Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Water Man (2020)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jim Bussey/Reader
Characters: Jim Bussey, Reader
Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Consensual Somnophilia, Dirty Talk, Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Gentle Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Established Relationship, Female Reader-Insert, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert
Summary:
You undress without bothering to close the blinds. Your only neighbor is Jim Bussey, and his windows are dark. He’s probably already asleep. Nude, you pause to check your phone, and then put on deodorant, change into your pajamas, and climb into bed.
Across the narrow patch of grass and bushes between your houses, Jim Bussey stands invisible in front of the darkened window and watches.
Bishop Aringarosa was another big winner in the "who should I write" poll and clearly pushes buttons for a LOT of y'all. Thanks to @bellafarallones for playing in this space on Discord (Jeanie and Hank Janitor Hank Spallone belong to their excellent fill). This fic is NSFW. Enjoy!
Manuel has lost much in these last few years. His position, his influence, every scrap of power he worked to obtain and horde. It was only by the will of God that his life and freedom are not counted among his losses.
But he has not lost her.
A woman, the woman, has been with him since he was sixteen. At first he thought her no different than the other nonsense and images conjured in his dreams. Yet he dreamed of her often, year after year, and always pleasantly. Some nights it was his head laying in her lap as they conversed, and he felt peace his waking self had never known. Other nights she stood in front of him in nothing and he felt desire that could tear him in two. Then he began seeing her when praying, had visions of her, and he understood; whoever she was, she was meant for him, divinely chosen to be by his side.
Even in his hospital bed, everything in tatters, he dreamed of her. Saw her sitting beside him, felt her lips on his and cursed the daylight or doctors for waking him.
His connections saved him one last time, sent him into exile to run a school in the United States. When his predecessor showed him from classroom to classroom, they reached a door and the world dissolved into a single point.
She was standing there, gesturing at the chalkboard, dark hair falling to her shoulders and catching the sunlight spilling through the window. She gave him and the current headmaster a friendly nod before turning her attention back to her students.
Manuel spent the remainder of his first week walking on air; she was real, she was here.
“Okay buddy, you know the drill; make sure no one steals the microscopes.” You rub Bot, the class pet, on the nose before closing his hutch. The damn thing takes up half of the back wall; in your defense, when you and your ninth graders lured the abandoned bunny into a make-shift trap your first year at the school, you didn’t know the silver ball of fluff was a Flemish Giant.
The classroom door swings and you turn, expecting a student who forgot a water bottle or sweater.
Father Manuel Esposito stands there instead, hands linked in front of him as he regards you with casual confidence. Subjecting you to surprise spot-checks or last minute meetings is a habit of his you’ve never understood. He’s generally highly organized, so you assume his habit of catching you unprepared–or trying to–is simply the product of your less than friendly working relationship.
When he arrived at the school late last summer to take over from Father Rossi, you assumed he’d be a man of the same approximate kind; older, hard to ruffle, a bit stuck in his ways but invested in the well-being of his students. It was known that any staff hired just had to be Christian, so you being Quaker shouldn’t have been a shock. Hell, maybe you’d get along with him better than you had with Rossi.
Then you had to talk to him one on one.
“You wanted to speak with me?” The priest sits across his desk from you, cordial smile hiding excitement, “I’d been hoping you’d take the time, you’re well-regarded among the staff for someone so young.”
You’re thirty-three, but you let the condescending compliment slide, “You’re kind to say so. I hope my reputation means you’ll listen when I tell you that Mr. Getti has been discouraging the girls in his classes from pursuing the advanced science courses.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I overheard him. It explains why my Advanced Chemistry enrollment ratio was so skewed towards boys this past year.”
He waves a dismissive hand, “You don’t need to worry about your course being cut due to low attendance, I assure you.” He’s still smiling like a man on a first date, even as you narrow your eyes.
“That’s not my concern. My concern is that another teacher is putting his personal, outdated beliefs about gender into the classroom in a way that is preventing students from pursuing the education that speaks to them.”
“This is not a public school, he is allowed to express his opinions on such matters-”
You stand, rubbing your forehead, “With all due respect, that’s a completely unacceptable response.”
“Please, calm yourself-”
“Oh I’m calm” you snap, “pissed, but calm.”
“I’d mind your language in my presence.”
“I heard you refer to someone as ‘a little shit’ two days ago.” You set your hands on the desk and lean into his space, “you’re right that this school has basically nothing in terms of gender protections. But one of the students recorded video on her phone of his monologue. Many of our parents are Catholic, yes, but the kind who expect their daughters to be engineers and doctors. I’m sure they’d love to see that video.”
“Which student has it?”
You smile, “I can’t remember.”
His friendly expression is gone, darkened into something that gives you chills.
His voice is smooth as black ice as he says, “I will talk with Mr. Getti.”
“Can I help you with something?” You slip past him toward your desk.
“I’m here to see what you have planned for the spring festival.”
You submitted the plans months ago and he knows it, but you’re not in the mood to bicker, “I’m having the physics class compete to see who can construct a bridge strong enough for Bot to hop across.” You gesture to the back corner lab table, crowded with bridge bits in progress, “our elevator challenge last year was a crowd-pleaser.”
“Yes, so Father Rossi told me.” His eyes track you as you collect your purse, “I was simply checking to be certain it would be appropriate for the occasion.”
“Now that you mention it, I was planning to emcee while topless.” You notice him eyeing the black rabbit tattooed on your shoulder and pull on your cardigan. He seems more perturbed by that than your comment.
“Very funny.”
“It’s been known to happen. Did you need anything else?”
“No, that will be all.” He falls in step beside you, and you dart forward to avoid being smushed against him while moving through the doorway.
“Goodnight!” You call over your shoulder and keep your eyes on him long enough to catch the scowl that skitters across that handsome face. He hates that you won’t use his titles unless you’re in front of students.
(Quaker practice, you told him, and watched him seethe as you said you knew he was a thoughtful man who wouldn’t ask a good christian woman to compromise her values).
It’s not a long walk home; you live in one of the old dormitories (there’s only enough students who live at the school to merit the use of on) that’s been turned into staff housing for any unmarried teachers who are interested. You cook and eat dinner, then take a cup of tea onto the little back porch to read.
Your apartment is on the end, across a stone pathway and patch of grass from the carriage house that became the headmaster's accommodations. Manuel often sits by the window facing yours, glass of wine in one hand and book (or phone) in the other.
You suspect that if you’re on your patio, he’s more likely to take up that spot. You can’t prove it, and aren’t sure what conclusion it even points to.
The man is a mystery to you in many ways; you have more fun than you care to admit trying to figure them out.
There are very few hills in Watsons Hollow (a hollow, he’s been relegated to living in a place that proudly calls itself a hollow). One, on the end of the school grounds, is crowned by a stand of magnolia trees, under which sits a small bench.
By the light of this beautiful Sunday morning, Manuel sees a familiar shape perched on the bench as he expected and thinks, for the hundredth time, that he should have the hill leveled. Climbing it in a cassock always ends with him winded when what he needs to be composed.
When he reaches the top he finds her on the bench with her eyes closed, serene. He wants to kneel at her feet, kiss her and taste what he has so long been promised.
Her eyelids flutter open and she notices him. For a moment her gaze is pure curiosity; then she looks at his face and her own goes guarded. Not a castle wall, but the lattice of a confessional.
A delicate touch is required.
“That is a lovely necklace.” He says it as if this is the first time he’s noticed, as if he doesn’t envy the amethyst for where it sits on her chest. As if it has not been the stone he always favored in his jewelry, “look, we even match.”
Her gaze moves to his hand when he lifts it to show her his ring. He knows he should have surrendered all items from his past, but this one always helped him focus, help him think.
“Is it your birthstone, too?” There, that little tilt of her head that means she’ll hear him out.
“No. I am a summer child.” He glances around, taking in the trees, “every time I come here, I understand more and more why you are up here so often. But I fear you were still missed at mass this morning.” He says it almost as an afterthought.
She raises a brow, “Most of our resident students know I come to the ten o’clock service, not the one at eight.” She brushes off her pants, “or are you taking the role of shepherd a bit more literally today?”
He fights the urge to bristle, “Must I have a deeper reason for looking after you? You are one of my instructors, and it’s my job to be certain all of us act as role models to our students.”
“If you think I’m failing in that regard, we can talk about it during a performance review. Where there’s a paper trail.” Her look is pointed, her lips quirking up in that way they do when she thinks she’s being clever, “honestly, if you hounded the rest of the teachers the way you do me, they’d band together and get you demoted to janitor.”
The barb lands deeper than he’d like, and he glowers at her. She knows he won’t fire her–she’s well liked, her students are top performers, there’d be an uproar–but his coniglietta isn’t a fool. When she sees his expression, she corrects course.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” She looks up, gaze softening in search of forgiveness. The urge to give it is strong. The urge to make her beg for it is stronger.
His hand holds her chin before he can stop it, “Your apology is missing a word. I do not care what your little sect believes; you will address me as my position deserves. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Her smile is polite but, temptress that she is, the tone is somehow insincere, salacious. Anyone else would think she’d done as he asked, not see the glint in her eye that tells him she is only humoring him.
He grazes his hand along her jaw before pulling away, “Why are you so troublesome for me, ciccina? You get along with everyone else.” He prays she doesn’t know what the word that slipped out before he could catch it means.
“Because even though you’re charming and charismatic, you give off this sense that everyone should kiss your feet just for existing. That gets under my skin. And you…sometimes it seems like you want something from me and that’s why you hover around all the time, but you won’t just say it.”
She looks frustrated, almost nervous, and he steps back, allowing her to stand. The urge to comfort wars with the urge to claim, both so intense that when he speaks all he manages to do is sound like an impotent old man.
“May I walk you home? Perhaps we can talk things out.”
“No, thank you. I need a little more peace and quiet this morning. Sir. I’ll see you at mass.” She nods, breezes past him. Orange blossoms—the same smell he swears is on his pillow when he wakes, that he can sense as he prays–call to him from her perfume.
He clings to them as she descends the hill, reminding himself that patience is a virtue.
You’re having more trouble than usual focusing during the Monday afternoon staff meeting. Manuel leads it as always, and like always you have the urge to bat that gaudy cross he wears like it’s a cat toy. You also can’t stop turning your conversation from yesterday over in your mind; you hadn’t been sure what he wanted, yes, but it seemed like he was having the same problem.
“Now, that brings us to the issue of the dwindling funds for the art programs.” Manuel rests his folded hands on the table as you and the other staff trade resigned looks; this conversation, historically, ends with arguments over how if the school charged local kids the same amount as those who had to live at the school, there would be no issue, but also that’s a one-way ticket to pissing off the town, and also it seems unfair…
“I have several ideas” Manuel opens a small notebook, “we have alumni who have successful careers in the arts. If we offer them chances to feel they can leave distinct marks on the programs, they will likely contribute…”
Manuel continues speaking, rattling off five separate ideas that approach the problem from new angles. You’ve admired his creativity before, and you have to admit that watching him when he problem solves feels dangerously like a turn-on.
After the meeting, you step onto the path back to the staff housing and find Manuel waiting. He gestures at the path and you nod, falling into step alongside him.
This is how the two of you signal a detente; you walk back together, silent unless one of you draws attention to a flower or a bird or the stars. You asked, only once, why Manuel thought the walks work so well, and he murmured that it was nice to have company in his enjoyment of God's work.
A buzzing shape catches your attention and you pause, “we’ve got a hummingbird moth.”
“So we do. Energetic fellow.” Next to you like this, he doesn’t feel like the looming presence he so often projects (it doesn’t escape your notice that even with a slight hunch in his shoulders, he takes up space in a room, commanding and sturdy in a way you hate yourself for enjoying).
You watch the moth a few moments before continuing. When you reach the apartments he wishes you a good night, and you don’t even mind when adds a quiet, “my dear” before departing.
“This is humiliating.” Manuel mutters as you sit down next to him at the folding table. The spring festival is all hands on deck, and since your students aren’t presenting until the afternoon, you’re stuck with him at the raffle ticket table.
“This is teaching.” You set a paper cup of coffee in front of him.
“I’m not a teacher.” He takes the cup and grimaces at it, “Starbucks?”
You don’t hide your amusement, “I also wish we had Italian-style coffee shops but beggars can’t be choosers. And nowhere else in town will sell coffee by the cardboard carrier.”
“Barbaric.”
The initial run on tickets happens right after the festival begins, as parents and community members make their first round of the booths. While you don’t love having to get up this early on a Saturday, you do like the festival; it started back in the 70s, the school showing goodwill toward the town by throwing a party and showcasing the skills of its students.
After the sales settle down, you and Manuel are left in semi-awkward silence. You catch him, not for the first time, following the fabric of your dress (patterned with sketches of Da Vinci’s inventions) from your chest to your knees. You used to think it was him disapproving of your clothing choices, even though you follow the conservative dress code. Lately, you’re not so sure.
“Have you ever been to Italy?” His question surprises you.
“Closest I ever got was North Beach in San Francisco.” You fidget with your necklace, “I’d really love to go to some day. Do a tour of all the relics and things like that.”
“I didn’t take you for the type to care about such things.”
“They’re fascinating, and so many of them have absolutely buckwild stories to go along with how they got to their final display place.”
“I must admit I found the Capuchin Crypt rather peaceful.” He smiles a bit shyly.
You turn toward him, excited, “What’s it like inside?”
“Small, but very– ah, good morning Mrs. Reid, how many tickets would you like?”
When the interruption is gone, he returns to telling you about his visit, then about more of his time in Rome and in Paris. By the time the next shift comes to take over the table, the two of you have talked for nearly two solid hours.
“That’s the longest you’ve stayed at my side.” He muses as you head for where your students are setting up for their demonstration, “maybe you’re finally finding me tolerable.”
“Maybe” You wink and wave goodbye, assuming he’ll stride off to schmooze the wealthy parents.
Thirty minutes later, as you’re leading the round of applause (four bridges survived, two collapsed, and one was doing fine until Bot decided to eat the suspension), you notice Manuel at the back of the crowd; he stayed the whole time.
“C’mon everyone. I know we’re only three days from break but we’ve got to hang in there.” You raise a hand to quiet the class, “you’ve got your test tomorrow, so please use this free study period I’m giving you.”
“Do we still get to do the water balloons on Friday?”
You preen a little; your end of the year physics exercise has already become school lore, “Yes, I promise. Now, come on, use those flashcards, let’s go.”
You finish grading the final labs from your biology students, then make a loop of the classroom in case there are questions.
As you pass one table (Tana, Laura, Jacob, Al), you slow.
“Nah, Esposito couldn’t kill a guy.”
