zipperzoo

[zipperzoo]

T'uburni تقبرني — bruce wayne.

Chapter one | echoes of the past.

universe : reeves, the batman 2022.

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!oc.

words : +6k.

synopsis : “In the dark heart of Gotham City, Dr. Maryam Halimi, a medical examiner of now 2 years, navigates a life steeped in tragedy and secrets. Her routine of grim autopsies is disrupted when a notorious serial killer strikes, plunging the city into chaos. As bodies mount, Maryam’s world intersects with the enigmatic Batman, whose presence both unsettles and fascinates her. Struggling with her growing feelings for the vigilante and the mounting dangers of her work, Maryam must unravel a web of deceit and face her deepest fears. In a city where trust is a rare commodity, survival hinges on deciphering the truth behind the murders and the shadowy figure who haunts her nights.”

author’s note : I’ve had this story in my drafts for three years. It’s also my first time posting a fic, so please keep in mind that English isn’t my first language. I’ve had this idea for longer than I can remember, but I’m really excited to finally share it. Please don’t hesitate to leave comments or anonymous asks—I love reading them!

dedications : maryam is dedicated to my fellow avoidant attachment girlies 🫡 Seriously though, this chapter is dedicated to a few incredible authors who inspired and encouraged me to share this fic. Their work is truly amazing, and I highly recommend checking out their fics. Your support and creativity have been a driving force for me—thank you! @punchdrunkdoc @devilfic @hollandorks @zipperzoo @ellesthots and anyone I might have forgotten <3

cw : bruce is emotionally constipated, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

          THE CLOCK on the wall ticked steadily toward 10 PM, its sound a quiet metronome in the stillness of the hospital morgue. 

The sterile, cold room, where life was reduced to clinical examination, felt even more somber tonight. 

Inside, Dr. Maryam Halimi sat at her desk, surrounded by the stark white walls and stainless steel instruments, her head bent over a pale dead body. 

Her light brown hair, pulled into a French twist beneath a whimsical unicorn scrub cap, had a soft caramel sheen that complemented her naturally tanned skin—almost bronze. Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the morgue, her almond-shaped hazel eyes shifted from a greenish tint to a gentle golden, giving a sharp contrast to her sun-kissed complexion. Her nose, straight with a slight, almost invisible bump, added a touch of character to her otherwise sharp, sculpted features.

Her high cheekbones framed a face that was both delicate and strong, her skin dotted with beauty marks like tiny constellations—under her eyes, just above her full lips, and trailing softly along her neck. Each mark was a reminder that her beauty was real, lived-in, and perfectly imperfect. She favored a classic red lipstick that added a pop of color to her naturally plump lips, making her shy smile all the more captivating.

Her eyebrows were gracefully arched, framing her eyes with a subtlety that highlighted their expressiveness. Long, dark lashes curled naturally, casting soft shadows over her cheeks.

Dr. Halimi was a stunning woman, someone possessing an undeniable and timeless beauty that could turn heads with a single glance. Yet, hers was also the kind of beauty that grew more striking the longer you looked, drawing you in with its quiet elegance and understated grace. It was the type of allure that left a lasting impression, a beauty that was both captivating and comforting in its subtlety.

She had just finished examining the latest tragic case: Fiona Harrinson, a young woman of nineteen. A pale young girl with fiery red hair and blue eyes that had turned a disquieting red—a common occurrence in deaths involving certain substances. A life that had barely begun, now extinguished by the scourge of "Drops," a drug as ubiquitous in Gotham as the rain. Fiona, like so many others, had sought solace in the chemical embrace of drugs, a brief escape from the harsh realities of living on the streets without support. 

With a heavy sigh, Maryam gently covered the girl's lifeless face, a ritual she never grew accustomed to, no matter how many times she performed it.

Each time, it felt like closing a chapter on a life story that ended too soon, and the sadness never fully dissipated. Fiona had no family to notify, no one to mourn her passing—just another casualty of Gotham's underworld, another soul lost in the shadows.

As Maryam turned to her desk, ready to tackle the inevitable paperwork, the door creaked open. Tamara Nguyen, known affectionately as Tammy, breezed in with her usual air of lateness and cheer, two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

Tammy was petite, with a delicate frame that belied her boundless energy. Her glossy black hair, cut into a sleek bob, framed a face that was all wide, warm brown eyes and a ready smile. She had a habit of wearing bright, colorful scrubs that matched her lively personality, reminding Maryam of her sister Rania.

Tam’s presence was like a burst of sunshine in the often somber atmosphere of the morgue, and despite her frequent tardiness, she had a way of making everything feel just a little bit lighter.

"Heeyyy, sorry I'm late, as always," Tammy said with a sheepish grin. "But I brought coffee!"

Maryam didn't look up immediately, her pen still dancing across the forms. "It's okay, Tammy," she replied, her voice tinged with a teasing warmth. Finally, she glanced up, a playful smile curving her lips. "I'm used to it."

She accepted the coffee, savoring the warmth as it flowed down her throat, offering a brief moment of comfort. Tammy leaned against the desk, peering curiously at the covered body on the examination table.

"So, what do we have?" Tammy asked, her eyes flicking between Maryam and the still form under the sheet.

Maryam sighed, setting her coffee down next to the papers, wincing as a few drops stained the corner of the form. She rubbed her temples, eyes closed briefly in weariness. "Another Drop case, as usual," she said, her voice tinged with frustration. Her hands dropped to her lap, her hazel eyes now open and glinting with a mix of concern and anger. "It's getting out of hand. Too many bodies, too many kids, dead because of those fucking drugs! If it's not Drops, it's some other damn substance. And nobody's listening! I tried talking to Commissioner Savage and the cops—"

Tammy interrupted, her voice soft but resigned. "As if the cops would listen. They're all bought up by you-know-who," she muttered, her breath fogging up her coffee cup.

Maryam leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I know, Tam," she said, exasperation seeping into her tone. "But I thought they'd at least try to do something. For God's sake, it's mostly kids dying from this stuff!" She threw her hands up in frustration, her voice rising slightly at the end.

A tense silence fell over the room, the only sound the quiet hum of the air conditioning. The weight of the city's problems felt like an invisible fog, hanging thickly between them. 

Tammy, trying to lighten the mood, ventured with a teasing smile, "Maybe you should ask Gotham's vigilante. He might help you."

Maryam snorted, the tension breaking as she threw a pen at Tammy, who dodged it with a laugh. "Ha ha, very funny," Maryam said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll just pop over to his cave and have a nice little chat. Maybe he'll even offer me some bat-themed snacks."

Tammy chuckled, shaking her head. "You never know. He might surprise you."

Maryam stretched her legs and neck, sighing tiredly for what felt like the tenth time that day. She picked up her pen, refocusing on the paperwork in front of her. "Can you please put her in the fridge?" she asked, her voice softening. "I'm going to finish her paperwork. She has no family, no one to cover funeral expenses or claim the body, so I'll have to turn it over to a funeral home."

Tammy nodded, taking a final sip of her coffee before setting the empty cup on the desk. She moved to the body, her demeanor professional as she prepared to transfer Fiona to the cold storage. "Where did they find her?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"Under the Gotham Gate Bridge," Maryam replied, quickly adding, "Some kid going trick-or-treating found her and reported it to the police."

Tammy made an "oh" with her mouth, her face a picture of quiet sympathy. "Poor kid," she murmured, shaking her head as she pushed the rolling table away.

The television in the corner of the room played the nightly news on GC-1. The anchor's voice was a constant, soothing drone, providing background noise to their grim work. "It is Halloween night in Gotham," the anchor announced cheerfully. "Tourists are flocking to the city from all over the world to experience our unique festivities. But tonight also marks the anniversary of a tragic event in Gotham's history..."

The mention of the Waynes caught Maryam's attention. She glanced at the TV and turned up the volume, her eyes narrowing as images of Thomas and Martha Wayne appeared on the screen. The anchor's voice carried a somber tone, narrating the unfolding story.

"This week, we remember the tragic deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, beloved billionaires and philanthropists, who were brutally murdered in front of their young son, Bruce Wayne. The Waynes were Gotham's first family, revered pillars of our community known for their immense generosity and tireless philanthropy. Their loss left a profound impact on the city, and their memory still resonates deeply with many. Their son, Bruce, now a reclusive billionaire, rarely leaves the confines of his family estate. The Waynes' legacy remains a significant chapter in Gotham's history..."

The camera lingered on old photos of the Wayne’s: Thomas, with his charismatic smile; Martha, radiant and elegant; and a young Bruce, holding his mother's hand. Maryam watched, transfixed, the light from the TV reflecting in her hazel eyes. Their family had always seemed like royalty to the people of Gotham—untouchable, revered. Their legacy was intertwined with the city's very foundation, their wealth and influence reaching every corner of Gotham.

Despite her disdain for the wealthy—or any billionaire, for that matter—Maryam couldn't forget Bruce Wayne.

Twenty years ago, every Thursday afternoon, she would take the subway to fetch food for her family. It was during these trips that she would catch glimpses of Bruce Wayne and his mother. Mrs. Wayne, with her striking blue eyes that mirrored her son's, would sit with a book in one hand, her other gently holding her son’s. Bruce, just a small boy back then, would clutch a tiny knight figurine, his face often illuminated by a shy, endearing smile. 

A security officer stood vigil a few meters away, his watchful gaze scanning the crowd with an intensity that always made Maryam feel uneasy.

Maryam, in her torn tights that clung to her slender legs and a light brown jacket that offered little solace against Gotham’s relentless chill, would sit nervously in the corner, her eyes fixed on the Wayne family.

Sometimes, Bruce would catch her gaze and offer a small, shy smile, maybe even a brave little wave. 

In those fleeting moments, Maryam's heart would race, and she would quickly look away, embarrassed by her uninvited curiosity.

This silent routine unfolded every Thursday until that fateful week. 

On that day, Bruce accidentally left his knight figurine behind. Maryam, noticing the abandoned toy on the seat, picked it up. It was clearly a cherished possession, expensive and well-loved. She resolved to return it to him the next week, gathering her courage to finally speak to him. 

But that meeting never came.

Indeed, the next day, the Waynes were tragically and brutally murdered.

Maryam remembered that night vividly. She was watching her favorite cartoon on the small TV in her aunt Meysa's cramped living room. Bruce’s figurine sat beside her, gleaming under the TV’s flickering light. Her head in her hands, she straightened up when the news interrupted her show.

“We regret to inform you that at 10:47 PM, Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot and killed. They were leaving the Monarch Theater when they were attacked. Thomas and Martha died at the scene. Their son, Bruce Wayne, witnessed the tragedy. The GCPD has yet to apprehend the alleged killer.”

Maryam’s aunt, Meysa, with her short bob of curly jet-black hair always tied in a slick bun, olive skin, and beauty marks, was also transfixed, frowning and barely understanding.

"What did he say?" she asked in Arabic.

"They died. They were killed," Maryam translated, mimicking a gun with her hand, whispering, "Pooh, pooh."

"Astaghfirullah, Maryam! Don’t do that!" Meysa exclaimed, gently slapping her hand away. Maryam frowned, her eyes returning to the TV.

"The kid, what is his name, I forgot—" Meysa started.

"Bruce," Maryam corrected.

"Yes, yes, Bryce—" Meysa continued, mispronouncing the name.

"It’s Bruce, not Bryce," Maryam corrected again, a slight smile tugging at her lips despite the gravity of the situation.

"Yes, is he dead too?" Meysa asked, her brows furrowing with concern.

"No. They say he's the only survivor. He watched them being killed," Maryam explained, her little fingers nervously fidgeting with the knight figurine.

"Lotf, lotf!" Aunt Meysa exclaimed, her hands flying to her mouth, covering it with her apron in horror.

"I feel bad for him," Maryam murmured, the figurine still a comforting presence in her hands.

"Don’t be. It is God's will. Everything is written, habibti," Meysa said after a moment of silence, the TV casting a flickering glow over them. She began gathering her things, preparing to leave for work. "Besides, he is still blessed with all his money and houses. He is not homeless and will have food on his table tonight."

At this, Maryam’s stomach grumbled loudly. Meysa raised an eyebrow, adding gently but firmly, "Unlike us." Maryam scoffed, feeling the weight of their reality pressing down on her.

"Don’t scoff at me, Mimi. Make sure your sisters are still asleep. I'm going to work," Meysa instructed.

She didn’t respond, clutching Bruce's figurine tightly as she listened to the door click shut behind her aunt, her gaze fixed on the TV as it continued its somber report.

Maryam shook her head, trying to dispel the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm her. 

She refocused on her stack of papers, but before she could even continue, her phone buzzed, Gordon’s name flashing on the screen. With a sigh and a quick tap on the green button,  she answered and switched it to speaker.

“Hey, Jamie. What’s up?” she asked tiredly, trying to sound casual.

“Hey, Mar.” Gordon’s voice was clipped, urgent. “We need you at the Mayor’s house right now. Something’s happened. Police are on their way.” Then reluctantly adding, voice lowering “The Mayor’s wife called. Her husband was murdered.”

Maryam's breath caught in her throat for a split second, but she quickly steadied herself. “Okay, I’m on my way.” she said, not needing any more details.

“Thanks, Mar. I’ll see you soon.” Gordon hung up, his thanks echoed in her ear.

Maryam glanced at her phone, her mind racing with worry, primarily about George, the mayor’s son. Was he safe? Had he been hurt—or worse, killed? Shaking her head to dispel the gnawing anxiety, she abruptly stood up, her chair rolling backward with a loud squeak. Gathering the stacks of papers with determined urgency, she made her way to the room where the bodies were kept. As she entered, she found Tammy scrubbing the tools used for the autopsy, her movements methodical and focused. 

“Gordon needs me,” Maryam announced, her voice clipped with urgency. “I’ve done most of the paperwork. Can you finish up? It’s an emergency.”

Tammy looked up, eyes widening “No problem! Have fun!”

Despite the severity of the situation, Maryam snorted, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to send you a postcard from the crime scene.”

As Maryam stripped off her black scrubs and the scrub cap adorned with tiny unicorns, she quickly dressed in her civilian clothes. Despite the rush, her French twist updo remained perfectly styled. She stumbled through the empty hospital corridors in her black high-heeled boots, the click-clack of her heels echoing through the space as she balanced her medical kit and car keys.

The cold Gotham air enveloped her as she made her way to the parking lot. Just as she was about to reach her car, someone grabbed her arm, abruptly stopping her. Instinctively, her eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, her expression already hardening into a glare. "What—"

“Where are you going like that, Miriam?” The voice was smooth, too smooth, belonging to none other than Dr. Thomas Elliot, the hospital’s head of neurology renowned for his surgical skills and handsome features, stood before her, his blonde hair meticulously combed back. His eyes, brown almost black eyes twinkled as he gave her a once-over gleamed with something unsettling, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Maryam huffed, yanking her arm back and adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “To a crime scene, Dr. Elliot.” Her tone was cold, her eyes narrowing. “And it’s Maryam, not Miriam.”

Dr. Elliot’s smirk widened, undeterred by her frosty demeanor. “Come on, I was just teasing, you know that,” he said smoothly. “And I’ve told you many times, call me Tommy.”

Maryam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t particularly like him, despite his charms that seemed to win over everyone else at the hospital. He was a gifted surgeon, undeniably handsome, and came from a wealthy family with the charm to match. 

To many, he was the perfect man. But to Maryam, there was something deeply unsettling about him. Her sixth sense always cast an alarm whenever he was near, as if he was hiding something dark behind that charming facade.

At first, she had thought she was just being overly cautious. Dr. Elliot had seemed too nice, the perfect doctor who always listened to his patients. But there was a strange sense of superiority in him, a subtle way he diminished others just because he could. He used his charm and wit to manipulate people, often for personal gain—most often, it seemed, for sex. 

Maryam had seen the way he looked at people, as if they were puzzles to be solved or pieces on a chessboard to be maneuvered.

But what disturbed Maryam the most was his behavior when he had to deliver bad news to a patient’s family. He would play the role of the empathetic surgeon flawlessly, but as soon as he turned his back to the grieving family, a sardonic smile would spread across his face. It wasn’t a one-time thing; it happened too many times for her to ignore. Each time she witnessed it, it chilled her to the bone.

To the rest of the world, Dr. Elliot was friendly and outgoing, but to Maryam, it all felt like a carefully constructed ruse. 

Maybe she was too observant, too wary, or even too avoidant of people. Dr. Elliot’s influence at the hospital was undeniable, and she knew that voicing her concerns could lead to serious repercussions. So, she tried to be civil, keeping her distance as much as possible. But Dr. Elliot was relentless, always flirting, always trying to get under her skin, as if he enjoyed watching her squirm under his attention. 

“You look stressed, Maryam. Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asked, stepping closer, his voice oozing with false concern.

Maryam instinctively took a step back, determined to maintain her distance. “I’m fine, thank you. I deal with stress by actually doing my job.”

Dr. Elliot chuckled, clearly amused by her sarcasm. “You’re a tough one, aren’t you? I like that.”

Maryam gave him a tight-lipped smile, her patience wearing thin. “I’m glad you’re entertained, Dr. Elliot. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Tommy,” he corrected again, moving into her space again, his smirk never fading. “Like I said, you don’t have to be so formal. We’re colleagues, after all.”

Maryam sidestepped him, her eyes flashing with irritation. “And as colleagues, I’m sure you understand the importance of professionalism. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to go.”

As she turned on her heel and made a beeline for her car, she could feel his gaze lingering on her, a heavy weight that made her skin crawl. There was something unsettling about Dr. Elliot, something that set off alarm bells deep in her subconscious. He was too perfect, too polished, his charm a thin veneer over something far more sinister. 

He was a man who thrived on control, on bending others to his will, and his interest in her felt like a noose slowly tightening around her neck. But Maryam was not one to be easily swayed or intimidated. She had survived far worse than the likes of Thomas Elliot, and she had no intention of becoming another one of his conquests.

Sliding into the driver’s seat and tossing her tool bag onto the passenger side, Maryam took a deep breath, pushing away the lingering unease. As she turned the key in the ignition, she muttered, "Come on, you rusty old piece of junk, don’t fail me now." The engine sputtered to life with a reluctant growl. She exhaled deeply, her grip on the steering wheel tightening as she prepared to face the long road ahead.

The night was only beginning, a long road ahead and the crime scene awaited, and she couldn’t afford to let anyone—or anything—distract her from her duty.

────୨ৎ────

          Speeding through the streets, a cigarette dangling from her perfectly red-coated lips, Maryam navigated Gotham's chaos with a focused intensity. The radio blared in the background, blending with the city's constant hum as she wove through the traffic.

When she found herself stuck behind a slow-moving car, frustration bubbled up inside her. The driver behind her began shouting, their impatience palpable. Maryam rolled down her window, the cigarette hanging precariously from her lips, and shouted back, “What do you want me to do, run over his car, you imbecile?” Her hands flailed dramatically, and she rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh.

Mixing Arabic with Spanish curses, she added, “Yallah, move it, you moron! What’s wrong with you, huh?”

As the traffic finally cleared, Maryam sped off, her car swerving slightly as she took another drag from her cigarette. 

Maryam arrived at the mayor's residence twenty-five minutes later, her patience frayed. Skidding to a halt outside the mayor’s grandiose home, she yanked open her car door and grabbed her ID card from the glove compartment. The harsh light from Gotham’s streetlamps stretched long, distorted shadows across the steps.

As she approached, a police officer moved to direct her away, but Maryam swiftly flashed her credentials and snapped, “I’m the Medical Examiner, not some nosy neighbor. Let me in.”

The officer huffed in exasperation but, recognizing her credentials, waved her through. Maryam slammed the car door behind her, crushing the cigarette under her heel and shouldering her kit with a determined stride.  As she looked up, she saw the Bat-Signal cutting through the Gotham night sky.

It casted a sinister glow across the city, like a dark omen etched into the heavens. Its stark, angular shape pierced through the fog and mist, its light a harsh beacon against the oppressive darkness. To the city's criminals, it was less a symbol of hope and more a harbinger of dread—a relentless reminder that their actions had consequences. It wasn’t just a call for help; it was an unyielding warning, a fearsome promise that retribution was on its way. 

Inside, the cacophony of the crime scene unfolded like a dissonant symphony: the hum of forensic equipment, the subdued murmur of conversation, and the occasional clatter of equipment.

Officer Martinez, ever the beacon of positivity amid the chaos—a trait that reminded Maryam of her cheerful assistant, Tammy—spotted her and made his way over, his face etched with concern. "Hey, Mar... Thanks for coming so quickly. It's a mess in there” he looked around, eyebrows furrowed, and I think we're all in for a long night." He added with a sight.

Maryam, her cheeks flushed with the urgency of the situation, gave him a terse nod. "No problem, Lucas. I’ll handle it from here.” A small pause, “What’s the rundown?"

Martinez scratched his head, his usual cheerfulness dimmed by the gravity of the scene. "So, the mayor's dead. Murdered. Found by his wife and kid. You’ll see the worst of it in the study. Bullock’s up there, but you know how he is—probably got a cigar stuck in his mouth and a scowl on his face."

Maryam managed a wry smile. "Of course he does. Thanks for the heads-up."

As Martinez led her through the throngs of officers and past the forensic team in their immaculate white suits, Maryam felt a knot of unease tighten in her chest. The crime scene was a carefully orchestrated mess: a tangle of evidence, forensic cameras flashing intermittently, and the low murmur of detectives piecing together the nightmare.

Bullock was leaning against the wall outside the study, puffing away on a cigar that left a trail of acrid smoke swirling in the air. His eyes were tired but sharp as they tracked Maryam’s approach.

"Dr. Halimi," Bullock greeted gruffly, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Glad you’re here. We could use a fresh set of eyes on this mess."

Maryam flashed him a sardonic grin as she stepped past him. "Just what I needed after a long day—a front-row seat to Gotham’s newest tragedy. You know me, always up for a good dose of horror."

Bullock smirked, shaking his head. "Always with the sass and jokes. You’d think by now you’d be used to it."

Maryam shrugged, her gaze drifting towards the study’s entrance. "If you’re not laughing, you’re crying, right?"

As she stepped into the study, the scene that greeted her was both grotesque and meticulously staged : Mayor Don Mitchell Jr. lay sprawled across a chair in his study, his body arranged in a macabre tableau. His head, mummified in duct tape, was covered in blood, and a chilling message in red read: “NO MORE LIES.” His thumb was severed, blood pooling around him, making the scene all the more haunting.

Maryam’s eyes swept over the room, taking in every detail—the way the blood spattered across the luxurious carpet, the silent witnesses of scattered papers, and the grim determination of the forensic team working to document every inch. 

She took a deep breath, pushing past her own discomfort to focus on the task at hand.

She approached the body with her medical kit, carefully extracting her tools: a pair of gloves, a scalpel, and a digital camera. The forensic team was busy capturing every angle, but Maryam’s job was to verify and document the specifics of the body’s condition.

She began by photographing the scene. The camera’s flash briefly illuminated the macabre scene: the mayor’s head was encased in duct tape, with the stark message "NO MORE LIES" scrawled across his mouth in red. The severed thumb, a grotesque testament to the brutality of the crime, was captured from multiple angles. Each image was carefully framed to preserve every detail, ensuring that nothing was lost in the documentation process.

Moving on, Maryam retrieved a ruler from her kit. She measured the depth and extent of the wounds with deliberate accuracy, noting the size of the blood pool around the mayor’s mouth, partly hidden by the duct tape. Her observations were meticulously recorded, providing a detailed account of the injuries that would be crucial for understanding the nature of the attack and the victim’s final moments.

Carefully, Maryam began collecting evidence. She bagged the strips of duct tape used to mummify the mayor’s head, handling them with gloved hands to avoid contamination. Fragments of the mayor’s clothing, stained with blood, were also placed into evidence bags. Each item was labeled and sealed, ensuring that potential evidence was preserved for further forensic analysis.

She then took a moment to examine the scene itself.

Making mental notes of the body’s positioning, the state of the room, and any items that might offer additional context. Her keen hazel eyes swept over the room, noting the arrangement of furniture and any disturbances. This meticulous observation was crucial for piecing together the circumstances surrounding the crime.

Finally, Maryam used a flashlight to explore less obvious areas of the room. She searched under furniture and in corners, her light revealing potential clues that might have been overlooked. Every corner was inspected with care, her flashlight beam dancing over surfaces as she sought out any detail that could shed more light on the murder.

Maryam’s concentration remained intense, her movements precise and deliberate. 

Just as she finished documenting the initial findings, she heard Gordon’s authoritative voice cutting through the room. She paused, her heart quickening as she prepared to brief him on what she had uncovered.

This was indeed going to be a very long night.

────୨ৎ────

      The oppressive atmosphere inside the mayor’s townhouse contrasted sharply with the vibrant city outside. 

This stifling tension only deepened with the arrival of the Bat—accompanied by Commissioner Gordon. The cops stationed at the entrance stared at him with a mix of confusion and disbelief, clearly unsettled by the sight of a man dressed in a bat-themed costume at a crime scene.

But Bruce Wayne paid them no mind, his focus solely on following Gordon through the house. The heavy thud of his boots on the polished wooden floors echoed through the lavishly decorated rooms, each step resonating with a sense of foreboding that seemed to deepen the already heavy air.

The room buzzed with murmured conversations, a chaotic blend of investigators piecing together the grim puzzle

Maryam, her light brown hair neatly secured in her signature French updo, and her hazel eyes sharp and focused, was still meticulously examining the body when Lieutenant James Gordon entered, followed closely by the imposing figure of Gotham's vigilante.

As they stepped into the room, the young officer guarding the door hesitated, his hand instinctively moving to block their path.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa—police action,” he stammered, his voice wavering with tension as he looked up at the vigilante imposing figure.

“He’s right, What the heck is he doing here, Jim?” Bullock grumbled, his irritation evident as he pushed himself off the wall. He shifted to a defensive stance, eyeing the Bat with barely concealed hostility. The sight of the vigilante only served to heighten the tension in the already fraught room.

Batman’s gaze fell upon the officer’s hand with a cold, silent warning. Gordon quickly intervened, his voice steady and authoritative.

“He’s with me, Officers,” Gordon said firmly.

The officer, visibly dismayed, reluctantly stepped aside, muttering under his breath, “...goddamn freak…”

Bullock shook his head in dismay, hands on his hips, the cigar still dangling from his mouth.

Inside, the room was permeated with the acrid scent of blood and the remnants of a Halloween celebration gone tragically awry. 

As investigators turned to look, Maryam, briefly distracted, spun around to greet Gordon. She nearly bumped into the imposing figure of the vigilante, whose presence felt both overwhelming and intense. In that split second, their eyes locked—her hazel meeting his dark, unreadable blue. Her eyes widened in surprise, while his remained inscrutable. Instinctively, Batman reached out, steadying her with a firm grip on her forearms. 

Maryam quickly stepped back, her fingers brushing against her throat as she composed herself. She cleared her throat and resumed her professional demeanor, though the encounter had left her slightly flustered.

Gordon, noticing the tension, broke the silence. “What do we know?” he asked, addressing the lead detective.

The lead detective, still rattled, glanced at Maryam for her initial findings. She nodded, stepping forward with her report. “The mayor suffered blunt-force trauma with multiple lacerations to the head,” Maryam began, her voice steady. “The fatal blow seems to have been from a heavy object. Most of the blood is from a deep wound in the hand.”

Gordon frowned, processing the information. “All this blood’s from his hand?”

Maryam nodded. “Yes. The thumb was severed postmortem, possibly as a trophy,” she explained, her tone clinical.

Batman, who had been silent, interjected. “He was alive when it was cut off,” he said, his voice low and gravely. He leaned closer to the body, his eyes narrowing as he pointed out a detail. “Ecchymosis around the wound... the bruising indicates he was still alive.”

