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ellesthots · 4 months ago

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punished - kinktober 2024

ONESHOT!

read on AO3 ❤️‍🔥

plot: after a disappointing night as Batman, Bruce wants you to make him suffer [not related to Fateful]

pairing: bruce wayne x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ ONLY, NSFW, smut, orgasm denial, breath play

words: 2.3k

a/n: hi lovelies!! a little treat for the month of October 🎃 based on the 2023 kinktober prompt list (day 14 - orgasm denial), since they didn’t release an official one this year <3 comments, reblogs, etc SO appreciated 💭

It was your favorite position to have him in, and an opportunity that didn’t come often.

Sometimes, after an especially frustrating night crimefighting—say, the muggers got away, the clues led nowhere, or Batman came too late—he’d arrive back home with that look in his eye. A frustrated, ruminating expression that crowded even the massive rooms at Wayne Manor. A demeanor that screamed ‘I need to be punished’.

It floored you the first time he said as much, a few months ago. When he’d trudged upstairs with his eye makeup still on, the black mess smeared up into his browbone and blotchy in the hollow of his undereyes. The fire in his gaze nearly had you running to the bedroom, chasing fantasies of him fucking you into oblivion, blowing off steam. The promise of his bruising touch was the only thing keeping you satisfied on his long nights away.

But that night was different. The closer he came, the more the fire melted into something gentler, more vulnerable. Still, his jaw was tight, twitching in the way exclusive to angry curses and frustrated sighs. His voice was low and hoarse in your ear, the prick of his stubble grazing the crook of your neck. He exhaled a single, quivering breath before speaking. “Punish me.”

You felt faint. Bruce rarely relinquished control in the bedroom, save times he could tell how desperate you were to be on top. Before he walked toward his room, he caught your eye, a careful gauge of your comfort. As shocking as it was to hear it from his mouth, the big bad Batman, you would’ve been lying if you said it didn’t make your pulse race. You nodded, and he disappeared into the dark hallway behind you.

Alone in the hallway, a dozen lewd thoughts circled you. Your limbs tingled with anticipation, overwhelmed by the sheer mass of options. You’d asked him to punish you before, so this was far from unknown territory… you closed your eyes and imagined which sensations he’d allowed you that you wanted to return.

Choking him would be especially pleasing, and… your mouth curled into a grin and you suppressed a laugh. Of course. He wouldn’t think it was anything until he was already in too deep, a shock to his system, leaving him reeling… the anxiety melted away to a selfish excitement, waiting for the pinch in his eyes, how his face might look, his body tense and wanting, so close yet so impossibly far… fuck.

Your feet were light across the cool manor floor. Alfred was nowhere to be seen, and you were grateful for it. Too many times you’d been concerned he might overhear, but tonight that didn’t seem to be the case. Bruce wanted to be punished, wanted to suffer a bit. It wouldn’t be a feat silently won.

The dynamic had already been switched, entering to him sat on the edge of the bed, his spandex long sleeve he wore on every patrol in a pile by his nightstand. You could see in his eyes that he didn’t know what to expect, which was invigorating. He looked almost meek.

As you approached him, you nearly second-guessed it. It would be punishing for you too, not seeing, hearing, feeling his climax. But holy shit was it exhilarating to be the one standing over him, watching as his eyes deepened their focus on yours, fingers moving to undo his button. Was this the power and excitement he felt each time with you, as you tugged down your satin nightgown, unclasped your lace bra?

Your eyes caught on the slightest tremble in his hands while pulling down the zipper. You put your hand over his, and he halted on contact. You pulled yourself closer and dragged your lips from his jaw to his collarbone. His body was worn, muscles tired. It must’ve been a rough night. Your free hand caressed his back, tracing gentle, reassuring circles between his shoulderblades. “Remember your safe word?”

Bruce was putty in your hands, nothing more than a breathy, needy whisper. “Yes.”

Having said the magic words, you placed your hand around his neck, pushing him flush on his back against the mattress. You watched his eyes flash as you tightened your grip, swallowing like his mouth had gone dry. You placed a hand to his sternum as you climbed on top, where you felt his pulse thunder beneath your palm. You slowly dragged your fingertips along his sweat-soaked skin toward the waistband of his boxers.

His breathing hitched, feeling the movement in his throat as you slipped one, then two fingers underneath the elastic. A heady, potent feeling of intoxication swept you, having him completely at your mercy. His face bloomed pink under the pressure of your hand, his eyes a steady pulse of blue, singularly focused as a man starved.

“Were you bad tonight?” Your voice was sweet like honey. He nodded as much as he could within your vice grip, and his lashes fluttered, as if ashamed to admit it. The way the moonlight illuminated the curve of his biceps, caressed the snags of violence across his skin, you felt dizzy. His voice held its own echo, like he’d been hollowed out. “Very.”

Oh how you longed to kiss those lips… “Mmm, can’t have that.” You pulled your hand out from his boxers, as if you had changed your mind about touching him. Your fingers traipsed along the sides of his torso, causing him to shudder. The sensation brought sparks to your fingertips. His eyes searched your face, his desire increasingly evident, desperate to be taken care of. Your fingers caught on the subtle slopes and valleys of his abdomen, skimming the raised scars on his chest, moving agonizingly slower until they reached your mouth.

Bruce’s pupils dilated as he watched you throat your fingers, spit strings falling down your chin as you pulled them away. He moaned as your slick fingers found the base of his cock. He was already hard. Very hard. You squeezed your fingers firmer round his throat with each stroke, drawing strangled moans out of him that only made you press harder, move faster. His head dug into the pillow in glorious agony, the tension in his throat heightening each slip of your hand. You felt every reverberation of his moans within your palm. Every inhale, every exhale. God, it was so fucking hot… you pressed your knees together on the bed, feeling your pussy start to throb.

“Fuck, mmph,” his hands moved up to grip the edge of his pillow, his knuckles going white. He was becoming lost in it, obvious by the shivering moans gasping out of him, the way his hips drove up to match the rhythm of your hand. He was wound up, messy. His hair splayed in dark clumps across his forehead, his eyes squeezing shut, brows furrowing. Seeing him like this, so enraptured in your touch, it could’ve overwhelmed you if you weren’t so stubborn.

But he kept moaning, and his chest kept heaving, and the slip of his dick in your hand was mind-numbingly torturous… when you knew he could be inside you, and the only thing standing between you and his thick, long… you pumped harder, biting the inside of your cheek, hyperfocusing on his mouth like it wasn’t the precise thing making it worse. You noticed your hips subtly moving in concert with his, wanting to lean closer and fucking feel him. Your eyes trailed to his fingers curling around the linen pillowcase, pinching the folds, metabolizing what his moans failed to, and it broke the last thread.

You slowed down, his eyes snapping open at the shift, chest heaving. His pupils were blown, and goddammit, you felt like you could burst. You bunched up your shirt to get it out of the way and straddled him, shoving your thong to the side. If he wasn’t getting release tonight, you’d find it. Sinking onto him was otherworldly, his dick achingly hard, your cunt already puffy and soaked like you’d been at this for hours, welcoming him readily. Your grip slipped on his neck as you rode him, your vision blurring between the wet, slapping sounds of him driving into you, and the groans mingling in the space between your mouths.

He married his hands to your hips to pull you down harder, and it took every ounce of self-control to refuse him. Usually you savored the grip of his fingers, he knew it made you weak, but you were teetering on the edge of a cliff. In a movement that read to your body as blasphemy, as sin, you slammed forward, shoving your hand back around his throat. His arms slacked at his sides as you chastised him. “Manners, baby… only me.”

Your body flattened against him and you left sloppy kisses along his jugular, bathing in the sensation of him hitting your g-spot over, and over… your hands pawed at his jaw, shrieking as you felt tension coil in your stomach, your heart quickening to a fever pitch. Small trails of black fell down his cheeks, the warmth of your colliding bodies running his eye paint.

You knew him well, well enough to know he was lost in it, and that he knew you were there, too. He’d long abandoned the proposition of punishment, relishing in the feeling of your hot, cushioned walls enveloping him, drowning in the symphony of your moans. You could tell he needed this, the way his hips chased yours, slamming into you with increasing abandon. You were almost there, but he was too… if you finished, he would. God, now you really wanted to punish him.

In a swift motion, you slunk between his legs, his dick throbbing against your thigh as it slid completely out of you. A whine cracked the edge of his moan. He propped up on his elbows, panting, watching as you moved both hands to his shaft. By this point his cock was aching, possibly the hardest it’d ever felt. Every time your fingers glided over his tip you’d catch some of his arousal, mingling it with your own with each push, pull.

You had to get this over with now, or you were going to cave. You whispered your lips along his shaft, his hips jerking involuntarily with every gentle swirl of your tongue along the rim. Sweat and adrenaline closed your lips around his head, your hands working the base.

“Baby,” he whimpered, his head falling back. His shoulders relaxed into the feeling, his elbows slipping against his sheets. His lashes were fluttering, his abs tightening, his mouth parting a little, more, a lot… your body became tight with need, borrowing some of the anguish you were sure he’d be feeling soon.

You removed it from your mouth with a subtle pop, savoring the taste of him as you licked your lips. “Look how much of a mess you are.”

His brows knit together as your hands wrung the length of him, his breathing becoming increasingly labored. He was so pretty like this, writhing underneath you. So responsive…

The moans you were pulling out of him almost made you feel bad for what you were about to do. Almost.

A high-pitched groan paired with the twitch of his dick signified the building of his climax. He had no fucking idea, but he’d asked for it. Your brow cocked and he nodded, the edges of his breaths ragged and frayed. “I’m so,”

“Close?”

He nodded again, his inhales shallow and stilted as you increased your fervor, pumping him straight to the edge. His gasps could’ve split the windows, pitchy whines expelling from his chest. “Yes, yes,”

“So close, hmm?” You slowed down just so, barely, imperceptible to someone as thrown as he was. “So fucking close,”

“Just like that, oh, fuck, fuck,” His movements drew erratic, his hips fucking himself into your hand, sweat pouring down his face. You bit back a giggle, watching his body begin to surrender, wishing you could bottle this moment in time. The instant you felt his body prep a shudder, you shot back, ceasing all contact.

He choked on a strangled moan, his eyes flashing wide in shock, his mouth flying open. On your knees at the foot of his bed, you watched his body stretch toward release, unable to grasp it. He slowly attempted to get his bearings, his body heaving with unspent pleasure. You blushed as you witnessed his cock throb in vain—right there, but not quite.

You smirked at him as you ran your hands up his calves, his body vibrating. He blinked hard, whiplash ravaging his system. Your voice was a low, teasing purr. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

His exhausted eyes held the hint of a glare, his teeth gritting hard as he accepted the loss. His heart jammed against his ribs, screaming in protest. He fell back against the sweat-soaked pillow, bringing his hands up to rub his face, hiding the bitter heat flushing his cheeks. “Christ,”

You stood, the bed creaking softly beneath you. You twirled your shirt off and tossed it by the door of his bath, all but skipping over to it. “I’d help you clean yourself up, but…” When you looked back, his dick was softer, his breathing starting to regulate. His eyes flicked over to you, his breath deepening, as if overwhelmed by the sight of you.

He hauled a sigh from the depth of his lungs, agonizingly situating upright. He steadied his breathing for a few beats, stomach coiled tight, body heavy. Jesus fucking Christ. As wholly, entirely frustrated as he was, he was undeniably impressed; his tense, electrified body the ultimate testament, unable to block a boyish grin from revealing itself to you. “Stop celebrating.”

You hummed your way to his shower, choreographing the shape of your hands slammed against the fogged glass. “Careful what you wish for.”

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austinbsblog · 7 months ago

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The Winner Takes It All

(Benny Cross x Fem!Vandal!Reader)

Warnings: Smoking, alcohol, language, mention of breasts, kissing

A/N: I loved this anon request! It was so fun to write and get to experiment with a confident character. If you wish to see the request scroll down on my page!

•

As you and Benny made your way to the bar, the rumble of his motorcycle reverberated through your body, filling you with a sense of exhilaration. You held onto him tightly, feeling the rush of wind as your hair flowed behind you, the streets blurring into streaks of light and color. You nestled your chin on his shoulder, the curve of his leather jacket providing a sense of security as you leaned into the ride. The heady scent of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and his cologne mingled in the air, creating an intoxicating aroma that filled your senses. With each breath, the familiar yet thrilling scent enveloped you, triggering a rush of anticipation and comfort. It was a scent that belonged solely to Benny. The warmth of his body pressed against yours provided a stark contrast to the cool night air.

•

As you approached the bar, the lively sounds of the Vandals' loud laughter, clinking bottles, and soft rock music from the jukebox filled the air. Benny turned off the engine and steadied the bike with a kick of his boot, allowing you to dismount safely. "Thanks, Benny, I really appreciate it," you said, slipping off your leather jacket to reveal a black off-the-shoulder top. Leaning against the bike, Benny watched as you retrieved your lipstick tube and mirror from your pocket and applied a deep red color. "Of course, Baby," he teased, knowing well that you weren't a fan of the nickname. Being the youngest among the Vandals, you had unwittingly acquired the name "Baby" and it has stuck ever since. Benny often wished he could call you his, but his attempts to express his feelings were always met with your captivating gaze that left him feeling bashful. "Come on," you teased, impatiently tugging at his hand, "You're taking forever," as you playfully dragged him into the bar.

