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draconic-desire · 1 month

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A Dance With the Dragon IV — Escape

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

[Part I] [Part II] [Part III] Part IV — You are here]

After four hundred years, the chance for escape finally presents itself—what will you choose?

Warnings: Yandere behavior, brief mentions of NSFW thoughts and past events, feral dragon Neuvillette

Your opportunity for escape came on a gray and dismal day.

The past week had been particularly grueling for the Chief Justice—or so he had panted into your ear while he pinned you to the bed, skin slick with sweat and his cock buried to the hilt inside you.

You’d initially took it as a thinly veiled excuse for the dragon to lash out, for him to lay claim to you once again, but you soon noticed his focus actually wavering. Just enough for it to slip his mind to tell your Melusine guards (or guides, as Neuvillette would insist) not to bring you to his office for your regular afternoon tea with him. Furina had insisted on his last-minute presence at the meeting between her and certain Snezhnayan diplomats, and his unwavering sense of responsibility to Fontaine prevented him from rejecting the order.

That was how you found yourself sitting alone in his office.

You were quite confused. Neuvillette never skipped tea with you. In fact, as the busiest man in Fontaine, he insisted on it. It was a new development, one he thought might bring the two of you closer and outside of a purely domestic setting.

You’d be grateful for the change of scenery if you didn’t end up bent over his desk half the time.

In the beginning you had fought him on it, but as time in his captivity stretched on you soon realized this was one of the only chances allotted to you beyond your shared abode, especially now that the Opera was off limits. You even got to chat with the Melusines who acted as your sweet, naive guards. They reminded you of Carole and your previous life, a bittersweet memory that you held onto like a fleeting dream.

Now, you couldn’t help but start to fidget in your seat. When one minute became two, and two became five, and five became ten, you couldn’t help the anxious tapping of your nails against his desk. Where was he? Had something happened to him? You knew the Chief Justice would never commit a crime, but the notion of him imprisoned forever in the Fortress or Meropide was one that brought you comfort during your unrequited relationship.

Particularly on nights he would remind you of whose sentence you were under, whose wife and mate you were.

Pushing both hands against the desk, you rose to your feet and stormed towards the door. You wouldn’t sit idly to stew in your own thoughts. You raised a fist, preparing to knock harshly to alert any Melusine or the Iudex himself whose inhuman perspectives misinterpreted this as some sort of sick joke—

Except the slightest force sent the door ajar, presenting you with an empty hallway.

It was unlocked.

You couldn’t help the quickening of your heart rate. It invaded your senses, your hearing, your feeling, until it drowned out all of your thoughts but one.

You could leave.

The absence of any other individual was unheard of. Logically, it didn’t make sense; there should have been a guard if Neuvillette expected to be late, or others working in the main office if they hadn’t been dismissed for break as usual (though you knew it was only to spare them of any ungentlemanly sounds that might be coming from his office after you entered).

It was then you realized: Neuvillette had made a mistake.

You didn’t spare a single glance back as you strode out the doors of the Palais Mermonia and onto the streets of Fontaine.

Navigating your way out of the Court was easier than expected. Although there was no mistaking who you were when Neuvillette dragged you out in public—whom else’s waist would he retain an iron grip on throughout an entire opera if not his loving partner—without him by your side, you appeared like any other resident.

Obtaining Mora for the ferry ride to Sumeru was also a breeze. You had no moral objections to pocketing a few coins from unsuspecting citizens along the docks. Why would you, when you had been serving a lifetime sentence of imprisonment anyway?

The ship wasn’t anything fancy and was mostly filled with traveling salesmen and local fishermen, but after centuries of being doted on and monitored constantly, you savored the feeling of being normal, of feigning the role of a traveling merchant. You truly never thought that pretending to be an average worker would feel so freeing.

Suddenly, the skin of your arm began to crawl, feeling like a thousand pinpricks were digging their claws under your skin. You hissed at the sharp pain, gasping at the brief flash of your draconic tattoo, and then…nothing. You could almost always feel it, but it seems that upon crossing a certain distance the leviathan decided to lie dormant. You thanked Barbados for your luck; in your certainty of escaping, you hadn’t even thought of the physical tie between you and Neuvillette.

As the boat pulled out of the dock, relief washed over you like the serenity after a storm. After months of the Iudex, the supposed upholder of Justice, violating every rule against you, you were finally free.

As you watched Fontaine’s massive cliffs fade into the waves, you briefly mourned your choice to leave your Hydro Vision behind; however, you reasoned that the risk in going back for it and wasting precious time was too great. Not to mention the fact that you were sure you’d never get away with slipping it out of Neuvillette’s grasp, and you certainly didn’t want to squander this chance by running back into his arms. Although you knew the rumors of what happened to bearers who lost their Visions, you were willing to take your chances if it meant securing your freedom.

A sudden splash against your cheek jerked you from your thoughts. Upon looking up, you found the previously azure sky to have darkened. Rain began steadily falling, soon fully soaking your frilly dress (another insistence of Neuvillette’s, that you always wear dresses for teatime…never again!). Thunder rolled across the waters, bringing a taste of pain, anger, and betrayal with it.

Ah, so he’s realized your absence. Good—let him rage. Let him experience the heartbreak of losing what you hold most dear.

Maybe that will serve as his atonement for his sins against you.

You noticed then that, like your draconic captor, you too were crying. Though not of sadness—no, yours were tears of joy.

~*~

Although you had originally planned to journey back to your homeland in the City of Wind—not that you had anyone left there to return to, it was more for your own comfort—you found Sumeru to be to your liking. It was Fontaine’s foil—hot, dry, intellectually driven yet full of untamed wilderness. Full of real, thriving flora and fauna that cold, inorganic meka could never match.

The presence of the Akademiya and Port Ormos even offered you a line to continue your photography and research. Due to the dark room Neuvillette had installed in the library, your skills with a camera hadn’t grown too rusty over the centuries. Now, you finally were able to photograph your true passions again—nature, the water, the animals around you. Their harmony and beauty together, their freedom.

It may seem as if you hadn’t gotten far, but with how vast the Nation of Wisdom was, you felt safe to start anew. For the first time in four hundred years, you felt at home.

Three months had passed since your escape, with no indication that the Iudex was on your trail. After enrolling in the Akademiya (which had required you to change your name, since posing as a four hundred year old would probably not go over well), you even found a group of fellow students that you worked and resided with in the city. You were still careful, of course—you never traveled alone, avoided looking flashy in public, and even altered your look by cutting your hair to suit the arid climate.

That is, until you weren’t.

Your advisor appointed you to join an exclusive research project on the wildlife transition along the Sumeru/Fontaine border. Having experience with Fontaine’s biology, you were the clear candidate. Your initial trepidation almost won out, but you finally conceded at the encouragement of your peers. You’d even be traveling with your advisor and two of your roommates, so you chalked your nerves up to not having set foot in the direction of Fontaine in months. After all, you’d been meaning to explore the desert and its ecology—you just needed to take the plunge and face your fears.

Water was a rarity in the desert, after all.

Which is why, as your party was ascending the final dunes of the Desert of Hadramaveth, you believed the tall, blue-adorned figure approaching was a mirage. A result of dehydration after days of travel in these harsh conditions, a trick of the mind—

“Of all the places you could have escaped to, was it necessary to choose such a dry and barren place as this?” The last part was mumbled under his breath, his tone taking on a low growl, “I cannot help but feel that you bringing me here is some form of an assassination attempt…”

At the sound of his voice, just as deep and commanding as you remembered, your entire being came to a standstill. You despised how you had been conditioned for that tone to send a pangs of trepidation to your core.

Yet despite the Chief Justice’s presence right before you, a part of your brain refused to process it. He was the Hydro dragon, for Archon’s sake. What in all of Teyvat could drag him to the farthest place from the sea?

You, apparently.

At your silence, Neuvillette’s lips tightened. His expression was near unreadable, but you recognized the tumultuous mix of anger and longing storming under that stoic facade.

The other members of your group appeared confused and uneasy. Apparently Neuvillette’s reputation preceded him, even outside of Fontaine, for the common mumbling you picked up on was speculations of his role here.

“Is that the Chief Justice of Fontaine?” a professor whispered to your advisor nervously. “What is he doing here? Surely none of us have offended the court…” Her eyes flickered to you briefly. Due to the nature of the research, it was common knowledge among the group that you were the one with connections to Fontaine.

Said Justice took a step towards you, spurring you to take a larger step back. You knew running wasn’t an option, but you reasoned that he couldn’t just take you clawing and spitting for all your colleagues to witness. No, he would have to convince them of your guilt before he could act.

Well, two could play at that game; you lived with Neuvillette long enough to learn some of his ticks and tells, especially when it came to you. This would be a game of negotiation, a chess match of wits. Neuvillette’s intellect was near unmatched, but if you played your cards right, you could win.

The tide that is Fontaine’s Iudex may one day sweep you under his control, but it is not this day.

“Madame (L/n), by the authority of the Court of Fontaine and the Nation of Justice, I hereby place you under my custody for immediate detainment.”

Or not.

A few of the researchers around you gasped, tittering about your supposed false identity. The professor from earlier backed away from you with a sneer. Looking around, you noted that even your friends were eyeing you warily like some stranger.

All logic left you at the dragon’s announcement. The terror gripping your heart was replaced by blinding, bubbling rage. You would not concede to the man who took everything from you and would take it all again, washing away the life you had built again like a house of sand.

You practically hissed in response. Now this was familiar. “Under what charges?”

Lifting his cane, Neuvillette summoned a levitating tome from which he read, “Multiple accounts of theft, use of a fraudulent identity, desertion in court to be tried for said charges, and emotional damages to the residents of Fontaine affected by your careless and selfish actions.”

You scoffed, your lip curling in a snarl. “And I suppose that last ‘charge’ applies specifically to you?”

The draconic man merely narrowed his piercing purple eyes. Unlike your own, Neuvillette’s demeanor did not falter. He wanted you to lash out, to validate the accusations against you in front of the Sumerian researchers. His objective was solely to retrieve you—quelling your anger would come later.

The day you left Fontaine, Neuvillette had felt a piece of his soul shatter.

He could feel the very moment you crossed the border, when the draconic bond between mates and lovers was severed. It was a guillotine to his head, a rope around his neck, a bullet to his temple. Pain, raw and agonizing, enveloped his very being. The dragon beneath his skin raged, begging Neuvillette to fly to you and sink his claws so deep you could never leave again. The all-consuming panic over your loss, over your safety now that you were outside of his sight, had threatened to rise up and smother him, to drown him and sweep the fractured pieces away until he was nothing.

It had rained for weeks straight, so much so that the citizens of Fontaine brought back the old adage—Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, don’t cry.

As much as he wanted, needed to find you, the Chief Justice could not simply abandon his post and his people. Going against his very nature, he quelled the dragon and settled on deploying Gardemeks to Sumeru and Liyue to search for you. It had been easy enough to program them with your photo and statement of your status as a fugitive. Surely you couldn’t have gotten any farther than the regions bordering Fontaine, and if so, the mekas would signal your location to him in no time.

So, after weeks on end of the Garde failing to locate you, Neuvillette’s anxiety swelled from a shower to a tempest, a storm of violent wind and flurrying emotion. He found himself in the library he had built you, clawed fingers clutching his face with labored breaths. Black danced across his vision.

Was he not enough for you? Had he not given you anything and everything you could desire? Had he not kept his mate safe?

Why did you abandon me, (Y/n)?

When he had come to, the room was in tatters, the carpet shredded with claw marks and the walls smoldering with blue energy.

