mrsjeremyirons

[mrsjeremyirons]

Electricity

John Blake (The Dark Knight Rises) x female reader

Summary: A torrential storm hits Gotham as you drift away on the couch. A knock on the door so late at night suddenly brings you to the present. As you open the door, you find a certain man wanting to speak with you.

Warnings: This is a one-shot taking place before Blake gets promoted to a detective. It may not be the most canon. Some things are implied to be happening shortly after the end. 👀

Word Count: 1.5k

"I don't want to be alone tonight." @nikkiclub

The smell of rain and dirt seep through the cracks of the townhouse, into the cramped foyer. The scent begins to crawl into the living room, finding its home in the buttery bag of popcorn on the couch cushion next to me, nestling itself with the unpopped kernels, as my yellowed fingers rest idly inside. 

The thunder makes itself known yet again, the roaring clap jolting me out of my drowsy daze, reminding me that I still have my hand in the popcorn bag. I rub my fingers, feeling the grit of the powdered butter clinging on, before taking my hand out, and licking the saltiness of the butter off. I briefly look at my fingers, still yellow, but now shiny from saliva. 

The sound of an exaggerated buzzer and collective groans brings my attention to the TV still playing. These trivia game shows always appear on air late at night, this one in particular making more noise than the harsh downpour outside. 

I begin to lean back further into the couch, my legs splayed out and my butt now shifting to the edge of the cushion as my back takes the majority of the space. I’ve made it a habit to tune in to mindless shows like these, but not because I want to tune out. It’s comforting to know that there’s deeper emptiness and more shallowness that exists in the world than what exists in my “life”. 

If only I could be blissful like the models of those retail advertisements littering the subway, ignorant like an adolescent, or vapid like the audience on the TV. Instead, I’m the betta fish with self-awareness bordering an existential dread, knowingly stuck swimming in the cramped tank consisting of my office desk and this couch. 

The weight of paperwork, bills, and cheap, microwaveable popcorn presses onto me, transferring a fatigue that’s unrelenting. The sounds of the TV become like white noise to drift me to sleep. The evident smell of wet earth is now a more effective fragrance than a burning lavender candle. As my surroundings work together to force my eyes shut, the sound of a knock on the door halts the fluttering of my eyes.

I immediately still my body, now hyperaware of my presence and every sound in the house. I slightly move my head to check the time, the digital clock on the bare wall like a sole flower in a clear vase.

12:38 AM. 

Only trouble could be trying to barge its way through, regardless of whether I’m in Gotham or in the countryside. As careful as I can, I cautiously get on all fours and crawl towards the nearby window, silently thanking the universe that the floor here is carpet and not creaky wood. 

As I reach the blinds of the window, I sit on my heels and crouch my head low to open the very last blind on the bottom, in hopes that I can get some kind of idea on who’s outside at this hour. 

As I peek through the small slit exposing the streets, I take in the sight of the heavy rain. The sidewalks, beyond being littered with trash, have become littered with puddles of water. The pavement, illuminated with the reflection of fluorescent street lamps, looks so slick I imagine I’d need ice skates just to be outside. 

The street lamps highlight an unfamiliar blue sedan parked on the curb in front of my car. Through the mix of reflections outside, I’m able to make out the initials branded on the side of the sedan in bold, white letters. 

GPD. Gotham Police Department.

What are the police doing at my front door? 

Two more knocks reverberate amongst the walls of the house. I quickly stand up and straighten myself out, making the short distance to the door. The last thing I’d want to do is ignore the police.

As I open the door, the man whose back was turned to me moves to lock his eyes with mine. Raindrops are streaking down his face, riding along the outline of his bone structure. Somehow, his crew cut still remains styled, not affected by the storm like his drenched uniform is. His teeth slightly chatter from the cold water, but his dark eyes don’t waver. The electricity between us feels more charged than the lightning bolts in the sky. 

A beat passes, before I break the silence. 

“Can I help you, Officer…?” 

“John Blake,” he responds, the chattering of his teeth now settling down.

“Officer Blake,” I say partly to him, and partly to myself, “What brings you here?” 

He taps on the sides of his legs a little awkwardly while he answers.

“A couple of days ago, I pulled you over for a broken tail light. Did you get that fixed?” 

The memory resurfaces of Officer Blake pulling me over early in the morning, causing me to be half an hour late for work. I remember thinking then how cops really have nothing to do but harass people for the dumbest shit. That same thought appears again now. 