The room fell silent as everyone processed the grim revelation. Maryam’s gaze met Batman’s again, a shared understanding passing between them. There was something about his presence—dark, intense, yet oddly reassuring—that intrigued her.

Gordon turned to the lead detective, seeking more information. “Security detail downstairs says the family was out trick-or-treating. The mayor was up here alone. Killer came through the skylight,” the detective explained, pointing upwards.

Batman’s attention was drawn to a small, fresh gash in the wooden floor—a detail overlooked by others. He knelt to examine it closely, his movements deliberate and precise. As he did, a photographer noticed and hurriedly snapped a shot, having missed the detail himself.

Gordon, observing the interaction, shifted gears. “There was a card,” he prompted, holding out an envelope.

The detective handed it over, and Gordon pulled out a Halloween-themed card. It featured a creepy skeleton behind a wide-eyed owl, tapping its shoulder. Gordon opened the card and read aloud the unsettling message: “What does a liar do when he’s dead?”

Inside, strange symbols were scrawled. Gordon unfolded another sheet from the envelope, revealing a cipher. “There’s a cipher too... Any of this... mean anything to you...?” he asked, turning to Batman, whose expression remained inscrutable.

Before Batman could respond, the door swung open again, and Commissioner Pete Savage stormed in. His face was a mixture of disbelief and frustration.

“I asked him to come, Pete,” Gordon said, attempting to defuse the situation.

“This is a crime scene—it’s Mitchell, for Chrissakes—I got press downstairs—!” Savage’s voice rose, barely containing his anger. “You know I cut you a lotta slack, Jim, ‘cuz we got history, but this is way over the line...!”

Gordon handed Savage the card, who read it with growing horror. When Savage saw the envelope addressed to “The Batman,” his expression darkened with suspicion.

“Wait—he’s involved in this—?” Savage demanded, his voice edged with accusation.

Gordon shook his head, maintaining a calm facade. “No, no—he’s not involved—”

Savage’s frustration was palpable. “How do you know? He’s a goddamn vigilante—he could be a suspect! What are you doing to me—he used to be my partner!”

As the argument escalated, Maryam, sensing the tension, decided it was time to leave. 

She pulled off her gloves, tossing them into a nearby bin. Her fingers trembled slightly as she made her way out of the room, her steps quickening as she sought to escape the stifling atmosphere.

In the hallway, Maryam paused, gathering herself before heading toward a nearby room where she knew Elliott, the mayor’s young son, was being questioned. The memories of seeing the little boy during her visits to her aunt’s house surfaced—her aunt had often babysat Elliott, and Maryam had developed a fondness for the quiet, sweet child.

As she approached the room, the door was slightly ajar, revealing George sitting on the bed, detective trying o ask the usual questions to no avail. His small frame trembling with silent sobs. Without hesitation, Maryam entered, and the boy’s eyes, red and swollen from crying, lit up with recognition. He bolted from the bed, running into her open arms. Maryam knelt, enveloping him in a protective embrace, her hand soothingly stroking his back.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm. “You’re safe now.”

George buried his face in her neck, his small body shaking with suppressed sobs. “Maryam,” he choked out, “I’m so scared. I saw… I saw him…”

Maryam’s heart tightened, and she held him closer, her voice soft and comforting. “I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s all so scary right now, but you’re safe now, okay? You’re a brave boy, and everything’s going to be okay.”

He pulled back slightly, looking up at her with tear-filled eyes. “Why did this happen? Why did they hurt him?” he asked, his voice quivering.

Maryam gently wiped the tears from his cheeks, her expression pained but resolute. “I don’t know,” she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. “But just know that you’re not alone, okay ? There are people who care about you and will protect you. I promise.”

As she spoke, Batman and Gordon made their way down the dimly lit hallway leading to the boy's room. Their faces were shrouded in shadow, the limited light casting long, ominous silhouettes on the walls.

Batman’s gaze fell upon the tender scene before him, and for a moment, his usually stern expression softened. A flicker of something—perhaps empathy, perhaps sorrow—crossed his face as he observed the small, traumatized boy clinging to Maryam. The sight stirred something deep within him, evoking a haunting reminder of a night 20 years ago.

Gordon, noticing Batman’s reaction, spoke quietly. “We really need to go man,” he murmured, a subtle nudge back to the task at hand.

Turning to leave, Batman couldn’t shake the image of the boy’s tear-streaked face and Maryam’s comforting embrace… A poignant reminder of the innocence lost in the shadows of Gotham’s darkness.

Tu’burni (تقبرني) : Literally meaning, “bury me”. it means you hope that they put you in the ground before them because you couldn’t bear living without them.

[zipperzoo]

And just like that, I go back into my cave teehee

[zipperzoo]

TOO SWEET (WHISKEY NEAT)

The Last of Us (2013 - 2024) Joel Miller x f!reader (one use of a gendered word) Word Count: 2.3k A03 Themes: Alcohol, Age Gap, Fluffy, Cute, Winter, First person, one-shot, SFW Summary: Inspired by Hozier's new banger, too sweet and those fantastic Joel miller edits to the song. I just got three things to say: God bless our troops, God bless The last of us and GENTLEMEN- START YOUR ENGINEEESSSS

Orange light of the Tipsy Bison was a welcoming one. After a long week of patrolling and harvesting, the whole town put together a game night. One that had been planned in advance and had plastered posters across every fence of the large commune. 

The blue hue of the evening helped illuminate the inside of the boisterous bar. A contrast of the warmth and the harsh cold outside drew people further inside. The heart of Jackson- makes sense for it to be a classic country tavern.

Despite that, outside stood a silhouette, one hunched over the railing that just nestled outside of the walkway.

Like a guard dog.

The large figure caught my eye while I laughed with the crowd I was with. The bustling of lively folks and chatter was soon washed out as I saw in the corner of my eye that shape.

He captured my full attention.

Turning my head slightly to see the man better. Leaning back to see past the person who sat beside me who was blocking the view.

Frowning to myself, I grabbed my drink from the bar. Nudging past the crowd to then open the glass door just ajar. Maybe it was my curiosity or the alcohol in me that brought out the sociable nature but I wanted to disturb that person’s peace.

Hit in the face with the frosted air, goosebumps run up my arms, it was an unsettling change from the warm and cozy heat from inside that still warmed my back. 

I winced slightly to then look up at the silhouette. Little light that was outside haloed his figure. Looking like an angelic painting. 

It was that poetic artistic appeal that struck me or the cold that was sobering me up. Either way, I wasn't going to argue against something that was visually appealing. Like a scene from a cinematic masterpiece.

Completely committing to the idea of going outside, I pushed myself outside and gently shut the door behind me. Zlip locking the chatter inside the building, locking it away to then have the peaceful quiet.

Wrapping one arm around me while one hand still held my ice hold drink, making my fingers go numb. 

I moved further outside with the goal to talk to this person, or at the very least check if they are okay.

The figure wore a tan coloured coat, with the orange glow from the windows it was hard to tell if it was heavy cotton or corduroy. His hair just fell over the collar. Long with gray streaks peaking through as it curled.

“Cold huh?” I mumbled just loud enough for the man in front of me to catch. In response he tensed his shoulders and stood up straight from his lean. He hadn't heard me close the door, let alone the disruption of the quiet that came with the bar door opening, but did hear me speak.

I was mistaken, this person did not act like a guard dog- more like a moose caught in the woods alone. Alert and easy to scare.

I felt like a rookie out hunting, seeing the slow and magnificent creature and I made the beginner mistake of walking up to it and my callout was the snap of a twig that started it.

He shifted slightly and turned his head halfway, seeing me. I saw his ragged appearance, and worn expression. 

It was Joel. 

Joel Miller.

Joel the quiet rough guy that mainly kept himself to himself besides his brother Tommy or the girl he looked after Ellie. It was hard to see this guy on his own, he was always with either of the two.

When he was on his own though, it very often was naturally uncomfortable. He just had that sort of atmosphere around him.

I remember very vividly when I went on a patrol with Joel. It was just to show me the general route, it was all new to me at the time. I just remember trying to strike up a conversation and he would shell up. Giving one sarcastic response or ignoring what I said. 

Kind of like meeting your friend’s dad for the first time. The same awkward silence and blunt statements of testing the waters to then bad jokes. Often repeating Ellie’s bad puns.

It would have been more pleasurable to rip my own fingernails.

“Hmm.” He hummed. 

I assume it was a response to my comment or to my presence. He moved back to his previous comfortable lean.

I slowly shuffled towards him rubbing my arm to then lean my arms down besides him onto the railing. Not too close to him but also not too far. Just enough space that my shudder of the cold couldn't be sensed- I hoped.

“Enjoying the party?” I nodded back towards the bar. Joel barely moved his head to face me, instead just side glanced to then hum again. Not uttering a word. 

It didn't seem like he wanted to talk. It is just like that patrol we went on.

I inhaled a sharp breath and asked “What’s your poison?” He took a sip, standing up straight and rolling his shoulders. Moving his upper body to then lean one arm on the railing to face me. 

“Whiskey.”

“Ah you do speak.” I teased, giving him a smile. In response he gave me a lopsided smile. “So… Whiskey and out in the cold.” He raised his eyebrows slightly expressing amusement in my comments, slowly warming up to my company but still very much keeping me distant with his blunt replies. “Just wanted some fresh air.” To that he leaned back forward, turning his attention away from me.

“Well the air sure is fresh.” I shivered slightly. “Why don’t you come back inside? I think Maria is about to start another round of card games.”

“I’m fine, you go back inside, you’ll catch a chill.”

“And you won't?”

“I’m wearing a coat.”

“You're old though.” 

A big smile grew on his worn face. “Old huh?”

“Don’t old people get cold.”

He rested his glass on the railing to then move to face me, standing up straight. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Enough.”

“Enough to bother an ‘old man’ who just wanted some fresh air.” He wrapped his fingers around his whiskey glass once again.

“Enough to give an old man who is possibly freezing to death some company.”

“I’m fine kid, I don't need company.”

He was far more chatty than usual, no thanks to the whiskey I bet. “Entertain me for a bit then?”

“Entertain you?” He chuckled, turning to face me, taking a sip of his drink.

His cheeks were slightly rosy, pepper kissed with a strawberry hue. There was do doubt about it. He was merry with his whiskey. 

“Yep, entertain me. I’m bored of the folks in there.”

He reached up his hand to scratch his jawline, turning to look out into the roads of Jackson once more. “I’m not one for company.”

“Oh but, Mr Miller, I’m in dire need of some company that only a miserable and tired old man such as yourself could fill.”

He let out another low chuckle at my dramatic act. “Think you're funny huh?”

“I’m the sweetest.”

With that, he rolled his head back to look at me. My goofy grin I didn't realize I had melted just as I took in his appearance. The way his long hair just swooped over his face, the scar on his nose. The harsh and deep wrinkles that suited his face better than I dared not imagine him without them. His hair was well groomed as was his beard, full and well trimmed. 

 “And I like my whiskey neat.” He muttered. Not paying attention to his words, The way his smile lines just made me feel slightly fuzzy inside made my mind run blank. “Hm? Come again?” He flashed his teeth as he looked away, smiling to himself. I'm guessing. Finding amusement or disbelief of my entire play by play of some sort of hazily morning day dream. “I’m agreeing with you- that you're sweet.”

“Aw, and here I thought that you were a lonely loner old man who had no idea about sweet things.”

“I do prefer bitter things.” 

“Like what? coffee?” “Exactly.”

“Doesn't hurt to have a splash of cream or maybe a little sprinkle of sugar,”

“You just won't take no as an answer wont you?”

“You're having fun aren't you though?” I nudged him playfully and at that he crackled a laugh, a drunken laugh. It was a little rough sounding but it was a pleasant sound. 

It made me feel at ease. I had completely forgotten I was freezing with the rush of adrenaline this entire conversation was giving me.

Completely strange now to recall how hard it was to talk to him, now it felt… Natural. Liquid courage was to thank for that. It softened up his hard edges, just enough he was approachable. I honestly didn't expect him to be like this, if this side of him was more well known across Jackson then he would be far more popular than Tommy. 

“Oh.” He cleared his throat to then shift his weight. “I’m having the time of my life.” his voice dripping with sarcasm. I could drink it up, that Texan accent with that sarcasm with a drunken smile on his face.

It could make me blush. Maybe I was blushing already, it was hard to tell with jack frost nipping at my cheeks and nose.

Raising my drink to my lips, but before I take a sip, I feel courageous. “So, cowboy, why are you here on your lonesome?” I take a sip of my drink, forgetting how strong and sweet my drink was, trying to withhold a reaction.

“As I said, I just wanted fresh air.”

“Outside ‘The Tipsy Bison’?”

I had the feeling he didn't want to argue or bite back anymore, as he just hummed in response then took another sip of his whiskey. 

“Humour me for a moment and could you do me a favour?” That caught his attention, looking at me, waiting for me to continue. “This is-” I pinch my nose bridge, slightly feeling the embarrassment rise up as the question ponders in my head. I sighed “Would you dance with me?” I murmured out finally.

He pushed himself from the railing, leaning one hand against it, holding all his weight. Raising one brow at me as he parted his lips. I guess I was kind of confused by my request.  

“Dance with you?” 

I was too nervous suddenly to respond, I just nodded. He smiled at me and shook his head, placing his glass down on the railing and standing in front of me, firm and steady with his cheeks flushed. 

He looked adorable. How can a man his age and of his terrifying nature be adorable. 

Holding his hand out towards me lazily, I took that as his answer. I couldn't help but have one big goofy childish grin on my face. It felt like a small win. 

Placing my ice cold fingers into his hand, he wrapped his warm ones round them. He flinched slightly- possibly at the realization at how cold I am. Rubbing his thumb over my fingers slowly warming them up.

The calluses of his fingertips were coarse, adding to his textured hands already with his rough and hard touch. It felt like I was brushing my hands over expensive but well worn leather.

“Alright, one dance,” he whispered. Leaning a little closer to me, I could smell the bitter whiskey on his breath. “Then you’ll best go back inside before you freeze to death.”

My expression softens up, I tug on his hand, giving it a light squeeze. “Promise.” “Atta girl.” 

He didn't wait a second longer for me to possibly change my mind, Joel moved to the centre of the wooden boards outside the bar. Hovering one hand over my waist, encouraging me to follow him centre. Hesitating to touch me anymore than he already was with my hand.

Letting him practically drag me along, I gripped one hand onto his shoulder as my hand he held dug my frosty tips into his. He must have found it uncomfortable because he let go of my hand to then intertwine our fingers just so it was easier to hold. A selfish part of me thought maybe to also warm my fingers up better.

Moving my overhand to rest on top of his shoulder, he then confidently finally placed his hand onto my waist.

Taking the lead, Joel began to sway, step by step. I followed like a good drunk dancing partner.

It was so strange. We were in our own little bubble. Inside the bar looked completely unbothered and unphased by us outside. No one had noticed that I even left.

Even if anyone had looked outside and saw us they probably would have written it off as two drunk and merry folk just enjoying the music inside, the strums of the pedal steel that just seeped through the walls.

It was the perfect disguise. I can’t speak for Joel, but I selfishly and unapologetically enjoyed this, in a way you think you are the main character. The way you feel sunlight for the first time after a long and dark winter. The way you think the world revolves around you when folks beam when they see you.

It felt like a moment in a romance novel that made you feel warm and cosy. 

This isn't love of course, this is just two drunk people enjoying one another's company. But I think to fall in love with this man if he allowed it would feel like the world stood still but also spun too fast for anything to make sense.

A privilege. One I’ll probably day dream about often and use this moment as a starting point. 

As I let my mind wonder it's intoxicated thoughts, I closed the gap between us and rested my head on his shoulder and hummed along to the tune that was faintly heard.

He joined in with his soft humming.

How sweet, a man who came across so bitter would be so sweet on just a bit of whiskey.

[zipperzoo]

I LIVE BITCHES

[zipperzoo]

i loved your bruce wayne x reader fics😩 i finished both middle of the night and the sequel in TWO DAYS 😭 pls let me know if there are any other bruce wayne/reader or original character fics u recommend, preferably long and complete🤭

Thanks for reading!!

Some favorites: @punchdrunkdoc 's Just Breathe, @neutron-stars-collision Waiting for the Night, @whats-rambled-rambled mini series, @devilfic Right Place Right Time (this one is ongoing but pretty long so far!), and @zipperzoo 's Fight to Make it Up (ongoing)

[zipperzoo]

FIGHT TO MAKE IT UP

The Batman (2022) bruce wayne x f!reader Word count: - 2259 Masterlist / AO3 / Playlist Themes: Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Crime Family, Thriller, Nior, Heist, Action, Comedy, Crime. A/N: howdy! I took a um a hiatus HA- I needed a break due to life stuff but I really wanna finish this! and I did some research into stuff >.>

Chapter Eight:

Helping solve the crime you’d need many of these, a particular way of viewing things to bring justice to its knees

“Name?” “Oliver Caddel” “Okay Oliver, Occupation?”

“Circus staff… Is this going to take long?” He murmured, scratching his jaw with his thumb.

Rubbing his eyes, Exhausted already. Gordon pressed on. “Could you describe the events that took place here- what did you see or hear?”

Seated inside one of the many tents around the outskirts of the crime scene, outstretched a long line of partially injured civilians. Witnesses holding papers. Awaiting their turn to share their own statements of their experiences. 

Unkempt appearances could already tell their own personal experiences of the night. Injuries as well as haunting distant empty stares into space. Lined up one by one behind one another. There was no discrimination of person, the victims were diverse among age, gender and race.

In an attempt to evacuate the camp site of the circus that was now taped off to the public while forensic officers would use their magic along with the help of the 'CID' (Criminal Investigation Department). It didn't stop news anchors or news broadcasters from attempting to get in through sky or ground for any latest scoop or raw footage of the damage. 

Swirling around, capturing the long queues and the smoke trailing up above the main tent into a cloud of green and yellow mystery gas that just settled.

The tent that Gordon sat in, was small, cramped practically and opposite him was a singular witness who was nervous, worse for wear. 

Oliver was the tenth or maybe the eleventh witness that Gordon had spoken too so far, and all he had to show for it was either vague descriptions of evocative unique descriptions per person of the events. Nothing was the same, they were all like different accounts of different events stitched together. Making a hazy similarities.

Nothing was drawing him closer to any answers to why, why this circus, why these people, why this specific method and importantly who would have the motive? What was the motive?

Was it a display of power? 

Was it just so they could? 

Was it a test? Was it a test? 

What was the reason?

What is that mysterious gas?

“I wasn't inside the tent when It happened, I was… around.” The hesitation in his voice caused Gordon to drop the pen he held. 

“Around?”

“You know, like around the tent.”

“But not inside?”

“No.”

“What part of the team did you work a part of?” With a deep sigh through his nose, Gordon picked his pen back up and jotted down everything the witness was sharing onto his witness form. Maybe this should have been something for Rivers to work on. Gordon wasn't getting anywhere and some fresh eyes on this would actually get him somewhere. He was beginning to regret putting them on the Wayne tower case.

That case feels like a distant dream now.

I worked on the electrics, ya know the lights. To make sure everything was-” “Hmm hm-” Gordon cut him off, lacing his hum with attitude. He knew what a tech did, he didn't need a recap. He just wanted to know what the man's experience of the evening was. “-I had a hard time focusing but when I finally did they were red, beet red i mean red!!”

Looking up at the witness through his brows, stopping his notes for a second Gordon asked “What was? The lights?”

“Like the worst sunburn you’ve ever seen!”

“Yes I’ve gotten the colour- what exactly was red though?”

Oliver’s face scrunched up, trying to recall exactly what then realization washed over him. His face stretched as his brows frowned. His gears were moving and Gordon was captivated by it. 

Then, as if an alarm went off in his mind, he shot up and looked at Gordon, confused. “I’m sorry, what was the question again?” “You said something was red?”

“Hm? I’m sorry I-” He paused, looking down at his lap “I don't really remember?”

Leaning back on his chair, pushing aside the witness form which was half way filled in. Gordon looked at the witness. This was getting nowhere. Again they all had different descriptions of the events that might as well have been about different incidents.

One witness stated she was in the middle of an airplane on fire and about to crash, she remembered running through the cabins when pieces of the walls flew off. Vacuuming out civilians on the flight with her to then find herself standing in the middle of a field having others crash into her, fleeing. 

Another stated he lost the ability to speak while everyones face morphed into empty sockets. His instinct was to fight back. Upon the realization that he could have very possibly hurt someone made him hysterical and had to be escorted out by officers.

Moving things along, Gordon quickly signed off the sheet, shuffling it to the growing pile beside him. If anything was to come from this maybe one hell of a book with all these testimonies. Some of these would make one hell of a horror novel.

“That's alright.” Gordon spoke. “We’re done, could you let in the next person in the line?” 

Without a word, the witness Oliver pushed back his chair to then exit, letting the next person in through the tent’s flimsy waterproof door. 

The next witness meekly made her way to the chair opposite Gordon. She looked extremely exhausted, eyebags fresh and sharp. Her hair knotted and fried. She was cradling her arm which was in a sling. “Name?” “Is this going to take long?” “It depends on the information you’ll be able to provide- name?” Gordon licked his thumb to then pluck a fresh form from the immaculate pile besides the ruffled one. “Abigail Williams. But I’m known as Dizzy on the staff”

“Okay, Dizzy, Occupation?” when pronouncing her nickname, he raised his eyebrows. Wasn't the first one of the evening preferring their stage name he heard. He had jotted down her name with Dizzy alongside it in quotation marks.

“Circus staff. I work closely with the performers.”

“So you were inside the tent?”

“I didn't know where I was or what time it was, let alone what was happening.”

“Could you try.” He leaned back on his chair, the wood squeaked under his weight. He had nothing but time right now. 

It's all he could really do. 

By the books he had nothing but time.

A very uneasy nod bloomed from her still state. Dropping her arm that cradled her sling to her lap, to then fiddle around with nervousness, an attempt to try and jog her foggy memory of a very traumatizing evening.

“I remember just my body feeling a sense of urgency, like something wasn't right. And the smell mostly.”

“A smell?”

“Um- A very sweet smell, kind of like honeysuckle-like?” she scrunched her brows together. “Yeah! Honeysuckle! Like a flower but it was kind of sour, burning at the back of the nose.”

Gordon pulled his eyes away from her to jot down exactly what she was saying. Pulling out a notebook from his pocket, completely separate from any of the paperwork scattered on the makeshift table.

Taking note, he scribbled ‘Honeysuckle smell- sour???’ 

“Then um.”

“Then what?”

Looking down, frowning, trying my best to remember. “I… I remember- oh god.” she gasped covering her mouth, panic eroded as she looked up at Gordon with a sudden realization. “Are the Grayson's okay?”

“The Grayson's?”

“The Grayson's?! The performers of the circus. They were the leading performers and they are a family. Two parents and one child. But I saw- I swear on my life I saw the two fall and crash into the ground.”

“Fall and crash like-”

“Like, fall and crash! Falling to the ground and just kind of a thud.” Lowing her hand revealing her mouth agape, worry lines forming beside it. “Then after that I- I just remember like everyone acting frantic and not normal.”

“Wait, you mentioned a child? Was the child a part of the two bodies you saw?”

“Huh? No, oh god no? The child wasn't there. I have no idea where the child was.”

“Did you see the child before or after the incident?”

“Uh.” her eyes frantically moving around the room, searching. “I haven't seen him since maybe this morning? With his parents? Besides that-” she shook her head.

“So the child wasn't there at the show?”

She pulled a face and shook her head again. “He was planning to be there but he wasn't. I just assumed it was a last minute change? Is… Is he not with the officers?”

“What's the child's name?”

“Dick Grayson.”

A moment Gordon’s thoughts raced, staring at Dizzy the Witness to then suddenly reach over the messy pile of paperwork flipping through all of them. Looking for any witnesses that matched the name of the child. Flipping through once, nothing. He blinked then flipped through again.

He hadn’t spoken to a Dick Grayson.

“Does the child have a stage name? What's his description?”

“Um, short boy. Dark hair, kind of an innocent look but he has a know it all attitude of sorts- Hard to miss.” She shifted in the chair slightly. “I’m sorry, is the questioning over?-” She asked, cocking her head with an inquisitive brow, concerned.

Dropping the paper he was holding, he scooted out of his chair. “Excuse me for a moment.” Swinging around the table to then dash out of the tent, leaving her there, turning around to look at the exit where he left. Confused.

Welcomed by harsh on sight lighting of the powerful The Nomad tripod lights scattered across the field illuminating the field. Gordon was momentarily blinded. 

Blinking, adjusting his eyes to the lighting, he looked at the long line of witnesses.

Gordon turned to the first person in front of him who was covered head to toe in mud and blood- no clue where the source of the bleeding was from or if it was even their blood. “Where's the officers?”

The person stared hard at Gordon, startled by Gordons urgency. Shaking their head frantically to then turn to the person next to them. They too shook their heads.

They didn't know where they could be.

With a huff, Gordon looked around. Police standing by taped off areas bantering among themselves, one even laughing. Several forensic teams built recreational mysterious tools, while others carried bags of evidence. 

Even several paramedic teams were attending to some civilians close by. 

Gordon Marched towards the police Officers.

Grabbing an officer by the shoulder, turning him to Gordons attention. “I need you to locate a child for me, goes by the name Dick Grayson.”

“Sir?”

“It's urgent.”

One of the officers laughed, “Good luck with that.”

“You think this is funny?”

The officer coughed, changing his entire demeanour. “No sir.” he panicked.

“Dick Grayson, A young boy- meant to be one of the events mainline acts with the parents. Any information on him?”

“Dick Greyson? Yeah the kid, he is on the missing list.” 

Gordon frowned in response. The officer looked to his colleagues to then pull up a clipboard of names that had red dashes next to them. 

Below two dashes that were two Greyson's was a Dick Greyson that had a blank space.

“We are still searching the wreckage, there are alot of bodies sir but so far from what we have accounted for, no Dick Greyson has been found that we can formally account for. He is either dead or missing.”

“The red marks?” Gordon pointed at the clipboard. “What do the red marks mean?”

“Deceased. His parents have been identified. But again-” The words failed to leave the officer, he didn't need to say anything; it was in between the words he had spoken.

Gordon ran a hand down his face. A defeated sigh slipped through his tired lips. 

There was no doubt about it that there was an ever growing number of missing people and children. But to know one thing was out of place before the actual events could be a crucial key to this mystery.

Cutting short the brief haunting thought of a child and his parents- A crowd of people started running, dashing out of the way to either side. 

The officers by Gordon jumped besides him, all turning their attention towards a loud pipe like noise that was vastly approaching.

With mud flying it was hard to make out what was heading their way. Gordon took a few dragged steps back and squinted, hoping to focus on any details betrayed between the specks of mud flying.

He saw the red lights of a vehicle flooding the field and painted the tents with its harsh light. 

A monster that looked like a car screamed life so much so that a few civilians flinched and cowered.

Slowing down as it spun around to turn then coming to a halt.

The engine dying down like a beast just suddenly being tamed to rest. 

Steam coming from its exhaust fogging the ground. Tendrils of smoke swarming around the site, invading the tents. Entrapping the residents who stood idle in its mist.

Bursting open the steel doors from the vehicle, black boots emerge from its inner shadow.

A tall dark figure lurked out, with its piercing blue eyes looming over the people that stood around him and his beast. 

A watchful gargoyle that breathed life as his chest heaved with vengeance as his eyes met with Gordons.

A few heads turn to face Gordon, with fear residing in their expressions.

“Batman.” Gordon whispered, relieved. “Finally.”