Neuvillette decided then that he could not wait any longer.

Tracking you only fueled the dragon. It could sense you, the pull of your tattoo awakening with each step Neuvillette took to close the gap. It was one mate beckoning another, like the pull of the moon on the tide. Your light guided him straight into your path.

And when Neuvillette finally saw your figure, illuminated by the hottest desert sun, he had nearly fallen to his knees and wept in relief. You were so beautiful, yet the look of terror on your face ripped his soul apart all over again. Even now, even here, you wanted to reject him. Could you not see how far he would travel for you, how long his reach would extend just to keep you safe?

In that moment, the dragon roared, and Neuvillette listened.

After seemingly endless hours, days, and months to think about the reasons you left him, he realized that he must have been too lenient with you. He practically was the law in Fontaine, yet he had dismissed your transgressions time and time again, thinking your outbursts were simply a temporary response to your new life with him. Yes, the transition had been sudden and the charges against you quite ridiculous, but he truly believed you would fall for him as he did you.

He would tolerate your backlash no more. No longer would he spoil you with gifts, hoping, praying to every member of the Seven just for you to smile at him. Never again would he sigh in defeat when you spurned his touch, leaving him to fuck his hand to the mere idea of you initiating physical intimacy.

No, just like any other criminal in Fontaine, you would have to be imprisoned until you learned your place—in your case, by his side. And he would be lying if he said the idea of punishing you for your offenses, for leaving him, didn’t cause his cock to twitch in anticipation.

The dragon demanded to be satisfied, and it would have its fill.

“We have numerous reports of you stealing Mora from unsuspecting individuals, as well as the testimony from the ship’s captain that you claimed to be a merchant immigrating to Sumeru. Then, of course, comes the addition consequences for violating the authority of the court by leaving Fontaine. The latter makes you a fugitive.”

“That’s insane! I only had to commit those so-called ‘crimes’ because you—”

“Ah, so you plead guilty.”

You blanched. No, not this again. He was riling you up, making you fumble with your argument like a child, just like your initial confrontation with him in the Opera Epiclese. But that was how he viewed you, wasn’t it? His centuries of experience would always trump your own.

“You know that’s not what I meant—

The sound of your advisor clearing his throat momentarily saved you. “Sir, with all due respect, we do not know whomever this Miss (L/n) you are referring to. This young lady here is Miss (Fake name), and she is one of my finest students. I highly doubt she is the one to have committed these acts.”

Neuvillete’s eyes flashed dangerously towards the researcher. He loomed over your advisor, casting them in shadow. “Shall I arrest you as well for conspiring with a criminal?”

You never thought silence could be so deafening.

The Iudex released a huff. “I didn’t think so.” With a flick of his hand, your wrists became bound together with bands of pure hydro. Your protestations did nothing to deter him as he motioned forward, causing you to be forcibly dragged forwards by an invisible force. You were no stranger to this procedure; Neuvillette had used his powers on you more than once in bed. Now that he had his hydro around you, he held all the authority.

Without the ability to control your movements, you tumbled into Neuvillette’s broad chest. To the others it appeared as if he were securing your bindings, but you shivered as he buried his nose in your hair. Softly, in a voice only meant for you, he sighed, “Oh, how I dreamed of this moment, my darling (Y/n). A valiant effort, to be sure, though your pursuit was always in vain. There is nowhere in all of Teyvat I won’t find you.” His hand ran down the length of your arm, where you knew your draconic tattoo was once more glowing under your tunic. “You are marked as mine, my wife. My mate.”

You jerked your head away despite his scent invading your being. “I will never stop running from you, husband,” you growled, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Dissolving into the Primordial Sea is preferable to lifetime with you.”

To your surprise, a low chuckle escaped the Chief Justice’s lips. “I think you’ll soon find that I can be quite persuasive.” He stood to his full height, face reverting to his usually stoicism. “I shall be taking my leave with the prisoner, then. If any of you wish to object to this ruling, you may submit a false claim report to the Court, and I will attend to it personally.”

Glancing around at your peers, those you believed to be your friends and colleagues, you knew that none of them would fight for you. News of your detainment would be spread through the Akademiya, forever tarnishing your reputation. It was over, and Neuvillette had emerged victorious once again.

The Iudex motioned you forward with a tip of his cane and an ominous spark in his eyes. “Come, my beloved. Let us return home.”

#yandere neuvillette x reader #yandere neuvillette #yandere genshin x you #yandere genshin x reader #genshin impact #neuvillette #yandere genshin impact #yandere #dragon neuvillette #escape #Yandere escape #run away #fontaine #sumeru #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yanderecore #yandere imagines

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eelnoise · 5 months

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seraphim

roronoa zoro x afab!reader c/w: bloodlust, consensual bloodplay, zoro bites, you scratch, religious themes, body worship, slight breeding kink, piv sex, creampie, manhandling, praise, post-murder sex (reader and zoro just killed a bunch of marines), public sex a/n: ? idk what even to say. i like my men bloody and i like when they bloody me. this is a rewrite of a previous fic which you can find here so if ur like "ive read this b4..." its because you kinda have banner by the lovely @buggyandthebartoclub!

Zoro isn’t a religious man.

No, he finds the very notion of reverence visceral.

Though as he turns back toward you, he’s dumbstruck. You face away from him, pulling the blade of your sword deep from the torso of a fallen naval officer and watching as the light fades from his eyes. Both of you had emerged victorious after a merciless and surprise assault from a group of marines in the middle of an open town square on some island that neither of you can remember the name of, where a large statue stands tall in honor of some long-forgotten hero at its center.

The scene is heavenly, you there - surrounded by the wages of spilled blood that pools beneath your feet, the remnants of singing steel permeating the now hallowed ground upon which you stand. There’s a certain beauty in chaos, and never has Zoro felt it quite as clearly as when he watches you tear into your foes with reckless abandon. The image makes him shiver - not in fear or revulsion, but something far more primal, deep within his gut.

He’s speechless as he observes you wiping the excess carnage from your blade, a sensation akin to delight igniting in his veins and fixated on you like a hawk. It’s beautiful, truly, a stunning vision that he couldn’t even dream up.

“Well, we took care of that little rat problem, hm?” Your words are heavy with pride and exertion, but the sound of your voice only spurs him from a daze that he didn’t even realize he was in.

Then you turn to him, visage tattered and torn and stained with crimson. Zoro’s mouth goes dry, and words fail him, tongue tied tightly in a knot that he can’t seem to unravel. You’re immaculate, and for the first time in his life he’s fighting the urge to exalt, to sing your praise, to deify you.

He mutters something that’s beyond your field of hearing as he continues to stare at you like a starved man would a feast. Zoro’s seen you wield that blade countless times, watched on as you cut down enemy by enemy without effort or ailment, but never have you looked as angelic as you do now. Standing amid a symphony of battle and gore, covered from head to toe in splattered blood that’s both yours and that of the deceased around you, the look of delight and self-satisfaction twinkling in your eyes as you grin at him from across the square, fuck, it’s all too much.

You’re right, of course, the two of you can and did handle these sin and sinew wrapped rats with ease, but the more pressing matter is the effect that you’re currently having on his heart. Zoro takes a step forward, taking in the beauty of your face, bloodied and bruised but not conquered.

Curiously, you leer at him, head tilted in question as you sheath your sword along your back, taking note of the lack of the usual snarky remark from the swordsman. “Zoro?”

His eye flickers to yours, lips parted in what could only be described as awe. He looks at you as if you’re a muse, descended from on high to grace him with your presence, one that’s stunned him into near silence. “Yeah?” Zoro manages to reply quietly, tone raspy and voice a barely audible whisper against the breeze - a timbre you only hear from him when he’s injured or exhausted, a weak and feeble inflection that almost has you questioning if the man was actually hurt.

Zoro’s jaw visibly tightens, his one open eye alight with the same burn that he eyes an opponent with, expression twisting into one that you know all too well. The face he only makes when -

He wants you.

Your war-torn, bloodthirsty appearance has overwhelmed Zoro, the innate desire etched on his expression like a fool in a daze. Lips twisting into a devious smirk, you’re keen on taking advantage of this rare opportunity of power that you’ve been given over him, and you know exactly how to proceed. With a step toward him, you do something he doesn’t expect, something that has his nails digging into his palms.

You lick blood from your lips.

Zoro’s blood blazes, a carnal, raw emotion swells in his throat with urges he cannot fight - will not fight. Ever a man of action, he’s upon you faster than you can react. Large, calloused fingers envelop your waist, pulling you close in an instant and slamming his lips onto yours in a starved, feverish, messy kiss. The metallic tang of blood on his tongue mixed with the taste of you drives him increasingly wilder each second you stay locked together in the embrace, hastening him further into devoted bliss.

You writhe as he leaves your lips to trail down your neck, lapping up the viscous liquid that coats your flesh in his wake. Zoro is fully prepared to kneel at your altar, to partake of and rejoice in each beautiful proverb that befalls from your sweet tongue, to bathe in every hymn you bestow.

Zoro's hands roam over your body, feeling the contours of your curves beneath the fabric of your torn clothing, tracing the delicate lines of your collarbone and shoulders before coming to rest on the small of your back, holding you firm against him. He feels like he could drown in this moment, in the warmth and passion that courses through his entire being.

Zoro grins wildly, a feral expression on his face as he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the heat of your breath against his neck, and the sound of your voice washing over in melodic harmony. He wants nothing more than to revel in this moment, to lose himself completely in the intensity of the connection that you share.

“You wouldn’t believe how good ya look like this,” He growls into your skin, his chapped lips dancing across your collarbone and up to your shoulder. “I feel like I shouldn’t even be allowed to see ya. Feels…” words wane into a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and into the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling the intoxicating scent of blood, sweat, and battle on your flesh, “...wrong.”

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you,” You purr, allowing a soft, pleased sigh to slide from your throat when he adds his teeth to the wet assault upon your skin, gently nibbling and grazing at you in a manner that grows hungrier and more sporadic with every passing moment.

“We both know I ain’t much of a rule follower.” Zoro’s husky voice is hot on your ear, his warm breath sending a jolt of longing right through your nervous system. The hand low on your back begins to wriggle its way through tattered tendrils of threads that once made up your shirt, fingers spread wide as it skims up your pliant softness, tracing along your waist and up between your shoulder blades.

Zoro's touch isn’t quite tender, a clear indication of his burgeoning lust you suspect, but there's honesty, sincerity in his newfound charge. He knows that you aren't fragile, the evidence fresh and red around you speaking well enough on its own, so why stay the hand that plys the sword?

Men fall to their hands and knees in prayer to gods they’ve never seen, begging for mercy and crying out for deliverance that will not come.

But you - he can see you, he can hear you.

He can touch you.

Taste you.

You're divine. A paragon of a twisted and bloodied form of justice. It's you that's stupefied him, luring him into a deistic high that has Zoro practically foaming at the mouth with innate desire.

His painfully hard cock strains against his thigh with means to worship you wholly, to partake in his own ideals of perverse, distorted devotion. He breathes in your salty-sweet scent once more and groans in longing, the taste of your crimson essence on his lips makes him feel like an offering to an idol., and every drop that drips down his chin only serves to heighten his senses even more.

He looks up at you through an eye glazed over with depraved adoration, and all he can think of is how good you look, how delicious you are on his tongue, how much he wants to please you, be consumed in your immaculate presence, and to offer himself up as a sacrifice to the darker and more nefarious desire within him.