•

The dimly lit space is filled with a fog of smoke and Vandals taking over every inch. Johnny is the first to see the both of you and his eyes light up at the sight of your hands clasped with one another, “Baby!” Johnny announces and everyone’s eyes snap to the door. Your smile grows wide as everyone exclaims about your presence, gives you hugs, or kisses your cheeks. The pull of the crowd causes Benny to lose you in the crowd and watch you interact from afar. “Today the day kid?” Johnny asks as Benny slides into the seat at the table, Benny just smiles and stares at you with a look of tenderness while you nurse a drink and tell some story to a group gathered around you exuding confidence and boldness that captivated everyone's attention. "Listen, kid, I'm telling you if you don't gather up the nerve to ask her out soon, someone else is going to sweep her off her feet, and you'll regret it for the rest of your life," Johnny muttered, the end of his cigarette glowing softly. "Remember how quickly I married Betty? That's because I saw in her what you see in Baby," he added taking a drag. “You getting soft on me?” Benny questioned, and Johnny just gave him a look. “Fine…yeah yeah okay, I’ll do it,” Benny said getting up from the table. Johnny lifted his eyebrow and tapped his watch signaling to Benny that time was ticking and you weren’t going to wait very long.

•

Benny's eyes studied the pool table and lined up his cue, taking the shot. Come on’s, damns, and shits were shouted from the surrounding players as they put their money on the table. Benny chuckled at the cries knowing that they lost. “My my boys, is that how you speak in front of a lady?” you ask from behind Benny, your heels clicking louder as you approach the table. Your hands leaned against the table allowing the men to get a view of your defined collarbones and top of your breasts. “Hm, I see Benny beat all you fools, well, let’s see if you can beat me,” you challenge, as you glance up at Benny, take the cigarette from his lips, and place them between yours. The men put their new bets on the table and chalk up the ends of their cues. '`You playin’?” you whispered to Benny, “No I’ll watch Baby,' ' he responded, “Alright,” you sighed. All of a sudden a 50 dollar bill gleamed on top of the pile, and everyone went silent. Your eyes followed the hand and leather-clad arm up to a handsome man you had never seen staring right at you. Two other men in leather jackets with a devil on the back were on each side of him with their cues, “Well hi there, I’m Baby” your voice is sultry as you greet them, “Hello… Baby,” the man responded with furrowed eyebrows, “I’m Michael, this is James and Christopher” he says pointing to the others. A moment passes before Michael says “Why don’t we make this a little more interesting gentlemen?” “What do you have in mind?” Danny says, cocking his head to the side, taking the cigarette, and blowing out the smoke, “Whoever wins, takes the money and her on a date,” Michael suggests with a smirk on his face tracing your body with his eyes. “She’s not an item to be bought…or sold” Benny argued while staring at Michael with cold eyes, “Okay, then just a date,” Michael countered and leaned in. All eyes were shifting between Benny who had a cool gaze and Michael who had a smirk plastered on his face. “And, if I win,” you paused, “I get the money,” you raised your eyebrow at the men having a staring contest. “Deal,” they said at the same time.

•

It had been 30 minutes since the beginning of the game and 3 players were out. Benny and Michael were so concentrated on their scores and beating each other that they never realized you were winning significantly. Throughout the entirety of the game, Michael kept flirting with you to not only win you over but piss off Benny, and well, it worked. Benny was fuming like a bull. He couldn’t stand Michael treating you like an item, like some girl he could just fuck around with, you deserved better. When it was your turn, the balls were lined up perfectly for you to win. You smirk at the two men who were too busy giving each other death glares that when your stick hit the cue ball, you had won. The crowd’s roars and cheers for you caused Benny and Michael to snap their heads over to you. Your hand reached towards Danny who held the money, “Well Michael, tough game, better luck next time,” you snarkily said fanning yourself with the money, “He lost too,” Michael laughed as the crowd dispersed, “Did he though?” you smiled. Michael’s smile faltered at your question and Benny’s eyes widened as you walked over to his side. “He might have lost the game but, he sure as hell didn’t lose me, so thank you so much for your generous donation to our date,” you continued. You smile sweetly but with mischievous eyes as the trio walks away. “Come on, you gotta drive me home,” you say, taking Benny’s hand and once again dragging him out the front door. “Hold on, hold on,” Benny called out, “our date?” he said tugging at your hand so you were mere inches apart. “You think I wasn’t gonna go out on a date with you?” you gasped, “I didn’t… I… you like me?” Benny mumbled with a look of disbelief on his sculpted face. You put your hands on his face feeling the slight stubble and closed the gap between you. The kiss was passionate and made your stomach fill with butterflies as his hands enveloped your waist and rubbed the soft skin showing between your top and denim jeans. You broke the kiss when you heard muffled whistles and laughter. You both turned your heads to the bar and saw the Vandals pressed against the windows and door. You pressed your foreheads together and sighed, “Does that answer your question?” you giggled. Benny broke out into a smile before planting a small kiss on your red lips.

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ughdontbeboring · 7 months ago

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I’m so highly offended by Austin as Benny Cross BECAUSE Austin has low key big dick energy (even then I want it in my mouth and…) and I love it, it fits sweetie pie apple of my eye Austin BUT babbyyy BENNY!!

Benny is big dick energy in FULL SWING and sis it look like it SWINGS, baby it looks HEAVY (need me to hold if for you daddy? 🥹🫠). Benny BDE is def Austin if Austin wasn’t so shy. Benny BDE is what you get from Austin when it’s just you and Austin.

but this shit with Benny was an assault on my mental and my poor vagina 🫠

Austin I didn’t know I could be more shook 🥵

(credit to owner of gif I love this gif so much)

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler smut #austin butler x reader #austin butler x you #austin butler x yn #Austin butler one shot #austin butler imagine #Benny Cross #benny cross x reader #benny cross x you #Benny Cross smut #The bikeriders #bikeriders #ughshitpost

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ginnysgraffiti · 7 months ago

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&. BENNY CROSS x yn.

you always wondered what it would be like to taste benny's mouth.

perhaps since you saw him leaning over the pool table, perhaps when he started his motorbike and accompanied you home, or perhaps when you discovered -with amazement and not expressed curiosity- that he had slept on his damn motorbike for the whole night, right in front if your house.

even though his reputation spoke for itself and his ways went far beyond simple violence, you couldn't deny that you were attracted to him, or at least physically.

later on, when you two got engaged, you happily discovered that benny showed affection through acts of service. he wanted to take care of you so he was always doing things to help you out. you could consider any on-going issue handled. he had your back in everything.

benny didn't even know he could love someone to the point of changing for them until he met you. his own family didn't even love him and you refused to believe that his "colours", his tattoos, leather jacket and loud motorcycle helped him to improve his situation.

at first, you feared it would have taken ages for him to make a move or just simply touch you, but you were quite wrong on that.

benny always had a hand on you. whether it's just a hand on your thigh if you're sitting beside him or an arm slung around your shoulders or his hands wrapped around your waist if you're standing in front of him, he's always touching you somehow, and you're glad.

he likes having you nearby in case some trouble starts and he can protect you. he wants to show everyone nearby that you are his and only his. but most importantly, he likes having you there to ground him. you're his anchor when he feels himself losing control of his anger and the only one who can deal with it better than johnny.

kisses with benny had always been very intense. he always kissed you like it was the last time he'll ever see you. and for all he knew, it could've been. he lived a dangerous life and anything could happen to him. so he always kissed you like he needed you to breathe. and he also loved to see your lips all swollen afterwards, you craving for more, your hands shyly searching for his waist or reach for his leather jacket.

his lips always taste like cigarettes, bar alcohol, but you managed to get used to it.

in any case, every time he's around you, he makes sure to use his mouthwash properly.

#austin butler #austin butler x reader #austin butler x you #austin butler x y/n #benny #the bikeriders #benny the bikeriders #&. BENNY CROSS #&. BENNY CROSS x yn #&. BENNY CROSS x reader

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cynic-spirit · 6 months ago

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Benny gets hit on

Y/N stood at a distance, her eyes narrowing as she noticed a woman standing too close to Benny. The woman was strikingly beautiful, with long legs, a perfect hourglass figure, and dressed in a tight, revealing outfit that left little to the imagination. The way she leaned in, her hand casually brushing Benny's arm, sent a wave of discomfort through Y/N.

From where she stood, Y/N couldn't hear the conversation between them, but she could see the woman's flirtatious smile and the way her fingers lingered on Benny’s bicep, as if trying to stake a claim. The scene made Y/N's heart sink. A rush of insecurity washed over her, making her feel small and insignificant in comparison.

She knew Benny was handsome—too handsome, maybe. With his chiseled features, sharp cheekbones, and that irresistible, slightly rugged look, he was the kind of man who naturally drew attention, especially from women like this one. Y/N suddenly felt a pang of doubt. Did she really deserve him?

She watched, frozen in place, as Benny spoke to the woman. His expression was unreadable at first, but Y/N could see the slight tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Then, he stepped back, clearly trying to put distance between them. The woman, undeterred, leaned in even closer, her hand now resting on his chest.

Y/N’s stomach twisted in knots. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. All the insecurities she had ever felt about herself seemed to bubble to the surface—her modesty, the way she dressed, the fact that she wasn’t as outgoing or flirtatious as this woman. Did Benny really want someone like her? Or was she just fooling herself?

But then, Y/N noticed something that made her heart stutter. Benny shook his head, his expression hardening. He reached up and gently but firmly removed the woman’s hand from his chest, stepping back even further. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his body language was clear: he was shutting her down.

The woman looked taken aback, clearly not used to being rejected. She huffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder before sauntering off, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. Benny didn’t even watch her leave. Instead, he immediately looked around, his eyes searching until they found Y/N.

The moment their gazes met, Y/N felt a rush of warmth. The way Benny's face softened when he saw her, the small, reassuring smile that curved his lips—it melted away her doubts, if only a little. But the insecurities still lingered, making her question if she truly measured up to the kind of women who were constantly vying for his attention.

As Benny walked toward her, Y/N forced herself to smile, trying to push the negative thoughts aside. But deep down, she couldn’t help but wonder: Was she really enough for someone like Benny? Or was he simply with her out of some sense of loyalty or habit?

Before she could dwell on it further, Benny was by her side, reaching out to pull her into his arms. His embrace was warm and comforting, but Y/N couldn’t shake the lingering doubt that gnawed at her. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, trying to hide the insecurity that threatened to spill over.

"Hey," Benny murmured, his voice soft and reassuring as he kissed the top of her head. "You okay?"

As Benny pulled Y/N close, trying to comfort her, she tilted her head slightly, still nestled against his chest. Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as she spoke. “That woman… she was so beautiful. I mean, way more beautiful than me. I couldn’t help but feel like I didn’t even come close to comparing.”

Benny’s heart sank at her words, a mixture of confusion and hurt flashing across his face. He pulled back slightly, enough to look into her eyes. “What are you talking about? No, she’s not,” he said firmly, his tone carrying an edge of disbelief.

Y/N looked down, her fingers nervously twisting at the hem of her shirt. “It’s just—she had this amazing figure and confidence. And I’m not like that. I felt so out of place next to her.”

Benny’s expression hardened. He gently cupped her face, making her meet his gaze. “You’re beautiful, Y/N. More than any woman I’ve ever seen. The way you carry yourself, the way you are kind and genuine—there’s nothing like it.”

His voice was low but intense, each word measured and sincere. “You think you’re less than her? You’re not. I love everything about you. The way you care for others, the way you look at me. That woman was nothing compared to you.”

Y/N’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, the vulnerability in her expression tugging at Benny’s heart. “But Benny, I just—”

“Stop it,” Benny interrupted, his voice softening but still firm. “You don’t need to compare yourself to anyone. Not her, not anyone. You’re perfect just the way you are, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that left no room for doubt. “Please don’t ever think you’re not enough. Because you are, more than I could ever put into words. And I don’t want you to feel like you’re anything less than incredible.”

Y/N’s tears began to fall, but this time they were mingled with a flicker of relief. She reached up, her hands gently resting on his arms as she searched his eyes for any sign of insincerity. All she saw was love and conviction.

Benny’s grip tightened around her, his own heart aching to see her in pain. “Let me show you just how much you mean to me. Don’t let anyone or anything make you doubt that. I’m here with you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The depth of his emotions was clear in his voice, and Y/N found solace in his words. She clung to him, letting the warmth of his embrace and the sincerity of his reassurances wash over her. As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of her insecurities began to lift, even if just a little. Benny’s unwavering belief in her was a beacon of hope that cut through the lingering shadows of doubt.

#bikeriders #bike riders #the bikeriders #benny cross x yn #benny cross x y/n #benny cross x reader #benny cross #benny x reader #benny cross x you

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beware-of-pity · 20 days ago

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Sins of the Father(s) V

Masterlist

Previous chapter - Next

Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x Reader

Crossposted on Ao3

Summary:

where is your faith? In the light and its blinding brightness?In a forest of terror and fathomless darkness? In a sea of doubt and unending questions? How can you still believe? in the midst of deafening silence and its hollowness? The dead know only one thing, it is better to be alive. And the alive know but one thing, to wish for the kiss of death.