[zipperzoo]

Hey Shelby! :)

I'm currenty looking for battinson fic recs too. I had all 4 of my wisdom teeth removed today and really need a distraction cause i'm in so much pain right now :(

Hope you're doing well :)

hi anon! First off, oof, good luck with your widsom teeth! I had mine done in October ish so I'll put some unsolicited advice under a cut (in case you want to skip it lol)

some of my faaaavorite fics (and I'm sure I'll forget some):

@neutron-stars-collision 's Waiting for the Night is set just before and during the events of the film and I love it--it's ongoing but very close to completion and has the best angst/ idiots to lovers plot

@punchdrunkdoc has a brilliant slow burn with an OC that I adore (I know a lot of people prefer reader insert but trust me, this fic is amazing!) Just Breathe is definitely a permanent favorite

@whats-rambled-rambled has a mini series that I still reread because it's so beautiful, it starts with the one called the way down! (which btw is a song I became obsessed with because of this fic, and I still listen to it on the regular)

@devilfic has an ongoing series I'm obsessed with called right place, right time

@zipperzoo my bestie has an ongoing series (on hiatus but still worth checking out!) called fight to make it up and honestly it's hilarious and fun and the right amount of angst

Again I'm sure I've left people out, so feel free to use this as a rec post too and comment your fic or your faves! These are just the ones off the top of my head

now for unsolicited wisdom teeth advice!

for me, it just...sucked for a while. However! Icing it every 20-30 minutes for the first day or two definitely helped with the pain. I also slept propped up because laying on my side or all the way flat made my whole head hurt for some reason

make sure to take breaks icing it! Also, don't ice it past day 2.

Take your medications! I only used the hardcore pain meds for maybe day 1 and 2 and then switched to only taking it at night but taking a shit ton of ibuprofen during the day--that's just personal preference though because the pain meds made me feel too drowsy (100% listen to the surgeon's advice on this though!)

do not use a fucking straw for at least a week. DO NOT USE A STRAW. I'm sure they told you this but seriously....don't do it. Even when you start to feel better in a few days don't do it, give your mouth time to heal over! Listen to the instructions on this for sure!! I'm a bit anal with this stuff so I actually avoided a straw for a month lmao but whatever timeline they give you, stick to that, minimum

Don't forget to brush your teeth. It will hurt the first few days but you have to keep your mouth clean!

And last but not least unless I randomly remember something: hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. You won't be eating much for a few days so water is your new best friend to stay alive. Also it'll help with healing. Get a big ass cup and refill it often, trust me on this

[zipperzoo]

in flames

battisnon! bruce wayne x CEO! vigilante! reader

summary: The reader encounters the Batman one night when stealing information from a murdered man one night. The next day at a meeting to merge her business with Wayne Enterprises, she meets Bruce Wayne for the first time--and he has a cut on his face exactly like the one she gave the Batman. When sparks fly, will they go down in flames?

a/n: look it's me back with another "oneshot" in which I'm too long winded! This one's smutty and full of banter--enjoy! (and yes I do have to use this gif whenever there's something sexy in the content oops)

***not affiliated with middle of the night***

*content is NSFW. 18+*

word count: 10,497

The window opened with barely a creak. Y/n slipped through carefully, quietly, every one of her senses on high alert. 

Getting caught at an active crime scene would be a terrible look for her company, to say the least. Especially the night before a huge meeting about a potential merger. 

But that part of her that had always existed–the part that fought against injustice, no matter how big or small, the part that used her position in life for good–wouldn’t let this rest. 

A man had been murdered, after all. 

A man who was a murderer himself. A man who hurt people, repeatedly, for his own gain. 

She left the window open the barest crack in case she needed to make a quick getaway, but  still closed enough that it didn’t look like it had been tampered with. She’d learned that lesson the hard way over the years she’d been doing this. 

She waited a beat in the silence of the night to make sure nothing was stirring. 

The penthouse apartment was utterly quiet. 

She knew from a couple of hours of observation that there was only one cop posted outside the apartment door and another in the lobby. She guessed they hadn’t expected anyone to come in from the roof. And hadn’t that been how the Riddler had gotten in to kill the mayor the year before? GCPD were never going to learn. 

Y/n bit back a sigh. A year, and things in Gotham were still shit. 

Well, she was working on that. Not only did she shore up charitable donations in the city, but she also had taken notes from the Batman and decided to take matters into her own hands–in secret of course. She did good work with her money and her company by day, and a different sort of work by night in disguise. 

While she didn’t have the gadgets or physical strength like Batman did, she had her own set of skills. Namely, plenty of friends in places both low and high, willing to help her out because they all owed her favors. She dealt in secrets, and secrets were what led to real change in the city.

Not violence. Not death. Not even good, old-fashioned police work. 

Secrets from the right person leveraged in the right way wrought change with little effort.

And secrets were what she was currently after. 

The man who’d been murdered–a former city councilman who had just announced his run for Senate and his plan to eventually run for president–was scum just like all the powerful people the Riddler had murdered a year before. 

Y/n didn’t condone murder, but she did believe in bringing the darkness into the light. That part of the Riddler’s manifesto, at least, she could get behind. As fucking crazy as the guy was, she really couldn’t blame him for wanting to correct some of the shitstorm that was the city of Gotham. His methods had been all wrong, though. She didn’t hurt anybody. She merely told the truth about them. 

It was pure chance that her target had been murdered. There had been a string of robberies in the upper class neighborhood–and this time, the apartment hadn’t been empty as expected. The thieves had killed him in their surprise. It had always been her plan to rob the man, just not his valuables. She was after his secrets so she could expose him and ruin his political career. 

Now one man was dead and the thief turned murderer was in a jail cell. The city was lauding one and villainizing the other. But they didn’t know what she knew, what she was seeking to reveal to the city at large. 

Y/n knew the truth. Not only was the Senate campaign paid for with all kinds of dirty money, but that money had also been stolen from all kinds of charities–several of which y/n was directly involved with and one she had started herself. 

Even if she hadn’t been involved in the aforementioned charities, her blood would have curdled at every other secret this former councilman had hidden. The skeletons in his closet were overflowing, all clambering over each other, multiplying the more she dug. 

And apparently, the man was old fashioned and had several paper copies of his nefarious dealings hidden in a personal safe. The police had checked the other safe, the one the thief had been trying to get into when he shot the former councilman. All along there had been another, smaller, much more important safe underneath the man’s desk. 

It was this safe y/n aimed for. 

She bent underneath the desk and got to work picking the lock. 

It took nearly ten minutes, not her best work, but finally the damn thing opened with a soft click. Sadly, her informant hadn’t known the code, but y/n was adept at safe cracking and lock picking.

Every hair on the back of her neck rose. 

It was instinct born of her nightly activities, or it was the soft movement of air as someone snuck through the apartment, or maybe it was the barest sound of a shoe against the hardwood. Somehow, she very suddenly knew she wasn’t alone.

Y/n didn’t hesitate. She whirled and threw one of the many knives on her at the person sneaking up behind her. The aim was to scare, not to kill. In the same moment, she grabbed everything from the hidden safe and tucked it under her arm. 

The knife nicked the side of the Batman’s jaw as he easily stepped out of the way. 

Shit, she thought, because she had expected another thief or maybe a cop. And he was close, closer than she’d expected. 

She hadn’t expected Gotham’s favorite vigilante to be right behind. 

The Batman didn’t hesitate either. He darted forward so fast she barely saw more than a blur of shadow. With a curse out loud this time, she dodged, hip banging painfully against the corner of the desk as she moved out of the way. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” she said in a low voice.

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” the masked man said. They were both keeping as quiet as possible. She didn’t think either of them would want the cop outside knowing someone had broken into the apartment. 

He lunged. She ducked under his arm and kicked at the back of his knee. He grunted but didn’t go down. She frowned but had no time to alter course before his hand grabbed her upper arm and yanked. All of the papers she’d taken scattered across the floor. 

Y/n chopped at his elbow, hand stinging as it connected to whatever his armor was made out of. 

“Ow,” she muttered as she tried to release herself from his tight grip. Damn, he was strong. She aimed a kick towards his balls but his free hand caught her ankle. Now he had her arm and her leg. She bared her teeth at him and forced herself closer to take him off guard. He wasn’t easily fooled, though, and only held her tighter. 

“I’m not stealing, you fucker,” she hissed. Her chest pressed up against the hard planes of armor. Batman stared down at her, eyes almost blank underneath the mask. He was taller and broader than her, and showed no signs of his grip lessening. 

“Then why did you take papers out of that safe?” he asked in a gravelly baritone that made her shiver. She hadn’t realized that the Batman was…kind of hot. 

“Take a look at them and you’ll see why.” She wriggled again but he didn’t let go. 

He stared down at her for a long moment. Finally, he moved enough to bend over and gather up the papers with one hand. His other hand still had her by the wrist. 

“I’m not going to run,” she said with an annoyed sigh. “I’m doing what you do–fixing corruption.” 

The vigilante straightened and glanced at the topmost paper in his hand. He frowned. 

“Is this all true?” 

She craned her neck to see what, exactly, he was looking at. 

“Yes, it’s all true.” She gave up trying to get out of his hold. He was too strong, too fast. “That’s all I was after. I have a contact at GC1 news I was going to send it to. Make it public that this guy was a piece of shit who’s better off dead.” 

Batman simply stared at her. The cut across his jaw was shallow but bleeding steadily. 

“Then why break in?” he finally asked. 

“Why’d you break in?” she countered. His grip loosened slightly. She silently began to count down. She didn’t want this asshole taking her hard-earned information to the police or anyone else. She wanted it public and she needed the papers in his gloved hands in order to do so. 

“I’m investigating,” he said with a slight narrowing of his eyes. “And catching thieves.” 

“I’m not a thief!” 

She used his distraction to yank her hand back, grab the papers, and dart away. 

Batman caught her by the suit at the scruff of her neck. 

Rage welled up inside y/n and she struck out with her leg. In the same movement she twisted to face him. Her foot connected with his chest. He barely moved. He didn’t make a sound, either, as if she was simply an insect bothering him. 

“If you’re not a thief,” he said while blocking the blow from her fist. She kept backing up towards the window she’d left cracked, even as they exchanged a flurry of blows. “Then why did you break in? Why did you throw a knife?” 

She almost winced. “You snuck up on me, okay? You were closer than I thought. I wasn’t aiming to hit you.” 

“But you were aiming to steal.” Again, he caught her by the ankle as she tried to kick him. She growled as she was forced to hop on her other foot to remain balanced. 

“Yes, we went over this. Nothing else nefarious is going on.” She crossed her heart with her free hand for emphasis. 

Quicker than she thought possible, the Batman released her foot. It knocked her off balance and she stumbled. 

He pulled off her mask. 

Her heart stopped. She froze, panting heavily from their little bit of sparring, and stared at him in fear. 

“Don’t–” she said, but no other words would come. 

“I’m keeping this,” he said as he held up the mask. “Do what you want with those papers. Then stop breaking into places.” 

He had her mask. He was looking her dead in the eyes. She might not have been easily recognizable like other wealthy CEOs in Gotham, but if her merger with Wayne Enterprises went through the next day…her picture would be everywhere. And then he’d know who she was. 

She half-snarled and darted towards her mask. The Batman easily kept it out of her reach. 

“Give it back!” she said in a voice that was much too loud. 

They both froze as the apartment door clicked–a key in the lock. 

Shit, the cop was coming to check on them. 

She and the Batman exchanged a glance. 

Her mind tripped over itself trying to get past her fight, flight, or freeze instincts all warring for attention. She needed her mask, but if she got caught…it was over. 

Fuck it, she had to leave the mask. 

“Fucker,” she mumbled to the other vigilante as she fled for the window. He didn’t stop her. 

As she closed it behind her, she chanced a glance in the window. The Batman was gone. A cop was walking through, shining his flashlight over every shadow. 

Y/n stared for a beat longer. 

Then she scrambled up to the roof to grab her things and run like hell. 

First she had information to leak to the press. Then she had a board meeting to prepare for. At least she had the files now. 

She could get revenge against that asshole vigilante some other time. 

–

Y/n dressed carefully for her meeting the next morning. It never hurt to dress to impress, she reasoned. She needed to look strong, capable, but not dowdy. Men were simple creatures and she figured Bruce Wayne was no different. If she could impress him, the merger would go through. 

Her pantsuit was simple and black, tailored to perfectly accent her body. Underneath she wore a red silk shirt–red for power, red for purpose. Red to match her favorite lipstick. 

The news played in the background as she finished her makeup and hair. The information she’d given the news was already everywhere. She tried not to feel too smug, but it was hard. She’d taken that bastard’s reputation down, sent it to hell where it and he belonged. And now investigations were starting–investigations that would hopefully help the people he wronged. That would give money back to the charities and families he had stolen from. 

She was so focused on her triumph that she didn’t have time to be angry at the asshole vigilante who’d stolen her mask. She could get another one made–but it would take a while. It was custom made, bulletproof and made to perfectly fit her face. Maybe this time she’d request it hook to her suit, too, that way it wouldn’t be so easy to steal next time. 

She and her team were the first ones in the boardroom at Wayne Enterprises. They were early, but only by a few minutes. She shuffled her papers quietly and pulled up the current contract on her laptop. They would be discussing terms in that meeting and hopefully everyone would win. In another tab she had cost and profit projections in neat little graphs. 

Merging with Wayne Enterprises was going to change her life. Her business would thrive even more, have more reach, be able to give more to charity. She knew Bruce Wayne liked charitable giving–his parents had been philanthropists and he had started a relief. She had made sure to include all this in her pros and cons list that she’d emailed the Wayne CEO at the beginning of the merger talks. 

“Good morning,” said a member of the Wayne Enterprises board from the doorway. She and her team stood and started shaking hands. 

Bruce Wayne was the last one in the door. He didn’t shake anyone’s hand, merely went to the opposite end of the conference table from y/n. 

As they all sat, Bruce Wayne looked up and met her gaze. 

They both startled. 

Recognition flitted across his face before he could hide it. 

Her own mouth parted in shock. 

Bruce Wayne had a long cut across one side of his jaw. A cut that perfectly matched the one she’d given a certain vigilante the night before.

Bruce Wayne was the Batman. 

–

“–not saying that we shouldn’t, but after all the bad luck with the Riddler last year–” 

Bruce Wayne interrupted y/n with a growl in his voice. “Bad luck? Bad luck? He’s a psychopath who murdered people and blew up half the city! It’s not–” 

“You know what I meant!” she shot right back. 

There had been a moment, at the beginning of the meeting, where everyone was introduced and the terms of the contract were read aloud and y/n and Bruce had simply stared at each other. The moment stretched into silence, and all she could think was, Holy fucking shit. 

Bruce Wayne was the Batman. 

It had devolved from there. 

Bruce had immediately shot down several of the terms she had insisted on, which pissed her off. Her rebuttal had been appropriately angry, which had pissed him off. Every beat of her heart had her more and more worried he’d reveal her identity and she’d be fired on the spot. 

After half an hour, they’d argued about several things, and she finally started to stop worrying about him outing her. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t piss her off with every word out of his mouth. 

Now, here they were, half-shouting at each other from across the long table, both of them the only ones standing. Bruce had his hands flat on the table as he shot daggers at her with his eyes and his words. She stood with a hand on her hip, just as angry as she was. 

The worst part was, they’d been using an intermediary to even draft the contract they were there to discuss. And now he suddenly had a bunch of issues with it? It was in his fucking favor. 

There was a soft clearing of a throat that shut them both up mid bickering. 

“I think we should table this for the day,” said the intermediary. She was pretty sure he wasn’t there to act as a literal mediator. “We can reconvene at the same time tomorrow. Why don’t we have both sides draw up new proposals in the meantime.” 

Everyone was staring at them, at their behavior, and it only served to piss her off more. 

“Well I’m okay with getting this finished today,” y/n said petulantly. She glared at Bruce Wayne. 

“Let’s table it,” he said as he glared right back. She had a feeling that he was only saying that to disagree with her, not because he actually thought it was a bad idea. 

She ground her teeth together so hard she was pretty sure the whole table could hear it. “Fine, same time tomorrow.” 

She was too angry to feel embarrassed at her squabbling with the CEO of Wayne Enterprises like two rival schoolchildren. Not only had this fucker taken her mask, but he also was trying to fuck her with her company too. All this work she’d put into the contract, into the merger, and he was blowing it off like it was nothing.

She stormed out of the room without another word, headed straight for the elevator, and muttered curse words under her breath the entire way. It didn’t help her feel better, but she had to blow off some of the steam rising in her somehow or she was going to burst into angry flames and take down the whole building, his apartments included.

Inside the elevator, she took a deep breath. She’d have to rewrite the entire contract, which would probably take all night. The only thing that made her feel better was that Bruce Wayne had to do the same thing if he wanted any of his terms put up for consideration. 

She imagined him in his full Batman costume pouring over the contracts and snorted to herself. Of course, he probably just had someone do it for him and send it to him to review, but the mental image cheered her slightly. 

As if her thoughts had conjured him, a hand caught the closing elevator doors, and in stepped Bruce Wayne. 

The doors slid closed beside them. 

Y/n had to bite her lip to keep from making a rude comment. There were several of them warring to get out at once. 

“Mr. Wayne,” she said instead, but she let all of the built up anger and venom come through her words. 

He put his hands in his suit pockets and sighed. She had to admit, even as mad as he made her, he looked damn good. He was wearing a tailored dark blue suit that made his blue eyes pop. His long, dark hair was tousled as if he’d woken up right before coming to the meeting. He was tall, his shoulders broad, and his damn jawline was so sharp it looked like it had cut itself with the damage her knife had inflicted. And the cut along the jaw just made it worse–he looked mysterious, handsome, like he was full of secrets waiting to be discovered. Which, she guessed, he was. 

He stared down at her, back ramrod straight, and seemed to grow in the small space. He reached a hand out and without looking hit a button that made the elevator stop. 

She simply waited. She was pretty sure she knew what was coming. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. 

Bruce leaned in very close–close enough that she could smell whatever fresh scent of shampoo or deodorant he used. It was a masculine scent that made her pulse jump as he got close enough for her to feel his breath. 

“If you tell anyone,” he said in a voice that definitely dredged up all sorts of images of darkness and shadows and bat wings. It also made her think of silk sheets and shadowy beds. 

Feeling bold, y/n stepped closer. Their chests brushed now. “Is this a threat, Mr. Wayne?” 

Something flashed in his eyes and her traitorous body decided to get really, really turned on. His jaw clenched so tightly she expected to hear an audible snap. She could practically see his internal struggle not to be an asshole and it made her want to laugh. It was almost too easy to rile him up. 

He took a step back, expression suddenly vulnerable. “It would be…very bad for me, and those close to me…if you told anyone. So, please. Just don’t–please.” 

She softened a little. She hadn’t expected the please. “Hey, I’ve got a big secret too, remember? I won’t tell.” He gave a single sharp nod. “I want my mask back,” she added. 

“No,” he said as he leaned against the elevator wall. She could see their reflections in the shiny metallic ceiling. He was a blur of dark blue, she a pop of red. Opposites, of course.

“Why the fuck not?” she asked. She crossed her arms again. The softness she’d felt towards him was completely gone just like that. 

Bruce straightened and got into her space again. Granted, it might not have been on purpose since he was so tall and the elevator was small. He lowered his voice, eyes flickering to her red lips, and said, “To keep you out of trouble.” 

Y/n had no excuse for what happened next. As if possessed, she matched his step forward and let her hand slide up his chest to his shoulder. He swallowed hard, seemingly nervous. 

“I can get into all kinds of trouble without the mask,” she murmured. Her eyes traced his lips this time. 

And maybe it was because he was handsome and he was there. Maybe it was because they shared so many similarities. Or maybe she wanted to one up him somehow, and knew this would do the trick. 

No matter the reason, y/n stretched up and captured Bruce Wayne’s mouth with her own. 

He froze for a second, going unnaturally still, before he seemed to shake it off. 

She couldn’t help the small groan that escaped when his tongue traced her bottom lip or the one that slipped out when he grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him. One of her hands slipped inside his suit jacket while the other tangled in his hair. He groaned this time, and it went straight through her like a meteor, lighting her on fire as it went. 

Her back bumped against the cold elevator wall, the railing digging into her, and she let herself be lifted so her ass sat on top of it. It was barely big enough to balance on, but provided enough leverage for Bruce to slide between her legs. She could feel his arousal press against her, right where she wanted him, and she couldn’t help the small shift of her hips. 

Bruce grabbed her tighter. 

She bit his lower lip and grinned when he jerked back. 

“That was for being a jerk earlier,” she said. 

He stared down at her. His dark hair was mussed. The blackness of his pupils had almost overtaken the bright blue. 

Y/n lifted her hips to grind against him. His breath shook, eyelids fluttering closed. He felt so good against her like this, warm and strong and solid. 

But then he let go and stepped away from her. He straightened his suit and wiped her lipstick off of his own mouth. 

“Was it something I said?” she asked, teasing to cover up the hurt that was stinging through her like small thorns. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. He jabbed the same button from earlier and the elevator lurched into motion once more. 

She frowned at him. He didn’t bother looking at her. “So you’re going to leave me and my business high and dry?” 

No answer. She scoffed. “And here I thought you were different from the typical rich man.” 

His shoulders stiffened but he still didn’t say a word. Above their heads, the elevator counted down as they slowly got closer and closer to the ground floor. 

“Don’t you live in the penthouse?” she asked with another frown, distracted from her annoyance by the descending numbers. 

“Yes,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. 

“Then let’s go up there so you can give me my damn mask back.”

The elevator dinged as they reached the lobby. 

“No,” he said over his shoulder as he stepped out. 

She watched him stride away on impossibly long legs. 

“Fuck,” she said, half annoyed with him, half with herself. She wanted to chase after him and slap some sense into him. Or chase after him and kiss him again. Her whole body tingled from the adrenaline of their meeting followed by quite possibly the best kiss she’d ever had. 

And he still wouldn’t give her damn mask back. 

With another soft growl of frustration, she stepped out of the elevator. She had no choice but to head home and start working on the damn contract. That, and she had to order a replacement mask. Hopefully her supplier still had her measurements on file. 

– 

The next morning, y/n decided to do something stupid. 

She left two hours early for their makeup merger meeting and stopped at the reception desk with her most winning smile. 

“Good morning,” she said brightly. “They messed up my order this morning so I have an extra latte. Do you want it?” 

“Oh–Yeah, sure, thanks. I was running late this morning so I haven’t had time to get coffee,” the young girl said. She took the proffered coffee and inhaled deeply with a soft sound of appreciation. “You’re a lifesaver.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, it was free.” She smiled again. It definitely hadn’t been free and was, in fact, part of her stupid plan. “I’m just heading up to see Mr. Wayne. He forgot to give me the code to get up there. I don’t think he’s awake yet.” She winked and laughed. “We’re going over this merger contract some more before we bring all the big boys in on it.” 

She waved a file folder in the air. It was a copy of her amended contract, to be fair. And she did want to talk to Bruce about it. But she also wanted to maybe snoop around and get her mask back and maybe also find out where he hid his Batman armor. 

“Sure, no problem,” the receptionist said cheerfully. She scribbled a note with one hand and sipped her coffee with the other. Y/n relaxed. She thought for sure she’d be told a very firm no. She’d imagined Bruce being summoned from the top of the tower to come curse her out in front of all of his employees. She supposed being a CEO in her own right made it easier to get into a forbidden space. Hell, this girl probably thought she and Bruce were going to go over the contract naked. 

And wasn’t that an idea. 

Y/n thanked the girl and practically skipped to the private elevator she was directed to. It gave her no small amount of joy to get one up on Bruce again. She spent the whole long ride up to the penthouse smiling as she imagined the look on his face when she interrupted his breakfast. 

She knew it was stupid–really, she did. The merger was tentative now because of their show in the boardroom and she was sure their kiss hadn’t helped matters at all. 

She didn’t stop and question why she was doing this or what she hoped to get out of it. Mostly she wanted to bother Bruce, get her mask back, and maybe, hopefully iron out some of the kinks in the merger plan. She had a feeling they would both be better without an audience. 

The elevator made no noise as it slid to a stop and opened its doors. 

Y/n stopped in her tracks. 

Wayne Tower’s penthouse was…like the inside of a gothic church. The ceilings were tall and sweeping, full of detailed arches, sculptures, and well, a lot of dust. 

“Hello,” said a soft, accented voice. She turned and saw an aging man with a cane, his salt and pepper hair styled perfectly neat, his clothes pressed and clean. “Is Mr. Wayne…expecting you?” 

She didn’t miss the way his hand strayed to his side and the telltale bulge underneath his shirt. He was armed. His expression was polite, kind even, but there was a glint in his eyes that said he meant business. 

She held up her trusty file folder. “I came to go over some stuff about the merger. I’m y/n. I don’t know if he told you about uh…our argument in the meeting yesterday, so I’m here to apologize and smooth things over.” She shrugged as if sheepish. 

“The day you apologize is the day my father becomes mayor,” said a familiar voice. 

She turned, and there was Bruce. He was dressed in dark sweatpants and nothing else, running a towel over his damp hair. She hated that her entire body reacted to the sight of him shirtless. He was muscular. Scarred, too, but it made sense with his nightly activities. 

Her mouth was too dry to talk. Finally, she cleared her throat and said, “Well, you better get out the confetti because I really am here to say I’m sorry.” Okay, maybe it hadn’t actually been part of her plan but…she could say two little words in exchange for saving the merger. 

Bruce and the older man exchanged a look. Bruce made a dismissive wave. The man nodded once and disappeared down a hallway. 

They stared at each other in silence. Bruce slung the towel over one bare shoulder. She tried not to stare, she really did, but it was next to impossible. God, did he have to be so fucking good looking on top of everything else? 

“How’d you get in here?” Bruce finally asked. He crossed his arms, which only served to show off his biceps and pectorals. 

Stop staring! y/n mentally shouted at herself. She tore her eyes away and met his gaze. 

“I flirted with the receptionist,” she said. She was rewarded with Bruce’s shock. He opened and then abruptly closed his mouth before he schooled his expression. 

“Poor Stella,” he said after a beat. 

She couldn’t help her laugh. “I bought her coffee and told her the truth. I came to talk about the contract. And…okay, maybe I wasn’t going to apologize, but I did intend to smooth things over. That counts for something, right?” 

Bruce’s lips compressed like he was trying not to smile. “I should have let Alfred shoot you.” 

She let out a startled laugh. “I did sneak into your home, so…” 

“Well, come on then,” Bruce said, gesturing for her to follow him. 

“Where are we going?” she asked uncertainly. 

“We’re going to have breakfast and go over the damn contract.” 

“And you’re going to give in to all of my demands and grovel at my feet, right?” she said to his unfairly muscled back. 

He turned his head just enough that she could see his arched eyebrow. 

“Hey, it was worth a shot.” 

Breakfast went well, at first. She and Bruce joked together like they were old friends as they ate. He told her about the time he’d snuck out on break from college and had tried to sneak back in, only for Alfred to catch him and threaten to shoot him. 

Then the talk shifted to business, and they started arguing all over again. She shouldn’t have brought up the controversial Renewal Fund, she knew that, but it had been an accident. An accident that pissed Bruce off, apparently. 

“I’m just saying that we should have more checks and balances,” she said through gritted teeth as Alfred cleared their plates. He was Bruce’s butler, apparently, though he seemed more like an uncle or something. 

“I don’t disagree,” Bruce said. He rubbed the space between his brows with his thumb. 

“You are literally disagreeing!” She threw her hands in the air in exasperation. 

“Not about that!” 