“No, no I don’t mean that kind of bad, I mean” Laura lowers her voice, “the other worst thing. I think he got moved for that.”
“Ohhhh shit. You mean he touched little-”
“Ahem. Al, language. And this doesn’t sound like studying.” You tap one of the disregarded flash cards.
“But don’t you think it’s weird he got moved? I heard Miss Olsen say he was a bishop or something, it’s weird to go from that to here, right?” Tana looks at you, and the other three follow suit.
“It’s unusual. I don’t know anymore than you do; honestly it seems like I might know slightly less.”
Jacob frowns, “They wouldn’t do that, right? Send him to a school with little kids if he…” He’s got a brother starting in sixth grade come fall, and the worry on his face twists your heart.
“It’s been known to happen. But.” you give them all your best reassuring teacher stare, “If it did happen here, I’d raise hell and everyone would know.”
“Ooooh” They say it in unison in response to your cursing, and the tension is carried off as they start arguing about whose highlighter is the ugliest color.
Your own thoughts aren’t so quickly turned. You know Manuel was demoted, feel naive for not considering that could be the reason why. You need to know, and gossip won’t do to get the truth.
An idea alights on your brain. A terrible idea, but an efficient one.
Manuel locks his door for the two weeks between the end of spring term and the start of summer school.
He does not, however, lock his window.
You drop inelegantly into the room and make a beeline for his desk. There may be nothing to find. But if there is, you owe it to the kids to find it sooner rather than later.
You’re not looking for a smoking gun, but you are looking for an old name, something you could research. After fifteen minutes of careful searching, you find it; a note to himself, the kind you scratch down on the nearest surface to keep from forgetting something crucial, on a letterhead belonging to one Bishop Manuel Aringarosa.
Distinct, heavy footfalls in the hallway. The man hasn’t left his house in days but now he decides to come to the office??
You can’t get out the window in time, so you hurriedly close the drawer and dart into a corner between two bookshelves. As long as he stays in the vicinity of the desk, he won’t see you.
His steps cross the floor, then stop.
“I know you’re here, coniglietta. I can smell your perfume.” His voice is calm, almost gentle.
He’s bluffing. He has to be.
“Come out.” A firmer tone, but still no movement.
You stay put. He whispers something in latin, the cadence suggesting a prayer.
“I hope you found what you were looking for. Because you will not be getting another chance.”
Okay so that sounded like a threat. You wait until he’s gone, then a minute after that, then make a dash for and out the window.
You don’t feel calm until you’re home, taking deep breaths as you drink some water and fill up the watering can for the plants on the patio.
When you step out, you look across the way and see Manuel watching from his window. You give a shy wave. He gives a knowing one in return.
You don’t look his way the rest of the time you’re outside. You don’t need to; you feel his gaze on you the entire time.
Since you can’t avoid Manuel entirely, you settle on the next best option for your long term survival; making sure you’re never alone with him.
You’re probably being ridiculous, probably the worst he would do is finally find a way to fire you. A primal, alert thrum in your gut disagrees; his voice has never sounded that way before, as if he was capable of anything.
This is where your tenure at the school compared to his is on once again your side. You know where the exits are, all the little shortcuts around and through the buildings. Your favorite perch beneath the magnolia lets you keep an eye on his location, and the few times he heads uphill toward you, he arrives at the top huffing and puffing while you’re long gone.
You swear he’s been trying to find you more since the incident in his office.
The apartment is the one weak spot. He can tell when you’re asleep. Manuel is certainly smart enough to get a door or window open without drawing attention to himself. You lay in bed three nights ago, thinking about him slipping in the door, his weight on top of you and his hand on your mouth, that deep voice in your ear telling you there was nowhere to go.
Fifteen minutes after that thought, you came harder than you had in months to the thought of his hands in your hair and hips grinding against yours.
All that’s to say that you really, really don’t want to knock on his office door today. It’s been two weeks since you were last in here.
“Come in.”
You obey, shut the door behind you. He looks up from his computer, surprise morphing to happiness and you realize you missed being close to him, being able to see the subtle shifts in that handsome face.
Oh christ, when did you start thinking of him that way?
“To what do I owe this visit?”
You approach the desk, sit down in the deeply uncomfortable chair across from him, “I need to talk to you about Miles, sir. You agreed to him having a week of detention and I don’t think that’s fair.”
“He hit one of the other boys.”
“Who had been harassing him for three months. Which I kept pointing out to you and to the gym teachers, since that’s where the worst of it was happening. You know I'm the person least likely to advocate for violence, but if nothing else his bully should also be disciplined.”
“I’ll consider it.” His eyes flick from your necklace back to your face.
“Thank you.” The smart thing would be to leave. But you’ve had your fill of running.
“Why have you been trying so hard to talk to me the last two weeks?”
He leans back in his chair, “So you've noticed.”
“It’s hard not to.”
“That begs the question of why you keep running from me” he raises a brow, “one might think it's a guilty conscience.”
“One might also think that’s why you’re so determined to get me alone.”
Manuel stands, demeanor friendly and casual as he wanders around the room, “Part of my role here is to look after you, as I do all our teachers. I'm simply concerned that you've been...getting into trouble. Which is the last thing I want for one of my most beloved instructors.
You’re busy watching his face, not the unhurried movements of his hands.
A click; he’s locked the door. There’s no deadbolt or lock you can undo, just a key he dangles where you can see it.
“You and I are going to have that talk.” In a few steps, he’s behind your chair, lingering there as he murmurs, “you're a smart woman, so do me the courtesy of not playing dumb. What were you looking for in my office?”
You weigh your options and risk the truth, “I wanted to know why someone who was a bishop got demoted and exiled to a whole new country. If you were sent because you’d abused your position around children…I’ve taught some of these kids for years. I have a responsibility to protect them.”
“Very noble” his right hand rests on the back of the chair, “you didn't trust me enough to ask the reason?”
“With all due respect, sir, I don't trust you any farther than I can throw you.”
“Look at me.”
You turn your head and meet his eyes. His left hand is on his cross.
“I have never harmed a child in my life. That is the truth.”
It’s the scorn in his frown that sways you toward belief; you know what Manuel looks like when repulsed by a thought. This is that down to the flare of his nostrils.
You flop back in relief, “Okay. I believe you.” You slip a smile his way, “did you get moved because you had a boyfriend and someone found out?”
“No.” He huffs.
You decide not to push your luck, holding up your hands as you stand, “Okay, okay, I’ll stop guessing.”
He’s blocking your path to the door, smiling diplomatically down at you, “It was all politics, ciccina. Nothing more.”
“So we have an understanding, right? I can say my students are safe and you can stop chasing me around like a hound after a ‘bunny rabbit’?” You form quick air quotes and his smile grows amused. Did he really think you wouldn’t look up the names he calls you?
His fingers brush your hair back behind your ear, “Your devotion to your students is admirable.” His hand finishes the motion and cups your cheek, “such a loyal little creature.”
“Sir?” The tenderness wrong-foots you, keeps you from bustling past him and out the door before several school policies and at least one religious vow are broken.
Manuel’s voice is a velvet blindfold, blocking out everything as you luxuriate in it, “I should have cornered you in my office and made you explain yourself. Thoroughly.”
You lean into the touch, “Is something missing from my explanation?”
A teasing retort, you’d expect. Or maybe a reminder of your place in the pecking order. Even a threat would be less shocking than Manuel dipping his head to kiss you.
The press of his lips is chaste but painfully urgent. That charms you, as does the shaky little exhale that comes when he pulls away.
Fuck it.
You toss your arms around his shoulders and kiss him back. His hands find your body and you understand just how screwed you are; no one has ever touched you this way, like every last inch was precious, like they couldn’t decide where to even start.
You gasp into the kiss. He deepens it, teases his tongue at your lips so you part them. That earns you your first moan, low and hungry.
Pulling away, rub your palms comfortingly across his chest, “Manuel-”
Another kiss, far more aggressive than the last, “I’ve waited a lifetime to hear you say my name.”
“Could have fooled me. Father.” You kiss him playfully only to be manhandled until your back collides with the wall. He traps your wrists against the wood, your arms open, kisses hungrily along your throat, your collarbone, snarls at your blouse when it prevents him from traveling farther.
You wiggle your right wrist; christ, you can’t get loose. Heat coils up your spine and you whine until he kisses his way to your face.
“Yes, my darling?”
You snicker, “So I’m your darling now? What happened to ‘troublesome creature?”
“Nothing. You are my darling and you are the greatest vexation of my life.” He releases your wrists, wraps one arm around your lower back and strokes your face with his hand, “You are my treasure” he kisses you once, starts a path of them down your chest, “my temptress.”
“Jesuschrist.” You rest shaking hands on his shoulders as his kisses continue through the fabric of your shirt, lower and lower until he’s kneeling.
He chuckles, “My blaspheming beauty.”
“Oh for-” you roll your eyes, laughing “did you fucking rehearse these?”
“No” he kisses each hip in turn.
Your reply disappears as a large, warm hand runs up your thigh. Under your skirt.
“Manuel, we’re still in the school-”
He stands so suddenly you jump, “Why should that stop me? Both the school and you are mine. I can do as I please.” He forces your left leg up and around him, keeps an iron grip on your thigh as he kisses you. It burns away your ability to focus on anything but him. You shove a hand into his hair and the other into his front pants pocket, groping his thigh through the sturdy fabric.
Spreading your fingers, you brush the outline of his cock.
“Promising…” you purr against his jaw
“Is that the game you wish to play, ciccina?” The hand not holding your leg shoves its way into your blouse and under the fabric of your bra. When his hands finally find your tits, you discover he’s been restraining his touches until now.
“God never made something more perfect.” He rolls his hips against you as you pant from the heady combination of pleasure and pain.
Manuel’s eyes greedily take in your heaving chest, the red his grip renders the skin. You sense he’s weighing his options, wish he’d say the damn things aloud.
Brrrrrring
If looks could kill, the telephone on Manuel’s desk would be in pieces.
“It’s likely nothing.”
The message machine kicks in and you catch the unmistakable voice of the head of the school board, telling Manuel to pick up if he’s there.
Manuel leaves a trail of profanity behind him in both English and Italian as he stalks toward the desk.
You open your hand; you grabbed the key from his pocket as he pulled away. You want to stay, but the prudent part of you knows you need time away from Manuel, from his warm hands and deep voice, to figure out what to do.
Unlocking the door, you blow him a kiss. A smile breaks his scowl a moment before he returns his attention to the call.
You close the door, wondering how long before he realizes you got the key off him. You’ll leave it in his mailbox for him to find tonight.
—-------------------------------------
Watson’s Hollow doesn’t have much of a downtown, but it does have a coffee shop with excellent people watching. The main drag is part of an older highway, so come summer there are ample tourists stopping through town for groceries or gas.
“Aww, those are such cute shoes.” Jeanie, your closest friend in town, holds the door open with her back as a family of five walks past, their little girl smiling proudly at the compliment to her unicorn sandals.
Jeanie is the librarian at the K-8 public school. Whenever you’re out together, it looks like a Lovebird hanging out with a Magpie; you favor dark colors, and you’ve never seen her in anything duller than pastel. You actually have quite a bit in common, including a love of seasonal drinks.
“Two strawberry cheesecake cold brews.” She sets the plastic cups on the table, flips her strawberry patterned picnic-dress so she can sit down.
“Thanks.” You cheers her, listen as she catches you up on the latest district drama and her thoughts on the book club meet-up you missed last month.
As she pauses to take a sip, you murmur, “I don’t mean to freak you out, but I’m pretty sure that guy across the street followed you here and has been staring at you the whole time we’ve been talking.”
“Is he big, with hair like-” she slicks her hand back over her forehead.
“Yeah?”
She grins, “That’s just Hank. I asked him to break-in tonight and sometimes he likes to…draw the game out.” She turns and blows a kiss to the man sitting outside the barber shop pretending to read the paper. He gives her a self-satisfied smile that reminds you of Manuel.
That’s one of the other reasons you and Jeanie get along so well. When you first started at the book club, there was a twenty minute discussion of how salacious the sex scene was for containing the barest hint of non-consensual roleplay. Jeanie had caught your eye and you each recognized the other was hiding the thought of “kiddie stuff.”
“Speaking of, um, gentleman callers. I need your advice. Scale of one to ten, how bad an idea is it to fuck someone who could fire you-”
“Not really the greatest-”
“-who’s also breaking a vow by fucking you.”
Not needing anymore clues, she leans forward, “You’re kidding.”
You shake your head, explain about the kiss, about how you have dozens of ideas for engineering another because it’s been three days and you feel like you’ll die without one.
“And I know it’s basically a fucking mutually assured destruction situation but I…Jeanie, I have never had anyone make me feel that wanted just from kissing.”
The librarian takes her time on her next sip, licks her lips thoughtfully, “Do you have a plan if he fires you?”
“I mean from the sound of it your school would hire me in a heartbeat. Even without that, yeah, I’ve got at least three contingency plans.”
“You’re both adults. If you’re on the same page about it and you’re not going in assuming it could never go wrong, I’d say do what feels right.” She steals another look across the street, “we only live once.”
“Thanks” you nudge her shin under the table, “but if this blows up mid-year and I have to move out, I’m crashing on your floor.”
“....Okay even if that doesn’t happen, we should totally have a sleepover some time.”
You slip the post-it with the message into Manuel’s mail box in the admin office.
Going by the way his attention struggles to stay anywhere but you during the staff meeting, you’re guessing he saw it.
You spend the day buzzing with anticipation, the time from 7:00 pm to 7:50 pm deciding what one wears to a tryst with a priest (you settle on a black sundress, lacy hem long enough for plausible deniability if anyone sees you).
When you slip through the door, Manuel is waiting for you in the small living room. You’ve never seen him in casual clothes; you savor the way his red dress shirt hugs his frame, the fact the black slacks flatter the sturdy shape of him.
He slips his hands into his pockets, studying you, “Well, coniglietta? Are you coming any closer?”
“Just taking in the view.”
Manuel settles on the couch and you sit beside him as he pours red wine into two glasses. There are fresh irises in a vase on the coffee table. You mentioned once that they were your favorite flower.
“I hope your school day was less eventful than mine.” He passes you a glass, “arguing that we need repairs to the main building is proving harder than I anticipated.”
“Do…do they want the place coming down on us? I know it’s a historical site but that’s not gonna help us if the storms keep taking roofing with them.”
The two of you compare notes on the politics of the situation, and it’s not until Manuel pauses to refill your glasses that you ask, “why didn’t you confront me? When you knew I was in your office?”
He raises an amused brow, “I should think that was obvious.”
