#roman sionis fic

[finniestoncrane]

Regarding Black Mask having sadistic kinks…he would totally give his partner instructions that are impossible to follow (telling them not to make any noise and then doing something guaranteed to make them moan/scream) just so he can punish them when they can’t do it

Keep Quiet

Arkham!Black Mask x GN!Reader, word count: 1.4k ok be nice to me be kind to me this is my first black mask thing, and i gotta be honest, it's nice to write someone being a complete bastard who just is a complete bastard. reader has been paid by roman in an undisclosed agreement to be his little puppy, but he might be a bit rougher than they imagined... 💀 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: mentions of a monetary arrangement, sub/dom dynamics, rough oral sex, spanking, slapping, humiliation, degradation, sadomasichism, crying, pet play

"Keep. Quiet."

Those were the key words, the rules you were given. They'd been printed on the bottom of the invite card. They were uttered to you by the henchman who was posted at the door to the office. And Roman Sionis himself had uttered them slowly, cruelly, as he watched you undress and guided you to the slick, black platform in the middle of the room.

"Keep quiet. Don't make a sound. I'd hate to have to punish ya."

He turned on his heel, bright red flashing on the bottom of the polished, black leather dress shoes. With a dry chuckle, he turned again, leaning down once more so his face was level with yours where you lay face down on the platform in the middle of the room, though his was hidden behind the matte black skull mask he wore.

"I lied. Punishin' ya would be... well it'd be pretty fuckin' good. But I'm feelin' generous tonight, y'know?"

You nodded, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, as you realised that perhaps the reward here didn't quite make up for the risk. You got money, you got pleasure. But you potentially lost everything at the hands of Black Mask. Violent, notorious, and unpredictable.

Or maybe, you considered, it was worth the risk, given how quickly you felt the pit of your stomach warm, how your heartbeat skipped slightly, how your arousal tingled through you at the thought of those last three attributes. Handsome, yes. Rich, of course. Powerful, naturally. But those were nowhere near as arousing as the volatile behaviour you'd heard tell of being exhibited by Roman in the past. You wanted to experience that for yourself, truth be told. Apathetic, yes. But curious more than anything.

You wondered why you had to be quiet. Some of the others, the ones who had been hired by Roman before, had told you that he had the room bugged. That suggested that perhaps a loud scream might not be picked up well on the mics and would ruin his recording. But then why would he bug the room if he didn’t want any sound? Unless he just wanted to hear himself… But this was Roman Sionis. If he wanted to record any kind of sound, he wouldn’t do it covertly, and certainly not with anything less than the best equipment.

So was it perhaps something to do with the fact that you were in his office, within his building? His employees were right there, just beyond the walls. Maybe he would be embarrassed if they heard what was going on? But of course, he wouldn’t be. Either the walls were soundproofed to allow him to be as heinous as he wanted, or, more likely, they were paper thin so everyone could hear exactly what was going on. After all, who of his employees was going to risk saying anything to him.

And then, you settled on the realisation that it was control. He had control over you completely. From how much you wore, to where you lay, to how much sound you could make in his presence, regardless of what kind of damage he intending to inflict on you. No one spoke back to him, least of all the playthings he was paying. You were there to lay still and be keep quiet. So you close your eyes, letting your body, laying face down, sink into the surface of the podium you had been so sarcastically placed upon, and considered what might be about to happen to you.

Just as your mind began to wander further, causing your heart rate to increase, you felt the sharp, smooth crack of his palm against your rear. The flesh on one of your cheeks heated immediately in response to the smack. You didn’t have time to process the sudden invasion of your personal space before Roman was smacking the other side. His hand switched between your two cheeks, covering your ass in deep, rounded welts as his leather glove came into contact with your red, trembling skin. Over and over, the pain getting stronger either through the repetitive nature or the increase in force, in violence, behind his smacks. Until he suddenly stopped, his heavy breaths getting louder as he walked around you, his finger stroking along your curves as he made his way around to your head.

“Roll over.”

You did as he instructed, and were met with cruelty even then.

“Good dog. Do you know any more tricks then?”

You couldn’t tell whether you should answer or not, so you stayed silent, staring into what you could make out of his eyes beneath the dark mask. With a surprisingly gentle hand, he let his fingers spread through your hair, stroking it, soothing you almost, before he gripped it close to your scalp and tugged sharply. As he pulled your body towards him, you scrambled on your palms, trying to pull your body up the platform, closer to him, where he wanted you to be, until you were laying with your head completely off the edge. Upside down. Waiting for his next move. You opened your mouth to speak, to protest the uncomfortable position, but you were stunned back into silence as his palm cracked your face.

“Don’t even think about talkin’, sweetheart. Keep. Quiet. Keep fuckin’ quiet.”

You nodded, the sting of tears forming in the corners of your eyes. You worried that he might offer further punishment for this display of emotion, but instead he crouched down once again to your level and tutted.

“You dumb animal. Not quite as clever as I thought you were, huh pooch?”

He watched as you swallowed your nerves, throat tensing with the motion.

“Nervous, eh? Good. You should be.”

He placed a finger between your sternum, following it to between your collarbones, then trailing it up your throat to your chin as you watched him, his eyes keeping focus on where he was touching you.

“You know, if there’s one thing I truly hate…”

Roman paused, licking the lips of his mask, eyes narrowing as he took in your pitiful form before him.

“… it’s a puppy who isn’t housebroken.”

His fingers were suddenly tensing, putting pressure on your throat. Constricting your breathing ever so slightly. Enough to cause you to panic before you tried to calm yourself down, preserving the remaining breath in your lungs.

“You gonna whine, little puppy? You gonna howl an’ cry?”

Working against the strength of his grip, you managed to shake your head, a gesture which was met with a deep, dark chuckle from Roman.

“Good. I don’t have time to go take you to be put down.”

Your tears welled up as his grip got tighter, but you fought against the instinct to raise your hands and pull him away from you. If you could just see it through, keep calm, stay still, it’d be over soon. And it was. He let go, leaning forward to admire the dark imprints his fingers had left on your skin.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

A rhetorical question. He knew by the streaks of tears that were stinging your eyes as gravity carried them back towards them that it had been an ordeal.

“I told ya. I paid for ya, I ain’t gonna break ya. Not this soon, anyway. Not before I’ve had my fun.”

Your pupils widened as he brought his hands to the zipper at the front of his white, pinstripe pants. He reached his fingers inside the fabric and pulled out his cock, fingers wrapped around the base as he approached you. Inhaling only through your nose, you tried to keep your mouth closed, silently signalling to him your thoughts on what he was proposing. But he wasn’t proposing it, and he had no intentions of asking for your opinion.

He forced his cock into your mouth, pushing it between your lightly pursed lips, his head hitting the back of your throat as he pushed his entire length into you. There was no hesitation, no hint of him letting up despite the fact that you were now quietly choking on him. When you gagged and let out a whine, an involuntary noise, he whipped his cock out of your throat, drool spilling onto your face.

“If I have to tell you again, you are gonna be one sorry pup.”

Pressing a finger to your lips, you watched in silence as his cock twitched, clearly aroused by the control he held over you.

“Keep. Quiet.”

#black mask #roman sionis #finnie writes #arkham black mask #black mask fanfiction #black mask x reader #black mask x you #black mask fic #roman sionis x reader #roman sionis fic

[frownyalfred]

imagine being Red Hood and pulling up to Roman Sionis’ club to settle your beef with Black Mask and not only is your adoptive father already there, he’s in his civilian identity and keeps “accidentally” stepping in front of Sionis and preventing you from shooting him and you have to pretend you don’t know each other meanwhile said adoptive father is wearing no shirt and is completely lathered in body glitter

#weird fic ideas #adopt this fic idea? #bruce wayne #batman #dc #batfamily #Jason todd #Roman Sionis #black mask #Gotham

[thegreatwicked]

FicRecs

Enjoy some of my favorite stories I've come across on Tumblr! Seriously, I LOVE these stories and I reread them A LOT!

Please note: Virtually ALL OF THESE STORIES ARE SMUT. That means 18+ content, and you are responsible for managing your internet consumption. Minors DNI.

FicRecs

DC Comics

Dance for Daddy by @matth1w LAWD. I love me some Roman Sionis fics and this one DELIVERS. Sexy, kinky, smutty I give it a solid Chefs Kiss.

Joy Ride and Let Me Make You Feel Good, The Intern by @littleredwing89 More delicious Roman Sionis one shots Joy ride is about teasing Roman as he drives and Let Me Make You Feel Good is about a sweet smutty cure for a hangover. And the Intern, a fuck buddies to lovers story, god yum. Reader inserts. Drool. Go forth read and enjoy.

Bait the Beast by @more-cardigan-than-womanLord help me, I found a new little gem. You cause a bit of a ruckus with Coblepot and Roman thinks you need a lesson.

Yours by @tarrenterror25set in the AO! Verse Roman is having some trouble during the holidays overcoming everything the Joker did to him, good thing he has you. Because he does. You're his now. Melt. Sorry about the mess.

Star Wars

Water and Rock by @split-spectrum I honestly cannot say enough good things about this story It follows Obi-wan/Fem Reader in the classic Master/Padawan troupe and it. is. SPICY. Up to twelve chapters which I have read MULTIPLE TIMES and it hits so hard. Go read this story it is sexy as HELL and gives you the feels. She's so damn good at writing Obi-Wan it hurts, but like in a kinky good way.