The urge to claim, to take what he wants from you and find salvation surrounded by your benevolent hold. To act upon the impure aspiration that pulsates in his mind in ways that would make even the most vileindividuals gawk. He yearns to clean the blood from your sacred, championed skin, a lust filled ritual to send you both into sacramental euphoria.

He’s in a frenzy, feeling and touching each curve and crevice across your body while pulling you impossibly closer to him. Before Zoro can even think, he’s sinking his teeth into your shoulder, overcome with enlightened debauchery and biting down until that deathly addictive taste of your blood is fresh on his tongue once more - a testament to the depth of his obsession and the power of your shared experience.

The pain burns hot, but brief - quickly dissipating away into a cry of raw pleasure, a moan so salacious and so absolute that Zoro feels the very last of his will slipping through his fingers. He laps over the decently deep mark, his saliva mixing into the cuts like kindle to flame and earning him another woefully delightful wail of exasperation.

He thinks himself safe for the interim, that he’s pulled some sense back from the brink - until you say the one thing that shatters him to pieces.

“Do that again.”

He doesn’t deny you, and without hesitation he obliges by drowning his teeth back into your shoulder, pressing deeper into the wound and savoring the way your blood flows across his lips and into his mouth, painting his face red in the process. He grinds his hips against yours in a primitive display of dominance, while his fingers dig into your flesh with bruising force as you dig your nails into his back through his sweat and blood damped shirt.

Despite the danger posed by your actions amidst the threat of more marines, there is something undeniably beautiful about this dance of life and death. In this fleeting moment, Zoro and you find a kind of transcendence - a place where boundaries blur and limits vanish, leaving only pure, unadulterated passion in its wake.

His lips return to yours, and soon enough you feel yourself being whisked off your feet. The open air of the square leaves little room for privacy, but you know he doesn't care. Zoro walks with you in his arms, lips locked together in a messy, bloody, passionate kiss, your legs tight around his waist before he eases you down onto the lip of nameless hero's memorial upon which he plans to ravish you.

Zoro releases his hungry attack on your lips and rips the remnants of your shirt in two, leaving you bare to him as if an offering of communion. To feast upon your body, to drink upon your wine.

You gasp, wincing just a little from the shock of the fresh air upon your chest. “Zoro-” you begin, his name emanating from your breathless lungs as you watch the fabric fall to the ground around you.

“Y’can have mine,” He replies, leaning forward to pull one of your nipples into his mouth. “After I’m done with ya.” Zoro’s mouth suckles greedily, teasing your sensitive nub with his tongue before biting down hard enough to make you squeal and arch your back, but not draw blood.

His free hand traces down your side, finding respite upon your inner thigh and squeezing tightly onto it, growling as the fresh wound on your shoulder trickles down your chest and right onto his lips and eliciting an absolutely lewd groan from Zoro as he laps it up.

He gazes up at you with an intensity that borders on madness, his eyes burning with an unbridled lust that has you keening. “Ya taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls between his assault on your chest, “God, I can’t get enough.”

“Then take as much as you want.”

And fuck, he does. In an instant does he pop his lips from you to slide your pants away, somehow careful enough to not rip them to shreds - something you’d have to thank him for later. Without even removing his swords from his hip, let alone his own pants - Zoro simply rushes to undo the clasps and push the waistband down enough to free his length, thick and leaking, to bounce out against your pelvis.

You can feel it even through your underwear, warm heat radiating from what you desire most in this world at this moment. Zoro looks at you, gaze lingering on yours as he slides the fabric shielding your sex to the side and grips your hip with one hand and his cock in the other. He teases it over your slickness tantalizingly while sliding it between your folds and inch by inch are you filled so wonderfully, stretched and stuffed so marvelously full that each tense or twitch of him inside you makes the edges of your vision blur and has you wailing in pleasure.

As soon as your hips are flushed against one another, he gives you but a moment of adjustment before rutting his hips into you quickly, a rhythm so ruthless and wild that leaves you able to do little more aside from gasp out breathlessly and brave his savage ruin. You’re not even sure when your nails crept up his shirt, or when they burrow sharply into his shoulder blades until they’re etching down his back, the crescent shaped lines running his skin raw and bloody, scathing scores fueled by ferocious, crude passion.

He folds you then, one of his hands coming to grip over both of your wrists to pin them above your head as an arm forces your thigh downward. Zoro leans over you, your ankle now bouncing wildly next to his ear while he plows into you at a newer, deeper, more luscious angle.

Skin slaps against skin in company with brazen indulgence, a foul yet righteous lament for the fallen mere feet from you. From this more cramped position, you’re all but forced to keep eye contact with him - and he’s looking nowhere else but at your face, enraptured by every sound and move you make as you squirm in his hold.

Your desperate pants mix, leaving patches of sweat to pool between your chests. Zoro’s increasing gasps and snarls of ecstasy ring loud in your ear, the sounds echoing through you like a quake and causing you to flutter around his cock. He hisses, harsh and shrill in your ear and with a throaty grunt he pulls out of you, letting your legs fall to the stone pavement and releasing his grasp on your wrists to firmly twist you by the shoulders, spinning you around and sprawling his hand on your lower back to shift you forward into an arch.

He’s sinking into you again, fingers tight and stinging at your waist and burying himself fully inside of you once more. There isn’t even a moment given for reprieve, the man continuing to fuck you as if he hadn’t even left your dripping heat and making you cry out in hypnotizing delight.

Zoro smacks your ass, relishing in the ripple effect in your pliable flesh left in the wake of his blow. “Shit,” he exhales, adjusting his machinations of impurity to wrap his arms around your waist and lifting you from the ground, holding you in place mid-air and thrusting into you with less and less fluidity by the second. “Feel so fuckin’ amazin’, always do but god damn do you feel so fuckin’ incredible right now.”

You reach back to lock an arm around his neck seeking any leverage to keep yourself upright amidst his onslaught. You’re moaning something incoherent, words neither of you recognize due to the lust-filled haze that fills your minds, feeling the pull of release pit low in your belly as his balls slap against your clit at a rapid pace.

Delirium bids its toll upon you, tears prickling at your eyes as the climb to your closely approaching high reaches its limit. Drool slides down your chin and onto your neck, and in an instant Zoro catches it with his mouth, once again dissenting on your flesh and gnawing his incisors into your neck - sucking and biting with brutal obsession and marking your angelic skin in devout defiance. The growing familiarity of the warm flow of blood trickling from the bruised indents in your skin makes you crack, flying over the edge with a scream of his name.

He doesn’t slow as you ride out the waves of pleasure coursing through your body, still slamming into you a breakneck speed. You twitch and twist in his arms, the hard beating of his cock keeping a state of hyperstimulation over you, the whimpers and cries of weak will and breathless joy beginning to tip him over the edge.

The only thing in Zoro’s fogged head is his need to flood you with his spend, to pack you to the brim with his cum until it drips out of you and onto the stone below. He doesn’t even care if you’re bred full of his brats after this - if anything it would show just how he reveres you, claiming you as his own personal magnificence.

His jaw tenses, still attached securely on your neck, as he cums. Loud groans and grunts and sighs of relief vibrate against your skin, Zoro’s dick leaking and draining into you as your walls milk him for all that you can manage.

A few final, slow motions and he slides out of you, gently placing you on the ground and instantly rolling his shirt from his shoulders to hand it to you. “As promised,” Zoro says, a deviously weak grin on his face, moving to wipe his brow after you’ve taken the clothing from his outstretched hand. “Want me to patch ya up when we get back?”

“If you don’t mind, yeah.” You reply as you toss the shirt over yourself gently, minding the wounds that line your body as you do so.” Would rather not be asked any questions I don’t want to answer.” Zoro nods, chuckling softly before helping you clean up, using scraps of your ruined shirt as makeshift bandages and rags before he lifts you into his arms for a third time, though this one with the intention of carrying you safely back to the others - a soft apology for his brutality on your flesh, but one he knows he doesn’t need to say.

#😳#one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #op x reader #one piece x reader smut #one piece smut #zoro roronoa x you #roronoa zoro x you #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro smut #x reader

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jaemified · 10 months

Text

same dream, same mind, same night - hong jisoo

“ive waited this long to be with you. what’s another few months?”

pairing; joshua hong x fem!reader

genre; angst, childhood best friends/brothers bsf, kinda fluffy, unrequited love, friends to lovers

warnings; swearing, drinking, mingyus mean but hes just drunk, y/ns scared of commitment (arent we all), mention of bruises/scraping against concrete, and blood (blood parts pretty brief)

wordcount; 3.0k

synopsis; confiding in her longtime best friend after the end of a rocky relationship, choi y/n begins to heal once more and realizes what’s been waiting in front of her after all this time.

note - i love samex3 sm+i wanted an excuse to write w this song and for josh soo

read below the cut !

“you can’t just leave me here!” y/n exclaims to her boyfriend of four years, stumbling out the back door of a club to follow the man before her.

the loud music echoed throughout the alleyway, ringing through y/n’s slightly pounding head though she wasnt nearly as drunk as mingyu.

“actually i can, the car is registered under my name anyway.” he scoffed as he wrapped his arm tighter around his one night stand’s waist.

“and how are you supposed to drive? you’re absolutely wasted.”

“i’m not wasted, in that sense. but i realize how much time i’ve wasted on you.”

y/n grabbed her boyfriends arm, clinging onto him with watery eyes and a shakey grip. she ignored the way the desperate girl next to him gave her a dirty look, rolling her eyes.

“you don’t want to do this mingyu.”

“no,” he lowly chuckles. “you don’t want to do this, y/n.”

he shakes his arm harshly as y/n’s hold on him began to slip, before the girl tugged on her forearm, shoving her backwards into a puddle of god knows what.

y/n ignored the bruises beginning to form on her knees as she scraped against the rough concrete, struggling to get up with weak knees.

the ‘couple’ turns around, walking away towards the other side of the street.

“are you fucking serious? you’re gonna throw away a 4 year relationship for some girl you met at the club?!”

“you’re spewing nonsense, you’re drunk, you should just go home sweetheart.” the girl yelled back in faux pity, pulling mingyu into a kiss while she knew y/n was watching.

it was heartwrenching sight. y/n felt her heart ache, her stomach drop, eyes heavy, head hazy.

“mingyu! stop! please.” she called after to no avail.

with her already shaky knees, she tried to run after them only to trip and scrape herself more harshly then the first time.

she winced as she saw the blood begin to draw, the dirt falling into the open wound.

it was a rather big gash for a small fall, before she realized it was a broken glass bottle she had tripped over.

it was raining now, pouring rather heavily.

y/n sat flat on her butt in the middle of a sketchy alleyway. she began to cry, not just from the ache of the glass digging deep into her flesh, but from the ache in her heart mingyu had left her with.

she sobbed loudly, clutching her chest. she began to curl up into a ball and hugged her knees tightly.

with every drop of the heavy rainfall, her sobs only grew more painful she could feel herself running out of breath.

y/n was pretty fucked. stuck in the middle of who knows where, in a pretty bad area not to mention she was caught midstorm, left with no money (as mingyu used the rest of her money on drinks while she got up to the bathroom), no umbrella, phone in low battery before she realized-

wait.

with her vision blurred, she dug into her purse for her quickly dying phone.

through all the old receipts and packs of gum, her white phone with its clear case still stood out the most. inside the clear case was a polaroid. of her, her brother (seungcheol), and their best friend, joshua, as kids sitting side by side in the sand.

she laughed sadly as she looked at baby her, with her arms wrapped around both josh and cheols necks, the three of them flashing bright smiles.

well shit, she finally snapped out of it and realized what she needed to do.

y/n unlocked her phone, quickly scrolling through her favorites in her contacts.