“Then what? That the Renewal Fund wasn’t used to fund the corrupt? That it wasn’t an absolute shit show?” She tapped her pointer finger on the table with every other word. 

Bruce stared at her. “All of that is true.” 

“You are so–” She made a frustrated noise. “So fucking annoying!” 

“If you would listen to me for a moment, maybe you wouldn’t get so frustrated.” He glared at her between his fingers as he continued rubbing at what was apparently a massive headache caused by her. 

“I am listening! I don’t–I mean, come on, you run around dressed as a bat every night to try and make a goddamn difference in the city. And now suddenly your morals change?” She smacked her hand against the wood table so hard it hurt. “Of course I’m frustrated.” 

Bruce’s gaze went flat. “That has no bearing on what I do in my company,” he finally said after a long pause. 

She inhaled deeply. “Shouldn’t it, though?” 

“What are you saying?” Both of his palms were pressed flat on the table. Every line of him was rigid as if he were about to snap. 

“Jesus, if you’d chill for a second,” she muttered, then straightened. “I’m saying that my company is charitable. That’s one of our core values. We hire the underprivileged, we give back to the community, we work to build up Gotham brick by brick. And what does Wayne Enterprises do? Give to charity once or twice a year? Sometimes help with relief funds where there’s a flood caused by a psychopath?” 

“You’re saying you don’t think this will work because I’m not charitable enough?” Disbelief colored his tone even though his face remained carefully neutral. His nostrils flared though as he breathed in deep and let it out, the only sign she was truly getting under his skin. “Because I shut down the Renewal Fund?” 

“I know what you do every night. I commend it. It’s–actually pretty fucking amazing. But that’s only one thing. Bruce Wayne, CEO, can do…so much more in the light of day. Why do you think I do both, too? So all I’m saying is, maybe if we join forces….we can really make a change. At night and during the day. You understand?” 

Bruce stood abruptly and started pacing. “You shouldn’t be doing that kind of stuff.” 

“Neither should you,” she said dryly. “And that’s not stopping you.” 

Bruce paused in his pacing. He opened his mouth but she interrupted, her annoyance rising all over again. 

“I swear if you say it’s different for you, I’ll punch you so hard you’ll forget your name.” 

He closed his mouth again. 

“Seriously,” she said. She stood to better face him. “You’ve got some kind of weird savior complex going on and it’s getting on my nerves.” 

He raised one dark eyebrow. “Savior complex?” 

“Yes!” She resisted the urge to stomp her foot like a child. 

“And you’re qualified to comment on this after–” He pretended to check a watch he wasn’t wearing. “Only knowing me for about thirty-two hours?” 

“You’re not as much of a mystery as you like to think, Mr. Wayne. You run around every night and yes, you do plenty for the city. But you think you have to do it alone. I don’t know if it’s because you think you’re better than anyone else or what, but newsflash–other people want to help Gotham too.” She crossed her arms again and stared him down. His eyes narrowed. “Other people can help Gotham.” 

“It’s dangerous,” he finally said after a long minute of glaring at each other. 

“No shit, Sherlock,” she said. She couldn’t help the roll of her eyes that went along with the words. “I’m not hurting anyone. Hell, I usually wait until places are empty to steal information. That’s what I deal with–secrets and information. I’m barely in danger.”

“How do I know you won’t steal information from me?”

She grit her teeth. “Are you doing anything illegal? Other than, you know, being a vigilante, I mean. I don’t care about that.” 

“No.” His jaw flexed and he looked away. 

“Then what the fuck is your problem?” She’d been doing so well at squashing the annoyance that kept rising within her. “Are you just trying to be an asshole? You lose nothing with this merger, don’t you get that? All I’m asking is for you to use your fucking money for good. You know, I bet your dad would be so disappointed that–” 

“Get out.” The words were a growl. All at once something in him shifted and she saw a shadow of a cape and mask. Something in him was all predator now. 

She hesitated. She hadn’t meant to actually piss him off. “Bruce–”

“Get. Out.” He pointed a single, threatening finger. He seemed to loom even larger, his body taking up twice the amount of space with its anger. 

“I just meant that–” 

He took a step forward and damn it if she didn’t feel a small jolt of fear. She scrambled to grab her stuff.

“The meeting is canceled,” he said in a calmer voice. “Now get out.” 

“You’re canceling?” She paused in the process of gathering her things. “No way. I’m going to talk to your board about canceling the merger, I–” 

“Not the merger, just the meeting.” Without another word, Bruce turned and left. She imagined a shadow following him, a physical manifestation of his anger. Somewhere, a door slammed. 

Grinding her teeth, y/n grabbed all of her stuff and stomped back to the elevator. “Stupid, stubborn, asshole of a man,” she muttered the whole way. Sure, maybe she shouldn’t have brought up his dad. But she had a point and he knew it. That was why he was so pissed off. 

And canceling their meeting? What a dick. 

She stopped before hitting the button that would take her to the lobby. 

“You know what?” she said out loud. “I’m just going to wait.” She glanced around at the imitation of a spooky castle. “Hear that?” she shouted. “I’m not fucking leaving until you see sense!” 

Her voice echoed around the space. She half-expected a hoard of bats to take off from the rafters far above. She bit back an almost hysterical laugh. Maybe there were bats hiding up there. That’s probably where he got the idea from. 

She leaned back against the wall next to the elevator. 

“Am I going to have to have you arrested for trespassing?” 

Y/n jumped. Standing in the entrance to a hallway on her left was Alfred, the butler or…whatever he was. Security. Uncle. Bruce hadn’t ever actually clarified that point.

“Oh–Uh–” It was one thing to try to get back at Bruce. Alfred, frankly, intimidated her. And he seemed nice, unlike Bruce, which made her loathe to get on his nerves. “I was just–” 

“I take it the meeting didn’t go so well?” he said, letting her off the hook. 

She relaxed slightly. “Oh, it went perfectly. We yelled at each other for half an hour, debated the morality of vigilantes, and then when I accidentally brought up his dad, he kicked me out.” 

Alfred’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hair. “Oh?” he said. 

Right. She probably wasn’t supposed to know that Bruce was Batman. “I uh…we actually met the night before last,” she said. “He stole my mask.” 

She was impressed that he didn’t show any emotion. “Did he?” 

“And I cut his face. It was an accident, but at yesterday’s meeting I noticed and…well. You probably know what I noticed.” 

Alfred hummed and relaxed his posture. “You didn’t tell anyone?” 

“Like I said, he stole my mask. I don’t give a shit what he does.” She shrugged. It was the truth. “All I want is for this merger to not only benefit our companies, but Gotham too. And for some reason the guy who runs around at all hours of the night protecting the city is suddenly waffling about using some of his buckets of cash to do some fucking good.” 

Alfred did the last thing she expected. He laughed. “Oh, I like you. Come on.” He waved her over and went to, of all things, another elevator. 

“Where are we going?” she asked, wondering if maybe there was a dungeon beneath this place that Alfred was tricking her into. “And why does this goddamn tower have so many elevators?” 

Alfred put in a code and stepped inside an elevator that was a lot…grungier than the others she’d been in inside of Wayne Tower. He pressed his thumb to a keypad and entered another code. He then hit a button labeled only B before the thing started to lower. Basement, maybe? 

“This one is only for Bruce and I.” 

“Are you taking me to the dungeon?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Alfred chuckled. “You’ll see.” 

“So that’s all it takes to get into Bruce Wayne’s inner sanctum, huh?” She leaned against the side of the elevator. “Sneak into the penthouse, pick a fight, and reveal that I know his deepest secret to his…uncle?” 

“Butler,” Alfred said. He shifted grip on his cane. “And Bruce needs someone to pick a fight with him.” 

“I really feel like you’re about to lock me in a dungeon.” 

The elevator jerked to a stop. There was a gate across the opening that rattled as it parted. 

Alfred gestured for y/n to step out, so she did. She was surprised to see Alfred was staying inside. He winked at her and was gone as the elevator ascended again. 

“Is she gone?” Bruce’s voice echoed around her and a chittering noise started in its wake. 

The space around her was…dark. She was standing on a platform with steps in front of her that led down to a wide open space. The edges of the area were in deep shadow and everything echoed strangely. Her eyes lifted to the dark ceiling and–holy shit, those were bats. 

Her gaze landed next on two words carved into the stone overhand: Wayne Station. 

“No, actually, she’s not,” y/n said as she followed the stairs down to where Bruce was. He had a shirt on now, at least. He was standing at a desk with several computer screens, hunched over as he scribbled something down. All around them were tables, computers, various tools, random pieces of Batman’s suit, two motorcycles, and a car on a ramp with one of those cloth covers over it. 

Bruce whirled at the sound of her voice. “What–” 

“Alfred let me in,” she said with a triumphant grin. The pen in Bruce’s hand cracked from the force of his grip. 

Bruce growled and turned back to what he was doing, unceremoniously flinging his pen to the side. “Alfred,” he muttered as if it were a curse. 

“He said you need someone to pick a fight with you. All I did was tell him I knew your secret and poof, here we are.” She greedily took in the space around her. It was so interesting. She had a feeling she was seeing a manifestation of Bruce’s mind. There were blueprints, all kinds of gadgets in various stages of completion, and a dummy dressed in his Batman armor and mask. 

“He–” Bruce muttered something else she didn’t catch. 

“Listen, I can pick a fight if you want, or you can show me all of this cool stuff.” There was almost a giddiness rising within her. He had so many cool gadgets, things she’d never dreamed of having. No wonder he was such a good vigilante. 

Bruce glared at her for a moment before turning back to whatever it was he was doing. It looked like he was making notes on a blueprint of some sort. The drawing looked like a car. Kind of. “It isn’t stuff,” she thought she heard him mumble, but she wasn’t sure. 

“Ooh, okay, fine. Let’s pick another fight. Will you get pissed off if I start moving stuff around?” It was too easy to tease him, she thought as she reached out and lifted something that looked an awful lot like a grenade. Her fingers had barely wrapped around it when Bruce’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. 

“Put that down.” 

She grinned at him and obliged. “That’s a yes, then. What if I touch this?” she asked as she picked up something that looked like the armbands he wore on his wrists. It was a lot heavier than she expected. Goddamn, he wore those things every night? Her wrist felt like it was about to break just from holding it. 

He snatched it from her. 

A small laugh escaped her lips. “You’re too easy a target.” She reached blindly for something else. 

He caught both of her wrists in his hands this time. “Stop doing that.” 

“Who pissed in your wheaties this morning, huh?” she asked as he yanked her away from the tempting pile of stuff. 

“You did,” he said. He still hadn’t let her go. 

“Listen,” she said after a beat. “I didn’t mean to–bring up anything by mentioning your dad, okay? I was frustrated.” 

“Understatement of the year,” he muttered. He glanced away but didn’t let her go. 

“I’m going to let that one slide because I really am sorry.” She shrugged as best as she could from within his grip. Her eyes trailed past him, over his shoulder, and she jerked. “Hey! That’s my fucking mask!” 

She yanked hard against him but he didn’t let her go. 

“I told you, you’re not getting it back,” he said firmly. He was scowling down at her. 

“You fucker,” she said. “I already ordered a new one, anyways. Made some improvements.” 

He sighed long and loud through his nose, eyes closed as if he were trying to find inner peace or something. 

“Will you let me go?” she asked.

“Will you stop touching stuff?” he asked, eyes opening. She didn’t miss the way his pupils expanded as he continued to stare at her. 

“That depends,” she said with a bold step forward. “Is there anything I am allowed to touch?” She said it so seductively that there wasn’t a question about her meaning. She let her chest brush against his. 

Bruce said nothing but his grip loosened. 

She slid one of her hands up his chest and rested it on his shoulder. “Do I really piss you off that much?” she murmured. 

“Yes.” 

“So you don’t like me…at all?” She pressed herself closer against him. His sweatpants did nothing to hide the fact that he at least liked her some. 

“I didn’t say that.” His hands fell to her waist, his touch burning hot even through her clothes. 

“Should I get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness?” she asked in a low voice. Just imagining it turned her on so much her breath stuttered. Bruce’s fingers flexed against her and she felt the words go straight through him as his cock twitched against her stomach. “Or maybe you should get on your knees,” she murmured as her hand tangled in his hair. His eyes fluttered closed for a second. 

“Which one will make you shut up faster?” he asked after a second. His blue eyes flashed as they opened again. 

She laughed and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Sounds like you want my mouth full.” 

Bruce stopped breathing for a split second. Then his lips were crashing against hers. Her back smacked against the nearest table. He was everywhere. The warmth of his body surrounded her and she again had a moment of thinking he was larger than he was. His hands strayed up her shirt, the calluses on his bare palms dragging a shiver from her as they scraped across her skin. 

This time he bit her lower lip and the mixture of pleasure and pain had a soft noise escaping from her before she could stop it. 

“You’re so infuriating,” he said against her lips. “You drive me crazy.” 

“Right back at you,” she said and kissed him again. 

“I mean it,” he said as his nose traced her jaw. He pressed a kiss against her pulse. She was certain he could feel the way it suddenly jumped. “I have never been so aggravated by a person before.” He kissed down her neck and sighed into her skin. “And I’ve never wanted someone so much.” 

“Then do something about it,” she said with a challenge in her voice. It didn’t come out as strong as she’d hoped though, because his lips were distracting her, and one of his thumbs had chosen that moment to brush the underside of her breast through her bra. 

In one swift movement he had rid her of her shirt. His eyes were hungry as they took her in. “You’re beautiful,” he said. 

“Finally, a compliment,” she said but the words choked off as his lips touched the top of one breast and then the other. 

“One of us has to be nice,” he said, and the way his breath brushed against her skin made her shiver. He glanced up at her through his dark, dark lashes. 

“I can be nice,” she said defensively. What she really wanted to do was demand that he touch her already, but that would defeat the purpose of her comment about being nice. 

Bruce quirked an eyebrow at her. “Oh?” 

She pulled him back to his full height and settled on her knees before him. And bless him, he had some sort of cushioned mats underneath the tables so she wasn’t on hard concrete. Her hands settled on the backs of his thighs as she leaned back enough to stare up at him. 

“I can be very nice,” she said as she tugged his sweatpants down. 

His breath and hers both caught when his cock sprang free. Her mouth practically watered at the sight. His hand caressed the back of her head encouragingly but he made no move to force her forward. He simply watched, and waited. 

She licked the underside of him slowly. Her reward was a choked noise. His hand tightened spasmodically on her head but again, he didn’t force her forward. 

She licked him again, experimental this time, letting her mouth very slowly explore him, moistening him so when she decided to, her lips would slide right over him. 

She took the head of him in her mouth first and swirled her tongue. This time he moaned out her name. The sound of it made her squeeze her thighs together. Her want was a living, breathing thing within her. She didn’t want to tease anymore. She took him into her mouth fully, swallowing him as deep as she could. 

The sound Bruce made was desperate. It echoed around them and only served to make her hungry for more. She was doing that to him. She was making him feel that good. 

Her head bobbed, his hand a gentle guide on the back of it, the noises he was making becoming more frequent the more she moved. His body trembled. She wasn’t entirely sure he was breathing, either. 

All of a sudden her mouth was empty as he jerked away from her. It was instinct to follow but he tugged gently on her hair to stop her. 

“My turn to be nice,” he said, voice deeper than she’d ever heard it. He guided her upwards and kissed her so hard it left her breathless. He palmed one of her breasts with one hand and her ass with the other. Then her bra was falling off and to the floor. 

“You?” she said on half a gasp. “Nice?” 

He grinned at her. “I can be very nice.” 

He unzipped her skirt. It puddled around her ankles. She kicked off her shoes and the skirt in anticipation. 

“Yeah?” she said as both of his hands gripped her ass and pulled her closer. She wiggled against him, his cock against her bare stomach about to drive her wild with need and they hadn’t even done anything yet. “Prove it.” 

One of his hands was between her legs before she finished speaking. He brushed a thumb against her clit through her underwear, making her squirm. He leaned down to kiss the pulse point in her neck again. 

She made a noise of complaint when he stopped touching her but all he did was lift her so she was situated on the table. 

“Spread your legs,” he said and her body instinctually obeyed without her permission. He pulled down her underwear. His eyes were hungry as he lowered himself to her knees. He was devouring her with his gaze. His lips parted as his tongue darted out. She knew that tongue was about to be on her and the anticipation was killing her. 

“This is the part where you beg for forgiveness,” she said in a breathy voice. All of her bravado went out the window as he smirked at her and traced a finger through the wetness between her legs. 

He moved teasingly slow as he continued to trace her, staying just outside where she wanted him, every other pass stopping to circle her clit. He kissed the inside of one thigh and then the other. Then he paused, staring up at her with eyes like blue flames, and lifted one of her legs to rest on his shoulder. The new position made her lean back against her hands. 

She moaned at the first touch of his lips. His tongue gently traced her clit and she squirmed all over again.

“Bruce,” she said like a plea. 

He listened to her unspoken demand and inserted a single finger into her so slowly she wanted to scream. His tongue worked her clit as his finger moved in and out of her. The sensation started to build and build and build. She reached out for an anchor with one hand, something, anything to keep her grounded. Her fingers threaded into Bruce’s hair. He hummed against her, eliciting a moan from her as the vibrations moved through her body. 

“Fuck,” she said because there was no other word for it. 

He pushed a second finger inside her. His movements started to quicken. 

Her orgasm built within her as he moved faster and faster. The sensation of his tongue on her clit coupled with two of his fingers inside her was almost too much. She couldn’t catch her breath. 

Bruce slid a third finger inside her and every muscle in her body clenched around him. 

She shuddered as the orgasm washed over her, pleasure rolling on waves throughout her body. 

When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. Somehow, that was hotter than anything he’d done up until that point. The look in his eyes, feral and hungry, made her feel more naked than her actual nakedness. 

“How do you want me?” she asked, voice thick in the wake of her orgasm. Her body shuddered with an aftershock and Bruce’s piercing blue eyes didn’t miss any of it. He stood slowly, the bulk of him seeming to unfold little by little as he towered over her. He pulled his shirt off with one hand and somehow kept eye contact the whole time. 

He stepped between her legs and she shivered again. The air was cold but the warmth pouring from Bruce’s magnificent body was enough to keep her from feeling it. 

“How do you like it?” 

God, his fucking voice. Deep and sexy and with a hint of a growl that turned her on. 

How did she like it? Was he serious? She just wanted him inside her, she didn’t care where or how. 

“Just fuck me,” she said when she could find her voice. 

“You’re so bossy,” he said with half a smile as he bent to kiss her. 

She clutched his shoulders. “I mean it, Bruce,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster. “Fuck me. I have an IUD so we have nothing to worry about.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked after a second. He studied her face calmly as if she weren’t half-mad with lust. As if his cock wasn’t dripping for her, angled perfectly to go inside her. 

“I don’t know how I could make my consent any clearer.” She rolled her eyes. Then she realized that maybe Bruce wasn’t sure. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” he said against her lips, and then pushed into her so suddenly she cried out. 

She said every cuss word she knew which only served to make him laugh. The vibrations traveled between their connected bodies in a delicious way. He stayed still for a moment, letting her adjust to him, his lips moving up her neck and to her breasts and to her lips. 

“Fuck,” Bruce said as he began to move. She agreed with the sentiment. With her leaning back on the table, him between her legs, the angle was just right to immediately send shivers up and down her spine. Every thrust made her muscles clench. 

The feel of his cock within her was almost transcendent. She grabbed him tightly, pressing their bodies together, keeping him close to her as he thrust in and out. 

He slid a hand between them to circle her clit and she cried out as she came almost immediately. When she opened her eyes she expected to see that she had burst into flames. Bruce was staring at her again, his expression tight. 

“You’re beautiful when you come,” he said and the words almost made her do so again. 

“I bet you are too,” she said with a grin. She wrapped her legs around him so that their bodies were flush. The new angle made them both gasp. His big hands splayed across her back and her own hands tangled in his hair. He seemed to like it when she pulled, so pull she did. 

“Y/n…” he said into the crook of her neck. His thrusts picked up speed. She saw stars as his cock hit her just right, over and over and over. The grip she had on his hair was a lifeline now, the only thing grounding her and keeping her from exploding into a million tiny pieces. 

“Come inside me, Bruce,” she said. It wasn’t at all bossy like she’d intended it, but he groaned anyways. 

He rocked into her, harder and deeper than before, the sweat on their skin making their chests slide together. His fingers deftly swept over her clit again. Her cry echoed, almost a scream, as she came for the third time. 

Bruce wasn’t far behind. His thrusts stuttered, rhythm uneven, as his hips jerked into her. She could feel it spill out of her even as he continued to move. 

“Fuck,” he said as his hips slowly jerked to a stop. They were both panting. 

“Fuck,” she agreed. She was still clinging to him. They stayed tangled together for a minute more. Her body shivered with aftershocks every few seconds. Her mind was blissfully blank. Her limbs were warm, her body languid. She felt completely wrung out in the best way possible. 

Bruce kissed her jaw. His hands rubbed idle circles against her bare back. It was…sweet. She liked it. Usually the men she fucked pulled out and yanked their clothes back on in the same movement. 

“I had no idea Bruce Wayne was such a…generous lover,” she said, breath still heaving. 

“Now you know all of my secrets.” He toyed with her hair, his face softer than she’d ever seen it. She let her legs fall from around his waist. He stepped back, sliding out of her, and passed her a small towel from God only knew where. “It’s clean, I promise.” 

“I highly doubt I know all your secrets.” Their eyes met and they shared a smile. She cleaned herself up to the best of her ability. “I’d like to, though.” 

“Oh?” he said, and there was a vulnerability in his expression that wasn’t there before. 

“Feel free to say no, but I’d like to take you on a date.” She nudged him gently. She pulled her bra and underwear back on. 

“I’d like that. But I should pay.” He pulled up his sweatpants but left his shirt off. She couldn’t say she minded the view. 

“Oh, I only meant I was driving. You’re definitely paying.” 

He laughed, long and loud, and the sound stirred something in her gut. 

“Who knew that all you needed was to get laid to loosen up?” she teased as she gave him another playful nudge. 

“I doubt this is what Alfred had in mind when he said I needed someone to pick a fight with,” Bruce said with another slight laugh. “But it worked, didn’t it?” 

Y/n glanced around, suddenly panicked. “There aren’t security cameras in here, are there?”

Something glinted in his eyes. A playfulness, almost. “No, there aren’t.” 

She squinted at him, suspicious. “If you tell me know and I find out you’re beating off to the tape every night–” 

He laughed again, this one a short, surprised burst of sound. He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I promise there’s not.” 

She finished straightening her hair with a soft hmph. “Fine, fine. Date’s still on then, I guess.” 

Bruce leaned in and brushed a kiss to her temple. It was as if he couldn’t help it. As if the sex had softened all of his rough edges. Maybe it had softened her, too, because she couldn’t drum up an ounce of annoyance at him if she tried. In fact, she leaned into the touch. 

“Seriously,” she teased as she bent to pull her shoes back on. “It’s like you’re a different person.” 

“What can I say?” he said. He spread his hands. “You’re not all bad.” 

“Does this mean you’ll accept all my terms with the merger?” 

There was a long, long pause. “Absolutely not.” 

She snorted, and they fell into what was becoming their new routine of bickering as they went upstairs to get lunch.

[zipperzoo]

i FUCKing love reader and BRUCE BEING SCARED AND TERRIFIED AND THE EXICUTION CHEFS KISS!!! when reader had to keep reassuring bruce that they're alive because his biggest fear was them gone just as he had lost his parents sob SOB

fright

battinson! bruce wayne x gn! reader

summary: in the midst of investigating a drug that kills people with their own fear, Bruce is drugged.

**not affiliated with middle of the night**

a/n: I'm back with something new, finally! I've been wanting to write this for a while, just for fun, because the battinson brain rot still hasn't gone away in over a year. Hopefully I'll be doing more oneshots from here on out! I tried to make this reader as gender neutral as possible but if I slipped up anywhere let me know so I can fix it!

word count: 7081

The abandoned subway station is cold and damp but comfortingly familiar. 

Alfred had simply waved you downstairs to get started on your work while Bruce was out on patrol. That was one thing about constantly being around a vigilante–it turned you into a night owl, the changes almost imperceptible until you can no longer fall asleep on your own before two in the morning, even in the comfort of your own apartment. Sometimes you aren’t sure if it was because you’re used to working late on your nights working with Bruce…

Or if you couldn’t fall asleep until you knew Gotham’s vigilante was home safe again after another night. 

So since you’re a night owl these days, you’ve taken to doing your work in the darkest parts of the night, comfortable with commuting after dark. Though Alfred and Bruce both insisted on you keeping a guest room in Wayne Tower when you work late, as neither of them are comfortable with you walking Gotham alone at night. Sometimes the city’s resident vigilante watches over you, but for those other times–those other times you stay in the drafty room set aside for you, one floor below Bruce’s bedroom. 

You aren’t sure you’re supposed to know where Bruce’s bedroom is, exactly. But unbeknownst to the man himself, you’ve helped Alfred twice now haul his huge frame to bed when he’d passed out from either exhaustion or severe injuries. And as it was, it never came up in conversation that you had seen his bedroom, the space just as cluttered as the subway station belowground was. 

You wouldn’t admit, either, that may or may not have snooped. His bedroom was neat, but organized in a way only his mind seemed to understand, the same as where he kept everything Batman-related. The bedroom closet was full of dark colors and clothes that were at least a decade old, and a full row of the black work boots he preferred to wear with his armor, some scuffed and torn beyond recognition, a couple of pairs almost new. 

It isn’t a secret, exactly, but you knew Bruce well enough by now to know he probably wouldn’t like that you’d seen his bedroom without permission. 

It’s his bedroom you think of now as you sit down to work at your designated desk in the abandoned station. The space was less lived in that the basement around you. Did Bruce prefer the bats for company? Or was the tower above too full of ghosts for him to face? Either way, he spends more of his time downstairs than up. There’s even a ratty secondhand couch shoved to one side where he seems to do most of his sleeping. You’ve seen him crash there more times than you could count. 

You stretch already-cold fingers and boot up the multiple computer screens that have become yours even though you only own the laptop. 

You’ve been working with him for a few months now, the connection pure chance, as most things in your life were. Your move to Gotham, your skill with computers, your meeting with a kevlar-covered vigilante. It was all chance, a force you believe in almost as much as you believe in gravity. 

It had been a beautiful night that night, which really should have been your first clue that it was all going to hell. You were taking a simple walk to clear your head after a long day at work. You’d hated the corporate job you were working at, which was, ironically enough, at Wayne Enterprises. 

That night was the first time you were acquainted with Gotham’s dark, violent underbelly. It was also the first time you met the man you’d thought was simply an urban legend–the Batman, a shadow turned savior at the moment you thought it would all be over. 

He’d disappeared as your thanks rose to your lips, swallowed up by the night before you could utter the words. 

The second time you met Batman was by chance, too. You’d gotten some information on a crime and, well, you had done the not-so-smart thing and used your computer skills to follow the lead. 

Batman had followed the same lead through different methods. 

Showing up at the same place at first led him to suspect you, but once you’d pulled out your laptop and proven how you’d gotten the information by using Gotham’s surveillance cameras to track the assholes down, he was curious. He wanted you to show him exactly how you’d done it. He’d revealed his curious mind to you that night, and that was the first piece of him you developed a crush on. 

The sharp jawline didn’t hurt, either. 

You smile to yourself as your fingers work over the keyboard to the computer in front of you. These days, he has you scouring surveillance cameras, police scanners, and internet forums for leads on cases. You also have your not-so-legal hacking skills to accomplish those things. And that’s in between the research you do on current cases. Not to mention the extra work you do behind his back to keep Batman’s identity from ever getting out–not that he needs to know that, not yet. It’s mostly deleting everything you can get your hands on that discusses his possible identity, whether it’s really far off base or a little too close to home.