“Just yesterday,” I reply promptly, “I hope that’s enough to avoid another traffic stop.” 

We both give polite laughs at the unfunny comment, to break the uncomfortable silence that not even the rain can overpower. The pattering of water droplets surrounds us as Officer Blake’s dark eyes hold their gaze. I tuck my lips in. 

“Any other traffic violations I need to be aware of?” I ask lightheartedly, not bold enough to ask plainly about why he’s at my front door. 

His eyes widen and shoot up, as if he was lost in thought.

“No. No no. Um. I–” he hesitates, grimacing to himself as he exhales through his nose and looks off to the side. He doesn’t turn his head back to face me, but his eyes move to bore into mine. 

“I–I know this is going to make me sound like a creep, and I promise I’m not, but–”, he finally turns his head to the direction his gaze is in, “But I’ve seen you before. A lot of times. Before I ever pulled you over. Through the window of that coffee joint on 85th Street, right where I’m stationed.” 

He continues his confession.

“You seem to like that place a lot,” he remarks softly, “You like to sit right by the door, watching whatever program is on the television in the corner with your coffee in a to-go cup. I’ve never seen someone watch TV like you do, regardless of how weird it sounds. Like–like you’ve found a friend in what you’re watching.” 

I don’t even know how I’m looking at the officer in front of me right now, but I hope I’m not betraying the emotions within me. I would normally be creeped out if a guy were to tell me he’s been spying on me for who knows how long. I should be creeped out. But I’m not. I feel seen in a way beyond the physical sense. It’s as if he knows the emptiness I’m feeling. It’s as if he’s also searching for some meaning as a small fish in the vast Gotham ocean. 

“It makes me happy to watch TV.” I say bluntly, before I can even think of the words coming out of my mouth. 

“Why?” 

“I feel less alone.” 

He lets out an incredulous chuckle. 

“Now I understand a guy like me being lonely, but how can a girl as beautiful as you feel that way?” 

Before I can even process what he called me, Blake steps forward, grabbing the base of my neck with one of his rain-soaked hands, the cool sensation sending a shiver through me. His other hand rests on the side of my arm, as he smashes his lips onto mine. The moment is harsh, quick, and full of a passion uncharacteristic for an acquaintance at best to have. 

He pulls away before I can even reciprocate any touch, leaving the both of us breathless. The storm from outside, as apparent as it is, becomes blocked out of our minds. All we see is each other. Blake sighs to himself. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t–” 

“Don’t be sorry.” I cut him off, still trying to catch my breath. 

He lets out an exhaled chuckle, his charming smile now present with both of us. He speaks as breathlessly as I do. 

“I only came so late at night because I had to see you. I had to take the chance. I was tired of just watching you through a window. I am tired of simply watching. Of standing on the sidelines.” 

We just look at each other for a moment. It feels strange to relate to a person as much as I do right now. I can’t deny it any longer. I can’t deny the electricity between us. I can only give in to the shocks of desire, ignoring all rationality. 

Not breaking eye contact, I lean against the front door, opening it further, silently inviting Blake to come in. As he enters, I remove my weight from the door and begin to push the edge of the doorframe with my fingers. 

Using the weight of my body one more time, I lean in and shut the front door, with a slam that may overpower the thunder clapping outside, but not the need between us.

[mrsjeremyirons]

Eyes like Glass

Emperor Caracalla (Gladiator 2) x female reader

Summary: Being the daughter of a praetorian prefect means attending important events, such as the feast you find yourself in. However, instead of feasting on the food the kitchens of the Emperors have so graciously offered, you want to feast your eyes on someone else.

Warnings: It's so funny because I read so much fanfiction and yet I couldn't tell you what this falls under. I guess fluff? Get ready to fall in love.

Word Count: 2k

Additional notes: MY NIKKI! HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY TO MY LOVELY BEST FRIEND! I was hit with sudden inspiration, and I want to give you a gift before the tangible ones come in the mail, so I hope this is suitable. This is heavily inspired by you @nikkiclub

Also, this is my first time writing fanfiction, so if you're not Nikki and you're reading this, please be nice lol!

I thought that sand was what burned to create glass. How can glass be the one that’s burning? That’s burning into me?

______________________________________________________________

Patchouli. 