‘4%’ the upper corner of her phone flashed.

she thought of who to call yet no one seemed to be a good choice.

seungcheol? no, he’d get mad and yell a lot.

jihoon? stuck at work, as always.

wonwoo? working the late shift at the cafe.

mingyu? absolutely not.

y/n thought hard before one familiar name popped up in her mind. how could she not have thought of him?

she scrolled for his contact, finding it, then questioning how she missed it when he was third on her favorite contacts.

calling shua🫶

the loud buzzing of his phone caught both his, and his friends attention, interrupting one of their late gym sessions on a random saturday.

“who could be calling you at this hour?” chan questioned, putting down one of the two weights he was lifting.

“his beloved y/n!” soonyoung teased with a soft grin.

“its not even that late? its only like 10.” seokmin said with a hint uncertainty attached at the end before he checked the time.

joshua brushed off his friends, stopping the treadmill as he paused his music before he had checked the contact name.

‘incoming call from y/nn!<3’

“hey, how are you?” he asked with a genuine smile.

“fucking terrible.”

“are you okay, do you need help?”

“are you free right now..?”

“i mean yeah, im just at the gym with the guys. what’s up?”

“hate to be a bother but can you please come get me?” she emphasized.

“why, what’s wrong? i mean- not why like, ill pick you up either way but just kinda, you know-” “stop being like that and just go get her already!” chan yelled with his distinct laughter.

y/n sniffled, quickly wiping her eyes before chuckling in response, “hi channie!” she spoke with as natural of a voice she could put up.

“she said hi channie.” “dont be jealous!” soonyoung teased.

she smiled at how natural they were with each other, and also at how easily joshua got annoyed.

he walked out the gym of the apartment complex and stood outside the door, ignoring how he had 3 sets of eyes on him.

“okay, im alone now. what happened?”

“ill tell you what happened in person, just please hurry. im kinda injured and also soaking wet. rain really isnt friendly.”

josh walked back into the gym, quickly grabbing his sweater and keys, signaling to the guys that he’d be back later as he pointed towards the parking lot through the window.

“im leaving now. where are you?”

“i dont know, mingyu was the one driving. ill just drop my pin.”

“that bastard i swear if he hurt her..” he mumbled, thankful it wasn’t heard by y/n.

“thank you shua, i really do owe you.”

“it’s fine. that’s what friends are for right?”

“yeah. love you.”

“love you.”

he sighed as he remembered you were just two best friends, nothing more, nothing less. and yet you still had him wrapped tightly around your finger.

y/n squinted when the bright headlights flashed in her eyes as joshua pulled up in his black sedan.

he quickly ran up to y/n with his umbrella, unzipping his gray hoodie and wrapping it around her cold, bare shoulders while the spaghetti straps of the black dress slipped off.

his eyes fell as he saw how puffy hers were, her red cheeks, and bloody scraped knees.

handing the umbrella to the girl before him (and telling her to make sure she’s covered, saying to not worry about him getting wet in the process), he picks her up by the underside of her knees and arms, carrying her to the car.

joshua puts y/n down to sit on the hood as he opened the passenger seat, making sure she has enough leg room, not wanting her to scrape her knees any more then she already had.

he picks her up once more, setting her down inside before taking the umbrella and closing the door for her.

“ill take you back to cheols?” he mumbled as he backed out into the street, pressing his sneaker into the gas pedal.

“no no no no god please don’t. he will kill me and i really don’t want to have to deal with that. can i please spend the night with you?” she begged, grabbing onto his muscular, veiny, covered in rain droplets, arms.

he sighed, looking over to her with a soft gaze, meeting her hurt eyes. he changed the navigation on his phone and entered in the address of his apartment complex. “how could i ever say no to you?” he flashed a lazy smile, rubbing circles into her hand.

realizing his right hand had subconsciously made its way to her rest on her thigh, he half-mindedly pulled his hand away before he felt y/n pull him back, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“so what happened? not to be, you know. but im really worried about you. you’re lucky cheol wasnt there when you called me you know.”

“i know and im sorry, it’s just- I didnt know who else to go to.”

he hummed as he stopped at the red light. joshua turned to face y/n again, repeating his earlier words. “well, how could i ever say no to you?” he mumbled as the green flash illuminated his face in the dark light.

“you know how gyu can be. but this time he just drank way too much i guess and lost it. it started at the high school reunion party last month. he got drunk and ended up sleeping with someones sister who’s like 4 years younger, she was like in 8th grade when we all graduated.”

“damn we’re old now- oh, sorry. i thought it was a girl he met at the club?”

“that’s what i thought. but she was here with her brother and he told me everything. they were meant to be a one night stand since he thought they’d never see each other again but we just so happened to enter the club as they were leaving. after he told me, i ran out after gyu but he abandoned me.”

she didn’t miss the way joshua’s jaw clenched.

“ill kill that son of a bitch i swear.”

“it’s okay, really-”

“no! its not fucking okay!” he shouted, apologizing before he realized how loud he was.

he parked in his parking space before turning off the engine to talk to her, face to face.

“choi y/n. you are a special girl, a once in a life time even, and you deserve to be treated as such. and if someone as stupid as kim mingyu cant see that then why don’t you go for someone who does?”

“like.. who..?”

“like, hong jisoo.”

“hong jisoo? i- ah.”

y/n gave him a pitiful look, and that’s all it took to get the message across.

“shua..”

“no. i get it, i can’t expect you to feel the same way especially since it hasn’t even been 3 hours since you broke up with mingyu. and even after that i can’t expect you reciprocate my feelings either way. but, even so, ill always be here for you. no matter how you want me, as a boyfriend or more realistically, a friend.”

“joshua. i love you, i really do. you know i do but,”

“-but as nothing more as a friend, yeah? its alright. i really didn’t want to say anything but it just slipped out. i didn’t want to stress you out because i know what you’re going through is hard. i understand. but what we feel for one another is a different type of love,” he stopped to gesture two different points moving in opposing directions with his arms.

“to different for our own good.” was all he said before getting out the car to carry y/n upstairs.

y/n winced as he put ointment into the fresh wound where the glass once was, looking away from josh as he held her leg, directing her gaze to the bloody chunk of glass that sat in the sink.

“soonyoung is staying at chan and seokmins place on the seventeenth floor, but i want you to take my room, and ill stay in soonyoungs since i have a softer and bigger mattress.” he whispered, making eye contact with her as he left an innocent kiss where the bandage covered her skin.

she whimpered as the events of today hit her with the small kiss, unsure of how to proceed.

y/n ran her fingers through her hair, still damp from the shower she had just taken.

“can you stand?” he asked offering his hands to help her down the counter, looking over the many bandaids covering all her scrapes and bruises.

she took his hand and tried walking around the kitchen. she had a bit of a limp, yet was still a bit stable.

“here, take this tylenol and you can wear the hoodie I left on the bed since I know you get cold, ill just shower first.”

she sat on the bed, hugging the shirt she currently wore which joshua had lent her, before slipping on his black zip up hoodie. it had smelled like him, and his familiar, comforting vanilla shampoo she recognized all too well.

she fell back onto the mattress and let her mind be consumed by her thoughts, falling asleep yet only for a short while after.

she later awoke at the sound of joshua digging through his drawers for a white tee, being able to catch a glimpse of his toned body before he slipped the shirt on.

he turned around to y/n, bending down to tuck her stray hairs behind her ear, pressing a kiss into her forehead. “goodnight.”

before he could fully walk away from the bed, y/n grabbed his arm. “stay.” she sleepily whined.

“you need your own space so you can heal, i dont want to accidentally hurt you or anything.”

“you could never hurt me. so just please stay.”

“y/n..”

“please? what happened to you can’t ever say no to me?”

he playfully scoffed before giving in and slipping into the sheets.

y/n dug her head into the crook of his neck, smiling at how he shivered whenever he felt her hot breath against him.

“goodnight shua.”

of course, when cheol found out he was absolutely pissed. y/n would wake up from hundred of missed calls from mingyu, begging for her to take him back after he realized what happened. cheol (and josh.. and, chan?) ended up giving mingyu a bit of, talking to. he learned his lesson didnt he?

it was now over a year, almost two, later. winter time now. joshua had taken y/n to the han river bridge at night. they walked along it together.

with mingyu out of the way, josh and y/n became inseparable (more so then they already were) and drew even closer to one another if that even was possible.

with time, y/n began to realize what it is she wanted. joshua hong. after all, they had always shared the same mind, same dream, all within the same night - ever since they were kids.

“can i tell you something?” she asked, looking down at the river below.

“go ahead.”

“i think, that i like you. and im not sure when or how but you were just always.. there. i don’t know why it took me so long to realize what was there waiting for me, right in front of me.”

silence.

“that’s too bad. because i don’t think i like you, i know i love you.”

“ew you’re so cringey!” she exclaimed, jokingly pushing his face away from hers.

just as joshua reached for y/ns hand, she pulled away. “but before you say anything else, i need to tell you something. i don’t think i want a relationship- or, no i do! just, im scared. i feel like i need a short while longer but i really do wanna be with you,” she paused, thinking of her next words.

“its not that i don’t trust you. im just scared of whatever that was happening again, or if mingyu comes back or something. just, give me a month?”

he smiled, and pulled her into a hug, letting y/n’s head rest on his chest.

“ive waited this long to be with you. what’s another few months?”

y/n felt her heart melt at such a simple yet meaningful statement. she wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“ive dreamed of being with you since we were kids. you dont know how much it hurt me when you started dating mingyu. and i knew your brother wouldnt dare to let his one and only little sister date his best friend.”

“well. none of that matters now, because it’s in the past. you have me now dont you? and don’t worry about cheol, he’d just want us to be happy. and if he doesnt then that’s just him being a big baby.”

joshua laughed in response, smiling as he held y/n tightly in his arms while they watched the city below, over the river.

she knew she was right giving a guy like joshua a chance.

i will never change.

promise me eternity,

if you feel the same way as i do

they had both dreamed the same dream for years, and now here they’d be, spending the same night together forever.

he knew in that moment she had been worth the wait.

joshua hong’s (almost) finally got to call the girl of his dreams, his, and he couldn’t be happier.

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janaispunk · 5 months

Text

are you ever dreaming of me?

series masterlist • this is part IV

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

a/n: This got very dark very quickly, but it had to be done. It’s basically just one big love letter from me to Dave and his character. I know Dave’s behavior in the last chapter has been a little frustrating but I hope it’ll make more sense now (it’s still frustrating though ngl). I also know this is not as smut-heavy as the other chapters, which might come as a disappointment to some. Stay with me here, more filth is coming soon, I just had to get emotional for a second. <3 (also, please be nice because I lowkey hate this, actually)

word count: ~3.1k

summary: Dave’s side of the story.

warnings: ANGST, bits of fluff if you squint, age-gap, mentions of killing people, mentions of death, mentions of rough sex, power imbalance, able-bodied reader, somewhat unhealthy relationship dynamics, dubios morals (Dave is cheating on his wife… kinda), idiots in love, this whole serious is still very much 18+ only, mdni… did I mention angst? (As always, please tell if if I forgot something!)

dividers by @/saradika <3

find my full masterlist here!

Dave York isn’t a good man.

He isn’t a good man and he hasn’t been in a long time. He probably had been, once, when he first joined the military, when he still thought that he was doing the good thing, the right thing. Before he killed his first man. Now he’s living in shades of gray, where nothing is as simple as right or wrong.