Chapter V: Is Pius pious 'cause God loves pious? (Socrates asked whose bias do y'all seek? All for Plato, screech)

ִֶ. . ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐

You often wondered why the world had to be so complicated. When you would ask your father about all the complexities of the world he would say that such complex thoughts were not fitting for a girl so young. You felt safe in your conviction that as your parents, your mother and father would have all the answers you were seeking in them with your questions. You were much disappointed when you found that not to be the truth.

‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ your father would say, ‘But satisfaction brought it back’ you would counter back, earning a pat on the head pushed by your father’s exhaustion with your need for erudition. He did often ask himself where you got it from - not that he complained, he delighted in having a daughter so ready for the world, it did lift a weight of responsibility in not having to teach you matters that you were more than eager to take in your hands. Which is why, he did not wish to halt you in your path.

Your hunger, your strife for more, he had mistook it as a disciplinary one. He was wrong, you much later realized. You were no scholar, you didn’t study to learn, to become better than others or to achieve more. No, you did it out of curiosity, to understand the conditions of life. You much prefer to dive into a topic that got your attention than for it to be demanded so by your teachers. All of a sudden whatever topic they gave you to research became boring, you were sure that you would have enjoyed it much more had you had a choice in whether or not you had to open a book about it and read it. But you understood, that as the eldest, there were expectations, silent expectations, that you were required for you to fulfil. No one spoke of them, but your parents wanted you to do great things in life. You were sure they would still love you were you to not achieve what they wished of you, but you weren’t sure they would be happy about it regardless. They too had been products of such upbringing, and despite the fact that they allowed failure to be an opportunity, no such discretion was given to them. Especially your father.

But alas, not everyone can do as they please. Not all of us have such an easy way of doing only what we wish, only when we wish it. It doesn’t matter what you want, only what is required of you.

Knowledge is power, the most powerful weapon one can possess; a power that can come in many forms, free and limited, necessitous and fruitful. A power many possess more than others. When limited, it can constrain others in finding other ways to acquire it. Your father wishes for you to be bound full of such power, as he had been. So he made you attend private, afternoon lessons with the vice provost of an all-boys academy on the outskirts of Gotham he had been made to attend in his youth. At the time it had been but a hovel of sorts, just rising from the ashes of its first birth, only becoming the prestigious structure it is today because of the success of its many alumni, like your father.

To say you were bored out of your mind would just undermine the empty chambers echoing where your brain supposedly is. The sky outside was clouded, spotted by grey clouds that shielded such an uneventful February day; the clear sky lay beyond them trying to peak through the fast-paced, passing murky mass of fluffy galore. All so very enticing as you sat at the alumni desk reserved and prepared just for you in the provost’s office, or one would think so for a girl of ten years old with a very limited attention span, especially when being taught such an inspid topic.

The Constitution and the government it’s based upon.

“The Constitution establishes a Federal democratic republic which is also the system of the Federal Government; it is democratic because the people govern themselves; and it is a republic because the Government's power is derived from its people.” The provost’s voice echoed like white noise in your ears as they tried their best to block out the bothersome sound “As such, a constitutional government uses a written constitution to set forth the values and principles of government and to establish and limit its powers” he said “and how do we do that, Miss?” He asked you. You spaced in between his words, your mind focusing on anything but what he had asked you.

Particularly appealing to you now was the raven standing high on guard, resting upon the wooden log set on the provost's desk. You thought he must made for an annoying companion with its crackling noises, especially when one sought silence and its comfort. It crackled at you as if to urge you to answer the question, following its master’s wishes and demands. You wondered if the raven was his pet or a memorabilia he held for being part of the academy he was a highly esteemed professor of. The raven was their sigil of honour, after all.

“Through the law” you appeased, finally.

“Precisely”, the old man brightened at your engagement to the lecture and your knowledge despite your lack of attention, which although aware of, he made no reprimanding remark about. “And the law is set to make sure that every man is equally judged before it,” he explained “ ‘Equal justice under law’ they say or rather ‘All shall be equal before the law’. You can underline that”

Your fountain pen scratched at the paper as you pressured the tip of it, letting more ink fall free in the bold line you were lining under the words you had written in your notebook.

“Is it true, though?” This time, it seemed it was you who was not appeased by the provost’s words “Is what true, Miss?” He perked slightly at your question, curious about the inquiry.

“That we’re all equal under the law”

He took a moment to reflect on your words before taking his glasses off, folding them and placing them in the pocket of his finely pressed jacket as he walked closer to you, sitting at the chair before your desk. He seemed, eerily distuberd by the question, almost blown away by it, as if he had not been asked that in a long time or was not expected to be asked. Whatever the case, it did make him hesitate and hesitation often comes from wanting to give the right answer. You deserve that, of all.

“In an ideal world, we would be. Some would say we already are, but they only say so because they’ve never been at the receiving hand of what it means to not be able to afford this equality” his words held a hint of caution as if he was speaking out of turn, about something he shouldn’t be saying “I’ve been asked to teach you everything, so I will teach you this too. The truth is that some people are more equal than others” he wet his lips, which had grown chapped and dry from all the talking he had been doing until now “As a great writer once said ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.’”

“George Orwell”

“Very, very good, Miss " he smiled. “I see you’ve gone ahead of the text.” You straightened in your seat at his observation.

“That’s not a bad thing, I’m happy, but did you do so out of your own will?” He asked “I would not wish for you to have done so only as a way to be able to be proficient enough for our next lessons. God knows, my boys do that all the time, such a sore it is to deal with. By then, I’ll have nothing left to teach them” he chuckled bitterly, but fondly “How useless I’ll become then”

“I wanted to read it” you reassured “I saw it in the library and the cover looked intriguing”

Such a simple explanation, perhaps a childish one, too. Wanting to read such a complex piece of literature because the cover was colourful and the pigs on it made you think it was about an actual farm; you would not tell him that last detail, nor that when you had first finished the book, you had thought it was truly about evil pigs and refused to eat bacon for the rest of the week out of the hatred you had grown for the omnivorous, hoofed mammal.

Only when you explained to your father, who had grown more than amused at the sight of you refusing the stripes meat at the breakfast table, why did your third eye open to the true message of the book.

How warm and red your cheeks had beamed as your father gave a hearty and well-meaning laugh at your misjudgment of the text. Only during your third read of the book did you truly comprehend how deep the real meaning of the premise ran - …..You still refused to eat your bacon after that either way, perhaps out of stubbornness or embarrassment, you did not give it too much of a thought to not feel the latter more than you already did.

“And let’s see, why do you think, as Mr Orwell says, that some animals are more equal than others?”

“Some people have privileges others do not possess,” you said, though slightly unsure of your words and thoughts, “and those privileges cannot allow everyone to be equal if only a small percentage can boast about being protected by them”

“That’s one, but it was a good and simple example” he praised you for it, even as you missed the bigger picture of the topic. He could not fault you for it; you were young and you would understand just how deep the issue ran in time. “And those privileges, how do you think they protected those that have them?”

“Well,” you paused, pensive, wanting to give the right answer, as a good student would.

You were privileged, but could you comprehend how deep your privileges ran? You being here, getting lectured in the afternoons by the vice provost of such a prestigious and private academy, was in itself a privilege - one a lot of people will never be granted. Everything you do in your life and will do in the future will always hold an underlining of privilege. You will never escape the nature of the life you were born into, and you fear that no matter how conscious you became of them, there will always be much more you will always remain ignorant of.

Because that’s how privileges are: the more engraved they are in your life, the more normal and common they become the more passive you are of them. The idea of something just being an everyday occurrence for you and being a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for others would surely blow the mind of anyone who has never stopped to ask themselves just how truly favoured they were by luck.

How many would die to sit in your place? Have your life? How many dream of living the dream, even if just for a day? For a moment? To live the life they will never have because you don’t just get to build a life of privilege if you don’t hold any in the first place? The American dream is dead, the idea of it dies the moment someone becomes conscious of just how unreachable such life is with the life they’re made to head. Created during a period of so-called flourishment, people today cannot use the same playbook their parents used to live life today.

‘You work hard, you study well. You make a name for yourself, and you’ll be rewarded for it’, that’s what people were told. Do those things, and everything will just fall into place. People today work twice as much as their parents did and have nothing to show for it because their money gets flushed down the drain to be able to afford to live. People live to work; they do not work to be able to afford to live anymore.

But privileges are not just about your status or wealth, social privileges are the bane of Gotham City.

Even those who get to rise to the top will always be followed by their humble beginning. It’s a plague, a stank that those with their refined noses can smell at first breath. You often wondered why Mr Francatelli, a man who owned his own construction company and had made a name for himself in the industry, rising through the ranks of riches, and now being part of what was considered the elite of Gotham, was often looked down upon by his inner circle, those he called his ‘friends’. Not that he knew about it, and even if he did he was happy enough to pretend he didn’t know about the side glances and nasty, pitiful, eyes cast his way, which you and others were not prone to the same ignorance and indifference as he was.

You always felt bad for Mr Francatelli. He came from a good family, and it’s not like he chose to be born into a family that emigrated from Sicily during the midst of mass immigration in the 1950s from the poorer southern part of Italy. He made the best of his circumstances and made a living of it. Should he then be seen as a lesser being because of it?

You also knew very well how race defined another layer of privileges. Those who form a small group of a minority, whether because of their race or ethnicity, were discriminated against by the majority of white society. Privileges, oppression, stereotypes, and the superiority of being the majority against a small minority were often at the receiving hand of that discrimination. Not to mention that most of the discriminators feel that their sense of being threatened is a good enough excuse for being awful to others.

Violence begets violence. It is utterly ridiculous of the oppressors to act surprised when their victims act out and oppose their oppression.

“Justice can be selective,” said the vice provost when you didn’t continue “Privileges can cover for those that do not wish to be put under the hands of justice, and when justice fails to protect and act upon the victims’ best interests…no one can guarantee that the victims will not take it in their own hands to deliver the justice they best see fit on their oppressors,” he said “That’s when violence becomes justice”

You saw him take a deep breath as if the reality of his own words was truly weighing down on him.

“Perhaps, my dear, Mr Orwell was not so wrong. We are animals, just like everything else on the planet. We feel superior to the urges and nature of animals, bragging about how we’re the most civilised civilisation on the planet, but the truth may just be that we have simply forgotten the laws of the jungle to bend over to those who will tell us who we are and what we must do. Animals can recognise a threat without being told, their instinct doing all the work for them, so why then should we be told by others, those that consider themselves ample-minded, those with a voice strong enough, or loud enough, to be heard, what they think is the truth and should therefore be the truth for us all. Animals do not listen to others, only themselves, they fight to the death for their survival, they use violence for it, and it works for them. So why, then, should it not be for us as well?” He asked in trepidation, blood hot and bumping in his veins, which protruded against his skin as if about to explode “A man, can turn into a pig, and a pig can turn into a man. What distinction will there be between us and them then? Perhaps we’re all just the same….”

You stared at his, stunned by his sudden burst of words, before he continued once more-

“Peaceful protests. Do you know why it’s the form of protest most used by the masses? It is because, were they violent by nature, god knows the many ways they would be labelled. The truth is, that peaceful protests never get those who are willing to make a change anywhere. But those who protest in other ways are seen as troublemakers, breakers of peace, unlawful, violent individuals who break the code of what a good, upheld citizen should be like. Silent and willing to submit to everything the government says.” He scoffed and scowled, “When….all forms of communication fail, between those that care for the citizen and those in charge of said care, there comes a point, and, I must say, so we do not get confused, that I will always repudiate the notion of violence in its many forms, that violence is necessary….to survive. One can say that the methods in which they go on about it may be wrong, but we also need to ask ourselves, what other means are there if not violence? What other forms of protest can be strong enough to oppose a form of government? Some would say it’s terrorism, revolution, war; all forms reputable by the law. But what other way is there to bright light to an issue long forgotten?” He inquired as if exasperated by the question itself, “For how much longer can governments of all the world wish to remain ignorant of the suffering of their citizens?”

“If they have no qualms with ruining our lives, why, then, should we have any for returning the favour?”

You had woken with a startle as the phone on your nightstand broke the quiet of your bedroom with its constant ringing, pulling you out of memories you could never forget. Your head, still drumming from the hungover you were nursing from the night spent drinking at that dinner you had been invited to, throbbed agonisingly. Your hand reached, unsteadily, for the phone handle.

"Hello?" your answer to the call was a slugged murmur, surely barely audible from the other hand of the line.

“Would you like to know the single only advantage to being the one person in charge of his own company?”

Bruce.

Your eyes opened for the first time since you had woken. You looked at the clock on your nightstand, which read 11:30. You groaned as you set up, your bones aching from how long you were asleep.

“Go on” You weren’t sure if you wanted to talk to him, especially when your temple pulsed terribly, but you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt despite how your last conversation had gone. Exactly what Bruce had hoped for when he picked his phone with the intention to call you.

“I find that I can do as I please” you heard him as you reached for the carafe of water to fill yourself a cup, pushing aside the metal ashtray filled with cigarette buds long smocked “Choose whenever to meet with my advisors, and when or not to send them away to not hear from them, which leaves me free for lunch”

“Well,” you gulped the last drop of your cup “I’ve just woken up”

“It’s 11:30”

“And I got in at 04:00” you confirmed what suspicions he might have had from your previous statement. The slight stutter coming from his end of the phone almost made you startle and ready for his response, so sure you would argue again. Instead, he simply said, “Do you think you can get dressed for me?”