It’s the first thought that comes to me, travelling into my skull from my nostrils. The incense creates a flowy ceiling of smoke in the open palace, permeating the air with its strong fragrance. What should be a pleasant accompaniment in the night, or a blanket of aroma in which to caress oneself with, is quickly becoming an assault to my senses. 

A dull ache begins to form on the side of my head, and I can’t help but furrow my brows at the unwelcome sensation. All I want to do at the moment is run down the winding stairs I all but crawled up to get here, and breathe fresh air, untainted by the meddlings of other people. But, I must continue on, stomaching the nausea beginning to settle in my abdomen, and masking the increased ache in my head with a forced, soft smile. As the only child of the current praetorian prefect, I have to at least pretend to enjoy the formalities civilized life pushes upon me, for the sake of keeping appearances. 

Oh, how moments like these make me wish I was born in another time, another place, another family.

While the patchouli unfortunately still remains, mixed into the smoke is now the scent of meat and spice as I walk closer to the dining hall, too many kinds of scents now linger to discern them. The amount of proud-standing pillars in this hall is egregious, and the gold drowning in the room is all but insulting. 

I catch glimpses of myself as I walk past the various forms of precious metal placed and worn everywhere. The way the crimps in my hair frame my face are almost worth the process I had to sit through to get them. I brush through a small chunk of hair with my fingers and bring it to my nose. Good. The rose oil has overpowered the smell of the heat damage. 

As I look away from my reflection, my hair still close to my nose, I can see my father talking to some of the many patricians who were invited tonight by the Emperors. Most of the guests seem to have already helped themselves with wine, as I make out slight slurs and giggles in between the various conversations being held at once. One of the more especially drunk patricians is already seated at the table, helping himself to grapes before the feast has even started. My father looks at me and offers a warm smile before resuming back to his conversation. Usually, he would make me come over and say some generic, polite words for the sake of being courteous. But he knows me too well. The way I still sniff onto my hair, the way my brows furrow in tension, he knows I would rather be anywhere else at the moment. 

______________________________________________________________

Several minutes pass of me standing away from the intimidating hordes of patricians and high-ranking praetorians, enveloping myself in the lovely smell of roses, brushing the smooth chunk of hair against my lips in an act of self-comfort. Suddenly, the sight of patricians all taking a seat at the grand table brings me back to the present, as if I have just missed the cue that the Emperors will be arriving. 

I just make it to sit on an ornate chair next to my father, before immediately standing up again at the sight of everyone else doing so. The sound of exotic chirps alerts me before any footsteps or announcements do. The Emperors have entered the grand hall. I turn around, as everyone on my side of the table does, to face them. 

The taller one, whom I know to be Emperor Geta, strides in with the pride of a lion, the smirk on his face so apparent it reveals the soft crater of a dimple. He looks to be content, but it’s as if his half-smile is plastered on, something for show. Maybe he’s just as secretly unwilling to be here as I am. Maybe he’d rather drink his wine and eat his fill in solitude, or rather do so with the company of just a beautiful concubine, or whatever emperors do when they’re supposed to be thinking of Rome. 

A squeak suddenly pierces the air once more.

The sound of that same exotic chirp makes my eyes follow my ears, landing on the little monkey dressed like an expensive, loved doll. It’s then that I notice the man whose shoulder she’s rested on, as his steps become hastened, trying to catch up to Emperor Geta. His brother. 

Unbrushed hair. That’s the first thing I notice. Unbrushed, wild, chunky locks of thick, orange hair. It seems his monkey companion notices this first too, as the pads of her little palms and fingers fist at it. Despite the mess of his mane, it looks soft, impossibly so. Like I could lay on it and sleep as if it were a pillow, just like how his golden laurels are resting on his head. His complexion is like alabaster, and his cheeks are kissed with the faintest red. As I follow his figure and admire his face, I think of how he would be such a pretty girl, with his rosy cheeks. I should be jealous. However, any thoughts of ill-will are the furthest thing from my mind right now. 

I watch as the two Emperors sit down at the head of the table. I move in succession with the rest of the guests as we sit down after them. The little monkey is quickly handed off to one of the servants, a bowl of treats for her sit nearby, just waiting to be enjoyed. After the monkey is away from his shoulder, shoving food in her mouth with contentment, it’s then that the feature I should’ve noticed first bores right into me. Those eyes. 