He knows that what he’s doing is not right, but then again, the people that he’s killing aren’t good men either. He’s doing what he’s good at, what he has been trained to do for years. He doesn’t really know what else he’s good at. If there even is anything else.

He makes enough money to provide well for his daughters, the only thing in his life that he really cares about, the two girls that he loves more than anything. He loved their mother too, once, when they were both young. They were high school sweethearts, got married quickly simply because that was the thing that you did, only to realize later that adult life with each other wasn’t what either of them had imagined.

He’s never told Carol what exactly it is that he does, trying to protect her, which then led to her not understanding what was going on when he came home feeling cold and empty, a void inside of him that nothing could fill. They both grew distant from each other, not sharing any real connection anymore, just living aside one another. It works for him; their daughters are still the top priority for both of them, and they’re going to do everything in their power to give them the best possible childhood.

He suspects that Carol is seeing someone else, with the way she’s sometimes working late for no good reason, sliding out of the room to answer her phone at odd hours, the way he occasionally finds a position on their shared credit card bill that he doesn’t have an explanation for.

Dave knows that if he cared, he could easily find out every little detail about it. If he cared, he would probably be angry at how she’s not even making an effort to hide it. But the thing is - he just can’t bring himself to care. Has never done the same thing either, neither out of spite, nor because he had any desire for it.

Until he met her.

Sitting in a hotel bar, two seats over from him, when he’d just gotten a job done and figured that a quick drink might help him fall asleep easier. The whiskey’s burn in his throat didn’t ease the coldness that felt like it had permanently settled into his chest, not that he’d expected it to.

He had just decided to retreat to his room and get out of the city first thing in the morning when she sighed loudly and downed her own drink abruptly. He had noticed her when he walked in, the way he always clocked every person in any room he entered, and every possible exit route. He had absentmindedly noted that she was attractive, then dismissed the thought immediately. Probably here for a date, much younger than him, not paying him any mind. Not a threat, and therefore not important.

Not important at all, until he found himself turning to her and offering to buy her another drink before his mind had even caught up to his actions, learning that she had just been stood up for what would indeed have been a date, noticing the glint of interest in her gaze as she eyed him up and down, feeling a kind of longing that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Getting her to go up to his room with him had been easy. A mutual understanding of wanting each other, the desire to turn a shitty evening into something else, something that he doesn’t think either of them understood at the time.

Kissing her for the first time had been easy, too. Touching her, feeling her hot skin under his fingertips, her entire being so much softer, lighter than he was, felt easy. It felt right, like something that he hadn’t known he was missing right until that moment. He wanted to devour her, make her his, get her as close as he possibly could, before he inevitably had to give up this fleeting moment of something that suspiciously felt like happiness, and happiness never stayed within his reach for too long.

Sinking into her for the first time, hearing her gasp, her breath hot against his neck, felt even better. This was never gonna last, things this good never did. The way she clenched around him when he first slapped her ass and her whimper of “harder, please” turned him feral in a way that he hadn’t known before. How she gave up all control to him so willingly when his entire life had felt out of control for so long - it was addicting. He had known that he would come back for more again and again before he had even spilled himself into her for the first time.

He hadn’t planned for her to stay the night. Hadn’t planned for the way she kissed his lips in the morning, acting a little shy, like she was worried that he might send her away, but so clearly showing him that she wanted more of him, if that was what he wanted. And god damn, did he want to give her more, give her all that he had to offer, if only it wasn’t for the fact that any more of him would be enough to scare her away for good.

So, he didn’t give her more. Made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t looking for an emotional attachment, told her about his marriage, told her that they couldn’t be a thing. She was quick to hide her disappointment, but not quick enough for him not to notice. He half expected her to walk out then, that this wasn’t something she wanted, but instead she scribbled down her phone number, gave him a flirty smile and told him to call her “whenever”.

He knew he was being greedy, that he should have kept it a one time thing that he could keep a fond memory of, but of course he called her. Kept making stops in her town before flying back home, started spending weekends with her, the feeling of being around her too good to let go of.

He knows that it’s not right, that he’s probably taking advantage of her in some way. Of course he sees how badly she wants to please him, how she looks at him like he’s hung the moon for her. She has never denied him anything, no matter what kinds of depraved things he’s wanted to do with her. Hesitated, yes, but she has never said no. Never called red, never asked him to stop. Not when he first told her to call him “sir”, not when he spanked her for the first time, not when he’s edging her until she’s barely coherent, not when his fingers tightened around her throat for the first time. He could leave her a crying, shaking mess on the floor, and by the end of the night she’d still look up at him with those wide eyes and thank him.

It’s addictive and he can’t stop, always comes back for more when it feels like his whole life is spiraling out of his control again, when the darkness around him is threatening to swallow him whole. She’ll let him grab at her with rough hands, mold her body into any shape he wants, let him spit filth at her and let lose until he feels grounded again, until some of the darkness around him has dissipated.

Lately, work has been weighing on him even harder. Maybe he’s just getting older, maybe he has finally reached his limit, he’s not sure. With the whole week off, an incredibly rare occurrence, he knew who he wanted to spend it with. She had seemed stressed lately, like she needed a break too, so it was easy to convince himself that he was doing this for her. That it wasn’t just a selfish plan of his to spend more time with her.

Because somewhere along the way he has come to enjoy the time with her way too much. He enjoys lying in bed together, both of them catching their breaths, laughing about a stupid joke, the little tidbits from her life that she shares with him, the rare occasions when they’re walking around her neighborhood. The way she shyly grabbed his hand the first time, like she was scared that he would pull it away. The smile that she tried to but couldn’t hide when he didn’t.

This isn’t right and it’s not going to last, he’s well aware of that. As clear as he has been about his intentions, he still feels like he’s leading her on sometimes. But it feels too good to stop, to let go of one of the few comforts that he has in life.

The past few days with her have been heaven. He hadn’t anticipated how much he would enjoy spending so much uninterrupted time with her, how good it would feel to be around her the entire day, just watching her be herself and listening to her talking. And he has been talking as well, the feeling of speaking to someone without an ulterior motive, of someone listening to him just because they wanted to, more meaningful to him than he could put into words.

And all throughout, she had so willingly bent to his every wish, put all her trust into him, secure in the knowledge that in the end, he would take care of her.

So, Dave had let his guard down. Relaxed. Then the dream happened.

Last night, he had come home to find the girls slaughtered in their house, their small bodies soaked in blood. It’s a recurring nightmare, a fear that he can never entirely shake off, that haunts his subconscious every couple of weeks. He’s being thorough in his work, never leaving loose ends, keeping his private life concealed from the world that he moves in. The risk that anything could happen to them is as low as he can push it, but it’s not zero. Never zero, and it’s eating at him. Usually, he wakes up alone, gasping for breath, the sheets soaked with sweat. Him and Carol haven’t slept in the same bed for a long time.

Last night, it had been different. It had been different because she had been there beside him, shaking him awake and holding him in her arms until he calmed back down. It had also been different because she had been part of the dream. Just as dead, just as blood-soaked as his daughters.

She had been so sweet when he woke up, and it broke his heart. He wasn’t a good person. He was endangering everyone around him, he was endangering her by not being able to end this thing with her, and yet here she was, oblivious, comforting him.

He had always thought that eventually, he would be the one to break things off. But what if it was her? What if she figured out what a pathetic excuse of a man he was, that he couldn’t give her anything? Not a real relationship, and no future. He couldn’t let her in, couldn’t let her see who he was. What he did, what he was afraid of - and just how realistic those fears were.

He couldn’t even bear to picture the look on her face if he ever told her. The betrayal, the disgust, and eventually the fear. He couldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t. But how could he go on with this, knowing that every minute that he spends with her, he puts her in danger? Someone could find out. Someone could find her.

So does what he does best. Makes a plan. Suppresses his emotions until he’s sure of what to do. How to keep her safe. The logical part of his mind arrives at a solution pretty quickly: She’ll be safest if she stays away from him.

The emotional part of him, the part that he tries to keep shut down, doesn’t approve of this idea.

He has to tell her. Sooner rather than later, while the dream is still fresh in his memory, while he can still see her dead body when he closes his eyes.

Because he obviously knew about the dangers of being with him when he first laid eyes on her. When he kissed her for the first time, texted her for the first time, walked up to her apartment for the first time, when he booked this damn vacation because he’s unable to stay away from her. Unable to think straight when it comes to her. There’s a million reasons why he shouldn’t be with her and yet, he always finds a reason not to quit.

He tells himself that he’ll speak to her as soon as she gets up. Then once he’s done with his phone call. Maybe after they’ve had breakfast. At the end of the day, when they’re back in the room. He never does. He can’t.

The tension has become unbearable at that point. He knows that she’s confused, that she has questions that he doesn’t have answers for. His life feels out of control once again, so he tries gaining it back in the only way that he knows.

He half expected her to refuse him, but she seems just as relieved as he feels when he tells her to get down on her knees. Afterwards, he doesn’t feel better. Possibly hates himself even more.

He can tell that she’s off afterwards, and he’s battling himself to comfort her. This is not what he should be doing. None of this is what he should be doing.

Usually, she tucks herself into the space between his shoulder and his chest before he can even say a word. Not tonight. Tonight, she had her back turned to him before he had even switched off the lights, the “good night” that she normally breathes against his neck nothing more than a murmur from her side of the bed.

He stares at her backside in the darkness of the room, the way she seems to be curling in on herself, and he has no idea what to do. What they just did seemed like what she wanted, she had appeared eager, enthusiastic even, but maybe he read her wrong. Shit, he hadn’t even asked for her color once.

It’s quiet for a long time. He finally feels himself slowly drifting off to sleep, when her hears her sniffle. His eyes fly open again. It’s only minimal movements, but he can see her tremble ever so slightly. Fuck it, he thinks to himself as he reaches out towards her.

“Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

You tense at his words, at the fact that he’s apparently awake. Has probably been the whole time. You try your hardest to make your voice sound normal, even though you know that it’s pointless.

“Nothing.”

It comes out even weaker than you had anticipated. You keep your back to him and feel him shuffling closer, his hand gently pulling at your shoulder to turn you towards him. “Baby. Talk to me.” His voice is soft in your ear and your heart is beating painfully in your chest. Baby. He has never called you Baby before. You feel a fresh wave of tears welling up in your eyes and shake your head but let him turn you around until you’re facing him.

His eyes search your face in the faint moonlight that’s filtering into the room and his hands cup your damp cheeks, his thumbs gently running over the skin under your eyes. The worry that’s so evident in his expression right now makes you want to break down. You’re exhausted, and confused, and you don’t understand the man in front of you and his contradictory behavior at all. So far you’ve been crying silently, but you can feel your bottom lip trembling as you try to suppress the sobs that are threatening to crawl up your throat.

“Did I- shit, was I too rough, did I hurt you? You didn’t say anything, but I never asked- I should’ve checked, I’m sorry, I-“

“You didn’t hurt me,” you whisper, cutting off his frantic rambling. He didn’t, not in the way that he’s referring to, anyway.

“Then what’s wrong?” he pleads, his hands still on your face, “Talk to me.” You inhale deeply. You really don’t want to have this conversation, but maybe it’s best like this. Rip the bandaid off, make it quick.

“Do you want to leave?”

Your voice breaks on the last word. He stares at you for a beat, his eyes wide. “Do I- What?” You shrug, unable to bring yourself to ask a second time. One of his hands slides down to your shoulder, holding you there. He doesn’t speak, his eyes boring into you.