Despite how on edge you were about the entire situation, you appealed to his request and got dressed, although in a rather scruffy and disarray way than usual. The pouring rain last night chilled the air, so you dressed according to the weather and comfortably: a jumper and maxi skirt, nothing eccentric.

You did stumble your way into your clothes, after all. Your driver had made an attempt to chat with you through the ride to Wayne Tower, but your unresponsiveness and lack of care for conversation, caused by your pained head, stiff back, and guts telling you of the possibility of throwing up your dinner from last night being in the cards for you, didn’t make you to be a good conversation partner.

As you sat at the table in the dining room at Wayne Tower, you and Bruce found each other in a rather awkward situation. Who should speak first? Break the ice? You thought that Bruce should apologise about….a lot of things, and Bruce…..well, Bruce, perhaps, thought he had nothing to apologise for. The silence, only broken by the crackling of the fireplace near the table, gave enough time for you to get a better look at each other than you did in almost two weeks.

His eyes were puffy once more, the dark circles that rounded his lower lashes deepened and sunk into his skin and….was that a hint of smudged black eyeshadow you spied in the inner corner of his eye?

In Bruce’s eyes, what he saw was that you were clearly still inebriated, nowhere near being sober from the night before. Your pupils were more dilatated than normal, and your eyes did not often stay in the same place for long, wondering and observing their surroundings like a newborn baby would.

He watched you try to hide a stifled yawn here and there, still not clearly as rested for someone who had spent the entire night out partying Halloween away, and sleeping the morning through. But then again….neither was he. His previous morning disagreement with Alfred in the Batcave, his later unwilling meeting with the accountants of Wayne Enterprises, and having to deal with the steady decline of the company he was supposed to take care of all made for a bad start to a day that had not even begun - especially when he had plans at the ready as soon as the night would fell, having to meet with Gardon about inspecting Mitchell’s garage to see if the ‘ D R I V E ’ in the killer’s note was truly indicative of a car being the next step to whatever clue he had left behind for them to follow with.

“We started at Mirabelle’s for dinner, and then went to the 400 for drinks, and then ended at... " you said as you tried to recount the last stop of your wild night. “Somewhere, I don’t remember, a pub of some sort.” You sipped your glass of water to swallow down all the saliva in your mouth from how dehydrated you were.

“Who’s we?” He asked. Lunch had been brought in by Alfred, who set it before you with great care and a hint of concern, seeing the state you were in. He left as silently as he had come without saying a word. Bruce, across from you, ate his lunch in relative silence.

“Colin, Philiph, Johnn-“The nonchalance in your tone irked him, especially when you mentioned some old classmates from boarding school and HIM.

“Johnny Lewis” he finished for you. You eyed him unsure of the edge his words held and where it came from as he named out Johnny. You took another sip of your water, downing it almost as if it were a shot, now because of the sudden dryness of your troath.

“Yeah”

He let the silencing hang for a moment as he went back to eating his lunch, the cluttering of his cutlery filling in for what you were sure to be reprimanding words. Surely disappointed in the company you surrounded yourself with, no doubt.

“You need to be more careful” he said and you smiled as you reached for your bag to pull your cigarette case and a bottle of pills, his eyes resting on the latter, skimming over the label on the small glass.

Librium

“Quite right, grime and grapes don’t mix”

“I mean, about where you’re seen,” the sharpness of his tone accompanied his hand flying to meet head-on with yours on the case. “And with whom” his utensils cluttered as they fell onto the plate before him. The sound rang in the air as you two stared at each other, a fire in both of you that had been burning and raging for some time.

“Why?” You, ever defiant, asked in the same tone as the one he had just used with you, making it clear you would not back down without a fight.

“You know why,” he said, “you think you can go guzzling around all the alcohol in the world, especially now more than ever?”

You stared at him, confused by his last word, though no less stone-faced than before. Uncertainty clouded your mind, clashing with the haze still lounging in it in a combination of alcohol in your system and the dizziness of sleep, as it often did when you were unfamiliar with the subject of the conversation you were put in. You hated being unprepared for a debate, even if this was no debate. Unreadiness was a weakness you could not afford in your field of work. Getting laughed at or used to the advantage to propagate an opposing point was often the result of it. Your hand itched with the want to take the bottle of pills and swallow them whole.

His eyes moved across the features of your face until they landed on your eyes. Your eyes, no matter how hard you could conceal things with your face, your eyes always spoke the truth. They’ve never lied, not to him.

“You don’t know, do you?” The edge of his tone was gone, now replaced by a softer, more comforting one, as if he was about to tell you about some terrible tragedy, handling you like a wounded deer. And maybe a tragedy it was, simply not for you

“Mitchell is dead”

“When?” You asked simply after a moment of contemplation, as if not fazed at all by the revelation, or maybe you were. It was something Bruce had always envied of you, being able to control yourself in front of others, whereas he was often overrun by his emotions, even when he would wish for it not to be the case.

“Last night,” he said, and your eyes immediately moved towards the copy of Gotham Gazette beside him on the table. Your way. It was the same copy of the magazine that his gaze had shifted to distractedly during his meeting with the accountants. He tried to shield it from your view, but your eyes were already set upon him predatorily.

“You shouldn’t—" “Let me see,” you both said over the other, and silence ensued. His eyes begged you to listen to him; he didn’t want you to see such a gruesome scene, one he thought was so reminiscent of one you had the displeasure of witnessing in your father. But you always wanted to have your way, he could see it, and you would not give the matter up until you would see for yourself. For a moment his eyes drifted once more to the bottle of pills still on the table, ensuring in him the idea that you really shouldn’t be seeing anything that was reported of Mitchell’s death.

You reach out, gently placing a hand over the fist he had involuntary clenched, knuckled white and raw — it was then that his resolve began to crumble as it often did when it came to anything related to you in any way.

“Bruce”, your voice was soft and mellow as a marshmallow, and he thought he could almost taste the honey his name dripped with as you spoke it “Let me see” you say softly, your voice filled with compassion and reassurance. I can take it, he could almost see your eyes tell him.

He looks away again, his jaw clenching as he fights with himself. Finally, he lets out a defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as he reaches for the gazette, handing it to your eager hands.

Beneath the big, bold letters that frase the name of the journal, the headline read “MAYOR MITCHELL DEAD” followed by “ACTING MAYOR TOMLIN TO RUN IN HIS PLACE"

You reach for the newspaper and open it. As you do so, Bruce’s eyes study you, intently, silently, wanting to see your reaction to the murder’s report, to see if you knew nothing, if you could tell him about something you might know about it, mention it, even if just in a passing manner. That’s why he had asked you for lunch - to interrogate you, which the moment you had shared made him forget about. Interrogating you was the least of his concerns right now.

You interacted with Mitchell well enough in the past to be familiar with him, even before you had entered the world of politics. You both had, truth be told. Bruce remembers how flauntily Mitchell would show and promote himself during those galas you both attended before his parents had died. At the time, Mitchell was a young man, fresh out of college, ready to take on the world in all the wrong ways.

You both often sat on couches in lonesome corners he would lead you to after he’d see you cover your ears, the chattering becoming too loud for you to handle, for your sensitive ears and eardrums to bear. You followed after him like a baby duck, in your pink, frilly, dresses your mother would dress you into, still disoriented and unaware of the chaotic surroundings he had become accustomed to over the years. Of those nights, he remembers most the way his mother would smile his way at how gentlemanly he was with you, with approval and motherly pride in her eyes.

The longer he stared at you, the longer the original purpose of the lunch slipped from his mind. The silence, the crackling of the fire, you sitting beside him, in clothes that he could see you wear on a stay-in Sunday morning where you two did nothing but hang around the living quarters of the Tower, lazying the day away, the sound of you flipping the pages of the gazette, the lightness of the air, were all somehow comforting. He almost thought that he could see a future like this for him….

As Bruce’s mind cleared of all its mess, yours filled with conflicting and clashing thoughts. You stared at the sea of letters, wheels turning, as you sat the gazette back down on the mahogany table. The closed-up photo of Mitchell, slumped against the chair of his study, with his head duct taped, and with the clear message, the killer intended to send written upon it, leaving you with conflicting emotions.

It wasn’t the duct tape, or the blood dripping from his head, but rather….the way he was found.

You could see it,the image in front of you clearer than a memory you had lived and once more a reality. Standing at the foot of the entrance of your father’s study, wide-eyed, at the still form of your father in his armchair, blood dripping from the gunshot wound on his head, lips parted and eyes absent of life, as your mother’s wails of pain and heartbreak rang in the background as the police officers tried to calm her, while your younger siblings were ushered away from the scene…

You didn’t want to admit it, but you didn’t particularly feel anything as you read about the gruesome murder. Mitchell, you had spent most of your life abhorring him, could such feelings evaporate because of something….you thought more than deserving….happened to him?

He had it coming, you almost wanted to think before you chastised yourself for such a thought. You knew the kind of reaction you would get were you to utter them out loud. But Mitchell was not an innocent man as far as you were concerned. His policies and the negligence of the city put in his hands the pain he caused to the poorer and less fortunate part of Gotham. Why should you feel bad for a man who could not care less about corruption in the city as he did nothing about it? When he did nothing for the people that he was sworn to protect and help? Despite so, a man had died last night, and regardless of how you felt about him, you were made to denounce the crime had had fallen victim to.

Who you felt bad for were his wife and son, their pain one you understood well. You made a silent reminder to make sure to visit them later in the day, expressing your condolences, not because you wanted to be seen as the bigger person by the media, who could transcend political differences and come close to one institutional enemy, but because you were a decent human being, capable of empathy and compassion towards those facing injustices. Despite how you met the news of Mitchell’s death with chill distaste, his wife and son were innocent of the sin he drowned in. It is, more than often, the innocents who have to pay the price for the sins of the guilty.

Or so you’d like to think about his wife. Mitchell had a way about him, you had seen it and felt it. He had a rule of thumb over women, his wife no expectation, you were sure. Even you at times had been at the receiving end of it, just as other women of the opposing coalition. Sexist comments, more than inappropriate teasings and innuendos he never let himself hold back in private. After all, he was the mayor, who would dare oppose him? Men like him, prey upon the weak to feel strong because they know they’re not. You couldn’t help but wonder….

You looked at Bruce, who returned the stare, his brow furrowing at the rather serious and pensive look you gave him as you bit your lip. You had a feeling that his negligence for the city wasn’t the sole reason he was killed. If there was something deeper, something more obscene, something arcane about it, you knew he would not be an isolated case.

After all, men like him came in packs.

AN: I know this fanfic does not get a lot of attention, regardless, I wanted to let you all know, the little ones that always come back to read this fic, that I made a playlist on the reader of this fic.I also changed the layout a bit, to see if it looks better. Enjoy https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6XFUcwZTKXLhdxJ7241WdC?si=92a06a48b30341fe

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qin-qin16 · 5 months ago

Text

Are they protective of you?

cw: Are they like a guard dog that won't leave your side? Or are they more carefree about the dangers around you?

Of course they are like a big guard dog! You have no idea how dangerous the world is out there; obviously, they have to protect you from everything and everyone! When it’s not their arm around your shoulders, pulling your body closer to theirs, then it’s definitely their jacket or hoodie over you, making it clear to anyone that you’re together. And how can you say they don’t need to fight the jerk who touched you? Of course they do! If it’s to protect you, they would do anything (within or outside the law).

Fell, DELTA, CROSS, Killer, Dust, FellSwap Gold

They’re a bit of both. Of course, they’ll defend you if someone tries to pick a fight with you, but they also give you space to handle your own problems. You’re both pretty comfortable with that, and usually, you prefer to stay in your corner peacefully—much better than having someone barking at everyone who tries to get close to you.

COLOR, Fresh, Ink, SWAP, Dream, Geno, Classic

They prefer that you defend them. Every time they get into a fight, they look at you like a wet cat, completely helpless and pleading for your help. You, on the other hand, don’t mind at all standing in front of them, protecting them from whatever is intimidating them (whether it’s an ignorant guy or a giant bug). It’s them who wear your jacket as a form of protection, while your arm is around their hips. Could they be pretending just to see you all brave defending them? You’ll never know~

LUST, Science, Farm, SwapFell

You'll never know how many people they've gotten rid of just because they look at you weird.

NIGHTMARE, Error

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qininqinin · 5 months ago

Note

Cross is not the type to indulge himself on anything. Especially when it comes to his own desires. So he shares one with his lover and he doesn’t believe that they will act on it.

They’re slipping a muzzle onto Cross. His face is entirely covered in purple blush. Blown out heart shaped eyelights while he pants heavily as it is secured to his face. Letting out a pathetic whimper to show he’s thankful.

He is their good boy.

“Such a good boy~” they would coo as Cross let these pathetic whimpers out. His heart shaped eyelights fixed in their mouth, waiting for another praise. Anything for him to feel good.

He can't help but roll them as his lover strokes his cervical spine, sliding their hand down until they reach his last ribs with gentle scratches.

“What a good boy, you were so brave telling me about your desires, your secret depraved thoughts.” Cross whined when his muzzle was pulled with their free hand, tilting his head to the sides in a condensing motion. Their eyes never leave Cross' embarrassed purple face.

How Cross is absolutely mesmerized as they smile at him while his spine arch at the sudden grab motion their hand does in his cervical. Teasing him.

“You will be my good boy tonight, right?” And he can't help himself as he whimpers again, his hot breath coming out in gasps while his drool falls on the floor.