“So I missed the chance to have you…discipline me for disrespecting your privacy so egregiously?” You flutter your lashes.
The light bulb clicks on behind his eyes.
“Not at all. You have many things to atone for, my dear.” He takes your glass, sets it down next to his before leaning into your space, “you’ve tormented me for months.”
“Poor Manuel” you coo, “how cruel of me to exist in your vicinity.”
All it takes is a single, teasing kiss to make him haul you to your feet.
“My suffering amuses you?” He drags you into his bedroom, flipping on the light to reveal suspiciously expensive-looking blankets and furniture.
“Only because so much of it is self-inflictedAH!” You flail as he sits on the edge of the bed and yanks you across his lap.
“Self-inflicted?” He growls, “I’ve served God and the church faithfully for years, done all that was asked of me and more and this is the thanks I get!”
“AHfuck” you grab the bedspread as his hand comes down hard on your ass.
“Tormented day and night, sleeping or waking, by a beautiful woman who does nothing but show her teeth and make me chase her.” Four slaps this time and you moan, rock against his thighs as he shoves your dress up.
A delicious chuckle, “At least you know how to dress for me.”
“I thought you might like them.” You squeak when he snaps the waistband of the black and purple underwear.
“Cunning little bunny rabbit.” He spanks one side of your ass, then the other, “brilliant harlot”
“Getting some mixed messages-OWfuck, oh, ohmygod.” You push back into the flurry of slaps to your ass and thighs.
“What will it take to make you agreeable?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know” you shriek, delighted, at the next slap, grind your body down where you feel his cock hardening in his pants, “fuck, I forgot how much I like this.”
A wordless, possessive snarl followed by three, sharp strikes.
You laugh, “Manuel, if you think you’re getting untouched goods, you’re extremely wrong.”
A hand in your hair forces you back so you’re kneeling. Manuel is flushed, dark eyes shining as he matter-of-factly sneers, “I will make you forget any man who touched you before me.”
You lick your lower lip, “And how do you intend to do that?”
“Get on your knees.”
“Only if you get on yours first.”
Surprise, whether at the content of the demand or simply its existence, flashes on his face.
“Why, sir.” You trace a finger down his cheek, “I thought in all your secret affairs you must have at least tried using your mouth.”
“I have not had any affairs like this. I waited for you and you alone.”
It’s too sincere to be hyperbole, which puzzles you enough that Manuel has time to maneuver you so you’re laying on your back on the bed.
“Seems mean to make you wait longer.” You wiggle out of the underwear, let him push your skirt up at his own pace while you spread your legs. His breathing picks up as he looks at your cunt; you’ve never seen him nervous but that’s what this, even if tries to hide.
Before you can reach for his face, tell him he doesn’t have to, that there’s nothing to be afraid of, he dips his head and kisses your navel. Two more and then he presses his mouth inelegantly to your cunt. A needful moan floats up to you and you set a hand on his head, stroking his hair.
“Move your mouth up a little, use your tongue on my clit-” you gasp as he does as he’s told, the warm, wet movements endearingly determined, “g-good, that’s so good. Little more pressure and–yeah, fuck.” You tip your hips and his left hand slips between your ass and the bed. His right, however, sneaks beneath his mouth, and he casts you a questioning glance.
You nod, toes curling as he slips a finger inside you. The more you moan, the more confident each motion becomes, so you let yourself be loud, tug his hair more insistently as you roll your hips. When he sucks experimentally on your clit you whimper his name, beg him to press a second finger in with the first. He obeys, his own gasps mingling with the slick sounds of him bringing you closer to the edge.
“Right there, just like that, fuck, Manuel, sweetheart, please.” Your hips buck erratically as you cum, months of longing shuddering through your system.
Manuel raises on his forearms, lips shiny and expression hungry, “That was not as humiliating as I feared.”
You smile, bemused, “Your pillow talk needs some work. And we both need to be wearing fewer clothes.”
Manuel strips as you step out of your dress. You watch him hesitate when removing his rosary before setting it on the bedside table.
He sits on the edge of the bed and points at his feet, “I have waited for years, ciccina. Do not test my patience.”
“I won’t.” You grab the rosary, perch on the bed behind him. As you expected, he grabs for you; you catch first one wrist, then the other, and tie them together behind his back with the necklace.
You slide down to the floor, settling between his knees as he looks over his shoulder and then back at you, brows drawn.
“You’ve been a pain in my ass as much as I’ve been one in yours. Consider this your discipline.”
“Wicked creature.” He purrs.
“Mmmhmm” You grip the base of his cock, take the head into your mouth and tease the slit with your tongue.
Manuel tilts his head back, groaning a “yes” that gives way to a wordless, wanton sound.
You take your time licking and kissing the shaft, find that he whimpers when you playfully kiss his balls and moans any time your tongue finds the head. Now and then you turn your head, kissing his thighs and nuzzling the dark hair you find there, and he whispers that he knew you’d see things his way eventually, knew you would find your true place.
Pre-cum drips onto your chest and you make sure he sees it. He’s gone heavy-lidded, looks more like a drunk spotting a barrel of fine wine than a man of the cloth.
You take his cock back into your mouth, let slide along your tongue as far back as you can manage. Manuel thrusts hopefully and you nod, keep your jaw slack and your hand on his cock as he fucks frantically into your mouth.
“God, fuck, my darling one, my perfect temptress, you’re mine, finally mine, I spent so long waiting for you to see when I should have made you see” his hips stutter, “God help you if you pull away, I will never forgive you, you’re mine to claim, mine to mark, ohoh, yes-” he spills down the back of your tongue. You keep him in your mouth as you swallow, give his cock a final kiss when he pulls out.
You reach around his torso and undo the rosary. Kiss his belly and his chest as they heave and shake with breath. When his arms envelope you, they’re shaking.
“Manuel?” You kiss him, worry welling in your chest. What if this is a case of instant regret.
He raises his face, meeting your gaze, his own impossibly soft, “Anima Mia. You are better than I ever dreamed.”
You blush, “Never been anyone’s dream girl, that’s for sure.”
He holds you a moment longer before murmuring, “You cannot stay the night. Someone might see come morning.”
“It’s also a school night. And I don’t trust you to keep your hands to yourself and let me sleep.” You kiss his cheek, “don’t get any cute ideas about keeping me from arguing with you about school policy by kissing me.”
“You’ll make trouble for me even after this?” He tenderly brushes your hair from your face.
“If I didn’t I wouldn’t be me. And I think you want me, even if you also want to strangle me half the time.”
He chuckles, embracing you as if he’s searched the world just to hold your hand, “I fear, coniglietta, that you are entirely right.”
I posted the final chapter of mine and @thiswasinevitableid’s bowling fic!! I am so proud and excited for what we came up with. In this chapter: a happy ending!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: green goblin/reader, Norman Osborn/Reader
Characters: Green Goblin (Marvel), Norman Osborn, Reader
Additional Tags: Reader-Insert, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert, Nonbinary Reader-Insert, AFAB | Assigned Female at Birth Reader-Insert, Fat Reader-Insert, Established Relationship, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Sexting, Scent Kink, set in the 2020s instead of 2002 lol, reader really matches the green goblin's freak, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Age Difference
Summary:
The windows in your apartment are so old and busted, the frames painted over many times in landlord white, that they don’t lock properly when you jam them closed: they just get stuck, especially when it’s hot or humid, so tightly that anyone who didn’t know better would think they were locked.
You don’t worry about anyone breaking in. Or, at least, anyone you’re not happy to see.
Chapter 2 of my collab with @thiswasinevitableid! In which Otto and the reader go on a date, some children listen to polka, and Norman thinks about the past.
You’ve got a bad history with men. Otto and Norman have a bad history with each other. Somehow, it all works out.
I am SO EXCITED to finally get to share the fic @bellafarallones invited me to collab on! It’s an expansion of their fic where the reader owns a bowling alley, can see ghosts, and has Norman and Otto competing for their affection.
This fill is a continuation of "All I want" but can be read as a standalone. Thanks to @bellafarallones for playing in the space on Discord and @plush4bunny for the art that partially inspired it.
This fill is NSFW. Note that there are some references to assault but nothing ever comes close to happening "on screen."
If you’d known heroism involved this much playing politics, you’d have gone the Catwoman route; be out for yourself and no one else, and look good doing it.
If you’d taken that path, you wouldn’t currently be freezing your ass off on Saturday afternoon while the mayor sings the praises of a hero. It isn’t even your praises, for fucks sake. It’s Golden Boy, some newbie in Gotham that you barely know. But Batman insisted as many of you turn up as possible to show villains you’re a united front against crime in the city.
You’d much rather be reducing crime another way.
“It seems you bested me yet again” Oz smiles up at you as you straddle him.
“Yes, you put up quite a fight.” You remove your mask and set it on the bed, “those new smoke bombs make me sneeze like crazy.”
“Apologies, my dove. One must keep up appearances.” His eyes track your fingers as you unzip your suit, “can you ever forgive me?”
You kiss the tip of his nose, “That depends on how quickly you get your pants off.”
Dating Oz while keeping up your and his respective personas has you sympathizing with pro-wrestling choreographers. You have to keep fighting and thwarting him without either of you ever really hurting the other, and without him ever really doing more than a misdemeanor in case someone else tries arresting him.
Golden Boy is now yapping at the cameras, something about bringing pride to the city. He’s calling out Rupert Thorne by name; you agree with his hatred of the mobster, but throwing down the gauntlet like that is as good as signing your own death certificate.
You wish you didn’t have to patrol tonight; you’ve gone two days without seeing Oz and you miss him. The amount you miss him would worry you were it not for the texts he sends that include a comedic amount of pining.
The two of you were debating if a Sunday in or out would be best. If the weather stays this freezing, you’re lobbying for a day by the fireplace in his penthouse, fucking luxuriously slow under the blanket.
Golden Boy is still talking, something about a turtledove. Eeesh, the kid should leave the bird puns to you. Speaking of which, you should look into getting some pajamas with penguins on them. It’ll make Oz laugh-
You’re cut off from your daydream by someone dipping and kissing you.
“Smile for the camera” Golden Boy whispers.
You keep your face how it is and push him away with your powers. But the damage is done; every fucking website and tabloid has a picture of that kiss.
When the conference closes you’re the first off the stage. The instant Golden Boy is behind it with you, you jab one claw of your glove into his chest.
“Do that again and I’ll drop your personal gravity to zero so you float into fucking space.”
“Hey, hey take it easy” He holds up his hands, “my agent and I agreed it’d be a great look for me to have a girlfriend. Especially someone as aloof as the Shrike. Genius, right?”
“My threat stands.” You take a step back, “I know you’re new in town, but if you’re the girl half of a super-couple, your odds of getting kidnapped skyrocket. I’m not interested in that, and I’m not interested in you.”
“It’ll be great for your image, too! Look, at least think it over once the photos come out.”
Fuck, the photos. Oz is going to see them before you get a chance to see him. You should text him, tell him what happened-
An explosion echos from the east side of town. You plead with any force that’s listening that it’s a minor accident.
Batgirl looks at her communicator, “Riddler, Killer Croc, and Two-Face. And two of the three brought back-up. We need to move before they overrun the water front.”
You summon your wings; if you’re lucky, this won’t take too long and you’ll have a chance to call Oz.
But given how today is going so far, you’re not holding your breath.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------
Several hours, coin tosses, and riddles later, it’s a relief to be on your usual patrol route. Even more so now that you’re in view of the Iceberg Lounge. It’s quiet enough you’ll have time to slip in and find Oz.
You scan the building from your perch, enhanced eyesight helping you pick out your favorite tuxedo-clad shape from the crowd.
The tuxedo-clad shape with a woman on either arm.
You’ve only ever seen Oz that way once, the first night you ever fought him. Once he started dating your civilian self, if he wasn’t with you then he flew solo.
You know your Oz; confident in his finery, still hesitant to undress around you. No matter how clear you make your appreciation of his body, how many kisses you place on his belly and chest, how greedy your hands are any time he’s within reach. His trust in your desire is a fragile thing.
You’re going to slice Golden Boys' tongue out.
Nothing for it but to swap out your suit for something slinky and remind your boyfriend that he’s the only guy for you.
A sting in your neck as your foot moves from the edge of the roof. But instead of gravity responding to your command, you waver above the city for a moment and then fall backwards into silence.
The carpet on which you come-to is plush. As you blink the room into view, you take in a pool table, fireplace (lit), large, leather couches, and an easy chair near the window. You don’t know the four men flanking the door, but you recognize the one watching you from the chair instantly.
“There’s nicer ways to ask someone over, Thorne.” You flex your hands where they’re tied behind your back. No gloves. Figures.
“I didn’t want to give you any chances to call your boyfriend for help.”
“Golden Boy isn’t my boyfriend. In fact, I’m currently planning to stab his eyes out.” Your legs are tied at your ankles. You can probably wiggle out of that pretty quick.
“Right, right.” Thorne stands, “So you certainly have no idea where his hideout might be.”
“Got it in one.” You try summoning your wings, only convulse with nausea.
“Lots of benefits to having a chemist on payroll.” The mobster looms by your head, “like making a sedative for those powers of yours. Think we might have dosed it too high given how long you were out after we shot you with it. Or maybe the Shrike is a lightweight, huh?”
“Did you” you force an inhale as wooziness socks you in the skull, “really drag me here just to find out where Golden Boy likes to hide? He’s not subtle, I’m sure you can find him”
“We’ve been trying for months and no dice. So you’re going to tell us.”
“There’s no convincing you he’s full of shit, is there.” You sigh, resigned, “so, what, you’re going to beat the answer out of me?”
“I could. And I considered it, given how often you meddle in my business. But it occurred to me that there’s someone who knows you much better and is even more motivated than I am to make you pay for the trouble you cause.”
A doorbell in the distance and Thorne chuckles, “Right on time. Don’t go anywhere.”
You keep half your attention on the noises outside the door as the rest takes stock of your options. If your powers aren’t working, your reflexes are slowed, and your brain is going sluggish, your best chance is to talk someone into untying at least one set of limbs and then fight dirty.
A voice from the front of the house interrupts your planning.
“I was told you had a rare bird to sell me?” The Penguins voice is unmistakable, talking with detached curiosity as Thorne leads him back to the room. By the time the door opens, you’ve schooled your face into a mixture of frustration and anger.
He’s dressed to the nines; a broad, dapper, imposing shape in the doorway . When he sees you, Oz lifts his eyebrows, mouth in a relaxed line, “My, that’s quite the catch.”
“Go to hell, Penguin.” You snarl up at him.