The Gift by @ladyinwriting18 I have already spoke at length about the fabulousness that is Lady in Writing and her amazing content. This one is a favorite! Its a Maul/Reader Insert and it is smutty sxy and kinky. Seriously if Maul is your fictional crush (Hi me too!), go read this.

The Three Princes Part One: The Oldest Profession by @thenightmarketofdathomir This writer is freaking legendary. I do not know the collection of words in my own language to describe the eloquence and sophistication this writer possesses. Just go. Go read this and you let me know if you're ever the same again. This gem stars our boy Feral and is a you/reader insert. Oh damn, this story makes me want things...

Birthday Wish, Romancing the Pages, The Write Seduction, To Create Life, by @jedianjakenobi Y'all, this author holds a special place in my writer's heart. She's a published author on Amazon and she's truly amazing. Her works are all Obi-Wan-centered and reader inserts. Birthday Wish is a birthday crush from your sexy neighbor, Romancing the Pages is a fake relationship/summer romance with a reclusive shy librarian (Ben) and a best-selling author, The Write Seduction is a professor Kenobi/writing student story and it is SPICY. And my favorite To Create Life is a Jedi Council green lights a baby-making program and who else is the reader paired with? Their good friend Padawan Kenobi. My darlings, my friends, if you like Obi-Wan smut then you are doing yourselves a disservice by NOT reading these.

Empty Me Out by @221bshrlocked reader insert/DOM Obi-Wan I'm tellin y'all this story NEARLY killed me. I've lost track of how many times I've readit. You're an entertainer and Master Kenobi needs information from you, so you give him what he wants and then he gives you what you want. Where it Wasn't massage therapy reader insert/Obi-Wan, do I need to say more? Pretty sure I melted into the floor with this one.

His Loving Satine by @waterlily707 I love reader insterT and OCs but these two Obi-Wan and Satine are a joy to read. Temporary paralyzed Obi-Wan at the "mercy" of a slightly dom Satine. Juicy, gorgeous, little bit of fluff. Love it.

Room 24 by @murdockussy Little angsty Obi-Wan/reader insert enemies to lovers in an undercover assignment-type situation. Spicy, dom Obi-Wan give. Me. More.

Tea with Lemon, Tea with Honey by @wickedscribbles an established relationship as a reader insert and Obi-Wan. If you want honey then you get to take care of a sick Obi-Wan and kind out you have a new kink, if you want Lemon then Obi-Wan takes advantage of said kink and whisks you away to another planet for some R&R under the guise of "work." Enjoy!

Actors/Characters

Ben Hardy

Hold Me Close, Don't Let Me Go by @stray-kaz God. This one shot is just sxy as hell, it's a Billy/Four fro, 6 Underground/Female Reader. Our boy comes home to one hell of an 'I missed you, I need you right now' welcome. GO read it. Right now.

Such an Experience by @rogermyreligionOk. Guys... FUCK, this is a hot little oneshot Roger Taylor of Queen/Female reader and OMG. Just go read it. I've officially stopped counting how many times I've read this. Smutty/Sexy. I'm dead.

Long Distance by @acciotwinzwinz. Y'ALL. Sit your asses down and read this Roger Taylor/Reader insert/You. It's fluffy, its sexy, its cute and the smut is -chefs kiss- Yes, I read this one a lot too.

For now, these are some of my favorites that I frequently reread because I love them. I'll probably be adding more, it's more than likely I've forgotten some...

#fic rec #ben hardy characters #star wars #dc comics #jason todd #roman sionis #all smut all the way #billy/four x reader #roger taylor #obi wan x reader #obi-wan smut #roman sionis smut #jason todd smut #darth maul x you #darth maul smut #Support writers content #My favorite fanfics

[quotidian-oblivion]

A little boy entered Black Mask's lair with two guards on either side. "Black Mask," he greeted.

Mask bowed his head. "Who may you be?"

"A client."

New fic!! Featuring Morally Questionable Tim Drake and a Poor-Impulse Control Bruce

#quotidian fics #tim drake #jason todd #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batfam #dc #batfamily #tim drake wayne #barbara gordon #alfred pennyworth #batdad #batman fic #roman sionis #black mask #black mask dc #tim drake joins the batfamily early #ao3 fic #ao3fic #ao3 fics #batfamily fic #batfam fic #tim drake fic #dc fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #fic #fic recs #fic rec #crack fic

[welcometohellweofferimagines]

BRUCE WAYNE x READER ❥ there is a thin line between love and hate ❥ ⌜ ❁ ⌟  ✧  ⌞ ❀ ⌝ based off of the original (cringe-fest) imagine: x

children, i’ve brought you a garbage fic and a billionaire to eat. dig in. x ⌜ ❁ ⌟  ✧  ⌞ ❀ ⌝ ⌌ ✍︎ re-written version of “ and i would like nothing more than that ”. unedited.  18 • 09 • 22 ⌍

You don’t drink. Well, much. No, that really was the truth.  

All right, you might indulge in one or two alcoholic beverages here and there — but it really wasn’t a problem; and you rarely got drunk. Especially not on the job.  

“Okay,” said the bespectacled man — perhaps the politest of your conversational partners this evening — before he tapped his empty champagne flute, stood, excused himself, and left.  

Ah. Perhaps insisting to these blue-bloods that you were a professional, and a well-behaved one at that, was not the best topic of choice. You’d lost four, no, five... no, maybe nine people since you picked up your first flute and begrudgingly agreed to mingle.  

“It’s networking, baby,” Luca had finger-gunned in your direction. “Just as important as the job.” 

What job, you mused to yourself, grumbling over the glass rim. “I don’t give a fuck about this back-scratching shit.” 

The last of the bubbly disappeared down your throat, the thirst for more immediate as soon as you lowered the champagne flute from your lips.  

Jewels glittered in all directions, the comically elegant laughter around you like headache-inducing sirens. Your own attire felt cheap in comparison, although you’d dragged your feet into an expensive shop to purchase it just a few weeks ago. 

You trudged past them all tonight much like you’d entered the store then, a little more drunk and loose now to care that you looked like a sullen child instead of [Y/N] from Accounting.  

It didn’t matter anyway. You’d handed in your resignation a week ago. Soon, you’d be gone with the wind, baby. Networking be damned. 

You wandered. Wandered, stopped to admire the chocolate éclairs on a server’s silver platter, and wandered some more. Yet, no champagne flutes were in your sight, save for those held already by attendees. You scratched your head — increasingly fuzzy, with the umpteenth drink coursing through you; there must be a logical explanation, you decided; but you sure as hell weren’t going to be able to discover what it was tonight, so you might as well just go sit down. 

Unbeknownst to you, you were among the few guests to whom a certain British butler had long since forbidden the servers from offering more drinks. If he hadn’t been Mr Wayne’s own personal staff, one or two might not have cared to listen. But because he himself had an air of authority, none dared approach you after dispersing; except for those serving food.  

A quiet corner near the French windows pulled you from the chattering crowd, a sole man occupying it. He smiled at you when you plopped down across from him, but, until he spoke, he was a little too hazy to recognise. 

“[Miss/Mr/Mx] [Y/L/N]. What a pleasure.” 

“Mr Fox,” you greeted, perking up for the first time that night. “I didn’t know you were coming.” 

“Couldn’t miss one of Mr Wayne’s parties, now, could I?” There was a trace of humour in his voice. Enough for you to throw all caution to the wind and snort in a drunken response.  

“So much for charity event, huh.” You rested your cheek on your palm as you glanced over your shoulder at the others. “You know, I tried to donate five hundred dollars. The lady there laughed at me,” you gestured with your chin to the tall foundation hostess in her custom red Versace gown, greying golden hair swept up in a trés chic updo. “Thought it was a joke.” 

“Nobody likes a cheapskate, [Mx/Miss/Mr] [Y/L/N].” Lucius Fox shook his head. “That’s why I donated five hundred and one dollars.” 

You were caught in a mid-snort when another figure approached, claiming the chair beside Mr Fox with a languid air. The newcomer unbuttoned his suit jacket as he sat, turning to his adjacent partner with a smile.  

“Lucius. A word?” 

“Of course, Mr Wayne.” He then nodded in your direction, “We have another guest, however. Polite manners require you greet [them/her/him] as well.” 

It wasn’t meant as a chastisement; rather, Lucius Fox sounded very much like he was teasing the man. The alcohol in you wasn’t helping much at the moment, but you just about managed to catch Mr Wayne smiling, an indulging expression that reeked of an arrogant nonchalance. Your nose scrunched up.  

God, you disliked this man.  

In the revolution, you hoped to eat him first.  

“Good evening. [Mx/Miss/Mr] ...?” 

His gaze found yours. Or, at least, you thought it did.  

You didn’t answer. The silence that stretched between the three of you grew uncomfortable, until, when Fox began to shift in his seat, it turned unbearable. 

Now was your cue to exit.  

Mr Fox began, “This is [Y/N]—”  

Without a word, you stood from your seat, and walked — perhaps, more accurately, stumbled — to the French windows and flung them open, out into the cool night air.  

Gotham sprawled out before you: glittering lights. Much like the ornaments the elite donned inside, the spectacle overwhelmed, much too fine for an especially topsy-turvy mind such as the one you were struggling with now. But, oh, was this a pretty sight. Prettier than the one indoors.  

