and no one is going to be with him and—Oh God!

The air is stale. You don’t have enough of it. You’re going to die in here. The realization hits you as the ceiling starts to drop. Tiny flecks of white plaster drop onto your head and into your eyes. They cloud your vision and burn. You want to curl up into a little ball and scream, but you suddenly remember you aren’t alone.

You grab Karina’s addled face, “we have to breathe slowly!” You shout to her over the noise of crumbling walls and plaster. “Slowly!”

You practice the correct slow and measured breathes to conserve oxygen. Karina doesn’t listen. She is crying. Her tears fall, fat and watery down her face. You keep trying to show her how to breathe like a mother teaching her child how to take their first steps. Karina is hopeless. She continues to wail and cry, and blubber apologizes and lamentations for her parents.

You stumble to your feet on the unsteady, shaking ground. Somehow, the metal door has withstood the ongoing earthquake. You’re not sure how this is possible, but you’re not going to spit on the blessing. Your fingers dig into the cold handle and tug. It gives way – unlocked – and you barrel into the hallway with watery knees. Another tremor of the earth and you shoulder into the doorway directly across the hall. Your body flares at the pain of impact.

Someone is screaming. It’s not Karina. Your face turns toward the sound. The collapsing world is a mess of greys and an off-shade blue that’s too unlike the sky and nearly nauseating. Every time you move your head, there’s an after-image of the world prior, like your mind is lagging and struggling to hold connection to your body and your visual receptors.

Batman is standing in the hallway. His cloak is billowing outward, led by an unknown wind, and you nearly collapse with relief. He can help. He can save Bruce and Karina and all the others. You don’t have to do it alone.

You scream, “Bruce!”

He reflectively jerks like someone slapped him. The elbow in his hand, held at an awkward and painful angle, is dropped. You lean your weight against the wall and stumble toward Batman to explain, your tongue still feels heavy, and your lips tingle.

“Bruce – my friend – my friend Bruce - you have to help him.” You grab Batman’s solid arm, heavy and black, but he’s the only thing not crumbling around you.

“There’s been an earthquake—didn’t you feel it?! And he’s on his own and someone has to warn him so he can -so he can get out. So, Alfred can get out. They live in a tower. It’s going to collapse. It’s going to collapse. Please, please, please, please. I can’t lose him again. Please, please, please.”

Your body won’t stop shaking. Your jaw tenses with a wild, deep urge to grind your teeth. “You’ve got tons of gadgets. Do a gadget. Help him. Help him, please.”

Batman is holding your face. When did that happen? You feel the heat of his palms through his gloves. Or maybe it’s you. Your skin is burning up. You feel the heat of it travel all the way down the back of your neck and across your chest. The words are slipping now like big slimy eels. Your tongue struggles to shape them.

“What did he give you?”

“Dunno.” You slur, your eyelids droop. “Karina. Other room. Help Karina. The girls. Help B—Bruce. Please. Please. Earthquake. Tell him. Hurry. Hurry.”

He squeezes your face, “Silver. Look at me.” He demands. “There’s no earthquake. It’s the drugs. Did you see where Falcone went?”

As if to prove him wrong, a piece of rubble falls from the ceiling.

It lands on him.

He collapses like a squashed bug. You shriek. The force of it renders your throat into bloody ribbons. You back pedal with arms flaring, blood hot and sticky on your face, and you trip over your feet. Someone is grabbing you, their grip strong, and they’re talking—but you can’t hear them. The walls are falling, falling, falling. You’re going to be buried alive. You failed. You failed the girls. You failed Bruce. You failed yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut because to look would be unbearable.

*********

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in a hospital. The white and blue gown is itchy and fits poorly. You rub your eyes and work the muscles of your aching, dry throat. Your body feels…mostly fine. There’s some minor discomfort at the back of your skull and your jaw.

Gordon says, “Quicksilver, you gave me a scare.”

You probe your memory and glance to your bedside where Gordon sits. “Take it from the top, Gordon, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You asking me as my friend or as a cop?”

He straightens his shoulders and his mustache quivers, “a friend.”

“Finding Karina in a sub-level below a shipment receiving office. Falcone’s men drugging me.” You chew at your lower lip, “I think…I think there was an earthquake?” Your mind snaps to Bruce and to his safety. The heartrate monitor betrays your unease.

Gordon mutters, “he mentioned that.”

“Who?”

“Our mutual friend in black.”

You sit up in bed, “he’s alive?!”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I – I saw him. I don’t know if it was the drugs or if it was real…but he was there.” You fuss at the sheets pooled around your waist, “I guess it was all a hallucination. Fuck. What was it?”

“The lab is running an analysis on your blood.” Gordon clears his throat, “we know it triggers the adrenal gland, and it induces auditory as well as visual hallucinations, and based on the other victims, we think it affects cognitive abilities as well.”

You make a mental note to ensure Gordon releases the analysis to you.

“Are they okay?”

“They’re badly shaken, but everyone is accounted for thanks to you.”

You weren’t sure what happened to Falcone and didn’t feel ready to ask, but if you had to guess—he likely weaseled his way out of there.

You relax a little into the pillows, “Gordon, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Can you call my boss?”

Gordon smiles faintly, “I thought you were freelance. Untethered, I think, was the word you used last time.”

“Fuck off.” You laugh, “I’m allowed to change my mind.”

*********

Gordon gave you the rundown of what happened while you waited for Bruce. Your app triggered shortly after you entered the shipment office. Batman was following you the whole evening (because of course he was! He’s worse than an overbearing grandmother).

When you didn’t check in, he assumed the worst and followed. Batman found you, rambling and sweating and screaming about an earthquake in the hallway. Batman called Gordon who arrived shortly thereafter with EMTs.

None of the doors keeping the girls were locked. A stronger dose, Gordon explained, usually rendered your body paralyzed. He theorized that Falcone must’ve wanted to see how you’d react first, but when Batman arrived, he fled. You decide not to think about what could’ve happened if Batman didn’t show up.

Gordon leaves the room to take a call. You’re left alone with your thoughts.

You rest your cheek along the stiff, bleach-smelling pillow and stare out the window to Gotham’s chrome brilliance. It’s overcast, painting the skyscrapers gray, the big, fluffy clouds reflect on every giant window. They promise rain. And when Gotham’s skies promise rain—she almost always delivers. You sigh.

Bruce hasn’t been in your life for more than three days and he was your first thought when you were in trouble. It is embarrassing. It’s heart-wrenching. You were on a drug-addled hellscape of your worst nightmare and what did you do? You begged Batman to keep Bruce safe. The seasons change, but your candle to Bruce Wayne hasn’t. He’s ingrained into you. The little white scar from his hallway table. The folded apology letter in the shoebox under your bed next to the faded, sun-washed photograph of you two eating watermelon slices.

The door creaks open.

“Hey, no hoodie this time! I’m honored.” You smile and try to infuse as much teasing and normalcy into your voice as possible.

The treacherous heartrate monitor betrays you again. Your pulse is erratic from simply looking at him. Truthfully, he looks like shit. All bedraggled, and sleep-deprived, and pale. He somehow manages to look more hollowed-out from when you saw him last. You wish whoever kept carving out pieces of Bruce Wayne’s heart out of his chest would just stop. But, sadly, the truth is that Bruce is the one holding that knife.

You kick the covers off your legs, standing when he approaches you, “you shouldn’t—” He says, but he’s too late. Too slow. You throw your arms around him. You tremble, hot and biting tears burn inside your lower lashes, and your hands fist the fabric of his heavy, woolen coat. His cologne is earthy, masculine, and warm.

It takes him a minute to wrap his arms around you. But when he does—oh God—when he does that’s when you shatter. You’re not sure how you have the energy to weep after everything that happened, but somehow, against all odds, you do. You cry messy, snotty tears into his expensive wool collar. He clings to you like he might just fuse your bodies together through sheer willpower alone. It nearly hurts. You gasp, muttering his name over and over again, through the salt and relief that clumps your eyelashes together.

“I was so scared.” You admit, voice small like a child, “I was so scared something happened to you and that I wouldn’t be able to reach you.”

“Me?” He rumbles, “what about you?”

You shrug and pull away to look up into his face. “I can take it.”

Bruce’s hand cradles the side of your face. You lean into it. His hands are cool and surprisingly calloused. His thumb catches an errant tear and brushes it aside. He looks at you like he’s about to give you something. His expression so earnest, so pained, that it momentarily steals the breath from your lungs. Your exhale quivers through your parted lips.

He says, quite simply, quiet plainly, vocal chords rough and strained; “I can’t.”

It feels like a declaration. It feels like a confession. The wretched heartbeat monitor has not stopped relentlessly beeping and displaying your desperate, aching heart. Your fingers crawl toward his jaw. His stubble scratches your palms. His pink tongue skirts across his plush lower lip. There is a question lingering in the fathomless depths of his blue eyes. You crane onto your tiptoes, edging closer, and Bruce finally asks the question in his eyes—

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

Your eyes close, “yes,” and you nod minutely.

His lips graze yours. You close the barely-there distance between your mouths. He sighs into your mouth. It tastes like inevitability. He presses you snug against the hard, lean muscled strength of him. He is warm, and strong, and safe. You start to pull away, but he chases your mouth with his, humming pleasantly and pleased, you feel the vibration of it from his chest.

His hand on your face slides to the nape of your neck and he holds you, securely, and almost possessively. Your tongue glides against the seam of his lips, and he opens willingly for you. You lick into his mouth with a selfish and needy whimper. This feels right. It feels good.

The door swings open, followed by Gordon’s voice, “They said they’d release—” You wrench your mouth free and hide your face in Bruce’s collar.

“Oh.” Gordon clears his throat.

You burst into laughter, bubbly and bright, traveling all the way up your stomach and through your nose like fizzy champagne. To your immense pleasure and surprise, Bruce doesn’t let you go. His grip relaxes, but he doesn’t release you. You stay pinned to his side. Hip to hip.

You wipe the residual tears from your face, “tell me I’m going home.”

“Under supervision, yes.” Gordon’s perceptive gaze flickers to Bruce. “The side-effects of the drug are unknown. They wanted to keep you here but I – uh – I argued against it.”

“She can stay with me.” Offers Bruce.

“Hell yeah!” You beam, “tell me you have the same mattresses. Please.” The sleepovers were rare, but you had fond memories of those squishy, expensive mattresses and throwing pillows at Bruce’s head. After the kiss…maybe you’d stay in Bruce’s room? A tiny light of hope ignites in your chest.

Gordon’s eyebrow lifts a notch. You ignore him.

“I have a guest room, yes.”

Well, that hope was short-lived. You stamp down on your disappointment and focus on the positives. You’re staying with Bruce. He won’t be a phone call away. He’ll be a few feet away at most. You can make up for lost time. Lord knows you’ve got plenty of it.

“Can I leave now?” You ask Gordon.

“There’s some paperwork you need to fill out, but generally, yes. You can leave whenever you’re ready.” He regards you, both professional and concerned, “are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod. “The less time I’m in a hospital, the better.” To Bruce you say, “can we stop at my place so I can get some clothes and my laptop?”

Bruce looks quizzically at you, “your laptop?”

“Mhm.” You nod, “for work.”

“I suggest we keep the Falcone investigation private for now, Quicksilver.” Gordon says with a worried pinch to his brow, “we don’t have enough evidence to charge him. I know you’re not really ‘The Press’ anymore, but you’d be doing us a favor.”

“Don’t get your tie twisted, Gordon. I’ve got other projects on my plate.”

Gordon hums, a deep sound low in his chest, and he gives a knowing glance to Bruce before leading you out.

*********

You try not to internally panic at the reality of Bruce standing in your awkwardly living room. His eyes roams over your bookshelves and to the messy, unkept pillows and blankets on your coach.

“I’ll just be a minute.” Your bedroom door softly clicks shut. You peel off the hospital scrubs they gave you. Your shoulder whines with sharp, throbbing pain. In the mirror above the bathroom sink, you prod the mottled bruises that decorate your shoulder and splatter like paint across your collarbone. You don’t remember hitting the door that hard. You change into bulky, comfortable clothes. You shove enough clothes for a few days into a backpack.

According to your discharge paperwork, the doctors advised you should be monitored for at least 72 hours. You exhale harshly through your lips. Three days with Bruce Wayne. What can go wrong? What can go right?

Maybe he’ll just hand you off to Alfred and call it a day. You chuckle to yourself.

“Okay,” You swing the door open, “I’m ready—h-hey!” You proclaim, frowning, seeing Bruce holding your laptop open in his hands.

He doesn’t even look up, one hand on the keyboard, the other flat beneath it. “Your laptop is grossly outdated.”

“First of all, invasion of privacy. Rude. I should kick you out.” You sidle beside him and peer around his arm, “secondly, how’d you guess my password?”

His lips curve upward into a smirk. Your stomach swoops and awareness prickles across the nape of your neck. You’re relieved there’s no longer a heartrate monitor to blast your embarrassing feelings on monochromatic display.

He says, “I got lucky.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh.

*********

The sound of your laugh unravels something in him. He’s been so careful, so distant, and yet one laugh from you and he’s weak. He wants to wrap you in his arms again and ensure you’re safe. He wants to drag Falcone by the hair to the steps of Gotham Police. He thought he mastered fear. He believed himself immune to it. He is shadow, and vengeance, and righteous fury.

