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bradshawssugarbaby · 6 months

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Girl, You're My Angel - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

summary: Bradley Bradshaw's a down on his luck first baseman in the MLB, struggling to find his stride in the game he loves so much. A wedding invite from his ex-wife is enough to convince him to go for a drink, trying to forget about everything going on. He wasn't banking on meeting you though.

pairing: baseball!Bradley Bradshaw x reader (nicknamed Angel)

warnings/content: baseball au, mentions of divorce, smoking, alcohol, reference to drunk driving, bar fight, mentions of blood, Bradley having a dirty mind.

word count: 3k.

taglist (also tagging those who were interested in Take One For The Team since it's a similar vibe and explains the lack of updates lol): @avengersfan25, @jessicab1991, @atarmychick007, @b-bradshaw, @nouis-bum, @mamachasesmayhem, @floydsmuse, @kmc1989, @dckweed, @katfanfic, @nerdgirljen, @whatislovevavy, @mrsevans90, @averyhotchner, @yuckosworld, @tgmreader, @allepaula, @lourd-ita, @mariaenchanted

The booming bass drum of a classic rock song thumped in your head as you gripped the cocktail glass in your hand. The liquid sloshed around in the glass as you danced, swaying to and fro with your best friends, trying your best to enjoy yourself on your girls’ night out. Your finals had just wrapped up, and you were this much closer to earning your masters, the only thing standing between you and getting that embossed sheet of paper, was your grades. To unwind after the cram sessions you’d mustered your way through for the past month, your friends dragged you out to some new amusement bar in the Gaslamp Quarter.

Across the bar, on the other side of the room, stood Bradley Bradshaw, a once promising baseball star who now, had earned himself a reputation as the MLB’s resident asshole - unable to take criticism or a loss without lashing out at someone. His recent stunt involved hurling his baseball bat across the diamond when he struck out in practice, frustrated with his sudden lack of skill, a skill that once came so naturally to him when his mind wasn’t preoccupied.

The invitation had come in the mail two days before the bat throwing incident. His ex-wife, the one who left him two and a half years ago, was remarrying the fucking prick she cheated on Bradley with. The invite had come completely out of the blue, and when Bradley opened it, he felt all of the air leave his lungs as his fingers traced over the gold embossed lettering, donning her name and the name of her new fiancé. He’d never admit it to anyone, but that single piece of cardstock had been enough to reduce him to tears, slumping down the kitchen wall as he hugged his knees to his chest, crying loud enough that it made him thankful he had no neighbours near by.

Bradley had pulled himself together, lit a cigarette from the pack he’d been nursing for the last few months, reserved only for social events and times of pure stress, and got in his vintage Ford Bronco, his first purchase when he signed his first contract. Taking a drag from the cigarette, his brown eyes scanned over San Diego’s downtown core as he cruised past a few of the typical nightlife spots - each one a little too public for what he wanted. All other options exhausted, he pulled up outside of a newer bar that had opened the previous week, neon lights advertising an arcade on one side and drinks on the other.

He figured if nothing else, a couple of rounds of Pac-Man on an old video game after a handful of beers might do him good. He could leave the Bronco parked there and walk to the hotel around the corner, and forget about how his ex-wife’s wedding was coming up in six months, how she’d had the audacity to invite him to see her marrying the guy he’d walked in on her with.

He sidled up to the bar, nodding his head to the bartender in thanks as he ordered himself a beer. Standing across from him was a group of women, not much younger than him, gossiping and giggling together. He sized the group up, thinking to himself that maybe a one-night deal was what he needed to take his mind off his ex.

You were the tallest girl of the group, with bright eyes, and hair brushed back in a sleek, high ponytail, sporting a form-fitting cocktail dress that made Bradley’s heart race when he saw you. He pounded back the rest of his beer, trying to find his confidence in himself once again in the comfort of the drink.

Bradley set his empty bottle down on the bar top before walking his way around the circular counter. He rested his elbow on the bar, leaning in with a broad smile as you looked in his direction. He offered a polite wave of his hand, chuckling awkwardly as he felt his confidence wavering as he spoke to you.

“Hey, could I buy you a drink? He said simply, his Virginian accent dropping into a thicker drawl than usual.

“I’m good, thanks, still got one,” You held up your half-full glass and shook your head politely, not wanting to reject him too brutally.

Bradley nodded his head once at you, his smile faltering for a second. He quickly regained himself, smiling once again politely before grabbing himself another beer and heading over to the arcade, resolving that a couple of old-school video games might make his night a little better.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to rejection - he’d been turned down almost as often as he’d been accepted, but for some reason, your rejection stung just that little bit more. Maybe it was the wedding invitation still making things sour, or maybe it was the fact that the mere sight of a girl hadn’t been enough to make his heart accelerate like this in a long time. He shook his head once, trying to focus his train of thought once again on something, anything other than what was currently occupying it.

Baseball? Too stressful, his game was starting to slip up on him. Buying a puppy? No, it’d just be one more thing he could let down. Hitting the gym? He already went 6 days a week - if he went any more frequently, he’d have to consider moving his bed in there.

His mind raced as he pressed the buttons on the video game, moving the small yellow circle across the screen, collecting points between sips of beer. Behind him, he heard a couple of guys shouting at a tv screen, the sound of the latest sports highlights blaring out in the background.

“This Bradshaw asshole needs to get his shit together. Twenty-nine and he plays about as well as my ten year old. Drop him down to the minors or get rid of the bastard. He shouldn’t be missing plays like this.” One of the voices shouted at the tv, his friends nodding their heads in silent agreement with his rant.

Bradley felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention as the insults about his playing continued to spout from this guy’s mouth. He couldn’t have been much older than Bradley was, one of those armchair commentators who probably hadn’t swung a bat since Little League. As the criticism continued, each jab focused directly at Bradley’s game performance, missing one play that cost a game - one that he’d already been feeling pissed off about - it became harder to ignore.

“I bet that hot little piece of ass wife of his left him because she knew he was a dogshit baseball player.”

Bradley spun around on his heels so fast that he swore the room was spinning. He turned to face the group, crowded in a corner in front of the tv, faces all glued to the female commentator. Bradley could practically hear the derogatory thoughts they were having about her and it only fuelled his anger more.

“Hey, man, if you’ve got an issue with how I play the game, I’d like to see you get off your ass and go play nine innings against Boston. Keep my ex-wife’s name out of your mouth.” Bradley scoffed, narrowing his dark brown eyes at the trio.

“You got a problem, jackass?” The other man growled, raising an eyebrow at Bradley as he slammed his drink down on the table. “She probably left you for that rookie because even she knew you weren’t good for anything.”

“That so? Your wife would probably like to go a couple rounds with me though.” Bradley retorted, a devilish smirk forming on his face as he folded his muscular arms across his chest.

Before Bradley had time to blink, the man drew back his arm and landed a hard punch to Bradley’s jaw. Bradley quickly delivered a stronger hit to the man’s face, watching him stumble backwards for a second. Bradley turned around and walked outside, getting ready to light another cigarette as he ran his hand over his jaw, assessing if he had any damage to worry about.

The man returned, practically running outside after Bradley. More heated words were exchanged, insults flying between them both before the man delivered another hit, this time to Bradley’s nose. He shook his hand off and headed off down the street with his friends, disappearing off to the next bar. Bradley held his nose, blood dripping down from his nostrils and onto his hand.

You and your friends had heard the commotion when it unfolded inside, and decided to head out, having enough excitement for one night. As you stepped out, you saw the man who’d hit on you earlier, this time with his nose bleeding onto the pavement under him. You ran over to him, raising an eyebrow.

“What did you do, hit on a girl who had a boyfriend?” You asked playfully as you rooted through your purse for something to help clean his nose.

“Called a guy out for saying my ex-wife was a “hot piece of ass”, actually,” Bradley nodded once, gratefully taking the tissues from you and using them to clean his nose.

“Stick your hand out for a sec,” you instructed, squirting a dollop of scented hand sanitizer into his large palm before raising an eyebrow at him, “You don’t have anything I could catch from helping you without gloves?”

“What the hell is that suppose to mean?” Bradley scoffed, trying to laugh but wincing instead, “And why the fuck does my hand smell like a flower?”

“Lavender hand sanitizer. It’s not as good as washing your hands, but it’ll do while we’re outside. And I’m going to hold the tissues in place while you rub it into your hands, but I don’t want to catch something. I’m just fresh out of latex gloves.”

“Good thing. I’m allergic,” he laughed, shrugging his shoulders as he tried to brave through the pain, “I’m clean. You’re fine. I get drug tested and physicals through work constantly.”

“What kind of a job provides those? Military?”

“Professional athlete.” He nodded as you pinched the tissues to his nose, applying pressure to help with the bleeding. “Fuck, that hurts.”

“Your nose is broken, it’s suppose to hurt.”

“What are you, a doctor?”

“No, just wrote my finals for a masters in nursing.”