Another outcast stood further down the balcony, the warm orange light of a cigarette cutting through the dark; he exhaled, leaning his head back, missing you as you stormed up to him with balled fists and a furious frown.  

“Luca!” You punched his arm. Lightly. He yelped. (Maybe it wasn’t that light actually.)  

“[Y/N], what the fu—” 

“What happened to networking, baby?” you demanded, seizing his cigarette and flinging it beneath your shoe. He cried out as you crushed it into ash. 

“Huh?” 

“The fuck are you doing out here? I haven’t seen you inside since Lady Gaga sang.” 

“She was amazing, wasn’t sh—” Your palm struck his shoulder. “Ow!” 

“You said it was important. I’ve been rubbing elbows this whole time and I’ve hated every single second of it. Why aren’t you doing the same thing?” 

“I said it was important, I didn’t say I liked it.” Luca huffed out a breath, inhaling as if it were cigarette smoke. He leaned his head back again and blinked up at the starless sky.  

You glared at him. “How many people — and not from work — have you talked to tonight?” 

Luca seemed to consider a moment. Yet, when he answered, it was a pathetic one. “I talked to Alfred.” 

“Who’s Alfred?” 

“Pennyworth.” 

“From?” 

Luca paused. He hesitated, fidgeting. “From Wayne... Manor.” 

“Wayne Manor? What is he? Wayne’s lover or something?” 

Luca relaxed into a grin. “Butler.” 

“So he makes the bed after he wakes up from it. Okay. I get it. Good job, Luca.” His other hand, the elbow resting against the parapet, held a crystal whiskey glass, amber liquid inside. You swiped it — much to his displeasure.  

“I spoke to a lot of people,” you brushed his protests aside, “I deserve this,” slowly sipping the burning liquid until none was left.  

“[Y/N], I’m broke,” Luca pouted after a few peaceful minutes. “I bought this stupid watch for, like, almost a grand. Harrington saw it and did his backhanded compliment thing. He was all like, oh, I love it! So vintage. That’s their old model released three years ago. Very affordable.” 

“Hate that guy” 

“Me too.” 

“Is that why you’re out here? Not in there?” 

Luca nodded. 

“Okay. Mood.” You regarded the crystal in your hand with interest. “That’s why I’m outta here.” 

“Home?”  

That caught his attention. Now it was undivided — you didn’t actually want, nor need, him to focus on you so much. 

“No. I handed in my notice—” 

He spoke as you spoke, “You can’t leave, you bitch. Who else is going to be broke with me? Even Samara in accounting has a millionaire stepdad, and Hwa has—” 

“—and I’m gonna leave this conversation now, bye.” 

“[Y/N]!” he shouted after you.  

“It’s mingle time, baby,” you called back to him.  

It was not mingle time. You lied. You were going home.  

But the night hadn’t finished its fun with you yet. You hadn’t stepped within a metre of the floor when Lucius Fox waved you over to his corner again. He had with him a whole party of individuals now: a Wayne Enterprises board member, one tech CEO from someplace-or-other, two board members from another company (one of whom you were about 80 to 85% sure was Roman Sionis), and a corporate lawyer you’d seen around the tower; and last, but certainly not least, Bruce Wayne himself.  

You could ignore him, pretend you didn’t see.  

Ah, yes, because making direct eye contact and then walking off is a totally valid explanation behind you somehow not noticing his invitation to his table. I am drunk though, you realised. That was a good excuse.  

But this was Mr Fox... Soon enough you wouldn’t be around him anymore — not that you could tag alongside him much already when you were stuck in the accounting department — and what moments you could steal of witnessing his dry wit would be lost forever. That, and he was much too nice to purposely slight.  

Surprisingly, there was a seat free beside Bruce Wayne. As you sat, though, you could tell that the woman to your right — the gorgeous lawyer, a Harvard graduate, you’d heard — had been eyeing that chair up for a while, too cautious to take it for herself, hoping instead that he might scoot over, even if only to get a better look at her slender legs.  

Alas, you were now in between them.  

“[Y/N] is leaving our company soon,” said Mr Fox, raising his glass of whiskey — where and when did the whiskey come out?! — to you in a toast. “If either of you gentlemen have an opening for a new chartered accountant, I’d highly recommend you hire [them/her/him].” 

He took a sip from the glass as he added, “So [they/she/he]’ll come back to us soon.” 

The other company’s board members chuckled, their interest in you sparked for a moment, before flickering; fleeting, much as you’d expected it to be. You busied yourself with the champagne that a server came to set before you — their hand trembling in uncertainty (considering retracting the flute as soon as their gaze locked with Mr Pennyworth’s) — content at last to have more numbing juice. 

“Did Bruce not pay you enough?”  

It took longer than you would have liked for you to realise that the one who spoke — Mr Hotshot-Twenty-Something-Year-Old-Tech-Savvy-Small-Loan-of-a-Million-Dollars-Guy — was in fact speaking to you. 

A brush against your knee startled you. You almost jumped in your seat, managing to just flinch a little, glancing down in slow realisation that your adjacent acquaintance — unfortunately not the pretty lawyer lady — had accidentally brushed his knee against yours. He’d turned just a bit to look at you. His face was a tad blurry. You drank more champagne.  

Hoping it to be a rhetorical question, you just answered with what you hoped was a humorous smile. But then Wayne himself joined in; his arm came to rest atop the back of your seat.  

“Didn’t I?” he asked.  

Could you up and leave for a second time in the face of his questioning? I mean, yes, of course you could, there was no law stopping you from doing that. The lawyer beside you could surely confirm that. But, would it be embarrassing? Witnessed by too many eyes?  

Yes. Very much so. 

“My salary was sufficient, thank you.” Damn, you hoped you didn’t slur. Or maybe you shouldn’t care... right?  

“Then why leave?” 

Fucking damn it. Just fuck off, you wanted to snap. His face swam beside you, the smile that graced his lips a fleeting sight as you narrowed your eyes at him for a quick moment. You must have looked far too contemptuous for an employee. Good thing you’d quit already.  

Thankfully, it was the tech CEO who answered for you (the one time you’d excuse it). “Sufficient, Bruce. Sufficient. Not great.” 

“Sufficient is great in this economy,” offered the lawyer, twirling her finger around the toothpick in her martini, staring at the green olives within. Darn it, how come she got a martini, and you didn’t?  

“Yeah?” countered the CEO.  

The woman frowned. “Not everyone’s as comfortable as you are, Nathaniel.” 

The subject of her frown also frowned. “Don’t call me Nathaniel.” He took a swig of his own drink. “Reminds me of my dad.” 

Why not just pay what we’re owed, you might have suggested. If someone had also given you a martini, you would have said it.  

Sufficient is just not good enough. To put up with their lot.

Mr Wayne’s knuckles brushed your fingers when he lowered his whiskey glass to the table; too close to where you held your flute to not be suspect. You looked at him through a narrowed gaze again. His brown hair fell over his forehead, catching the light. It looked like melted chocolate, dark; but there were hints of a golden hue in each wave. 

You then couldn’t help but notice that he’d undone his tie. A few buttons on his pristine white shirt were open. Holy shit if you’d ever dared show up to an event like this, unkempt as he’d allowed himself to become, you’d be blacklisted from employment interviews for life — unless you changed your name as well as your face.  

Damn this man.  

“You should’ve asked for a raise, [Y/N].” 

[Y/N]. Sure, he was your boss, he could address you by your name rather than be formal, but also, what the fuck. In the few years you’d worked at Wayne Enterprises, you’d seldom met the man behind the name (although... there was that one time you’d spent almost a whole afternoon following him around the tower, close to begging him to just sign off on his personal expenditures, long ago giving up on explaining to the company owner that wining and dining the hot new Swedish shareholder couldn’t be accepted as a valid use of his company card). You sure as hell weren’t suddenly friends now. Besides, the way he just said it... that’s not how bosses usually utter any employee’s name.  

The lawyer beside you noticed, too. Or at least you think she did. Her posture became rigid, her gaze shifting to you. Her plump lips formed a smile, but it seemed self-deprecating, as well as accepting.  

You took a moment to admire her smooth dark skin as she lamented over not moving seats as soon as yours had first become available. 

She was who Bruce Wayne should be rubbing his knuckles against. Not you.  

You’d rather punch him than brush your own knuckles against his skin.  

Fine, yes, it was true that he was very pretty. Women weren’t as vapid as these assholes liked to accuse them of being; it wasn’t just money, and you know what, it wasn’t even only his looks that trapped women or other partners. You’d seen him shed some of his ignorance before. Sometimes, he really could be charming.  

If you liked that sort of thing.  

Which you didn’t. 

Ugh.  

“I think,” you drew a breath, “I’m done with the corporate world for a while.” 

“What will you do once you’re free?” Again, it was Mr Wayne who asked.  

Wasn’t he completely uninterested in even saying hello to you a few moments ago? When was he going to go back to not caring — because you really needed an opening to say your goodbyes and book it home. 

“Travel. Take a vacation, I guess.” Why did your accent change? Fuck, you needed to leave.  

“Good choice,” Mr Fox nodded in approval.  

You raised your almost empty champagne flute to him. 

“In this economy?” joked the woman beside you.  