Cross is so thankful for having such an understanding lover.

#This would not be the last night they would use a muzzle #Cross would be so embarrassed later #but he will not forget this for months #cross x reader #cw kink #cross sans #cross x yn #cw suggestive #cw muzzle #qininqinin asks #sans x reader #sans x yn #sans x you #utmv au #minors dni

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just-another-personal-side-blog · 1 year ago

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Okay but could someone please write about Y/N finding out Crocodile's deepest darkest secret. That Ivankov helped turn him into a man. And Croc emotionally struggling expecting Y/N to judge them. But instead she looks at him and says

"Just means you know exactly how to treat me right, and how to wreak me thoroughly."

And he is just so ficking pleased with that response, any anxiety is gone.

#sir crocodile #crocodile x reader #crocodile x you #crocodile x yn #cross guild #op x reader #one piece x reader

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meiliarotten · 1 year ago

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Team Fortress 2 Kinktober Time Three: Return of the Kink

Day 4: Shoe Shine (Boot Worship)

🔞MINORS DNI🔞

Pairing: Medic x Male!Reader

Summary: You and Medic have the base to yourselves tonight

Tags: Boot Worship, praise, boot kissing/licking/humping, sub/dom, edging, teasing

Word Count: 2.7k

Masterlist

“Medic,” you whispered, barely able to get a word out between frantic kisses.

It had been weeks since your team's last victory, weeks since the rest of the mercenaries had gone out to a bar to celebrate, weeks since you and Medic had the base to yourselves. Of course, the two of you could always sequester yourselves in his private quarters, but you had to keep quiet, cushion the bedframe to keep it from slamming against the wall, and even then there was a chance someone could interrupt, especially since Medic’s quarters were directly attached to the infirmary. Needless to say, both of you were pent up.

“Medic,” you repeated yourself, still trying to get his attention. You finally got a chance to speak when his lips moved to your jaw, gradually making his way to his true target, your neck. “Medic, I want to try something.”

Medic didn’t look up, but he made a soft noise of acknowledgement. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, and he seemed reluctant to leave there.

“I want to try something new,” you went on, trying to get him interested enough to look you in the eye.

“Go on, schatz. I’m listening.” It certainly didn’t seem like he was listening, considering how he immediately began suckling at your neck. You stifled a moan, trying to continue.

“I want- oh god- your boots-”

That finally got him to stop. Medic pulled away to look at you. His grin sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. “Oh?” he said, tilting his head curiously. “What about them?”

“Fuck, you know what I want!” You had hinted at this before. Some lingering glances as he strutted down the halls of the base here and there, not to mention the slight disappointment in your expression every time he took them off before fucking you. You never said anything explicitly, but it was an obvious message to an observant man like Medic. Still, it seemed he wanted you to admit it loud and clear.

“Nein, liebchen. I couldn’t possibly imagine what you are thinking,” he said. His tight grip on your waist kept you from squirming. You were seated on his lap, and he held you there firmly, so simply dropping to your knees and showing him what you wanted wasn’t an option. Your face burned as you looked Medic in the eyes and sighed.

“I want to kiss your boots.” There were many, many other things you wanted to do with those boots as well, but for now you just needed Medic to hear you admit something.

He grinned impossibly wider, baring his teeth in a wolf-like manner. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he crooned, letting you go and allowing you to slide off his lap. Medic moved forward until he was seated at the very edge of the bed. You braced yourself against the floor as you leaned down, now face to face with the black leather you craved. They were shined to perfection after every battle, and you took note of the way the polished footwear reflected even the dim light in Medic’s quarters. “Go on, hase,” Medic said, driving you on.

You had been working up the courage to ask Medic for this for so long, and now you just wanted everything to be perfect. You hadn’t expected him to fall into the strict, dominant role so soon, yet it seemed to fit him perfectly. Now you just had to persevere and let your inhibitions go. Building up your conviction, you leaned down to one boot and pressed your lips to the surprisingly cool leather. Your hands balled into fists as you made your way up to the ankles. You were trying not to shake too much.

The kisses remained chaste. Even though outright licking the boots didn’t seem too far from what you were already doing, you didn’t want to get too ambitious. You reached out to grip his leg, practically digging your nails into his calf as you made your way up the shin. Medic made a soft noise of approval as you finally reached the end of the boot and rested your head against his knee, breathing hard. When you looked down, you weren’t surprised to see your cock straining against your pants.

You felt Medic’s fingers brushing over your scalp, playing with your hair. It was not unlike how one would pet an attention hungry dog. You let your eyes fall shut, hugging yourself even closer to his leg with a happy hum. “Tired already?” he asked, the question sounding completely innocent. A sudden pressure between your legs proved otherwise. You jumped, eyes snapping open to see that Medic had placed his foot against your crotch, pressing down just enough to make you whine. It didn’t hurt, but it certainly wasn’t the most comfortable feeling. Your erection twitched against the sole of the boot despite the discomfort.

“No, I’m not tired!” you said, shaking your head frantically.

Medic chuckled, low and threatening. “Then get back to work,” he said, moving his foot away. You sighed in relief. “You’ve been neglecting the other boot, liebling. Finish your work.”

“Yes sir,” you said as Medic put the opposite boot forward for you. You repeated the same actions, kissing your way from toe to ankle. Your hands were clasped around that ankle for dear life, your grip tight and desperate. You had to keep your hands occupied, knowing that Medic wouldn’t want you to touch yourself. He enjoyed watching you squirm far too much to allow that.

For all his talk of ‘neglecting the other boot,’ he didn’t even let you finish. You were halfway up the shin when he stopped you. “Alright, I think that’s enough for now.” You moved to stand, a bit disappointed that you work had been interrupted, only for Medic to clasp a hand on your shoulder and push you back down. “I didn’t say you could get up, did I?”

You looked up at him, wide eyed and clearly perplexed. You seemed to have forgotten your words, simply staring longingly at the bed. Your gaze darted between him and the mattress, looking for an explanation. All you got was a mischievous smile. Clearly, Medic had something up his sleeve.

“You are so adorable when your confused,” he said, reaching forward to pinch one of your cheeks teasingly. “Don’t worry, I think you’ll like what I have planned. Just spread your legs a bit for me.”

You did so, still kneeling, albeit in a slightly more awkward position, with your knees spread out. It would have been easier if you had something beneath you to support your weight, like a step stool. Well, there was no step stool, but you were soon provided with one of Medic’s boots, his foot now positioned beneath you so that you were straddling it. Now you were starting to catch on, glancing up at the grinning man with eager eyes. “May I?” you asked, not even trying to keep the tremble out of your voice.

“Of course, liebchen.”

You didn’t hesitate after that, grasping onto Medic’s leg and beginning to grind against the instep of the boot. You moaned, shameless and desperate for any kind of sensation. It felt good, even through the thick fabric of your pants. Still, you knew the smooth glide of the leather would feel even better against your bare cock.

“Gott, you are quite the sight.” Medic took a fistful of your hair, craning your neck upwards so you could meet his gaze. That damn smirk hadn’t left his face since you began. He was lucky you found his smug and evil smile to be so hot. “Does it feel good?”

“Yes!” you answered quickly, as if Medic couldn’t already see the pleasure you were experiencing. “Fuck, yes! It feels so good, sir!”

“That’s it, keep going,” he said, ready to encourage you and degrade you within the same sentence. It made your head spin in the best possible way. “Rut against my leg like an animal, mein kleiner hund.”

If you could have seen your cock right now, you were sure precum would be leaking down the shaft. As it was, you were already certain that a tell tale wet patch was forming over your groin. You needed Medic so badly. Simply humping his leg wasn’t enough, and he seemed to agree. Almost as if he had sensed your thoughts, Medic pulled your hair again, forcing you up. You whined at the sudden lack of sensation, despite knowing the best was yet to come, especially when you caught a glimpse of the generous tent that Medic was sporting.

“On my lap, with your back to me.” His order was curt, but the barely restrained lust in his tone was still very obvious. You had barely sat down before you felt Medic’s fingers, already slick with lube that you hadn’t even noticed him retrieve. He must have had it out beforehand, most likely stashing the bottle under a pillow the moment he heard that the others were going to the bar. “As much as I love seeing the expressions you make, I think this position will be more convenient for tonight.”

You felt a finger slip into you, gasping as it pumped in and out at a steady pace. Already you craved more, but you knew you had to prepare yourself. You took deep breaths, staying calm and relaxed until Medic could slip in a second finger, and then a third. Your whines turned to moans. You could barely restrain yourself from rocking back against Medic’s hand.

“You take my fingers so well, taube, as always.” You practically glowed beneath Medic’s praise, your face somehow managing to turn an even brighter shade of red. “Such an eager little thing.”

“Please, please more!” you begged, practically shaking with need.

Medic kept you steady with his free hand on your waist. He didn’t respond, but you felt him withdraw his fingers. You squirmed, instinctively begging him not to stop. “Hush now,” Medic said. “You will get what you want.”

That promise, along with the sound of him unzipping his fly, immediately shut you up. You were just barely aware of his tip at your entrance before he was pushing in. Medic went slowly, letting you adjust and allowing you to feel him inch by delightful inch. It was awkward at first, but you always managed to adapt fast.

Once you were comfortable, Medic wasted no time. You yelped, feeling his hands grasp your waist. With a quick motion, he lifted you and slammed you back down onto his cock. “Ride me, liebchen. Be a good boy for me.”

That was an order you were more than eager to follow. It was slow going at first as you struggled to find purchase on the edge of the mattress. Once you had some decent leverage though, you were frantically bouncing on Medic’s cock. He caressed your body in return, running those large hands up your chest and down your sides, paying special attention to areas that made your breath hitch, sometimes causing you to fall off rhythm for a moment.

The way that Medic worked you up to this moment was calculated. You knew he had long since noticed how you looked at his boots, but now you wondered if he had been planning for the moment when you would finally confess your little kink. You could imagine him fantasizing about the day that you would finally worship at his feet before riding him until completion. That mental image only spurred you on, and you began to feel the familiar buildup of pleasure deep within you.

You bit your lip, trying to keep it together. You knew that Medic liked to have complete control. That included control over when you were allowed to come. You didn’t even need to be told to hold back anymore. The struggle never got easier though, especially when Medic made a point to whisper sultry things in your ear while you writhed beneath him, or in this case, on top of him. You were grinding your hips against his, no longer properly riding him as you were before, and of course, he took notice.

“You’re squirming so much, hase,” he said, feeling the way your hips flexed beneath his hands, hands that would tighten and leave finger shaped marks on your skin. “Are you close?” All you could manage in response was a nod and an utterly pathetic noise, drawn out and high pitched. “What was that? I can’t see you nodding from back here. You’ll have to use your words.”

“Fuck! God damn it, I’m close!” you said through clenched teeth. Medic chuckled, amused by the string of curses that flowed from you, as well as the tirade of desperate pleas that followed soon after. You were working off of pure streams of consciousness at this point, unable to think of anything besides your imminent orgasm.

“Well, I suppose that counts,” he said, reaching over to wrap his fist around your cock. You were arching back against him before he even began moving his hand. Once he did, your mind went blank. You desperately called his name as he stroked you in time with how you rode him, keeping a steady pace even as you began to come. You could feel his breath against your ear as he whispered soft praises to you, easing you through your orgasm. That was up until he changed his tune completely, suddenly grasping your hips and thrusting up into you hard and fast.

“Fuck! Medic!” you cried. It wasn’t a sound Medic was unfamiliar with, but usually you were only this emphatic on the battlefield. He much preferred hearing you scream his name in this context. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Medic thrust into you, barely taking notice of how overstimulated you were. His arms were wrapped around your waist, holding you close until he finally went still. You felt him shudder against you, riding out the aftershocks of his orgasm.

What followed were several moments of stillness and silence. Medic rested his head on your shoulder, breathing heavily. You felt the rise and fall of his chest behind you, slowly evening out to a resting pace. His hands squeezed at your body, mainly focusing on your thighs, massaging the flesh there much like how a cat would knead a pillow.

“You’re so good, liebling,” Medic said, breaking the silence. He kissed your neck, making you sigh and relax, practically going limp in his embrace. “So gut für mich.”

That relaxation wouldn’t last long though. Medic lifted his head, and it was impossible to miss that familiar, devious laugh. You tried to turn your head, craning your neck in vain to try to look at him. “What’s so funny?”

“It only seems fair that since I made you come so hard, you should do a little favor for me.” He took your chin, tilting your head forward and down so that you were looking at his boots once again. You let out a shaky exhale at the sight, your release having landed on the once spotless leather. “You wouldn’t mind helping me clean up, would you, hase?”

Oh, this really was your lucky day. You were being offered an opportunity to lick Medic’s boots, a whole new level of reverence that you were eager to breach. Medic withdrew from you and you practically fell to your knees, legs still too shaky to support your own weight. Your tongue passed over your lips momentarily, anticipation gnawing at you. You held Medic’s gaze for as long as you could before leaning down and tasting his boot from toe to instep. You really had made a mess of it. As you worked your way further up, you were certain you could see Medic’s cock already hardening again. Given that you were also beginning to throb with renewed lust, you had a feeling that this night was far from over. For now, though, you would focus on the task at hand, the taste of yourself and polished leather mingling upon the boots that you had waited so long to worship.