“Close enough,” Bradley nodded slightly, cringing as you continued to apply pressure to his nose.

You rooted through your purse, laughing softly as you pulled a tampon out of your bag. Bradley raised an eyebrow at you, not quite registering what the item was until you pulled the plastic wrapping off of it, stuffing the garbage back into your purse.

“What the fuck do you plan on doing with that?”

“I need to stick it up your nose on the left side. It’s bleeding more than I’d like to see, and a broken nose should probably be set in a medical setting. This way, you won’t bleed all over my car.”

“Your car? You’ve been drinking.”

“Half a vodka-cran over the span of three hours? I think I’m probably not gonna blow over the limit.”

“You are not sticking that up my nose,” he replied stubbornly, arms folding over his chest like a petulant child.

“Look at your shirt,” you laughed, gesturing to the white floral print button down he was wearing, its collar now tinged with red and pink splotches.

“Fine,” he said with a reluctant sigh, “but if anyone finds out about this, I’m denying it.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” you nodded as you offered him the plastic applicator.

Bradley rolled his eyes and reluctantly pressed the bottom of the applicator, pushing the tampon into the edge of his nose. He looked at you with another dramatic eyeroll and shook his head before walking down the street to a garbage can. He discarded the applicator before turning to face you, sighing.

“I can take myself to a hospital, you know.”

“I’m already here, I may as well come with you. Besides, I feel kinda bad about turning you down.”

“Oh, so you’re taking care of me out of pity?” He teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe. Even more so with a tampon hanging out of your nose.”

“It’s quite the fashion statement, isn’t it?” He laughed softly, unbuttoning his dress shirt. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, revealing a clean white t-shirt.

You unlocked your car, the familiar beep as the doors unlocked causing Bradley to stifle a laugh.

“What is that?!”

“My car,” you responded matter-of-factly, “What does it look like?”

“One of those cars for a Barbie doll that my goddaughter plays with,” he said as he flourished his hand, gesturing to your pink steering wheel cover and coordinating seat cover.

“Listen, I like pink. Now are you getting in, or do I have to make you?”

Bradley’s eyes widened for a moment, your playful threat of making him get into the car sending his mind into a frenzy again. He eyed you up and down again, and found himself shaking his head as he wondered what colour underwear you had on under your dress. He bet it was probably a coordinating pink set - the kind that Victoria’s Secret mannequins would model in the store window, with delicate little bows or lace or something adorning them.

Focus, Bradley. She doesn’t want to sleep with you. Stop thinking about her.

He sat down in the passenger’s seat, watching as you hopped into the driver’s side. As you pulled away from the curb, he raised an eyebrow at your choice in music as Taylor Swift started blaring from the speaker.

“You can change it if you want to,” you nodded. “You can put on whatever.”

“No, no, It’s fine. I actually like this song.”

“You said you’re a professional athlete? What sport do you play?”

“Baseball,” he said, slowly nodding his head, “my headshot’s on a flag outside of Petco Park.”

“I thought I recognized you, you’re that player everyone always talks about, right?”

“Unfortunately. It’s rarely good things.”

“How come?”

Bradley sighed, raising an eyebrow, “You know they talk about me but not why?”

“I don’t follow baseball, I've actually never even seen a game, live or on tv. I just know my friend does and she told me everyone talks about you. Bradshaw, right? Number 10?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Bradley Bradshaw. First baseman, used to have a promising career, then, you know, wife cheats on me with a rookie from a rival team, catch her in a hotel room that I paid for with him, and then, despite me stupidly telling her I forgave her and you know what, I was pissed, but I loved her anyway and I blamed myself for her cheating, she served me divorce papers. Said I was incapable of loving anything but baseball. Says the woman who refused to do anything with me when I tried to be loving and affectionate. My friends swear she only married me for the status and the paycheck. Her new fiancé just signed a multi-million dollar contract that’s being talked about as one of the highest in the league, so it sort of checks out.”

“Jeez,” you whistled, shaking your head, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It was two and half years ago. I just, I haven’t found my stride again yet, I guess.”

“Is that why you got defensive about her?”

“They said she left me for this other guy because she knew I was a dogshit ball player. I mean, it’s probably not far off. But, I got an invite for her wedding in the mail today, and I was already on edge, so I sort of…snapped.”

“She invited you?!”

“Yeah, like that, huh? She probably thought I have someone new I’m seeing and that we could still be friends or some shit.”

“So you need a date?”

“I’m not going,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “I’m not going.”

“Why not? Free drinks for a night, you can wish her well while secretly hoping her husband’s ball career washes out on him in a year or two.”

Bradley chuckled, shrugging his shoulders as he gestured his hand towards you, “I like your thinking actually, but I’m not going alone.”

“I’ll go with you,” you offered, shrugging your shoulders, “When is it?”

“In six months, you don’t need to come with me though. I’ll send her some cheap gift and call it a day.”

“No,” you insisted as you pulled into a parking space at the hospital’s urgent care clinic, “I’ll come with you. I love a good revenge story. Besides, it could be fun. I’ve never partied with a bunch of baseball players before.”

“You’re…you’re something else, you know that?”

“You mean, you don’t have dozens of women offering you a tampon to stop your nosebleed, driving you to the hospital and then offering to accompany you to your ex-wife’s wedding date?” you challenged.

“Can’t say that I do, no.”

“Well, I’m honoured to be your first.”

Bradley couldn’t help his ear to ear grin as he followed you into the hospital. Despite his bloodied, battered nose, which was hurting more than he cared to let on, and his fledging career, falling apart around him as he stood there, he felt genuinely excited. Excited to get to know you better. Excited to see where things went with you. He felt a promising sense in your words - like maybe, just maybe, he might be able to be done with one-night-stands and empty beds in the morning. He felt giddy, like a teenager going on a first date with his high school crush. He wasn’t sure if it was the pain from his nose or the alcohol talking, but he was almost convinced you were a guardian angel of sorts. Refusing to believe that someone like you could be anything but.

First things first though, he needed to bring you to a baseball game.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw au #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw au #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x y/n #rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw au #rooster bradshaw x you #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw x y/n #top gun maverick au fic #baseball au

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bidisasterevankinard · 2 months

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Fuck it Friday

I had inspiration for bucktommy date night where Buck is in a dress so here's more (who forgot/doesn't know how dress look under cut is the photo)

“What are you doing?”

Evan raises his eyebrow with adorable head tilt and Tommy just smirks at him, when he drips the remains of a cocktail, the name he doesn’t remember, onto Evan's exposed neck, enjoying the way the drops flow closer to the neckline on his chest. Licking all the tracks from the skin with his tongue, Tommy revels in the sharp intake of breath and the way Evan's body shudders under his tongue. Tommy grins. Evan's skin smells like floral shower gel and a little sweat from being in a slightly stuffy room. This blend with tart-sweet alcohol turns Tommy's head better than rum and tequila in their cocktails.

“Enjoying my cocktail and my hot boyfriend. Two in one,” Tommy winks and Evan smiles at him. “Tell me more about cocktails and its history.”

Evan beams and pushes his body so now he sits on his lap, having easy access to his ear.

“The most expensive cocktail in the world costs $22,579.”

Tommy chokes on his beverage.

“Yeah, I had the same reaction. It’s a Diamonds Are Forever Martini at the Ritz Carlton in Tokyo. It’s made from vodka, lime juice, and a one carat diamond.”

“Will you make this at home for a cheaper price?” Tommy nuzzles Evan’s neck.

“When l will propose to you,” Evan nods.

“What if I do it first?”

“Then I’ll do it for our first night as husbands, before fucking you like a king.”

Tommy growls and grinds his again half hard cock into Evan’s perfect little ass.

“It’s a deal, baby,” he bites Evan’s earlobe. “Tell me more.”

“One last fact and we’re dancing, right?”

Evan bats his eyelashes, pouting, and his blue eyes getting so adorably soft and pleading, that Tommy would kill a man or steal the moon if Evan just asked him like that.

God, this fucking kid. He can make a man do anything he wants with just his pretty face.

Np tagging @wikiangela @bewilderedbuckley @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @diazheartsbuckley @queerbuck @queerdiaz @watchyourbuck @epiphainie @evnnkinard @evansboyfriend @evanbi-ckley @eddiestummy @repressedqueen @rainbow-nerdss @rogerzsteven @racerchix21 @pirrusstuff @underwaterninja13 @saybiwithme @devirnis @lavenderleahy @loveyouanyway @monsterrae1 @cal-daisies-and-briars @buckera @bi-buckrights @bigfootsmom @bekkachaos @theotherbuckley @thewolvesof1998 @theweewooshow @eddiebabygirldiaz and you if you want to

#bucktommy dress wip #bucktommy #my wips

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miam0re · 2 years

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A Rich Man's Slut | Pantalone, Childe, Al Haitham, Ayato

Warning: Pantalone- name calling(slut), clothes ripping; Childe- name calling(whore), collaring, slight choking; Haitham- car sex, fingering, public sex, exhibitionism if you squint; Ayato- food??play (wine), nipple play. more stuff I probably missed

Pairing: Pantalone, Childe, Al Haitham, Ayato X Fem!Reader (separate)

Summary: He's a rich man and you're his sweet little girlfriend for him to use as he pleases

Mia's Notes: I wanna be a rich man's slut smh. Also the grammar and tenses are messed up so lol sorry bout that

Being the businessman he is, you’d think he’d have some care for the thousands of dollars he spends on things he likes. Things such as his sweet little darling, buying her all the prettiest dresses to wear to gatherings. You’re a trophy for your lover to flaunt and he doesn’t hold back in decorating you with the finest silk and velvet cocktail dresses. But he’s so careless, oh so careless.