She was rich, you could tell. But self-made. Her dress was a gorgeous black silk. The gold around her neck and wrists weren’t there to brag. She had on an old, sentimental wristwatch. There was something about her, that you could tell she knew well the struggles of gaining success. If anyone else understood the value of money at this table, it was her.  

You liked her. You should get up and give her your seat. Even if it meant that someone as undeserving as Bruce Wayne could shoot his shot with her. After all, she wanted him to, didn’t she. 

Or maybe you should shoot your shot. 

She laughed, throwing her head back at something Bruce Wayne said from your other side, showing for a moment the graceful curve of her neck. Her laughter sounded like divine song. 

Nope, never mind. She was way out of your league. 

“Excuse me,” you murmured, rising — frustratingly with a bit of difficulty — to your feet. Much to your distaste, your chair legs scraped across the floor, loud. Using the table’s edge for balance, you guided yourself around your chair, pausing to push it in with a keen concentration that your closest table partners didn’t fail to notice. 

“I’ll come with you, [Y/N],” Lucius Fox offered, standing as well. 

But before he could move, Mr Wayne also rose, the fog of his own drunken mirth disappearing for a second, noticed solely by Lucius. “You promised Mr Sionis a sneak peek of our new tech, didn’t you? It’s okay. I’ll help [Y/N].”  

The two men shared a nod, even as Bruce Wayne’s gaze followed your abruptly retreating form. Fists balled at your sides, arms pendulating, you focused all your will on remaining upright and fast, all the while fleeing to the exit unaware of how cartoonish you looked.  

Almost there, you triumphed, catching sight of the coat check attendant. Almost. There. 

The attendant noticed your approach and offered a smile. He stepped forward to serve you, just as another woman called for him, the apologetic expression on his face too genuine to hold a grudge against him as he rushed off to get her fur coat. Foiled again! How many times did you have to be reminded of how unimportant you were compared to these blue-bloods? 

You tapped your foot once you reached the door to the cloakroom. Soon, you were leaning against the wall in a vain effort to not fall. It wasn’t long before someone joined you, their amiable smile gaining from you only a disappointed grimace. If he noticed, Bruce Wayne didn’t comment on it. He simply came to stand beside you, hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants, his gaze sweeping over the party crowd with you. 

“Leaving so soon, [Mx/Miss/Mr] [Y/L/N].” His tone didn’t make it sound like a question, not even a rhetorical one; this seemed more like a remark.  

“It’s almost eleven,” you mumbled, checking your wristwatch to confirm. “Not so soon, actually.” 

“This event’s unlikely to end till midnight,” he told you, flashing you a small smile before returning to people-watching. 

“Uh, ha, too late for me.”  

Away from people, from being among conversations, you could no longer deny the fact that you were, like the embarrassment you could be, slurring. But beside him, you didn’t feel too bad about it; you’d heard about the times he’d shown up to board meetings hungover. More often than not, he even fell asleep during them. Let him hear your slurred speech, his opinion didn’t matter to you anyway. 

“Sounds like we’re losing a good employee,” mused Mr Wayne, but he spoke with a certain detachment, although he smiled. He didn’t care about the company as much as Mr Fox did, you were aware; he’d left most matters in the latter’s capable hands, after all. 

“Don’t worry,” you found yourself saying, “I’ll make sure my replacement ch—chases you around to get your—” you imitated signing, “—on expenses even better than I do.” 

His look of surprise met only the sight of your turned back, your additional muttered, “Not that you ever made it easy, though,” hopefully going unheard as you waved the coat attendant over again. 

(You'd only really done it once.) 

(Not that it mattered.) 

(Once was hard enough.) 

To your astonishment, his laugh rang out behind you. You faced the direction of the deep sound, seeing that he was now eyeing you with a certain curiosity — all traces of alcoholic influence oddly gone. A sudden uneasiness pooled in the pit of your stomach.  

Why, you couldn’t tell. Maybe it was because you’d never seen him this way. Bruce Wayne was always the worst spoiled, unconcerned snob around Gotham; yeah, he was an Ivy League graduate, but you sure as hell doubted that he got in on merit (all right, that was harsh... he was smart, you had to admit that — but he was just as careless); and what immense power he had, he used for his stupid exploits.  

This man before you didn’t seem like that Bruce Wayne. 

The attendant came to take your card and disappeared once more into the cloakroom. You took his arrival and departure as an excuse to turn your back on Wayne again, for some strange reason trembling. You were drunk. You were seeing things, thinking things, making things up. 

Yes, that made sense. 

“Do you need a ride home, [Y/N]?” he asked, breaking the silence. 

“Hm? Oh, no, thank you,” you answered, without evening meeting his gaze. “I’ll take the train. Besides...” No, don’t say it. You didn’t need to, just leave it at that, what use was it to make another jab at this dude? “Didn’t you drink?” 

He chuckled, stepping around to look into your face with a smile, “I’d ask my butler to drive.”  

His smile waned, just a bit (such a miniscule shift, you almost thought you imagined it; because, otherwise, that might have been the most genuine reaction you’d ever seen him have). “It’s not that safe on the trains this late at night.” 

“It’s okay,” you fought to keep a frown off your face, “I use them all the time.”  

Who was he to speak? His family might have built them, but you doubted he’d ever taken a train in his life. 

Okay, he had a point. But you weren’t going to listen to one of the wealthiest people in the world tell you your public transport was inadequate. 

And yes, of course you knew he himself had suffered an enormous loss in his youth... but perhaps that’s what frustrated you the most: that, despite what horror he faced on the night of his parents’ murder, he still turned out to be this selfish brat. 

Your coat appeared, along with the attendant. He came up to you whilst someone else vied for his attention; you hurriedly handed him a tip, then left the ballroom, heading towards the elevator. A pair of feet followed behind. 

“Wait, [Y/N].”  

You didn’t wait. You all but smacked the elevator button with the heel of your palm.  

Darn skyscrapers... Waiting for the elevator to rise to the top floor proved the worst of your experiences that night, because now Bruce Wayne was standing with you, alone, out in the glossy lobby where you just wanted to be left in peace. 

“At least call a cab,” he said. Was his voice soft right now? Were you losing your hearing? How drunk were you, really? 

All you responded with was a rub of your thumb over the tips of your middle and index fingers.  

The lift continued to ascend. 

“Let me pay fo—” 

Before he could finish his offer, you shot him a dismissive look, quelling the little bud of guilt that grew in your chest from your own rude reaction. 

“Goodnight, Mr Wayne,” you gave a nod, and returned to staring at the floor numbers above the sleek black doors.  

He paused, for just a moment. Then, he said, “Well, [Y/N], thank you for your donation.” He turned to leave. 

You shot him a smile this time, unable to keep the sarcasm off your face. “I could only offer some spare change though. Sorry.” 

Silence. Then— 

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you somehow.” 

The doors finally dinged open. 

That stupid smile was back: the saccharine one, aloof and false. He never went without this particular expression, and he was damn good at it. Somehow, it could please its recipients, even though he didn’t even bother to properly conceal the apathy in his tone of voice.  

But you couldn’t stand it. You had nothing to gain from the Great Bruce Wayne; except perhaps a headache. As pleasant as his smile was to look at, all it achieved in its use with you was furthering your irritation. If it were actually possible to see red when enraged, you’d have been overcome by it now.  

“You know what, Mr Wayne, no.” You whirled towards him (staggering just a bit). “You’re not sorry.” 

Still glaring at him, you marched inside the elevator. He took that as a cue to follow. Inside the closed — albeit ample — space, it felt almost as if your anger was radiating off of you, filling up between those four walls, pressing, and vengeful.  

If it became tangible, Bruce Wayne would be crushed dead. You too, probably; but that was a sacrifice, in this moment, you’d be willing to make. 

A short laugh escaped your lips, “You’re just not.” 

Serious again, you continued your attack (as well as you could). “Just like— Just like you don’t actually care about this city. No, actually, I don’t think you e—even care about other people. What is this event... Honestly? It just feels like a, uh... a sham. A chance to stroke your egos, get drunk, and fuck around. You want to raise money for the public library? Okay. Where are the kids? Where’re the... library... people? Um. Fuck. Uh, right, librarians. Where are they? Lady Gaga is cool and all, but how is her singing Shallow really a part of this cause? Did you just pick a random charity out of a hat? Because it sure as hell seems like you did.” 

You took a moment to gather your breath. 

“Do you even know how to read, Mr Wayne? Well then read this — you are a pompous... pompous jerk. Who cares for little else but his money. You’re a fake.” 

Everything was tilting. Was the world being pushed to its side? You stumbled back against the golden rail.  

Some time passed. 

When you next spoke, you almost didn’t recognise your own voice; this was someone else, surely; they sounded tired; they sounded almost sad. You weren’t sad. You were angry. 

“You’re the fakest person I’ve ever met.” 

The elevator announced your arrival on the ground floor. The doors slid open, but you didn’t move. He didn’t either.  

Gone was his façade. Not even intoxication altered his features. He didn’t even seem offended.  

Now, he was nothing... And fuck, this was so, so, so much worse. Whoever was standing in the other corner of the elevator was just an empty man... 

An empty man with hollow eyes. 

You couldn’t hold his gaze much longer. Glancing down at your shoes, you mumbled, “You know. You know what it’s like. This place is a shit show. Money couldn’t even save your...” No, you’d better not.  