It’s a lot of work, but you love it. You’d barely given it a thought when Bruce–before you’d known his identity–had asked you to help him. You’d said yes before the question had been fully finished. 

Tonight, Bruce is staking out the seedier parts of Gotham trying to track down a new drug. At least, you think it’s a new drug. Several people have turned up dead, their features marred by their own hands, with something unknown in their bloodstreams. The medical examiner said it seemed as if they had all been…frightened to death, the levels of cortisol and adrenaline in their blood sky high. 

Right now you have your computers working in the background to monitor police chatter, any hints from the dark web, and anything else you can think of to track down the source of the drug. While the program works to search for keywords and phrases on one of your three monitors, the other two screens are split between all of the ME reports and the information on each victim and real-time video feeds from every camera in the city you can get your hands on. 

Bruce doesn’t know that you’re trying to watch his back while working the case. 

You worry about him, even though he’s probably the most capable person you’ve ever met. 

The third time you’d met him he’d shown up at your apartment bleeding everywhere. He hadn’t even known he was bleeding everywhere. He’d gotten into a fight while tracking you down to get you to use your skills on another case and simply ignored his injuries in favor of keeping his goal. 

Luckily, a few days earlier you’d sliced your finger open while cooking and had some of the weird liquid bandaid stuff you’d been using. There’d been a ghost of a smile on Bruce’s face when you’d run and gotten it for him. He’d thanked you softly, and then gone back to being all-business as you worked on the gash on his arm. As you’d bandaged the cut, he told you about the case he was working, and how your computer skills would really help him out. 

He started turning up more frequently after that, asking for help on cases. Until the day he’d asked if you wanted a permanent position helping him–paid and everything. 

And now here you were, in his innermost circle, allowed to know everything about him. At least, as much of everything as he let anyone know. 

Your computer pings right as Bruce grunts over the comms. It’s another thing he might not know about, your nightly tuning in to the comms as he goes out. Not that you aren’t allowed, but it’s something you won’t admit to unless directly questioned. 

You sit up straight so fast it sends your desk chair rolling backwards. Fumbling for the edge of your desk to pull yourself forward, you frantically click through tabs to figure out where the alert was coming from. 

A connection. 

Your breath leaves in a rush as you scan the information. 

Then you’re scrambling back for the comms, flipping the mic on, and trying to string a coherent sentence together.

“I found a lead,” you finally manage. It sounds like he’s in the middle of a fight. Oops. You push on, knowing he can hear you even if he can’t respond. “They were all patients at Arkham Asylum at some point. And they all were treated by the same doctor, Jonathan Crane.” 

Bruce starts cursing. There’s a strange hissing noise over the comms. You lightly shake the computer, trying to figure out the source of the static. 

“I know,” he finally says. The hissing has stopped, but now there’s a new noise. A familiar noise. The sound of his motorcycle revving to life. 

“Wh–how?” you say, unsure how he found out before you did. 

There’s more cursing and the sound of the bike speeding up. 

“I’m–shit.” He coughs. “I’m on my way back. Tell Alfred to–” His breath stutters for a moment. “I don’t–” 

“Please tell me you haven’t been stabbed to death,” you say with more bravado than you feel. With one hand, you text Alfred to come downstairs with the first aid kit. 

But the comms have gone silent. Bruce is breathing heavily, the only way you know he’s still there.

“Where were you hit?” you ask. “What street? How bad is it?” 

No answer. Bruce makes a noise that raises every hair on your body. 

It sounds like he’s…afraid.

You scramble to pull up every feed you have and find out where he’s been so you could see what happened. 

In all your months knowing him, you’ve never heard Bruce make such a noise. You’ve never heard him afraid like that. Something about it raises every hair on the back of your neck. 

You search camera after camera on the streets of Gotham, looking for any sign of Bruce at the moment he said he was on his way back. You curse quietly to yourself, the sound of Bruce’s motorcycle engine through the comms filling the echoing space around you. 

Then–there. Grainy as all get out and the only angle is available from a building across the street. But it’s him–there’s no denying the hulking shadow that is the Batman. He’s helping someone, a woman who appears to be screaming though the video has no audio attached. She thrashes and hits at Bruce, seemingly hysterical. 

Then she goes utterly still. You realize that it was about this time where you flipped the comms on to listen. 

Someone steps out of the shadows of the alley in front of them and there’s a sudden small cloud of fog. 

Bruce darts away, hopping on his motorcycle as the figure moves fully into the light. He–because you can see now that it’s a man–looks down at the woman dead on the sidewalk. Then his face tilts upward and you see why Bruce said, I know. 

It was the doctor himself, the one who’d been treating all of the dead patients. 

Jonathan Crane. 

Even with the shitty quality, his face is a clear match for the identification photo linked to Arkham. 

You immediately save images of the video for Gordon to see. Here’s the proof you need–this and the Batman’s testimony of an attack surely are enough to at least get Crane investigated properly. 

Hopefully. 

The small printer starts to spit out the pictures as the roar of a familiar engine abruptly cuts off in the tunnels outside of the station. 

You straighten. 

“Bruce?” you call out uncertainly. Normally he comes tearing in, hopping the motorcycle up on the ramp to be worked on and showing off a bit as he does it, or parking haphazardly near his work tables so he can get straight back to work. In the months you’d known him, he’d never stopped outside of the station for any reason. 

Your heart is somewhere near your feet as you tentatively step forward. 

“Bruce?” you say again, this time much quieter. 

You’re suddenly yanked backwards off your feet as a gloved hand presses against your mouth. You squirm, panicked, trying to get away. You lament all the times you refused Bruce’s self defense lessons.

“Shh, be quiet,” a familiar voice says. 

You relax all at once. 

It’s Bruce. 

Even through his armor, you can feel his heart pounding rapidly. His breath comes in sharp gasps that he struggles to keep quiet. 

He lets you turn in his arms. His eyes are wild, panicked. 

“Where are you hurt?” you murmur quietly. Your eyes track over every inch of him. There’s no blood that you can see, but he’s still in his all-black armor and you’re both tucked in the shadows near the hangar door that opens into the tunnels. You probably wouldn’t be able to see the blood if there was any. 

Bruce is still panting like he’s been running. “They’re coming,” he whispers. You frown. You already checked all the cameras from his route home and the security cameras in the tunnel. He came in alone. 

There’s a quiet noise somewhere in the distance, probably just a bat going to bed for the day, but Bruce yanks you close against his chest and whirls with one fist raised. 

Now you’re afraid, too. Has someone followed him all this way and you missed it somehow? Has someone found his inner sanctum? Are you both in danger? 

Another noise startles you both. 

The elevator descending. 

Bruce’s eyes are wild beneath his mask. 

“It’s Alfred,” you whisper, but Bruce seems not to hear you. 

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he murmurs into your ear, dragging you along with him into the recessed shadows by the elevator. You stumble along, still tucked against his side, the feeling of his breath on your ear lingering and making you shiver. Even though you’re afraid, you feel safe. “We’ll get you help, I promise.” You’re not sure what you need help with, but you remain quiet. 

Bruce has always protected you, whether he knows it or not. 

He physically protects you, sure, watching your back as the Batman, keeping you safe in a city as turbulent as Gotham. But Bruce also has always looked out for your mental health, too. 

There have always been nights where things are just…bleak, whether or not for any particular reason. You withdraw into yourself during those times, much like Bruce himself does. Somehow he always, always knows how to draw you back out. Sometimes it’s a quiet joke, sometimes a request to help him with something, sometimes it’s only his quiet company as he sits and works next to you. 

So even now, as you fear every moving shadow, every noise, thinking someone might be coming after you…

Even now, you know you’ll be safe and protected with Bruce. 

It’s part of why you love him. 

Not that he’d ever know that. 

“Stay put,” Bruce says into your ear, making you shiver all over again. 

He pushes gently on your shoulders in a stay put motion and steps away on silent feet. Even now his grace surprises you, even after months of watching him, being around him. He is a wonder to behold, a massive shadow that becomes weightless in a single breath. It’s like he becomes incorporeal at will, turning into shadow and smoke before he strikes. 

The elevator gates rattle open and Bruce leaps. 

Alfred is on the ground, first aid kit scattering to all corners of the station with a clatter, in barely a blink.

“Bruce!” you half-shout, the instinct automatic. Your voice overlaps with Alfred’s, the echoes sending the bats into a frenzy overhead. 

Bruce goes utterly still, one fist raised like he’s going to hit Alfred. Alfred of all people. He flinches at the bats but his focus is on Alfred. 

Alfred is as calm as ever despite the figure looming threateningly over him. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. “Are you hurt?” 

“Alfred,” Bruce chokes out and the sound is agonized. He seems paralyzed. “I’m sorry, I was too slow–” 

The three of you don’t move. 

You approach slowly. “Bruce?” you say softly, like he’s a wild animal backed into a corner. Because that’s what he looks like–wild, feral, and most of all, scared. You think of the ME reports and have to bite your lip to distract yourself from the fear that brings. 

“You have to–you have to tie me up,” Bruce says, his arm trembling like he’s holding himself back. “He dosed me with–whatever it is.” His eyes dart around the space. 

You straighten as if shocked. “Dr. Crane did?” 

“Yes, he–” Bruce flinches and then refocuses on Alfred, still beneath him and as calm as ever as if it were an everyday experience. “Oh God. No, no, no. No. I’m sorry.” 

Then Bruce does something even more shocking. 

He sobs.

You startle as if a gunshot has gone off. 

You’ve never heard Bruce cry. You’ve never even really seen him sad. Angry, sure. And frustrated. Those seem to be his two main moods, other than generally quiet. The happiness is rare, but you’ve seen that too. 

But you’ve never, ever heard him cry. 

“Bruce?” you say again, uncertain. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he groans. “I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry.” He scrambles away from Alfred. His eyes are still wild, darting every which way, his expression frantic under the mask. 

Your brain works quickly through all the evidence you’ve been digging into. 

“It’s making him afraid,” you tell Alfred as the older man gets unsteadily to his feet. Bruce whirls and throws a punch, but there’s nothing there. “Whatever he was dosed with, it’s making him afraid.” 

What you don’t tell Alfred is that this drug most likely scared the other victims to death. 

Your heart pounds with enough fear that you wonder briefly if you’ve been dosed too. 

“If he’s like this, he won’t react well to being tied up,” Alfred says, but he starts moving efficiently, pulling zip ties from Bruce’s belt as he fights invisible foes. 

In one swift movement, Alfred grabs Bruce’s wrist, kicks him in the back of one knee, and grabs the other wrist. 

You gape as he tightens Bruce’s hands behind his back even as he thrashes. 

“No!” Bruce shouts. “Let me go! I have to get there before it’s too late! No!” 

“How did you–?” You stare at Alfred with your mouth open slightly. Alfred is a man of many hidden talents, apparently. 

“We need to get him more secure,” Alfred says, still calm as ever. And maybe, with as long as he’s been around Bruce, this sort of thing is normal. You’ve only been around a few months–Alfred’s been around since the beginning. You wonder just how many times Bruce has gotten himself into messes like this. 

Alfred grunts as Bruce tries to get away. Apparently, Alfred’s strong, even with an old leg injury. You hold the man in high esteem but it just gets higher as you watch him. 

“Tell me what to do,” you say as you straighten your spine. Bruce needs you, and that’s all that matters. You need him to make it through the night–that’s your focus right now. 

“See if you can calm him down long enough for us to get him upstairs. His bed should be sturdy enough for us to tie him to.” Alfred grunts and manages to shove Bruce back to his knees as he rises. 

You quickly kneel in front of Bruce and take his face in your hands. “Bruce? It’s me. It’s okay. Alfred and I are okay.” 

Bruce’s eyes roll around without focus. His breathing is even worse now, each breath rasping out of his chest, his whole body heaving with it. 

You try to push the memory of the crime scene photos out of your mind. Bodies twisted with fear. People who were dosed with whatever this was who died scared out of their minds. 

You’re terrified for Bruce, but you push it away. 

“Bruce, please,” you say, softer now, fingers pressed tightly against his cheeks. You can feel the slight scrape of stubble on your palms. 

Bruce’s brilliant blue eyes finally meet yours. “No,” he says and the desperate word is like a bullet to your heart. His whole body strains towards you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t die.” 

“Bruce, I’m okay,” you say. Your hands fumble before gripping the mask and pulling it off. Bruce cringes away. “I’m okay, I’m not dying.” Your fingers card through his hair. Damp with sweat, it sticks up with the movement. Bruce leans into the touch, and his breathing seems to ease slightly. 

“Y/n,” he mumbles. His eyes close for a second. 

“Bruce, let’s get you upstairs,” Alfred says in a low voice. 

Somehow, the pair of you get him up, hands still tied behind his back, and into the elevator. Bruce keeps repeating his apologies, every sound from his lips pained and terrified. 

“Alfred we need to–to get the drug out of his system somehow, if we can. I don’t know what else to do.” You whisper the words because you’re worried about setting Bruce off even further. You hold tight to his armored elbow. 

“I can get an IV started once we get him settled, that might work.” Alfred furrows his brow. “Y/n…how bad is this drug? What have you found in your research?” 

You hesitate, staring up at Bruce for a moment. His arms jerk in their restraints, but there’s nowhere for him to go in the small space of the elevator. “I don’t know how many people were dosed with it and survived,” you finally admit. 

Alfred goes still and stares at you while absently wrangling Bruce back into the corner. “How many died?” 

“I don’t know. Five, I think. Three for sure. Bruce watched a woman die from it right before he got hit in the face with it.” You chew your lip. Your eyes fill with tears as you meet Bruce’s anguished blue eyes.

“Then we will do everything in our power to keep him alive,” Alfred swears. “After he’s secured, I’ll get the IV started first and then we’ll make sure to monitor his vitals. If it gets too bad…” 

“He won’t be happy if he has to go to the hospital,” you say, but part of you wants to insist that you take him anyway. 

“No!” Bruce shouts as the elevators open. 

You don’t know what he’s responding to, but suddenly he’s frantic again, whatever slight semblance of calm he had in the elevator abruptly gone. He aims a kick at the wall and somehow leverages his bound hands in front of him. 

Alfred curses and shoves Bruce against the same wall. He braces the younger man with his whole body but his bad leg trembles. 

“Go get the medical bag!” Alfred says. “We need to sedate him.” 

You pause. “But what if something reacts with the drug?” 

Alfred curses again. “There’s nothing else to do. We’ll give him as low a dose as we can and keep an eye on him. Go!” 

So you run. Your feet slip over dusty hardwood floors as you scramble as fast as you can for Alfred’s medical bag. The bag is full of everything Alfred might need in a Batman-related emergency in case Bruce couldn’t make it home or even upstairs. The first aid kit is for general injuries–this bag is for when things go to hell. 

It feels as if hours have passed in the short amount of time it took to grab the bag. When you reach the elevator again, Alfred and Bruce are gone. You can hear them in Bruce’s bedroom now and hurry towards them. 

“Get his other arm!” Alfred says as he handcuffs one of Bruce’s hands to his massive wood headboard. 

You scramble up on the bed and over Bruce to do as Alfred says. 

“Let me tie you up, Bruce,” you say gently even though you aren’t sure he can hear you. “Please,” you say as he fights your grip. He’s so much bigger and stronger than you, it’s nearly impossible to even get the handcuffs on his wrist, let alone connected to the other side of the headboard. 

“Alfred,” you say around a grunt. You’re fully straddling Bruce now but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s seeing things that aren’t there. It sounds like he’s having an asthma attack, he’s breathing so hard and wheezing so much. God, what if he stops breathing and passes out from his panic?

It takes several more minutes of you and Alfred both yanking on Bruce’s arm–because damn is he strong–before he’s finally, finally secured against the headboard. 

You immediately start taking off the armor on his arms as Alfred preps the IV. You sit on Bruce’s legs to stop his incessant kicking, murmuring soothing words to him the whole time. You and Alfred will both be covered in bruises tomorrow, but you don’t even notice any pain at the moment. 

Bruce freaks out when Alfred sticks the needle in his arm. He shouts wordlessly and thrashes so hard the bed moves away from the wall. You curse under your breath and get off of him. 

“Hold this arm as best you can,” Alfred says. 

“Who knew he could cause so much damage while handcuffed?” The joke comes out wobbly, though, your worry seeping through your words. Even leaning all of your body weight on Bruce, he still makes it nearly impossible for Alfred to get the IV in.

You both breathe a sigh of relief when it finally goes in. Alfred works quickly and efficiently, still the perfect picture of calm even though he must be freaking out as much as you are–if not more. 

After another minute, Bruce relaxes marginally. He stops trying to escape and settles back into the pillows, still awake and staring with wild eyes around the room. Every so often he jerks one of his restraints, as if testing them.

You blow out another breath. 

“I’m going to monitor his pulse and blood pressure,” Alfred says as he pulls the necessary things out of the giant medical bag. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him until the drug passes through his system.” 

You nod, staring down at Bruce, feeling utterly helpless. How are you supposed to fight someone’s own mind? There’s nothing you can do that isn’t being done already–and there’s still no guarantee Bruce will survive.

As quick as it comes, you shut the thought down. Bruce will make it through this, even if it kills you. 

You finish undoing his chest plates and set them to the side. You brush Bruce’s hair back from his face. 

“You’ll be okay,” you say solemnly. “You’re too stubborn to die, and Alfred and I are too stubborn to let you.” When you look up, Alfred is frowning at the blood pressure machine and the pulse oximeter on Bruce's finger. “What?” 

“Talk to him again,” is all he says. 

You raise an eyebrow but turn back to Bruce. “Who knew Alfred was so strong, huh?” you say, aiming for lightness, but the words seem to fall short. 

You reach out and smooth his wild, dark hair. 

Alfred’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “I think you calm him down, my dear.” 

It’s your turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

“Whenever you talk or touch him, his pulse drops a little and his breathing gets easier.” Alfred gives you a knowing look. 

Alfred’s the only one who knows about your crush on Bruce. He’s told you, repeatedly, to admit your feelings, but you’re too scared. Bruce is so far out of your league it’s laughable. Just because he trusts you enough with his secret doesn’t mean he feels the same way you do. Bruce has so few friends–his only two are, in fact, you and Alfred–that you know he opened up simply because he could. Bruce needed a friend, a confidant, a partner. You were able to give him that. That’s all. 

You stare at Alfred then, resigned, climb up over Bruce to sit by his head. 

“How about a scalp massage?” you ask Bruce. “Because apparently it makes you feel calmer.” 

Alfred chuckles. “His mother used to do that. Rub his head to get him to sleep or to get him to calm down when he was upset.” The older man softens as he stares down at Bruce. 

Something inside you melts. You reach a slightly trembling hand out and run it over Bruce’s head. You feel for a moment like you’re taking advantage of him. You never get to touch him like this, to simply watch him, and you relish it. 

“Here,” Alfred says, handing out a small package. “For the black around his eyes.” 

You take a wipe with your free hand and gently rub at the makeup on Bruce’s face. Both of his arms jerk against the restraints at that first touch. He starts panting hard again. 

“The blood–” he says with a pained moan. “The blood–” 

“There’s no blood, Bruce,” you say. Each touch is careful, gentle. “Everyone’s alright.” 

But he keeps yanking at the restraints. His wrists underneath his long sleeve shirt are turning redder and redder with each movement. 

“I couldn’t save them,” Bruce says around a small sob. He stares at you but you don’t think he actually can see you. “It’s my fault. I couldn’t save them.” 

“Save who?” you ask with one final swipe of the wipe over his eyes. 

“My parents. Alfred.” A tear slips over his cheek. “You.” 

“Alfred and I are alive, Bruce,” you say as you sit back on your heels on the bed. You carefully reach over and tug each of his sleeves over his wrist underneath the handcuffs. 

But Bruce doesn’t hear. “Stop!” he shouts at an unseen foe. “Don’t hurt them!” 

His sleeves have ridden up again, exposing his wrists to the handcuffs. You can see a small bit of blood on the wrist closest to you. 

Alfred hands out a bandage. “This should help.” 

You each bandage a wrist even as Bruce continues struggling. His pleas fade to pained noises that rip your heart out each time. 

“We should give him more of the sedative,” Alfred says. He rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “Where are the autopsy records? Maybe I can find out what this drug contains and see if there’s anything we can safely give him.” 

“They’re all at my workstation downstairs.” 

“I’ll be right back,” Alfred says. He hurries off, his limp even more pronounced now. 

Bruce continues straining against the handcuffs. His face is red with effort, his chest still heaving, the veins on his neck sticking out. He brings his knees up and leverages himself so his back smashes against the headboard. It creaks and groans. 

Whatever Alfred gave him must not have been enough. He’s just as frantic as he was before. Except now he’s trying to break his wrists and the headboard at the same time. 

“Stop that,” you say calmly even as your heart pounds. You wouldn’t put it past Bruce to snap the entire thing trying to get free. You run your fingers through his hair again. He immediately settles somewhat, his tugs on the handcuffs slightly easier. 

You decide to use both hands and give him the promised scalp massage. The longer your fingers work through the tangles, the more he seems to relax. You glance at the small device on his finger. His heart rate is still too high, but it lowers slightly at your prolonged touch. It’ll have to be good enough, you decide. Anything to keep his heart from giving out. 

When you look back up, Bruce is staring into your eyes. 

“I thought–I couldn’t be afraid anymore,” he says quietly. He seems more lucid now. Maybe the dose wasn’t that strong. You silently pray to all the gods and entities that might listen that it’ll be over soon. “But seeing you die–” His breath catches in his chest. “I couldn’t save you.” 

“I’m here,” you say. You wish you could take his fear and pain away, but there’s nothing else you can do. “I didn’t die.” 

Bruce makes a noise in his throat that you can’t comprehend. “It’s my–worst nightmare.” His eyes close. He grimaces. 

You keep trying to sooth him with your fingers in his hair. “You’re hallucinating, Bruce,” you say. “I don’t know if you’re able to tell what’s real right now, but all the bad things? Those are hallucinations.” 

“You’re real,” he murmurs softly. His body is a lot more relaxed. 

“Yes,” you say. “I’m here. I’m real.” 

Alfred bursts back into the room, laptop tucked under his arms. “I think we can give him more.” 

“Are you sure it’s safe?” 

“No, but if this doesn’t work…He’ll need an ambulance.” 

“He seems a lot calmer,” you say. Bruce’s eyes are still closed but he hums. “I don’t think the dose was very strong. He probably took the guy by surprise.” 

Alfred injects something into the IV, and Bruce’s body goes slack after a few moments. Alfred checks his pulse and blood pressure for several quiet moments, watching each of them improve slightly minute by minute. 

“That should do it,” Alfred says. He brushes a hand over his salt and pepper beard. “You can go on to bed, my dear.” 

“No, I’ll–I’ll stay, keep an eye on him. You go.” You expect him to argue, but Alfred nods and leaves you alone with Bruce. 

Now that things are calm, all of your fear and adrenaline start to fade. Bruce isn’t completely out of the woods yet, but he’ll make it. You think.

You think back to the surveillance video you saw. Dr. Crane was likely experimenting on the woman who died when Bruce showed up–and used whatever drug he had leftover on him. So it was likely it hadn’t been a full dose, especially with the way he seemed to calm down some. 

It was lucky. Extremely lucky. You think about the way the force of chance, of luck, has worked in your life so far, and can’t discount this instance either. 

When Bruce wakes up, you’ll give him all of the evidence he needs to get Dr. Crane arrested. You’d call Gordon now, but it’s so late it’s early. It can all wait until you know for sure Bruce is going to be alright. 

Exhausted, you lean back against the pillows next to Bruce. You glance around and can’t help but laugh at the situation. Here you are, in the place you most want to be–in Bruce’s bed–in the least romantic way possible. You don’t even have permission to be here. Bruce will probably ask you to leave once he’s in his right mind again. 

You turn your head to watch Bruce sleep, your own eyes heavy. You want to undo the handcuffs, but you’re afraid he’ll wake up in a panic again. Better to leave them on just in case. 

Without meaning to, your breathing syncs with his. You watch his chest rise and fall and try to let the motion comfort you. You glance at the little device on his finger again and feel even better when you see that his heart rate has calmed significantly. It’s still a bit high, but it isn’t in dangerous territory anymore. 

You always knew being Batman was dangerous. You’ve seen him come back injured a thousand times. A couple of times he was half-dead. But something about this was worse. Maybe because it isn’t an actual injury–it’s his own mind fighting him. His worst nightmares come to life. Bruce is the strongest person you know and seeing him brought low is like…a physical blow. It was terrifying. Bruce had always seemed so…untouchable. Like a man who was never afraid. 

His fear is the most terrifying thing you’ve ever witnessed. 

Your eyes slip closed as you watch him breathe. His bed is startlingly comfortable. You half-expected Bruce with his martyr complex to sleep on a brick. But this bed…this bed is definitely the kind of bed a billionaire would own.

You wake with a jolt sometime later. 

Bruce is watching you. His breath catches and he lets out a long sigh. He closes his eyes and seems to gather himself. 

When his eyes open again a second later, they’re wet. 

“I thought you were dead.” His voice is rougher and lower than usual, like he’s been screaming. The sound of it scrapes over your skin like sandpaper. 

“I’m not,” you say, still struggling to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. The room is dim. You were pretty sure the lamps had both been on but now only one is lit–and you have a blanket over you now too. Alfred must have come in at some point. 

“I know, but–” He takes another deep breath. The handcuffs rattle as he shifts. “For a moment, I didn’t know if it was real.” 

“What did you see?” you ask slowly. You see the handcuff key sitting on the nightstand closest to you and grab it. 

Bruce shies away from you. “Don’t unlock me yet. I don’t–I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“Bruce,” you say. You soften towards him. He’s scared again, but it’s different. You don’t know if it’s a leftover effect of the drug or if it's his propensity for self-flagellation, but he’s afraid of hurting you. “You won’t hurt me. You didn’t even hurt me when you were drugged. You protected me. Granted, it was from nothing, but…” You flash him a smile. He doesn’t return it. “Have you been awake long?” 

He ignores the joke and the question, eyes staring into the middle distance. “I saw…every variation possible of the people I love dying,” he finally says as you unlock the wrist closest to you. He groans quietly as he stretches the arm out. He must be in a lot of pain from having his arms lifted for so long, but he says nothing. “I saw myself killing you. Or I saw someone else hurting you because of me, to get to me. You kept getting hurt and I was always too late to stop it.” He’s breathing hard again. 

You can feel his breath on your face as you lean over him to unlock the other handcuff. 

He catches your wrist and keeps you close, staring up at you. His lashes are long and dark, his blue eyes bright as stars. He’s so beautiful it takes your breath away, even in his disheveled state. You still aren’t used to the sight of him. 

“Y/n, do you hear what I’m saying?” he says, voice almost anguished. 

And your brain finally catches up. 

I saw…every variation possible of the people I love dying. I saw myself killing you. Or someone else hurting you because of me, to get to me. 

You suddenly can’t breathe. People I love. 

“Bruce–” All the other words get caught behind his name. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and yet again you aren’t sure what he’s sorry for. “But seeing all of that–I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you without knowing…all of it. The way I feel about you. How badly I–” He shakes his head and presses his lips together. 

You want to pinch yourself. You’re still asleep, right? There’s no way in any universe that Bruce Wayne feels for you like you do for him. 

But he’s including you in the list of people he loves.

You’ve been silent for too long, still hovering over Bruce. His eyes shift away, a wall coming down behind them as he shuts himself off. 

“I just…wanted you to know. That’s all. I won’t mention it again.” There’s a slight pink tint to his cheeks. “It’s okay if you don’t…feel that way about me.” 