You can’t hold his gaze any longer, your eyes dropping down to his chest instead. “You’ve been… weird. Today. I thought- I don’t fucking know, that I had done something or that you’ve-“ a sob breaks free and interrupts you, “that you’ve had enough of me. That you don’t want to go on with… this.” You gesture helplessly between the two of you.

You’re certain that now you’ve said too much, that if he hadn’t had enough before, he definitely has now. You’re supposed to be fun, a distraction, not someone who’s clinging to him, but you’re feeling too exhausted, too raw to keep pretending like this thing between you doesn’t mean something. To you, at least.

“Fuck,” Dave mumbles, and you gaze up to see the anguish in his eyes before his arms envelop you and he presses you against his chest, speaking into your hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise.”

It’s quiet for a minute as you’re inhaling his scent, trying to calm yourself down, when something occurs to you. “You didn’t say no,” you whisper into his chest, “you said that I didn’t do anything, but… you didn’t say that you don’t want to leave.” Dave freezes for just a second, searching your face, then he sighs heavily. He sounds defeated, you think.

“No, I don’t want to leave.”

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devilfic · 1 year

Text

❝right place, right time❞

IV. the hierophant.

parts: previously / next plot: you ask bruce to take his shirt off. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, alfred’s a little mean but he’s just being protective, you’re making serious life choices on four hours of sleep and a dream, you’re getting warmer, mentions of guns (none used). words: 7.3k.

a/n: this one is longer than usual and it is largely due to the fact that the last half of this fic came to me at six in the morning and I deigned to part with it. enjoy!

You get about as far as the lobby before your confidence wanes. The woman behind the desk has the kind of look that fits in a place like this: pristine brows, glossed lips, nary a flyaway not tamed by gel and a boar-bristle brush. You realize, quite belatedly, that you stick out like a sore thumb.

Even with a phone tucked between shoulder and cheek, her stare pins you down and tells you to stay where you are. You listen because, frankly, you don’t know where else to go.

She’s in no hurry to finish her call, but it’s all too soon before she’s fixing you with that stare again. You’re already nervous. “Can I help you?” She—Alexandra, you gather from her name tag—doesn’t blink.

You feel ridiculous saying it out loud, “I’m here to see Bruce Wayne.”

Alexandra’s head tips to the side, examining you more closely. Perhaps looking for your audacity, you think, because she doesn’t look too keen on helping you with that request. “He sent me flowers.” You add on, lamely.

Finally she blinks, unimpressed, “Did he now?”

You feel unnerved when you hand it over and she doesn’t immediately take it. Eventually, after your arm has begun to shake, she plucks it from you.

It takes her but a few seconds for her entire expression to change. The next time she looks up at you, her stare is curious, memory jogged. “You were on the news, the doctor from Gotham General,” Alexandra recalls, “did you have an appointment?”

“No. I uh... well, I just... the delivery person dropped these off a half hour ago. I just wanted to thank him.”

Alexandra’s face softens. “I’m sorry, I can’t let anyone up without a prior appointment. I can relay a message, however. Or give you his office’s number.”

You wouldn’t be seeing him today, would you? You’d come here on an adrenaline high, a little angry and a little woozy on pain meds. You hadn’t even been thinking when you’d left your apartment, had turned off your phone as soon as your mother started calling, and now you were on the other side of the city hoping to see the most important man in Gotham. Of course you should’ve called. He left you his number and you thought you could just walk right into his office.

But then again, he’d walked right into yours. Why couldn’t you do the same?

Behind the desk, one of the (heavily armed) security guards is keeping an eye on you. That... answered your question. Maybe you’d have to make that call after all.

You’re about to do just that, thanking Alexandra for her time, when you hear your name being called from a few feet away.

You recognize him in an instant. The weathered, greying face of Bruce Wayne’s right hand man is approaching at impeccable speed, nearly making you stumble back to keep the distance, “Mr. Pennyworth.” You breathe the name at the same time as Alexandra, who goes a step further and stands to acknowledge him. You don’t think it’s customary with the way his quick smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

You, on the other hand, get no smile at all, “What a surprise to find you here. I hope the flowers were received well? We were unable to gather if you’re prone to allergies.”

You wonder how he would’ve gotten that information without asking you first, “No- I mean yes, they were fine. I was actually coming to deliver my thanks.”

Alfred straightens at this. It’s not hard, with all your experience, to recognize a veteran when you see one. He’s got the determined, flawless gait along with the endless eyes (the ones that go on forever with stories and horrors not so far beyond your imagination). He’s also got the immovability of one. You understand why he’s Bruce Wayne’s right hand man. If a bomb was unable to take him out, you doubted much else could. Not even if you asked nicely. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll have to pass your thanks on to Master Wayne.”

Master? It’s not so out of place, situated in his West London accent, but it does throw you off in 21st century America. Everything about him read as other than, and yet you felt the most out of place in this conversation. “Actually, I was hoping if I could see him. I’d like to tell him in person. If that’s alright.”

Alfred’s eyebrow twitches upwards, “Does Mr. Wayne know you’re coming?”

You flush. You really should’ve called first. “No. He doesn’t. I thought-” that you’d all make an exception for me, “I was in a hurry to get here. I didn’t even think to call.”

“Mr. Wayne is a very busy man.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Truly. I just really need to talk to him.”

“Perhaps you can come back another day. I’ll be happy to schedule that with you, if Mr. Pennyworth is needed elsewhere.” Alexandra interjects. There was no way you could tell her or Alfred that if you had more time to think about what you were about to do, you might as well ask to be put down.

Mr. Pennyworth extends his arm, bringing his wrist to his eyeline where he reads the time on his watch. You glance at your phone and realize it’s just a few minutes after one. “Actually, Alexandra, there’s no need. I believe Mr. Wayne has just finished his workout and should be headed back to the penthouse to rest for the afternoon. I don’t believe he’d mind our guest coming up for a chat.”

You cut your eyes to Alexandra, then back to Alfred who’s now looking at you. Either you were really lucky, or there was something you didn’t know going on here.

Regardless, Alfred turns on the spot and begins to walk away.

With one last “thank you” thrown at Alexandra, you head off after him, slowing to a more graceful pace as employees pass pointed looks at you. You shrink closer to Alfred, then further behind him when he casts an inquisitive glance in your direction.

He leads you around the corner, down a long hallway where the suits and ties grow fewer and fewer. A few more turns and you both end up in the elevator alone.

The silence is only cut through every few seconds by the occasional ding! letting you know you’ve passed another floor. This was all starting to feel just a little too easy.

After the first five floors, Alfred speaks, “I trust you’re recovering well?”

“Yes, actually. I’m lucky. We all were.”

Alfred hums, “Yes. It is rather lucky having the Batman around.”

You turn to him, curious, “You’re a fan?”

For the first time in your presence, the old man actually cracks a real smile. It’s faint, but realer than the one he’d given Alexandra. “A critic.”

“A critical fan.”

“I think he’s done a better job taking care of the people in this city than some, though his methods could use refining. And you?”

“I might be biased given that he’s saved my life and all, but I’m a fan,” you wonder if you should tell him. Then, in line with your other decisions thus far, choose to do so anyway, “I actually got to tell him that. When we first met. Before the... hospital. Patched up a nasty bullet wound for him.”

For some reason, Alfred doesn’t look as surprised as you were hoping for. You’d have to find another way to impress him. “Is that right?” His gaze becomes more pointed, “Think he was looking out for you?”

It sounds so absurd to you at first that you laugh, but even thinking about it for a second, it isn’t that absurd. It’s easy, even, to come to that conclusion. You’d saved his life. He’d saved yours. Perhaps he’d just wanted to do away with owing you, but you know that isn’t quite right, “I think he’s just a good person. It was just-”

“Lucky.” He finishes for you, smile gone now. You get the feeling that he knows something you don’t.

Before you can be so bold as to question him about it, he starts talking again, “If I may, Master Wayne informed me of his interest in you prior to his job offer. And it’s my understanding that you politely declined. Now, it’s none of my business as to why you turned down his offer, that was your decision and he must respect that, and it’s neither my business why you’ve insisted on coming here after the fact, but I do want to make one thing clear: as Bruce’s butler, I have seen many come and go through these halls with intentions I’m more than privy to. I know when someone is looking to gain something from him. This is the first time I’ve not been sure what to predict. It’s not clear to me what you plan to get out of this arrangement, but I request that whatever you do, you do not make me regret allowing you past these doors.”

The elevator comes to a full stop, the final ding! alerting you that you’re one floor away from the penthouse. A mechanized voice requests over the speakers to “present identification”. Alfred does not move. He stares at you, awaiting your response.

You don’t know whether to feel angry or sheepish. You stand here in little more than sweatpants and ratty sneakers, shaking like a purse dog where at any moment, someone could come around the corner and put a bullet between your eyes for saying the wrong thing. In fact, no one needed to come around any corners. You’d seen the outline of the 9mm under Alfred’s vest on the way to the elevator. You had little more than your keys on you for self-defense.

You weren’t a threat. You were barely anything without a scalpel in your hand.

And yet this military man with more bullets than you’d have seconds to escape him thinks you enough of a problem to lecture you. God, alright, you’re a little angry.

“If I may,” you start, “I have no clue what Bruce wants with me either. And frankly, I’m more worried about that than you should be about me. I just want to talk to him. If you’re lucky, you’ll never have to see me again.”

He holds your gaze a little longer, wondering if you’ll crack. It takes very deep, measured breaths to keep from doing so.

You don’t know how long the two of you just stand there, but eventually Alfred touches a screen on the wall with his thumb that seems to be the magic password. The voice from before confirms as much, jolting the elevator the last few feet before spilling the two of you out into the penthouse. Alfred says nothing more, simply guiding you down another hallway, up some stairs, and into a room larger than the upper half of your apartment complex.

You don’t have time to pause at the one-of-a-kind art on the wall, nor the shelves lined with books of all languages and disciplines. You don’t even have time to examine the city outside the window (from what you glimpse, the view is beautiful).

You stand out in the open beneath twin winding staircases either side of you, leading up into a dark unknown. You feel like a child staring up at the ceiling, breathing in the gloomy castle. It’s worlds away from your quaint unit stuck in the 80s.

“He should be here,” is the first thing Alfred has said to you since the elevator, “I’ll just be a moment.”

You watch the old man wander up one of the staircases, calling for Bruce. Without anyone watching you, you’re free to explore. And really, what if this was the last time you’d ever step foot in this place?

The first thing you approach is the large table in the middle of the room. There’s a W engraved in the wood, polished to a shine, surrounded by abandoned teacups and loose papers you try not to look too closely at.

The next thing you approach is a small study off to the side where more books live, but your stomach drops when you chance a glance out into the city. You’ve been this high up before, but you couldn’t imagine this being the first thing you see every morning. You could see most of Gotham from this high. Every skyscraper, every dingy alleyway, every car and boat and train from miles around. This far above, it was no wonder they called the Waynes royalty.

You also couldn’t imagine the money it took to build this place. It was cheaper back before anyone in this building had been born, but if Bruce Wayne wanted, he could build one just like it in every major city. You can even see Gotham General from here. It’s... it makes you feel so small.

Your fingers press into the glass and leave behind prints. You doubted anyone would even notice.

You’re seconds from whipping out your phone and texting Emily a photo of the view when Alfred’s voice breaks the silence, “Master Wayne! There you are.”

Shit, he was here already?