“Hah! Pantalone! No!” You squeal when his hands scrunch the back of your blue satin dress with an animalistic grip. The fabric rips to shreds and loosened from your shoulder, revealing your skin to the chilling air. “That was one of my… nghhh… my favourite dresses.” Your face burns red, body grinding on his cock as it claimed your plush cunt.

He rolls his eyes and seizes the cleavage of your gown, splitting the dress from the front. Your lace-clad breasts waited for his bites and hickies, acts of when he lost his composure because of the intoxicating feeling your pussy provided him. The lace panties you wore were pushed aside to make space for his dick to impale your struggling cunt.

“Ugh, my dress.” You pout and whimper as his mouth suckled your skin. His lithe fingers danced over your breasts and neck, applying the tiniest pressure to remind you of the punishments brats get before he parted your soft lips with his thumb.

He slid a thin plastic card into your mouth, making you bite on the edge of his platinum debit card. You make a move to pull it out, but a sharp thrust rubbing against your clit made your jaw clench with a muffled cry.

“I bought one, I can buy a thousand, and it’s my choice if I want to see the dress on you or on the floor. Now be a good little slut and try to not bite my card too hard if you want to purchase more clothes of your liking.”

He’s got the money. He knows it and he makes sure everyone else knows it too. He’s driving the best cards, he’s living in the best penthouse in the city. And he has the best little girlfriend whose the perfect little whore for him. And what better way to show off his relationship with you than to adorn your neck with the most expensive jewellery money could buy.

In the privacy of your chambers, he’ll have you strip bare without a single touch to your burning skin. Your clothes are falling one at a time, leaving you in nothing but your diamond collar reflecting the dim red lights in the room. And that’s when you see a feral side of Childe.

“Sir! P-please!” Your mind is fogging, words garbling out your lips into the pillows your face was shoved into as Tartaglia ploughed into your pussy from behind, smacking his balls against your thigh with every plunge of his hips into yours. “Babe, I can barely make out a word you’re saying.” He laughed, skimming his fingers up your shaking spine, curling his pointed finger around your collar and pulling, bringing you up with his actions.

There was no doubt about the high quality collar, it was able to withstand the kinky nights you shared with your lover. He tugged and pulled until you were on your knees, your back flush against his chest with his dick twitching and hitting a new angle inside you, you could see a visible protrusion on your tummy. The way you gagged and lolled your tongue out at the pressure of the collar on your neck, Childe could have burst and cummed then and there, seeing your hazy eyes begging him to support your weight.

“Are you such a whore that you’d like the way I choke you with this collar and use you as I please? You’re so adorable. Only a whore like you is fit to wear this collar. A diamond collar for my gem of a girl."

He’s always getting invited to some or the other event, being the hotshot of the Akademiya. Everyone knows him for the academic breakthroughs he has made, for the amount of money he’s earned, and for the eye catching girlfriend who accompanies him to all the events. No exaggeration that he drags you to all the boring ‘parties’, but he always makes up for it.

His fingers are squelching so loudly, you’re embarrassed. But he lust flooding your veins overpowers every rational thought in you head. Your sitting on his lap, dress hiked up to your waist and legs spread for him to touch and prod at your sensitive hole. Your head hangs back against his shoulder, mouth agape with silent gasps being the only sounds, apart from the sucking of his lips on your neck as the sloppy sounds of Haitham finding your g-spot.

The car hits a speed breaker, making you bounce and his fingers slip out your cunt. Haitham grumbles under his breath before pinching you clit and inserting two fingers back into your hot sex. Your slick is dripping down his knuckles, soaking the cuffs of his shirt, and whatever part of your juices that dripped down were smeared across the sleek leather seats. “Haitham…slow…” you panted at how his speed increased when the car turned a corner, not too far from your destination. “Shhh, you’re doing so well. Think I can make you cum before we reach?” He hummed, knowing full well that he was capable of making your orgasm at command.

You clawed the leather seats, squeezing your legs tight as Haitham dragged his fingers into the deepest part of your cunt, making you see stars and cum all over his lap, making a mess of his fingers as he continued his thrusting till you calmed from your high.

Leaving the car to head to the party after your little, episode, he handed the driver a generous roll of cash.

“Hopefully this can pay for car wash services. And your silence.”

A fine man with fine taste. Be it in the ages old wine he drinks or the company he keeps. And in the moments he shares with you, why not have fine wine with fine company? Only, he never really is in need of wine glasses when he’s with you.

“Stay still, Dearest. This wine costs a fortune, wouldn’t want to waste a single drop, now would we?” His giggles are light, hinted with the slightest bit of intoxication from the sips of wine he’s been taking. You shiver when the cold liquid pours into your navel, Ayato’s thirst mouth latching to your naked skin and slurping the liquid with loud gulps. He doesn’t stop licking and biting your skin, even when he’s cleaned the wine off your body; he can’t help but stay for the flavour of you.

He’s finding it hard to hold back much, deciding to grab your chin and pry your mouth open and pour a small amount of the bitter liquid right on your tongue, ordering you to hold it in your mouth. His cheeks are dusted pink as he sits back and calls you on his lap, asking you to give him the wine. Directly.

Unable to disobey, you climb on his lap and tilt his head up, connecting your lips and pouring the cool liquid into his mouth through the steamy kiss. Stray drops of wine trickle down his chin, his Adams apple and slowing on his chest. He can feel how messy you’re being, shaking so much that the wine escaped the kiss, so he squeezed your nipples between his fingers in warning. Once he was satisfied with the taste of the wine (and of you) he pulled away, looking down at the mess on his chest. He sighed with mock disappointment, fingers still firmly grasping your sensitive breasts.

“Look at the mess you’ve made. Didn’t I tell you the worth of this wine? You should clean it up, or is some punishment required?”

tagging: @aijlin

#mia.writes #mia.smut #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #childe smut #pantalone smut #tartaglia smut #kamisato ayato smut #ayato smut #al haitham smut #haitham smut #ayato #kamisato ayato #al haitham #childe #tartaglia #pantalone

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miss---lu · 1 year

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Jealous

You’re working as a personal assistant/secretary for the avengers. Tony takes a liking to you and Steve gets jealous.

God, you looked fantastic. The pencil skirt perfectly hugged your hips as you made your way over to Steve. Your blouse’s top button was unbuttoned and Steve saw the curve of your collarbone.

He gulped as you leaned down to show him your clipboard. “I have two available slots, which one do you want?”

Steve snapped out of his thoughts as he looked at the clipboard. He mumbled which time he wanted for the meeting. You smiled and went on your way.

Steve watched as you walked away. Your heels clicked on the floor as your hips swayed slightly. God you were beautiful.

Steve heard a soft chuckling. Tony had come to sit by him on the couch. He gave Steve a knowing look as he took a sip from his beer. “You like her skirt?”

Steve scoffed as he tried to brush the question aside. “Tony, don’t be a pig.”

Tony just laughed as gave Cap a knowing look. “You know, she is mighty fine. I might just see if she’ll let me take her to dinner sometime.”

Steve felt his jaw clench as Tony smirked. “You know I might just talk to her at this party we’re having tonight.”

Tony got up and walked away as Steve just sat there. He didn’t want to admit that he was jealous, but he was.

Later that night, he was heading down to Tony’s party. He made his way over to the bar and started to make himself a drink as he scanned the room.

He saw Tony with a drink in his hand at one end, but he didn’t see you anywhere. Suddenly the door opened and someone caught his eye.

You came in wearing a beautiful red dress. It hugged your curves perfectly and you had black stilettos. Diamond earrings hung from your ears and your lips were a beautiful shade of red.

You looked absolutely exquisite.

Then Steve saw Tony make his way over to you. You smiled warmly at him as he greeted you. Your smile lit up the room. Tony carefully moved a strand of hair behind your ear and you just smiled.

Steve took a sip from his drink as he glared at Tony. You could see Tony asking you out in a date and he felt a fire ignite inside him. Not wanting to see anymore he turned away.

After some time he heard the click of heels behind him. He felt the presence of someone at his side. When he turned he saw you smiling brightly.

“Hi Steve.”