“Bruce,” you say again, softer this time. You sit back a little. “I–I’m sorry.” He deflates a little, rubbing one wrist absently. He still isn’t looking at you. “I’m not really good with words, but I want you to know I feel the same way about you.” His gaze snaps to yours. You can feel heat creeping up your neck to settle in your cheeks. “I was so scared last night. I thought–all the other victims we knew about had died and–I couldn’t handle it if you died, too. You are…so important to me.” Your voice catches slightly. 

He reaches for you, calloused hands soft as the touch of a butterfly wing against your cheek. 

“Please tell me this isn’t the drug,” he says after a long moment. 

You grin. “It isn’t. It makes you scared, remember? Are you scared now?” 

He smiles back. The sight of it steals your breath. “I’m terrified.” But his smile only grows wider.

You lean down, very slightly, going slowly so he has time to change his mind. Because it still doesn’t feel real, doesn’t feel possible.

But Bruce stretches his neck up and closes the gap between you. His lips brush yours and you feel a relief so complete you want to melt into the bed. His other hand comes up to join the first and he cradles your face like you’re something valuable, something breakable, something to be cherished. 

As his lips move against yours, your entire body seems to say, Ah, I’ve been waiting for this. 

His mouth parts slightly, an invitation that you quickly take. His hands are still careful against your face, but one of yours fists around his shirt. 

When you pull away, you smile at each other. 

“As much as I want to stay here like this,” you murmur with another kiss pressed quickly to his mouth, “I think we should get Gordon to arrest Dr. Crane as soon as possible.” 

Bruce sighs but nods. “You’re right.” 

“I usually am.” 

He laughs. “And maybe after that’s done with…we can talk more.” 

You can’t help but kiss him again. “Of course. We can talk and kiss.” 

Needless to say, it takes a long time for you and Bruce to get up to contact Gordon. 

[zipperzoo]

I dont know if anyone else experiences this but I get a wAve of depression whenever I post a chapter or a story online/ on AO3 like I am convinced no one will like my work then when I reread what I posted I notice like a million mistakes that i didnt when editing

[zipperzoo]

Now knowing what exactly Bruce was thinking during the confrontation, his confesstion and - ugh.... I am content

transcendent -- motn oneshot

battinson!bruce wayne x f!reader

a/n: Hi! Long time no see! In honor of motn's one year birthday/ anniversary (I first posted on March 21, 2022), I decided to give you guys a little treat...without further ado, here's (most of) ch. 30 from Bruce's POV. I'm using the taglist from the last chapter of sitn, so let me know if you want me to remove your tag!

***this chapter is NSFW. 18+***

Series Masterlist

word count: 5670

Bruce was drowning himself in the Batman. 

He couldn’t stop seeing the blade slide into the soft flesh of y/n’s stomach. Even before that, he’d gotten her beaten and stabbed and drugged and kidnapped–he was no good for her. 

He craved her warmth, her company, more than anything, but he was a danger to her. She had almost died because of him. 

So he stayed away, a punishment for himself and protection for her. 

Working had always been his solace, so work he did. Every night he threw himself into the protection of Gotham and its citizens, even when he hadn’t slept in two days, when he hadn’t eaten in hours. He absorbed the blows of criminals like they were his own punishment. The pain kept him awake, kept him grounded…

Kept him away from her. 

Alfred’s words still haunted him. Every time his eyes closed for a second, he heard the words. You deserve someone like her. You are good enough for her.

But he wasn’t good enough for her. Not even close. 

Bruce took a deep breath in through his nose and held it, then went back to documenting his night in the Gotham Project journal before him. He ignored the mess around him. He’d set everything back up…eventually. Right now all he needed was the one table and computer. Everything else could wait. 

A flash of memory–pain and guilt and so much anger–and he pushed it away. 

The elevator started rattling its way upwards. He ignored it like everything else and kept writing. Probably Alfred, coming to chastise him some more. He deserved it. 

He barely felt the chill in the air against the bare skin of his chest as he wrote. It felt good. It kept him awake. He needed to stay awake, because sleeping was dangerous. 

When he slept, there was only blood and pain and death. 

The elevator doors slid open. 

“Bruce.” It took everything in him not to respond to her voice. If he ignored her she’d leave him alone. At least, he hoped. He kept writing as the video feed from his night played on. But of course she wasn’t deterred. “If you don’t talk to me I’m going to–I don’t know, put itching powder in your armor. Paint your mask pink. I don’t know! Look at me.” 

He let out a breath of a laugh. He couldn’t help it. He briefly imagined her, frown on her face, sitting cross legged painting his mask pink, a smudge of paint marring her cheekbone. 

She stomped closer to him and took him off guard by shoving him. Hard. His instincts kept him still, body absorbing the movement like it was nothing. 

He took another slow inhale, then turned and paused the video. 

He was a plant turning to face the sun after days of rain. He was drawn to her, to her warmth, her light. It was an impulse, an act of nature, something he couldn’t control unless he really tried. She was the brightest spot in the dim underground, the warmest thing for miles. 

But Bruce kept his face cold, distant, as if the sun didn’t exist near him. 

“If you don’t stop brooding, so help me–” She paused, eyebrows drawn together like she couldn’t think of another serious threat as bad as itching powder or pink masks. She pressed her hand flat against his sternum. Her touch was searing hot, almost uncomfortably so. He grabbed her wrist but couldn’t bring himself to push her away. He needed her touch like oxygen, and his body knew it. 

“You can’t avoid me forever. I’m not quitting my job until you talk to me.” 

His eyes narrowed as his heart stopped. “You’re still quitting?” he said, when really he wanted to shout, No!

“He speaks!” she said with a little twist to her lips, something like pride in her features. “I promised I would. But not until you stop being so–so–I don’t know, broody. I already told you I wouldn’t let you shut me out. I gave you time. Too much time.” 

He still held her wrist. “I’m not brooding.” He let her go as if burned and turned back to the screen. He pressed play so he could go back to documenting his night. “I’m working.” She was too close to him. He needed her closer. He needed her to go. He needed her to stay. He needed–he had no idea what he needed, only that what he wanted and what was best were two completely different things. 

She reached around him and smacked the button so the video stopped again. She shoved herself between him and the screen, forcing him back a few steps. The warmth of her was like a flare in the night. Her sudden invasion of his space took him off guard. 

“You’re brooding, and it’s because you almost killed me.” 

He couldn’t help his flinch, the words landing like a physical blow. He’d been doing–not well at ignoring it, exactly, but he’d been able to ignore it some. There had been so much blood, blood that still stained his hands–

“Go ahead,” she said, interrupting the memory. “Feel bad about it. It sucked. Is that what you want? Me to never forgive you? Me to hate you? To call you a bad man? A murderer?”

His breath came in panicked gasps. This was what he deserved but it still hurt. It ached. She wouldn’t let up, each of her words landing with such precision he half-expected to see blood blooming from his bare chest. She poked him right in one of the sore spots. Her eyes flashed. “Fine. You’re an asshole, I hate you, and I wish you would die.” 

The pain of the words washed over him. He trembled even as his eyes narrowed. He knew her. She was going to make a point with all of this, he knew she would. But there was still that small part of him in the back of his mind that let the words hurt. 

“Oh, is that not what you wanted to hear?” she continued scathingly. Her voice was pitched higher than normal and she was breathing just as heavily as he was. “Fine, how about the truth? It wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing to forgive. There never will be. I don’t hate you, so you can’t hate yourself. In fact, you big, dumb, stubborn asshole, I still love you.” 

The words dropped like stones within him. He opened his mouth even as she glared. He didn’t know what he was going to say–that he loved her, that she shouldn’t love him, to leave him alone, that he wanted to kiss her. Before he could speak, she was jabbing her sharp little finger into his chest again. 

“No! I’m not done. Since you’re finally listening. I don’t care if you–if you feel differently. If you see me as a friend. Or as just an employee. Batman’s partner. I don’t care! Even if it’s–fucking crazy! Because I’m in love with you, and I want you to know that you are still worth being loved. I don’t care what you’ve done. You’re a good man. Nothing will change that in my eyes. Do you get that? Nothing. You fucking stabbed me and almost killed me and I still fucking love you!” A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye and over the apple of her cheek. She swiped at it quickly, still glaring, still breathing hard. 

I still fucking love you. 

Bruce shoved away from her. His hands shook as he ran them through his hair. 

The words were too big. Too much. The love he felt for her was overwhelming, especially since it was destroying her. He was dangerous, and he would get her killed sooner or later. He’d been lucky that she hadn’t died, that he hadn’t killed her. But there would always be another chance for that, if she stayed close. If he let her in. If he let her love him, he would get her killed. 

Everyone he loved ended up dead, after all. Just look at his parents. 

He walked over to his motorcycle, still on its side from his fit of rage weeks ago, and righted it just to have something to do with his shaking hands. 

He had to make her see. She had to understand how dangerous a thing like his love would be. How dangerous it already was. “I almost killed you. I almost killed you.” The words were blades as they ripped from his throat. 

He blinked, and she was in front of him. Her hands were blazing hot as she put them on either side of his face. 

“I don’t care,” she said fiercely, the words utterly convicted. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t you.” 

“I’m not a good man, y/n,” he whispered. To his horror, a tear fell from his eyes. He loved her so much, and she loved him, but the universe was cruel and had already tried taking her from him too many times. It was for the best that he stayed away, that he pushed her away. 

“You are,” she said. “In your heart, you’re a good man. Even good men do bad things sometimes.” 

The hope, the love, shining on her face was too much. “You don’t get it. I’m–I’m no good for you. You deserve someone who is good. Not someone made for the shadows. Not someone…angry like I am. Someone who won’t put you in–” 

“Stop it!” she said sharply. She grabbed his face again. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, he did. “I have seen the darkest parts of you, Bruce Wayne. And I am not afraid. I have seen the worst parts of you and I am still right here. I’m angry too. I’m–I have been just as complicit as you have in all of this. I killed James Maxwell. I–” 

He shook his head vehemently as he closed his eyes against the onslaught of memories. “No,” he said. “You’re not like me at all, y/n. You’re too good.” Even the darkest parts of her were brighter than the lightest parts of him. He was made of shadows, made to stay in them, made to stay out of the light. And she was the sun, trying to burn those shadows away. But there was no light without shadows, and he could never be the brightness she deserved. Not ever. 

“I love you,” she said. “Every part of you. I don’t care if you don’t feel the same way about me, I want you to know that. You make me feel safe. I love every part of you. ” 

He shuddered at the weight of the words. “You shouldn’t.” 

“When have I ever listened to you?” she asked with a small smile. His mouth twisted. Never. She’d never listened to him, and he loved her for it. “I love you, even though you’re impossible. And stubborn. You have to stop blaming yourself. I’m alive.”

“Don’t you get it?” he said. His voice broke on the words. “Don’t you see? I love you and I almost killed you.” His hands pressed flat against her back. He shook against her. He was coming apart at the seams, all of his grief and darkness pouring from him in a wave. Didn’t she see? “All these people I’ve been trying to save, and I would have let all of them die if it meant saving you.” 

She stared up at him for a beat, mouth parted in surprise. 

And then she kissed him.

It was a reflex to kiss her back, a starving man confronted with a feast for the first time. Her lips tasted like salt and he couldn’t tell if they were his tears or hers. He pressed her against the work table, hungry for more, his fingers spreading against her ribcage and her back, trapping her against him. Her warmth completely stole the chill from the air and he almost groaned into her mouth at the sensation. 

She made a soft noise and his mind went hurtling back to her on the floor beneath him, black dress wet with blood, her eyes on his as she told him she loved him even as his blade tried to steal her life. 

He pulled away, the memory turning the salt on his tongue metallic like blood. “I can’t,” he whispered, anguished. “Every time I look at you, I see your blood on my hands. I can’t do this.” 

But oh, how he wanted to. How he needed to. 

He forced himself to go to the elevator and make his way upstairs. A shower–a cold shower. Then he could go back to work. Maybe he’d even go sleep at the signal tower. He couldn’t be near her, couldn’t corrupt her anymore, couldn’t be confronted with the blood on his hands anymore. Her blood. His blade. 

His body went on autopilot like it had so many other times in the past weeks. Alfred would probably call it a defense mechanism. 

He shed his boots inside his bedroom then went for the makeup wipes he had stashed everywhere. He let his mind go blank. He couldn’t–wouldn’t–think about what y/n said. 

But of course she wasn’t giving up. She appeared in the doorway to his bedroom within a minute. He loved that about her, he always had, but at that moment all he wanted to do was hide like a child under his blankets and not come out for anything. 

“Bruce,” she said. He pointedly turned away from her. “Bruce, you can’t just–”

“Please,” he said, voice cracking. “I can’t do this. Not now.” 

She stepped up to him and once again placed a hand on his bare chest. She traced one of his scars. Physical proof of his anger, his violence, his darkness.

“I don’t care. Please look at me.” 

After a long moment, he murmured her name. It was all he could manage. He was scraped raw inside, every nerve and every emotion laid bare. 

“Look at me,” she said. “I’m alive. There’s no blood on your hands. There’s nothing I need to forgive you for.” He looked down at her. Her expression was still fierce, still convicted. “I can’t believe you almost killed me and didn’t tell me all of this sooner, you fucking jerk.” 

He let out a soft noise but didn’t smile. “I’m no good for you,” he said again. But he could feel himself losing the fight. Her proximity was a heady drug, and he craved it, just like he craved the love she was so desperately trying to give him. 

“Bruce, I killed a man.” Something flashed across her face that looked a lot like guilt. Bruce wanted to take the feeling away from her, to carry it for her, to make sure she never felt it again. “I killed a man to save you,” she said again. “And here you are, beating yourself up over almost killing me when it wasn’t even your fault. If anything, I’m no good for you.” 

He pulled her closer and breathed her in. “I don’t care,” he said. “I should care, but I don’t. Not when it’s–not when it’s you.” 

“Don’t you get it, then?” she said softly. The love in her eyes was so intense it was a physical caress against his face. He unconsciously leaned into it. “That’s what I feel about you. I don’t care about any of it.” 

He saw how clearly she meant it. She didn’t care. He tried not to let the hope take him over, but it crested on a wave and threatened to pull him under. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed to say. Sorry for hurting her, sorry for doubting her, sorry for loving her, sorry for all of it. 

But there she still was, patiently waiting on him. She was stubborn, even when it came to matters of the heart. He stared at her in wonder. She loved him.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Except for maybe not telling me that you loved me sooner.” She gave him the lightest of kisses and then closed her eyes. Her next words were uncertain.  “Do you mean it? Because I’m going to be so pissed off if you don’t.” 

He huffed a laugh and then groaned. “Yes.” 

And this time he let himself give in. He let himself trust her. She was so much stronger than he realized, so he let himself fall into her, into loving her. She could hold him. She could carry the weight. 

Her kiss seared through him. He groaned into her mouth, and then again as her hands started exploring his bare back and chest. Her touch lit him from within. He expected to open his eyes and see flames. It was overwhelming, the love and desire he felt for her. He had never felt this way for anyone. He had never expected to feel it, either. 

He pulled away with his eyes still closed. He rested his forehead on hers and simply breathed her in. “Every time you touch me, it’s like–like I’m on fire,” he said softly. “It’s too much. It’s not enough.” 

Her hands stilled their exploration and rested on his back. “I thought you didn’t want me, all those times you didn’t want me to touch you,” she said. “But I couldn’t make myself stop wanting you.” 

“I never said I didn’t want you,” he said. He kissed her again to prove his point. “That night you first kissed me–” He groaned as her hands slid up over his ribs and around his neck. Tangled in his hair. He couldn’t think with her touching him like that. “–I wanted it to be your choice, wholly your choice. Not because you were upset at work, or because you were drunk. I have never stopped wanting you.” 

Instead of responding, y/n kissed him again like she was desperate. Like she was afraid he’d walk away again. The fire in his blood built into an inferno. 

“Touch me, Bruce Wayne,” she murmured against his lips. Those goddamn words, he thought hazily as he moaned and backed her up to the edge of the bed. He had never known desire like this. He lifted her so her legs would wrap around him and their bodies nestled together perfectly. He knew she could feel his hardness pressing against her. Her eyes were blown wide with desire, which only built the fire within him further. 

“I love you,” she said as his lips sought out the soft flesh of her neck. 

This time, when the words rose to his tongue, he set them free. “I love you,” he said against the fluttering pulse in her throat. 

“I’m so mad at you,” she said breathily. He went still. Had he done something wrong? Then she groaned and ground herself against him. The movement was so unexpected that his hands fisted in her shirt. “I’m so mad that we could have been doing this sooner.” 

His expression cleared, and he laughed. “I love you,” she said as she kissed him again. 

“Touch me,” she told him as one of his hands scraped against her breast over her shirt. “Please.” 

He was already lifting her, keeping her against him exactly as she was. “You’re a bully,” he said against her neck as he held her up with one hand and fumbled with her shirt with the other. His tongue traced her lower lip. 

“If I had known that bullying you into talking about our feelings would–” Her words cut off with a moan as his bare hands glided up the skin of her ribcage beneath her shirt. “–lead to this, I would have been bullying you every single day for weeks.” 

He kissed her again. She belonged in his arms, he thought. She belonged against him just as she was. He never wanted to let her go. “Well, maybe that would have been worse,” he said pragmatically. “The doctor did say absolutely no sex for six weeks.” 

Her legs clenched around him. His breath left him in a rush at the sensation, and she was still clothed. He realized he might not survive this, because his heart already felt as if it were about to give out and they hadn’t even properly begun yet. 

She seemed to realize the effect she had on him and, with a wicked grin, clenched her thighs again. 

He had her pinned against the bed with his body in half a second. His hips settled against her like her body was made for him, and she let out a moan that almost made him burst into flames, it was so hot. 

“Hey–” she said, pulling away. “He told you what the doctor said?” 

Bruce rested his elbow on the mattress behind her while the other held her by the ass. His hand flexed on its own accord. She was so soft. “Like I said before, meddlesome old man.” 

He didn’t want to talk anymore, and especially not about Alfred. Not when y/n was spread below him, her body just begging for him to touch and taste it all over. His eyes roamed over her form for a split second before he bent his head to kiss her again. She squirmed underneath him. 

He wanted to devour her. 

He gave in to the urge and yanked her shirt and bra off. Her breasts were perfect, so he paused to kiss them, give them the attention they deserved. Her skin was so soft, especially compared to the calluses on his own hands. The small noise she made when his mouth touched her skin encouraged him to do more. 

It wasn’t enough. He wanted her to feel good, to know how much he wanted her, to know how much he wanted to swallow her whole in the flames of his desire. 

Somehow his body knew what to do. Without thinking, he knelt and pulled down her shorts and underwear until she was entirely bare before him. 

His mouth went dry at the sight.

“Jesus,” she said on a breath as his mouth drifted across her inner thigh. He kissed her higher, experimenting to see how she’d react. “Fuck.” He was on the right track, then. He kept kissing higher and higher, stopping before he reached the place he really wanted to taste. 

His gaze snagged on the angry scar on her abdomen. The one he’d given her. Reverently, he lowered his head and kissed the puckered skin. 

He looked back up at her, hoping she could see everything he was feeling, because he wasn’t sure how to say it out loud. 

Then he lowered his head once more. She moaned the moment his lips touched her and her fingers tangled in his hair. Something about the sensation coupled with the taste of her on his lips made him twitch in his pants as he moaned against her. He paid her back by slowly, slowly sliding a finger into her wet heat. 

She growled impatiently and it was so endearing that he smiled. 

“Please,” she said, polite yet bossy, so he obliged with another finger. Every response he pulled from her with his mouth and fingers informed his movements. The louder the sound, the more she liked what he was doing. He experimented with movements, learning her body slowly but surely. He let his tongue circle her clit as his fingers moved in and out of her, seeing if she liked it when he curled them. 

He’d had no idea that tasting her, pleasing her, would be so…erotic. He could climax just from this, he decided, especially with the sounds she was making. 

He didn’t know how long had passed when her entire body suddenly shuddered and the noises she made changed. He could feel her clenching around his fingers as she shook. 

“Fuck,” she said as she heaved for breath. “Fuck,” she said again. She was so utterly beautiful spread out before him, her body loose with her pleasure. Her body trembled again. Her fingers fisted in his hair. “Bruce–” 

He watched her come down from her high, feeling pleased with himself. He had done that to her, had made her look and sound like that. Even inexperienced as he was, he had made her feel good. 

She sat up suddenly, still completely naked, and yanked at him until he understood what she wanted. He stood to his feet and stared down at her. He watched her look at him, eyes roving hungrily over his exposed abdomen, before she pressed a kiss there that made him impossibly more turned on. She kissed one scar–the one from the night they met–and then the scar from the night she’d been kidnapped. Her eyes lingered there for a moment, her expression softening. 

Then a wicked gleam sparked in her eyes as she rubbed her hand over him through his pants. His hips bucked involuntarily. She stared up at him and the sight was so erotic he nearly came right then and there. His mind spiraled forward to things her mouth might do to him and–

And what came after. 

Something he’d never done before. 

He suddenly felt unsure. Would she expect more from him than he could give? What if it wasn’t good for her? What if she knew he’d never done anything like this before? Would she care? 

“I–” he tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come. Y/n stroked him through his pants again and all thoughts briefly left his head. He clenched his fists and tilted his head back because simply seeing her naked on the bed before him was almost too much to handle. 

She didn’t notice his hesitation, unbuttoning his pants swiftly and pushing them down over his hips almost greedily. 

He caught her hands in his own. “I–I’ve never done this–” His face was hot with embarrassment. “I’ve never–”

“Bruce,” she murmured gently. “It’s okay, we don’t have to–” 

“No,” he said, then breathed a laugh. She’d utterly misunderstood him. Couldn’t she see–couldn’t she feel–how much he wanted her? “I want to, I just–” 

She took that as permission to rid him of his underwear next and his words choked off. “I want to, too,” she said. Her eyes lowered. Her lips parted as she took him in, licking her lips absentmindedly. God, her mouth. She tore her eyes away from his nakedness and locked her eyes on his. “I’m yours,” she said simply. “However you want me. Even if you want to wait.” 

“I don’t want to wait anymore.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, her hand wrapped around him. His hips jerked again. There was a wicked glint in her eyes. 

He grabbed her hands again to stop her. “Play later,” he growled. Because he really didn’t want to wait anymore. He wanted her, all of her. 

She laid back on the bed with a soft sigh and watched as he fumbled in the nightstand for a condom. 

He saw her watching and flushed again. “I…may have gotten these before the gala.” He tore one open with his teeth. He tried very hard not to think about how embarrassing it had been trying to find the right kind and how he’d had to call Alfred when the sheer amount of choices had overwhelmed him. 

She laughed. “Feeling cocky, were you?” she said, with a pointed look and a wink. 

“I was–Let’s just say–” He swallowed. He turned his focus to putting the condom on, trying not to seem too new at it. When he looked at her again, his gaze roved hungrily over her naked body as he said, “The night didn’t go like I’d wanted.” He got on his knees on the bed and nudged her legs apart. He settled between them, body trembling in anticipation. “I have never stopped wanting you,” he said again, softer this time. He leaned down and kissed her deeply. 

“I’m yours,” she whispered against his lips. He pulled away to look down at her, already deliciously disheveled, his cock pressed against the soft flesh of her lower stomach. She squirmed slightly, making him twitch against her. The desire was going to kill him, he realized. 

“And I’m yours,” he echoed softly as his hands explored the soft curves of her. Did she know how beautiful she was? How perfect she was? How much she had changed his life? “I love you,” he said, savoring that he got to say the words to her at all. That he got to mean them. 

And then finally, finally, he pushed into her, sliding in like a puzzle piece designed specifically for her. And she said, “I love you,” as they connected, both of them moaning quietly at the contact. 

Bruce practically shook with the need to move as he held himself still above her. Instead, he rested his forehead against hers. “Is this okay?” 

“No,” she said, and a weight dropped in his gut. Of course he was doing it wrong. Of course he– “I–more,” she said, the word almost incoherent. Her legs wrapped around his waist and with one easy movement, her hips shifted and he sank the rest of the way inside her. For a moment, he saw stars. She must have too, because she moaned his name and squeezed him more tightly against her, a small tremble moving through her body and into his. 

Again, his body seemed to know what to do, and his hips moved. She wasn’t close enough–he wanted her all over him, every inch of her against every inch of him. He grabbed at her waist and lifted her so that he somehow slipped even more deeply inside her. She cursed, drawing a smile from his lips. Her head was tilted back slightly, her eyes hooded, her body soft against him, all around him. 

“Extraordinary creature,” he said just to make her smile. It worked, and seeing the expression on her face made his heart twist in his chest. 

He moved against her, her fingernails biting into his shoulder blades, one of her hands tangling in his hair. And again, the sensation coupled with that of being inside her sent a jolt of desire through him so sharp he moaned. She smirked then did it again, making his cock twitch inside her. He’d had no idea that someone pulling his hair, of all things, could be so sinful. 

He shifted his grip on her hips so he could lean his head against hers and drink her in. She moaned, approving of the new angle, and he stole the sound off her lips with his own. He paused to keep himself from going over the edge too soon. After a moment, he started moving again, hips bucking into her, the slide so easy and perfect it drew sounds from deep in his chest. 

Faster. Harder. The more he moved, the tighter the desire deep in his gut coiled, making him moan her name in ecstasy. 

He’d had no idea sex would be like this. He’d had no idea that loving the person you desired, that having them love you back, made it so much…better. Would it always be like this? He hoped so. 

Her muscles tensed around him, her back arching as he moved. He was right with her on the building wave of pleasure. It built and built and built, her noises becoming desperate, pleading, until she shuddered around him. She clenched around him, the sudden tightening sending him over the edge right behind her. 

His vision went white, her name on his lips, and the moment exploded into perfect ecstasy. 

It was transcendent. 

“Fuck,” y/n said quietly as they clung to each other. He rubbed small circles into her skin where he held her. 

Bruce was too stunned to speak. She giggled at something, fingertips brushing his face before he captured them and kissed the tips. Then he leaned down and kissed her lips. The kiss deepened, and that feeling of transcendence built. 

He had never loved someone like he loved her. He hadn’t even known he was capable. 

There was a warmth in his chest now, like a piece of the sun itself was lodged there. He was aglow in its warmth. 

“I love you,” she murmured when he pulled away. He gave her a lopsided smile. “Okay?” she asked, suddenly seeming almost self conscious. He kept grinning at her. Okay? Was he okay? 

“Better than okay,” he murmured as he stood. It was the biggest understatement he had ever made. He threw the condom in the trash can next to the bed. “Are you…okay? Did I hurt you?” She had seemed to enjoy it as much as he had, but he had no baseline to compare the experience to. 

She stretched languidly and smiled dreamily at him. “I am way better than okay.” He grinned at her again as he pulled on a pair of comfortable sweatpants. She watched his every move, eyes sharp as they trailed over his body. He felt a swell of male pride at that, enjoying that she was looking, enjoying that she was enjoying the sight of him. Enjoying the possessiveness in her gaze.

She rolled to her side and used her hands for pillows. Bruce couldn’t help but stare at her breasts and the curve of her hip as she moved. She was his, this extraordinary creature, and he was hers. 

The warmth in his chest carried him to her to brush a soft kiss against her temple. She sighed happily as she stretched again and stood. She smiled over her shoulder, corners of her eyes crinkling, as she stepped into the bathroom. 

Bruce thought about how desolate he’d felt just an hour before. How…alone. Guilty. Desperate. 

And now…now y/n was naked in his bathroom, her love buoying him and lightening the load of his guilt. 

A smile spread slowly across his face.