But, at Falcone’s drug den, he was helpless to ease your suffering. His failure plagued him. It is forever buried into the deep reaches of his mind. Every possibility of what could have been flashes through his mind whenever he looks at you. Losing you would be…his stomach sours thinking of it. He avoids your perceptive gaze and carefully snaps the laptop closed.

He says, “you should change your password.”

Your nose scrunches. His heart pangs within the hollowness of his chest. All at once, he is seven years old again, chasing you in the park, and pretending summer would never end. He’s refined the art of missing you – of your necessary absence – and now all those careful, practiced skills are turning to dust.

“Why?”

He tucks your laptop under his arm, “the code is too obvious.” Said code is his birthday. The password implies that you’ve not forgotten him—despite his distance, his lack of friendship. He recalls your glossy, wild eyes begging the Batman to save him. Falcone’s drugs clutched you in a vice grip of madness and you thought of him. He doesn’t deserve it.

“So?” You shrug, but a nervousness enters your eyes and gives you away. “How many people know we’re friends? Like two people, right? The odds of those two people trying to hack my laptop for information are close to zero.”

He sighs. You’ve got that fiery, determined gleam in your eyes. There’s no winning this argument.

On the walk back to the car, you continue, “besides, all my important notes and files are encrypted with a different password. I browse anything online through a VPN. And—” You keep talking throughout the car ride. You fidget in your seat. You chew at your lower lip.

He realizes, albeit slowly, that the excessive rambling isn’t because you want to prove a point. It’s because you’re anxious. It’s likely because of Falcone’s continued freedom. His grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Falcone can’t reach you here.” He says levelly, “you’ll be safe at Wayne Tower.”

“Huh?”

“You’re…” He clears his throat, glancing sidelong toward you, “acting jumpy.”

“Oh.” You rub both of your hands over your face. You go quiet. You turn your face away, watching the city through the rain-speckled windshield. Bruce immediately wants to kick himself. Shit. He wants to comfort you, reassure you, not cause you to withdraw. He fumbles to find some type reply of that’ll get you talking again.

You reach over to the center dashboard and flick on the radio. An old, classic croons through the speakers. You rest your chin in your palm and continue to stare out the window. His fingers flex against the wheel with an errant, foolish wish to stretch across the space and settle his palm on your bouncing knee. The rest of the car ride is silent, save for the rain hitting the metallic roof, and the droning, sorrowful song in his ears.

*********

Bruce is painfully absent once you enter the tower. He doesn’t even explain why. He walks in with you and then vanishes like an impressive magician. You’re half-tempted to go knocking on walls and look for secret doorways.

Dory shows you to the guest room. She’s sweet and fusses over your comfort and keeps saying how nice it is to have a guest over. Alfred helps you connect to the wi-fi signal. He keeps you company in the room you’ve plugged your laptop into (the old beast can’t hold a charge anymore). You take notes about Arkham, you eat little sandwiches and fresh fruit, and force yourself into some semblance of normalcy. Alfred is a decent conversationalist, but you worry that he’s here to keep you occupied so you won’t go looking for Bruce. You push the thought away.

It's not like Bruce is avoiding you, right? He’s just busy doing weird billionaire reclusive stuff. You wrinkle your nose. What could Bruce be doing? Oh, God. Maybe Alfred is keeping you away, maybe Bruce has some freaky, embarrassing hobby. Like roadkill taxidermy and then he uses the taxidermy animals to produce original puppet shows.

Alfred says, “found something interesting, have you?”

You realize you’re smiling from the thought of Puppet-Show Bruce. You shake your head.

“I’m piecing together the etymology of the word Arkham to build my timeline for the hospital and the Arkham family’s influence. I want to see if any of it connects to the current medical board or the staff.” Your fingers continue to click-clack across your keyboard.

“It’s interesting. Usually, surnames will connect back to a specific occupation, or piece of land which you can cross-reference, but for Arkham there’s nothing.” You divulge these findings to a patient and attentive Alfred.

He smiles fondly, “I see.”

“You’re looking at me funny.” You squint at him.

“I’m just pleased you’re here.”

You press your lips together. A pleased, appreciative warmth prickles along your skin.

In the evening, Bruce doesn’t show up for dinner. And you start to wonder if you hallucinated the kiss at the hospital. But there’s no way, right? The drugs were flushed out of your system. You were of sound mind and body. Did he regret it? That is the only plausible and logical reason in your mind for his avoidance. He kissed you, regretted it, and now probably regretted having you in his house for the next three days.

You roll onto your side in the big, comfy bed. You can’t even enjoy it. Your stupid stomach is tied into knots thinking about Bruce-fucking-Wayne. You stare at the dark ceiling. OK. You can’t sleep. Fine. His home is temporarily your home. What did you do when you couldn’t sleep?

The chilly air bites your legs when you kick off the heavy, puffy covers. When the thoughts go loud, you go quiet, and focus your mind on something else. Bruce is dodging you, but at least he gave you something to do. Might as well be useful if you’re not going to be unconscious.

You’ve set up in the main parlor/sitting room/whatever-the-hell this room is with its heavy, iron lantern chandeliers and sleek, dark mahogany and bookshelf nooks. Your computer hums loudly to life on the desk and blue light spills across the woven, red tapestry rug. Behind you, the tall, cathedral-like window is sluiced with rainwater and pockets of light from Gotham below twinkle like an inverted night sky. Your files on Arkham flood the screen.

Your shoulders hunch forward, “okay, Dr. Mercer.” You mutter to yourself, “let’s see you’ve been up to.”

*********

He doesn’t know how to approach you as Bruce. He approaches you as the Bat. His cape and cowl do more than protect his identity from criminals. His mask is a shield. If he’s Batman—and not Bruce—he can do so much more. He can be more than just a man.

He watches you from the shadows. You’re hunched over your laptop, bloodshot eyes, fingers drumming on the hardwood, your face hardened and taught with concentration. You worked yourself to the bone, risked your life to save the missing girls. Not because anyone hired you to. Not because of the promise of fame or recognition Not out of ambition to try and get your old job at the Gazette back. But because you noticed a pattern. And you actually care. You brought it to Gordon, who gave what support he could within the confines of the justice system, but otherwise you worked alone. And despite the odds stacked against you, you succeeded.

If not for the tracker in your phone, he doesn’t know if he would’ve found you. Well, that’s only partially true. With the tracker, Bruce doesn’t know if he’d find you in time. But he knows – deep in whatever remains of his heart - if you were missing, he’d tear Gotham bolt-from-bolt to find you. He gingerly steps from the shadows, his cape dragging softly on the floor, and his boot intentionally hit a creaky floorboard.

You look up, eyes wide, and you don’t scream. Your throat bobs in a difficult swallow.

He says, “you weren’t at your apartment.”

“Instead of breaking and entering into my friend’s house—” Your brow pinches together, “you could have called.”

He is prepared for this conversation. The mask hides the slight lift of his brow. He steps behind you and peers over your shoulder to the computer screen. Your notes on Arkham are impressive. He doesn’t know how the ancient thing manages to hold enough memory to store it all.

“You asked me to check on him.”

“Yeah, but there wasn’t an earthquake.” You twist, turning your face toward him. A faint smell of mint toothpaste catches him off guard. The knowledge that you’ve settled into the tower, that you’ve done ordinary things like brushed your teeth and shared tea with Alfred, should scare him. But it doesn’t.

“Besides, I didn’t expect you to actually follow-through.”

He frowns. Has he already lost your trust in him?

“Why not?”

You turn back to your screen, shrugging mildly. “I saw you die.”

His breath hitches. How much pain did you endure from the moment the drug was injected? What other horrors did you see? And yet, here you are, continuing to research Arkham because he asked you to. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty. Anger rolls through his gut, hot and metallic in the back of his throat.

“You shouldn’t have gone near Falcone.” He grumbles, “I told you—”

You interrupt him. “And I told you I didn’t work for you.”

Yeah, that plan backfired magnificently. He assumed when he gave you the Arkham assignment, you’d step away from the Falcone case. He should’ve known better. Guilt, and anger, and self-loathing churn and mix like a dangerous, erratic cocktail. When you interrupted him, you turned around, and now he’s pinned like a butterfly by your gaze. Your nostrils flare gently as you stare up at him. Your eyes roam. He feels the heat of your eyes as they trail the square of jaw, the cleft of his chin, the shadowed expanse around his eyes.

“For the record, though…” You say softly, “I am glad you’re ok.”

His eyes drop to the curve of where your neck meets your shoulder. The T-shirt you’re wearing is well-loved, buttery soft from frequent washes, and a few holes peeking around neck hole hem. His frown deepens. His glove skims the edge of your collar. Your pulse leaps inside your jaw, but you don’t flinch or step away.

He hooks his index finger into the fabric and gently tugs it aside. A scatter of dark bruises splotch over your collarbone and disappear into your shoulder. Everything in him goes tight like a bowstring ready to fire. His heart is thunderously loud in his ears. His eyes cannot move away from the bruise even as he notices your breathing pattern change.

“Falcone?” He says asks, lowly, dangerously.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. “A door, actually.” You don’t pull his hand away like he expects. Your fingers glide over his glove and loosely twine over his. Your hand is much smaller than his. It’s a strange detail to notice in this moment, but it’s the only thing that’s tethering him to sanity.

“I’m fine. I promise.” Your thumb rubs across his knuckles. He cannot feel it. And for once, he’s cursing his layered and protective armor. He cautiously turns his wrist and enfolds your fingers between his. You bite your lip and look away…almost shy. This would be the perfect time to kiss you. The rain gently is pattering against the window. There are no sirens or Bat signals to pull him away. He tilts forward, preparing to drop his mouth to yours…

“I don’t think Falcone is at the top of this pyramid.” You announce abruptly. He blinks.

He responds, “what do you mean?”

You untwine your fingers from his and walk around the desk and toward the bookshelf and the window. You pace back and forth in front of it like a race car on a plastic track. Around and around. Several steps, then pivot, walk the same steps in the other direction.

“Falcone is a sleazeball and an opportunist. I know he deals in uppers. Drugs like ecstasy, drops, cocaine…” You list off, clearly finding comfort in talking your problems aloud, “they’re expensive and addictive. But the drug they gave me and the other girls…that wasn’t a party drug.”

He knows. He has a sample of your blood being tested in the Batcave.

“What’s your theory?” He tracks your pacing form with his dark, smudged eyes.

“I’m thinking about the execution of the drug and its effects. It requires a needle. It induces a panic-like state.” You shake your head in uncomfortable remembrance, “it increases body temperature and effects cognitive functions. Could it be used in a controlled environment for torture? Probably. But that doesn’t feel financially ludicrous enough to tempt someone like Falcone.”

“You think it’s a prototype.”

“Exactly!” You snap your fingers and glow from within. His eyelashes flutter at the brilliance of your smile. “See? This is why we work well together.”

He can see the threads in the air that connect one thought to the next.

“Falcone is working with someone else.” It’s not a completely debased assumption to make. Falcone has plenty of business connections.

You offer him a distracted nod. “That’s my theory.”

A notch forms between your eyebrows. Your gaze drops to the carpet, your thumb is pressing into the tempting lush shape of your lower lip. His heart careens into his ribcage in a desperate, love-struck attempt to break free. He can’t be with you as Bruce. Bruce has a secret identity, a secret life. But Batman is freedom. He’s the choice to wake up and try to make a difference. He’s fearless and fear inspiring. There’s only so few hours in the night and he can’t afford to lose them.

************

You explain, “it could be Penguin. It could be someone else. We’ll know more when Gordon has my blood report.”

It feels strangely liberating to talk this through with Batman. You can’t talk about it with Bruce—though you know he’s trustworthy, you’re not sure he’d support the…extremes…you take to uncover the truth. And you don’t want to worry him either. Hell, there used to be a time when you never kept secrets from him. Where did all the time go.

You sigh, shoulders slumping, and cover your hands over your face. If only Bruce would stop avoiding you, then you’d talk to him! God. You hope he doesn’t wake up and find you having a midnight fireside chat with Gotham’s vigilante. That would be awkward. You smile behind your palms. It would be awkward first, then funny.

Batman says your name delicately as if he might break it on his tongue if he’s not careful. The warm, supple heat of his gloves wraps around your wrists and gently pulls your hands away from your face. You are unsurprised to see the grim, flat line of his mouth, to see the haunted echo behind his cerulean eyes.

“It wasn’t me who saved those girls.” He says, “it was you.”

You find the carpet infinitely interesting. Wow. What is that pattern? Eastern-European? Late 19th Century? Is it Dracula Chic? The detail work is fantastic. The color is so rich and textured—

He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “You made a difference.”

You must’ve fallen asleep while working on the Arkham article. There is no way this is real. There’s no way Vengeance is complimenting you. It’s surreal. It’s impossible. His gaze drops to your mouth. His thumb lightly presses into your lower lip. Yes, this is definitely a dream. Your heart is pounding harder than the rainfall against the window.

Batman leans toward you, close enough to feel the feather-whisper of his breath on your lips. His heavily lidded eyes drag from your mouth to your eyes. A low electric pulse strums through your veins. Your finger scramble for purchase on his arm guards and squeeze in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself. It could be real, it could be a dream, or it could be the side-effects of the drug.

“Is this real?” You mumble. “Because it seems like you—like you might kiss me.”

Batman’s gravelly voice responds, “I’d like to.”