He smiled back at you but it felt a little forced. You didn’t seem to notice and instead went to make yourself a cocktail.

He smiled softly as he heard you hum to yourself. You turned back to him, drink in hand. “So do you have any plans this weekend?”

Steve shook his head as you took a sip from your drink. “Why you asking?”

He felt a hint of bitterness creep into his voice as he added “after all don’t you have plans with Tony.”

You giggled a little at his remarks. “No, I’m not that interested in Tony to be honest.”

Steve perked up at this. “In fact I kind of have my eye on someone else.”

Steve felt your hand softly rest on his. “Does this someone happen to have a shield?”

You nodded, giggling softly. “He also has great hair, and beautiful blue eyes.”

Cap set his drink down as he turned towards you. You smiled as he brought a hand to cup your face. He brought your lips to his and kissed you softly.

When he pulled away you were grinning. “You know Tony knew you liked me. He figured you just needed a little push.”

#steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #marvel x reader #marvel imagine

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ellesthots · 2 months

Text

Fateful Beginnings

XXV. “Mr. Wayne”

parts: previous / next

plot: debuting a new playboy persona, Bruce banks on a moment of reprieve that never comes. after saying goodbye to a friend, you make your way to city hall for a final meeting that leaves both you and the billionaire in a haze.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, anxiety, romantic tension, infidelity/flirting, mention of sexual harassment, mention of illness

words: 7.4k

a/n: a treat of a chapter for everyone 🏹 thank you for continuing to show fateful so much love! adoring the comments and reblogs, it's so fun to see your reactions ✨ soooo much more to come <3

It'd been long enough of occasional high-profile, low-commitment public escapades as Bruce Wayne. With the candidates coming, he felt it deep in his gut he had to show out and perform. He put on his best suit, had Alfred do his hair. He ordered the most expensive cologne he could find (that didn't seem to be oversaturated on the market like Baccarat Rouge; he knew Bruce would need to keep ahead of the trends) as well as the watch. He spritzed Guerlain Tobacco Honey on his wrists, chest, and neck before getting into his Bugatti. He spent so many millions in one week Alfred had checked if this was some sort of mental breakdown. He assured him it was 'only necessary' and 'only temporary', and that these items would eventually make good money at a charity auction.

When he arrived (after making a showy tip to the valet), he made a beeline for the cocktails. He asked the steward to give him a mocktail, quietly, and with a successfully deceiving martini in hand, he moseyed about the room and made small talk in a booming voice. Rich guys aren't afraid to take up space and well, as the richest man in the room...

He sipped his martini as an incredulous man's gaze lingered on his wrist. A moment of hesitation and the man appeared mere inches from his glass. "Mr. Wayne, I couldn't help but notice your Patek. Is that the Philippe Chime?" Hook, line, and sinker. He nodded, as if it were confusing the man would even approach him. He had a split second to deliberate on an asshole persona or a charming one. An easy decision, remembering his family image needed all the support possible after the antics of Edward Nashton. "Ah, a man with good taste."

They chatted for a moment about different watches and stocks (thank god Bruce had remembered to talk to Alfred to get a refresher), until a tall woman in a red silk dress tugged on his elbow. After a small laugh and excusing himself, he turned to face the blue-eyed blonde. Her smile was sparkling white and veneered, and her face didn't move a wink. "Mr. Wayne, excuse me if this is too brash but, I need to know the name of that cologne." She smiled bigger, flit her lashes, and whispered to him. "If you can't tell me, I might just have to replace you with my husband."

Oh this was going to kill him before the night was out. He grinned wider, flashing teeth, and performed a rehearsed laugh; he lowered his voice to match her evocation. "We wouldn't want that, now would we?" He winked, internally cringed so hard he thought he'd turn to diamond, and watched as she gave him a once over and walked sultrily back to the man she'd so brazenly been willing to abandon.

He knew he couldn't be seen standing around, and moved swiftly over to a gaggle of men with their martinis delicately in their left hands, positioned just below their breast pocket. The chandelier to his right kept twinkling in his periphery like an omniscient presence.

"Mr. Wayne, this renewed presence of yours..."

This was gonna hurt. "I'm glowing, right?" He flashed a bright smile and all the men grinned and rolled their eyes, their wives blushing demure side glances amongst themselves. Am I going to have to keep this up forever? Good God. He shook his head and leaned his weight on his left hip. Sip, absentmindedly. Look as if perusing through a scrapbook of memories. "There's this spa in Dubai, it does wonders for the spirit. And the body." He laughed again, feeling like he was shoving out the very last oxygen from the deepest well of his chest. "This past Spring I jetted over there for a few week-long stays, nothing crazy."

"Playboy bootcamp, hmm?" A woman in a midnight blue dress stood by Mr. Gavenstein, a popular investment broker on the Northwest side of town. Gavenstein glanced hard at her for a split second before interrupting her seduction. In all honesty he couldn't blame the ladies, remembering from a few summer camps that many upper-class Gothamite girls were raised to marry wealthy—and to lend no concern to things as trivial as loyalty to men who were probably cheating on them anyway.

As Gavenstein talked to the group (but mostly to Bruce), it became difficult to hide his increasingly strained attempts at mellowness. Bruce's first night at one of these city hall meetings a handful of years ago had led to the one and only time he'd gone out with these men, and every single waitress and bartender who served them that night got a side of sexual harassment from the husband himself. The ring his wife wore looked like it'd been longer than a few years since they gave their vows, corroborated by the same subtle chip in the gold of his wedding band. Bruce had made a small comment about the 'strange lack of respect people had for staff', and tipped the servers a few thousand each on the way out. He made it a point to lay as low as possible from that point on.

The man in the same white linen shirt interrupted the reverie by opening the door to the conference room with an announcement. "The meeting will convene in two minutes, but tonight we have an intermission at half time for the candidates to prepare their initial statements."

This schtick wasn't easy, but it was easier now that you weren't here. With the conference room's opening and you nowhere to be found, it left him no choice but to know with surety you'd left back to Washington and cut your losses. He bristled at the thought, but paid it no mind. No one here knew this wasn't the real him; no one here would be scanning to see if his hand was clenched in his pocket to try and metabolize the anxiety of performing. And if someone did notice, he would be able to effectively lie that he'd hurt his hand playing polo. Bridgit wasn't here either, and he let his shoulders relax knowing he wouldn't be grilled until he walked into the foyer of Wayne Tower.

He followed the men into the room with its sturdy, polished mahogany table set, making sure to chatter with the people at his side—until Convoy shot him a confused look as he struggled to control the din and start the meeting. Be annoying, but never rude. Feign innocence, seem to mean well. As embarrassing as it was, he had binged a smattering of critically-acclaimed films all week to prepare his psyche only to realize upon stepping back into this lion's den he'd already studied these men enough to camouflage.

Dr. Vry had been suspiciously apologetic upon your return to her office to grab supplies. She gave you the 'very best' voice recorder, a sparklingly new leather-bound notebook, and 'only the finest' 'Italian' fountain pen. As you hurried out the door she told you to keep everything but the recorder, and 'not to worry' about the price. Her Hermés Birkin bag sat bright and pink in the corner, making a mockery of whatever 'expensive' ink lie in the pen.

While she had largely been unhelpful, she had told you ahead of time that this city hall meeting would be inundated with candidates and their teams, meaning there would be an intermission halfway through meeting time. At seven sharp you'd be in the lobby waiting to whisk him to a room she'd already secured for the fifteen minutes between sessions. The key glimmered on your keyring under the shimmering streetlights as you walked to city hall.

On the way you stopped at Rai's. The store wafted with the familiar warm scent of a perfectly spiced, decadent deli, and he beamed at seeing you again. You grinned and pulled out your wallet to get a container of tabbouleh. Rai, with his deep, reverberating voice, teased you as he took the bills. "Strange woman you are, no lettuce boat! Straight 'bouleh."

"I like the tartness, what can I say?" You watched him scoop up a double helping than the cash you'd given, and felt a pang of sadness. He's the only one that's been consistent my whole time here. The only person that seems to genuinely enjoy my presence. If the two of you hadn't known each other better (coming off of a night of particularly hard partying at Mora's your first term) you might have thought he was simply schmoozing a loyal customer. But Rai had patched you up after icy falls on the way for snacks, chatted with you about early dating troubles, and you'd given him advice on how to care for his sister's elderly cat. When his grandfather had been in the hospital, and he'd received the call as you were checking out some Nutter Butters, you'd covered the rest of his shift without question. You'd had to pull an all-nighter because he'd left the keys on his keychain, but nonetheless.

"Getting ready for another school year?" Rai handed you the tabbouleh and a to-go spoon. You averted your eyes, lost in thought. "No, I'm moving home actually." The statement reminded you that Mar had yet to get back to you officially about moving things tomorrow.

His face fell, his brows pulling together. "Gotham has plenty jobs available." Now he was standing right across from you at the register, his arms crossed around his chest so he could rest closer on his elbows. "Don't tell me this is permanent!"