[zipperzoo]

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐬 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐝

pairing: pre outbreak!joel miller x f!reader, one sided tommy miller x f!reader

genre: angst, smut, romance, slow burn, mutual pining, secret relationship

series summary: After your grandfather’s passing, you find yourself moving into his home in Texas. You meet the Millers; Tommy, his older brother Joel and his daughter Sarah. With time, you and Tommy become close friends and Sarah visits you often. But Joel…Joel keeps his distance. The reason for this is due to one crucial fact you don’t know but he does; Tommy has a crush on you. Which means you’re off limits no matter what. But as your own feelings for Joel grow, things start to get more and more complicated.

word count: 3.7k

chapter summary: you have your first girls' night out with Olivia and of course, Joel is at the same bar— waiting for his date.

warnings: alcohol consumption, piv sex (between joel and ofc!asha sorry y'all but don't worry reader and joel are gonna get there... eventually), a bit of hurt/comfort vibes, sex for comfort

Chapter Three || Chapter Five

The bar is much more crowded than you expect, but then again, you haven't been going out much so you wouldn't really know. Despite the sweaty crowd, the fans do a good job of circulating the air and it smells nice, like strawberries.

Olivia is sitting across from you. There’s a small wooden bowl of unshelled peanuts on the table, she reaches over and takes one. You’re a bit nervous. You're barely paying attention as you absentmindedly shove the nail of your thumb into the pad of your forefinger, lost in thought. Your eyes lift to Olivia just in time to see her dark brows furrow with concentration as she deftly peels the thick shell off the nut, a bit of tongue peeking out above her glossy bottom lip.

She looks nice, you observe. Her white knitted tank top accentuates her breasts, and the mustard yellow ring around her waistline draws your eye to her curves. You can see a shimmer to her dark skin, little specks of gold that catch the light. You assume it must be the body spray she's wearing. Meanwhile, she pushes a successfully deshelled peanut between her lips. You suddenly feel uncomfortable with your own outfit. 

You had made an effort, mostly because Tommy had insisted, but you couldn't imagine going out in sweatpants anyway. You're wearing a burgundy dress, the sleeves going all the way to your elbows and the neckline delightfully deep. The dress is a bit too short for your comfort, and you find yourself tugging it down whenever you stand up, but it elicited a whistle from Olivia when she first saw you, so you decide the trouble is worth it.

When Olivia throws the remains of the peanut shell to the floor, you frown. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to litter.” 

“Look around babe,” she answers, taking another peanut. “It’s the concept.” 

Suddenly you’re abundantly aware of the peanut shells on the floor acting as decor, your lips form a simple oh. Before you turn back to Olivia, you see multiple people throwing their shells to the floor. The waiter appears before you can get the words out.

“What can I get you, ladies, on this fine evening?” 

“I want a long island ice tea,” Olivia smiles, her green eyes flitting to you. 

In contrast to Olivia's effortless smile, yours is awkward and forced, the corners of your lips trembling slightly.

“A greyhound please,” 

“Anything else?” 

Olivia throws more shells to the floor, “Are you hungry?” 

“A bit.” 

She proceeds to order a mixed plate of deep-fried everything, which your stomach has no objections to. When the waiter leaves, you finally reach out and grab a peanut for yourself. 

“I see you every day, can you relax?” 

“Sorry, it’s just…” you swallow. “It’s been a while since I went out. I’m just a bit excited. I’ll return to normal, promise.” 

“I bet you’ll feel much better after we get some alcohol in your system,” she leans closer, and so do you, your nail ferociously battles the salty shell of the peanut. “You don’t go out much with the boys?” 

“Boys?” 

“Duh, the brothers,” she grins, tapping her nails against the table's surface. “Tommy and Joel, don’t they ever take you out?” 

“Not really. I mean Joel is mostly busy with work and Sarah. Tommy comes by to fix up the room.” 

“Ohhh, that’s right, you two were working on that little project of yours,” the waiter comes back with their drinks, leaves them, and moves to the next table. “How is it like spending time with him?” 

A soft chuckle falls from your lips, “He actually wanted to come tonight, but I said no,” when Olivia shoots you a confused glance you grin. “Girls only.” 

“Hell yeah it is!” she exclaims which is followed by a cheerful woo, she lifts the cold glass to her lips and takes two gulps. Her red lipgloss stains the rim. “How is the room going by the way? Have you managed to paint anything yet?”

“We barely started, last night we cleared out the room,” you rub the side of the glass with your thumb. “And no. But that’s enough of me, what about you?”

Olivia’s face lights up at that. Her parents recently came to visit from Boston and she was quite excited for them to meet Pyrrha. The two had been dating for two months but their chemistry was instant. Olivia had described it as love at first sight when she came to work the next day— she never even believed in love before, her words not yours, and it took her by surprise.

But Pyrrha, she said that day, They’re different. 

You’re confused as to why the memory makes you think of Joel but it does. The heat of alcohol burns your cheeks. You force yourself to smile at what Olivia is saying. You catch her train of thought mid-sentence. The meeting with the parents had gone without a hitch. You’re happy for them. Olivia is one of those rare people that genuinely deserves to be happy. And you’re just about to say that. Your lips part, and at the same time you reach for a peanut, with the corner of your eyes you notice the waiter coming to your table with a large plate—

Then you see him. 

Joel fucking Miller. 

At the bar. 

Alone. 

His eyes are glued to the door, his leg bobbing up and down. When the waiter lays the plate in front of you both, you can’t even look to thank him. Olivia does it for you and follows your gaze. Her eyes go wide, bringing her half-full glass to her lips. 

“Holy shit is that the Joel?” she lets out a soft whistle. “I wasn’t aware he was the type to wear a leather jacket, it suits him.” 

“Yeah that’s new,” you mutter, balking. “Why is he even here? Should I say hi?” you ask frantically, eyes moving back to Olivia. 

“Only if you want to,” she clicks her tongue, looking amused. “And it looks like you really do,”

“Do you think he’s waiting for someone?”

“Well he’s alone now so go on, he won’t bite—unless that’s your thing, I bet he has some nice chompers,” 

“Ha ha very funny—” 

He catches your eye over the shoulders of a group of people moving past, and for a moment, time stands still. His eyebrows slowly raise, his gaze intense. Your heart pounds in your chest, every muscle in your body taut.

You blame your reaction on the two sips of the cocktail you had. Joel’s eyes flit to the entrance one last time before turning to you again and smiling, a slow nod made as a greeting. 

It’s supposed to be left at just that. You’ll smile back and the whole interaction will be over. 

However, you forgot about Olivia. 

She turns towards him, arm casually draped over the back of the booth, and waves in an animated manner, “Hey, Joel!” she calls out, you nearly laugh at the way he jolts, confusion etched between his brows. “Why don’t you come over?” 

Seeing no other choice, Joel grabs his beer and walks over. You’re left in slight surprise when he sits next to you, the close proximity forcing your legs to press together. He has a kind smile when he looks at Olivia. 

“Hi, I’m Joel,” he says, offering his hand. Olivia takes it with a grin. “But I guess you already know that.” 

“I do,” she coos. “I’m Olivia, the designated best friend.” 

“So I’ve heard.” 

Olivia winks at you, her wide smile providing comfort, “Nice to know she talks about me.” 

“Only good things,” Joel chuckles. “You two havin’ a girls' night out?” 

“You know it!” she laughs, fingers moving around the rim of the glass. “Also, this poor girl tells me you guys never go out? Is there a reason for that or are you guys just hermits living under a bridge?”

“Olivia!” 

She waves you off, bottom lip pushed out. “I’m only kidding, he knows that. You don’t mind, do you Joel?” 

You’re surprised at how relaxed he is. You've forgotten that he's actually a pleasant person, capable of engaging in a conversation. It's not that you ever thought of him as unpleasant, but he just never seemed to be that way with you. His booming laughter rattles through the air, and the familiar lines of his face that you've come to admire smooth out in the presence of Olivia. You can't help but admire the power she holds - the power to make anyone feel at home, as if the world is nothing but a playground for them to enjoy. The only time you've seen Joel act differently was during the moment you shared on the porch, a moment that has never been repeated.

You realize you never really saw him after that. 

“I don’t mind at all, darlin’,” he tuts, throwing an arm over the back of the booth. The heat his arm radiates makes you straighten, little needles prick into your skin. “Why didn’t you tell us you wanted to go out?” 

It takes you a second to notice the question is directed at you. You lick your lips before meeting his gaze to answer. 

“I don’t know actually. I guess I never thought about it. Besides, you two are busy.”

You don’t expect to see his eyes soften, you shiver at the feeling of the tips of his fingers brushing alongside the back of your neck, “We would’ve made time.” 

“We should all do something together one day,” Olivia chimes in. “Like we should have a dinner party or something. Anyway—” she suddenly slaps her hands over the table and pushes herself up from the comfort of the booth. “Need to use the little ladies' room. BRB.” 

You watch helplessly as Olivia leaves, the air around you two grow uncomfortable, like cold air filing a hot room from a window crack. Joel’s fingers are still moving over your skin, a feather-light touch. A soft sigh parts your lips and you close your eyes. 

You don’t know what to think. 

“Seems like you’re in good company.” he hums, tilting the beer bottle to his lips. 

You’re disoriented by the remark, you assumed he felt the awkward energy too, but maybe it’s just you making up things that just aren’t true. 

“She’s the best,” you answer as you force your body language to relax. You lean into the back of the booth, allowing his palm to loosely cup the back of your neck. “I think she likes you, which is good. I want her to like you.” 

“You do?” 

“Of course I do,” you finally turn to him, his dark gaze bores into yours, a soft expression of surprise painted over his face. “I mean, who doesn’t want their friends to get along? That’s pretty much a universal want, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” 

“So why are you here? Your schedule is so packed that I’m surprised you give yourself the time to breathe.” 

“Tommy complains a lot about it, huh?” 

You grin behind your glass, cold condescension smooths over your lips. A chill settles at the base of your spine. “Maybe.” 

There’s an awkward pause after that, you can’t quite place why. He takes two long sips from his beer as if waiting for the ground to swallow him. He only speaks when you start to shift in your seat, not really knowing what else to do. 

“He set me up on a blind date,” he blurts out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s why I’m here,” 

“Tommy…set you up with someone?” 

“Well him and Isaac,” he swallows. “Is that bad?” 

You turn to him, eyes widening momentarily, your heart sinks into your stomach, “No, of course not. Why would that be bad?” 

Joel starts to peel the sticker of the beer bottle with his nail, a hum echoing from the back of his throat. A chuckle drops from your lips. 

“I think it might be good, yeah? To have some fun, to meet someone? Tommy and this Isaac might be on to something,” 

“Yeah, I guess…” he clears his throat. “It’s been so long, I don’t think I’m any good at flirtin’” 

“You’ll do just fine, Miller. You’re quite charming when you want to be.” 

You playfully slap him on the back—which in hindsight probably didn’t look as playful as you thought in your head. He stiffens at the gesture, and you quickly pull back your hand, wrapping your fingers around your glass. 

You don’t expect him to stare at you, which forces your gaze back to him. 

“You think I’m charmin’?” 

His question lingers in the air when you notice a woman walking in. She’s mesmerizing, your eyes following her like a moth to a flame. It’s downright impossible for your to tear your gaze away from where they had fallen. Her dark skin glows under the bar light, and her wild, curly hair frames her sharp, angular face. A nose ring glints in the light, catching your eye. You can't help but notice that she's incredibly tall, even taller than Joel and Tommy. With pinched brows, she looks around frantically. Joel’s gaze is still glued to you and your cheeks heat up. 

“I think your date arrived,” you murmur and he finally follows your gaze. “She seems nice. And for the record, I don’t think you need to worry about the flirting part,” 

Joel swallows his body somewhere in between getting up and wanting to continue to sit. You finally nudge him in the shoulder, giving him the last incentive to get up and go before she leaves. 

“Go,” you smile. “I’ll see you later.” 

He leans in and your heart stops beating—the moment is a pocket in time, a memory you’ll always remember until your bones mix with the earth. His lips touch your cheek, warm, slightly wet from the beer. Your lips part with a gasp, mustache tickling your skin. There’s a brief moment where he pulls away and holds your gaze, only an inch away from your lips, his gaze drops to them momentarily. 

“See you later, neighbor.” 

Joel was against it, simple as that. 

But when Tommy and Isaac basically cornered him, saying that he needed to relax and let out some steam—whatever the hell that meant—he didn’t really find it in him to say no. He did need a distraction. From you, mainly, but that was beside the point. He felt tense, his knees ached, and a night out didn’t seem too bad when he put two and two together. 

So he begrudgingly accepted to go out. And rolled his eyes when Tommy and Isaac high-fived each other. 

What he wasn’t expecting, however, was for you to be there. With his luck, he shouldn’t have even been surprised, of course you would be there, life loved making a mockery of him.

You were with a friend—Olivia, he recalled from Tommy’s stories—and opted to just nod as a greeting. That was what normal people did right? Just briefly greet each other and move on. 

A minute later he found himself sitting next to you and officially meeting Olivia. He was sweating through his damn leather jacket. 

When Olivia left to use the restroom, you asked him why he was there. He didn’t want to answer. In fact, he didn’t even want to go on the date anymore. He wanted to stay with you, spend the night drinking and laughing.

At that point in time he didn’t care that he was placing himself between a rock and a hard place. He just wanted to spend more time with you, get to know you. Because frankly, he didn’t know much. 

It was mostly his fault, he distanced himself. But he had to when Tommy’s pupils were forming literal hearts whenever he talked about you. Joel could see it. He wasn’t stupid. 

He had to go on the date. No matter how warm your skin felt under his fingers tips, he had to. For his young brother’s sake, he couldn’t allow himself to succumb to whatever he was feeling. It wasn’t right. 

The kiss had happened unexpectedly. You looked so soft under the dim lights, so kind, he couldn’t help it. He saw disappointment lingering in your eyes. It made him fear something he never allowed himself to think about. A kiss to the cheek among friends, it was normal, it was nothing. 

He was only imagining the way you gasped when his lips touched your cheek. 

But if that’s the case, why is he still thinking about it? 

Asha has her arm wrapped around his, the leather jacket he heard so much shit about draped over her rounded shoulders. Her sharp rings dig into his arm, a welcomed sting to pull him away from his thoughts. She’s a nice person, a bit stubborn, independent. He learned that she was a journalist, and loved her job, but it meant that it was hard to find good dates. And one day as she was browsing through the hardware store she bumped into Tommy, they became fast friends. 

Honestly, he can’t even blame Tommy for wanting to set him up with Asha. By all means, she’s a great woman. 

“You didn’t have to walk me home by the way,” she says with a charming grin. “But I do appreciate it.” 

Her steps slow and Joel mirrors the speed. Asha squeezes his biceps before pointing towards her home, “This is me,” she wets her lips, and he noticed her shoulders going stiff. “Would you like to come in? I can show you my vintage turntable?” 

Joel finds himself nodding, allowing him to get dragged by the hand into her home. The first thing he smells is wood, a familiar scent that makes him feel at home. It smells fresh. And when he looks around he can see why; the living room is littered with wooden furniture, some of which looked handmade rather than store-bought—which impresses him almost immediately. There are multiple large green-leafed plants, a couple he recognizes because Sarah would point at them whenever they visited Ikea, asking for one. He often said no. 

There’s a divan pushed against the wall, soft looking pillows thrown haphazardly on top. Asha reaches for the light, a soft yellow brightening up the interior. 

“Sorry for the mess,” she says, though she sounds unbothered. “Would you like anything to drink?” 

“Do you have beer?” 

She smiles, “I have beer.” 

Apparently, the turntable was in her bedroom. 

Neither of them spends much time talking about it—not that there is much to talk about a turntable. It’s nice, it looks cool, and that’s pretty much all Joel’s vocabulary and come up with. Asha scans her collection of vinyl records until her gaze rests on Nina Simone's "I Put a Spell on You." She grasps the record and slides it out of its sleeve, placing it gently on the platter.

The plaque glints in the dim light of the room, casting an ethereal glow that seems to complement the sultry, bewitching notes of the song now filling the air. Asha closes her eyes and lets the music wash over her, feeling the haunting vocals of Nina Simone wrap around her like a warm embrace. Joel watches with amazement as she starts to sway with the music. She takes his hand and guides him into a slow dance. 

Looking up, Joel’s eyes linger on her glossy lips. She smiles fondly, brushing a lock of hair away from his face. His hands feeling too sweaty for comfort, Joel grabs her hips, squeezing tenderly as the dance leads them to the bed. They strip each other slowly, eager kisses being traded in between. Her lips find his collarbone, sucking a bruise into his skin and dragging her tongue up his neck. A shudder rolls up his spine. 

It’s been long since he’s been intimate with someone. Very long. 

He feels a mixture of guilt and pleasure, he can’t stop thinking about the way you gasped when he kissed your cheek, but at the same time, Asha’s fingers around his cock are a beautiful sin. He needs to stay away from you anyway— and let Tommy navigate through the relationship how he sees fit.

Her strokes are fast and hard, eager. Joel lets out a groan before crashing their lips together, he licks into her mouth, swallowing her moans and thrusting into her palm. It’s a much different kiss from the dreams he had with his neighbor, dreams he didn’t allow himself to think about when awake. 

She gasps when he buries himself into her, she’s tight, warm. His body melts into her, sloppy kisses pressed into the swell of her breasts. She answers him beautifully, a symphony of delicate moans, she doesn’t talk much, in fact, she doesn’t speak at all, not even when Joel asks if it feels good—she only moans and whimpers. 

Asha wraps her legs tightly around him, pushing him as he thrust forward. He moves faster, his strokes deeper. Her back arched beautifully, her nails digging into the slope of his shoulders. Beads of sweat gather at his tailbone. His built-up tension from the past years bleeds into her, all his frustrations, anger, all of it pushes him to move his hips faster—harder. 

The skin above his stomach grows taut, Asha quivers underneath him, legs trembling against his back. She squeezes him dry, cunt pulsing around his dripping cock and holding him there. Joel grunts into her skin, his teeth sinks into her spasming flesh. 

Only then she whispers the first she’s spoken since they stumbled into the bed, “Come on my face,” she breathes heavily. 

He’s never been asked that before, it lights something inside of him, something primitive and animalistic. With his cock in his hand, he straddles her chest, stroking himself until he stains those soft lips and pretty face with his spend. He squeezes his eyes shut, nostrils flaring as he stifles the pleasure that rakes painfully across his back. 

When Joel opens his eyes, it feels like someone has poured cold water on him, all he sees is you.

[zipperzoo]

miss sunshine

pre-outbreak Joel Miller x neighbor!reader [7.3k] summary: He's always been out of reach. A fantasy. Joel was too much of everything—too handsome, too friendly, too una-fucking-vailable for any of you. Too bad his kid adores you. (What a blessing.) Too bad she uses you as a scapegoat and lands him right on his door. One bottle of wine, and Joel shows you he might be closer than you thought. 📝 I wanted to try something different. Less hurt, less end-of-the-world bullshit. Let me know your thoughts. Reblogs and comments are much appreciated. ⚠️Smut. Minors, DNI. Explicit depictions of sex, oral (f and m receiving), riding, missionary, passionate neighbors sex, yay.

read on ao3 | masterlist

ㅤㅤㅤㅤTexas, Summer of 2002.

When the bell rings, you think it's best to ignore it.

Living alone equals a lot of privileges, but the ability to go out alone and answer the door on a random Wednesday evening was not one of them. You're wearing compromising clothes and a robe, the bottle of wine you craved was finally open, and the last thing you wanted was to be murdered before enjoying it.

Then, you hear it. Your name, followed by, "It's Miller. Joel."

Fuck.

Well—this is exactly how many of your dreams started. Although this wouldn't go like them, for him, you'd open the door.

His eyes do little to hide the once-over when the door slides open.

They go down, then back up, and he seems to catch on to the fact that you saw it. Then, he shakes his head just a little, and says, "Is Sarah here?"

Well, well, well. You lean against the door. "Did she say she was?"

Joel pierces you with his Dad Look. "Yes." Obviously, it goes without saying.

What other reason would he have, right? Clearing your throat, you feel the anxiety bubbling underneath the surface. "Uhm. She isn't," you look apologetic as you say it. As if it's your fault his prepubescent daughter uses you as a scapegoat.

His sigh is enough to make you feel how tired he is. Overworked. Exhausted.

You try to understand what might've happened before he loses his mind, "What time d'you usually come back from work? Maybe she's at a friend's. She probably thought you'd be back later than this."

He finishes rubbing both palms all over his face, and he threads one hand through his hair. "I'm usually back at nine—well, I'm supposed to be back at nine. I'm usually home by ten." That checks out, then. "But—that doesn't explain why she lied to me."

"Any special occasions coming up soon?"

Joel frowns. "Uhm. My birthday's in a few days, but—"

"Ahhhh." It shuts his mouth, the way you exclaim it so clearly. "She's brainstorming, Joel."

"Brainstorming...?"

"A gift." No daughter had easy access to what made their fathers happy. You take pity on him. "C'mon—let me scare the little one."

You walk inside without waiting for his reply, knowing Joel will make his way in. "What d'you mean, scare her?"

The noise of his boots hitting the floor makes you happy.

You take the phone out of the wall and look at him. "She always keeps that cellular phone with her when she goes out?"

"Always," he nods.

"Perfect." You know it by heart already. As you dial, you feel Joel's eyes on your house. It's the first he's ever been inside, and it makes you hyperaware of every movement of his. "It's ringing," you inform him with a grin forming.

He looks confused. More tired than anything else, but it'll make sense in a second.

"Hey, miss Sunshine!" the nickname she gave you always brings a smile to your face.

Time to put on a show. Feigning panic in your voice, you yell-whisper on the phone, "S, love, would you mind telling me why on Earth is your pops—" you fake cover your end of the line to yell, "one minute!" then you're back at whispering again, "why is he parked outside my house right now? Is there something I should know?"

"Oh, shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit—"

You're glad he can't hear her end of it. "No time for panic. Explain."

"I am so sorry, Sunny! I thought he'd be back in like, two hours or something. Oh, god, can you please cover for me? I wrote a note saying I was at your place. Sleeping there. I was gonna call you before he came back home but Jenny and I—"

"You're at somebody named Jenny?" you repeat the information, looking at Joel with a question in your eyes, and when he nods, your heart soothes at knowing she's safe. "And you didn't think to mention your brilliant idea earlier?" going for the full effect again, you yell out, "One minute, Joel!"

At least she's fast in her rambles. "Yeah, yeah. My best friend. She's trying to help me come up with a surprise for him. I'm not there often and it's never on his birthday. I wanna make it special."

"Okay. Cool. Next time, fill me in as you make the plans."

"I will, I promise. Pinky promise. You think you can convince him I'm sleeping there?" the plea in her voice is adorable.

You chuckle. "I've got you, S." Joel sighs in relief in front of you. "Just one thing."

"Yeah?"

"Be back here tomorrow first thing in the morning. 7:30 sharp. I'm gonna invite your dad for breakfast, as punishment for your lack of planning, and you'll be the one making us the pancakes," before she can even answer, you go, "Toodles!" and hang up.

When you put your phone back at the base, you turn around with a proud smile.

Joel's looking at you funny. "You're good at that," he says.

"At what? Acting?" you laugh when nods. "I was a trouble child. I'm great at lying."

"Aren't those the same?"

"Eh. A thin line separates them." You can sense his awkwardness creeping up, so you do your best to think on the spot. "Is she one to escape?"

"Not really, no." He's shuffling on his feet, uncertain of what to do in your home. "She's never done this before."

"From what she told me, she's never around for your birthday."

"That's true."

"She wants to make a surprise for you," you inform. It puts that smile on his face that makes your knees a little weak. "And now she has to be back here at seven in the morning. All is well."

He laughs. "Yeah, I guess so."

He's gonna see himself out. You swallow all the nervousness that being in his presence creates and just... goes for it. "Is it hard? Having a kid?"

That relaxes some of the tension in his shoulders. He leans on the counter of your kitchen and shakes his head. "Not really. It's a lot of work, but it's not hard. It's rewarding."

I wish my mother felt the same. You smile at the truth in his words. "I can see it's hard work." He laughs again. "Well—I had just opened that before you rang the bell," you point at the Pinot on top of the counter. "Want a glass? Unless you tell me you're 'only beer' kind of guy, then I can't help ya."

Joel looks between you and the bottle a couple of times, then looks down at himself. "I'm uh—I'm all greasy and gross from work. You sure that's the company you want for wine?"

Rolling your eyes, you walk towards your glasses cabinets. "If I told you that you can go home and shower, you'd never come back."

"And that'd be a bad thing?"

"Sure it would. You're the only person in this entire street that hasn't interrogated me on my life so far, I feel left out. Offended, even," you add with a dramatic twist. Your robe flows around you, and you can't help but smile when you see his eyes following you.

It's the way he swallows visibly, almost audibly, that plants a seed of maybe inside your head. "I'm not usually one to pry."

You place both glasses on the counter. "Neither am I."

"I know. It's why I like ya," Joel says it with eyes on the glasses instead of you. "That and the way you talk to the plants."

Your hand on the corkscrew stops, and you want to slam your forehead against the wood. "Oh, god."

His laughter is so nice. "Nah, don't be embarrassed. 's why I gave you your nickname."

"Don't be embarrassed? That's mortifying, Joel. I thought no one—wait." Had you heard him right? "What d'you mean you gave me my nickname?"

Joel's head tilts, and he's definitely a charmer kind of guy. If you do have a chance, you might be fucked. "Your nickname."

"Miss Sunshine?" He nods. "I thought that was Sarah."

"No, Sarah used it first in front of you," he pulls one of the glasses closer to him. "I said it first."

Well... that made it just as special but in a different way. You pour the wine into both glasses. "Good to know. I was under the impression she was the creative genius in the household—I just. Quick question that I never asked her: Why?"

"'Cause every mornin' before I left for work you're there on that big window," he points at the glass window that's occupies ceiling to floor, the very reason you picked this house, "talking to your plants as if you're the sun itself waking them up. 's cute."

Cute. You hate how he has the ability to make you blush. What is this, fucking high school?

"That makes sense."

Joel wipes his palms on the side of his t-shirt and then looks up at you. "If I go home with the promise of comin' back, will you let me shower?"

Let me. You're thankful your arms are covered because you're unsure of what this man is capable of when he knows the effect he has on somebody.

"I'll let you," you answer.

Joel nods and his smile is so genuine that you wonder why you never tried before.

"'kay," he takes one sip of the wine, hums in approval, and then takes a deep breath. "'m gonna go. I'll be back to interrogate you."

"I'll leave the door open."

"No—Jesus bloody Christ, are you and Sarah mad? Lock the door, Sunshine." You like it so much when he's the one that says it. "I'm serious."

"Alright, jeez," you laugh.

It's less tense than you imagined as he puts his shoes back on and walks out of your door. Joel crosses the street with a little wave in your direction, and all you can think is—what on Earth am I gonna do to him?

When he's back, Joel smells so good it's intoxicating.

It makes your brain melt.

Minty and fresh. That's what his stuff smells like, and you know the idea of that scent's now painted on the walls of your brain.

He does that stupid little dad pose, widening both arms and lifting them up in a display of 'what do you think' before walking in.

It makes you want to push him against the wall, but you do your best at behaving.

For now.

"Brand new man?" you ask.

He points at his glass of wine, untouched since the moment he left. "Will be in a sec."

You wait for him to take a sip before extending him what you held in your hand before he arrived.

Joel eyed the cigarette and, thank fuck, there was none of the annoying judgment sometimes people carried. He stops his movement to sit on the stool and asks, "You smoke in here, or are we goin' outside?"