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ellesthots · 17 days ago

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Fateful Beginnings

XLIII. “a terrible thing”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce can’t believe the softness you pull out of him—you can’t believe how fully you trust him.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, fluff, jealousy, yearning, mention of sex, brief discussion of violence (martha wayne’s parent’s murder-suicide)

words: 8.4k

a/n: i think we’re all in need of some fluff right now, and it just so happens that we’re in the mutual pining phase with these lovebirds and that’s where the chapter took me <3 also omg I’ve felt so spoiled by all the comments and asks, thank you for continuously blessing my inbox with them!! love love 💞

The doorbell woke you right at noon. You opened the door to a cardboard drink carrier from DoorDash sat on your doormat, cradling a tan iced coffee from the cafe down the street. A typed note fell from the bottom when you lifted it onto the counter.

for keeping you last night - B

Admittedly, he was halfway decent at apologies for someone who didn’t seem to have practice with them. Sleep had calmed your nerves a few levels, cooling your head enough to—begrudgingly—accept his apologies. The coffee chilling your hand made that grudge slip. Per usual, his eyes left nothing unanalyzed; he’d even managed to get the alternate milk right. Kinda terrifying, kinda cool?

As you sipped on the latte, you thought to how past partners had reacted after arguments. Ignored calls, passive aggressive texts, days without acknowledgment or apology. You nearly choked and died when you realized you’d lumped Bruce into the category ‘partner’, and discarded the coffee on the counter as if it had the power to remove him from your thoughts.

Somewhere down the line the edges of your arguments had softened. The fear of him had whittled away, yet his anger retained the vigor of a snappy punch. Your fingers danced along the marble countertop, its smoothness lending no distraction to your wandering mind. Arguing like a couple, with none of the benefits.

Your stare fixed absentmindedly on the sink. Forgiving him so easily felt like bending to the whims of your hormones; naivety’s tug whispered beratement for believing the first man to utter the words I’m sorry to you. Was the bar truly that low? Why did you feel so safe with someone so reactive, so violent as to spend every night chasing people to punch?

Your gaze dropped to the note. It was thoughtful. A butterfly or two danced around the room. Even though he was the last person you ever thought you’d feel anything other than loathing for, and it could never be set in motion, it was fun having a crush. How pretty was it to imagine him sipping his own latte across the kitchen? Or sweatpants hung low on his hips as he cooked you breakfast after staying overnight?

Thoughts could wander, even if reality could never align. Fantasy worlds where circumstances had been different, and the callousness of the world allowed you temporary effervescence through the eyes of a beautiful man you met in a big and terrible city. You’d unknowingly created an indivisible fork the night you chose to lie, and this was all you could ever be to him.

The rest of your afternoon was spent hunched over a laptop typing up highlights from the two rallies. After Grange’s the following Tuesday, you could submit on Friday for publishing that weekend. You cast away all worry about it potentially being your last column ever, otherwise a single word wouldn’t have been written.

You eyed your usual outfit at the top of your laundry hamper. A dress would mean heels, heels would mean pain… you grabbed a pair of black jeans and a vaguely musty sweater from the bottom drawer, and shook it until you beat the lingering scent of old out of it.

You’d fastened your second earring and spritzed some perfume when you heard a knock. “It’s meee!”

Mar spilled in holding a small rectangular box wrapped in shiny silver paper. She beat you to the punch. “I know you have your meeting right now, but I’m on the way to Gianna’s and had to stop by just in case.”

Your brow furrowed, mouth twitching into a grin as you took the box and began to unwrap it. It was feather-light. She joked about it being a housewarming gift, “only a month late, but better late than never”.

The Trojan logo blared at you. BareSkin Raw were the next words unveiled, and it was at precisely this point where you thought the universe was pranking you. But no: it was just Mar.

“Last time I was here I peeked around a little bit and couldn’t find any. The thought of babytrapping a billionaire is enticing, but—”

“We’re not together.”

“Even if you ‘aren’t together’,” she took the condoms from you and ripped open the box, tearing two off the pack. “You can still get pregnant.” She took your bag and rifled around for your wallet, tucking them into a side zipper pocket.

“Technically that’s not safe storage.” You closed the top of the box and walked it to your bedside drawer, sliding it to the right of the diary you hadn’t used yet. Mar was gazing knowingly at you from the doorframe.

“Safer than having nothing.”

As awkward as it was, she was trying. Even if looking out for you was centered around keeping your uterus uninhabited, it was something. You thanked her, running to the bathroom to put on the deodorant you’d almost forgotten.

“Want a ride?” Mar called from the kitchen. “I have an Uber out front, we could add a stop.”

“Sure.” You stepped to grab your bag as she plucked the note with a gasp.

“For keeping you last night? You’re fucking joking.” She was positively beaming; you had a passing thought of crumpling it up and throwing it at Bruce’s chest, chastising him about the lack of forethought for what could happen if a wild Mar read it. “When will you want to talk about it with me? Marathoning so hard he gifts you coffee the next morning is crazy.”

You swerved the conversation to her budding relationship with Gianna for the drive to City Hall, though she kept trying to redirect it.

“Where do you usually get dropped off?” You pointed Mar to the front loop, and she directed the driver to follow the other rideshares near the entry steps. She mumbled something about it reading like the Met Gala with the amount of paparazzi, and you grumbled something about how it was all because of Bruce.

She talked briefly about how he’d blown up the past few months and needed to cut you a check, but she interrupted herself. “Oh my god.”

Bruce had climbed out of his vintage Chevy and handed the key to the valet. Sneakers, dark gray slacks, black tee, and a matching leather jacket. Completely different from his sweaters and suits to the point of being nearly unrecognizable.

Mar all but shoved you out of the Uber, excitedly whispering about how she should’ve packed more than two for you, leaving no time to settle before ascending the steps and entering the foyer.

Bruce was at the catering table chatting with the women waiting in line. Unusual. By the time you’d situated with the other press, the crowd of his admirers had tripled. When you’d fished out your notebook and pen, he had his arms wrapped around a few of them. He was talking, smiling and not shooting one look your way. Was he trying to make you jealous?

Bruce counted the seconds of each inhale and exhale, anything to help him forget the eyes and ears hanging on his every word. His arm was going numb from being passed around so much. Half of these women were married, including the few skimming their hands along his chest and hips.

“What happened, Mr. Wayne?” Someone was caressing his bruised hand.

He had about three seconds to conjure the most vague, lewd response and not crumble into the floor. “Played a little too rough.”

You watched as some of the group giggled at something he said, fluttered their lashes at his winks, and pursed their lips into a barely-contained grin when he’d lean in to whisper something. At one point you swore his lips touched a woman’s ear and you felt like you’d been shot.

If jealousy was his intention, it was unfortunately working. He looked undeniably hot, somehow managing an effortless cool. Had he been honest about his introversion? The sling of his arm around shoulders, the little glances he gave, the grins that flashed teeth when he leaned closer. Maybe he tried to play docile and shy, but Jesus… you followed the way his eyes dropped to their lips when they spoke, occasionally darting to their eyes before trailing down again. You tensed. That man knew exactly what he was doing. If that ‘already spoken for’ was true, his partner was made of steel.

You couldn’t stop the swirl in your gut from feeling played. Did he think because he apologized and got you coffee he had you wrapped around his finger? Was this a subtle power play? It has to be. Your throat was tight, fixated on every touch and glance. Maybe he did have you in the palm of his hand. Everything he did was working.

The meeting began and Bruce was last into the room—alongside some of the men’s wives. A few introductions of nonsense characters, some reminders about the upcoming rallies and fundraisers, then budget talk. The budget was something you genuinely wanted to attend to, but it was impossible with your heart pounding in your ears deadening all sound. If he was so sorry, why had he marched in and flirted with every woman in the building? The minutes passed like hours.

Eventually Mr. Convoy called a brief intermission to collect his notes, and you stared Bruce down as he drew a deep breath before standing. He shook out his hands and moved through the doorway, tucking his left fist into his pocket as the first group approached him. Your eyes narrowed as you settled into the corner by the drinks, mulling over his evident anxiety. Yet he remained desperate enough to push through it to get under your skin. Did he have gum in his mouth? Who the hell?

A group of suited men clustered in the foyer’s center, the tallest of them snickering at you. He’d talked to Bruce once or twice in the past month you’d been here. You remembered him due to how severely his sandy brown hair was gelled to his scalp. Your cheeks heated when he made a mocking kissy face and you realized he was harassing you for openly staring at the man of the hour. As your downcast eyes scoured the tiling, you mulled over the man’s name. Probably started with a G. The sound of Bruce’s laugh involuntarily placed your attention back on his tall, wide frame, the silver zipper of his jacket slipping through salon-manicured fingers, being fiddled with and jerked about like your heartstrings.

A hand slipped underneath his jacket, rubbing between his shoulderblades. Someone ‘tripped’ and caught themselves against his abs, marveling at them as they steadied. It was just about impossible to keep his smile from fading to a grimace, a forced laugh playing it off. Overstimulation nipped at his frayed nerves. Too many voices asking too many questions, too far out of his element effectively seducing people in public. The exaggerated glances he gave, the haughty nonchalance, it was wearying. You’d better be enjoying this.

He knew you were by the catering, but hadn’t wanted to impose his presence after the night before. He chanced a glance and, sure enough, you were glaring at him. His heart skipped at how angry you looked. Had he misread it? Someone’s hand trailed up his chest now. “Something bothering you, Bruce?” He imagined it was you, his ears perking to the sound of his name and the circular motion of your fingers between his pecs. His hand moved to grab yours on instinct, fingers lacing for a single second before catching himself. The stranger bit her lip, re-grabbing his hand, misattributing the blush sweeping his face. “Your hands are so…”

You’d never seen that woman before, and you never wanted to see her again. You never again wanted to feel this tight, hot squishing sensation in your head and chest. Mr. Convoy called the meeting to resume and you hung back, not trusting your legs, except that Bruce did the same. After continuous hesitation the doors were set to shut, so you both started for them. He fell in line beside you.

When he spoke your spine stiffened. “Trying the playboy thing.”

Yeah, he sure is.

“Thought you might find it funny. After our conversation yesterday.”

You stopped where you stood. He gave an apologetic smile before stepping through the door. Yesterday. Early in the a.m.. You spent the rest of the meeting feeling guilty and meek. It was so easy, too easy, to assume the worst of him.

Pictures weren’t allowed in the building, so you heard a few of the journalists behind you game-plan leaving the conference room first to stake out the front steps. A minute to its end, as your peers crept toward the exit, you threw a text his way.

Still accepting ride requests?

He checked his phone under the table.

Meet you around back in five.

The meeting ended, Bruce waded through his many fans, and you skirted to the back. Cool metal across your palm reminded you that it all had to end just as it began to feel routine. The chilly night air blew in your face as the heavy door clicked shut behind you. Next week’s meeting would be the last opportunity to be driven home by him; the last time home would be Gotham, and not thousands of miles’ distance. Unless he ever found himself adventuring southern Washington, you’d never see him again, either.

When he pulled up you pretended to peer in the backseat, wanting to play off your earlier frustration. An apology, coffee, and trying to entertain you in the most bland environment in existence? The lively, social man of ten minutes ago had been whittled down to something more subdued. The drain of the evening was splashed across the subtle lines in his face.

You slipped into the heavy leather seat and gestured behind you. “Surprised it isn’t full of your admirers.” Your senses heightened knowing this was one of three last times you’d ever be in his presence. When he laughed under his breath, you felt it like a beam of light in your chest.

“What’s my grade?” He put the car in gear and headed down the alleyway as you finished buckling. Wanting to ensure he wasn’t overstepping, he shot cautious glances your way. He hoped the car was dark enough it wouldn’t show his blush.

“Not sure I can be unbiased after you bribed me with that coffee.”

Just hearing your voice turned him scarlet. “Tried to match the color to when we crossed paths.”

“You nailed it.”

Tires gliding over potholes and crunchy gravel patches studded the silence of the next few blocks. Bruce was doing a very diligent job of taking you straight home; sometimes he swerved down side roads but tonight he stayed a strict path. You felt the apology hanging over him. It reminded you of how Walter acted when he’d broken into some human food. Ears back, posture drawn-in and hesitant. He caught you glancing at him.

“You seemed upset.” His voice was soft. So much softer than with everyone at City Hall.

Flashes of their hands across his chest and neck while he leaned in to make them laugh made you shift in the seat, the leather crinkling. White lies were fine, right? It seemed better than admitting debilitating jealousy. “I had a headache.”

“Should be back soon if you need ibuprofen.”

“Nah, it’s all good.” You waved your hand and it slapped against your thigh.

His hands tightened around the wheel, and so did your gut. He always had something on his tongue when he did that. And now you were thinking about his mouth…

“You’re right about the playboy angle. I think that’s the clearest direction.”

Still thinking… you swallowed. “Pretty different to how you usually act.”

“Enduring it will be a whole other thing.” Alongside a begrudging nod, he rolled his eyes and grit his teeth. It was imperative his jaw stopped moving. As jealous as the playboy facade made you, you weren’t mad at how it made him even more visible, situated like a painting for your viewing pleasure.

“You didn’t have any fun with it?”

The half-second he thought it was you, maybe. The rest of the evening was a painful blur. “Not really.”

The car tucked into the alleyway.

“Here.”

Your foot tapped against the carpeted interior. In hindsight—once you were gridlocked to the confines of rurality—would you hate yourself for leaving right now? Probably. “You said there’s places outside of city limits to drive?”