“Here’s my offer, Cobblepot.” Thorne gestures to you like he’s selling a used car, “I want to know where Golden Boy is hiding. I figured you’d like first crack at getting the information out of her. As a bonus, once she talks, she’s all yours. Even left the mask on so you could do the honors whenever you felt like it.”
“A tempting proposition.” He glances at Thorne, “what else are you hoping to get from it?”
“That’s why I like you.You understand the realities of doing business. $10,000 and a promise of the information before you leave.”
“Five thousand.”
“Eight.”
“Please, Mr. Thorne, she may be my nemesis but she’s no Batman. Six thousand and that’s my final offer.”
“Do we really need to add insult to injury here?” You wriggle toward the fireplace poker only for Oz to set his umbrella across your chest.
“No need to twitter about for attention, my murderous songbird. I’ll deal with you soon enough.”
“Six it is.”
“Capital. Do you have a pen?”
You watch, still trying to squirm loose, as Oz fills out a check at Thorne’s desk. With every second that ticks on the heavy clock on the mantel, your stomach forms new knots of anxiety. What if you misjudged Oz entirely? What if his little display earlier wasn’t from hurt, but from anger? What if he’s really the kind to throw away all your affection for each other the moment you displease him?
Thorne takes the check with a grin, “I’ll leave you two alone. Take all the time you need.”
“I intend to.” Oz leans leisurely back in the chair. Once Thorne is gone, he stands to lock and bolt the office door.
“Oz?” Your voice has an unfamiliar tremble in it.
He puts a finger to his lips and you go quiet. After a few moments he leaves the door and scribbles on a paper at the desk.
As he holds the note where you can see it he says, at his usual volume, “Well, my caged bird, are you going to make this easy on yourself and sing?”
You glance at the note
They’re in the living room across the hall. Anything above a whisper they can likely hear.
“I told you, I don’t know where Golden Boy hides out. So we can skip the villain monologue and just get to the kidnapping.”
“I’m not so sure I believe you.” Oz tosses the paper into the fireplace, “the buzz around Gotham is that you know him rather well.”
His sneer doesn’t reach his eyes; those are busy searching your face for the truth.
“You know there’s only one person I trust with my heart.” You whisper, “I wanted to let you know what happened before you saw it. You can take the fact I didn’t up with Nygma and his friends.”
“You couldn’t spare even a second to send a message?” The tip of his umbrella skates up your side.
“You couldn’t wait for one before calling up some arm candy?” You hiss back, “you knew my patrol would take me past the damn lounge. You wanted me to feel insecure!”
He taps his lips again and you glare as best as your loopy brain will allow.
“I wanted you to feel how I felt!.” He growls, “I never intended to touch my dates for this evening. That pompous peacock spent half his speech talking about how much you gave him strength and inspiration, then kissed you.”
You groan, “I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about our next date, about you. Kiss took me by total surprise.”
The wariness evaporates from those brown eyes, “Oh.” He clears his throat, “It seems I was too quick in my conclusions.”
“You think?” You try again to worm out of the ankle bonds. Oz activates the blade at the end of the umbrella and cuts them for you.
“Apologies, my dove. Come along” He reaches for your arm to help you up, “we have a show to put on.”
Petulance rears in your chest and you recoil from his touch, “Uh uh. You don’t get to go out of your way to hurt my feelings-”
Oz raises his eyebrows at the childish phrasing.
“-don’t give me that look. The point is, is this what I have to look forward to any time the Gotham Daily publishes some bullshit about me dating someone? It’s like their third favorite story.” You flip onto your other side with a graceless thud, “ow, do you have any idea how much I trust you to let you see both sides of me? Don’t” tears flood down your cheeks, “don’t you feel the same way?”
“Oh, oh my darling one, of course I do.” Oz kneels, “from here on I promise I’ll make more cautious conclusions. I…this is all terribly new to me, you know. The last time I cared this deeply for anyone was a high school crush. And that was hardly requited, though she took great joy in making me think it was so I’d make a fool of myself. I’m afraid I rather panicked at the thought I’d been fooled again. I’m sorry.” He brushes his fingers along your cheek, “will you allow this doting old bird a second chance?”
“Of course.” You sniffle loudly, “ugh, whatever they drugged me with is making me weepy on top of dizzy.”
“It did seem like an unusual amount of tears for my ferocious femme fatale.” He helps you to your feet, “I take it you cannot fly off?”
“Nope. The safest option is for you to take your defeated foe to your penthouse. But I need a little time to work out a fake answer to give them; I don’t want to accidentally send Thorne to someone's actual hideout.”
“In that case, follow my lead.” His voice rises above a murmur for the first time since he started speaking to you in earnest, “well, my dear, since our little talk hasn’t swayed you, other methods are in order.”
“Do your worst, my answer won’t change.” You let him drag you to the pool table and push your chest down onto it, hands still tied behind you.
“You’re as stubborn as you are lovely. Neither will save you.” He kicks your feet apart with one of his own, making the scuff of it on the carpet as loud as possible. A moment later there’s a clank and a thwip as he removes his belt. He only wears one some of the time, otherwise preferring suspenders, and you know it’s a gorgeous black piece from Armani.
“Very creative” you keep your tone sarcastic even as you glance back at him excitedly, “gonna wash my mouth out with soap, too?”
“No, I have other plans for it.” He drapes himself over you, breath ghosting your ear, “ready, my dove?”
When you nod, he bites your earlobe and you yelp as he straightens with loud, pleased squawk of laughter
“That’s a pretty sound.” He whacks your thigh with the belt, the snap more intense than the contact, “do it again.”
“Fuck you. OW!” He smacks the same spot hard enough that you jolt the table.
“Manners” another snap of leather but no contact, “they’re what separate us from the beasts.”
You have a quip about birds ready to go when his palm connects with your ass. He’s never done that before; Oz gropes, grabs, nips, and nuzzles but he’s not the kind to hit during sex. The orderly pattern of strokes suggests he’s thought about spanking you more than he’s let on.
You sigh and wiggle your fingers, trying to get him to hold your hands. He complies, setting the belt by your head and taking both your hands with his right one. The left hand continues its assault on your ass and thighs. The pool table rattles with every impact; you’d resent whatever images Thorne and his goons are conjuring were it not for the way Oz’s breathing is getting heavier as he clings to you.
“Consider this payback for all the times you were a relentless pain in mine.” He squeezes over where he just struck, the warmth of his palm through your suit making you ache to get him naked somewhere.
“Owwww” you aim the whine for pained instead of horny. It doesn’t quite land there.
Oz tuts dramatically, “It seems more drastic measures are needed.”
“What are you-” his nose brushes behind your ear and his fingers dig into the crease of your thighs, “oh no, don’t you dareAH” the shriek that leaps from your throat is the most girlish sound you’d made in years.
It’s warranted; Oz is mercilessly kissing and nosing behind your ears, where he knows you’re ticklish. The same is true of your inner thighs. A week ago Oz tied your legs to the bed so you wouldn’t accidentally kick him as he kissed his way up them.
“Mercy?”
“No. Ohno” you squeak as he moves his hands to your tits, squeezing them roughly as he nibbles your earlobe. You nearly moan his name, but before your brain-mouth connection can blow this plan, Oz roughly flips you over and kisses you.
He presses closer and you make a truly pathetic, muffled sound when you realize he’s half-hard.
“Does that inspire an answer?” One hand grips just below your jaw as he kisses your cheek.
“Meat packing plant by the wharf. Secret basement.”
Oz kisses you sweetly, puts his belt back on, and scoops you into a bridal carry. Thorne is waiting in the living room like Oz predicted, and as you move past him you glimpse yourself in the window; your hair is a mess, you’ve got obvious tear tracks sneaking below your mask, and visible red marks from Oz holding your jaw. Their smiles tell you they think you’ve been thoroughly broken.
“...that’s where you’ll find him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lovely little bird to get settled into my nest.” He tries to kiss your cheek and it takes all your remaining willpower to turn away from the gesture.
Oz drove himself here, which is good because there’s no henchmen to blow your cover as he coos at you in the safety of the front seat. It’s also agony because you want to cuddle up to him without risking a five car pile up.
When you’re finally in the elegant warmth of the penthouse, Oz pauses in the entryway, taking his face gently in your hands.
“How are you feeling, my dove? If the drug is still in your system I’ll send downstairs for something to settle your stomach. And perhaps some ice, I struck you rather hard at the end.”
“It’s worn off.” You lean in to kiss him and he coos softly when you do, “the effects of your ‘interrogation’ however…”
“Dear me, however shall we-Oh, oh well we are in a hurry aren’t we?” He laughs as you drag him into the bedroom. You adore the way the sound ripples out across the fat and muscle of him.
“It should not be” you shove him onto his back on the bed, “so hot to be helpless under you. What is this bullshit, huh?” You unzip your suit and take it off as Oz rests his hands behind his head.
“Because I studied you, my dove. I know exactly how to handle you.” Brown eyes sparkle and he squeezes your ass as you straddle his hips.
You crawl up enough to kiss him, brushing your noses together as you murmur, “I do appreciate the rescue.”
“You’d have found a way free without me, I have no doubt.”
“Still, I think heroism deserves a reward….”
“Agreed.”
“After you clean up the goddamn mess you made.” You move quickly, setting your knees on either side of his head.
“A reward in and of itself. Oh you did enjoy that, how lovely” He kisses away the slick on your inner thighs, “come here.”
One large arm wraps around your hips as he pulls you closer. His tongue starts teasingly along your clit. There’s a playful “mmm” before the teasing turns to something far greedier, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he eats you out. You let him set the pace, rest your arms on the wall and your head against them. When his lips close around your clit and suck, you moan and roll your hips.
Oz’s fingers massage your skin as he urges you to roll them again. That’s all the encouragement you need, and soon you’re riding his face as much as you’re sitting on it. The wet, pleased sounds from between your thighs tells you he’s enjoying this as much as you are.
His hands leave you, and you don’t need to look back to know where they’ve gone. There’s the tell-tale ziiip followed by the hurried rustle of fabric. Oz moans with relief against you; this time you do glance over your shoulder to take in the sight of his cock growing harder in his hand.
“Oz, sweetheart, fuck.” You dig a hand into his hair to hold him in place as his tongue coaxes you over the edge.
Your thighs shudder as you cum and the exhaustion of the day catches up with all at once. You flop inelegantly off of Oz and onto your beside him. He wastes no time shedding his pants, and as you shove his jacket away to start on his shirt, you smile.
He’s wearing sock garters.
Oz catches you looking and raises a brow, “Not to your taste?”
“The opposite. Just thinking how lucky I am to have caught such a debonair bird all for myself.”
He blushes. The instant you’re done with his shirt, you kiss the path of pink down his throat and chest. He catches you in a kiss on your way back up and finally, finally brings you fully beneath him, where you’ve wanted to be since this morning.
“May I make love to you?”
“Of course. Have to make sure you get your money's worth.” You loop your arms over his neck as he presses into you
“That’s impossible, my dove; you’re priceless”
—-------------------------
A month after Oz steals you away from him, Thorne makes his next move.
You’re mid-fight with two guys holding up a grocery store, two you swear you’ve seen before. Just as your mind places them in Thorne’s entourage, you realize what’s happened.
It’s a set-up. They’re a distraction.
It comes two seconds too late; a heavy blow comes down from behind you and the world disappears. That part you’re used to; you’ll come-to in his mansion, or an abandoned nightclub, or some other ominous location and fight it out from there.
You wake up in pure darkness; your enhanced eyesight isn’t picking up anything, meaning there’s no light to be found. Which means-
No. No.
Panicked, you push your hands up. Waiting mere inches away is a wooden lid.
A coffin. You’re in a coffin.
Memories rush to the surface. You fight them all the way but there’s no chance of stopping them, not when your arms are practically pinned at your sides, not when the air already feels thin, not when every passing second is agonizingly familiar.
You reason fights to the front of your mind; last time this happened, your powers saved you. All you have to do is use them.
The tiniest push against the coffin lid confirms the worst; Thorne drugged you again. Your stomach cramps, your vision blurs, and pain shoots up your abdomen from that small flex of your abilities.
You’re trapped. You’re going to die down here. The escape all those years ago was a temporary stay of execution, not a commuted sentence from fate.
You close your eyes; if you’re going to die, you don’t want it to be with horrible memories in your mind. Instead, you picture Oz last night, smiling at you across the table. The way his hand closes around yours when you rest it on the white tablecloth, the way he kisses you as you wait for your ride, like it’d take a team of wild horses to drag him from you (and that even then he wouldn’t go quietly).
You hope Thorne brags to him about killing you. Both so Oz knows you didn’t abandon him, and so that someone will finally kill Rupert Thorne.
God, it’s not fair, you didn’t even get to say goodbye. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair-
Then fight it. A sharp, shimmering part of you whispers, fight it until you’re well and truly dead or it’s impaled at your feet.
You take three breaths as deep as the limited air allows. You focus on the coffin lid and the earth above it, picture your power as a wave, draining the gravity of each particle as it rolls over them.
Pain splits your chest and your ears ring. You scream in pain and rage and then the sky appears, six feet above you but there, with it’s burning, beautiful beacon of a moon.
You scramble out of the crater you made, gasping and gagging as clots of dirt drop around you. When you’re on flat ground you haul yourself to your knees. Your suit is soaked in sweat, you’ve thrown up, and you have no fucking idea where you are. But you’re alive.
Your new best friend, the moon, is much closer to the horizon when you finally make it to your feet. The corpses of manufactured, manicured houses surround you, and if you face the east there’s a horrific smell.
The ruins of Gotham Acres, the housing development the city tried to build over what turned out to be a bog contaminated with toxic waste from the nearby chemical plant. There’s only one person nearby, and lucky for you, she owes you a favor.
You limp toward the heart of the development, perking up when an engine revving reaches you on the breeze. A red corvette races into view, top down, and you wave until it slows.
“Well, well, Harl, looks like a little birdy crashed into our neighborhood.” Poison Ivy grins at you.
“Gee, Shrike, you look different. New hair?” Harley Quinn cocks her head, bells on the end of her cap jingling.
“Very funny. I’m calling in my favor; get me into town.”
Ivy nods and gestures to the back seat. You heave yourself in and lay on your back as she speeds off toward Gotham proper.
“Wait, which favor, mine or yours?” Harley glances between you and Ivy. Right, she owes you one too, for saving her pet hyena from the Joker (you were trying to keep it from tackling a nearby child and in the process kept it from being hit by whatever weird fucking gun he had that day).
“Mine.” Ivy replies.
“Gotcha. Gotta make sure my notes are accurate!” She disappears a tiny notebook back into her sleeve.
“Ever the professional” Ivy purrs, “where are we dropping you?”