Anxiety was rising in your chest because you didn't want to say goodbye to him, he was possibly the only good thing in Gotham. C'mon, just uproot your entire family and move your business to nowhere Washington. "My mom is sick, actually." The truth spilled out easily for him, and thankfully no customers came in during your retelling with the tears beginning to streak your cheeks. After a few anguishing moments talking over her prognosis, he walked around the counter to wrap you in a hug. His hand was firm and soothing against your back. "Make sure you do what is best for you. If that means leaving the city, leave the city. But you must take a summer here at least once! I will feed you and your family for free."

You hoped Rai's would still be open if you did ever visit. He was the kindest man you think you'd met here, and it was a blessing he was still open—whenever someone was hungry, he'd feed them. He practically ran his own soup kitchen on the weekends, when the houseless would line up to pick some meals from his deli. As far as you knew he relied wholly on catering jobs to make the bulk of his rent. Do I even want to come back? It felt like Bruce owned this city; as much as you'd pushed back when he'd said Gotham was his, it kind of... was. His family's shadow was cast over every street and alley like a weeping willow; but that wouldn't stop you from visiting Rai. "I'll make sure of it, thanks." You grabbed your tabbouleh and spoon, and walked to the doorway with its little signs and small wind chimes. He smiled and waved at you from the register. "Thanks for being a friend, Rai. See you around!"

"I'm only saying, none of these candidates seem to actually want the best for the city."

"Well we gotta pick one of them, right? Unless one of us wants to run."

The candidates hadn't set foot in the conference room yet the space was alight with debate. Convoy had precipitated the intermission by rallying off the candidates' stances in small blurbs. "Ms. Grange is in favor of tax cuts, Mr. Hady wants to tax the churches, and Mr. March wants to increase taxes on... all of you."

"Can you believe that guy," Gavenstein was two to Bruce's left, and nudged the man closest to him. "Thinks he can waltz in here and empty our pockets." His graying hairs were sculpted fashionably above his ears on either side of his head; Bruce wondered if he painted them on to appear wise.

"The only person in this room left with a decent account would be Wayne." The man to his left chuckled and glanced at Bruce, then leaned back in his chair. Christ. He would've rather watched paint dry, then chipped off a mansion's worth of said paint with a single thumb than hear that noise again.

Bruce wanted to stay out of it, he actually wanted to leave this room forever and never come back, but that wasn't his new M.O. "At least he had the guts to say it to our faces." He got a few shrugs and murmurs before the next guy spoke.

"Grange wants tax cuts, now there I'm willing to listen."

"Hady, an attack on the churches? Isn't that unconstitutional?" The man to Bruce's right spoke like he'd never said the word before, and he stifled a laugh at how blatantly they grasped at straws to sound informed. Like a cold glass of water, Convoy announced it was intermission and to find the lobby for the next few minutes. "Our caterer has prepared ample appetizers for the break. Please enjoy!"

Lincoln... how to avoid him... As he walked out Bruce braced himself for being bombarded by the man, his opponents, and excess reporters. Never spoken to them before, don't have to speak to them now... or did he? Next week. Or the week after. He'd have more than enough time to be interviewed and photographed during the rest of this election cycle. It was already enough for him to burst simply talking with the usual suspects that didn't have a recorder on their person. He'd read up a bit on the candidates in the moments between marathoning movies and deduced a small amount about them, though the blurbs on their campaign sites seemed hastily written. Grange was indeed wanting to cut as many taxes as she could get away with, Hady was set on making sure churches paid equal tax while simultaneously cutting taxes on the elite (seemed personal), and March... well, he just wanted all the rich people to be less rich. Bruce had yet to parse if he was only not bothered by that because he had more money than someone could ever tax away.

The lobby was shockingly crowded. Three individual, large clusters splayed across the room supported the candidates, their teams swarming like flies. Reporters stood with their mics and recorders throughout, some with point-and-shoot cameras limp in their bored hands. The very second he was out of the doorframe, all eyes snapped his direction. This has to get easier eventually, right? Right? He walked to grab another mocktail, counting each step to force his nervous system to regulate. He waited behind a blonde reporter after effectively sussing out whether it was Bridgit back for revenge. He closed his eyes and took some deep, slow breaths. In, out. Innn, outttt, nose, mouth... palo santo? He'd smelled that warmth before.

"Bruce."

He spun around to see you standing with your same recorder, a different notebook, and the same slight reflection under your eyes as when you'd come out of the bathroom the night you'd gone missing. A nauseating blend of relief and anxiety displayed brightly across his face. "Y/N."

Bruce looked as he usually did now, with his perfectly slicked hair that fell just slightly askew across his forehead to look like he'd woken up that way. Only now instead of a suit he donned a dark gray cashmere sweater; it read as fancy as one, due to how expertly it had been fitted to his torso, and the same went for his slacks. You admired the fact he didn't seem wholly catering to the people here, or he'd be decked out in some starchy suit. The only way you could tell he wasn't replaced with a robot was how his face turned up looking at you.

The clock was ticking, and the room was just across the hall. You hadn't thought it would be this busy with reporters—how were you going to get him into the room without suspicion? You adjusted the PRESS badge to be loud and clear across your back, since that's what they'd be seeing. You let the notebook slip slightly to take up more real estate on your silhouette, trying to look as official as possible. "I need an interview with you. I got us a room." You strode past for him to follow in tow, knowing otherwise he'd overwhelm you with questions that would only waste the clock. Heavy footsteps behind you (how was he the picture of stealth in the heavy suit?) alerted you to his compliance.

You messed with keys on your keyring and jammed it into the lock, which was stuck. You expected him to gaff and make a snide comment, but nothing interrupted the silence. A few moments later and the door opened cleanly to a dark conference room about half the size of the one he'd just came from. As he made his way quietly in and shut the door behind him, walking easily to his seat, you grew increasingly suspicious and frustrated. He pulled these emotions out of you so easily it was almost clinical. His compliance frustrates me? I almost want to call him out on it, but we don't have time. In, and out.

The notebook slid across the heavy glass with a small squeak. First page was clean, and you pulled out the insert you'd tucked into the middle. The other half of the table was so silent you had to monitor your periphery to see if he hadn't somehow made a getaway. Unfolding the beige paper in the middle revealed your printed question sheet. You cleared your throat to give the customary announcements you'd role played so much in intro journalism. "I'm with the Gotham Gazette, and this interview will be transcribed and published in next week's paper, both physical and digital." You glanced up to see him sitting nicely with his hands rested together on the table top. Through the streaking in the glass you could see the ghosts of where he had first placed his hands. You drew a deep breath. He makes intimidating eye contact. "Feel free to decline answering any question, all I ask is that you answer things as honestly as possible. Though I may cut answers short if they run long. As this is your first interview we would like things to be as comprehensive as possible, outside of what is already known via public record. As soon as I ask the first question I will hit RECORD." You clicked your pen ready and hovered above the switch. Your hesitation combined with his silent acceptance of this made the room drop twelve degrees. "Is there any topic off limits, Mr. Wayne? You and your team will not be able to edit your answers after the fact."

Mr. Wayne? He clenched his fingers against the backs of his hands. His eyes narrowed, but your eyes were fixated on the ruled paper beneath you. You must've cried on the way here, your tear troughs were still slick. Bad news at home? Scared of him? You'd rather get fired than be in this room talking. What could've brought you back? He shook his head. "Not that I can think of. I'll let you know."

So cordial. You clicked RECORD after landing on an acceptable first question. "Mr. Wayne, this is your first public interview. Why did you choose to break the silence now?" You readied your pen to jot any additional questions that spurred from his answers.

He'd anticipated this question months ago and had an immediate response. "The timing finally feels right. For so long I hid, still feeling trapped by my parent's murder. Now that I've hit 30, well... I realized I need to make myself useful. You could say I finally figured out I didn't have to die with my parents."

Jeez, that's rough. You pressed on with the follow-up without obvious sympathy. "I'm sure many are wondering why the timing was not right after the historic flooding? Gotham was in dire need."

"I didn't want anyone to mistake my intentions. I figured if I were to do public-facing work, it would read as opportunistic. I don't want to capitalize off of tragedy. I spent my time working on the back side of rebuilding."

Hmm, convenient. But you couldn't say that on tape. You still refused to look at him, buried into your notes. You'd seen him in the doorway, how he'd transformed from a recluse to an unapologetic schmooze overnight. On your way to get him at the snack table you'd heard some women talking about flirting with him at the meeting's front end. Was he genuinely as good as he seemed? His intentions only the purest and brightest? You struggled to believe it.

"Speaking of rebuilding, at Gotham University's commencement you announced a desire to invest in Gotham city. Any sneak peeks for your Spring 2025 rollout?"

In truth, he hadn't started. He figured he'd speak to Alfred, get a board meeting set up, meet with his investors, and within a month there would be a budget drawn up for his funds. He figured he could start it early in the new year, but your delicately tamed tongue nor floundering public opinion would be charmed by the honest answer of 'I've put it off'. "Pass."