Inhaling deeply, you diverted. “Imagine what it’s like for everyone else. Hon—hon—” you gave a short chuckle at your stuttering, “—honestly, even I’m luckier than most. So... just... imagine.” 

Exiting the elevator, you glanced toward him one last time, parting with an “Imagine dying on these streets with nothing. Then you can understand why watching you throw —you gesticulated— “your money around like it’s nothing makes people hate you.”  

Cold wind greeted you past the revolving doors, the autumn night worsening by the minute. Rain was promised, and there was no denying it would fall soon enough. You should’ve brought an umbrella, but you’d honestly expected to run off much earlier.  

The way home was far; you lived in a decent enough city block, but that’s what it was: decent — far, far, far from these opulent parts of Gotham. Trekking to the train station was going to be a bitch. But the temptation of calling a taxi from here to there... Financial ruin in disguise.  

You drew your coat tighter around you and began walking. It is what it is. 

An arm abruptly blocked your path. Following its length up to the face of its owner, a string of curse words erupted on your tongue, luckily silenced, too caught up in the realisation that he was flagging down a valet with his other hand before you could let him have it. 

“What are you doing?” you demanded. 

“Taking you home.” His gaze remained on the valet, a small, young woman who rushed off to retrieve his vehicle.  

“Huh? I said I—” 

“On most nights do you walk and take the train home drunk?” 

There was a finality to his tone, taking from you any opportunity to argue. You could try; but you had a feeling that he would just shrug it all off. It would be useless, wouldn’t it. 

But you were drunk. He frustrated you.  

So, eventually, you tried. 

“You can’t drive.” You watched with him as the valet pulled up to the curb, the lights from the building reflecting off the sleek golden body of his Bentley. “If I have to choose between getting stabbed going home or ending up in a car crash with you, I’d rather get stabbed to be honest.” 

You were looking downward as you finished, miming a stabbing. When you glanced up, his smile came into focus; you were standing close, close enough that the sarcastic pull of his lips was completely unmistakeable. You should have been angry. Yet instead, you fell silent. 

He was too real here, now. 

Much like when he’d looked at you with his hollow eyes, you found yourself unable to meet his gaze. You focused on the pavement where you scuffed a limp leaf onto its surface.  

“I’m not drunk,” he said, taking the keys from the valet. “I faked it. I’m good at that, remember?” 

Several minutes more (no one willing to come tell off the man parked right outside the hotel entrance when it was clearly a disgruntled Bruce Wayne), and you were finally seated on the passenger side. When he got inside, droplets of light rain that had begun to fall were scattered in his hair, his piqued expression disappearing behind his sleeve as he tried to rub some of the rain off. He glanced in your direction for a second while he pointed at the dashboard system. 

“Type in your address, please.” 

The car rumbled to life and he pulled his seatbelt into place. As you sat digesting his words, he reached over to buckle you up, throwing you a peeved squint of his eyes when you barked out a protest. 

This was the final form of rich spoiled brat Bruce Wayne — the last boss, worst of the worst — you decided.  

Though, his manner felt more grounded than you’d expected from him during a disagreement. You’d expected more snobbish behaviour in the face of your blatant disrespect. More of “how dare [they/she/he] not like me — I’m Bruce fucking Wayne!” than this — whatever this was. 

After a stretch of awkward silence, he gestured towards the screen again, “Well?” 

Biting back some ugly grumbles, you did as he asked. Wondering for a moment whether your fingers were clean enough to be touching this expensive tech, hoping Wayne wouldn’t come to find the stickiness of dried champagne on his precious Bentley tomorrow morning. 

With a nod in thanks, he put the gear into drive, and sped off down the street. He immediately swerved to take over a car ahead. Your stomach lurched, and for a moment you were terrified you might throw up all the alcohol still in your tummy. Also, what did you even eat tonight? Mozzarella sticks?  

Oh yeah, that’s right, Luca, Hwa and you got waffle fries after work. 

Bad choice... 

You muffled past your palm, “Could you—” 

The car immediately slowed to a decent speed. You might have thought he looked a little concerned when he faced you, but that was impossible considering the man in question. 

“Do you need me to pull over?” he asked. 

“No,” you assured, shaking your head. Your hand slipped down your face, falling to your lap. “I’ll be fine I think.” 

A gentle hum filled what would have otherwise been silence, the engine so soothing that you felt you’d soon be asleep. The rain outside had grown heavier. Windscreen wipers swept across the windshield, the noise a welcome addition to your increasing repose.  

You fell asleep in just a few minutes, waking long after you’d set off from the hotel. You started in your seat, a sharp gasp alerting Wayne of your awakening, his eyes narrowing to where you had managed to slump down in your sleep. Quickly, you straightened, stretching out the double-chin you’d slept with, crying on the inside with every painful stretch of your neck muscles. 

“We’re almost there,” he said from beside you, tapping something on the tech screen. It wasn’t until a symphony stopped that you realised he’d been listening to music. Quiet followed. 

“Oh.” You rubbed at your right eye. “You can keep playing it.” 

“Tchaikovsky?” He smiled a little. 

You looked at him. “You were listening to Tchaikovsky?” 

He shook his head suddenly, “Who’s that?” 

Confused, you said no more. Your head lolled back against the leather seat, staring through the window where buildings and lights and people blurred by. Your head was still spinning a little bit. You almost enjoyed the way everything blended into obscure colours. If it hadn’t been for the somersaults in your stomach, you’d enjoy it more. 

“How far away are we now?” your question came out just above a whisper. 

“Fourteen minutes.” After a long pause, he mused, “I didn’t actually realise how far you live, [Y/N].” 

You curled in on yourself. 

“Did you take the train all the way to the event?” 

It took you a while to reply. He thought it was because of his question, unaware that he had made you uncomfortable elsehow. Several seconds later, you mumbled, “No, I stayed around after work. I walked over with some colleagues.” 

He thought, then began, “You—” 

But your voice held his tongue.  

“Why do you... keep saying my name?” Abrupt; though it came out in a bashful murmur. 

“Why?” He began to chuckle. “Why, because it’s your name.” 

“No,” you shook your head. The space pressed in. There was so little of it, really. So little between you and him.  

“No, like... It’s so... Like...” Intimate. “Weird. See, I haven’t said your name. Not once.” 

“You’ve called me Mr Wayne a couple times tonight.” 

“Yeah. It— That’s, you know, formal. Like, like, if you, like, call me [Mx/Miss/Mr] [Y/L/N], that’s not weird. Even in my head you’re just, like, always Bruce Wayne.” 

“Say Bruce.” 

You froze. 

“Huh?” 

“Say Bruce right now.” 

Quiet, you tried to curl in on yourself further; but could manage no more than you already had. You trained your gaze out the window at the passing streetlights.  

You murmured out a “No...”  

He grinned at you, and you couldn’t help but glance fleetingly in his direction to gauge his reaction, shocked to find his countenance genuinely amused for the first time tonight. You looked back outside, folding your arms as your body slumped down the leather. 

“Do you not want me to say your name then, [Y/N]?” 

You shrugged. 

“Okay.” 

A muted beep, and Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake filled the space. Moments passed. But after a while, you couldn’t help it: you turned to him with an incredulous expression. He regarded your wide eyes, tutting in response. 

“Is this not Taylor Swift?” 

You simply stared. 

“Hang on, I think you’ll like this.” 

He pressed a few things on his screen, Swan Lake disappearing. A modern beat played from the speakers.  

“Wait, what?” 

“You like Big Shaq, right? Two plus two is four, minus one is—” He swatted lightly at your shoulder with the back of his hand, “You’re good with numbers.” 

Gunshots struck the air. Pah, pah, pah, pah, pah. 

As if this night couldn’t get any weirder, Bruce Wayne randomly pointed out of his side of the window, announcing gravely, “There’s a drug dealer who sells crack down that alley. You’re only a few minutes' drive away. Don’t walk past there. I’ve heard he’s a horribly good salesman.” 

You willed yourself to go back to sleep. 

Morning came without mercy. 

You awoke earlier than you’d have liked to a pounding headache. Too weak to rise, you peeked over the covers — gathered tightly around your head — at the blinds, confirming from the golden sunlight sneaking through that it was day. You stubbornly fell back asleep soon after. 

At around noon, your roommate was no longer indulgent of your behaviour, barrelling into your room to haul you out of bed. They shoved a glass of water in your hand, pointed at a box on the nightstand, and said something about coffee and lunch and brushing your teeth whilst storming out into the corridor as passionately as they’d come in. 

You grumbled about not getting even a second of peace as you did what you were told. But you supposed this was revenge for the last time they’d come home drunk. You’d done almost the exact same thing. 

The box yielded to be Tylenol. As you popped two tablets down, you grew aware of your surroundings. The floor was not littered with the clothes you’d worn out — a usual sight on the morning of a hangover. You glanced down to find last night’s attire still on.  

Fabric creased, it looked cheap now, not just what you’d felt it to be among the evening’s finery.  

The prospect of laundering made you groan — it would take intensive ironing to get those creases out. A task you had no intention of completing this weekend.  

Trudging out to the bathroom, you brushed your teeth then took a shower. Your roommate was sat in front of the TV reading this week’s horoscope when you tiptoed to the kitchenette area to steal your coffee and lunch. Their gaze followed you amusedly as you snuck back towards your bedroom. 