“You don’t want to go home?”

“I’m up for some racing.”

“Let me know when you want me to drop you off.”

The ride was quiet. Bruce, of course, knew every back road away from prying eyes, making the sirens, shouts, and car horns a distant memory. When buildings morphed to trees, your shoulders relaxed. He noticed.

“Lot of pine trees in Washington?”

“Some.” Your nose made a print against the glass, straining through the glare. “A lot of Douglas Fir. Cedar.”

“Do you mind gravel roads?” He didn’t want to jostle you too much if not. You grinned at him and his body surged a streak of warmth.

“Prefer them.” You glanced around the interior. “Sure you want to scratch up the paint?”

You heard him smile; he laughed via a particularly jaunty exhale through his nose. “Nothing some Sharpie can’t fix.”

You looked out the passenger window so he wouldn’t see your smirk. The weirdest rich person.

“Prefer them?”

You couldn’t resist peeking at him, and his brow was scrunched. “Most people don’t, which means it’s likely really pretty.”

“No one wants to see something pretty.”

You nudged him, biting your tongue. He could barely contain his relief at your apparent forgiveness.

The trees thickened, and the road turned bumpy. You rolled down the window and leaned your head out, basking in the smell of pine needles and fresh air.

“Careful, rock could hit you.”

You stuck your arm out, the cold breeze chilling it immediately. It’d been so long since you’d driven like this. Years, maybe. Your dad was always so busy with work, your mom so exhausted; having to scrimp and save pennies for copayments, past dues on maxed out credit cards. For the better part of the past decade, the car had been reserved for medical appointments and grocery trips exclusively. The only time you got to feel the breeze on your skin in anything reminiscent of a forest was on lone bike rides, but you were usually too sad to immerse yourself in them.

He hung a left at the fork in the road, too late to hit the usual right while distracted by watching you. Fingers dancing in the wind, hair ruffling. He accelerated, toeing the speed limit of dense gravel. A soft yelp radiated from your side—looking like a dog with their ears flapping in the wind, you were laughing. Your face was the happiest he’d ever seen it. A light expanded in his chest. Gorgeous.

“Shit,” the gravel turned to dirt, the wheels slipping hard into a vat of mud; in a blink you felt a wall in front of you—his outstretched arm across your chest kept you from rocketing forward. You tumbled against Bruce as he turned into the skid, the thick seatbelt keeping you from spilling sideways into his lap. Both of you sat motionless, and he pulled both hands back to the wheel. Your torso rumbled like you were laughing.

“What fancy contraption do you have to yank us out?” You pushed yourself up and ran a frigid hand over windswept hair. Probably had a button in the trunk which unfurled a hook to yank the vehicle back to safety. Maybe a mega-drone would fly over from Wayne Tower and pull the car by the roof with a magnet.

He waited for you to face him. “I’ll get out and push.”

“Push?!”

His smile wrinkled his eyes as he hopped out, a sticky slop sound slapping his shoes. You thought he was so froofy. Worried about paint jobs, staining designer clothing, unable to shove a car out of a rut. He heaved his weight in a strong, deliberate push, and the car moved. Then slid back.

“Here, I’ll get out.” You unbuckled.

“What?” He couldn’t hear over the wind hissing through trees.

You fell flat on your hands and knees into a foot and a half of thick mud. “Holy shit.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. This is fucking deep.” You managed to wrangle out an arm but your knees were locked in place.

You heard the schlorp, schlorp sound of his approach. How were you supposed to get a car out of something like this? “I forgot you’re supposed to turn right back there.” He held out his hand. He fell to his knees when he underestimated how stuck you were.

You pushed up off his shoulder, the heel of your palm shoving him deeper. Your other hand tracked mud across his back, the slick of the leather making you fall forward again, slung halfway over his back. His elbow buckled as his hands dug further into the pit. You slid onto your back, your hair soaking with mud so dense you struggled to lift your head.

He managed onto his feet again, once more grabbing your hand—this time with more of an angle for leverage—and pulled. You hardly moved, trying to grip his arm for support. “You’re gonna have to take off that jacket unless you want to leave me here.”

He obliged, your eyes trailing down his muscled arms now outstretched for you to enjoy. This time was more successful, but the un-shlucking made you rocket toward him. You fell against the hood of his car, no, against him against the hood of the car. You caked the entire front of his body in mud.

“Might have to call Alfred,” you panted, grasping for the antenna to your left for balance. He locked eyes with you a moment, a beautiful, fleeting moment, before you watched them flick toward the sky. You rolled onto your back and followed his gaze.

Stars. Not very clear, but better than the foggy clouds that hung over the city. You moved to stand before tossing another look his way. His eyes glimmered as they roamed the sky as if he’d never seen them before. You let your back fall gently against the hood, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Can’t see them very well in the city, huh?”

Bruce shook his head, mesmerized. A long pause, which you reveled in. He was so caught up he couldn’t see you admiring his sudden youthfulness. “Is this how bright they are in Washington?”

He had no idea how adorable that question was, and it filled your body with extraordinary warmth. He looked like a child who’d just seen the ocean for the first time, awestruck by the endless horizon. The word Washington sounded so foreign in his voice. It was like he was born to exist firmly in Gotham and nowhere beyond. Like a prison. You looked back to the sky, the edges of each star blurred and hazy.

“Actually, like ten times brighter there.”

Bruce’s head snapped to you, brow furrowed. He looked like he’d just been insulted. “You’re joking.”

“I think you’d pass out if you saw the sky there.” There were still so many trees, and some light pollution from downtown. What the hell would he do if you brought him to the middle of an empty, rural field on a clear night? You’d never thought it was particularly beautiful. It was just… normal.

“Guess I take it for granted.” Your eyes followed his jaw up to his eyelashes, really seeing him. He didn’t notice, already turned back to admire the blurry stars again. You sighed. One more week. You’d been so terrified of him that first night. The second too. Now you just might start counting every second of his eye contact.

Your nose crinkled, a tease cropping up with the memory. “You’re wrong, by the way. You do use bribes.”

That furrowed brow and those blue eyes again. If only those agains could tumble in forever. “When?”

“At the initial interview.”

His nose scrunched, momentarily moving up to his eyes. “No way.”

“You asked what I wanted for my silence.” Your lips quirked into a grin. He was gorgeous like this; so unassuming, unintimidating.

He rifled through the memory, and you watched the gears turn. His face set with disappointment. “Guess you’re right.”

“The only reason I stayed was to piss you off.” You laughed, his eyes never leaving you.

“It worked.” He grinned. “Maybe if you hadn’t, the car wouldn’t be stuck.”

“Then we wouldn’t be having this riveting conversation.”

A quick, sharp laugh escaped him. His eyes flicked down, and he fiddled with muddy fingers. When they met yours again they were hesitant, but hopeful. “What you said yesterday helped. About my… brain.” He said the word carefully, still grappling with what it meant beneath the euphemism.

“About still being you?”

Bruce looked away, sighing through his nose as he nodded. “I’m able to patrol as usual. Maintain public responsibilities. Doesn’t seem to be life-ruining. Yet.”

You grinned, relieved to see him on a path to acceptance, relieved to see him sitting here with you at all. “I’m glad.” You paused, letting it linger. “It doesn’t erase you, or make you worse.”

His shifting eyes landed briefly on yours before returning to the stars, the combination of the wind and endless sky making the world big enough for his confessions to get lost. “… My mom was in and out of Arkham.” His words hung between you and the blustery wind.

“Was that hard growing up?” You figured it was, but any way you could coax an emotion out of him felt meaningful. The way he clung to your hug and kept even Alfred at arm’s length made you hypothesize that he wasn’t used to speaking it aloud. Shoving feelings deeper and deeper until the distractions caused enough dissociation to remove the sting.

“I didn’t know about it then. Learned about it with the rest of the world.” His teeth clenched, the angled corner of his jaw flexing tightly. Vague memories of Wayne Family Secrets across your family’s television two years ago reminded you that Bruce had been caught up in the killer’s antics.

“Around the time of the flood, right?”

He nodded again. His jaw moved as if his lips might part to speak, but he hesitated. Sensing his discomfort, you turned your attention back to the hazy stars. Wind whipped through the tops of trees, creating a faint high-pitched whistle in the silence. You spoke at the same time, cutting the other off.

“You can talk about it if you want.”

��Her mom killed her dad.”

You cast a sideways glance at each other and looked again to the sky. His voice dulled. “Then herself.”

The hands clasped across your waist dug into your stomach. It wasn’t a wonder why he was so worried about his attempt. Seemed like every generation was touched by it. “I’m sorry.”

He could tell that you meant it by how it sat in his stomach. He hated to hear those words, but not from you. For possibly the first time ever, he responded with “Thanks.” He watched a star twinkle like an ornament behind the top of a tree, still keeping his attention to his periphery.

“Makes sense, I guess.” His lips pulled into a sardonic grin. Your attention pulled to it like a physical force, grim or not. “I am half Arkham.”

In the meager amount of research you’d done to prepare for the actual interview you did with him, you’d discovered his mother’s ties to Arkham; Martha Arkham, the granddaughter of the asylum’s founders. One of the questions you’d nearly written down was why he didn’t do more with its fundraising; now you were grateful pen hadn’t hit paper.

You were focused on the few clouds floating above when a gentle nudge tapped your shoulder. Your eyes met his unwavering blue. “I didn’t forget last night.” The car evaporated from under your back, suspending you in the air weightlessly. “I really didn’t mean to scare you, but I know that I did. I’m sorry.”

He was so good at saying what you needed. How were his eyes that blue, his lashes that lush, voice so full. His apology sat with you the same way a slurpee did on arid, hundred-degree days in the valley. Ropes of sugary sweet, revitalizing in that specific, intoxicating way that kept you coming back despite the brain freeze and inevitable crash.

You mused on whether or not he tasted like cherry cola too.

“Just don’t trap me in your car in the middle of the night again.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It was wrong.” You’d meant it to be a bit of a playful jab, and your eyes flashed slightly when he took it soberly.

”Not in the suit is fine, but.” You teased him when you felt his growing earnestness, nudging him. “I’m joking.”

His expression remained unchanged, though it mellowed. “You don’t need to play it off.”

A joke about how perceptive he was for someone who didn’t get out much stalled on the tip of your tongue. His worn features were too genuine.

“Thank you.” You wanted to acknowledge all of the effort, that wavering pain in his eyes at sitting in this. It was easy to see how brutal it was on him, the isolation you imagined plagued his youth. How hard opening up was for him, seeming to go against his wiring like breaking one’s own bones. You longed to scoop him into your arms or lap, running soothing fingers through his hair until the pain melted out of his cells.

When you couldn’t come up with a better word for the chasing apologies, the city hall antics, the coffee, the continuous acknowledgement, the life stories, and the I’m not used to this confessions, you settled on the simplest descriptor. “It means a lot that you’re trying.”

His eyes lingered on yours for a second. He felt his heartbeat in the back of his throat. He wouldn’t. He swung his body up, clearing his voice on the upswing. “Let’s push.”

He schlopped his way to the front of the car, digging his heels into the mud for grip. You joined him, buzzing from stargazing, the weight of your muddy hair straining your back. You gripped the front bumper and followed his count, shoving the weight of your hips into your palms. The front wheels slipped up half a foot, then plopped back into place.

You teased him when he paused to inspect the wheel placement. “C’mon dude, I’m pulling all the weight here.” His eyes darted to yours with a friendly sneer. On his count, you jammed all your weight into it, your feet slipping against the mud. This one was longer, and you shoved, shoved, pressed, pushed... the wheels crept back, nearly pushing out of the original divet.

Bruce grunted to your right, and you made the mistake of seeing his clenched, focused expression. His eyes were squeezed closed, and threads of sweat glistened on his temples. Your focus slipped along with your grip, and the burden you’d lifted fell onto him. He groaned when it hit, the car losing an inch of ground, and you scrambled to regain footing with it echoing your thoughts. He was so fucking hot, jesus.

Pressing, shoving, slamming, straining… the wheels unstuck and began to glide through shallower sludge. The ringing in your ears intensified when he shouted above the wind to let go and stood with his hands over his head, exposing the bottom half of his abs. You looked away, feeling perverted.

“Whew,” you focused on the sound of his footsteps rather than how out of breath he was. “Want to head back?”

A joke fell out of you before you realized the implications. “You’ll have to shower at mine to make it even.”

He shrugged. “If you want.”

And so you found yourself unlocking the door to your apartment ten minutes later, after he sped through side streets and took turns you were sure he wouldn’t make, making you squeal with a rush each time. When you got in the garage elevator, you mentally checked that you’d put away the condoms, that you had enough clean towels, that you weren’t out of detergent, that you had clothes he could borrow. And tried not to think about how he’d be naked in your bedroom bath.

With robotic monotony, pretending you were prepping the bathroom for a regular shower with yourself, you pulled out a towel and your baggiest hoodie and sweats, hoping it would be comfortable enough for him. You eyed your fruity body wash, curiously thinking ahead to how it might smell on him.

Bruce asked if you needed any help from where he stood in the kitchen. When you said no, he paused, then asked if you had any pints of ice cream he could ‘borrow’. You teasingly lectured him about the meaning of the word from your hands and knees on the shower floor, pulling the odd hairs that were stuck in the drain to discard them.