That bristled you, and for a half-second you seriously considered stopping the tape; but this wasn't personal. It couldn't be.

Why aren't you looking up? So... stoic. Guarded. Sitting down here had happened so quickly, with no fuss or snide commentary. Did Vry outfit you with a shock collar and a mic? As much as he hated your rustling, the stillness was more uncomfortable, eerie even. It was like you had a moat between the both of you, with armed guards ready to fire.

The LED lighting was causing an ache in your temples. Your feet were cramping from walking halfway across town in heels through cobbled streets, and being in a closed room with Bruce was choking out your oxygen. Every time you saw him he grew larger, and tonight was far from the exception. You'd been smacked with his cologne at a ten foot radius, he was actually taking up social space in the foyer, he'd worn well-tailored clothing for once... next question. Ask it. "With efforts towards rebuilding a better Gotham in your near future, we have come to know the business side of you far more than the personal. What brings you joy in your everyday life, away from the cameras?"

These questions were far kinder than he'd anticipated from you. Did Vry... threaten you? He refocused on your question to try and rid of the thought before he blurted it out to you. He didn't know what brought him joy, but it didn't seem the type of question to skip. His heart fell into his chest as he continued to come up empty-handed, no matter how deep he sifted into his memory.

It'd been thirty seconds and still no answer. He'd forced your hand to look up at him, and his face was pale. His eyes moved from left to right as he peered at the center of the table. Does he ever feel joy? When do I feel joy?

If this were any other reporter he would lie. Say he loved meeting with people in the city. Loved traveling. Loved sports. Maybe he woke up every morning with the songbirds, a cup of coffee in his right hand and the daily stock exchange pulled up on his MacBook. Maybe his muscles were from a home gym, playing polo, sparring with his butler. That won't fly with you. But this wasn't about you. Even still, as he tried with utmost desperation to sink it into his skull, he couldn't get the words to form in your presence.

Do I ask him if he heard me? Clarify? "Mr. Wayne," He met your gaze and it constricted your chest. You were afraid. Afraid of him and his influence, afraid of writing a good enough essay, afraid of the time running out, afraid of your mother's condition, afraid for your father if she passed, afraid for yourself and this debilitating loneliness that sat like a brick in your gut.

He spit the word out. "Pass."

God that was sobering. You swallowed a hard lump in your throat, and the room went stale in the silence. A dissonant sensation of camaraderie fluttered between the two of you. You drew a sharp and deep breath. You'd had cramps this morning, your period was on the way. You'd have cried if a dog looked at you the wrong way; this new sympathy was environmentally influenced. Next. Question. "What motivates you?"

He stared at you, blank-faced. When would this facade break? Almost imperceptibly you narrowed your eyes in response. "My parents. I want to make the city safer so no one else has to lose anyone. My parents believed in Gotham. I want to make them proud."

If only they knew their son was an infamous vigilante. Next question. You didn't have this written down, but followed off his last answer. "You speak very fondly of your parents, even after what Riddler said of them. Two months after the tragedy, Commissioner Gordon made a statement on behalf of Wayne Enterprises. Is there anything you'd like to add to it?"

If his response hadn't been succinct and wholly accurate to his feelings, he might have regretted spitting something out without thinking. "My father was a good man. Everything in the statement I gave Gordon can be corroborated. It wasn't right what he did, trying to bribe a reporter into silence, and I do not support that in any circumstance. But that is all that he did. Falcone is the one who decided to threaten and murder an innocent."

You might strike that question in editing, as he didn't add any additional information outside of what was already public record. Glancing at your phone showed that five minutes had already passed. You pressed on. "Speaking of your parents, what positive memory stands out when you think of them?" This would be the last question related to his parents; you gathered it was a kind segue between what was known to the public and comfortable to Bruce, and more personal questions.

Except, it wasn't that easy. Bruce sat in silence again, unable to stir up positive memories. This combination of questions was making him dizzy from shame. How the hell could he not remember a good memory with his parents? He knew he had good memories, he knew there'd been beautiful times with his mom, his dad. He knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Yet... "Pass."

You shut your notebook and turned off the recorder. He watched it like a hawk. "If talking about your parents is off-limits, tell me."

Bruce shook his head, a bit too fast and a bit too hard. "My mind is cloudy tonight."

"Finally gave in and drank on the job?" He certainly hadn't been in line for the food.

He shot a glare at you, a glare that caught the light for a brief second, exposing you to the rich blue of his irises. "Thinking about it." He sat his head in his hands. You were left stunned, looking at the back of his head across the table. Tower Bruce would've said something brutal back to you, maybe even accused you of being an alcoholic. He was unarmored. It was unnerving.

You let the silence sit. He stayed with his nose nearly touching the table, his hands massaging the back of his neck, slowly, thoroughly, painstakingly. For the first time since knowing him you felt like you were sharing space with an actual human... nah, not quite. He still stalked my family. When he looked like this though, this was his greatest defense against being found out. Batman didn't read as sensitive or lost in troubled thoughts. The same muscles rippled down his shoulders and back, but the bullets had been removed from the gun.

The silence went on, and it must've been another two minutes passed staring at him. You could've color picked his hair at a Home Depot you'd been so well acquainted with its hue. You remembered you hadn't truly responded to him when he'd told you why he paid for your parent's debt. You gripped the sides of the chair and broke the extended silence. "Was it true what you said about your, motive?"

He roused, barely. His eyes were tired, his body limp like a ragdoll. More hair had fallen across his forehead, and after the impromptu neck massage his clothes looked a bit haggard, wrinkled in new places and scrunched up just below his ribcage. He wanted to clarify what you meant about motive, but he didn't want to give you the glee of knowing he had no idea what you were talking about. His body was melting in front of you, relaxing until he became one with the chair, but his mind was frantic and frayed. Motive about Batman? Motive about wanting to help Gotham? Why weren't you asking him more interview questions? Why were you here?

The silence had been too long and you already regretted asking him. You flicked the recorder back ON. "Mr. Wayne,"

"Y/N."

OFF. "That's not professional,"

"I never officially agreed to this anyway."

"What do you mean? Dr. Vry said—"

"What did she say?"

"She told me you'd only talk to me."

"Why would I only talk to you?"

This felt strangely reminiscent of when you'd awoken in his bed. Anything that connected the both of you was tossed aside like a rotten, wormy apple by the billionaire. You hoped he felt too accosted to recognize the hurt in your tone. "She said you asked for me, Bridgit said,"

He rolled his eyes. "I couldn't tell them I was worried,"

"Why?"

"You left in the middle of the mission."

"I left a note."

His scoff echoed off the whiteboard. "I'm supposed to trust that?"

He pissed you off so easily. Leaving me alone in an alleyway, expecting me to just stay put? After he'd effectively bribed me? "You're lucky I left anything at all."

"Lucky..." He laughed as he shook his head. The guts of you.

The nerve on him. You tucked your chin up and away from him. "What tech did you use to find me?"

This again. "Nothing."

I'm supposed to believe that? "Sure."

"I waited until the next meeting. When you didn't show,"

"You asked where I was, okay, I get it." There was a part of you that believed Bruce, or at least wanted to; a part of you that begged to turn off your brain and naively believe all the pretty words from the pretty man so you wouldn't have to feel so on edge. If you believed him, you weren't supposed to listen to the frustration, the lashing out, the way he spit his words at you graduation night. You were supposed to kindly follow him into the dark and abandoned streets of Gotham night life. He'd only accidentally seen your texts, looked you up, found your mother's doctor, and put his card on file, and all out of the kindness of his heart. It had nothing to do with you knowing information that could land him behind bars. He didn't do bribes. He was just another upstanding citizen who spent his nights breaking people's jaws.

"How dumb do you think I am?" If this was really your last night here, he really had no answers, and he really wouldn't hurt you, nothing would come from a little hotheadedness.

He struggled to size you up. "What are you talking about?"

"Yeah, my mom's sick. But I don't think you're out here filling up GoFundMe's—why me?"

"I don't know."

"How could it not be a bribe? Do you regularly pay other people's medical bills?"

You'd backed him into a corner... or maybe he had. "I felt compelled."

"Because I know confidential information about you."

You weren't not making sense, it just wasn't what had happened inside his head. He didn't know what happened in his head, besides his snaring, insistent fixation on how quickly you'd found him out. "I don't think that played a part."

"This is why I asked if you think I'm an idiot, because? You 'don't think' it did?" Your fingers made air quotes for good measure.

"I don't have a good answer for it."

"That's not the same as not having one."

He loathed to admit it, but you had a strong point. When you put it so frankly it begged suspicion. "Maybe I believed you more than I thought. A thank you instead of bribery." Your blank face compelled him to speak again. "Saying you wouldn't tell."

"Then why were you so mad at me that night? When you found me?"