“Hey!” they called, stopping you in your tracks. “Did you read the note on your nightstand?” 

“Uh...” you glanced over your shoulder at their bright face. “No? What note?” 

A flourish; with a wave of their hand in the direction of your room, you were dismissed. “Just go read it, genius.” 

“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath (endearingly (maybe)), but obeyed.  

Spiteful as you could sometimes be in the face of your roommate's demands, your curiosity was simply too much to ignore when you spotted the folded piece of paper. It stood propped against your lamp, a little flower (smiling, you should add) sketched on its visible side. You plucked it from the nightstand and jumped back into bed. 

Cursive script flowed down the paper, equal parts elegant and equal parts chaotic — too grand for you to decipher without worsening your headache.  

And much too grand to be your roommate’s.  

You squinted, reading slowly. Taking little in; until memories of last night returned to you. 

Of course you hadn’t forgotten that the event was a disaster, nor could you forget that Bruce goddamn Wayne had driven you home after it. But the part at the end felt blurred; you recalled bits and pieces of waking up, falling back asleep, feeling as if you were floating, telling someone to fuck off, an intercom buzzing, elevator music, hysterical laughter waking you up for a moment and... and— Wait!  

God fucking damn, did Bruce Wayne carry you up the elevator and to your apartment, or was that just a very vivid, very bizzare, utterly ridiculous dream? 

It had to be. In what world could that be real. Any of it? The note in your hand was a figment of your imagination, too. And Mr Wayne. The logical explanation was that none of it happened and you’d dreamed a drunken nightmare. No, you still were — dreaming. You had to be passed out on the balcony with Luca or something, alcohol poisoning finally taking its toll. 

That had to be it. 

It just had to be. 

[Y/N] — 

You’re lucky you’ve already quit, otherwise I might have had to fire you after last night. 

There’s some water and medicine on your nightstand for the headache I’m sure you now have. If you’re managing to read this despite it, I truly am sorry to see you go. You must be a great accountant. Lucius seems to have noticed sooner. What a shame he did nothing to stop you from resigning. 

You said some interesting things at the event. Or, at least, I’m sure it was all interesting. Please don’t fault me for not understanding a word of it. You see, I’m very stupid. It’s true that I bought my way into college. In fact, you’re right: I never did learn how to read. I’m going to go home and ask my butler what a librarian is. 

You must be wondering how I’m writing this then. The thing is, I’m rich. I can do whatever I want. The pen has to move because I’m telling it to. It can’t afford being sued. My lawyers are really, really good. 

I’m sure you have much more to say to me, [Y/N]. I may even begin to understand if you give me enough time to learn from you.  

Tomorrow is Saturday. The office is closed. I’ll wake up at 7, Alfred will make me a smoothie, I’ll meditate, work out a bit. Then I’ll drink and fuck around. Not very interesting.  

Certainly not as interesting as being shouted at by you. 

There’s a nice little souvlaki place around the corner from your place. I saw the owner throw a piece of lettuce at a customer when we were driving by. I think he actually meant it as a friendly gesture. They were both laughing. Come with me on Saturday night? Maybe we can get a free piece of lettuce too. Or two, since it’ll be you and me. 

I promise I’ll make it worth your while. You can continue to admonish me all you like. For hours and hours. Teach me what I can and can’t use my company credit card for, so the next poor accountant who deals with me after you doesn’t have to cry over it ever again. That was you, wasn’t it? I remember you now. I'm sorry about that... truly. 

You know, now that I’m thinking about it, your shouting actually reminded me of my nanny when I was six years old. Not that she was ever drunk around me or anything. She just shouted a lot. She used to show that she loved me by calling me a vexing child. I think it was German for lovely, or something like that. Maybe cute? 

Anyway, rest up, drink plenty of fluids. I can’t have you throwing up in the souvlaki shop, the owner might not like us then.  

Respond using my business email. Don’t worry. I only give my number to people I’m looking to hook up with. Lucky for you, I just want to have souvlaki and learn how to read from you. So, no phone number for you. 

Bring your best insults. I’ll enjoy them. You’ll enjoy them. Win-win.  

So, come. Please. 

 Yours, 

Bruce. 

 And it was your imagination, too, that you sent him that requested email.  

In your imagination, you had to thank him for last night, after all. 

It began with: 

Dear Bruce, — 

#bruce wayne #batman #dc #dc comics #bruce wayne x reader #imagine #imagines #fanfiction #fic #fanfic #reader x bruce wayne #bruce wayne/reader #reader/bruce wayne #reader insert #batman x reader #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne x you #lucius fox #roman sionis #gotham #christian bale #robert pattinson #welcometohellweofferimagines

[internalsealpanic]

Last Meal

Summary: Good company can make any type of food taste better. That being said, you find yourself with the worst company possible. a/n: Yes, I have been dead for awhile but I have comeback to post for the holidays. School is killing me but I still love writing so here we are. Thank you to everyone who has stayed on despite me chronically reblogging dorky stuff. I’m a dork. It’s terminal. warnings: mentions of murder and bloody steaks.

Candle-lit dinners were always your favorite. 

 Atmospheric, low budget, and slightly threatening. 

 The candle's flames dance over Black Mask's eponymous mask— sleek material cut into vicious angles by the stark line between shadow and light. You hadn't noticed or hadn't wanted to notice but the surface of the mask, like that of his gloves, looked like skin. If you were the type to listen to the Red Hood, you would believe that at some point, the leather for those gloves used to be the skin of a very alive, very normal person who just happened to be there for their boss's worst mental break down. 

 For the sake of your stomach, you're going to choose to believe that it's just a leather fetish. The candlelight and the blood-red wine are not helping in this assumption though. 

 You flick your eyes around searching. Searching for an exit, a weapon, something that could get you out of this room. The candlelight doesn't provide much in the way of illumination really. The shadows beyond the confines of the dinner table are impenetrable and gaping. It's impossible to distinguish any of the shapes swallowed up in the black. 

 Black Mask drums his fingers on the table watching you like a very impatient chef waiting for your critique of the dinner he's served and not a deranged maniac who kidnapped you and "invited" you to dinner. 

 You swallow and pick up the knife. It would be difficult to hurl it with enough velocity to actually kill Black Mask or the many goons writhing in the dark. Pressing the blade into the steak, it tears through the flesh easily, cutting through connective tissue like a blade should. It makes you a little sicker than it should. Maybe the idea that Black mask has one too on his side of the table, winking at you as it reflect candle light. 

 You take a bite. 

 The taste makes your stomach roll and curdle, the sharp tang on your tongue dulled by the endless stream of adrenaline in your veins. 

 "Not bad for a last meal, huh?"

#roman sionis x reader #dc villains #horror #prelude to Halloween posting #I sadly do not have many villain fics recently unless someone is crazy enough to read the Ra's one I conjured up for a dare

[starcrier]

"of blood" feed me pls

ash i smooch you!!! today i bring you content based within your CYT sandbox! tomorrow? who knows

Sure enough, Winnie sees the Sionis boy in question approaching the base of the rope she’s climbing. The passive expression on his face would almost make her think he hadn’t noticed the murmuring around him, were it not for the fact that this particular boy would never fail to notice any such thing.

Roma is dressed immaculately for the cool Gotham weather, his warm skin set off by a dark turtleneck sweater and black jacket, hands tucked into his pockets as he peers up at her. She waves down at him, grinning so widely it hurts her face, and he tilts his head, amused, before crooking a beckoning finger at her.

It’s as though he’s tugged on a string wrapped around her sternum -- she could no more resist his call than she could make her heart stop beating. Winnie slips easily back down the rope until she’s about at eye level with him, and then wraps one leg and flips, neatly, until she’s suspended upside-down.

“Well, hello handsome,” she says brightly, swaying inches from his face, her braid dangling towards the floor.

#these two give me life #tag meme #star speaks #roman sionis ii #friends ocs #my fic #winnie moone-wick #thanks for playing ilu

[charleslucid]

Bruce doubts Gordon would give him anything with a virus on it, but he still plugs the drive into one of his spare laptops and not the Cave’s main computer. It would, after all, take just one data breach to ruin his family.

The thumb drive has a single file on it. The video is titled “as promised”.

—————

On a mission, Bruce and Jason come face to face with one of Gotham's seediest pimps, a man who procures quiet women and docile children for anyone who has the money.

The pimp recognizes Jason immediately.

Bruce’s hands do not shake as he opens the video.

—————

‘Dick stiffens suddenly, his spine drawing tight. His smile turns plastic and he pushes Jason back a little, boxing him in between them. Bruce’s stomach sinks as he turns to see what caused Dick’s reaction. Roman Sionis is walking towards them, arms outstretched, a wide grin splitting his face.’

—————

Tim Drake is still grieving the death of his Robin when his parents drag him to a holiday party only months after Jason Todd's death. Tim slips away and goes snooping, only to find Jason Todd very much alive and locked inside the Host's bedroom.

#fic rec #Jason Todd #Bruce Wayne #dick grayson #Tim drake #roman sionis #tw rape #my post #recommendation

[littleoddwriter]

Chances are that you have the option to “hide [your blog name] from search results” ticked in settings, or you are flagged as explicit by tumblr’s bot, both of which would stop you from being shown in search results.

That’s maybe why your posts aren’t showing up in tags.