You turn, expecting him to be at the staircase or by the front door or even by the table you’d been pondering. You don’t expect him to be just a few feet behind you, watching you watch the cityscape. The sudden closeness makes you tumble back into the window, your head thudding on the glass so loudly that you see Bruce wince.

When Alfred’s voice carries again, he’s much closer. Close enough for you to hear the displeasure in: “You have a guest.”

Alfred leaves you both alone in the study. He cites some phone calls he needs to make and swears to keep “Dory” out until the end of your meeting. You’re assured it’s just the two of you up here. As if that would calm your mounting nerves.

At the very least, Bruce looks just as unsure as you.

He puts the desk between the two of you, still standing, only now his shape has changed. In his fancy suits, he was angular, a person who parted crowds with his size. Now, here, in a t-shirt that hangs off him so loosely he looks gaunt, he looks smaller somehow. Tall and lean but smaller. Softer. It helps a little, doesn’t feel so out of place when his voice matches his demeanor, “Did you get the flowers?”

Only then do you realize that Alexandra still has the card he left you. “How do you know where I live?”

His expression turns frightened for just a moment, then softens, “Your boss called when they arrived at your office, told me you were on leave. He offered to send them to your apartment.” He takes the way your eyes narrow as you not believing him, “He didn’t tell me where. And I didn’t ask.” He hastily tacks on the last part.

Of course, he says all this as if you had lawyers on speed dial. Was it because he had something to hide?

“They were... beautiful. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.” You reply, honest, and it takes a little of the tension out of his shoulders. Yours too.

“After I saw the news, I was just glad to know you hadn’t been seriously harmed.”

“No, I was lucky. Or someone was looking out for me.” The last bit slips out without you meaning it to. When you look up to hazard Bruce’s reaction, he’s entirely impassive. Whatever got you into this penthouse convinces you to ask the next thing that comes to mind, “Do you believe in the Batman?”

You catch the genuine confusion flit across his face as he asks, “Like... the boogeyman?”

“No, I mean... do you believe- I mean he’s just a person, right? Clearly. But do you believe he’s doing something good for Gotham? Mayor Reál seems to think he’s a sign that the city has gone to shit. I know you’re a supporter of hers. I was just curious.”

“The city’s always been... shit,” he catches your eye as he reuses your wording, “I don’t think he’s a sign. I think he’s a side effect.”

“So... the city gets better and, what, Batman no more?”

“That’s the ideal.”

“I can’t imagine a Gotham that nice.”

Bruce studies you. You find it alarming how still he can be, “Do you?”

“Hm?”

“Do you believe? In the Batman?”

Why do you feel so naive when you blurt out a confident “yes”? Is it because Bruce looks skeptical? Because you realize that maybe you’re more attached to the vigilante than you should be, even if he saved your life? That maybe you’d placed all your hope for a better world in him, and if he ever failed, you’d be in for a rude awakening? All of the above was your best guess. “You didn’t answer.”

Bruce fidgets. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a cop out.” It hits you that the conversation has begun to flow on its own, the longest you’ve ever talked to Bruce. Maybe the suits were the issue after all.

“It’s... like you said: Gotham gets better, the Batman is no more. I want Gotham to get better.”

Whether he’s playing diplomat or not, it’s such a neutral stance that you begin to reevaluate what you know about Bruce Wayne. You shift the conversation to shallow waters, “Your butler is intimidating.”

“Alfred?”

“He interrogated me on the ride up here. Felt like I was being lectured by my girlfriend’s dad.”

Bruce laughs all of a sudden, even less tense. The smile that splits his stoic in two is so very different from anything you’ve seen on him so far, “I’m sorry about him, he’s protective. I hope he didn’t scare you.”

You go to say he didn’t, but then you remember the gun he’d had hidden in his slacks and reconsider, “It’s fine. He let me up here, didn’t he?” Whether he’d done so hoping this would be the last time you ever step foot in the tower or not, you would leave that unsaid. “But I didn’t come here just to thank you for the flowers or talk about Batman. There’s been something on my mind for a while. Ever since you came to offer me the job. I was too stunned to think about it then, but I’ve been meaning to ask you... why me?”

You expect to have to clarify. Bruce takes a long look at you and doesn’t ask you to, “Because you’re good at what you do.”

“There’s hundreds of talented doctors in Gotham. Millions in the world. You met me once and you wanted to put your life in my hands.”

“You’re one of those talented doctors.”

“But you... aren’t just anybody. You have to... you’ve gotta know that, right? You could have asked for anyone. I should’ve been a blip on your radar as soon as you met me. There’s no logical reason for someone with your resources to come to me, in person, and ask me to work for you.”

“Of course there is.”

“Like what?”

Frustrated, he maneuvers around the desk until it’s no longer blocking the both of you. It makes the conversation feel more personal. You don’t feel like you’re talking to the same Bruce Wayne from before, “You noticed I was hurt right away. No one else did.”

“It feels like more than that.” And it does. All of this. Every interaction has felt like something bubbling under the surface, waiting to break skin and bleed out for everyone to see. You keep getting that feeling that you know. Bruce even looks like he knows. Alfred, too. But you’re the only one who can’t quite name it.

It doesn’t help that for a second, you think Bruce is going to say more. He doesn’t. He schools his expression into stoicism again. You find that you don’t really like that look on him, can’t stand not having that glimpse of someone human now that you’ve been spoiled on it.

He takes one step after the other, assertive. You feel like you should step out of the way once he’s right in front of you, when the fresh scent of green apple invades your senses and you notice that the soft strands on his head are still damp. You realize then that you’d probably caught him fresh out of the shower, that it wasn’t just the lack of suit that had changed him. You realize too that his knuckles are still bruised, only now the flesh looks like it’d been freshly broken recently.

You’re so focused on the injury that you startle looking into his eyes for answers. For a shining, blinding second... you’d seen someone else.

“I wasn’t trying to change your mind. The flowers were a courtesy. Nothing more.”

You believe him. He’s not acting. He’s so earnest you don’t even think he’s breathing as he waits for your reply.

You’d come here in a haze and you’re finally sobering up, but you wouldn’t sound like it from what you say next, “And if I changed my mind?”

The stoicism melts. Bruce exhales a heavy breath.

It starts to catch up with you that you still have no idea if the offer is even still on the table. “If you haven’t already found someone else,” comes your buffer, trying not to let embarrassment seep into your words, “and if you’d still like me to-”

“Okay.” His answer is sure, final. His certainty reassures you in a strange way. You still feel way in over your head but God be damned, you got this far.

“Okay. And I have some conditions. I’ll still be working at Gotham General, you’ll just be my priority. And I want to do a physical exam, figure out what I’m working with.”

“Whatever you need. It’s yours.”

You glance back down at Bruce’s hands. He needs no convincing. You think back to that day when you first met him: the limp in his walk, the barely contained pain in his expression, his excuse that had felt more practiced than your speech. If you recalled, he’d favored his left side, which would put his sprain just about...

Your hand is touching his waist before you even realize that it’s left your side. Through the shirt, you feel the muscles that are deceptively concealed. No matter how much softer he looked like this, there was power coiled beneath his skin.

To your surprise, it’s you who reacts first.

You yank your hand away and put one whole step between the two of you—which does nothing. You didn’t recall being this close before you touched him. Just how out of your mind were you?

You take stock of Bruce’s expression. If he had looked any sort of way when you’d been so bold as to touch him, you’d missed it. You summon enough strength to ask, before you could throw yourself out of those beautiful windows behind you, “Can I use your restroom?”

You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing.

It’d be better to think something more positive, something that would get you to release your death grip on the sink, but you’re Icarus and you can smell something burning. You can also hear voices outside; Alfred’s, unmistakably, and Bruce’s which would be easier to hear if you pressed your ear up to the door. No doubt, they were discussing you.

Your palms are so slick that they start to slip and you have to run them under water. You don’t even want to think about drying your hands on the towel hanging beside the mirror, quality visible even to your eye, but if you wiped them on your sweatpants, everyone would know.

Your second idea is to check your phone, swiping through the missed calls and messages begging for you to have some sense and call your mother back. You check the weather (clear skies for the night), pull up pictures of kittens, scroll online until you’ve seen every news report and viral video on mute and have no excuse to hide anymore, because the only thing worse than having a borderline panic attack in a rich person’s bathroom was the rich person thinking you were absolutely destroying their plumbing.

You take a few breaths, decide against splashing your face, and begin to turn the knob.

The hallway you’d been abandoned in is far enough away from the main part of the house that you can’t see Alfred and Bruce, even if their voices carry fine. Everything about the penthouse was stately, old money etched into the deep honeys of the wood and warm lamps casting more shadows than light. Any windows on this side of the house are covered with heavy drapery, blocking what little sunlight the city allowed in the waking hours. It’s easier to imagine that you’re not sixty stories up this way.

You can still hear Alfred and Bruce talking as you drift in the opposite direction.

There are a few doors down this way, past the restroom, all doors shut and imposing enough to keep you from taking peeks inside. Outside one of the doors at the end of the hall, you do catch a whiff of clean linen from under the door. The laundry room, maybe? You recall Alfred smelling the same.

On your way back, you look back down the stairs you’d come up earlier and spot an old-timey landline with a notepad and a pen beside it. Chancing a closer look, you see a note with something scribbled across it.

Dory,

Call about the leak. Tomorrow at the latest. Preferably before evening. Bruce won’t be home.

There was that “Dory” again. Was she the maid? The one Alfred promised to keep busy?

“...it has nothing to do with you.”

For the first time, Bruce’s voice carries out into the hall ringing clear. Alfred scoffs, tone bitter, “No, by all means. Bring a stranger home. Give them a key to the place, too, while you’re at it. You might as well rip the bandaid off in one go. I’m sure that won’t be a liability.”

You carefully ascend the staircase again, sticking close to the walls. You strain to hear without drawing any attention to yourself.

“You wanted this, Alfred. You were the one telling me I couldn’t do this alone.”

“But not... bloody like this. Look, this has never just been about you- and don’t you give me that look. I’ve stood by your side since you were a child. Since you were born. And like it or not, what you do has consequences far beyond yourself. When you’re reckless, who do you think’s gonna make sure your mess is taken care of?”

It’s when you slip around the corner that the two come into view, warring voices echoing off the walls no matter how quiet they tried to be, “I’ve never asked you to clean up after me.”

“But you’ve needed it, haven’t you? I’ve done alright, haven’t I? And all I’ve asked of you is to be careful.” From your vantage point, you can see Bruce’s face twist with determination. At the same time, Alfred’s has softened. You get the strange feeling that this isn’t entirely about you after all. “As your butler-”

“As Alfred.”

“...I’m always keeping my eyes open for you, and I’d appreciate it if... if you could keep your eyes open for you too. And mind the overlap. Lest your nights become your days.”

The silence is deafening. Even worse, you realize a second too late that their spat has come to an end because they both turn to where you stand in the archway, clinging to it to hide. Alfred gives you one hard look, forcing out pleasantries, “I trust the amenities were to your liking?”

Your mind blanks for a moment, still stuck on what exactly they’d been yelling about, “Oh, yes. It’s lovely. All of it, the whole place.”

The soldier gives a firm nod. “Bruce tells me you’ve reconsidered. I’m happy to hear it.”

Right. So much for him being lucky.

Before you can muster up some way to curb the tension, Alfred excuses himself from the room, going back where you’d came. Moments later, you hear a door shut a bit too loudly. Bruce hovers several feet away, conflicted. Somehow, this is even worse than the first time he’d left you two alone.

It becomes fairly clear after a while that neither of you know where to go from here. Were you to pretend you didn’t hear all of that? Pretend that Alfred’s anger wasn’t, at least in part, directed at you?