How could he navigate away from this conversation as quickly as possible while evading your suspicions? What would he do if you asked why he'd needed your help? "I was having a rough time."

"You seemed to really not believe me."

"I was in my head."

"So what's it now?”

He barely heard you through cascading thoughts. He liked being seen; he hadn't internalized it, maybe because he couldn't fathom accepting it even months after the fact, but it felt relieving to be known. Well... equal parts relieving and terrifying. What if you knew the only reason he was here right now was because you found him out? He shrugged, a move that was too casual for you. "I hope you won't."

You glanced at your phone again and saw it'd been over ten minutes. Any moment now someone could come looking for him and your window would be gone. If he were any less analytical, you might have thought he read your mind. "The meeting resumes any minute."

"Then let's use what we have." You slammed open your notebook and tried to find a question that wasn't related to his parents, childhood, or any positive emotions. You paused before pressing RECORD, begrudgingly asking for consent to interview, since apparently Dr. Vry hadn't cleared it with the man. "Are you fine with doing this interview?"

What choice did he have? He feared Vry would never lay off of him (or you, if it mattered) if he were to deny you. And if he were being completely honest, who would he be at all willing to talk to outside of you? You were aggravating and abrasive, but because of that he was allowed to turn 'off', even if just a bit. As his mouth opened to say a begrudged yes, he came to a peculiar standstill—in that he realized he might have deflected interviews all this time as a coping mechanism. Maybe he didn't have a personality outside of the Batman, and Batman himself was only borne of tragic grief. He didn't know what propelled him to honesty, but he averted his eyes and did just that. "I don't think I have answers."

The tone in which he said it brought back the earlier sympathy pang tenfold. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling a desire to poke fun and steamroll past the palpable despair in the room, but you were finished fighting. You'd be home tomorrow night, and soon the only thing on your mind would be making a life for yourself away from Gotham. This place had served its purpose, turning black and burnt as you further overstayed your welcome. This city was so big and you so gone from it you could crash into a building and abandon the car in Kansas without being caught; what meaningful consequence could come from being temporarily kind to someone who would forget you in the next five years? He didn't have answers, and that was... fine. "You have a good reason to feel that way."

He knew you were talking about the murder of his parents, and suspected this was some sort of personal comparison. After some deliberation, he went for it. "And you don't?"

You wanted to retort something about how he didn't know anything about your relationship with your parents, your life, or general wellbeing, so much so that it sat on the tip of your tongue like a yellowjacket freshly landed on its target. You cooled its vice grip by considering just how fucked up you'd feel if you'd seen your parents get shot to hell lying in a pool of their own bloody excrement. "My parents didn't get murdered in front of me."

His eyes narrowed. "I don't want pity. I've had enough of it."

"No, I'm saying it makes sense. Grief is..." You shook your head and sighed. "Strangling. All-consuming."

Shit. He'd expected you to say 'just get over it'. Thankfully he didn't have to scramble much before a hard KNOCK took the space. Foregoing polite hesitation, Mr. Convoy entered. "Mr. Wayne! We thought you might have flown the coop." A watery grin. "Please, the candidates are settling into the conference room." He glanced for a moment around the smaller, darker room you three stood in. "Well, the main conference room."

Convoy held the door open wide and a hand out to mime leaving, obviously anticipating Bruce would simply follow orders and stand to attention. No acknowledgement of you. He didn't like that. When he rose, following a squick of the seat, Convoy stepped just outside the doors in waiting. The door was wide open, and by the way his eyes tracked the floor in front of him he was very much still listening. He maneuvered round the table and hovered at your side, facing the door that was to your back. He spoke quietly, but loud enough that Convoy wouldn't think he was listening in on a secret. "Next week. Should have more time."

You'd gotten yourself into this mess by opening a can of worms. Frustrated and kicking yourself, you groaned. "This has to be in by tomorrow at 9am." Once again he was filling your periphery; you tried not to breathe through your nose, suspicious that the warmth of the honey could subconsciously warm you to him. His brows knit together as they so often did, and you felt a jump in your gut.

"Mr. Wayne?" Convoy peeked his head in and startled Bruce, whose fingers clenched momentarily, reflexively moving toward a fist. God, he's so Batman. "They'll be closing the doors soon."

"It's fine, I'll talk to Dr. Vry before I leave. It's my fault, I'll rip the bandaid off." You stood up and gathered your things. She's gonna hate me for this, but I never have to see her again. I never should've lied. I never should've felt entitled, I could've done anything and I chose this fucking mess. You could already tell you were going to have a miserable rest of the night, but at least you didn't have to type up an interview anymore.

Leave? He glanced down the hall to see the doorman looking befuddled in his direction, but there were still a few stragglers making their way in. He calculated he had about thirty seconds before attention was glaringly drawn to his absence.

You pushed your chair in and it slammed against the corner of the table, smashing your pointer and middle fingers. Bruce tracked the movement, like he always did, and you noticed it, like you always did. "She'll be angry."

Now it was your turn to shrug something off. "Can't get fired twice." Vaguely aware of Mr. Convoy's presence, you held out your hand and forced your eyes to make contact with his, the motion as heavy as lifting a slab of concrete. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne."

His hand was warm and strong. He pulled some vetiver from your perfume. His eyes were such a gentle, crystalline blue that for a nanosecond, you forgot they were his. If they weren't, you could've stared into them all night. And your eyes, they were enchantingly bright and equally deep. For no longer than a brief moment, a single split hair, something sacrilegious flickered in your eye and reflected back in his.

Quick breath in, arms back to position.

Walking out of the room felt like a hard reset. The ping-pong game of emotions Bruce had just pulled out of you was erratic. Frustration, anger, sadness, camaraderie, helplessness, defiance, sympathy, and... You barely remembered what either of you had said at all. It felt... weird. You felt doused in a blanket of sticky emotional sweat, the most peculiar, offputting sensation you'd ever felt. Mr. Convoy led Bruce towards the foyer, and by the time you finished locking up he'd been swarmed by women who pet his forearm with their long, delicate fingers. You noticed his left hand tucked away into his slacks, tense and clenched. He glanced back and caught your stare at his pocket, and deja vu grabbed him by the throat.

You took the back exit, but he couldn't linger on it. He strolled into the room and sat down, this time not by Lincoln, who was standing third in line by Grange and Hady. He flexed his hand beneath the table, his left hand absentmindedly tracing the inside of his palm; slow, swirling zigzags painted across the high points down to his wrist. He tapped his foot impatiently, revved up and jittery.

Grange was first up, standing at a haphazardly placed podium. Her assistant adjusted the mic and handed over a folder, presumably filled with projective data and other persuasive elements for the bored elitist crowd. As much as he wanted to tether himself to this conversation, echoes of his dad's voice tempting him to cling to every word said by the candidates, his mind was with you. In a few minutes you'd be long gone, never able to be contacted again. Every second he sat in this stiff chair was a foot's more distance between the both of you.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for hearing me tonight." Her midwestern accent only pushed the words further out of active listening territory. His foot tapped anxiously, each sentence increasing its fervor. You could be in an Uber by now. Already at your hotel room.

"I differ from the other candidates in my distinctive approach to city taxes. I'll be passing around a chart showing..." Her voice completely left his head as her silver cufflink glinted off the fluorescents. The insignia taunted him, its beak and feathers embedded under his epidermis, just searching for a vein to latch onto.

Fuck. He stood so abruptly the security nearly lunged at him from the doorway. His chest was heaving and there was nothing he could do about it. His brow beaded with sweat, and there was nothing he could do about it. He stammered a response to save face. "Excuse me, I need to use the restroom. Carry on, please." He was already out the door.

Frantic eyes traced the perimeter of the room; reporters whipped their heads up, and a quick glance to the entry revealed a steady stream of paparazzi fighting for the sliver of window. You'd left through the back. He sped toward the hallway in a desperate haze, his good sense rapidly falling by the wayside as he turned the corner to the emergency exit. The instant mildewed, cool air smacked his cheek he broke down the alleyway; a paparazzi had been looking down a side alley from the front of city hall and noticed Bruce's rush. His name shouted behind him, then a cacophony of scuffling feet and metal. He broke into a sprint, the slick soles of his dress shoes struggling against the wet pavement. He careened down side streets, cloaked in shadow from ill-wired streetlamps, his eyes busy with a constant scan for your silhouette. Universe willing, he would—found you.

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thedeviltohisangel · 5 months

Text

All The Things I Did (Modern Era): You'd Have to Stop the World Just to Stop the Feeling

a/n: when I said my brain couldn't stop thinking of AUs...I kind of like the idea that Cass/John's souls reincarnate across time because they are always meant to be together. This is one example of that. It's been rattling in my brain for a little while and I've gotten it on paper and hope you fall just as deeply in love with this version as you have the original. Let me know your thoughts on this era and anything specific you might wish to see. love you xoxo

She felt absolutely miserable. The satin of her champagne colored dress was itchy against her skin and the halter felt like it was choking her and if the Russian Ambassador looked at her bare back like it was a lost wonder of the world one more time she was going to have her forearm against his windpipe in an instant. There was also the absolutely offensive paper weight of a diamond ring on her left hand. She thinks if she threw it hard enough, it could break through the wall of the Embassy’s reception room like a bullet.