Hi there!

That's true, that could have been, but neither is the case, and the Fic I posted yesterday showed up again (just not the post I made, nor the other two fics, still).

But it's okay. It is what it is and I don't really care how many people interact with it, it just annoys me when it's Tumblr swallowing your work, rather than people scrolling past it, you know? x'D

Anyway, I appreciate your help, thank you!!! Take care! <3

#ronny.exe #This happened with most of my fics about Roman Sionis in the beginning too so I'm kinda used to it #Sometimes it also just needs some time but alas #It's simply annoying #Thank you tho!!!

[nightwang96]

Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Roman Sionis/Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain & Jason Todd Characters: Jason Todd, Roman Sionis, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain, Damian Wayne, Tim Drake, Alfred Pennyworth Additional Tags: Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Forced Orgasm, Rape Aftermath, Victim Blaming, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Hurt Jason Todd, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Dick Grayson, Protective Cassandra Cain, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Or he's trying to be at least, no capes AU, Vomiting, Dissociation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Tim Drake, Protective Alfred Pennyworth, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Panic Attacks, Nightmares Series: Part 1 of Jason Rare Pair Challenge Summary:

"Jason is much taller now, and he’s filled out, lean, hard muscles beneath the fine material of his suit, tapering into a slim waist. Roman wonders if he would be able to take him in a fight - probably not, Roman is still a lot bigger than him - but he could probably put up a good effort.

The thought has something hot curling low in Roman’s belly. Jason always was his favourite."

Roman wants. And what Roman wants, he gets.

#writing #fanfiction #dcu #batman #no capes au #jason todd/roman sionis #tw rape/non-con #hurt jason #a fantastic fic #super well written #poor jason #loved it

[thegreatwicked]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you for the tag @pickleprickle!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? Currently seven but there will be more oe shots soon...

2. What's your total A03 word count? 149,505

3. What fandoms do you write for? Currently Star Wars and the DC verse are my top two, but I also write for Assassins Creed, the Walking Dead, Once Upon a Time, Supernatural, and some Marvel.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Bet You Wish You Had Me Back (Shane Walsh x FOC) SMUT one shot

Unbreakable Bonds (Obi-Wan x FOC) Slow burn, eventual smut/romance

Shadows of Deception (Roman Sionis x FOC) SMUT. SMUT. SMUT.

After the Storm (Hux x FOC) One shot; smut, sex polle troupe... kinda.

1001 Lonely Nights (Dean Winchester x FOC) Smut, one shot

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Yes! I love talking to you guys, your comments make my day and make me want to write more!

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I suppose it would have to be 1001 Lonely Nights, I don't currently have much angsty stuff right now but trust me thats about to change very soon as i'm dipping my toes into the murky Sith Obi-wan waters...

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? I think it would have to be Bet You Wish You Had Me Back, and only because as of right now that story is complete.

8. Do you get hate on fics? I haven't but I'm sure theres someone out there with something shitty to say...

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? YES. All the smut. All the time. Give me more of that sweet and spicy capsaicin.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? I haven't but there cold be a good one out there I haven't gottent o or discoveed. Truthfully I'm not a huge fan and I much prefer leaving fandom easter eggs for you guys to find.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I'm aware of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Nope.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? No, but that could be fun!

14. What's your all-time favourite ship? Oooh... Thats tough, I love my OCs... But If i had to choose I'd say Bruce Wayne/Batman x Selina Kyle/Catwoman. The Bat and the Cat.

15. What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I don't really know, I have lots of WIPs and I think I'm doing an ok job on all of them writing fairly frequently, for me its simple matter of 'It''ll be done when it's done' but lovely comments do tend to speed up the process. ;)

16. What are your writing strengths? I've been told my smut is very poetic and emotionally evocative and you can get a sense of more than just the physical interactions between the characters adn you have a feel for what they're going through and thinking. I've also been told I write very good first person. I like to write first person POV from established canon characters like Jason Todd, Obi-wan Kenobi, Darth Maul, etc because we don't often get a look into their minds and it's fun to wear their boots.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? I really don't know, I know I tend to bite off more than I can chew...

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? It depends, I have a story I'm writing from the POV of a British character and thats similar, but I feel like, if I can't do it right and believably then best not to do it at all.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Probably Lord of the Rings. MANY moons ago.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written? It's a tie between Unbreakable Bonds and Shadows of Deception. I love them both because both OCs are different and both male leads; Obi-wan Kenobi and Roman Sionis are VERY different, despite being played by the same actor. That wasn't planed, I swear...

No pressure tags! @heyhawtdawgs, @split-spectrum. @firstofficerwiggles, @ladyinwriting18. @blueeyedheizer, @thenightmarketofdathomir @acciotwinz, @221bshrlocked. @littleredwing89. @murdockussy. @kittyofalltrades. @jedianjakenobi. @eloquentmoon. @amhrosina. @rebelbluerobin @anatee, @wickedscribbles on AO3 @thefamilybruno (you too, you fantastic writer you!)

If I tagged you then I've read your stuff and its amazing, have a lovely day you fantastic people you!

#20 questions for fic writers #fic writer asks #obiwan x original female character #roman sionis x original female character #original character #fanfiction is life #star wars au #fic writer problems #wips for days #shane walsh x oc #i need more smut in my life

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

Steph's past weighs on her more than she'd like to admit. Good thing she's got a little brother to watch her back.

__

12 Days of Whumpmas Prompt: Holiday Movies (yes, I know it's January, buzz off)

Titles taken from the song The Humbling River by puscifer.

You can find resources related to the current Roe crisis on my sideblog here.

#puscifer #dc #stephanie brown #batgirl #roman sionis #arthur brown #graphic descriptions of violence #graphically violent memories #amow winter whumperland 2022 #winter whumperland #damian wayne #batfamily fic #past character injury #trauma #ptsd #nightmares #characters watching the muppets #holiday movies #cuddling #bad memories #gen #implied child abuse #abuse recovery #batfamily #healing

[wordsoflittlewisdom]

new fic chapter! lots of plot!

#zsaszmask #birds of prey fanfiction #roman sionis #victor zsasz #roman sionis/victor zsasz #words of little wisdom #fic of little wisdom

[lemonandpie]

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), DCU, Teen Titans - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson Characters: Dick Grayson, Slade Wilson, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Victor Stone, Koriand'r (DCU), Roman Sionis Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Figging, Spanking, Anal Fingering, Humiliation, Manipulation, Mind Games, Subspace, Incest Kink, Slade Wilson Being an Asshole, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Unreliable Narrator, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Enemas, Breathplay, (of many various kinds), Creepy Roman Sionis, Corsetry, humblers, Cock & Ball Torture, Sex Toys Summary:

“I will not--” liquid built in Grayson’s eyes, his anger and no doubt grief causing tears to form. Cute. “You will not do this to me.”

“I will do as I see fit.” Slade stood. He was far taller than Grayson, and larger, even though Grayson should be almost fully grown. “You will rebel. You may even try to run. But this is your fate, now.”

---

Slade Wilson is a governor, a disciplinarian who specializes in transforming wayward youths into upstanding young men. His newest charge is Dick Grayson.

#The Governor #My fic #Sladick #Enter Roman Sionis

[gilverrwrites]

Morning After

Black Mask/Reader, 1.5K words

Request Info || Masterlist || Ko-Fi 

AN: This is a slightly updated repost of a fic I wrote in 2016. This is the only time I've ever written Roman with a removable mask.

You overhear a discussion not meant for your ears, the morning after hooking up with Roman Sionis. Rating: 18+

CWs: Swearing, graphic mentions of torture & death, death threats, mentions of sex, suggestions of drinking, manipulation, (mild) blood.

Please remember: You can do anything you set your mind to.

“I always knew we couldn’t trust that bastard. Call Tupeng, send him down to that backstabbing bastard home and make him pay for ever crossing me.” “Y-yes Boss, but what would you like ‘em to do to ‘em.” “Burn him, skin him, skin his whole damn family for all I care, just make it hurt. Make that pig regret ever squealing on us.”

Your hand clasped over your mouth but not before a startled gasp escaped your lips. What had you gotten yourself into? When you’d gone home with Roman Sionis for the night, you knew he was dangerous. Truthfully it was exhilarating to know you were in bed with someone so influential, so wicked, but you were suddenly realising that being close to his world was maybe a little more then you could handle.

When silence fell from the other side of the door you knew you were trouble. They’d heard you, they must of. Hastily, you scurried across the room to the window, hoping to make some kind of escape, the view from the window reminding you that you were on the third floor. Panicked, you began to search for a hiding place, only to be stopped dead in your tracks as the bedroom door was wrenched open.

What you saw next nearly shook you to the core. You’d recognise Romans white suit pants anywhere, you knew the way his muscles flexed beneath his tight black shirt, and even the white tie was familiar. It was the chiseled black skull that sat over his face that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You! You’re Black Mask!?” You stutter, attempting to get a grip on yourself. You’d heard rumours about this man, you’d seen his hard wooden face on the news, but you never actually thought you’d be standing face to face with him. More importantly, you never thought you’d wake up one morning to discover you’d slept with one of Gotham’s most notorious felons. The very idea of it simultaneously terrified and excited you in ways you knew were wrong.

Roman seemingly takes no mind to your realisation as he closes the door behind him and begins to focus on rolling down the sleeves of his shirt.