You give them an address a few blocks from your apartment; the fact Thorne keeps having to ambush you out on patrol means he doesn’t know where you live or who you are in your civilian life.
When the car stops, Harley opens the side door a bit too fast and you tumble out.
“Oops, sorry.” She helps you up, “nice seein’ you again. And don’t go near the Tiffany's downtown!”
“Done.” You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.
When you finally drag yourself into your apartment, you start the water for a shower and pull out your phone. You have three texts and one voicemail, all from Oz.
Oz, 6:15pm: I saw they’re expecting a rare southern appearance of snowy owls this spring. Perhaps we should coordinate for a little weekend flight away?
Oz, 10:07 pm: Did patrol go well?
Oz, 4:22 a.m: Please disregard the call. I’m simply worried, my dove.
You click over to the message
“Hello, my dove. This is Oswald Cobble–ah. Oz. Apologies, I so seldom call anyone who isn’t a business contact. Just calling to see if you’re well. It’s well after when your patrol ends on Thursdays and I, well, I’m worried. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you came to harm, I’d probably crawl into the shell of the Cobblepot estate to await my end, I love you so terribly my darling. Do call me when you get this.”
You don’t want to speak or move for at least a day. You want to sob face down on the rug and you pass out. Until this moment, no other want could compete.
You dial Oz by video and set the phone into the waterproof holder in the shower.
A few rings and then the screen fumbles to life. Oz isn’t in bed; from the background, you’d say he fell asleep on the living room sofa. His robe is askew, showing his chest, and there’s couch crease on his cheek.
“Hello my darling–oh” he smiles as he takes in your location, “is this a hint you wish me to fly to your side for a sunrise rendezvous?”
You run the shower head over your chest, hoping the sight of it flowing down your tits will distract Oz from the lingering panic in your voice. “I wish. I had a hell of a run in with Thorne but I can’t…I can’t sleep without talking to you first.”
Icy politeness snakes into that baritone, “More trouble caused by the Golden Brats tall tales?”
You rinse the dirt from your hair, buying yourself a moment to decide how truthful to be. There’s something you’ve been aching to tell him, something you know won’t make him lose respect for you.
“No. I don’t think so. I think Thorne learned I’m the reason his supply of “escorts” dried up. I’m a little shocked it took anyone this long to trace what happened to the Mad Hatter back to me.”
“It was you. I’d heard rumors after Mr. Tetch disappeared but we all dismissed the idea a hero was responsible. Everyone knows what Batman demands of his allies.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him. I found out he was the one planting mind control, saw him do it to two girls as they were leaving a class at Gotham Tech. Wasn’t rocket science to trace him to Thorne and his trafficking operation. I caught him alone a few nights later, flew him out over the bay for a little talk. I wanted him to either agree to turn against Thorne or scare him so bad he’d leave town. He tried to get a device onto my mask and I dropped him in the struggle. Turns out Tetch can’t swim.” You sigh, turning up the water temperature, “I wish I felt worse about it than I do. I wish I’d been more careful so Thorne couldn’t trace it to me. I wish…”
I wish I could tell you everything
“I wish a lot of things.” You turn the shower head to splash your face.
“If you’re looking for judgment, you know very well I’m not about to wag my finger over a murder. I’m rather impressed.”
“Oz.” You shoot a wet glare at the camera.
“Your guilt, or lack of it, is yours to grapple. All I hear is the story of my ferocious songbird not letting anything stop her from pursuing justice.” He smiles, that dazzling, villainous look you’ve always been too fond of, “I’ll adore you no matter what you do.”
You won’t if I keep the camera on a few more minutes.
“You’re a terrible influence.” You blow him a kiss. He pretends to catch it and you crack the only genuine smile of the night.
“And you’re a terribly good one.”
You stay on the call a minute or so longer, promising him that you’ll see him at your date tomorrow. The anxiety is gone from his face, replaced by affection, by the time he tells you “goodnight, my love.”
Once the screen is dark, you turn the water pressure as high as it will go. Then you sit on the floor beneath it and sob until the hot water runs out.
You call out from work the next day. And the day after that. You skip your date with Oz, claiming a flu. It’s not a lie; your escape left you exhausted, with a lingering tendency to overheat . Probably a side effect of the drug they dosed you with. You also discovered a wealth of bruises and cuts, likely inflicted when you were asleep. You hadn’t noticed the slashes in the suit at the time due to the mortal terror.
On the third day, you go to work and limp through your day. At lunch, a black box appears on your desk, containing a scarf embroidered with Secretary Birds. It’s gorgeous, but you leave it in its box and tuck the whole package into your bag, then text Oz that as much as you want to, you’re not up for an evening out.
Oz: Understood. Rest up, my dainty dove.
When you go home that night, you’re just glad it’s Friday. Easier to act like a sick cat if you only have to avoid Oz instead of your co-workers.
You know you’re being ridiculous. You know. But you’ve never liked looking weak, even before you were the Shrike. Heroism only made the instinct worse; come across as too vulnerable and you draw in every villain you’ve ever pissed off.
You also know that Oz loves you. Loves the vibrant, nerdy you who he met in the condor exhibit, and the fearsome, confident you who thwarted him weekly. You know he loves you at your most ruthless as much as he loves you at your most gentle. He’s the only person to ever do so.
He loves every version of you he’s met. But he is not going to meet this pathetic, fragile one that’s piloted you the last few days.
That plan disappears Saturday morning when you wake up to the smell of cinnamon and pecans.
A sticky bun, still warm from your favorite bakery, sits on your bed side table next to a large coffee cup (the sharpie says it’s “the shrike;” you wonder what that means). The only reason you don’t panic at the sounds from the next room is that you can tell it’s Oz warbling along with the radio.
You slip out of bed, creeping into the kitchen in penguin pajama pants and a sweatshirt from the Gotham Aquarium. Oz is at the sink, sleeves rolled up and suspenders laying comfortably down his chest, doing the dishes.
“Wow, you must really like me to be willing to do chores.”
He dries his hands on a towel and shuts off the water, “Recall I spent some years in boarding school. It was expected that we earn our keep.” He guides you into a kiss, keeps you in a casual embrace, “are you feeling better?”
“A little.” You rest your cheek on his chest, tearing up at the familiar, comforting scent of starch and cologne, “if I knew you were coming I wouldn’t showered or something.”
“You needn't skip it on my account. Go freshen up while I finish setting out our breakfast.”
“Careful with those orders, silly bird. I’m not a henchman.” You kiss the tip of his nose.
“You’d be far too distracting as one.”
You shower quickly, come back to the kitchen in a thin bathrobe to find Oz setting a vase of roses on your little kitchen table next to the baked goods, coffee, and freshly made avocado toast.
Oz pulls out your chair, smiling when you giggle at the dramatic flourish.
You sip the coffee; it seems to be a half dark chocolate, half white chocolate mocha with a spicy bite at the end.
“Huh. I taste pretty good.”
“I concur.”
You blush as he tucks into his breakfast, then follow suit. He stays quiet, content, but you catch him studying you the way he used to, when you’d be upside down or stuck under a net and he was forming his opinion of you as a nemesis.
When you wipe the last of your meal from your mouth, Oz rests back in his chair, palms on his knees.
“Now, my dove, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He smiles when you freeze, “come come, I know you think I’m so lovestruck to see anything else, but we’ve known each other for some time. You’re sick, but that’s not all, is it?”
You finish your coffee as you debate how much of the truth to share. You trust Oz, it’s so easy to remember that when he’s sitting across from you, acting like he’d wait forever to hear you speak. You can’t let all the cracks show, but there are some you’re ready for him to see.
“No, it’s not. Thorne’s drug really did a number on me. I’m sore, I keep overheating, and none of these are healing like I want them to.” You nudge your robe aside to show Oz the marks on your legs; the bruises an ugly, mottled purple, and you watch his frown deepen as he counts them.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have been here instantly to take care of you.”
“I’m a big girl, Oz. I can patch myself up. Besides I thought…I thought it’d wear off the way it did last time and I’d be back to normal by the next day.”
“Is it improving?”
You nod and his shoulders sag with relief. Then he stands, “In that case, it’s good I planned for a leisurely Saturday. I don’t want you limping about the city in pain just for my sake.”
“It wouldn’t hurt that much. If there's something you want to do-”
“What I want” He’s abruptly in your space, one hand on the back of your chair and the other on the table, “is for you to allow me to look after you.” He straightens, sets his hand on your forehead, “Dear me, your skin is burning. Come, I have an idea.”
If he’s too tender to you, you’re going to go to pieces and it’ll be all over but the crying.
“Oz, really, you don’t need to-”
He pulls you to your feet, hand clamped around your wrist, “Are you going to fight me every step of the way, my dove?” His voice is a rumble as he nuzzles your cheek, “you know I’m not above subduing you.”
A pleasant shudder, the first in several days, passes through you.
“Okay, I’ll be good for you. Just this once.” You follow him into the bedroom and lay down, tossing the bathrobe to the floor.
Oz pauses, takes his sweet time running his gaze over you, “there’s not a better view in this city.”
You preen a little as he disappears into the bathroom. Maybe things will be alright; what he wants is to spoil you, savor you, and you know how to do that. It’s one of your favorite things in the world, made better by how delighted Oz is every time it happens.
Oz makes several trips between the bathroom and your kitchen, and every time he seems to be down an item of clothing; first his shoes, then his pants, and finally his dress shirt, leaving him in his black boxers (with pinstripes this time), undershirt, and sock garters.
“It seems to me, my dove, that you could use something to soothe your overheated skin. This should do the trick.” He sits on the bed. He has a washcloth in one hand and a yogurt container full of water in the other.
“Remind me to buy you some Tupperware or something.” He dips the washcloth into the container.
“I have some, it’s just buried” You sigh as he runs the cloth across your collarbone. There’s the barest chill to the water, and you close your eyes to focus on the sensation.
“A likely story.” He tuts low in his throat, “I ought to put out each and every one of their eyes for damaging my two favorite things in the world.” The cloth guides over your left breast, then the right.
“Watch it.” You smile.
“After their beautiful owner, of course.” A pop of a lid and then his fingers massage the bruises on your chest. He must have found the arnica in the bathroom cabinet.
He glides the cloth down your stomach, this time following the path of it with kisses. Does the same to your hips, humming happily as he kisses his way from one hip bone to the other.
“Are my ministrations helping?”
“Uh huh.” Your hips twitch as the cloth starts down your left thigh, “if nothing else I’m very distrAH” you laugh as he quickly kisses your clit before continuing to run the cloth and his lips down your left leg.
“We take what victories we can.” He murmurs, “it’s an honor, my dove, to see to you this way. I wish I could burn the image into my mind, but even then it’d be a poor imitation of what it’s like to be near you. It wouldn’t capture the softness of your skin, those pretty little sighs that set my heart aflutter-”
“Oz” you cover your face as you laugh.
“If I had my way you’d be waiting for me like this every night. I’d come into our bedroom to find you reclining like a goddess and take all the time I liked worshipping you as one until I was breathless and we were both satisfied.”
Desire thrums in your chest as you grope for his arm, managing to tug the sleeve us his undershirt, “I need you to come up here and fuck me right fucking now.”
He looks up with a grin as you spread your legs so he can rest between them. He’s only half-hard, so you slip a hand into his fly, stroking him in the slow, firm way that always sets him panting against your neck.
You barely have a chance to move your hand before he pushes into you. You moan at the familiar stretch, wrap your arms around his chest as he sets an eager, demanding pace.
“I’ve thought of nothing but this every night since I last saw you. Honestly, I don’t know why I let you out of bed at all.”
“I, I know what you mean.” You inhale, feel his chest and belly pressing you down , “but we have things to do that aren’t each other.”
“Let them go undone. Gotham could burn for all I care, or become a utopia; I want to be right here” he thrusts hard and you moan, “where I belong” he gropes for your left leg, shifting it so he can fuck you deeper.
It starts as a creeping sense that you’re trapped, that you can’t get air, that you need to panic and claw or you’ll die. You try to catch your breath between kisses, try to love the comforting shape of him holding you down. But your absolute fucking traitor of a brain has other ideas.
With no warning, you shake with frightened, dry half-sobs. Oz freezes, then hurriedly sits back and pulls out, one hand gingerly on your stomach.
“Am I hurting you?”
You shake your head, tears of frustration running down your cheeks; you were happy, it felt good, this isn’t fair.
“It’s okay, I’m okay, please come back-”
“No. Please, my dear, tell me what’s wrong. Maybe it’s something this clever bird can fix.”
He’s already seen what you were desperate to hide. Nothing to lose by telling him the rest, now.
“Not unless you can go back in time. Thorne had me buried alive a few nights ago. That’s why I’m so drained; I had to fight my way out while fighting the drug.”
“That no-good street scum-”
“That’s not why I’m crying. I mean it is, but it’s not. I…” you steal a watery glance at him, “you know how I became the Shrike?”
“As much as anyone beyond you does. That there was an accident at a now-closed location of the Ace Chemical Company.”
“It wasn’t an accident.” You tuck your knees to your chest and try to wipe your nose on your arm, “the summer before I moved to Gotham to start at the zoo, money was really tight. The Ace location in my town asked for some people to be testers for new products. Two hundred bucks a session, minimum three sessions a week, more if they thought you gave good input. For the first few weeks, it was fine. We gave feedback on creams, nail polish remover, bunch of other stuff, got vitals done every visit. One day they had me and a few others test a new “skincare product.” No idea what it actually was, but after we did it they locked us in the facility in individual cells. Monitored us. A bunch of other testers started dying or getting sick, but I mostly got dizzy and slept a lot. After a week of that, I guess someone tipped the state off about what was going on. So they buried all the test subjects to get rid of the evidence. Including me.”
Oz is next to you now, opens his arms so you can rest in them.
“I woke up in a shitty casket, buried on the outskirts of town. Turns out life-changing panic is a great way to activate your newly acquired superpowers.” You close your eyes, manage to get a real breath, “when Thorne caught me, it was like being back there. I thought that was the end of it. But just now I, when you were on top of me my brain decided it was the same thing here we are.” You sag, defeated, and wait for him to speak.
Your boyfriend pulls you close, cradling your cheek, “My poor little dove, you must have been so afraid-”
“Don't patronize me.”
“I’m not.” He sounds confused, “that’s a deep hurt to have surface. You need gentle handling. And before you insist you don’t, recall that I want to care for you. I’m not so birdbrained as think my brave butcherbird will never need tending.
“But what if I need too much?” The question spills out like bile, “it’s been days of being fragile and scared and hurt, what if it goes on longer? What if I’m not always the fearsome, determined woman you fell in love with but I’m this pathetic, useless one? You’ll get tired of me. You…you won’t love me anymore.”