You press your teeth into your lower lip. Bruce kissed you, but a kiss isn’t always pretense to a relationship. A kiss isn’t a promise to monogamy. Besides, you have your suspicions that Bruce is regretting the kiss anyway. There’s no harm in kissing Batman. You’re not betraying anyone. You touch his stubbled jaw with your fingertips and instinct pulls your eyes closed.

“Yes, you may.”

He sighs unevenly and then, his mouth is pressed into yours with surprising, desperate intensity. You clutch his face, opening your mouth beneath his, and moan softly at the first lick of his tongue against the roof of your mouth. Batman kisses you like he’ll die if he stops, like this kiss is all that stands between Gotham’s salvation, like he’s been waiting to kiss you for years. His tongue drinks in every soft, keening sound that he pulls from your throat. Your spine bumps into the window and you loop your arms around his neck. There is a feeling of complete, utter safety that envelopes you. And you melt into him.

His hands briefly move away from your face, but when they return—they are cool and calloused and firm. He cups your jaw, tilting your head back for him, and pressing the hard length of his body into yours.

He rasps, “I want to touch you.” His lips find the hollow spot of skin below your ear, “can I?” He suckles your skin, kissing his way down the side of your neck, explicitly careful of the bruises that dip below your collarbone.

“Yes, yes please.” Who knew Batboy could turn you into someone who whines?

His fingers hook around your sleep shorts and tug and—you hear and feel the fabric rip. You shiver in his arms, unafraid, and filled with nervous trepidation. Batman covers your mouth with his. You wish you could touch more skin beyond the scrape of jawline and his long, calloused fingers. His knuckles brush against the front of your clit and Batman hisses through his teeth.

Your hips eagerly shift, your blood ignited with desire, your head swimming with dizzying affection. He repeats in light, teasing strokes, back and forth, along your clit. Your finger slide for desperate purchase along the sleek, dark material of his armor. His other hand enfolds your wrists before pinning them together and lifting them over your head. Your knuckles rap lightly against the cool window.

“Ohhh,” You smile with understanding. His mouth latches onto your jaw and a soft hiss is pulled from your lips when his stubble scratches your sensitive skin. “You can touch, but I can’t?”

“Something like that.” He hums. His fingertip swirls over your swollen clit and it earns him another pitched moan from the back of your throat. His index finger glides between your folds and thank God he’s kissing you—thank God—because the sharp, ragged cry that you release would’ve woken the whole tower. He swallows your moans, relishing them. He grunts with pleasure when his finger plunges into you, covered in your arousal, and your walls flutter around him. He pumps his finger in and out of you, the sound of it slick and debauched, stoking the fire from deep within your abdomen.

“Be good and keep your hands up there.” He releases your wrists.

Out of sheer curiosity about what he’ll do next—you decide to listen. He kisses you senseless, kisses you breathless, and you’re certain it must be a distraction technique because there’s another ripping fabric sound from below your waist. Farewell, sleep shorts. You don’t mourn their loss for long because Batman plunges another finger into your wet, aching cunt. His thumb presses onto your clit and there’s something…clumsy…about the way he touches you. Unpracticed. Oddly, it’s a turn on. Batboy might wear a fancy belt, but it doesn’t look like he’s got many notches on it.

“Like that.” You breathe, rocking your hips in time with his fingers, “yes, yes, yes—" His thumb presses firmer, the concentric motion growing frantic, and your body tenses. You forget his instruction to keep your hands to yourself. You grab his face, hold him close, your lips smear messily along his cleft chin and pouty lips. You release a strangled moan when his fingers curl inside you.

“Stay quiet.” He warns with some difficulty. His eyes burn into your warm face. As if you’ve forgotten that you’re in Bruce Wayne’s study getting finger fucked by Batman. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

You choke out, “y-yeah, I k-know.” You squeeze your eyes shut, head lolling backward, his mouth on your throat. The familiar tightening and tensing of your lower abdomen heralds the final peak of your desire.

“I’m gonna—” Your voice pitches higher, “cum. I’m gonna cum.”

Batman gives a sweet little drawl of, “please,” at the hollow of your throat.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You shatter around his fingers, gush over his knuckles, your fingertips like claws on his biceps. Your mouth hinges open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. He hasn’t stopped touching you. His thumb continues to stroke your over-sensitive clit. You clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sounds he’s plucking from you like a trained violinist. Your body spasms, twitching, the come down of your orgasm only promising another quick release if Batman keeps toying with you.

“I want to feel you,” says Batman into the shell of your ear, “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

“Fucking hell.” You blink, dazed, and swallow roughly. “Right now?”

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you. “Yes.”

“O-okay.” You nod and are surprised your brain and vocal box can string together a single sentence. Batman turns you to face the window. Gotham twinkles and shines, gray and bright, as rain travels like independent rivers the windowpane. You flatten your palms against the glass and flinch in surprise at the first touch of his cock near your sensitive folds. He slides his cock back and forth between your folds, not entering you, just slickening his cock with your earlier release. Your eyes roll backward into your skull. Your heart thunders loudly in your chest. Just through the sense of touch alone, you can surmise the girth and length of him. You can already imagine how he might fill you.

You arch on your tiptoes, rocking your hips into his, and whine lowly. His fingers come to settle on your waist.

He says, “stay very still for me.”

“You should know by now that I’m not very good at following directions.” You tease with a lopsided smile.

The rumbling that comes from behind you sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. But, before you can turn back and see if Batman is smiling—the tip of his cock thrusts into your cunt. The world goes white.

“Oh, fuck me!” You gasp brokenly. Batman inches himself deeper, and deeper, holding your hips firm between his strong, calloused hands. He stretches you wonderfully, fills you, and your walls squeeze around him in an instinctive, desperate attempt to garner more closeness. He bottoms out. Your stomach muscles clench. Your frantic breath fogs the glass. The seconds tick by in agonizing slowness. Your body quakes. Your fingers curl with a quiet squeak on the glass. He said stay still but didn’t give a time limit. You wrestle against the instinct to start grinding your hips, desperate for friction, desperate to satisfy the craving that’s burning inside of you.

You look over your shoulder and Batman’s jaw is dropped open in pure, lustful awe.

You say, “please.”

His striking, blue eyes lift from your joined bodies and his upper lip glistens with sweat. He clears his throat.

“You feel…” He grunts and bows his head, “will you touch yourself for me?”

You nod. Your hand tucks between your legs and finds your swollen, slick clit. Your fingertips brush against the hard, impressive length of him buried deep inside you. Batman groans through clenched teeth. With every stroke of your fingers, your inner walls squeeze his immobile cock, and you try—you really, really do—to not move your hips and start thrusting.

You manage it for like thirty seconds. It’s not even intentional. You’re rubbing your clit, panting with soft little ‘ah ah ah’s. Next thing you know, you’re dragging your hips away, and letting out a deep, unrestrained moan at the feeling of his cock sliding along your walls.

Batman suddenly crowds you, pushing you up against the window, and your breasts squish into the cold glass. Your nipples pebble beneath your thin, old t-shirt.

“I—” You begin to explain yourself, or apologize, but the words rapidly dissolve on your tongue as Batman thrusts into you. You place your both palms on the glass to steady yourself again. At this angle, the head of his cock keeps hitting a deep, toe-curling spot inside you. A collection of stars dance and twirl in front of your vision like fairy dust.

You’ve forgotten the earlier instructions to stay quiet. Your moans punctuate each thrust and Batman doesn’t try to muffle you. At this rate—you’ll take the awkwardness of Bruce walking in if it means Batman doesn’t stop.

Through heavily lidded eyes, you watch down at Gotham as Batman – the masked vigilante, Vengeance, your partner – fucks you like it’s his last night on earth. He grunts from deep within his chest. Your walls squeeze. Your thighs shake. The side of your face presses into the glass, too tired to hold your head upright, and your cheek and flecks of saliva smudges the pristine surface. Everything pulses with white-hot heat and frenzied intensity.

You blindly reach behind you and grab hold Batman’s wrist. His hand twists beneath yours, and for a wild, panicked second, you’re worried you’ve crossed a line, you think he’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He traps your hand under his and clutches your fingers, twining them together like a Celtic knot, squeezing the delicate bones in tandem with his eager thrusts.

“Oh, oh fuck.” You announce emphatically. Every atom, every nerve, every muscle, is wound up tight inside you like a spring-loaded weapon. Your inner legs are slick with arousal and sweat pools at the dip of your spine. The windowpane is blotched with evidence of your clawing fingertips and haggard breath. All the tension inside of you snaps. You come undone. Your walls grip around his cock. He says your name with feverous reverence, with glimmering absolution, with greedy satisfaction.

Praise drips like rainwater from his mouth, “you’re so good for me.”

In the haze beneath the din of your blissed-out cry, Batman quietly says, “it’s you - you’re - I—“ and whatever else he would’ve said is swiftly pulled into the undercurrent of his bitten-off moan. He buries himself to the hilt, pressing you flat against the window, and shudders as his cock swells and pulses inside you. His arms encircle your waist, your spine rests snug—if uncomfortable—into the hard planes of his armor.

You droop, boneless and sweating, and listen to the rapid, deep, and booming beat of your heart. Batman’s haggard breath fills your eardrums alongside the pouring rain. Your eyes gently open. You are greeted by dark, warm mahogany and weathered book spines, and a woven, expensive rug. Your laptop purrs on the desk behind you.

The room looks the same. Yet, your world has changed. Batman doesn’t move. In the muddled, rain-streaked reflection of your visages, you see Batman tilt forward and rest his forehead in the middle of your back between your shoulder blades. His warm breath slips through the fibers of your t-shirt and your skin prickles with goosebumps.

You hope he doesn’t let go (you’re gonna collapse onto the floor if he does). Your eyes slip closed again, because—what’s the point in keeping them open? You could sleep here for a few minutes. Then you’ll crawl your way to the guest room later after Batboy leaves. You loosen your grip on his fingers and sigh languidly.

If your eyes had been open, you would’ve seen the longing that ensnares his expression.

*********

He wishes he could stay here forever in the warmth of you. He’s carried the memories of you like a candle in the dark. He never imagined, never thought, that he would experience this with you. You fit him so perfectly—it’s maddening. It’s an impossible dream. He catches his reflection in the glass. He can’t forget who he is. He can’t forget his family’s legacy. He’s Vengeance. Allowing himself closer to you would only result in heartbreak. And Bruce made a promise a long time ago to protect you from any pain. This can’t happen again.

He waits until his cock softens inside of you before pulling out. You mumble something completely intelligible. His lips quirk in fondness. You are normally so eloquent—you talk fast, waving your hands in dramatic displays, and piece together missing puzzle pieces at hundred miles per hour. A sense of pride smolders in his gut. He can make you speechless. He pours water onto the ember. This won’t happen again.

He adjusts himself and collects you easily in his arms, one arm beneath the bend of your knees, the other scoops around your back.

“I can walk.” You grumble, your sweaty head falling against his shoulder, “put me down.” He doesn’t bother listening. He walks silently through the dark halls of his home. Your breathing slows and your hand slides off your stomach, dangling to the side.

He crosses the threshold into your room and lays you carefully onto the disheveled bed sheets. His fingers trail across your jaw. He selfishly drinks in the sight of you in the muted, orange glow of the bedside lamp. You are achingly lovely, and clever, and stupidly determined. Your golden lion heart will be his ruin. Your eyelashes flutter in a dream. He hopes it’s a good, happy dream. He hopes you aren’t plagued by nightmares like he is.

He draws the covers up to your chin. The back of his knuckles caress your cheek in a lingering and lonely farewell.

*********

Someone knocking on your door is what wakes you. Not your phone alarm. Not the muted, cloud-struck sunlight bleeding through the big windows. You grumble and make a noise that sounds like “come in.”

You blink in confusion at Bruce standing in the doorway. You were expecting Alfred or Dory. His dark hair lays flat against his scalp and little droplets drip from his earlobes onto his gray t-shirt. Fondly, he reminds you of a drowned rat. You smile.

“Hi.”

Bruce takes that as an invitation to walk in. Your shirt reaches an inch or so above your knee, but when sitting, it’s basically useless to cover below your waist. You adjust the bedsheets to ensure he can’t see your nakedness. You have no clue what Batman did with your shorts and underwear. Did he keep them? It’s not outside the realm of possibility, you think, for a guy who dresses up like a bat to fight crime.

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, “hi.”

He fidgets with a bulky wash towel in his hands. He meets your gaze, then avoids it, strangely skittish for the man who shoved his tongue in your mouth in a public hospital room. You open your mouth to comment on it—but he speaks before you can.

“Can I see your shoulder?” says Bruce. Your mouth snaps shut with a comical clack of your teeth. How did he know about that? Then you remember Dory. On your first night, she—due to doctor instruction—waited outside the bathroom when you showered. Her thin, wrinkled mouth pursed when she saw your bruises, but she didn’t say anything. She must’ve reported back to Bruce. You couldn’t be upset with her, though. You liked her too much.

You grin, your tone playful, “what? You want me to take my top off?”

Bruce smirks and looks away from you, sighing indulgently. Your heart melts.

You poke his thigh, “close your eyes.” You immediately register the muscled tenseness of his leg but brush it off. He’s a billionaire hermit who doesn’t skip leg day. Who would’ve guessed.

He starts, “you don’t have to—”

“Close ‘em.”

He bites his lower lip, briefly, before shutting his eyes. You wince when you pull your old shirt over your head, but you manage without difficulty. You take the sheets pooled around your waist and tuck them under your armpits. In full light, in full view, the bruises follow the curve of your shoulder and into your collarbone. You take a minute to wonder if Falcone’s prototype drug affects blood thinness. You file the thought away for when you’ve got your results in hand.