“Oh god. I knew you were… But THIS! This is… oh my god.” You wrapped your arms around your chest. The cotton of the shirt you’d stolen from him to sleep in now acted like a morbid comfort blanket.

Fastening the last button on the cuff of his dress shirt, Roman finally looked up at you.

“Exactly how long where you listening to that conversation?” His tone was abrasive, the mask did little to muffle out any of his anger and suddenly you remembered what was going on.

“I-I- only the end. I swear. I don’t even know who you were talking about. I promise.” You stammer. “I woke up and you weren’t here so, so I got up to look for you and as I reached the door, I heard you talking outside. That’s it. I-I didn’t mean to listen, I promise.”

The gangster didn’t say anything for what seemed like forever, he just stared, the subtle rise and fall of his chest being the only sign that he wasn’t a statue. You had no way of knowing what he was thinking.

“I believe you, Sweetheart.” He finally spoke up. His voice much calmer this time, the petname soothing you slightly. “I do.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, finally willing yourself to stop shaking.

“But,” he continued as he walked across the wooden chair situated in the corner of the bed. Suddenly, you remembered the loaded gun holster he’d left there last night, and your heart skipped a beat. With one hand he scooped up the leather holders and with the other he gestures for you to approach. “You’ve already heard what happens to snitches. How do I know you won’t go straight to the heat with this information? How do I know you won’t rat me out if the feds start asking questions? I don’t wanna see that good-looking face of yours get all cut up.”

By the time you were standing beside him you’d begun to shake again, even more so when he handed you the holster. Unsure what to do with it you held it at arms lengths, eyeing it warily. When Roman turned his back to you and stretched out his arms you figure that he wanted you to put him it on him. Cautiously you began to thread the straps over his arms.

“Well? Are you gonna answer me?” Roman prompted, shrugging his shoulders to make the holster sit a little more comfortably. You’d been so focused on the guns dangling in your hands that you’d forgotten he’d asked you anything. “I can’t have you wondering around when you know that kind information. Why should I trust you?”

“I’m not, I would never tell, I swear to you I won’t tell anyone. I promise and I would never break a promise.” You repeat the words under your breath as you step around him, your fingers brush against his chest as you reach to clasp the holster together at the front, only to discover that there is not clasp. You scrunch you nose up in confusion before a warm hand clasp around your chin and direct your face upwards.

A sense of dread fills in your chest as your stand directly in front of the famed Black Mask. The faint smell of polish fills your nose. He seems completely inhuman to you. You hear the stifled sound of him humming beneath the mask as his hand works across your chin, stoking your cheek before his fingers began to run through your hair.

You like the feel of his fingers, the way they move against your skin. Last night you’d been surprised to discover how soft they were, even as they’d dominantly explored every inch of your body. Memories of the night before ran through your head and sent a shiver down your spine. You’d be lying if you said last night wasn’t one of the greatest nights of your life, and before all this you’d considered leaving him your phone number. Now there was a voice in your head that keeps telling you what an idiot you are for ever falling into bed with this criminal. On the other hand, there was an undeniable attraction that made you weak at the knees, regardless of who he was or what he’d done. Besides, you’d already figured that Roman was involved with some dodgy stuff. His menacing attitude and ferociousness had been a big factor in what had attracted you to him in the first place.

Nervously, you looked up at him, wanting to make eye contact, only to be met with those unseemly shadowed out eye sockets. You sucked in a breath when you felt his free hand slide around your waist, roughly pulling you against his chest. You tasted the wood of the mask before you knew it was coming. The smell of would polish stinging your nose as he pressed the cold hard lips of the mask against yours. Briefly, you were taken back by this action, before you let go and kissed back, ignoring the swelling from last night’s kissing, you pecking the solid surface before pulling back.

Roman’s chest rumbled slightly, you heard an amused scoff come from beneath the mask before he untangled his hand from your hair to push the mask away from his face and resting it in the top of his head. Your lips twitch into a small smile when you can finally see his deep brown eyes. You notice a predatory glint, as he smirks back at you, before pressing his lips against yours. You the taste of last night’s alcohol was gone, but you welcomed the smoky wood flavours that filled your mouth. Gingerly, you rubbed his chest and he replied by be nipping at your bottom lip before, drawing blood and eliciting a quiet moan from you.

All too soon he pulled away, a look of self-satisfaction plastered across his face. Lifting one hand to your mouth, he wiped a small drop of blood onto his thumb before pressing it between your parted lips. Catching the hit, you dated your tongue out to lick up the coppery liquid. Once your tongue was back inside your mouth, he removed his thumb and replaced it with his knuckles. Gently pressing them against you bottom lip, and watching you expectantly. Less confidently you puckered your lips, lightly kissing each point, knowing this was considered a sign of respect or appreciation.

Once you’d kissed each knuckle, he pulled back his hand, releasing you from his hold and stepping back to retrieve his suit jacket from the back of the chair. He pulled the fabric on with ease then strutted across the room.  Bewildered by the sudden change of event you simply stood and watched as he pulled the door open before turning to you.

“Catch you later, Doll—lock the door behind me, yeah?” He grinned, shooting you a sly wink before pulling the mask back down. With that he exited, closing the door behind him.

#black mask x reader #roman sionis x reader #black mak #roman sionis #gilverrwrites #black mask imagine #roman sionis imagine #scheduled post

[kneamet]

could you please do jealous/possessive roman sionis???

blood moon ball

Trigger Warning: angst, obsession, drabble, yandere

Word Count: 613

Character: roman sionis/reader

blood moon ball

A mad night under a cold moon, the scarlet sky of flesh waved love in a haze. Stars were scrawled on the ceiling — so far away, almost real! the constellation of the monster pointed the way, dragged back into a deep, cruel and pathetic embrace; an embrace full of darkness and depravity, death and blood. It was the blood moon ball — Roman was the main guest, and angering him was like an execution. This is a one— actor theater for a single spectator — you. A spectator doomed to eternal imprisonment, contemplating the whole horror of life with faded eyes.

Lost to yourself, the whole world, but not to Roman, you were connected with strangers by a thread. They were sitting on chairs —coquettes with fake eyebrows, shiny earrings and mocking pupils, gentlemen with bloody hearts, greasy smiles and tasteless clothes. A row of flickering chandeliers poured abundant rays on the joyful faces of famous thieves, murderers who were going to shed a bloody sweat. And only you, like a small white flower sprouted in dirt and gloom, looked around the club in confusion, unable to move. Not being able to say a word against Roman that squeezed you in an insatiable embrace.

He kissed your neck, breathed hotly on your bare shoulders and ran his gloved hands along your waist. You shuddered, trembled and thoughtlessly looked into the distance, envied the crowd of harlots that were overcome with passion, madly rejoiced, traded in lost beauty and honor; they are carefree, who decided that life belongs to them; they are the same as you were a few months ago. Roman, not paying attention and ordering Zsasz to guard the most remote chairs, whispered in ear:

"Mine, mine, mine…"

The skin was covered with goosebumps, the heart beat faster. Your gaze was poisoned by endless longing. Forgotten dreams rise again with royal towers, block, help to live in the male world of the Novel. Roman protects you, protects you and pleases before you, ready to get the enemy's heart and present it on a platter. His control knows no bounds, but you feel — or should feel — safe. You're not in danger, but I'm worried, baby! he keeps saying, once again closing you at home. He says he has to protect.

Roman is a fragrant, luxurious fruit, a tombstone urn asking for tears; it is an evil spirit chasing from all sides, burning your chest with an unclean flame; you are forced to breathe it, inhale and swallow. Roman is a spider, he weaves webs and entangles victims, lives several lives that are nothing to him. His nets envelop the whole Gotham and it is not possible to get out, and why would you do that? Every girl in the city dreams of being in the bed of Roman Sionis, so why do you refuse?

Prohibitions multiply like bacteria, ordinary relationships will turn into continuous obligations and services — don't do this, don't do that. You sigh, trying to say something, but you are silent, afraid, remembering the bruises left on your neck. Suddenly you twitch when you feel the touch of tongue on the skin and the wet trail left. Roman, like a cat, makes this gesture, as if trying to ask for forgiveness, to lick wounds. Paying attention to a man walking with a drunken gait to your table, you don't even have time to say a word, as he, leaning against, demands something:

"Pretty, you want…"

He is interrupted by a dull bullet fired in the forehead. He falls with a thud, softly, almost inaudible thanks to the loud music. Your eyes widen and you swallow; Roman runs a gun through your hair.

"Mine."

im sorry if this isnt exactly what u wanted, i can always write something different fur u, anon! also, please indicate which type u would like to read - a drabble (500~ words) or a fic (2000+ words), since they are very different in content. drabble is more of a rest than a full-fledged job, so they may not be very interesting, perhaps boring and clumsy in terms of the plot. but if you liked it, then im very glad!

#yandere #yandere roman sionis x you #yandere roman sionis x reader #yandere roman sionis #yandere x reader #yandere black mask #yandere dc #obsession #angst #ewan mcgregor #yandere ewan mcgregor #ewan mcgregor x you #ewan mcgregor x reader #black mask #dc #obi wan #obsessive #obsessive roman sionis #roman sionis x reader #roman sionis #roman sionis x you #batman #harley queen #yandere dc comics #dark #birds of prey #obi wan kenobi