“Oh, sweetheart, never, I swear.” Oz cups your face so you can’t look away, “I love you in sickness and in health. And in.. the occupational injuries of heroism.”
You crumple against him, too tired to cry anymore but so happy and relieved you could sob.
“I'm no fairweather fowl, my dear.” Oz doesn’t try to sit you up, simply kisses your hand, “I’m your devoted, doting lover.”
“I love you so much.” You whisper against his chest, then rub your cheek against the thin undershirt, “and I’m so pissed my brain is getting in the way of getting to be with you.”
“I have a brilliant idea.” He lays on his back, guiding you to rest on top of him, your head beneath his chin and your legs and his tangled together, “There we are. One padded penguin, at your service.”
You snicker and run your hands up the side of his belly, “Such a thoughtful mate, making sure I have a nice place to rest.”
He coos softly, smoothing his palms up your back. For a while you lay in the morning light coming through the curtains, unhurriedly pawing and stroking every inch of him you can reach. Oz gently digs his fingers into your back, rubbing around your shoulder blades as he kisses the top of your head.
“Do you want to try again? I’m quite content to stay like this for the day, or nestle up with a movie like the lovebirds we are.”
“I want to try again. I want to remember that I’m here, that I have you, I want to feel good again.”
“Then come here.” He guides you up to kiss you, keeps the movements of his lips tender and chaste as he grips your ass and begins to roll your hips against him.
You purr as you feel him hardening against you, dip your head down to kiss and nip along his jaw, “Can’t promise anything athletic, though.”
“Your only job is to get me inside you. Once that’s done, you are to relax and let me look after you. Ah!Oh, oh yes, oh I will never get tired of that.” He groans as slide his cock back into you.
You kiss his pecs before settling against him as he asked. Your hands rest on his shoulders and you focus on his heartbeat under your ear, on the press and drag of him slowly fucking you. One of his big hands stays on your ass while the other comes to the base of your neck, petting and rubbing as he murmurs that he loves you, wants you, needs you.
As he finds a rhythm, you’re reminded of one of the perks of his shape; when you’re positioned like this, his belly is big enough to rub against your clit. You start chasing the sensation, then remember his request and relax back into the motion of his hips.
“There we go, good girl. Such a perfect little bird, letting her mate care for her.”
You hold tighter, moan with each thrust as lustful gasps and grunts move between his chest and yours.
Your orgasm is small and satisfying. When it’s through, Oz grips your ass with both hands and works his hips like a man possessed, moaning your name as he cums deep and keeps you close as he pumps the aftershocks into you.
“Better?” He pets your hair from your face.
“Much. Don’t feel as overheated, either.” You snicker, “you gonna pull out any time soon?”
“No.” He says it so emphatically you laugh.
“Okay, okay, no complaints here.” You peck his lips, “I’ve got nowhere to be.”
“Indeed” he kisses you lovingly, lips nearly brushing yours as he says, “you’re right where you belong.”
This fill is a continuation of "All I want" but can be read as a standalone. Thanks to @bellafarallones for playing in the space on Discord and @plush4bunny for the art that partially inspired it.
This fill is NSFW. Note that there are some references to assault but nothing ever comes close to happening "on screen."
If you’d known heroism involved this much playing politics, you’d have gone the Catwoman route; be out for yourself and no one else, and look good doing it.
If you’d taken that path, you wouldn’t currently be freezing your ass off on Saturday afternoon while the mayor sings the praises of a hero. It isn’t even your praises, for fucks sake. It’s Golden Boy, some newbie in Gotham that you barely know. But Batman insisted as many of you turn up as possible to show villains you’re a united front against crime in the city.
You’d much rather be reducing crime another way.
“It seems you bested me yet again” Oz smiles up at you as you straddle him.
“Yes, you put up quite a fight.” You remove your mask and set it on the bed, “those new smoke bombs make me sneeze like crazy.”
“Apologies, my dove. One must keep up appearances.” His eyes track your fingers as you unzip your suit, “can you ever forgive me?”
You kiss the tip of his nose, “That depends on how quickly you get your pants off.”
Dating Oz while keeping up your and his respective personas has you sympathizing with pro-wrestling choreographers. You have to keep fighting and thwarting him without either of you ever really hurting the other, and without him ever really doing more than a misdemeanor in case someone else tries arresting him.
Golden Boy is now yapping at the cameras, something about bringing pride to the city. He’s calling out Rupert Thorne by name; you agree with his hatred of the mobster, but throwing down the gauntlet like that is as good as signing your own death certificate.
You wish you didn’t have to patrol tonight; you’ve gone two days without seeing Oz and you miss him. The amount you miss him would worry you were it not for the texts he sends that include a comedic amount of pining.
The two of you were debating if a Sunday in or out would be best. If the weather stays this freezing, you’re lobbying for a day by the fireplace in his penthouse, fucking luxuriously slow under the blanket.
Golden Boy is still talking, something about a turtledove. Eeesh, the kid should leave the bird puns to you. Speaking of which, you should look into getting some pajamas with penguins on them. It’ll make Oz laugh-
You’re cut off from your daydream by someone dipping and kissing you.
“Smile for the camera” Golden Boy whispers.
You keep your face how it is and push him away with your powers. But the damage is done; every fucking website and tabloid has a picture of that kiss.
When the conference closes you’re the first off the stage. The instant Golden Boy is behind it with you, you jab one claw of your glove into his chest.
“Do that again and I’ll drop your personal gravity to zero so you float into fucking space.”
“Hey, hey take it easy” He holds up his hands, “my agent and I agreed it’d be a great look for me to have a girlfriend. Especially someone as aloof as the Shrike. Genius, right?”
“My threat stands.” You take a step back, “I know you’re new in town, but if you’re the girl half of a super-couple, your odds of getting kidnapped skyrocket. I’m not interested in that, and I’m not interested in you.”
“It’ll be great for your image, too! Look, at least think it over once the photos come out.”
Fuck, the photos. Oz is going to see them before you get a chance to see him. You should text him, tell him what happened-
An explosion echos from the east side of town. You plead with any force that’s listening that it’s a minor accident.
Batgirl looks at her communicator, “Riddler, Killer Croc, and Two-Face. And two of the three brought back-up. We need to move before they overrun the water front.”
You summon your wings; if you’re lucky, this won’t take too long and you’ll have a chance to call Oz.
But given how today is going so far, you’re not holding your breath.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------
Several hours, coin tosses, and riddles later, it’s a relief to be on your usual patrol route. Even more so now that you’re in view of the Iceberg Lounge. It’s quiet enough you’ll have time to slip in and find Oz.
You scan the building from your perch, enhanced eyesight helping you pick out your favorite tuxedo-clad shape from the crowd.
The tuxedo-clad shape with a woman on either arm.
You’ve only ever seen Oz that way once, the first night you ever fought him. Once he started dating your civilian self, if he wasn’t with you then he flew solo.
You know your Oz; confident in his finery, still hesitant to undress around you. No matter how clear you make your appreciation of his body, how many kisses you place on his belly and chest, how greedy your hands are any time he’s within reach. His trust in your desire is a fragile thing.
You’re going to slice Golden Boys' tongue out.
Nothing for it but to swap out your suit for something slinky and remind your boyfriend that he’s the only guy for you.
A sting in your neck as your foot moves from the edge of the roof. But instead of gravity responding to your command, you waver above the city for a moment and then fall backwards into silence.
The carpet on which you come-to is plush. As you blink the room into view, you take in a pool table, fireplace (lit), large, leather couches, and an easy chair near the window. You don’t know the four men flanking the door, but you recognize the one watching you from the chair instantly.
“There’s nicer ways to ask someone over, Thorne.” You flex your hands where they’re tied behind your back. No gloves. Figures.
“I didn’t want to give you any chances to call your boyfriend for help.”
“Golden Boy isn’t my boyfriend. In fact, I’m currently planning to stab his eyes out.” Your legs are tied at your ankles. You can probably wiggle out of that pretty quick.
“Right, right.” Thorne stands, “So you certainly have no idea where his hideout might be.”
“Got it in one.” You try summoning your wings, only convulse with nausea.
“Lots of benefits to having a chemist on payroll.” The mobster looms by your head, “like making a sedative for those powers of yours. Think we might have dosed it too high given how long you were out after we shot you with it. Or maybe the Shrike is a lightweight, huh?”
“Did you” you force an inhale as wooziness socks you in the skull, “really drag me here just to find out where Golden Boy likes to hide? He’s not subtle, I’m sure you can find him”
“We’ve been trying for months and no dice. So you’re going to tell us.”
“There’s no convincing you he’s full of shit, is there.” You sigh, resigned, “so, what, you’re going to beat the answer out of me?”
“I could. And I considered it, given how often you meddle in my business. But it occurred to me that there’s someone who knows you much better and is even more motivated than I am to make you pay for the trouble you cause.”
A doorbell in the distance and Thorne chuckles, “Right on time. Don’t go anywhere.”
You keep half your attention on the noises outside the door as the rest takes stock of your options. If your powers aren’t working, your reflexes are slowed, and your brain is going sluggish, your best chance is to talk someone into untying at least one set of limbs and then fight dirty.
A voice from the front of the house interrupts your planning.
“I was told you had a rare bird to sell me?” The Penguins voice is unmistakable, talking with detached curiosity as Thorne leads him back to the room. By the time the door opens, you’ve schooled your face into a mixture of frustration and anger.
He’s dressed to the nines; a broad, dapper, imposing shape in the doorway . When he sees you, Oz lifts his eyebrows, mouth in a relaxed line, “My, that’s quite the catch.”
“Go to hell, Penguin.” You snarl up at him.
“Here’s my offer, Cobblepot.” Thorne gestures to you like he’s selling a used car, “I want to know where Golden Boy is hiding. I figured you’d like first crack at getting the information out of her. As a bonus, once she talks, she’s all yours. Even left the mask on so you could do the honors whenever you felt like it.”
“A tempting proposition.” He glances at Thorne, “what else are you hoping to get from it?”
“That’s why I like you.You understand the realities of doing business. $10,000 and a promise of the information before you leave.”
“Five thousand.”
“Eight.”
“Please, Mr. Thorne, she may be my nemesis but she’s no Batman. Six thousand and that’s my final offer.”
“Do we really need to add insult to injury here?” You wriggle toward the fireplace poker only for Oz to set his umbrella across your chest.
“No need to twitter about for attention, my murderous songbird. I’ll deal with you soon enough.”
“Six it is.”
“Capital. Do you have a pen?”
You watch, still trying to squirm loose, as Oz fills out a check at Thorne’s desk. With every second that ticks on the heavy clock on the mantel, your stomach forms new knots of anxiety. What if you misjudged Oz entirely? What if his little display earlier wasn’t from hurt, but from anger? What if he’s really the kind to throw away all your affection for each other the moment you displease him?
Thorne takes the check with a grin, “I’ll leave you two alone. Take all the time you need.”
“I intend to.” Oz leans leisurely back in the chair. Once Thorne is gone, he stands to lock and bolt the office door.
“Oz?” Your voice has an unfamiliar tremble in it.
He puts a finger to his lips and you go quiet. After a few moments he leaves the door and scribbles on a paper at the desk.
As he holds the note where you can see it he says, at his usual volume, “Well, my caged bird, are you going to make this easy on yourself and sing?”
You glance at the note
They’re in the living room across the hall. Anything above a whisper they can likely hear.
“I told you, I don’t know where Golden Boy hides out. So we can skip the villain monologue and just get to the kidnapping.”
“I’m not so sure I believe you.” Oz tosses the paper into the fireplace, “the buzz around Gotham is that you know him rather well.”
His sneer doesn’t reach his eyes; those are busy searching your face for the truth.
“You know there’s only one person I trust with my heart.” You whisper, “I wanted to let you know what happened before you saw it. You can take the fact I didn’t up with Nygma and his friends.”
“You couldn’t spare even a second to send a message?” The tip of his umbrella skates up your side.
“You couldn’t wait for one before calling up some arm candy?” You hiss back, “you knew my patrol would take me past the damn lounge. You wanted me to feel insecure!”
He taps his lips again and you glare as best as your loopy brain will allow.
“I wanted you to feel how I felt!.” He growls, “I never intended to touch my dates for this evening. That pompous peacock spent half his speech talking about how much you gave him strength and inspiration, then kissed you.”
You groan, “I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about our next date, about you. Kiss took me by total surprise.”
The wariness evaporates from those brown eyes, “Oh.” He clears his throat, “It seems I was too quick in my conclusions.”
“You think?” You try again to worm out of the ankle bonds. Oz activates the blade at the end of the umbrella and cuts them for you.
“Apologies, my dove. Come along” He reaches for your arm to help you up, “we have a show to put on.”
Petulance rears in your chest and you recoil from his touch, “Uh uh. You don’t get to go out of your way to hurt my feelings-”
Oz raises his eyebrows at the childish phrasing.
“-don’t give me that look. The point is, is this what I have to look forward to any time the Gotham Daily publishes some bullshit about me dating someone? It’s like their third favorite story.” You flip onto your other side with a graceless thud, “ow, do you have any idea how much I trust you to let you see both sides of me? Don’t” tears flood down your cheeks, “don’t you feel the same way?”
“Oh, oh my darling one, of course I do.” Oz kneels, “from here on I promise I’ll make more cautious conclusions. I…this is all terribly new to me, you know. The last time I cared this deeply for anyone was a high school crush. And that was hardly requited, though she took great joy in making me think it was so I’d make a fool of myself. I’m afraid I rather panicked at the thought I’d been fooled again. I’m sorry.” He brushes his fingers along your cheek, “will you allow this doting old bird a second chance?”
“Of course.” You sniffle loudly, “ugh, whatever they drugged me with is making me weepy on top of dizzy.”
“It did seem like an unusual amount of tears for my ferocious femme fatale.” He helps you to your feet, “I take it you cannot fly off?”
“Nope. The safest option is for you to take your defeated foe to your penthouse. But I need a little time to work out a fake answer to give them; I don’t want to accidentally send Thorne to someone's actual hideout.”
“In that case, follow my lead.” His voice rises above a murmur for the first time since he started speaking to you in earnest, “well, my dear, since our little talk hasn’t swayed you, other methods are in order.”
“Do your worst, my answer won’t change.” You let him drag you to the pool table and push your chest down onto it, hands still tied behind you.
“You’re as stubborn as you are lovely. Neither will save you.” He kicks your feet apart with one of his own, making the scuff of it on the carpet as loud as possible. A moment later there’s a clank and a thwip as he removes his belt. He only wears one some of the time, otherwise preferring suspenders, and you know it’s a gorgeous black piece from Armani.