This was all starting to feel too much like a minefield to maneuver. Perhaps all three of you would sleep on this tonight and wake up in your right minds, but for now, all you could do was hope to God this didn’t bite you in the ass.

“Your conditions,” Bruce starts, “have them sent over to me. Whatever you need, I’ll make sure you have it.”

It takes a lot out of you not to jump back when he’s close enough to touch again. As if you couldn’t trust yourself not to reach for him. Or trust that he would even bother to stop you. “Of course... Mr. Wayne.”

By the time you arrive home, darkness has risen over the city and you’re back in your apartment building before your day could get even more exciting.

You’re operating on fumes, fantasizing about what’s left in your fridge from meal prep earlier this week, barely sound enough to get your key into your mailbox.

You feel a presence nearby as you’re sifting through bills and junk. Her scent (that of cinnamon and myrrh) gives her away immediately, “Hey, Judith.”

The little old lady doesn’t smile at you—she rarely does, severe as she is devout—the crow’s feet about her eyes fold in on each other as she assesses you, “You should apologize to your parents.”

You don’t mean to. You usually have better manners than this, but you can’t hold back your sudden, audible groan. Even Judith is startled. “They’ll get over it.”

“They’re worried for you.”

“Did they tell you to tell me that?”

“You need to be careful, dear. Strange spirits are drawn to you.” Her hand chronically trembles as it reaches into her purse. Out comes her handheld copy of the Bible, lovingly worn and dressed with tabs of all colors from her studies. You watch her pick at a neon green tab and flip the little thing open, “I’ve been praying for you ever since I saw the news. That... Batman may have saved you, but I fear you’re still in danger. I have some verses that might help you keep him out should he come looking for you again-”

Judith has never needed to care this much. On your first day moving in all those years ago, she’d struggled up a flight of stairs just to prepare you dinner and offer to show you how to get your janky dishwasher open. Your roommates had found her offputting, had turned down her offer for tea at her place, but you had gone. It’s how you found out that she’d lost her husband and only son years prior. Gunned down, wrong place wrong time. Nothing new in this city. God was all she had left.

If babying you helped her sleep at night, if praying for you gave her peace of mind, you would let her ten times over.

“He’s not a demon, I promise. He’s as much flesh and blood as you and me.”

Judith frowns, not at all convinced, “You’re not in debt to him, are you?”

You shake your head, locking your mailbox back, “We’re even, actually. I saved his life. He saved mine. We’ve nothing to do with each other anymore.” You realize that she’s dressed to head out just then. Her coat is buttoned to the neck and she’s got her beret clutched under arm while she puts away her Bible. “Got Bible study tonight? Stay safe.”

Once she fits her hat over her salt and pepper curls, she caresses your arm. Her hands hadn’t been warm in years, but they weren’t any less comforting than when you’d first felt them. “You too, dear.” Then she reaches for your keys and picks out the one she’d copied for you forever ago, “Whenever you need to, don’t hesitate.”

You watch her totter off onto the sidewalk, swept away in the waves of commuters getting off work. You hoped you’d never have to take her up on her offer.

It turns out that not only had they put your flowers in your bedroom, your parents had also taken the liberty of cleaning out your fridge. You hated that on top of all the incessant texts they’d left you since this morning, you’d be expected to break the ice with a “thank you”. You’d prolong that for as long as humanly possible, that’s for sure.

Somewhere between popping your dinner in the microwave and turning on the news, you found yourself standing at your window staring into the dark. He wasn’t there. You kind of wished he would be, though. For some reason, he was the only one you wanted to talk to.

And then, somewhere between the timer going off and your stomach growling, you’d pushed the curtains aside and propped the window open.

You practically inhaled dinner, glancing every so often at the window during infomercials. With every breeze that shifted your curtains aside, you looked. Every squeak and creak of the fire escape, you looked. By the time there’s nothing left to scoop out of your bowl, night has fallen completely. It makes it harder to see out, harder to gauge if you see him or just a shadow. Your eyes start to cross again and you force yourself to shower the day away.

You don’t expect the window to be closed when you get back.

Even better, you don’t expect him to be standing right outside it.

You’re far too eager to get it open again, cursing the old thing all the while, “Shit- sorry. Must’ve fell closed while I was in the shower, I left it open for you.”

You’re bending out of the window where Batman stands just a step or two away. You have to crane your neck to look up from your position, wondering how long he’d been standing there. He looks a little peeved at you. Had he been waiting long?

“I know. I closed it.”

You blink, “Why?”

“You were in the shower.”

You’re about to reiterate “I left it open for you” with feeling this time when it dawns on you that he’d already clocked that. You shut right up. “Okay—admittedly—stupid move. But you haven’t considered the fact that maybe I knew you’d get here before someone with a gun.” Batman doesn’t look impressed at all. In fact, he looks like he’s going to turn around and abandon you forever. You frantically back away from the window, “Sorry. Are you hurt?”

He waits to answer you until he’s stepped fully inside. He takes a short survey of the room, peering into every corner, before he’s turned his attention to you. It’s clear skies tonight. He doesn’t smell like rain for once, “I just came to check on you.”

Your chest has the audacity to swell with stunned breath. “Really?”

“Were you expecting me for something else?”

“Well, no, I just... I was just... when I said I left the window open for you, I meant... I hadn’t really expected you to stop by. Was more wishful thinking. An invitation.”

Your admission should’ve stayed secret. You watch him work through a host of expressions, landing on a firm scowl.

“Okay, again, admittedly stupid move. Can we move past the window already?” His glare could freeze you dead. No wonder he was so good at his job. “And I’m fine.” He continues to stare. “Seriously. I’m good.” Now he just blatantly looks like he doesn’t believe you. You would find it funny—you do find it funny, actually, though you hide it well—if you weren’t so annoyed that he’d found you just as convincing about your wellbeing as you found him about his own, “But you would know about being a hypocrite, wouldn’t you?”

That last part is said with a little more venom than necessary. You regret it as soon as his face softens. His eyes tells you he takes no offense.

“I’m sorry,” you found yourself saying that a lot tonight, “I don’t know what’s going on with me today. Are the people you save usually susceptible to rash, impulsive decisions?”

“What did you do?”

You exhale through pursed lips, saying with the same cadence of a teenager admitting they’d crashed the family car, “Got a job.”

Batman’s expression doesn’t change except for a teeny, tiny glint in his eye. Teasing, it looked like, “You’re insane. What on earth were you thinking?”

“Okay, ha ha.”

“No, really. You might have brain damage. We’ve got to get you to a hospital, stat.” It would’ve shocked you that he reached forward to press the back of his hand to your forehead had you not been giggling deliriously. You smack it away like he did this all the time, though once you’re touching him, your fingers cling for a little longer than needed. You aren’t exactly sure what about touching him made you want to hold on, monopolize the feeling. Was it because every time you’ve touched him, it’s been an anchor? For comfort? Something that extends beyond words? Probably.

You release his hand before he can notice. Or comment on it.

But then you’re stumbling toward your couch and dropping your head in your hands like you’ve made a big mistake. You don’t have to look up to hear him follow you. “I must be insane.” you grumble, tracking his body where it stops in front of you, where he kneels, and you clench your eyes shut tighter.

You barely feel it at first. It’s faint, lighter than a breath. It doesn’t register as a touch, let alone his touch, until all five of his fingers are hovering over the surface of your knee. You peek through your fingers and sure enough, his hand is right there. He doesn’t dare press his fingers into your skin and it almost feels like he’s dangling you off a ledge.

You don’t want him to let go.

You place a hand over his and hold it there, closing around the leather. You don’t know how long you just stay like that, trying desperately to cool down what feels like a creeping panic. There’s too much happening. Too many sensations, too many thoughts, too many emotions. You just need him to stay there, quiet, and let you touch someone.

You don’t remember the last time you’d been properly hugged. You surely hadn’t been since you’d left the hospital. Your parents had been too focused on getting you to come home with them that you hadn’t thought to ask for one, hadn’t expected that you’d get one. And, to be fair, if you’d been given one, you’d probably have brushed it off.

Because, truth was, you did not know what you were doing.

Batman doesn’t seem to mind being still. He waits, breathing slowly and deeply. At some point, when you zero in on him (because how could you not? How could it be lost on you that this isn’t just anyone you’re touching right now?), you start to match him.

You begin to apologize for the other night when you remember how you clung to him, but fear that another “sorry” might actually annoy him more than leaving your window open again. You search Batman’s face for any sign of “I need to get the fuck outta here” and find none. “I’m asking you this because I trust you: have you ever met Bruce Wayne?”

You watch him shift uncomfortably, but he never breaks eye contact with you. “What?”

“Bruce Wayne. Can I trust him?”

He hesitates, picking apart your face for something, “I’m not following.”

“He asked me to work for him. Apparently, he thinks I’m very talented even though he’s never seen me work.”

“You are. I would know.”

“Yeah, you would. It’d have made more sense for you to ask me. What I don’t get is why me. His answer wasn’t very enlightening. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“...What do you think?”

“I think I want to. But I’m worried I’m being reckless again. I’m used to... I used to chase danger a lot when I was younger. Kind of had a taste for it. I’m worried that that’s what this is.”

“There’s a lot of danger in change.”

“You’re saying I’m afraid of things changing?” He was starting to feel like a therapist now, prodding at old wounds and everything, “Is that what this is? Things change all the time. I’m a doctor. Nothing is ever predictable... and you didn’t answer my question.”

Batman frowns. You realize this is the second time you’ve said that today. “Bruce Wayne isn’t corrupt, if that’s what you’re asking. You can trust that. The rest is up to you.”

You’d think that would have been enough to put all your worries about him to bed, but it left you with more mystery. The bruised knuckles, the pain in his side he’d passed off as just stress, the warning Alfred had given you in the elevator, Bruce’s sudden interest in you... all of it felt connected to something bigger. If it wasn’t corruption, what could it be? And if it was, how deep did it go for even Batman not to know?

You’d be much more prepared for concerns like this on more sleep. And less pain meds.

You start thinking about the skin healing beneath your bandaged leg, the dull pain that shifted with every movement. You also think about Batman’s hand on your knee (the one you’re still holding, the one he doesn’t look eager to retrieve), “Do you have somewhere to be?”

You’d missed looking into those deep blues. He holds your gaze steady, speaking quietly as if not to break the moment, “It’s quiet tonight.”

“Don’t suppose you’ll react kindly to me asking to see your wound.” As soon as you lock eyes with him again, his eyes narrow. You get the feeling he’s getting better at clocking your bullshit. “Unless you’ve got some other doctor friends I don’t know about taking care of you.”

He gives you that look again, the same one on the fire escape that made you worry he’d up and leave, but his hand doesn’t shift from under yours.

You watch him look around, searching. It takes him a few seconds before he reaches for something on the other end of the couch. Your mouth gapes a little when you realize he’s holding one of your shirts, the not so fresh one that you’d forsaken for the shower just an hour ago. He removes his hand from your knee and grabs the other end of the shirt, stretching the material before looking back up at you. It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to figure out what he’s asking for, his hands motioning for you to lean forward.

You slowly tilt closer until the fabric of your shirt caresses your eyelids. You feel Batman pull the shirt around your eyes, around your ears, and to the back of your head where his fingers begin to tie a knot with it. You’d be mad that he was stretching one of your favorite pieces of clothing if you didn’t feel his breath ghost your lips, letting your head be lightly jerked around by his tying, “No. Just you.”

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