When learning about the colors of the world at a young age, we are often taught to look at the sky to see what blue is. Oh, how we were taught wrong. I thought I have seen all the shades of blue to exist, my palla collection alone being impressive, but no shade has ever been so truly blue as this. I’m staring into the depths of a sapphire and into the edges of the waves of a crystalline ocean all at once. As those eyes continue to look so intensely into mine, I can’t help but admire the clarity of his gaze, like glass. 

I thought that sand was what burned to create glass. How can glass be the one that’s burning? That’s burning into me?

Burning is what certainly is occurring, as he is now so gracious to transfer the red of his cheeks onto mine, the heat in my face making itself known, like a flower blossoming for the first time. Before I can even begin to thank him in my mind for blessing me with such beauty, the embarrassment kicks in. I break the gaze and stare straight at a pile of figs plopped in front of me, as if they were the handsome Emperor I was just fawning over. 

______________________________________________________________

I don’t know if I’m really eating the food in front of me, or if I’m talking to those seated around me. By the gods, I’ve already forgotten to even feel the pain of the headache still lingering from before. The only coherent thought in my mind is to stare at those figs like they are my salvation. But those eyes. If there’s any moment in which I want curiosity to get the better of me, it’s now. 

As I slowly move my eyes in the direction of his presence, I am quickly entangled with his gaze once more. This time, however, he smiles, a smile brighter than the twinkle his gaze carries. His golden tooth makes an appearance at the party of gold that clashes with the party of this feast. However, I don’t mind this gold, his gold. It’s not insultingly overbearing like the gold in this hall and palace, but rather charming.

Before more heat can spread to the rest of my face, and before I could be accused of gawking, I quickly move my gaze to the spread of food before us, tilting my head to the other direction, pretending that I am interested in grabbing a piece of bread. However, I swear that before I turned my head completely, I saw Emperor Geta nudging an elbow at his brother’s side, for what reason I do not know. 

______________________________________________________________

The food has been picked through with precision, yet the wine still remains ever-flowing from the pitchers held by servants. Some patricians have taken their leave, but many are still seated as I am, drinking wine as if it were water. I make little spherical balls with the breadcrumbs I have picked at in my boredom, creating a pile almost like the pile of figs in front of me. My mind is lost in thought, this time directed at the disappearance of my father. Some time ago, Emperor Geta had stood from his seat to grab my father, escorting him away from the dining hall to somewhere else in the palace. His brother had got up to follow. I guess it’s normal for emperors to seek counsel from their prefects, especially with Emperor Geta’s reliance on the Praetorian Guard. However, do they have to take this long? 

I’m getting tired of making bread balls, my backside feeling numb from how long I’ve been seated in this chair. Just before I can even think of any excuses I could make to get away from here and back home, I hear a mousy voice call my name. 

I turn around and see a servant of the palace, a girl around my age. She gives me a soft smile. 

“Your father requests your presence.” 

I stand up without the least hesitation, immediately following her as she guides me in the direction to where my father is. My eagerness to get up and away from the table is momentarily subsided as uncertainties begin to take root. 

Why does my father need me? Why is a servant of the Emperors following the requests of my father? Was I caught staring too much? Will I be in trouble? 

The questions begin to persist in my mind, drowning and swirling within me, unrelenting and unyielding like a stream of consciousness. It’s only the sound of the doors opening that breaks the torrential storm of worry within me, as my attention is brought to those inside the study. 

I lock eyes with my father first. He is radiant as he quickly approaches me, with an uncharacteristic spring in his step. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Emperor Geta’s unreadable expression. He seems bored and unphased, unlike my father, but the upward twitch of his lips betrays a secret happiness within him. My drifting focus is immediately brought back to my father, as he grasps the backs of my hands and closes my palms together inside his grip. 

“My dearest daughter,” he says happily, a slight chuckle laced in his words, “you have been promised to someone on this blessed night.”

He lets go of my hands and hugs me tightly. My arms fall straight to my sides in shock, my mouth slightly agape. Promised? Am I to be married? But why tell me this now so suddenly? And to whom? 

As if the voice in my mind has creeped its way into the waking world, an impish giggle disrupts the silence in the air, in the most wonderful way. I free my head from being buried into my father’s chest and turn to the direction of the laugh. 

His proud smile brightens as I turn to face him, the rest of his teeth somehow shining more than the golden one. I subconsciously return a smile back, and then it hits me. He is who I am promised to. 

Emperor Caracalla.