“Okay.”

Bruce’s breath snags in his mouth. His nostrils flare. Under his scrutiny, his desperate gaze, your skin throbs dully with pain. You swallow roughly as Bruce’s fingers come close to your skin, but don’t touch you. He traces the mottled landscape with his eyes. His sooty eyelashes flutter, blinking away some errant thought, and he peers at you through his wet hair.

“How’s it feel?” He asks.

You say, “I only notice it only if I’m moving that arm.”

“You should be icing it.”

You chuckle. “You sound like Alfred.”

Bruce lifts the washcloth from his lap, “lucky for you, I brought some ice with me.” His hand hovers over the worst bruise, the part of your body that took the full, animalistic force of the door. He looks at you in silent askance. You don’t even need to think about it. You trust him. You bite your lower lip and nod.

He gently, oh-so-delicately, applies the cold compress to your injury and you inhale sharply. His gaze snaps away from your shoulder to your face, his brow furrowed.

“It’s cold.” You press your lips together.

He smiles faintly, ducking his head, and hiding the full sight of his smile from you.

“That’s the point, Silver.” He cradles your elbow in his other hand and methodically places the cold compress on the injury for a few minutes before moving to another section of your skin. His eyes remain focused on his task, only looking at you when you make a sound of discomfort. A prickle of goosebumps flush across your skin.

When the compress comes to your collarbone above your breasts, you lift your eyes to the ceiling, and the cold sensation radiates outward. You shouldn’t feel warm while Bruce is tending to your injuries. Yet, your body – treacherous as it is – hums with warmth and slow, deep throbs of desire.

Even after your…adventure…with Batman last night. It can’t erase how you feel about Bruce. He’s etched into you like the lines on your palms. Your heart has his fingerprints all over of it.

You try to focus on other thoughts, like Falcone, or the Arkham project, but holding onto your thoughts is impossible. It’s like holding tendrils of condensation that puff in front of your face in cold mornings. It all circles back to him. His gentle hands. The smell of his shampoo. The water dripping into his eyes. The length of his eyelashes. The bridge of his nose. His steady inhale-exhale.

Bruce asks quietly, “will you tell me how it happened?”

Your brow wrinkles, and something akin to grief crawls into your throat, “it’s not a happy story, Bruce.”

His hand, chilly and familiar, caresses your throat. His thumb grazes across your pulse. “I know.”

You close your eyes. “Okay…” you take a deep breath, “it all started when I noticed a pattern of girls from the same age group going missing…”

Bruce listens to all of it. Your dead-ends at other bars and clubs. The connections you made about the girl’s being runaways or estranged from their families. The terrifying close calls with drug dealers, who either wanted to rob you or kill you, or the other criminals—who usually wanted to do worse. The little help you got from Gordon. Your eventual success in getting Falcone’s attention. The shipyard. The drugs. The hallucinations you saw, what you felt, all the terror and panic, and the worry.

You omit the fact that Batman was there. And has been there since the beginning of your days as a freelance, reckless journalist.

You hate lying to Bruce, but the story is more believable if you say Gordon was following you and just called in the EMTs. That’s easier to explain that then ‘yeah, I work with Batman, and he installed a custom app in my phone to protect me.’

At the end of the story, he says, “the drugs triggered what happened when we were kids.” And his words floor you. You haven’t thought about that in years. A lightbulb switches on inside your mind, bright and humming, and you gasp with delight and surprise. It wasn’t just a random hallucination. It was triggered by memory, by fear.

“Bruce! You’re a genius!” You grab your tossed aside shirt and awkwardly pull it over your head. If Bruce unintentionally sees a bit of skin, well, it won’t kill him.

“I gotta call Gordon.” You grab Bruce’s face between your hands and plant a kiss square on his forehead. “Thank you!”

You clamber off the bed, feet nearly slipping on the hardwood, as you snatch your phone from its charging spot near the door.

Bruce says your name, freezing you momentarily.

“I thought…” He swallows, “I thought it was over with Falcone.”

You shrug, then wince. “It’s not over for me until he’s behind bars.”

He slides from the bed, approaching you, and he pins you with his gaze. “But you’re not investigating him anymore, right?”

“I can’t leave this loose end untied.” You clutch your phone tightly between your hands. “I don’t…I don’t expect you…to understand. It’s…”

Hell, you hardly understand it yourself.

“It burns me up inside, Bruce.” You say fervently, “I can’t leave a job unfinished. Yes, the girls are safe. Yes, I’m safe. But Falcone and his associates remain at large. The drugs’ location and his supplier are unknown. There’s more to this story. I can feel it.”

You pause, and consider another angle, “I promise I’ll still have time for the Arkham article.”

He holds the side of your face, his expression pained, “you think that’s what I’m worried about?”

“I don’t…” You trail off, searching his eyes, and your mouth goes dry. When did Bruce start looking at you like you were the first sight of land after days lost at sea?

“Let Gordon and the PD handle Falcone.” He whispers.

“But this is important!” You argue, clutching the front of Bruce’s soft shirt, “Gordon needs to know what the drug actually triggered.”

“Fine.” His gaze hardens but raw concern is etched across his face, “you’re going to get hurt if you keep chasing Falcone.”

You smile to yourself. “Another friend of mine said the same thing.”

“I meant what I said in the hospital, Silver.” His thumb crests over the delicate space below your eye. “I care about you. I – I don’t know what I’d do if…if….”

Your heart squeezes like a vice.

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then you should know the feeling is mutual.” Your lip quivers. “But lucky for me, you’re a vitamin D deficient shut-in who is best friends with a sixty-year-old man.”

“Don’t let Alfred hear you say that.”

You laugh softly and it breaks some of the tension in Bruce’s shoulders.

“I know it looks easy from the outside. I could get a different job. I could work the Arkham article for ten years and drain the Wayne bank account dry.” You smirk, then control your expression into one of seriousness. If Bruce wants any semblance of a relationship with you, then he needs to know this. This is your non-negotiable standpoint.

You say slowly, “but…for me…this is it. This is who I am.”

“A journalist with a death wish?” There is the barest hint of dry humor in his voice.

“A journalist who believes Gotham can change. All the crime and corruption doesn’t have to be the status quo.”

Bruce sighs softly and you know you have him. He can’t argue against your valiant, golden hope for a better Gotham. A safer Gotham. You believe in this truth and nothing, not even the man who holds your heart, can shake you from that conviction.

You lean forward and nuzzle your nose along his. “Be thankful I’m not dressing up and fighting crime.”

“There’s still time.” He murmurs good-naturedly.

You hum in agreement. “Hm. Maybe next year.”

Your lips ghost over his, “I think this is the part where we kiss and make up,” you mutter.

“Is it?” He guides your face to tilt to the side.

“Mhm.”

Bruce kisses you slowly. There is a lazy Sunday afternoon, bathed in golden light, hidden somewhere inside the kiss he gives you. You’re not sure if that afternoon is the near future or the very distant. But you want to discover it. You want to hold it tenderly in your hands, the same way you are holding Bruce’s jaw, and nurture it until it blossoms into a thousand, bright orange butterflies that carry hope with each flutter of their wings.

When you pull your mouth away from his, he asks a simple, modest request, “stay.”

And you are more than persuaded to indulge him.

(Part two)

*************************

((tag list: @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek // @buzzfrill // @man-johnnie // @reesespieces10123 // @a-wake-and-unafraid ))

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #battison x reader #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x y/n #batman x fem!reader #battison x you #dc fic #the batman fanfic #fic: from above gotham glows

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revivif-y · 22 days

Text

Also posted on ao3.

---

Fabian doesn’t know when it started to hurt.

It’s the little things, you know? The stupid things that feel like nothing to everyone else but feels like iron weights to him. Things like Sklonda mussing up Riz’s hair with a grin, the proud look in Sandra Lynn’s eyes when she looks at Fig, the way Gilear worries and worries and worries and the way Jawbone hugs Adaine.

It feels scalding to look at, sometimes. Boiling hot water poured down his throat that he’s forced to swallow down. There’s a deep, roiling shame that reverberates through him in these moments– a feeling that cooks him alive and leaves him thrashing for escape. He can’t stomach it, can’t swallow back the acid and the jealousy and the jagged bitterness that threatens to cut through.

He reigns it in, best as he can– averts his eyes when Ragh and Lydia share a look, focuses hard on his breathing when Gorthalax says “That’s my girl!”

He digs his nails into his palms when the Thistlesprings fuss over Gorgug, tries his damndest not to stare when they pull out bandages for his scrapes after practice. He leaves, mentally, checking out every time because the affection feels like thorns, gnarled and tearing at him if he thinks about it for too long.

(Because he wants it. He wants it so, so bad that the absence feels like it’s eating him alive. Chunks of flesh torn away as his bones flake and crumble, a void where his chest should be.)

(It doesn’t hurt, most days.)

(But other times it’s all he can feel.)

Fabian breaks, sometimes. Only sometimes, not all the time– only when he’s fallen far enough that he thinks he can change anything.

When Fabian breaks, (chest heaving with stuttering breaths, palms clammy and his mind swimming) he calls people. A truly pathetic display he’s glad only he can witness.

Calling his Mama is one thing: Fabian lets it ring, feels the droning ringtone vibrate in the air, the sound measured as he dry heaves in his room. Calls once, then twice, then three times. Over and over until the sound lulls him to sleep or he’s worked up enough that this makes him shatter his phone against a wall.

She always apologizes for missing them, after. There’s always something– another stroke of good luck for Gilear, she was asleep, she was partying, she was sunbathing, she was drunk– always, always something, but when he checks her Crystalgram it says she posted it while he called and that. That.

It breaks him. Chips away at him further, shards shattering into splinters pulverized into dust. It shatters him, eats at him, rends him limb from limb as he screams in his empty manor and wonders why.

He thinks of calling his Papa, sometimes. At his lowest, at his darkest and most wretched. He thinks of broadcasting his misery onto all of Hell for even the slightest chance that he will answer– that Bill Seacaster will race to his voice like a beacon and tell his son that everything will be okay. That there is nothing wrong with him and that he loves him and that he is never, ever alone.

…It’ll never happen, though. Contrary to popular belief, Fabian knows how to be realistic.

(His Papa loves him. He does. Fabian knows he does.)

(Just not that much.)

He tries not to put too much stock into these one-sided calls– tells himself that no parent would drop everything for their kids, would come running if they called, kill the Devil just to return home. No parent would do that, it’s unrealistic and certainly not for someone his age.

He’s the man of the house. He’s the man of the house.

(“I told my dad about you guys,” Riz told them, once, his voice soft yet so happy. “He said he listens, you know, every time I go to his grave and talk. I only really tell him the cool shit, but…”)

(Riz grins, wide and toothy.)

(“He told me to tell him about the mundane, too.”)

It takes a few seconds for Fabian to realize that the wheezing, ragged breaths in the room are coming from him.

The thing is. The thing is.

The thing is that Fabian doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Harsh, ragged crying spills past his lips, spikes of pain blooming from his palms. They’re reddened and his nails are bloody but he doesn’t care– Fabian rips off his eyepatch, stares at scarred skin and an empty eye socket and cries.

The noise he makes is broken, almost animalistic as silver hair covers his face, sticking to his skin. He feels like a wound, oozing and raw and searing with pain. He feels broken. He feels like something unworthy of love, the kind that stays hidden in the basement because the rot of him is too ghastly to stomach.

Questions rattle and whirl around in his head– a hurricane of sinking ships and splintering wood, blood pooling in the waters.

Questions like why and why not and why can’t I have that. Questions like is it me, is there something wrong with me, is it something I’ve done wrong. Questions become statements become I would change myself if I could. I would mold myself into what you wanted if I could. Teach me how teach me how teach me how teach me how.

I would if I could and I want to be loved. I want to be loved and I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I wish that I did because then I could fix it and I’ll be worthy I’ll be loved and I’ll be wanted.

There are sharks under the water in his mind, sharp teeth and smelling blood as Fabian bleeds, bleeds, and bleeds.

Why don’t you want me? He wants to scream. At the grey, thundering skies, at the endless, unfeeling torrent of rain. He thinks of his Father, battling devils in the fiery realm of Hell. He thinks of his Mother, lounging in the sun and giggly with wine, relaxed and happier while Fabian’s at home. He thinks of them, and he thinks of Sklonda, of Gorthalax, of Sandra Lynn and Gilear and Jawbone and Lydia and all the others that love their children like they’re gifts and not a curse.

He thinks of the way his Mama looks at him and his chest rips wide open as the sharks rip and tear at his flesh. He thinks of how far away her love feels and how he misses his Papa and he’s drowning, drowning, drowning.

Fabian wakes up. He looks like a wreck.

He pushes himself to his feet. His palms sting, his throat dry and raspy.

It’s just another bad day, Fabian tells himself, dull-eyed as he drinks mouthfuls of water, wiping at his lip. It’s just another bad day.

Fabian wakes up, just as alone as when he passed out.

…It’s okay. It’s okay.

(That’s the only thing it can be.)

#fabian seacaster #d20 fhjy #fantasy high junior year #dimension 20 #fabian aramais seacaster #fantasy high fanfic #ryan's writing

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atrwriting · 1 year

Note

Hello!!