“My, my, Miss Cooper. You are looking particularly diplomatic tonight.”

“Dimitri. I asked the bartender to throw away all the vodka so you wouldn’t bother me over here.” She fully knew he was SVR and she assumed he was tracking her State Department cover as loosely intact.

“Come now, my little eagle. I’ve spent all night waiting for you to come flirt with me like you always do. You’ve really kept me waiting.”

“If that’s flirting, things must be very bleak in Russia.” Originally, she had thought she’d try her hand at developing him. He had tried to develop her right back. She dropped her official pursuit of him but the back and forth kept her busy at the stuffy cocktail hours she had to attend. Cass would have preferred to be out in the local villages and talking to the people and the families and the culture she was falling in love with.

“Eh maybe our flirting isn’t great but that new American soldier is looking at you like he wants you in a way us Russian men are very familiar with.” She didn’t have to look to know it was John. His arrival a few days ago had rocked her to the very core and she had done everything in her power to avoid him since. “He the one who put that ring on your finger?”

“If you were half as good as you want me to believe, Dimitri, you’d know. Enjoy your night.” Cass finished off her drink and turned to leave when his hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. “Let go of me.”

“Miss Cooper, I’m not-”

“She asked you politely. I won’t offer the same courtesy.” A lump lodged in her throat as she felt John’s presence behind her. Her arm was dropped in an instant and she crossed it against her chest.

“Good night, my little eagle.” Dimitir looked at her like he had gotten the exact answer he wanted. She itched to slap the victorious smirk off his face as he walked away.

“You okay? He hurt you?” John touched her wrist tenderly, lovingly, all the things she hadn’t felt against her skin since she fled North Carolina a few months ago.

“I was handling it. He did it on purpose to see how you’d react.” He dropped her arm as the glint of a diamond caught his eye. Took a step back to physically distance himself from the object.

“Sorry to disappoint.” He thought about tacking on an again but thought better of it. If she wasn’t in the mood to talk to him, maybe she never would be, then he wasn’t going to broach down the pathway.

“Not it’s…there’s no way you would have known.” She looked at him, for the first time since they said goodbye bathed in the moonlight on the beaches of Hatteras Island, and he felt his world shift back into place under her gaze. “Thank you.”

“Can I at least get you a refill?” It felt like dipping her toes back in those North Carolina waters. A place she had told herself was too dangerous to go back to. He looked too good in his blues to turn down.

“Yes.” His hand on the small of her back guided her closer to the bar and it felt so warm she could lose herself in it.

“Two of whatever the lady was having.”

“It’s just Coke in a rocks glass, Major.” She smiled as he took a long and satisfying sip either way.

“Still delicious,” he laughed. “You been out here awhile?” Her eyes found the corner of her cocktail napkin much more interesting all of a sudden.

“Since…since around the last time I saw you.” He nodded around the last of his soda. Wished it was full of rum.

“You could have just told me the truth. I would have understood.” Cass shook her head.

“No, you would have fought for me and told me we would find a way to make it work.” She distinctly remembered the look in his eyes on the beach that night. The frustration at her secrecy. The distress at her leaving when he had spent the whole summer learning how to love her. The anger that she acted like the truck bed nights and T6 flights and long weekends spent in bed could be tucked back into a box. He had wanted to scream that he was in love with her. Scream that he knew what was between them was meant to last a lifetime and he would fight for her until the ends of the earth. Scream that this war had already taken so much from so many and they shouldn’t let it take this from them.

“Would it have worked? Clearly, you had something else lined up anyways.” Instead, John had felt defeated. Had heard the words that she was leaving and couldn’t tell him where or why and it was better to leave this summer exactly where they were standing. “My sister sent me the photos of you and him at some Newport mansion.”

“It’s not real. You have to believe me.” Cass would have rather died than know John had seen the staged engagement photos. But the point of a PR campaign was for people to see the evidence.

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Cass.” He turned toward the calling of his name from his fellow pilots. They had been joined by a group of young women who all looked eager to head back to their housing units for the after party.

“Looks like you have a fun night ahead of you.” Pilots were always a hot commodity no matter where they went. And John was tall and handsome and pilot and goofy and…there was nothing wrong with him that she could come up with besides his love for her.

“Are you done for the night? I can walk you back.” She nodded, something about the gaggle of girls waiting for him making her chest ache. “I’ll get your coat.”

They walked in silence at a safe distance. Both of them were walking slower than usual. They didn’t want the fact that they were back in each other’s presence to end. Her housing complex came into view all too quickly. “Nice housing for an alleged entry level econ analyst.”

“Guess I’m just special,” she remarked. He looked at her with a smile while she glanced up at the moon. “He’s running for Congress. Landry. He offered to help my sister fix a problem if I agreed to pretend to be with him for the campaign.”

“Why’re you telling me?” He took a tentative step closer to her.

“Because you asked earlier if it would’ve worked. And it would have. I wanted to tell you the truth about Afghanistan and my job. But my sister made a mistake and there was a way for me to protect her from the consequences and I had to take it.” She fiddled with the buttons of his jacket as tears trickled down her cheeks. “It killed me to say those things to you. I didn’t mean any of it. Those few months we shared together were the best of my life and I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything and I’m sorry I got in the way of the things we dreamt about under the stars every night.”

“Give me your hand, Cass.” With a furrowed brow, she offered him her left hand and he locked his eyes onto hers. He slid the ring off her finger and her breath caught in her throat as he held it up between them. “I’ll make sure this is hand delivered to Mr. Landry.” The ring dropped into his pocket.

“Will you kiss me now, John Egan?”

“Only because you asked so nicely, Cassandra Cooper.” It felt like coming home when his lips touched hers. It felt like the first warm day after a dull winter. Like seeing your favorite movie again. Like the first bite of the food you’ve been craving.

He had thought about trying to track her down. Thought about paying off an intel officer or sweet talking the personnel lady on the fifth floor into looking her up but had always been struck by the look in her eyes when she had left him that night. Begging him to just let it be. Begging him to let her go. Begging him to spare her the pain of his words because the solemn emptiness of her soul was the only thing that would allow her to turn around and leave him behind.

She hadn’t been able to think about him. Not if she wanted to survive. Not when she needed to shut down and smile and pretend to fall in love with the weasel of man that had cunningly offered to help her sister. Cass hadn’t been able to say no. Her only regret was that she hadn’t been able to tell him herself.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please forgive me.” But she would never be able to forgive herself for taking away all the time they could have had together.

“Already forgiven, Cass, I promise.” It was easy to forgive the people you loved. Less so to forget. Less so to heal from the wounds they inflicted on you. She had hurt him so deeply. Eroded all the trust he had in her. Eroded the trust he had for his own gut instinct. Kissing it better was one thing. Picking where they had left off was something else entirely.

“I want to try, John. I want to start over and I want to do this the right way. Even if it’s hard.”

“I’ll choose us every goddamn day, Cass.” She kept her hands on his cheeks as she dropped back down from her toes. “You look stunning tonight. I didn’t get the chance to tell you.” John began to lead her in a dance that could only be heard between the matching, racing beats of their hearts.

“Thank you but anything is going to look more stunning than the camis you saw me in all summer.” He kissed her with a laugh.

“You looked stunning in those too.” Lest she forget that was exactly how he had fallen in love with her in the first place. Low bun and camo pants and rolling her eyes every time a pilot tried to flirt with her. She had beaten a particularly persistent one in a pull up contest to prove her point. “Cass?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?” She looked around at the mountains and desert. At the bland buildings and miscellaneous pods of gym equipment.

“I suppose.” Their original first date had been to a seafood shack where they broke down their own crabs and were covered in Old Bay and laughed as they walked along the pier and he had kissed her senseless while the sun set over the water. It was the most perfect memory. “Though I doubt you can top our first first date.” John smiled and traced the tip of his nose up and down the side of her cheek.

“I just want to be with you, Cass. Make you feel special. Remind us both that there is still good in this world worth fighting for.”

“I like the way that sounds,” she whispered as she pressed a kiss to his jaw. “You’ll find me when your day is over?”

You’ll always find me?

I’ll always find you. In this life, or any other.

When two souls are meant to tangle together across the universe there is no timeline that can halt them. There would be time apart and forces who tried to keep them that way but none would succeed. You cannot prevent the inevitable.

Two stars colliding into a supernova with no limit in sight. There was no before. There was no after. Only them.

“Yes, Cass. I’ll find you.”

#masters of the air #john egan #callum turner #mota #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan fanfiction #mota fanfiction #masters of the air fanfic #john egan fanfic #mota fanfic #john egan x oc #cass and bucky #john egan x reader

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