He opened the freezer and noted a few pints, the most notable of them the single chocolate one: ‘Phish Food’. Marshmallow, caramel, and fudge. You hadn’t given him the OK yet, but his earlier attempt to cheer you up had been unsuccessful and he’d drenched you in mud. He opened a drawer and shut it loud enough for you to hear, grabbing the ice cream and slapping it onto the counter, untouched. “Never had this one, wow.”

“That’s not the chocolate one, is it?”

His eyes trailed around the room to the dining area that had been reinstated. Absently, he continued to tease. “Can’t hear you.” He grinned. “But the marshmallow is really good.”

”Marshmallow?!”

He took a spoon from the door and tapped it along the rim of the cardboard as if he were scraping out the dregs. “Almost finished actually.”

You appeared in the doorway a second later looking disheveled. “Are you for—” Your eyes caught on his spoon resting on the outside of the ice cream, not even the plastic removed. “Ohh my god.” Biting your lip to reign in a smile, you swiped it off the counter and grabbed the spoon from his hand.

“Didn’t know you were so serious about marshmallows.”

You groaned at the prank and slugged him in the arm on the way to the freezer. “You’re insufferable.” Even if he didn’t hear the lilt in your voice, from your side profile he could see the delight on your face. Good. One less moment hurting.

“Shower’s ready if you want to go first.”

Could go together. He blinked. “I’m the one who took the wrong turn, go ahead.”

“I’m the one who even wanted to go driving if we’re getting into it.”

Bruce held out his hands in concession, walking past you to the shower. You shouted after him that you left an outfit on the counter for him, with towels in the cupboard. After a minute you heard the water turn on, and it took massive restraint not to sit on your bed and stare at the door to the bathroom. Until you remembered you could do that with your journal, pretending to do something.

You grabbed a towel and laid it out on the mattress so you didn’t soak your bed with mud. Sat cross-legged, you pulled out the journal and a pen and suppressed a startle response when your eyes laid upon the condoms. The black ink swirled and sloped around the paper edges indiscriminately as the minutes passed. You threw some random sentences on there in case he glanced over at it when he got out, and heard the shower shut off soon after. Your face heated, and the scribbling intensified.

Rustling of clothing, then the door opened. His eyes flashed when he saw you on the bed. His first thought was lewd, and it took two breaths to sate it. You did the same seeing his wet hair smoothed through by your hairbrush, the dew of the shower peppering his cheekbones. How in just two strides he could have you pinned to the bed. In his mind it was the other way around.

“I like that body wash.” He’d slathered it over himself without thinking, then became extremely aware it smelled like you. He’d stood for a full minute breathing it in, pondering the ethics of buying the same one so he could always smell it. He rinsed it off when the haze began to lift and he started feeling like a fucking weirdo.

“There’s this fancy boutique called ‘Target’ that sells it if you’re ever in the area.”

He rolled his eyes and folded up his towel. “Funny.” He eyed the laundry hamper in the far corner and crossed your room to get it. The few strides where he passed your bed caught your breath in your chest. He looked back at you, smirking. His face looked cut from stone. “It’s where Alfred gets the Breyer’s.”

God how your heart pounded. Like a peripheral shadow, your mind seeing things that weren’t there. If you were any less certain of the dynamics at play, you might’ve thought he was flirting. That maybe both of you were. As it stood he walked past the bed and into the kitchen, speaking lazily. “Which ice cream can you part with?” So casual, comfortable. Like he lives here. It was fucking sexy. If only he’d christen your apartment.

His fingers tapped mindlessly on the freezer handle, turning over the jokes in his mind like a Rubik’s cube. Were they too offputting? He meant to put you at ease after being scared of him the night before, but was it overbearing? Unsettling? You waltzed into the kitchen, caked with mud, and yanked open the freezer to hand him PB S’more. The tips of his fingers vibrated where yours had grazed.

“It’ll change your life.”

Initially, the shower was wonderful. The water soothed your cool, dirty skin, and your body felt light knowing he’d just taken one. That his hands had touched the knob you just did. That his hands had opened the same sliding door. Past that, the shower was excruciating.

Water hitting the drying mud had reactivated it, making it heavy on your hair and, if anything, making it even more impossible to get out of your strands. It clumped and stuck no matter how you fussed with it, and you were left with an agonizing choice: have Bruce come help you, or force Mar to come over the next day (if she could), meaning indefinite time with heavy, smelly hair all over your pillows, clothes… fuck.

“Bruce?”

His heart leapt out of his chest and the spoon clattered to the ground. You called out again. “Can you help?” Your voice was too calm, and his fingers felt too warm, too cold, then disappeared altogether as he approached the bathroom door. He kept his eyes tilted to the ceiling as he pushed it open, holding his breath. He did his best not to let his mind wander on what you wanted.

“Can you rinse my hair? The mud’s stuck.”

Bruce pulled up his sleeves and got to work, his hands running on autopilot or they wouldn’t move at all. Every skim of his hand against your back, shoulders, ears, even feeling the slip of your wet hair through his fingers spurred a riot. You smelled like passionfruit and citrus, and your skin was petal-soft. As his fingertips brushed your neck he wondered if you might ever feel the same way. Was every touch searing against your skin? Every breath measured and silent, your thoughts liquid smoke being this close?

He’d more than managed to remove the chunks of dirt, rinsing the length of your hair entirely clean. His hands hesitated above your scalp as he calculated if you’d want him to finish. The intimacy of this was so sweet; he’d never washed hair besides his own before, and it tucked into him a tenderness he never thought himself capable of.

Just as he was about to pull his hands away, he bit his cheek and tried to sound as casual (not terrified) as he could muster. “Want me to wash the rest?”

Maybe it was the steam, but you felt the heat of his breath waft against exposed skin. Your face was hot as the Sahara, stiff and still as a statue; your knuckles paled clenching the sopping towel wrapped around you. You nodded because if you spoke, your yes would’ve come out like a whine. Tilting your head back, he grabbed the shampoo bottle and slathered it across his palms, gently working it into your hair. You shut your eyes to savor the sensation of his fingertips delicately raking along your scalp, tickling up your spine. “That feels really good.”

“Does it?” Breathy, barely a whisper, almost certain you couldn’t hear it above the water hitting the floor. Your shoulders dropped when he moved to massage behind your ears. The firmer he pressed, the more your shoulders rolled forward.

“That’s even better.”

Dramatic for such a simple thing, he might’ve fought to acknowledge it if it hadn’t ripped through him so forcefully; nothing compared to the high of pleasing you. It filled a cavernous well in his chest with a buoyancy that almost knocked the wind out of him.

He hadn’t realized his hands hadn’t moved, and resumed too quickly; you startled when he recommenced working the shampoo, and he flinched like his nervous system had a string tied to yours. He hoped for your sake it wouldn’t work in reverse the next time he panicked. If doing this was any less soothing, he could’ve tested the theory right then.

Your breathing struggled to cooperate, confused between I want his hands to devour me and I could fall asleep right here, right now. Your eyes that had flashed open fluttered shut, and your breathing shallowed through your mouth. Cutting off your senses one by one until all you felt were his strong, deft hands across your skin. You tucked your lower lip under your teeth and held your breath as he traced the back of your head, the crown of your hair, ooh, up to your temples… allowing a small inhale through your nose brought the sudsy aroma to the background, rendering your thoughts cloudlike, misty.

Your neck had gone from stiff to slack over the past two minutes—he certainly wasn’t counting—to the point it bobbled with the movement of his palms. Your hands shifted on the towel, the tension in your knuckles lessening. Your guard was down further than he’d ever seen it, seemingly melting into his touch. His heart jammed against his ribs.

The shampoo was mostly gone, only the odd bubble slipping through your strands. Not wanting to interrupt your zen, he gently squeezed out the length of your hair and reached for the conditioner. As he expected, you didn’t even notice when he soaked your hair with it. He rinsed his hands before going back to your scalp with long combing motions, circling behind your ears and temples as he waited to rinse.

Just when he thought he’d heard a snore, your weight fell fully into his hands. He rushed to support your back—one hand between your shoulders, the other fisting your towel to keep it from falling. Your conditioned hair swung back and stuck to his cheek when you gasped awake, grasping for the shower handle to steady yourself.

“You fell asleep while I finished your hair.”

You righted yourself and assumed control of your towel; your thoughts darted around the steamy bathroom, grateful that he hadn’t taken advantage of a slipped wardrobe. Your hand moved back to your hair, thick with conditioner. You didn’t recall him finishing the shampoo, let alone… your cheeks heated, self-consciousness creeping up your spine where his massage left fireworks. “Thanks.”

His cue to exit. He mumbled something about it being no problem, and walked out to the kitchen. His hands flexed at his sides to either shake out the memory or encode it, he couldn’t tell. He stood in the kitchen while you finished up, feeling caged, like his body was in a mismeasured wetsuit. He glanced out the window to see if the signal was lit, and he couldn’t make anything out. Cars zigzagged below, people shouted, horns honked, ambulances skirted curbs, and the sky was dark night. He was never indoors when the sky looked like that.

He caught himself eyeing the fridge, wondering what he might be able to fix for the both of you. His dizzy gaze flitted to the floor between his feet. His face tightened into a tense knot, knuckles going white as he gripped the counter’s edge. He’d liked that too much. Washing someone’s hair. Washing your hair.

Bruce crossed his legs and faced the ceiling now, his shoulders dropping into the softness of the evening. He could make dinner for you both, enjoy some polite conversation, and—he uncrossed his legs, antsy and anxious, and surveyed your apartment. He went still with the brush of thick cotton on his skin. He didn’t do this. Never wanted this. Never even thought about it. It didn’t fit, and even if it did, it couldn’t.

He winced when his vision snagged on the note. The shred of paper swayed against his breath as he held it. Did you appreciate it? Did you want more of them? Shards of glass danced in his throat and heat stung his face; he set it down as quickly as he had picked it up.

Washing your hair, getting you coffee, spending nights inside, redecorating a room just in case you wanted to come over, not to mention… it might’ve been easier if this was a passing fixation; something told him this was a cigarette half-pressed into the tray, lingering and domineering. Maybe he could snuff it out, but the stench likely already filled the room and baked into the fabrics. Didn’t mean he had to sit in it and breathe it in, though.

You wiped the sleep from your eyes and wrapped your hair in a towel. You pulled on sweats and a tee, lotioning up your arms and slathering moisturizer on your heated face. Your hair was grateful for his assistance, but were you? You were supposed to be severing, creating distance between the both of you. You didn’t think that included nearly drowning in the shower half-naked while he massaged you to sleep. But… your fucking soul had relaxed for the first time in years when he touched you.

You squinted. No, the first time since the night Miller attacked. In his arms for the first time. When everything was finally quiet. The room went still with the implication, soured by the impending trip home for the last time. You bit your cheek.

He grabbed a grocery bag and stuffed his muddy clothes inside. When his body tried to reject the notion of leaving, he reminded himself it wasn’t for lack of wanting, it was due to it. He frustrated his logic and patience, retelling himself that your life was quaint, punctuated by normal things like a normal person, and it would be a bad thing for him to interrupt that. A terrible thing.

Missing the click of the bathroom door opening, he turned toward your doorway when you stepped out; your face clean and bright, a towel wrapped in a short spiral atop your head. The light hit your cheekbones and his bag slipped to the floor. He sucked in a tight breath and cleared his throat, slingshot out of the weeds back into the clouds.

There was nothing he could do about his legs walking to the fridge, or his question about what you had to eat; nor his clarification that he didn’t want something for him, he wanted to make something for, um, the both of you, and no, he was hungry too, and while he cooked you could pick a show, and it really wasn’t a problem at all, he never got to cook enough with Alfred around, don’t even worry about it. Damn. There was just something about being in service of you.

And there he was, straight from this morning’s musings: situated at your stovetop fixing you something—you hadn’t had sex, which you were sure was hidden somewhere in your earlier daydream, but you had been close in a way that strangely didn’t feel too far off.

You peered at him while he cooked and felt a pull to feel embarrassed about the off-brand noodles and cheap marinara. Dressed in tattered black clothing and doing absolutely nothing a typical rich guy did, it was easy to forget that he was a billionaire, and at some level used to opulence. He cracked open the dollar marinara without a second glance, and you twiddled your thumbs.

He was dangerous. Violent. Isolated. A man with so much power he could destroy you however he wanted and get away with it. Get praised for it, even. He could buy, bully, or hurt anyone into anything, yet here you were visualizing him with a halo. Dangerous, you reminded yourself as your eyes followed him grabbing the wooden spoon to fold the sauce in. Violent, it continued, desperate to protect, though you’d never felt more protected than in Bruce’s presence.

“How much do you want?” He looked over his shoulder and you could’ve melted into a puddle. Maybe he’d earned a bit of that mesmerizing halo.

You ate wordlessly, save an initial thanks and yeah. The way his eyes shifted you couldn’t tell if he actually wanted to be there, so you didn’t push your presence onto him with conversation. Bruce already felt like enough of an intruder, so he waited for you to initiate. It seemed like you wanted some silence. You both kept it, until you noticed he looked lost in thought.

You set aside the few noodles sticking to the edges of the bowl. He had finished his minutes ago, vacillating between the eating speed of a mouse and a vacuum dependent on the meal. Note: he likes spaghetti. “What’s up?”

His tone was tentative. “Can we talk about Oz?”

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