Could you aemond’s wife giving him birthday sex

ty for the request anon!! so kind of u

it’s almost midnight this is barely proofread we die like men

warnings: oral (male receiving), reader wakes aemond up with head, dubcon

you and aemond had not been married for long, and unfortunately for you you had met him during a very stressful time for him and his family. war was being waged between the blacks and the greens, and your marriage to him was supposed to be a war time alliance that was meant to secure the throne money, resources, and an army, and maybe a few heirs down the line — but not necessary, so therefore there were very few times where aemond had lain with you.

you had not seen much of your husband since you two had married, and even in the small amount of time you had with him you couldn’t crack his shell. he was polite, but no warmth was ever present in his conversations with you.

however, while he may enter your shared chambers late at night, he spent every single night since you were married in your shared bed. it brought you some comfort to know that there wasn’t another woman, but you knew you needed to do something to keep it that way.

it was the morning of aemond’s name day, one of the only days where business hadn’t been so pressing that he had to leave in the early morning hours. you laid awake next to your sleeping husband and you admired the peaceful look on his face. his forehead was not creased, his brow wasn’t furrowed, and there was no taunting smirk playing at his lips like you were so accustomed to when an out of turn lord spoke to him. your eyes traveled down his bare, firm chest as the sunlight caught the shadows of his pectoral and abdominal muscles. your eyes traveled further down his torso to where the blanket was covering his lower body, which happened to be right at his hips. underneath the sheets and below his hip bones, there appeared to be a formed tent. you bit your lip at the sight and an evil thought popped into your head.

you gently snuck under your side of the blanket and crept down to the bottom of the bed. the early morning sun peeled through the silk sheets and provided you some light as you made your way between aemond’s legs.

it was a damn shame aemond did not possess his brother’s sexual appetite, as you don’t think there was anything prettier than your husband’s manhood. he was your first, so you had nothing to compare it to, but the horror stories from other maidens told you that there was not another man who could compare to aemond’s hygiene or size.

his morning wood was large and thick, and his heavy sack rested between his thighs. you smiled greedily at the sight before you and reached for the base of his cock.

you licked a stripe up his length from the base to the tip, and swirled your tongue around the swollen tip. your husband’s precum was already licking onto your tongue and you swallowed it greedily. you wrapped your pretty lips around the tip of his cock and began to take him into your mouth.

he was rather large, so it was difficult to fit all of him, so you pumped the base of his cock as you sucked on his throbbing tip. your morning haze had not left you, so you were not the prim and proper lady that should be worrying about what dirty slurping sounds you were making underneath the sheets between his thighs. your face was growing warm, and your jaw muscles were growing tired, but you would not stop until you started aemond’s name day off right.

your other hand began to lightly palm his balls as you worked more of him down your throat. unfortunately for you, gagging around his swollen tip is what seemed to bring the young prince out of his restful sleep. you hadn’t exactly prepared for the ending of your birthday present to him, and began to grow nervous about his reaction. you simply pushed more of him into your mouth until his cock was repeatedly hitting the back of your throat and your throat muscles were vibrating around him from your own moans. you could feel a small pool of wetness form between your legs and down your thighs, and suddenly you couldn’t care about the possibility of waking up or satisfying your own needs — you just wanted your husband to feel good.

it was good you didn’t care — because now aemond was fully awake. he pushed the sheets off his and your body so he could fully witness the ordeal happening between his thighs.

at any other time, he probably would’ve questioned you as to why you were blowing him when you two barely spoke. however, coupled with exhaustion and stress, the prince could not help himself when he saw his beautiful wife taking it upon herself to please him so fully and so selflessly so early in the morning. aemond’s eye did not leave your face as he witnessed your hair wild, flaying out around you. your cheeks were tinted pink, and your eyes were wild and full with lust, and all aemond could do was think about how he deeply regretted never asking you for a blowjob ever before because his wife’s lips, tongue, and throat were divine.

“don’t stop, fuck —“ he grunted, pulling your hair into a makeshift pony tail to keep it out of your face. “those pretty lips look so good around me, sweet wife.”

your cheeks grew warmer, if possible, as you pumped the base of his cock faster and slurped around the tip of his cock. you rubbed your own thighs together to relieve the pressure and necessity for friction as you swallowed aemond’s cock through and through. his thighs were beginning to shake on either side of you, and his grip on your hair was growing tighter, but that only encouraged you to continue.

a slew of profanities left aemond’s lips as his hips bucked into your mouth. long, thick ropes of cum were shot into your mouth and you sucked lightly on the tip to catch it all. with your hand still furiously pumping his base, you listened intently as aemond let out satisfied moans from above you. his cock was still throbbing in your hand as your drank the last drop he had to offer. when you were finished, you found your place back near your husband. if possible, your husband looked more peaceful than when he was sleeping.

“happy birthday, dear husband,” you cooed. “i hope that wasn’t too much of a surprise to be a disappointment.”

he smiled lazily and took your hand, pressing a kiss to the back of your fingers. “that was just what i needed to battle the stress i’ve been under, my beautiful wife. now… how can i keep you in this bed longer?”

- - -

hope you enjoyed :) xo

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond imagine #aemond the kinslayer #aemond x you #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond fic #prince aemond #aemond fanfiction

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bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky · 2 years

Text

Why Are You at the Wake? | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hi! in a shocking twist of events, I've got yet another angsty fic here based on a Taylor Swift song

Warnings: angst, reader injury

“And I can go anywhere I want,

anywhere I want- just not home.

And you can aim on my heart,

go for blood.

But you would still miss me in your bones.”

----Now----

Bucky didn’t like empty space. He didn’t like the quiet pause between each beep of your heart monitor. He didn’t like the distance between your body and his. He didn’t like the gaps between each nurse’s visit to your room.

Screams rattled inside his chest, caged in by his ribs. He folded and unfolded the note he’d agonized over. The note he planned to read to you when you woke up. Certainly, you’d wake up soon, right? You’d look at him with groggy eyes and a tired smile and tell him everything was okay. Just like always.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

That idea- however untrue- was the only thing anchoring him to earth. Without it, he feared he’d evaporate. It was you who kept him grounded. You who helped him feel real. But you hadn’t said anything- hadn’t opened your eyes- in days. And Bucky felt himself slipping. His heart vibrated against his ribs. Desperate. Needy. Anxious. All for you.

If you didn’t wake up, he’d never forgive himself. He’d never forgive himself if you died thinking he hated you.

----Three weeks earlier----

A long training session left you sweaty and sore. The rest of the team beelined it to the showers while you walked- limped- to the kitchen. A batch of smoothies for you and Bucky would surely provide the energy you two needed to marathon every Sharknado movie ever made.

You smiled to yourself. You could practically see Bucky sprawled across your bed, eating popcorn and laughing at Sharknado 3: Feeding Frenzy. You often lost yourself in thoughts of him- probably more than you’d like to admit. But you were tied to him.

No one expected the two of you to pair off the way you did. But knocking on his door all those months ago sparked an unwavering bond. You woke him from a nightmare, sat with him, let him vent. He cried in front of another person for the first time in- he didn’t remember how long. He listened to your stories and let you play with his hair. And that was that. You made him feel safe. You brought him peace. And he did the very same for you.

His deep voice echoed from the kitchen, regardless of his obvious attempt to whisper.

“I don’t know, man…” Bucky sighed, “I just don’t want to.”

The urge to eavesdrop won you over, and you leaned against the wall to listen in.

“I think you know why, and you’re just not being honest. I mean, she’s your best friend”, Sam said.

Your ears burned.

“It’s complicated. Alright?”

“How complicated can it be?”

Bucky was clearly nearing the end of his rope. You could practically see him running his hands through his hair. “I just don’t want to work with her anymore!” he nearly shouted, “I hate doing it- I hate going on jobs with her. If I get assigned one more mission with her as my partner, I’m gonna lose it.”

A deep ache tore through your chest. Your throat burned. A tear ran down your cheek. Part of you thought you might get sick. A deadly cocktail of heartbreak, shame, and rejection rushed down your throat, its bitter taste never leaving your mouth. On unsteady feet, you tried to leave the same way you came. But your stealthy getaway fell apart as you knocked into a decorative side table and fell to the ground. This was just what your cocktail needed: a garnish of embarrassment.

Bucky and Sam rushed into the room, only to find you struggling to stand. Bucky reached for you with a smile. And you pulled away. For the first time since meeting him, you didn’t want him to touch you.

Bucky cocked his head to the side and reached for you again, “You okay, doll?”

“I’m f-” you stumbled, but finally made it to your feet. “I’m fine.” Tears still gushed down your cheeks. And your hands shook as you retracted them from Bucky’s third attempt at helping you. “Don’t,” you said. “I don’t need- I don’t want your help.” Stifled sobs shook inside your chest as you tore out of the room, leaving Bucky in the dust.

----Now----

You still hadn’t spoken to him. At least, not socially. Work was different. It took precedence over your heartbreak.

But around the compound, you shut him out. You looked past him. He felt your eyes on him, though. When his back was turned, when Sam distracted him with conversation- he felt your attention. Your stolen glances. Your heartbroken stares.

And he ached for you.

If you gave him just a second to explain, he’d clear the air. He’d set everything right. But you refused to let him. His calls and texts went ignored. His attempts at talking were met with a locked door. He couldn’t sleep. The fear of never spending another day by your side or another night in your bed kept him wired. He laid awake each night with bloodshot eyes and a hollow chest, hating himself for what he’d said.

And as he sat next to your lifeless body, that hate grew ten-fold.

God, he missed you. He missed you in his bones. He wished he’d had the chance to straighten things out before this last mission. But the tension remained. Bucky had wanted to tell you to be careful, to take care of yourself as your group approached the Hydra base. But he knew you didn’t wanna hear it. He knew you didn’t want to hear his last-minute effort at a heartfelt ‘be careful’. But admittedly, he wanted one from you. He wanted to know you still cared- hell, he wanted you to talk to him. Period.

So when crouched next to him as the base fell apart around you, he smiled at your voice.

----Four Days Ago----

“Barnes, hey…” you nudged his shoulder. “Hey- focus. Eyes on me.”

Blood dripped from a gash in his brow. Broken blood vessels ran like red spider webs through the white of his eye. And his tac suit, flayed open and bloody, revealed a gnarly wound.

But he perked up at the sound of your voice. At his name falling from your lips.

“What’re you…” he slurred, “what’re you doing?”

“I’m helping you.” One hand held pressure to his wound while the other pressed your comm, “Sam, Barnes is down in the Northeast quad. He needs evac.”

The biting pain that burned through his side as your hand doubled the pressure nearly choked him. But he didn’t mind- he’d missed your touch too much to care. And he found himself reaching for you. His weak gesture landed only a few fingers against your wrist, but it was enough. For now.

“I thought you were m-mad at me…”

You kept your eyes down. You focused on his wound, focused on not letting him see your heartbreak. “I am”.

“Then why are you-”

“Because we’re still a team.” Finally, you let your eyes find his. And you softened at the sight of his weak smile. Your best friend, your favorite person, your Bucky. Voices in your comm system pulled your attention at just the right moment- you’d almost said, “because I love you”.

With a confirmation from Maria, you snapped back into work-mode. “Sam’s coming to get you. He’s gonna take you back to the jet, okay?” You dabbed gently at the wound on his face with the sleeve of your suit, “you’re gonna be fine.”

Bucky curled his fingers around your thumb. He didn’t want Sam taking him anywhere. “Are you coming?”

“No, I’m-”

“Why?” Alarm rose in Bucky’s voice. A jolt of anxiety revitalized him, bringing him back to life. He wanted -needed- you with him. He knew the building wouldn’t last long, knew the smoke and ash could take you down with it. And Hydra operatives certainly lurked in every shadow. He didn’t want you staying behind.

Sam screeched down the hall and pulled your focus, but Bucky’s eyes remained locked on you. Were you always this beautiful? Or was he lost in a haze of blood loss? No- no, you were that beautiful. Always. Even as Sam lugged his body from the floor, Bucky didn’t notice the pain slicing through his side. He noticed you- the way a few loose strands of hair had fallen out of your braid. Your furrowed brow. The small cut on your cheek.

“Will you-” he breathed, “will you come with me?”

You knew you shouldn’t. You told yourself not to. But you couldn’t help it. With one bloody hand, you reached for Bucky’s cheek. His eyes closed instantly- you hadn’t touched him like this in weeks. And you didn’t want to admit it, but you missed him. Even though he’d said he hated being around you, you couldn’t just stop loving him. You couldn’t shut off the part of your brain that lit up every time you saw him- or thought about him.

The hard exterior you’d crafted ever since his harsh comments crumbled. You needed him. And the fear in his eyes nearly made you tear up. But knowing Bucky, he wasn’t scared of the pain or bleeding to death, he was scared for you. Scared for your safety, for your well-being. He couldn’t leave this building without you.

“I can’t, Buck. I gotta go save Barton’s dumb ass.” You shot him a wink and swept a thumb over his cheek. It was too much, too tender. You knew it was stupid to open up to him like this. You might as well have taken dull scissors to a stitched up wound and hacked it open. But he needed you. And you needed to comfort him. “But I’ll be out soon- I’m right behind you. Okay?”

He nodded against your hand, letting himself revel in the feeling of your skin against his. And then you were gone. Last he saw you, you were tearing down a darkened hall in the direction of danger.

----Now----

He folded the note he’d written into a boat. A flower. A shitty swan. Anything to keep him awake. He couldn’t risk falling asleep. He had to be there the second you woke up.