“Very creative” you keep your tone sarcastic even as you glance back at him excitedly, “gonna wash my mouth out with soap, too?”
“No, I have other plans for it.” He drapes himself over you, breath ghosting your ear, “ready, my dove?”
When you nod, he bites your earlobe and you yelp as he straightens with loud, pleased squawk of laughter
“That’s a pretty sound.” He whacks your thigh with the belt, the snap more intense than the contact, “do it again.”
“Fuck you. OW!” He smacks the same spot hard enough that you jolt the table.
“Manners” another snap of leather but no contact, “they’re what separate us from the beasts.”
You have a quip about birds ready to go when his palm connects with your ass. He’s never done that before; Oz gropes, grabs, nips, and nuzzles but he’s not the kind to hit during sex. The orderly pattern of strokes suggests he’s thought about spanking you more than he’s let on.
You sigh and wiggle your fingers, trying to get him to hold your hands. He complies, setting the belt by your head and taking both your hands with his right one. The left hand continues its assault on your ass and thighs. The pool table rattles with every impact; you’d resent whatever images Thorne and his goons are conjuring were it not for the way Oz’s breathing is getting heavier as he clings to you.
“Consider this payback for all the times you were a relentless pain in mine.” He squeezes over where he just struck, the warmth of his palm through your suit making you ache to get him naked somewhere.
“Owwww” you aim the whine for pained instead of horny. It doesn’t quite land there.
Oz tuts dramatically, “It seems more drastic measures are needed.”
“What are you-” his nose brushes behind your ear and his fingers dig into the crease of your thighs, “oh no, don’t you dareAH” the shriek that leaps from your throat is the most girlish sound you’d made in years.
It’s warranted; Oz is mercilessly kissing and nosing behind your ears, where he knows you’re ticklish. The same is true of your inner thighs. A week ago Oz tied your legs to the bed so you wouldn’t accidentally kick him as he kissed his way up them.
“Mercy?”
“No. Ohno” you squeak as he moves his hands to your tits, squeezing them roughly as he nibbles your earlobe. You nearly moan his name, but before your brain-mouth connection can blow this plan, Oz roughly flips you over and kisses you.
He presses closer and you make a truly pathetic, muffled sound when you realize he’s half-hard.
“Does that inspire an answer?” One hand grips just below your jaw as he kisses your cheek.
“Meat packing plant by the wharf. Secret basement.”
Oz kisses you sweetly, puts his belt back on, and scoops you into a bridal carry. Thorne is waiting in the living room like Oz predicted, and as you move past him you glimpse yourself in the window; your hair is a mess, you’ve got obvious tear tracks sneaking below your mask, and visible red marks from Oz holding your jaw. Their smiles tell you they think you’ve been thoroughly broken.
“...that’s where you’ll find him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lovely little bird to get settled into my nest.” He tries to kiss your cheek and it takes all your remaining willpower to turn away from the gesture.
Oz drove himself here, which is good because there’s no henchmen to blow your cover as he coos at you in the safety of the front seat. It’s also agony because you want to cuddle up to him without risking a five car pile up.
When you’re finally in the elegant warmth of the penthouse, Oz pauses in the entryway, taking his face gently in your hands.
“How are you feeling, my dove? If the drug is still in your system I’ll send downstairs for something to settle your stomach. And perhaps some ice, I struck you rather hard at the end.”
“It’s worn off.” You lean in to kiss him and he coos softly when you do, “the effects of your ‘interrogation’ however…”
“Dear me, however shall we-Oh, oh well we are in a hurry aren’t we?” He laughs as you drag him into the bedroom. You adore the way the sound ripples out across the fat and muscle of him.
“It should not be” you shove him onto his back on the bed, “so hot to be helpless under you. What is this bullshit, huh?” You unzip your suit and take it off as Oz rests his hands behind his head.
“Because I studied you, my dove. I know exactly how to handle you.” Brown eyes sparkle and he squeezes your ass as you straddle his hips.
You crawl up enough to kiss him, brushing your noses together as you murmur, “I do appreciate the rescue.”
“You’d have found a way free without me, I have no doubt.”
“Still, I think heroism deserves a reward….”
“Agreed.”
“After you clean up the goddamn mess you made.” You move quickly, setting your knees on either side of his head.
“A reward in and of itself. Oh you did enjoy that, how lovely” He kisses away the slick on your inner thighs, “come here.”
One large arm wraps around your hips as he pulls you closer. His tongue starts teasingly along your clit. There’s a playful “mmm” before the teasing turns to something far greedier, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he eats you out. You let him set the pace, rest your arms on the wall and your head against them. When his lips close around your clit and suck, you moan and roll your hips.
Oz’s fingers massage your skin as he urges you to roll them again. That’s all the encouragement you need, and soon you’re riding his face as much as you’re sitting on it. The wet, pleased sounds from between your thighs tells you he’s enjoying this as much as you are.
His hands leave you, and you don’t need to look back to know where they’ve gone. There’s the tell-tale ziiip followed by the hurried rustle of fabric. Oz moans with relief against you; this time you do glance over your shoulder to take in the sight of his cock growing harder in his hand.
“Oz, sweetheart, fuck.” You dig a hand into his hair to hold him in place as his tongue coaxes you over the edge.
Your thighs shudder as you cum and the exhaustion of the day catches up with all at once. You flop inelegantly off of Oz and onto your beside him. He wastes no time shedding his pants, and as you shove his jacket away to start on his shirt, you smile.
He’s wearing sock garters.
Oz catches you looking and raises a brow, “Not to your taste?”
“The opposite. Just thinking how lucky I am to have caught such a debonair bird all for myself.”
He blushes. The instant you’re done with his shirt, you kiss the path of pink down his throat and chest. He catches you in a kiss on your way back up and finally, finally brings you fully beneath him, where you’ve wanted to be since this morning.
“May I make love to you?”
“Of course. Have to make sure you get your money's worth.” You loop your arms over his neck as he presses into you
“That’s impossible, my dove; you’re priceless”
—-------------------------
A month after Oz steals you away from him, Thorne makes his next move.
You’re mid-fight with two guys holding up a grocery store, two you swear you’ve seen before. Just as your mind places them in Thorne’s entourage, you realize what’s happened.
It’s a set-up. They’re a distraction.
It comes two seconds too late; a heavy blow comes down from behind you and the world disappears. That part you’re used to; you’ll come-to in his mansion, or an abandoned nightclub, or some other ominous location and fight it out from there.
You wake up in pure darkness; your enhanced eyesight isn’t picking up anything, meaning there’s no light to be found. Which means-
No. No.
Panicked, you push your hands up. Waiting mere inches away is a wooden lid.
A coffin. You’re in a coffin.
Memories rush to the surface. You fight them all the way but there’s no chance of stopping them, not when your arms are practically pinned at your sides, not when the air already feels thin, not when every passing second is agonizingly familiar.
You reason fights to the front of your mind; last time this happened, your powers saved you. All you have to do is use them.
The tiniest push against the coffin lid confirms the worst; Thorne drugged you again. Your stomach cramps, your vision blurs, and pain shoots up your abdomen from that small flex of your abilities.
You’re trapped. You’re going to die down here. The escape all those years ago was a temporary stay of execution, not a commuted sentence from fate.
You close your eyes; if you’re going to die, you don’t want it to be with horrible memories in your mind. Instead, you picture Oz last night, smiling at you across the table. The way his hand closes around yours when you rest it on the white tablecloth, the way he kisses you as you wait for your ride, like it’d take a team of wild horses to drag him from you (and that even then he wouldn’t go quietly).
You hope Thorne brags to him about killing you. Both so Oz knows you didn’t abandon him, and so that someone will finally kill Rupert Thorne.
God, it’s not fair, you didn’t even get to say goodbye. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair-
Then fight it. A sharp, shimmering part of you whispers, fight it until you’re well and truly dead or it’s impaled at your feet.
You take three breaths as deep as the limited air allows. You focus on the coffin lid and the earth above it, picture your power as a wave, draining the gravity of each particle as it rolls over them.
Pain splits your chest and your ears ring. You scream in pain and rage and then the sky appears, six feet above you but there, with it’s burning, beautiful beacon of a moon.
You scramble out of the crater you made, gasping and gagging as clots of dirt drop around you. When you’re on flat ground you haul yourself to your knees. Your suit is soaked in sweat, you’ve thrown up, and you have no fucking idea where you are. But you’re alive.
Your new best friend, the moon, is much closer to the horizon when you finally make it to your feet. The corpses of manufactured, manicured houses surround you, and if you face the east there’s a horrific smell.
The ruins of Gotham Acres, the housing development the city tried to build over what turned out to be a bog contaminated with toxic waste from the nearby chemical plant. There’s only one person nearby, and lucky for you, she owes you a favor.
You limp toward the heart of the development, perking up when an engine revving reaches you on the breeze. A red corvette races into view, top down, and you wave until it slows.
“Well, well, Harl, looks like a little birdy crashed into our neighborhood.” Poison Ivy grins at you.
“Gee, Shrike, you look different. New hair?” Harley Quinn cocks her head, bells on the end of her cap jingling.
“Very funny. I’m calling in my favor; get me into town.”
Ivy nods and gestures to the back seat. You heave yourself in and lay on your back as she speeds off toward Gotham proper.
“Wait, which favor, mine or yours?” Harley glances between you and Ivy. Right, she owes you one too, for saving her pet hyena from the Joker (you were trying to keep it from tackling a nearby child and in the process kept it from being hit by whatever weird fucking gun he had that day).
“Mine.” Ivy replies.
“Gotcha. Gotta make sure my notes are accurate!” She disappears a tiny notebook back into her sleeve.
“Ever the professional” Ivy purrs, “where are we dropping you?”
You give them an address a few blocks from your apartment; the fact Thorne keeps having to ambush you out on patrol means he doesn’t know where you live or who you are in your civilian life.
When the car stops, Harley opens the side door a bit too fast and you tumble out.
“Oops, sorry.” She helps you up, “nice seein’ you again. And don’t go near the Tiffany's downtown!”
“Done.” You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.
When you finally drag yourself into your apartment, you start the water for a shower and pull out your phone. You have three texts and one voicemail, all from Oz.
Oz, 6:15pm: I saw they’re expecting a rare southern appearance of snowy owls this spring. Perhaps we should coordinate for a little weekend flight away?
Oz, 10:07 pm: Did patrol go well?
Oz, 4:22 a.m: Please disregard the call. I’m simply worried, my dove.
You click over to the message
“Hello, my dove. This is Oswald Cobble–ah. Oz. Apologies, I so seldom call anyone who isn’t a business contact. Just calling to see if you’re well. It’s well after when your patrol ends on Thursdays and I, well, I’m worried. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you came to harm, I’d probably crawl into the shell of the Cobblepot estate to await my end, I love you so terribly my darling. Do call me when you get this.”
You don’t want to speak or move for at least a day. You want to sob face down on the rug and you pass out. Until this moment, no other want could compete.
You dial Oz by video and set the phone into the waterproof holder in the shower.
A few rings and then the screen fumbles to life. Oz isn’t in bed; from the background, you’d say he fell asleep on the living room sofa. His robe is askew, showing his chest, and there’s couch crease on his cheek.
“Hello my darling–oh” he smiles as he takes in your location, “is this a hint you wish me to fly to your side for a sunrise rendezvous?”
You run the shower head over your chest, hoping the sight of it flowing down your tits will distract Oz from the lingering panic in your voice. “I wish. I had a hell of a run in with Thorne but I can’t…I can’t sleep without talking to you first.”
Icy politeness snakes into that baritone, “More trouble caused by the Golden Brats tall tales?”
You rinse the dirt from your hair, buying yourself a moment to decide how truthful to be. There’s something you’ve been aching to tell him, something you know won’t make him lose respect for you.
“No. I don’t think so. I think Thorne learned I’m the reason his supply of “escorts” dried up. I’m a little shocked it took anyone this long to trace what happened to the Mad Hatter back to me.”
“It was you. I’d heard rumors after Mr. Tetch disappeared but we all dismissed the idea a hero was responsible. Everyone knows what Batman demands of his allies.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him. I found out he was the one planting mind control, saw him do it to two girls as they were leaving a class at Gotham Tech. Wasn’t rocket science to trace him to Thorne and his trafficking operation. I caught him alone a few nights later, flew him out over the bay for a little talk. I wanted him to either agree to turn against Thorne or scare him so bad he’d leave town. He tried to get a device onto my mask and I dropped him in the struggle. Turns out Tetch can’t swim.” You sigh, turning up the water temperature, “I wish I felt worse about it than I do. I wish I’d been more careful so Thorne couldn’t trace it to me. I wish…”
I wish I could tell you everything
“I wish a lot of things.” You turn the shower head to splash your face.
“If you’re looking for judgment, you know very well I’m not about to wag my finger over a murder. I’m rather impressed.”
“Oz.” You shoot a wet glare at the camera.
“Your guilt, or lack of it, is yours to grapple. All I hear is the story of my ferocious songbird not letting anything stop her from pursuing justice.” He smiles, that dazzling, villainous look you’ve always been too fond of, “I’ll adore you no matter what you do.”
You won’t if I keep the camera on a few more minutes.
“You’re a terrible influence.” You blow him a kiss. He pretends to catch it and you crack the only genuine smile of the night.
“And you’re a terribly good one.”
You stay on the call a minute or so longer, promising him that you’ll see him at your date tomorrow. The anxiety is gone from his face, replaced by affection, by the time he tells you “goodnight, my love.”
Once the screen is dark, you turn the water pressure as high as it will go. Then you sit on the floor beneath it and sob until the hot water runs out.
You call out from work the next day. And the day after that. You skip your date with Oz, claiming a flu. It’s not a lie; your escape left you exhausted, with a lingering tendency to overheat . Probably a side effect of the drug they dosed you with. You also discovered a wealth of bruises and cuts, likely inflicted when you were asleep. You hadn’t noticed the slashes in the suit at the time due to the mortal terror.
On the third day, you go to work and limp through your day. At lunch, a black box appears on your desk, containing a scarf embroidered with Secretary Birds. It’s gorgeous, but you leave it in its box and tuck the whole package into your bag, then text Oz that as much as you want to, you’re not up for an evening out.
Oz: Understood. Rest up, my dainty dove.
When you go home that night, you’re just glad it’s Friday. Easier to act like a sick cat if you only have to avoid Oz instead of your co-workers.
You know you’re being ridiculous. You know. But you’ve never liked looking weak, even before you were the Shrike. Heroism only made the instinct worse; come across as too vulnerable and you draw in every villain you’ve ever pissed off.