"There's a table there. Weather's nice. D'you mind?"

Joel grabs his glass, shaking his head. "Not at all, ma'am. Lead the way."

"Ma'am," you echo him, sounding disgusted. He laughs behind you, "Who am I, Mrs. Adler?"

Still laughing, Joel answers, "Nah. Too talkative for that."

You turn around with your mouth hanging open, trying very little to look offended. "I beg your pardon. We never spoke for longer than, what, five minutes?"

Joel shrugs his shoulders. His smile is as intoxicating as his presence. "I hear things."

"You hear things?" you ask, pushing open the door that leads outside.

"I do," he sips his wine, looking to the small terrace where your little table is. "My daughter's a gossiper, little Sunshine. I think y'should know that."

Little Sunshine. Goddamn this man.

"Should I be scared, here? I haven't even told her anything, but I feel like I should be."

"If you didn't tell her anythin', than why would you be?"

"Because!" you laugh, feeling just a little out of your depth with his smoothness. You expected more closeness from Joel. Less teasing, easy banter. "You're talking like someone who knows a lot, that's all."

"And I do," he says, sounding every bit as serious.

You sit down on one of the chairs — your chair, precisely — and watch as Joel walks around a little, taking in the environment. He adds, "Did ya know," pausing for a dramatic effect, he sips again, "that in all of three months, you became one of my daughters' favorite people?"

He pins you under his gaze.

You cross your legs, and watch happily as his gaze drops to the motion.

"Did I?" if you sip at his pace, you'll be throwing yourself on his lap in an embarrassing amount of time.

Joel nods behind his cup, touching one of the many plants that cover your backyard area from floor, to walls, to ceiling. "You did," he smiles, dropping the fake seriousness. "Are you ready to deal with the six months absence? 'Cause from personal experience," he points both hands at his chest, "you try convincing yourself you won't miss her all that much 'cause, y'know, it's "just" a girl, but—fuck," he spits the last word, smiling widening around the fact. "She's so cool to have around. You'll see. Your phone's bill's about to create life."

It grounds you.

The way Joel speaks of Sarah makes you feel comfortable sitting here, and any doubts you had are sucked by the green life around you and returned as oxygen.

Joel talks about anything, no reservations.

In his absence, you doubted whether this could be any different than most times.

Would Joel be like that—like any of those other guys?

He wasn't.

Joel, as much as you hated to admit it, was an exception.

Maybe these things were fated. Simple chemistry. Similar mindsets. Whatever it was—you had it every once in a blue moon.

Your expectations settings were long ago molded to expect the least, and it takes only half a bottle of wine for you to notice the need to rear it in.

He's so damn easy. Joel goes from one topic to another like he's interested. He answers your questions with full interest, sometimes going on tangent stories, and he's the one who keeps the glasses filled.

Attentive, you take note the second time that happens. Before any of the glasses got empty, he served you both.

He compliments your taste in music and sounds genuine about it.

The weird silences you most dreaded never happen—if he's not answering you, Joel asks things. Interesting things, unlike any other neighbor.

"Was it you who decorated your place inside? 'Cause, there are very specific things in there. And you seem like the type to know what you like."

Joel was very attentive.

He asked, "and is this what you like to do with your free time?" pointing at the books you put away when you both arrived, "Drink wine, read, talk to your plants?"

"I still can't believe you've seen me doing that."

He laughed at that. "It's a pretty big window, Sunshine. Jesus Christ—you don't lock the door, you don't know people can see through your gigantic-ass window—I'm genuinely starin' to get worried here."

"Okay, first of all, I do lock my door."

"Do you?"

"'Course. Most days."

"Oh my—"

"—and! Now that I was reminded of my window's size, I'll consider buying drapes. Long, white ones. That'd be cool."

It was easy.

Talking to Joel—sharing a table with him, a glass of wine—so easy.

He never looked uncomfortable. Even if he moved a lot, Joel looked good—so damn good you lost focus every now and then—, but good with himself.

In his skin.

That was intoxicating.

When he does more than just talk and asks things; it's almost too damn easy. Was time supposed to go this way?

The first bottle end, but it's too soon.

You know it. He knows it—plays with it, in fact. Waves the empty bottle after pouring it for you and him in the air very lightly then places it on the floor.

Offering another one is almost a visceral reaction.

You don't have the same finesse he does, or at least, you think not, but if his smiles and closing proximity are anything to go by, he's enjoying himself as much as you are. "I dance around opening these a lot," you say pointing at the empty bottle. Pulling your legs closer to yourself despite the voice of your mother telling you that's a body language sign of insecurity—fuck insecurity. "Don't wanna be the wine lady on top of the plant one. But they're good. I like it."

"I only drink wine when my brother cooks," he offers.

The glass in your hands makes you feel safe enough to land this conversation where you want it. "Really? He cooks a lot?"

"More than me," Joel confesses with a shrug. "He likes to match the wine to the dish and that type o' stuff."

"I was taught how to be picky, but if I'm being honest—" you like the way Joel leans in closer when you pause it. You smile, "it's all just grapes tastin' really, really good." The sound of his damn laugh. This man's gotta have a flaw, you think. "As long as it's wine, I'm happy."

"I think that about a good beer after a day of work."

"We're all just trying to give ourselves little positive reinforcements for playing nice at doing our jobs, huh?"

Joel pauses at that. Lifts his eyebrows, then bursts out laughing. "Oh, wow—"

"Oh god", while it took you a lot of alcohol to get drunk, being open-mouthed about weird things came with the territory of feeling comfortable.

Joel made you comfortable, even if you were mortified at how amused he was.

When he's done laughing, he looks at you. "That's cute. You're the philosophical type."

"Isn't everybody who enjoys wine?"

"I don't know. I enjoy wine and I'm not one to go that far, I think."

"Hmm. Philosophizing can involve different topics. Lenses."

Joel wolf whistles. "Well, I think I'd need a couple more glasses to unlock that side of me."

"Not a problem," you get up, and resist the urge to wink at him. "I'll be back."

Your reflection in the kitchen mirrors is the confirmation of how fucked exactly you are.

It's more than just the color on your cheeks—it's the glassy screen over your eyes, making it shine like...

Well, very few times.

Fuck, you think.

Maybe that's why your palms are sweating.

He's more than you bargained for—Joel's looks were hard to move on from, but this?

Once in Rome...

Fuck it.

It's not as if either one of you was blinded to what a moonlight late-night conversation leads to.

The air outside could be felt.

When you're going back with the opened bottle, another pin drops in your mind.

He has the whole night free.

You don't break the bottle, but it's a close call.

Joel asks you the second you're back, "I have a depressing confession to make—I was tryin' to keep to it to myself, but honestly, it's all I taught about when you left."

You place the bottle in the middle of the table carefully and sit back down with your eyes on him.

He moved his chair closer again.

"Do share," you urge.

Joel looks around the yard—he seems to do it a lot when he's dipping his toes into personal places and says, "This is the first time in a—uh—I don't even know. A while. That I just... sat with another adult. Drank something nice. Talked about more than just—fucking politics, or whatever." Joel's eyes on you make you feel honored. You know he'd say that's a silly thought if you said it out loud. "It's really nice. And—the depressing part comes in now: I'm only here 'cause of my brother."

You tilted your hair. "You're here because... of Tommy?" you tried connecting those dots, but came up short.

Thankfully, Joel was here. With his smile, and his explanation.

"You see, before Sarah's mom and I decided she could spend some months here instead of just a few weekends, I was already... shutting in. His words, not mine," Joel picks up his glass for a sip, and you hang onto every word he says. "So when she came, he took me out one night. That little bar a few blocks from here—y'know Mr. O'Donovan's place?" when you shake your head, he waves a hand, "I'll take you someday—'s the only place around here that's worth a dime."

"I'll take your word for it." I hate bars. You'd go for him. With him.

"I think I know what beer you'd like," it comes off as a whisper, and you have to hide behind your glass again. "I only remember that talk because he made me promise. He's not one to ask for promises."

"What did he make you promise?"

"He was upset 'cause I kept turnin' him down every time he wanted to do his 'meet my friend and you'll be good friends' match-making shit, so he said, 'you promise that the next time someone invites you do somethin' you actually wanna do, you're not gonna turn 'em down? You'll actually fucking go, without makin' excuses to yourself'. And that sounded fair. So I promised."

You take note of the effort he's making.

The subtle 'this isn't just about what's about to happen'.

'I'll take you someday'.

'Next time someone invites you to do somethin' you actually wanna do'.

So more than just neighbors. You nod at that, smiling at him. "He seems like a good brother," you say. "Siblings can be a pain in the ass."

Joel stops his glass on the way to his lip to shake his head at you, "Oh, no no," he takes the sip first, and says, "one doesn't negate the other. He very much is a pain in my ass, trust me."

You laugh. "Older and younger?"

"Younger," he nods. "I had a lil' bit of peace here and there before he was born."

"Can't imagine you'd have it any other way nowadays."

He agrees with you.

When he doesn't, Joel scrunches his nose as he shakes his head.

He does silly faces. You wonder if he's aware of how unfair it is that he gets to look like that. Tender. Charming.

He proves your theory to be right with only half another bottle.

Put two or more adults plus a certain amount of alcohol in a closed environment, and sex will be on the table.

It makes you blush when you think... it could literally be on the table.

Joel pretends he doesn't see you growing hotter. He keeps his eyes on you as you take off the robe instead of looking at your arms. Listens to what you're saying without losing focus.

Only when you're done and asking him something in response that he looks.

It makes your throat dry when he does.

Joel has an unabashed, almost cocky tilt to his mannerisms.

You thought he'd be quieter than he is—more serious.

It's a welcomed contrast.

When sex is laid on the table, it comes because he brought up the joke you made at the beginning of the night about his lack of interest in your life, and decided to ask you things. Where you grew up. If you were always like this.

"Define 'like this'."

"Smart with the calculating glance, and sweet-talking."

"Is that me?"

"Sure is, Sunshine."

None of the questions that people usually ask.

It makes you bite your lip more than you wished—his manly, tall presence gets under your skin in ways that no previous partner managed to. Tucking your hair behind your ear, avoiding leading the conversation to the exact places you liked, giggling—those weren't things you did.

He pulled them from you.

When he does ask you the 'usual' questions, it lacks the malicious curiosity inflating others whenever they did.

Sex is laid on the table because Joel looks you in the eyes with that easiness in his shoulders and asks, "I'm not as private as you, though—all of my neighbors already know Tommy, and Sarah. You, on the other hand... the mysterious crime and horror novelist, who talks to her plants and moved from so, so far. I might not be the prying type, but I was curious about you long before my gremlin set her little claws on you. How come I never see anyone coming in or out of here? You tellin' me not one friend of yours followed you here to god-forsaken Texas?"

Your glass is almost empty, and you focus on the twirling of the red inside it to avert your mind from the way he's sitting. "The point of moving was getting away from them. All of them, as bad as that sounds," you cover your eyes with your free hand, and Joel's hand touches your forearm.

"Hey—it's fine. Don't feel bad. 'm happy you had the privilege of gettin' away. If you wanted to move away from all of it, I'm sure you had your reasons."

Looking between your fingers, you try appraising his face. "Really?"

"Really," he nods.

"Okay." You sit up straight. "And I do have people over, sometimes. You're just always at work."

"Yeah? You made friends already?"

"A few, yeah."

"Where?" he removes his hand from your forearm but drops it to your chair's armrest. The proximity is doing something to you. "I thought you worked from home."

"I do," you agree. "But I do other stuff. I'm not always here with my plants, Joel," you roll your eyes, smiling amusedly.

Joel laughs, "I wouldn't know. If I could work from home and stay with my tools and wood, I would."

"And I believe you," you nodded.

He bites on his smile before asking. "What other stuff d'you do?"

"I joined a book club," you reply, feeling all levels of boring.

From his look, he disagrees. "You got the patience for that?"

"Sure do," you nod again.

He nods, pouting in awe. "Nice," he says. "Are your book club friends givin' you the right impression of Texans?"

"I'm warming up to them," you smile.

Nodding, he asks, "Should I ask now the questions all my neighbors already know the answer to? 'Cause I am curious. Did you know Mr. Adler tried tellin' me what he 'discovered' about you? He tried looking blasé when he said that, but I'm sure he just wanted to gossip about the pretty girl who moved across from him."

"Ew, Joel," you laugh.

His eyes never leave you—you feel it even when you're not looking at him. He's laughing too. "What? It's true."

When you look back up at him, you wonder—when did you two get this close?

"You can ask," you say. "It's not that exciting, the answer. Actually, it's not exciting at all."

"Hmm, I'll be the judge of that," he sips his wine, and leaves the glass on the table. "You already know my backstory, so kill my curiosity now," he pierces with his eyes for a moment, "how on Earth is there no ring on this finger?" he points to your ring finger, then he leans in closer, and you can smell the wine in his breath; you want to kiss it until it's taste is gone, "and how is it that I never see anyone leaving here early in the mornings?"

Well. "No ring 'cause I didn't want one so far," you reply. To him, you give more honesty than anyone else who's asked. "And I have the luxury of living without it. I know many friends of mine who don't—and actually, that was part of..." don't go there. "Nevermind," you shake your head, pinning yourself to here.

"You just didn't want it?" he echos.

You nod, "Never did," there's no reason to lie to him. He smells so good—why would you lie to him? "Most men bore men, Joel."

"Wow," the smile that widens is a little baffled. A little dirty. "Should I be scared?"

At that, you burst out laughing. "Really?" You have no clocks outside, but the starry sky and the deep silence in the houses next to you are a good enough indicator. "It's been... a couple of hours, at least. We're one bottle and a half," you say, looking at your glasses shining on the table, "deep into conversation... and you wonder if you should be scared?"

Joel's still looking at you when you look back. His arm is around your chair, and your back touches it when you lean back against it. "I'll take that as a no."

"You are very far from boring."

"'m happy you think so," he smiles. He lets his eyes drop to your lips, without a care for the two palms of distance that separate your faces. It's meant to be blatant. Obvious. "Just another question..."

Here it comes, you thought. Why no kids? Why so alone? Do you feel lonely?

"Why me?" he asks.

It's nothing more than a breath.

You could ignore it. Give any answer, and close the gap. Instead, you give him honesty. "Honestly? I was so attracted to you, the second I saw you, that I was willing to even hear somethin' stupid coming out of your mouth if I could just—," do it, do it, do it. Seeing his eyes darken from up close is torture. You can feel the pulse of your heartbeat between your legs. "Now, if I were any smart, I'd be wishing for you to be bad at all the rest, because..."

This was amazing already.

Joel laughs, just a single, breathy laugh, and then does something you would never see it coming.

He pushes his chair back with the weight of his hips and drops to his knees.

The gasp you let out is enough to put the most insufferable smile on his face.

"Don't say that," he feigns hurt, as if he wasn't smiling with his eyes and lips. "It might've been a while, but I don't think I lost my touch just yet."

Joel's hands envelop your knees and slowly pull them apart. You feel like an open wire—aware of every breath your body takes and each minimum reaction to him.

You feel the wet pulse inside your panties when he kisses the skin of your inner thigh, right above your knee.

Joel smiles up at you, blinking his eyes.

Damn him, you think. His hands caress their way up your skin, and you wished you were naked already.

He seems like someone to enjoy the torture—when his hands reach the curve of your ass, they stop there, holding onto your waist.

"Have I?" he asks, kissing the other inner leg. You feel a hint of his tongue in the short kiss.

What could you say to that?

"You really haven't."

Feeling the hot breathing of his laughter on your inner thighs was not in your list for tonight.

"Do I get a kiss, then?"

He would never have to ask you twice.

Your legs wrap around his torso when you lean down to meet him for the kiss. Joel seems to love the position—he smiles at first, gripping you by the neck.

He takes his time to look at you before he dives in. A mental check-in. Maybe just admiring, just as you were from the second he kneeled.

His kiss comes from experience. A lot of fucking experience.

If you were weak in the knees before, you seal the notion that you're out of your depth there and then.

Joel kisses like no one's ever kissed you before—like he wants to explore, discover, conquer.

He licks his way inside of you with the first kiss.

His tongue isn't shy; he makes you adjust to his rhythm, to let go and open up, and when you, you're rewarded with it—he pulls up just an inch, just to whisper, "that's it," and then dives back in.

Joel wraps his arm around your shoulder and neck in a possessive manner. It's why he makes it so easy for you let him guide it—he's holding you, and you moan as you melt into him.

He wants to feel your body.

The more you press yourself against him, the more Joel grants you little sighs of his own pleasure.

He never pushes his hips against you. Never presses you towards him.

It makes you want to scream.

When he pulls away, Joel sighs happily. He presses his right thumb over your swollen bottom lip, and nodding, kneels on his heels again.

"Joel..."

Your face remains close to his, gravitating to where he does. He whispers, "Lift your hips up for me, Sunshine," wrapped around a smile.

You do as he says.

His hand takes off your shorts without your eyes ever leaving you, and when the item is on the floor, Joel releases the robe you foregone earlier tonight from your backrest to slide down where you sit.

To not make a mess, it says.

Your face is burning up, but not as much as the rest of you.

"Is this ok?" he asks.

He waits for your nod of approval before pulling you by your knees. "Good," he's strong enough to get you where he wants in one pull. Your hips are nearing the end of the chair and from this angle, Joel gets to look.

He eyes the underwear as if it's personally offending him.

"I like the color," he says. He traces a finger across the baby blue lace and looks up at you. "Suits ya," he says. That's when he hooks a finger on the fabric, pulling it to the side. "I dreamt about this."

That gets to you.

Joel's fingers are thorough—able. He uses his knuckles to spread the lips apart, uncaring about the whines you let out above him, still holding on to the shame of being the only one exposed.

It lasts until he places two knuckles on each side of your clit, stimulating it with back-and-forth movements.

You were right about the torture.

He enjoys it.

Joel waits for your clit to be hard between his fingers before he puts his mouth to it.

You can only cling onto his hair.

I dreamt about this, too.

"Fuck—I dreamt about this too," you confess.

His moan vibrating against the core of your pussy makes you clench.

Joel's only starting.

He takes his time in finding the rhythm you most feel pleasure on your clit. He never bites, never nibbles, and doesn't go softly, like other men.

He eats.

Joel's mouth is stuck to you—the way he laps and slurps and sucks on your hardened nub only makes your volume go from whines and pleas of his name to moans in very little time.

That's when he dips his tongue inside. When he uses it as muscle and proves to you why the idea of oral is so good for men.

Because it's good.

Joel gives no indicator that he wants to stop at any time, and it turns you into something that blossoms.

At some point between him almost making you cum just by sucking on your clit and fucking his tongue in and out of you, your legs made their way to his shoulders, and his hands have secured themselves groping your ass.

He pulls back for air, once.

His fingers enter you instead, two at once.

"So wet already," he says. You only hear it, until, "look at me," he asks.

As if his thick, long fingers dripping into places inside of you weren't enough, you get to look at him.

His face glistening on your back porch is something that burns behind your eyelids the second you see it. You feel incoherent, needy, and exposed in more than one way.

Joel looks like he could eat you like this.

"Joel—please. Please," you're begging, but for what, you're not sure.

"Cum for me first. I'll give you whatever you want later, just," he pumps his fingers inside of you, keeping a steady and strong pace, and then says, "You look so good like this, Jesus fuckin' Christ."

Profanities.

That's what he says before getting his mouth back on you—his tongue sucking and vibrating against your clit.

It's too much. Too fucking much, and, "Joel, Joel—"

He pulls back just to say it, "That's it, doin' so good, Sunshine—" and that's when you lose it. The coaxing. It's so earnest. Sounds so pleased, dipping in honey as if it's him who's feeling this good.

"'m gonna cum Joel, fuck me, just like that—"

"Like this? Hm? Show me. Cum on my mouth."

All it takes is for him to put it back on you. Joel knows how to push himself inside—knows how to explore the hot and tight confines of your cunt, because he coos a first orgasm out of you with the right pace only.

No strength. No speed. Just sucking, and curling right against your spot.

Your vision whites out.

The time you take to come back to yourself, he keeps playing with your pussy and the mess he made in it, seeming as satisfied with the result as you are. Somewhere in white land.

What a little death.

After that, it's more a mess and clashes of teeth and desires than you knew you were even capable of.

He pulls you in for a kiss, and you pull him inside the house.

The idea is to make it to your room, but you never make it past the living room.

When you press him against a wall to finish taking off his clothes, seeing him only in briefs makes gravity pull you in.

Nothing but black briefs.

You have to drop to your knees.

Joel curses under his breath and tries his best at keeping his posture, but you're with a mind entirely clouded by raw need.

To him, you want to do only your best.

You're addicted to the way he mutters, "atta girl," every time you discover something that brings him pleasure. It sounds so fucking dirty.

"That's it. Atta fuckin' girl, god."

With him, you use tricks your friends once told you that are buried in the back of your mind. You hold the part of his cock your mouth can't cover and move it in sync with your lips. You make it wet, make sloppy, make it whatever he leads it to be.

Joel hisses and moans louder when you find the special places hidden—the sensitive skin between his balls that leads up, you lick it from start to finish and are rewarded with a full-body shudder.

He shows you what strong body means.

"Where's your room?" he pulls you by the arms, and you somehow end up jumping on him. Exactly what you wanted.

"I'm not makin' that far," you tell him with a grin.

He has his thumb on your lips again—he seems to like your mouth.

"Didn't think you'd want my bare ass on your couch."

"That is exactly where I want your bare ass right now," you tell him.

He's good at following requests, just as he is at giving them.

Joel sits with you already straddling his lap, and bless his gentleman's heart, he says, "I left my pants outside—wait," he curses under his breath with your hips circling his shaft. Letting it slide between your pussy lips. "Fuckin' hell."

"Fuckin' hell indeed," you sigh. "Wait here."

You run outside for it, only because you're not on the pill. Maybe you'll start taking it. Maybe you shouldn't think that far.

Joel's waiting for you alright—he has his hand at the base of his cock, sitting on your couch like a modern-day Adonis.

A sluttier Adonis. Sexier, too.

"Stop starin' and c'mere," he demands;

And who are you to say no to that?

Joel does you the favor of putting it on as you make yourself comfortable on his lap again, taking all of your out of the way. He looks like he wants to eat you alive piece by piece, and you love it.

"Lemme know if you want me to take over," he tells you.

"Yes, sir," you whisper in a taunting manner.

Joel rests his forehead against yours when you line himself up with you, and it's a reward of your stupid, gigantic-ass window letting in the light from outside that allows you to see the pleasure on his face as you sink around him, burying him to the hilt.

His digits press so hard on your sides they'll brise.

You'll be bruised tomorrow morning.

Fingerprints on your hips, beard burns on your inner legs, palm shapes across your ass.

When you start moving, none of you say a word about how it feels.

It's criminal.

Only curses and your names are allowed in the thin space separating your wet bodies.

The thin layer of sweat makes you two glide on each other, and the drag of him inside of you is almost too good for words.

You're scared of the ones that'd make their way out, anyway.

So you let out what you can. You call for him, and he calls back. Joel slaps your ass, both sides of it, and urges you on to take him as you want it.

"Fuckin' christ, I'm never gonna—fuck—never gonna sleep again."

There it is. Being pussy-drunk makes him loose-lipped.

Your own are aching with how hard you bite on them.

Joel lets the reigns remain on your hands as you stay on top. He lets you ride him painfully slow, and faster, just because it feels good. He lets you climb all the way up only to slam back down, praising you through the fog in your brain.

"Does it feel good, Sunshine? Mm? My cock feels that good for you?"

You're sure it'll all come back to haunt you once your brain can be coherent.

He takes charge when you start begging him, and for what, you're unsure of. It's a mixture of please and his name, which Joel takes as his permission slip.

He flips you onto your back, hooks one of your legs on the middle of his back, and fucks you both into another orgasm.

It should be concerning the way he does it—like he's familiar with your body and your cues. He just follows your pace and moans until you're clawing at his back, and when his name comes out over and over again, he coaxes it again. Coos at you, holding your face in one hand. "You're gonna cum for me, aren't ya? Do it. I'll cum for you when I feel you shakin' around my cock, Sunshine. Cum for me."

It comes so hard you almost faint; blackout.

Joel takes care of you afterward.

Of course he does.

Even with the weakest legs and the minimum sense of reality around you, he manages. Joel leads you upstairs, tells you he's collected your clothes, and even lays down when you ask him.

"Just for a while," you ask.

He lays in front of you in bed, and pulls your arms around him. "I'm puttin' an alarm."

Little spoon. "You gotta be back here in the morning anyway."

"I know," he kisses your wrist. "Can't wait."

🏷️ @sakuralikestars — @mostardentily — @thegreat-annamaria — @leiticia — @polyglot-noodle — @casssiopeia — @earthtocharlene

⚠️ if anyone being tagged would like to not be, just let me know in my inbox.

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[zipperzoo]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

pairing: pre outbreak!joel miller x f!reader, one sided tommy miller x f!reader

genre: angst, smut, romance, slow burn, mutual pining, secret relationship

series summary: After your grandfather’s passing, you find yourself moving into his home in Texas. You meet the Millers; Tommy, his older brother Joel and his daughter Sarah. With time, you and Tommy become close friends and Sarah visits you often. But Joel…Joel keeps his distance. The reason for this is due to one crucial fact you don’t know but he does; Tommy has a crush on you. Which means you’re off limits no matter what. But as your own feelings for Joel grow, things start to get more and more complicated.

additional notes: Joel is 36 and since I saw Tommy's age nowhere, I decided to give them a five-year age gap which will make Tommy 31 in this story. Reader is in her late twenties.

warnings will be given before every individual chapter

chapters marked with ** indicates smut

⠀MLISTS .  LIBRARY . PLAYLIST . AO3

Prologue - Somewhere New

Chapter One - Pizza Day

Chapter Two - Rueful

Chapter Three - A Day In the Life of Tommy Miller**

Chapter Four - Like Highway Signs**

[zipperzoo]

Pedro Pascal in the Last of Us

[zipperzoo]

FIGHT TO MAKE IT UP

The Batman (2022) bruce wayne x f!reader

Themes: Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Crime Family, Thriller, Noire, Heist, Action, Comedy, Crime.

Summary: A slow burn story starting off with a heist that has very much gone wrong. Y/N and her friend named Sausages get wrapped up in the crimes of Gotham city dealing with the aftermath of the movie; even meeting Bruce Wayne and their worst nightmare /Batman/. Subtle spoilers for the movie, but a bunch of banter and fun scenarios! A funfic with the odd serious moments! (Banner created by @hollandorks)

Each chapter title is a riddle, the answer is the theme of the chapter.

Warning: Description of drug usage and symptoms.

Playlist - Theme - Song Rec - AO3

Prologue - I am lovely and round, I shine with pale light, grown in the darkness, a lady's delight. What am I?

Chapter 1- What goes through cities and fields, but never moves?

Chapter 2 - It belongs to you, but other people use it more than you do. What is it?

Chapter 3 - I start and end the day with a chorus, my red chest all puffed ready for a fight for those before us. What am I?

Chapter 4 - I dance around in my fancy suit, although I am flightless I am rather cute. What am I?

Chapter 5 pt1 - I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

Chapter 5 pt2 - The Garden of Earthly Delights

Chapter 6 - The consequences of your choices lead to this device. The after effects of a significant and unpleasant events only cost a small price.

Chapter 7 - Sometimes I am an animal, sometimes I am human. I help science but its often in silence.

Chapter 8 - Helping solve the crime you’d need many of these, a particular way of viewing things to bring justice to its knees

Chapter 9 -

Chapter 10 -

11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15

[zipperzoo]

So I made a playlist half delirious on no sleep and I'm sharing it because rn I have no shame