A rogue beat disturbed the rhythm of your heart monitor, and Bucky’s lungs tightened. You were either about to wake up or about to die, and he wasn’t prepared for either. He watched as you rolled your head from side to side, the motion letting loose a pained groan. His wounds were gone, leaving no evidence behind. But yours were fresh, painful.

And as another agonized sound left your chest, he second guessed his plan. You’d been unconscious for days, suffered life threatening injuries- he couldn’t launch into a diatribe the second you opened your eyes. He’d only overwhelm you, upset you even more.

But, god, he wanted to tell you everything.

The harsh fluorescents attacked as soon as your eyes fluttered open. Pain raked through your chest and throbbed inside your skull. And sitting next to you, with an origami frog in his hands, was Bucky.

“Bucky…”

“Yeah, hey,” he said, his voice soft. He scooted a bit closer to your bed- couldn’t help himself.

“What are you-” you cleared your throat. It was raw, burning from the smoke of the faltering base. Bucky handed you a water. “What are you doing?”

He scooted in your direction once more, fidgeting with the paper frog in his hands. “I’ve just been sitting with you, checking on you. Things went sideways after you went to help Clint. The two of you were outnumbered and-”

“I know that. I remember,” you said. “Why are you here?”

Bucky did his best to hide the hurt. But it fucking stung. “Because I care about you. And like you said, we’re still a team. So I thought-”

Anger eclipsed your pain. It was Bucky who talked shit about you. It was Bucky who didn’t want to work with you. It was Bucky who said he hated being your partner. And yet, he was suddenly Mr. Team Spirit.

“So what about the other day?” Pain rippled through your chest. Anyone could’ve told you that this much agitation wasn’t good for your fresh wounds and throbbing throat. But you had more important things to worry about. “What about what you said?”

His eyes fell down to the paper frog in his hands.

Your battered body screamed as you tried to sit up, but you weren’t going to take this lying down- literally. Bucky’s heart lurched- he wanted to help you. His hands reached for you on instinct, but recoiled as you shot him a pointed look.

“You really hurt me,” you said. The words came out softer than you meant them to. More heartbroken than angry. “And the one person I wanted to talk to, the one I wanted to go to for comfort- was you. But I couldn’t. Do you know how miserable that is? How isolating?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. It almost felt like a cruel prank how badly you’d wanted to go to Bucky. But you didn’t want to grovel- you couldn’t take the extra shot of shame. And so you’d opted to cry yourself to sleep each night, missing the person you often called ‘home’.

“I don’t know- I thought we worked well together. I thought you cared about me the way I care-”, you cleared your throat, correcting yourself. “The way I cared about you…”

Bucky clocked the change. It made him nauseous.

After only a few sentences you were winded. Shiny black and white spots danced through your field of vision, but you did your best to blink them away. Even as you lost yourself in the dizzy spell, you refused to relax. Even when Bucky begged.

After three weeks of radio silence, this needed to be said.

“I mean, I considered you my best friend. And I’m not saying we have to be partners just because we’re friends. But you at least could’ve said it to my face. I mean- did I deserve that? Even on my worst day, am I such a shitty partner that I deserve to be talked about behind my back?”

Bucky shook his head, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were listening-”

“You’re sorry for saying it? Or you’re sorry I overheard you?”

“I’m sorry for all of it,” Bucky huffed. “I wrote it all down in this note, but I…” he tossed the frog on your side table. “I’m bad at communicating. And I’m bad at handling my emotions.”

This wasn’t news to you.

He ran his anxious hands up and down the length of his thighs. “I think you’re a great agent. And a great person- you’re a great friend. My best friend, actually. And I hate that I hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. But working together, it’s just…” Again, he reached for you. And again, he recoiled. “Working with you is- I hate it. I hate going on missions with you because it scares the hell out of me. It’s the worst anxiety I’ve ever experienced. And that’s saying something.”

Your words came out quiet, disappointed. “I give you anxiety?”

Again, Bucky let out a huff. He eyed the paper frog, tempted to reach for it and read his script. “No, watching you run off in the direction of danger gives me anxiety. It freaks me out. I care about you a lot- more than I’ve ever cared about anyone.” He fell quiet suddenly, his tone bashful. “So, when we work together, it’s like one of my nightmares come to life.” His eyes took on a far away look, "I mean, I actually have dreams about it. All the time. About you getting shot and stabbed and taken hostage. About you receiving even a fraction of the pain Hydra put me through. About losing you."

You stared at him, stunned. It certainly wasn’t what you expected to hear. But you supposed this was better than the alternative.

“I am so, so sorry,” he said. “It was stupid of me- I should’ve just talked to you.”

“Okay…” you said, “I get that. I understand that fear- I feel that way when I know you’re in danger.”

Bucky ran a hand down his face, “but I’m a super soldier. I can take a bullet- a few bullets, actually- and make it out alive. With you, it’s…” He looked at you in your hospital bed- you looked so small. So fragile. So mortal

“You’re so good at what you do- I know you’re more than capable,” he said. “I’m just afraid of something bad-” he motioned to your hospital bed. To the heart monitor and the blood bag. “Something like this happening to you. I’m so scared of losing you. And when we go on missions together, I’m so anxious about you that I get distracted- you’re all I think about. It's the worst fear I've ever experienced..”

Finally, you granted him your hand. It was what he needed, what you needed. Neither of you said anything. You just sat in the silence, Bucky stroking your knuckles over and over again- as though assuring himself you were really there.

“I heard you over comms…” he finally said as he stared down at your hand in his.

“What?”

“I heard you. I was on the jet getting stitched up, and I heard you calling for back up. I heard gunshots. Then a scream..." He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Up until this point, he hadn't let himself think about what he heard. But all at once, it came rushing forward. "It sounded like you... like were struggling to breathe. And then your line- it went dead.”

He held your hand just a bit tighter, “I thought I’d listened to you die.”

Your mouth dropped open. Just the thought of Bucky dying made your hands clammy- you couldn’t imagine helplessly listening to his last moments. Especially not when you had no way to save him.

“Oh…” was all you managed to say.

He dragged his tear-filled eyes up to meet yours, frantic. “I tried to go back- I tried to go get you, I swear. I wasn't going to leave you there. But they wouldn’t let me go after you-”

“It’s okay, Buck-”

He had too much to apologize for. Too many mistakes and indiscretions. The guilt grabbed him by the ankles and forced his head underwater, but he couldn’t let himself drown. Not yet, anyway. “They wouldn’t let me- but I wanted to,” he swore. “I would’ve. You know that, right? If they hadn’t shot me up with enough sedatives to put down Banner, I swear on my life I would’ve gone in after you.”

“I know…”

“No, really, doll. I mean it.” He was desperate. You could practically hear his heart rattling in his chest. Could almost see the anxiety rushing through his veins.

The stitches keeping your side closed strained as you leaned closer to him. He didn’t like the grimace that yanked at your features. “Hey, be careful. Don’t-”

“Scoot closer, then.”

His metal chair scraped against the linoleum, and he closed what little gap was left between his body and your bed. He met his forehead with yours, careful to avoid the wound slicing through your brow.

“I swear to god I was trying to get to you,” he whispered. “I was trying, but-”

“Shhhh, I know,” you said. “I get it- I understand. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

Finally, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He hated the distance. The quiet that forced itself between the two of you all those weeks. He’d sat miserable and hating himself while you did your best to piece yourself back together. The effort was commendable, and to an outsider you may have appeared whole. But Bucky saw right through it. He knew you were holding yourself together with duct tape and a prayer. And he hated knowing he was the one who shattered you.

“I want to be with you all the time," he said. "I just don’t want to watch you take on armed gunmen, doll.”

Your lips pulled upward into a weak smile, “Damn. So I can’t invite my armed gunmen friends next time you and I have a movie marathon?” Bucky laughed at your stupid joke- you’d missed his laugh. “Okay, well, we can talk to Fury and Hill about logistics, then. Obviously, when it’s an ‘all hands on deck’ sort of operation, we’ll have to work together. But as far as other assignments go-”

Bucky hushed you, “We can work on that kind of stuff later, okay? You almost died. Just do us both a favor, and rest.”

The throbbing in your chest left behind by Bucky’s absence finally dissipated. And you found the pain from your injuries quite manageable compared to the pain of being without him. You allowed yourself to drift back to sleep at Bucky’s request, knowing damn well he’d be there when you woke up.

—————————

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whump-me · 1 year

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Martyr, Chapter 7: The Temptation of Weakness

Chapter 7 of Martyr, a novel-length sci-fi whump story about a captured Martian rebel with a secret and the renowned interrogator who has waited a decade for the chance to break him. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: defiant whumpee, torture aftermath, restraints, broken fingers, permanent physical damage, thoughts of death, imagined comfort/self-comfort

---

Wraith

Only once Wraith was back in his cell did he let himself make a sound. He lay on the hard floor and let his breath come in ragged gasps. The gasps turned into whimpers. He tried to swallow them back before they could become sobs, but the sound vibrated through him like it had taken off on a life of its own, sending sharp, convulsive shudders through him. He couldn’t have stopped if he had wanted to. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t crying. He was laughing.

Maybe Isadora was right. Maybe this was a game. And if so, right now the scorecard was zero to one, in his favor.

Now all he had to do was do it again the next day. And the next.

And he was under no illusions that Isadora would make things any easier on him next time. No, today was likely the easiest day he would spend in this place. Which, given how he expected this to end, meant this was officially the best day of what remained of his life.

The laughter died away, turning into a more jagged sound. It wasn’t a sob, not exactly. It was an animal noise, fury and despair and the shards of broken laughter all ground together into a vicious pulp. Along with the pain, of course. Now that he was alone in the dark, he didn’t even have his defiance to distract him from the bolts of agony that shot up his arms every time he accidentally moved a finger.

And it turned out it was a lot harder to avoid moving his fingers than he would have expected. To keep from jostling the broken bones, he would have had to lie perfectly still. And anyone who has ever tried to lie perfectly still finds out quickly that human bodies aren’t built for that.

He knew he was letting himself get into a bad habit, lying here on the floor and letting out strange pained noises he couldn’t put a name to. Before long, Isadora would come for him again, and he would need to be his tough and untouchable self again. The one who could walk into danger laughing and come out whooping in triumph, covered in his own blood. He would need to grin at her in that way that made her eyes flash with anger. He would need to come up with a witty quip or two. At the very least, he would need to be quiet, and not let out these ridiculous and vaguely shameful noises.

Dropping his defenses now meant it would be hard to bring them back up again. Better to keep them up every second, until he couldn’t anymore. Better to stand and stare at the hidden cameras, wherever they were, and show whoever was watching—hopefully Isadora herself—that she had come nowhere close to breaking him.

For fuck’s sake, it was only a few broken bones. Small ones.

He drew in a long breath, preparing to push himself to his feet. But to do that, he’d need his hands. And the guards had cuffed his hands behind him again, so lying on his side like this was the only way to avoid putting any pressure on them. He could stand up without his hands if he tried, but that would take effort, and at that moment he wasn’t sure why he should bother. He would need every bit of that strength later. Why waste it now? It wasn’t like the watchers hadn’t already seen him lying here shaking.

He couldn’t see his hands. He was grateful for that. What he could feel was bad enough. His fingers were swollen sausages attached to his palms. Useless. Good for nothing except drawing another ugly sound from him every time he twitched one out of reflex.

He still wasn’t sure how many on the right were broken. He took a deep breath to prepare himself, then tried wiggling each finger on his right hand, one by one.

By the time he was done, he had bitten his lip so hard he had drawn blood, but he had his answer. She had broken two of them—pinky and ring finger. Could have been worse. Could have been better.

That gave him a grand total of three working fingers, if he counted his thumb. Enough to feed himself, if by some miracle he escaped. Enough to wipe his own ass. Not enough for much else. His left hand would be all but useless after this, even if he got out tonight and went straight to the rebellion’s best medic to have them splinted. And he wasn’t getting out tonight.

But hey, with three fingers left, he could probably hold a gun. Maybe shoot one. Not with any kind of accuracy, granted. If he were one of the other members of the rebellion, he sure wouldn’t want to fight alongside someone who was shooting with that kind of handicap. But those details didn’t matter, because he knew full well it would never happen. He clung to the thought like a security blanket and let it steady his breathing. If he got out now, he could still fire a weapon. He wouldn’t be useless. Wouldn’t be helpless.

His thoughts drifted from the escape that would never happen to his fictitious future with the rebellion, and then to Gabriel. He should have known that would happen. He didn’t want to let himself think of Gabriel; it was safest to forget him entirely, in this place. But if he wasn’t strong enough to make himself get to his feet, then he knew he wasn’t strong enough to hold the thoughts of Gabriel at bay. So he didn’t bother trying to resist.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift away from the cold, dark cell. He imagined himself standing in the doorway to Gabriel’s study, with its soft amber light that matched his eyes. Wraith had always wondered if Gabriel had done that on purpose. Most likely not. Gabriel didn’t have a scrap of vanity in him.

Even though he knew it was nothing more than a dream he was weaving for himself, his breath caught as he saw Gabriel at the far end of the small room. Gabriel, lit by the golden lamps overhead as he sat at his desk, his hair glowing like a blond halo. He looked like an angel without wings.

He didn’t look up. He was distracted, as he usually was, hunched over his desk as he went over documents late into the night. Was it night? Wraith had lost track. It was night in his dream, he decided, because that was when he interrupted Gabriel in his study more often than not, usually to urge him to go to bed.

His vision of Gabriel paused at a noise Wraith hadn’t known he had made. Probably another whimper of pain, because Gabriel’s brow creased with worry. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to carry his pain into his daydreams. This was supposed to be an escape—the only kind of escape he would get.

“Don’t be silly,” Gabriel said with a soft smile. Wraith’s breath caught all over again at the sound of his voice, so clear that he could almost convince himself it was real. “Come in already, will you? Don’t stand there lurking at the door as if you need an invitation.”

Wraith stepped into Gabriel’s study. He kept his hands tucked behind his back, because despite his best efforts, even here in his fantasy he couldn’t imagine his fingers whole, not with the pain still jolting through his fingers and intruding on his thoughts. “What are you working on?” he asked, just the way he would have if he had really been there.

And exactly as he would have responded in real life, Gabriel shook his head, his smile fading. “Don’t try to distract me. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the way you’re hiding your hands? What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

Bottomless sorrow opened up in Gabriel’s amber eyes, like they were glass bottles cracking open to spill out all the tears the universe contained. Wraith knew that look better than he knew his own face in the mirror. Gabriel never cried—not that Wraith had ever seen, anyway—but that look went deeper than tears.

“Don’t,” Wraith snapped. “I can handle it.”

Gabriel let out a long sigh. “You did well,” he said softly.

At that gentle note in his voice, Wraith wanted to crumple. He wanted to collapse right here on Gabriel’s floor, even though he never would have done anything of the sort in real life, because he didn’t dare let Gabriel see him be anything less than strong. It was his job to be strong. It was what Gabriel needed from him, what they all needed from him.

He stood up straighter. “I did what I had to do. That’s all.”

“It’s all right,” said Gabriel, and his voice was the same dark, rich honey as his eyes, as the light that illuminated him as if from within. “You’re safe now. You can let go now—”

Wraith’s eyes snapped open. He stared up into the darkness, at the muddy gray of the ceiling. He hadn’t realized his fantasy had distracted him from the pain a little, not until it all crashed back down on him at once. His hands twitched by reflex as if to escape the tremors of agony running through them, which only shot a bolt of pain through his entire body. He let out a whimper through his gritted teeth.

He was not safe. He was not with Gabriel. His mind had lied to him, tried to get him to let his guard down, because he wanted so badly to let go—which just showed what kind of state he was in, because he almost never allowed himself to let go, not even in front of Gabriel. Only in the occasional late-night conversation that took them back to when they were boys together.

In the silence, with Gabriel’s imagined voice gone, he heard footsteps pacing restlessly outside the cell, back and forth, back and forth. He wondered if the man who had beaten him on his first day here was out there. Maybe he would make another go at it. Maybe someone else would. Maybe Isadora would come back, now that she’d given him a chance to soften up by leaving him to marinate in his own pain here in the dark.

He could not let go.

He had known thinking about Gabriel would be a bad idea. Those thoughts made him weak. He couldn’t afford weakness. Not ever, but especially not now.

But he did have weakness in him, more than he wanted to admit, so he wasn’t strong enough to banish the mental image of Gabriel entirely. He kept the vision in his head, Gabriel bent over his desk, his hair lit up like a halo. But he didn’t bring himself into the fantasy. He didn’t let himself forget where he was. He just drank in the image and let it bring him strength.

He let it remind him of what he was fighting for. Who he was fighting for.

This was why he had to win Isadora’s game. Not for himself—he was doomed no matter what he did. But Gabriel wasn’t. He knew he should be in this to protect the cause and everyone who fought for it. But in truth, there was only one person he cared about saving.

“I love you,” he said again, into the empty air. It didn’t matter that Gabriel would never hear it. The reminder was for him.

---

Tagged: @straight-to-the-pain @soheavyaburden @gala1981 @whumpacabra @sacredwrath @suspicious-whumping-egg @sonder35 @decahedron-crabclaw

Ask to be added or removed from tag list. If you want to be tagged, please ask! I don’t find it rude. I like knowing people are reading!

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year

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The North Star - Part Seven: The Heist - Terry Bruno x Reader (Feat Mike Duarte)

Welcome to mine and @the-hinky-panda The Bronx universe featuring our favs Terry Bruno & Mike Duarte.

This story takes place several years after 'Blood Out'. Terry still lives in the Bronx and works in Manhatten SVU.

Following on from @the-hinky-panda story 'The Dog' Mike has retired from the NYPD on medical grounds due to seizures causes by the attack. He has a therapy dog called Bono and lives with @the-hinky-panda character Meredith.

Tagging: @mysoulisasunflower @legit9thlunaticwarrior @bbyxoo @the-adzukibean @xoxabs88xox @crazy4chickennuggets @beardedbarba @wooshwastaken @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @storiesofsvu @anime-weeb-4-life

Part One: Moments

It was three quarters of the way through your appraisal of the room that you spotted him. That familiar dark hair neatly slicked back from his grizzled features, a black waistcoat over white shirt and black trousers. He was dressed like one of the caterers, a large silver whipped cream canister tucked under his arm as he pulled aside a discreet black velvet curtain at the back of the room and slipped behind it.

Are you fucking kidding me? You thought exasperated. Every time you thought this case couldn’t get any more complicated; something threw a spanner in the works.

A Degas and now a Duarte. Christ, Terry was going to get a kick out of this.

Paul was still occupied on the opposite side of the gallery, his head bent low as he talked with Arthur Munson, the fence and host for the evening. You followed Mike’s footsteps, disappearing behind the curtain before anyone could realise that you were missing.

It took you a second to realise that the room was set up for the auction later tonight. Over a dozen chairs facing a stage that included a podium and a gavel. It was old school, compared to the way it was done these days with computers and electronics. Paul had mentioned that Arthur Munson was a traditionalist. The walls were littered with artwork, a blatant display of the man’s proclivities. You didn’t recognise any of the pieces, but you assumed they were each worth a small fortune. This event tonight was an opportunity to show off, to fortify his reputation as a collector and procurer. A decadent marketing campaign that put his competition to shame.

At the end of the front row, near the stage stood Mike Duarte, his scarred hands covered with black latex gloves as he clasped the frame in front of him and tried to pull it from the wall. It stuck fast, unrelenting as he yanked at it again before huffing with irritation.

“Mike.” You hissed as your gaze came to land on him. “Tell me you aren’t trying to steal that painting.”

“I’m not trying.” He snorted, inclining his head towards you for a moment before turning his attention back to the task at hand. “And I consider it a liberation.”

You stepped up to the painting as he withdrew a scalpel from his waistcoat pocket. It glinted wickedly in the dim light above.

“Is that…” You trailed off as you studied the painting in front of you.

The photographs you’d viewed on Meredith’s coffee table didn’t do it justice. It was vibrant and evocative, all plush greens and vivid blues. A sprawling hillside near Medellin, Colombia, a miniscule white picnic blanket had been added in such beautiful, perfect detail, you could see the tiny red poppies embroidered into the fabric. There was life in this work, it emitted through the thin layer of canvas vibrating through your bones as you stood entranced.

“Carrillo’s work is stunning. Nobody knew he painted, only that he put the fear of God into Escobar.” Mike informed you as he took a second to survey it.

“Mike, I can’t let you...”

“Yes you can.” He said firmly, turning to face you. His eyes fixated on yours, you saw the ferocity in his gaze, the ire and the passion. “His family deserve to have this back; it’s not meant for anybody else’s eyes. He painted it for his wife, to remind her of what they were fighting for before the Narcos killed her. That man sacrificed everything for what he believed in and I’ll be damned if I let this sit in some cartel shithead’s mansion like a fucking trophy.”

There was a viciousness in his voice, an undercurrent of anguish and understanding because Mike had done something similar. He had given everything for the neighbourhood, his heart, his soul and almost his life. He’d lived a lonely existence before Meredith had come along, he had told you one night in front of the fireplace, sharing a bottle of 19 Crimes. Meredith’s head had been resting on a cushion in his lap where she’d fallen asleep, his fingertips were brushing through her hair tenderly. You discussed his life prior to the attack, how isolated he had become, how he had simply been surviving instead of living. It had been years since he’d actually been able to breath, and with Meredith he thought he’d found a home, someone to love, someone who loved him in return. He couldn’t believe it most days, sometimes he thought he was dreaming, that he’d wake up and the bubble would burst but then Bono would greet him with a cold enquiring nose, Shasta would lick his face and Meredith would laugh and his heart felt like it would explode in his chest.

You recognised that feeling, the one where you were waiting for the other shoe to drop. You had it in the dead of night while Terry slept beside you, his face buried in the curve of your throat, his soft breath ghosting over your skin. There was nothing quite as perfect as being wrapped up in his arms, feeling his heartbeat steadily against yours.

“It’s getting shipped out tomorrow.” Mike told you; he lifted the scalpel to the painting before sucking in a breath and hesitating. “That fucking asshole Munson wanted everyone to get one good look before it disappeared. It’s meant to be his piece de la resistance, proof he can get absolutely anything.” He paused, the scalpel wavering as he tried to select the right place to cut. “Go back to the party, I’ll be gone before you make your bust.”

You reached for the scalpel instead, your fingers wrapping around the handle and removing it from his grasp. Mike let you, your hands were steadier than his, these days. He moved to allow you more space to work.

“We can use the scalpel to break the frame instead.” You informed him, driving the slender blade between a minuscule space in the corner of the wooden panel before leveraging it from side to side. “That way you won’t be compromising the painting.”

Mike cleared his throat as a low crack resounded through the air, the lacquered wood beginning to separate at the joint.

“Meredith’s dad used to do carpentry.” You explained, hooking your finger under the lip of the frame and gently working it away from the painting. “It’s why I like upcycling so much. Do you have something to put the painting in once I’m done?”

Mike picked up the metal whipped cream cannister from the seat where it resided before unscrewing the top and revealing an empty vessel.

“Should I be concerned about how good you are this?” You asked him as you pulled away the side panel of the frame and set it down upon the floor. Mike picked removed a folded handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down the glossy surface as you tactfully slid canvas from its prison.

“I should be asking you the same thing Sergeant.” He said as he took the artwork from your hands with the utmost care before rolling it up gently and placing it inside the container. You took the handkerchief from his outstretched hand and wiped down the rest of the frame before depositing it and the scalpel into your clutch. “How long do I have?”

You removed your phone from your purse, your thumb flicking over the unlock screen.

“I’m about to call in the FBI.” You told him, your thumb hoovering over your text chain with Sinclair. “So, I’d get out of here as soon as possible.”

Mike rose an eyebrow.

“There’s a Degas out there.”

A smile twitched at his lips, and you found yourself returning it, a burst of laughter beginning to bubble in your chest as the sheer ridiculousness of this situation. You had to look away because you knew that it would erupt from your mouth if you held his gaze any longer.

“Bruno is gonna love this.” He said, tucking the cannister back under his arm.

“I think he’s gonna ban me from watching Ocean’s Eight after this.” You told him, typing out your message to Sinclair.

‘There’s a fucking Degas.’ with three head exploding emojis. ‘Five Dancing Women (Ballerinas)’

He’d know what to do, Sinclair had been your right-hand man ever since you’d made Sergeant and transferred into the Bronx Homicide Unit. He was the one you trusted the most out of all the detectives you supervised.

“You probably have ten minutes after I send this message.” You informed Mike as the two of you strode back towards the black velvet curtain obscuring the doorway. “Head out the service exit. I’ve got Sinclair covering the back and he knows your face.”

Mike nodded his head, before straightening his shoulders and schooling his features into polite boredom before stepping out from behind the curtain and back into the main gallery. You hit the send button on your message as the curtain closed behind him.

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#detective terry bruno #terry bruno fic #terry bruno x you #terry bruno x reader #terry bruno

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butterflies-and-blades · 8 months

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Session 9: Monsters' Shame

I feel sick in my bones--marrow vibrating and itching, making me want to rip everything out so that maybe it might stop. The sight of my last diary entry makes it all the worse; I wish I could bring myself to scratch my own words from my memory, to cross ink though ink until only scribbled, illegible shapes remained. I wish I could tear the pages from the record, to bury them underground where they can be forgotten beneath shifting dunes, but that wouldn’t change anything. They'd still be there, visible or not.

Yesterday started under the same haze I had gone to bed with. I wouldn't be able to part the clouds completely until today. Meanwhile, as we were gathering ourselves to continue our walk to Greston, Talo said that they'd had a visit in the night from "Sandy," to repeat their words. Specifically, they had seen him during their watch, not while they were asleep. And in that time, he seemingly was able to turn their magic into sand.

The conversation reminded me that I had been meaning to say I did not think this Morpheus individual was actually a god since the first time I was able to hear his name. Verca in turn theorized that we could not be sure since I could hear the names of other deities now. He then said the name of someone called "Hades" to verify that my hearing extended farther than the Raven Queen. Regardless, I pointed out that had I not yet been able to hear those names during the time "Morpheus" had gotten past the static.

After that, the rest of the trip to Greston passed without issue. We came up to a massive, walled city. The shadows cast across the sand made Legen seem like a village in comparison. Inside, roads of sharp angles stretched in a grid that covered as far as I could see--the exact opposite of everything I had known in the woods at the cabin. In the distance, the buildings stood taller toward the center of the city, with a single spire at the nexus reaching considerably higher than the others.

Walking through the streets, handfuls of odd looks landed in our direction, but the frequency was still less than in Legen.

As a group, we tried to keep our eyes open for anything that would help us move forward in our search for Rosi. Talo posited that our first destination should be a tavern--the seedier the better. I was not sure how we would know which establishments were more likely to be entrenched in dubious business practices, but it was a starting point.

My focus was not where it should have been. That haze pushed the fact that Lana was hopefully--an artificial longing that I hate knowing I felt--in Greston to the front of my search.

There. On my right. Two blocks down. She was leaning out of a doorway, looking down the street as if she were searching for something.

The haze became denser, pulling me forward like an invitation to dance. In that instant, all I could think of were the clouded memories from the night before. The comfort and delicate pleasure I thought I remembered.

Without a word to Verca or Talo, I split off from the group and weaved through the busy city streets until I found myself at the open doorway which had held Lana's lithe figure only a few moments prior.

I stepped inside. The stone architecture offered a reprieve from the outside's desert heat, and the covered windows--hidden behind thick curtains--kept out an additional layer. A flight of stairs to my right led to a second floor. I called out for Lana, not wanting to root through her home in my search for her. No response. I moved farther inside. The foyer opened into a kitchen with another stairwell to the side, this one going down.

I called her name again. And this time I heard something from the basement. Following her voice to the bottom of the steps, I found myself in a large room carved from the stone with a moderately low ceiling. Lit torches hung on the walls every twenty feet, feeding light and warmth to the cool space. Standing at the center of the room, the shifting oranges and yellows highlighted the angles of her face. Like a painting, the red of her eyes fit perfectly amongst it all, except for the worry that floated at their surface.

"It's so great to see you, Darling," she said. "Come to me."

Further compelled by the haze, I stepped up to her without a moment of hesitation, only thinking to ask what was wrong. Her expression did not budge, and she said she was worried that she had potentially moved too fast the night before. The words, "Everything was fine," came out before I had spent a second to process what had even been said. I heard my voice speak without my consideration as if I was listening in from the opposite end of the room.

Lana continued, adding that she had been keeping something from me. Her image became unfocused and drifted away like autumn leaves on the wind. Pale skin became pink. Red irises darkened until her eyes were solid black. Horns and wings filled space that had been previously unoccupied. I had never met a tiefling with wings before. Lana said she had been concerned that I would have found them off-putting, suggesting she had changed her appearance to avoid that. I would not have been bothered by her wings, but my thoughts were watery in the moment, and I couldn't manage to bring any further depth to my judgements on the matter. So I again waved away the issue, assuring her everything was fine.

She stepped closer, a visible weight pressing on her shoulders still, despite the two matters she had just shared. There was more. Lana explained that I had not been the only one to supply a fake name when we met. Her actual name was Sala.

The name at the bottom of the letter to Rosi: "Yours, Sala," written with a palpable sense of intimacy.

If I had learned that today, I am confident I would have had at least some kind of reaction. Considering everything else, I cannot say what that reaction would have been--I have a feeling it would have become a minor issue beside other developments--, but I imagine it at least would have been some kind of reaction. Instead, I stood there completely unfazed in the face of information that should have hit like an explosion.

Lana--no, Sala--continued. She exposed her teeth, showing pointed incisors like they should have been the final blow to make everything fall.

"I don't understand," I said. It was not uncommon for tieflings to have pronounced canines.

Sala shook her head. She said, in very simple terms, that she was a vampire. Then asked if she could bite me again.

In all of that information, there was plenty there that should have mattered because it did. I should have had a reaction, but the haze had me numb. It was like Sala could do no wrong.

So I nodded.

And she was the closest she had been since last night. Her lips tickled my neck, and then their insistence resurfaced a soreness that I had forgotten. Still soft, I felt her mouth open and press against delicate, vulnerable skin.

I don't know if it was because of the haze that had so completely muddled everything, but I am embarrassed and ashamed of the sound I made when that softness turned sharp. Ashamed of the way I clung to her until she pulled her head up.

"I will not bite you again," she said, a soft regret almost traceable in her voice. "We share the curse of she who curses the undead."

Upon seeing my confusion at her words, her face fell further. "You may need my guidance more than I realized," Sala continued, going on to say that--like her--I was undead and would fight urges just as she did, like when we met.

I am not undead. I would know if something like that were true. You don't just forget dying. I still don't know quite what to do with the information she left me with in that basement. From what I could tell at any given moment, she was always honest with me, even in the most painful moments, but that has not made processing a single piece of it any easier. If anything, it might have made it harder.

She had to be wrong, and I told her as much.

"I know the taste of death," she said, claiming to know something was wrong with me since that first night, and my insistence on nothing being wrong was why she would not restore my proper memories from that encounter. She seemed so confident, but she had to be mistaken about something.

Sala kept talking, speaking with a gentleness that only made the growing labyrinth I had been thrown into feel larger and larger. "You are safe in my city. All those who work under the guise of the moon know the name of the Night Queen of Greston."

Again, she touched my cheek. The difference, though, was the pulse of magic beneath her fingertips that swept away the encroaching haze that kept making maneuvering my own feelings harder than they had ever been before.

In that time, where I was suddenly trying to grapple with every little thing that had been said since I followed Sala into her home, she took the opportunity to explain that I had been charmed by her since my shift of watch. She apologized and said she did not want me to be charmed while explaining it so that I could actually understand it--unlike all of the "worries" she had unloaded when first I came into the basement. She could not fully break the effects until they expired that night, but she could at least provide a brief respite.

And then, amidst the confusion I found myself lost and drowning within, she said that I was vampire now, too.

I had walked here. I had traveled under the unfaltering watch of the sun--with sands that burned the undersides of my feet as proof--without issue. I had come into her home without an invite. My incisors were no sharper than they had been any other day of my life.

Sala said something about the change taking time.

I asked her why she had done what she did that night. She said that she had come to our camp to see how things were going with our search for Rosi. Not quite the answer to what I was looking for. Sala added that she was now willing to help us meet with Rosi--although she stood by the fact that she would not let us kill her. Apparently, Rosi had started working more on her own, making Sala unsure how much Rosi actually worked for her anymore in the first place.

When the haze reappeared at the periphery of my thoughts, making processing even harder--it was nearly impossible to be upset with her while my head was a jumbled mess--, the wave of familiar magic washed over me again. She said I needed a longer break from the charm.

When she welcomed me back at any time for help navigating all of this, the offer felt like it was intended to be kind, but it made everything hurt more, reminding me how little I understood myself these days. I was distantly aware of how my hands shook and how my vision swam. No tears ran down my cheeks, though--nor Sala's, whose eyes seemed to well, too.

"I promise the affection I showed you was under no guise," she said. "It was genuine, but I understand if it is tainted." Like so much else of what she had said, it felt honest, but I cannot understand how there can be any truth. Between whatever existed between her and Rosi and the circumstances surrounding those kisses, I cannot see how I was anything more than convenient, cheap amusement. But what hurts the most is the memory of wanting that intimacy with her, despite knowing that that was not what I would have wanted. I always thought my first kiss would leave me feeling special, not...used.

The charm resumed its encroachment.

Loud footsteps rushed down the stairs, stopping only as Talo and Verca came barreling into the basement. I am not positive where Talo positioned themself--it was once more difficult to take my eyes off Sala--, but I know exactly where Verca went. He jumped right between her and me. I could not see his face, but his rage was undeniable.

Sala repeated her offer to help with Rosi to the two and shared her name and title. Verca looked ready to fight. I told him not to do anything, and he asked Sala if I was in my right mind.

It was a fair question; technically, I wasn't. At least, not until Sala cast the same spell for a third time once he asked, temporarily interrupting the charm. Regardless of the freedom, the weight of everything left me with little to say. Words were hardly more than foreign shapes. He asked if I wanted to deal with Rosi now or wait until tomorrow. Without a real answer from me, he made the decision to wait. Once he said it, the smallest relief settled into my gut, squeezing a space for itself amongst all the other horrible feelings that I still cannot fathom a way past.

Verca grabbed my hand and took us outside, letting Talo lead us to the nearest inn. I am still stunned that I held back my tears during the entire walk.

This time, we purchased a single room for the three of us. I was not paying too much attention, just sitting on my bed with my knees pulled up to my chest, until I heard Celestial coming from Talo's third of the room. I had not thought they understood Celestial, and when I asked, they were confused--thinking instead that they were mumbling in Sylvan.

Despite the confusion shared across the room, there was not much to do about it, so Verca suggested we all go to bed. I was slow to move, and he asked if there was anything he could do to help. Knowing that he already planned to stay up a bit longer, all I could think to say was "Make sure I don't do anything," and we went to bed. I would never forgive myself if this vampire issue led to me hurting them.

Sleep was not much better than the day itself. Everything was dark, but there was a voice. There were so many of those recently that I was not sure if this was one I had heard before or not at this point. It did not help that something about it simultaneously felt familiar and unfamiliar. It told me I was wrong and shouldn't be, words so similar to what I heard during that vision of the Raven Queen. It said, "I'm going to fix the mistake we made."

When I woke up, once again on the brink of crying, I couldn't breathe. Like I had been stuffed with cotton, there was a wrongness in my chest that I couldn't put words to. The feelings only intensified when Verca asked what was wrong, rushing to my side.

"Name five things you can see on my face," he said, voice level and calm.

Nose. Beard. Eyes. Tusks. Eyebrows.

"Better?" he asked once I had finished. I felt far from steady, but the room at least was no longer rocking like a ship cabin in a storm. Verca guessed that I'd had a panic attack and put his fingers to my wrist--finding the sliver between my gloves and bracers--to verify.

"Does it feel 'normal' now?" I asked him, feeling sick as I remembered what Sala had said.

Verca shot me a serious look. In a hushed voice, he told me not to talk about it here. That wasn't promising.

Talo asked about what happened yesterday. Knowing that answer went farther back than a simple twenty-four hours, I took the two through the details I could bear to share, bit by bit, starting with my watch. For their own safety, I included the fact Sala was a vampire, which led to the expected series of conclusions about me. During it all, I could not look at either of them. It was much easier to keep my focus trained on the woodgrain in the corner of the wall.

Talo asked to check my vitals, but Verca managed to convince them that it was not necessary since he had just checked. There was no reason for him to hide my vitals from Talo if they were normal.

Sala's words echoed loudly in my memory the entire walk back to her house. We met her in the basement, where she then did something to bring Rosi to us. Whatever she did, I felt a tug in my chest toward Sala at the same time. I did not have time to worry about what that could mean, though; Rosi was a fighting flurry in the room unexpectedly quickly, passing Talo while they were still on the steps. This time, when we saw Rosi, she looked the same as when we had last seen her: changeling appearance fully exposed. However, there were the additions of red eyes and fangs.

Aside from the occasional help with healing from Sala, the bulk of the fight went to the same rhythm as the other fights we had involved ourselves in. The difference was when Rosi fled to the other side of the room, scared and begging for her life. She pleaded with us, saying that she was just trying to help support her family.

I cast Zone of Truth, catching Rosi, Sala, Verca, and myself in the initial radius. Through the connection of the spell, I felt Sala about to resist the effects but then choose to accept them instead. And with Rosi, Verca, and myself accepting the spell's effects, we were all in a place for a needed honest conversation.

Similar and different to when Talo "talks," Rosi's voice stepped into my head with a simple "Thank you."

"Who hired you for the job with the mayor?" I asked.

"His sister," she answered. Rosi explained that she had been hired before the mayor's sister died, having been paid in advance. She regretted not getting to the job sooner because the details included the information that the sister had sought Rosi's services because she had feared for her safety. The context made Rosi's involvement in the mayor's death hardly different than John's, who we had already let go with the assurance he would not seek out to hurt people again.

Talo stepped in the Zone at that point, willingly failing as well.

Then I asked if all of her jobs were like that--trying to help or protect people.

"Preferably." Rosi said that she did the work because she was good at it, and it fed her wife and children. I offered an opportunity to possibly work with the ex-bandits in Legen since they had a similar history, but she seemed hesitant to leave Greston. It was where her family was, after all. Her family could come too, though; there was no reason to leave them behind. Sala added that she could have given less pointed work to Rosi if she had known, and Talo proposed the idea of performance work. Rosi had done a great job outside of Legen.

With that, knowing that she had an array of ways out from here, I asked Rosi to promise to change towards a better direction. She did. Finally, something good.

There were still things I wanted to ask Verca and Sala, so with a gentle smile I prepared to move my sword and shield back to their positions as bracers.

But instead, I found myself falling into a familiar darkness, surrounded by another voice that I was uncertain if I had ever heard before or not. "The living undead cannot be allowed," it said.

And then I was back in the basement, falling to my knees, sword and shield each still gripped tight. The Mask.

There was a familiar wetness on my face--achingly similar to the wetness I had felt in the seconds of the mayor's death.

And like that last time, Rosi was in front of me. Although this time she was not standing nor making snide comments. This time, she was little more than a body marked by searing burns barely a foot from me. The smell of crisped flesh was already nauseating.

Dad, Da, what is wrong with me? Today marks one week since I left the cabin. Every day since then has been some kind of message that there is something terribly wrong about me. I don't want to keep hurting people. I killed someone today--precisely what I have feared that I might have done for most of the time I've been gone. If I could do it today, there is no reason to think I would not have in the past.

Sala rushed past me, pressing a diamond into Rosi's chest.

Nothing.

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