You also know that Oz loves you. Loves the vibrant, nerdy you who he met in the condor exhibit, and the fearsome, confident you who thwarted him weekly. You know he loves you at your most ruthless as much as he loves you at your most gentle. He’s the only person to ever do so.
He loves every version of you he’s met. But he is not going to meet this pathetic, fragile one that’s piloted you the last few days.
That plan disappears Saturday morning when you wake up to the smell of cinnamon and pecans.
A sticky bun, still warm from your favorite bakery, sits on your bed side table next to a large coffee cup (the sharpie says it’s “the shrike;” you wonder what that means). The only reason you don’t panic at the sounds from the next room is that you can tell it’s Oz warbling along with the radio.
You slip out of bed, creeping into the kitchen in penguin pajama pants and a sweatshirt from the Gotham Aquarium. Oz is at the sink, sleeves rolled up and suspenders laying comfortably down his chest, doing the dishes.
“Wow, you must really like me to be willing to do chores.”
He dries his hands on a towel and shuts off the water, “Recall I spent some years in boarding school. It was expected that we earn our keep.” He guides you into a kiss, keeps you in a casual embrace, “are you feeling better?”
“A little.” You rest your cheek on his chest, tearing up at the familiar, comforting scent of starch and cologne, “if I knew you were coming I wouldn’t showered or something.”
“You needn't skip it on my account. Go freshen up while I finish setting out our breakfast.”
“Careful with those orders, silly bird. I’m not a henchman.” You kiss the tip of his nose.
“You’d be far too distracting as one.”
You shower quickly, come back to the kitchen in a thin bathrobe to find Oz setting a vase of roses on your little kitchen table next to the baked goods, coffee, and freshly made avocado toast.
Oz pulls out your chair, smiling when you giggle at the dramatic flourish.
You sip the coffee; it seems to be a half dark chocolate, half white chocolate mocha with a spicy bite at the end.
“Huh. I taste pretty good.”
“I concur.”
You blush as he tucks into his breakfast, then follow suit. He stays quiet, content, but you catch him studying you the way he used to, when you’d be upside down or stuck under a net and he was forming his opinion of you as a nemesis.
When you wipe the last of your meal from your mouth, Oz rests back in his chair, palms on his knees.
“Now, my dove, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He smiles when you freeze, “come come, I know you think I’m so lovestruck to see anything else, but we’ve known each other for some time. You’re sick, but that’s not all, is it?”
You finish your coffee as you debate how much of the truth to share. You trust Oz, it’s so easy to remember that when he’s sitting across from you, acting like he’d wait forever to hear you speak. You can’t let all the cracks show, but there are some you’re ready for him to see.
“No, it’s not. Thorne’s drug really did a number on me. I’m sore, I keep overheating, and none of these are healing like I want them to.” You nudge your robe aside to show Oz the marks on your legs; the bruises an ugly, mottled purple, and you watch his frown deepen as he counts them.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have been here instantly to take care of you.”
“I’m a big girl, Oz. I can patch myself up. Besides I thought…I thought it’d wear off the way it did last time and I’d be back to normal by the next day.”
“Is it improving?”
You nod and his shoulders sag with relief. Then he stands, “In that case, it’s good I planned for a leisurely Saturday. I don’t want you limping about the city in pain just for my sake.”
“It wouldn’t hurt that much. If there's something you want to do-”
“What I want” He’s abruptly in your space, one hand on the back of your chair and the other on the table, “is for you to allow me to look after you.” He straightens, sets his hand on your forehead, “Dear me, your skin is burning. Come, I have an idea.”
If he’s too tender to you, you’re going to go to pieces and it’ll be all over but the crying.
“Oz, really, you don’t need to-”
He pulls you to your feet, hand clamped around your wrist, “Are you going to fight me every step of the way, my dove?” His voice is a rumble as he nuzzles your cheek, “you know I’m not above subduing you.”
A pleasant shudder, the first in several days, passes through you.
“Okay, I’ll be good for you. Just this once.” You follow him into the bedroom and lay down, tossing the bathrobe to the floor.
Oz pauses, takes his sweet time running his gaze over you, “there’s not a better view in this city.”
You preen a little as he disappears into the bathroom. Maybe things will be alright; what he wants is to spoil you, savor you, and you know how to do that. It’s one of your favorite things in the world, made better by how delighted Oz is every time it happens.
Oz makes several trips between the bathroom and your kitchen, and every time he seems to be down an item of clothing; first his shoes, then his pants, and finally his dress shirt, leaving him in his black boxers (with pinstripes this time), undershirt, and sock garters.
“It seems to me, my dove, that you could use something to soothe your overheated skin. This should do the trick.” He sits on the bed. He has a washcloth in one hand and a yogurt container full of water in the other.
“Remind me to buy you some Tupperware or something.” He dips the washcloth into the container.
“I have some, it’s just buried” You sigh as he runs the cloth across your collarbone. There’s the barest chill to the water, and you close your eyes to focus on the sensation.
“A likely story.” He tuts low in his throat, “I ought to put out each and every one of their eyes for damaging my two favorite things in the world.” The cloth guides over your left breast, then the right.
“Watch it.” You smile.
“After their beautiful owner, of course.” A pop of a lid and then his fingers massage the bruises on your chest. He must have found the arnica in the bathroom cabinet.
He glides the cloth down your stomach, this time following the path of it with kisses. Does the same to your hips, humming happily as he kisses his way from one hip bone to the other.
“Are my ministrations helping?”
“Uh huh.” Your hips twitch as the cloth starts down your left thigh, “if nothing else I’m very distrAH” you laugh as he quickly kisses your clit before continuing to run the cloth and his lips down your left leg.
“We take what victories we can.” He murmurs, “it’s an honor, my dove, to see to you this way. I wish I could burn the image into my mind, but even then it’d be a poor imitation of what it’s like to be near you. It wouldn’t capture the softness of your skin, those pretty little sighs that set my heart aflutter-”
“Oz” you cover your face as you laugh.
“If I had my way you’d be waiting for me like this every night. I’d come into our bedroom to find you reclining like a goddess and take all the time I liked worshipping you as one until I was breathless and we were both satisfied.”
Desire thrums in your chest as you grope for his arm, managing to tug the sleeve us his undershirt, “I need you to come up here and fuck me right fucking now.”
He looks up with a grin as you spread your legs so he can rest between them. He’s only half-hard, so you slip a hand into his fly, stroking him in the slow, firm way that always sets him panting against your neck.
You barely have a chance to move your hand before he pushes into you. You moan at the familiar stretch, wrap your arms around his chest as he sets an eager, demanding pace.
“I’ve thought of nothing but this every night since I last saw you. Honestly, I don’t know why I let you out of bed at all.”
“I, I know what you mean.” You inhale, feel his chest and belly pressing you down , “but we have things to do that aren’t each other.”
“Let them go undone. Gotham could burn for all I care, or become a utopia; I want to be right here” he thrusts hard and you moan, “where I belong” he gropes for your left leg, shifting it so he can fuck you deeper.
It starts as a creeping sense that you’re trapped, that you can’t get air, that you need to panic and claw or you’ll die. You try to catch your breath between kisses, try to love the comforting shape of him holding you down. But your absolute fucking traitor of a brain has other ideas.
With no warning, you shake with frightened, dry half-sobs. Oz freezes, then hurriedly sits back and pulls out, one hand gingerly on your stomach.
“Am I hurting you?”
You shake your head, tears of frustration running down your cheeks; you were happy, it felt good, this isn’t fair.
“It’s okay, I’m okay, please come back-”
“No. Please, my dear, tell me what’s wrong. Maybe it’s something this clever bird can fix.”
He’s already seen what you were desperate to hide. Nothing to lose by telling him the rest, now.
“Not unless you can go back in time. Thorne had me buried alive a few nights ago. That’s why I’m so drained; I had to fight my way out while fighting the drug.”
“That no-good street scum-”
“That’s not why I’m crying. I mean it is, but it’s not. I…” you steal a watery glance at him, “you know how I became the Shrike?”
“As much as anyone beyond you does. That there was an accident at a now-closed location of the Ace Chemical Company.”
“It wasn’t an accident.” You tuck your knees to your chest and try to wipe your nose on your arm, “the summer before I moved to Gotham to start at the zoo, money was really tight. The Ace location in my town asked for some people to be testers for new products. Two hundred bucks a session, minimum three sessions a week, more if they thought you gave good input. For the first few weeks, it was fine. We gave feedback on creams, nail polish remover, bunch of other stuff, got vitals done every visit. One day they had me and a few others test a new “skincare product.” No idea what it actually was, but after we did it they locked us in the facility in individual cells. Monitored us. A bunch of other testers started dying or getting sick, but I mostly got dizzy and slept a lot. After a week of that, I guess someone tipped the state off about what was going on. So they buried all the test subjects to get rid of the evidence. Including me.”
Oz is next to you now, opens his arms so you can rest in them.
“I woke up in a shitty casket, buried on the outskirts of town. Turns out life-changing panic is a great way to activate your newly acquired superpowers.” You close your eyes, manage to get a real breath, “when Thorne caught me, it was like being back there. I thought that was the end of it. But just now I, when you were on top of me my brain decided it was the same thing here we are.” You sag, defeated, and wait for him to speak.
Your boyfriend pulls you close, cradling your cheek, “My poor little dove, you must have been so afraid-”
“Don't patronize me.”
“I’m not.” He sounds confused, “that’s a deep hurt to have surface. You need gentle handling. And before you insist you don’t, recall that I want to care for you. I’m not so birdbrained as think my brave butcherbird will never need tending.
“But what if I need too much?” The question spills out like bile, “it’s been days of being fragile and scared and hurt, what if it goes on longer? What if I’m not always the fearsome, determined woman you fell in love with but I’m this pathetic, useless one? You’ll get tired of me. You…you won’t love me anymore.”
“Oh, sweetheart, never, I swear.” Oz cups your face so you can’t look away, “I love you in sickness and in health. And in.. the occupational injuries of heroism.”
You crumple against him, too tired to cry anymore but so happy and relieved you could sob.
“I'm no fairweather fowl, my dear.” Oz doesn’t try to sit you up, simply kisses your hand, “I’m your devoted, doting lover.”
“I love you so much.” You whisper against his chest, then rub your cheek against the thin undershirt, “and I’m so pissed my brain is getting in the way of getting to be with you.”
“I have a brilliant idea.” He lays on his back, guiding you to rest on top of him, your head beneath his chin and your legs and his tangled together, “There we are. One padded penguin, at your service.”
You snicker and run your hands up the side of his belly, “Such a thoughtful mate, making sure I have a nice place to rest.”
He coos softly, smoothing his palms up your back. For a while you lay in the morning light coming through the curtains, unhurriedly pawing and stroking every inch of him you can reach. Oz gently digs his fingers into your back, rubbing around your shoulder blades as he kisses the top of your head.
“Do you want to try again? I’m quite content to stay like this for the day, or nestle up with a movie like the lovebirds we are.”
“I want to try again. I want to remember that I’m here, that I have you, I want to feel good again.”
“Then come here.” He guides you up to kiss you, keeps the movements of his lips tender and chaste as he grips your ass and begins to roll your hips against him.
You purr as you feel him hardening against you, dip your head down to kiss and nip along his jaw, “Can’t promise anything athletic, though.”
“Your only job is to get me inside you. Once that’s done, you are to relax and let me look after you. Ah!Oh, oh yes, oh I will never get tired of that.” He groans as slide his cock back into you.
You kiss his pecs before settling against him as he asked. Your hands rest on his shoulders and you focus on his heartbeat under your ear, on the press and drag of him slowly fucking you. One of his big hands stays on your ass while the other comes to the base of your neck, petting and rubbing as he murmurs that he loves you, wants you, needs you.
As he finds a rhythm, you’re reminded of one of the perks of his shape; when you’re positioned like this, his belly is big enough to rub against your clit. You start chasing the sensation, then remember his request and relax back into the motion of his hips.
“There we go, good girl. Such a perfect little bird, letting her mate care for her.”
You hold tighter, moan with each thrust as lustful gasps and grunts move between his chest and yours.
Your orgasm is small and satisfying. When it’s through, Oz grips your ass with both hands and works his hips like a man possessed, moaning your name as he cums deep and keeps you close as he pumps the aftershocks into you.
“Better?” He pets your hair from your face.
“Much. Don’t feel as overheated, either.” You snicker, “you gonna pull out any time soon?”
“No.” He says it so emphatically you laugh.
“Okay, okay, no complaints here.” You peck his lips, “I’ve got nowhere to be.”
“Indeed” he kisses you lovingly, lips nearly brushing yours as he says, “you’re right where you belong.”
11: If you could only write angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your life, which would it be?
Smut. Half my fluff turns into smut anyway.
12: Is there a trope you haven’t written yet but really want to?
I'm not coming up with one. I feel like I've written enough at this point that the tropes I enjoy have all been hit, often more than once. I'd be curious to hear if there's one you haven't done that you want to!
14: If you were stuck on a desert island with only two characters, which would you pick?
For survival purposes? Duck and Indrid. Nature knowledge, future sight, and wings seem like a big help.
For horny purposes? Otto and Maxim. I still like my odds of getting the off (the island) that way, too.
15: A Hollywood producer tells you that they want to film just one of your fics. Which fic would you want it to be?
Three come to mind as the top contender. I know in my heart I'm not a blockbuster writer. But I think I could make a solid rom-com/hallmark script writer if they'd stop being cowards and let me put werewolves in it.
King of the Lost Coast: This is basically a pretty standard set of Rom-Com beats but with some fun world-building on my part. And monsterfucking.
Dr. Colds Chiller Theater: Again, I feel like the setting of the story is fleshed our and the plotting is very tight. This fic was also a runaway hit when I wrote it, which tells me that something in it really appeals to people.
My Man's an Undertaker: As I was writing this I was realizing that it is exactly the kind of set-up you'd get in a mid-00s indie dramedy. Instead of the manic pixie dream girl you get the morbid goblin nightmare woman and the gruff teddy bear who loves her.
I absolutely agree that you would be an amazing rom com writer! all the fics you named for making into movies are amazing.. Dr. Cold's Chiller Theater would make an amazing movie, I can imagine how a movie would show Indrid's initial low-budget show.
As for tropes, the first one that comes to mind for me that I'd want to write but haven't yet is arranged marriage... I adore that trope but I can't remember ever actually posting a fic with it.
This would have been the fifth year of me posting OT4 on Christmas for @thiswasinevitableid, but this year we talked way more about Molina characters than Amnesty. I've had so much fun diving into a new fandom with you.
Alone in his dorm room, Joseph’s head pounded with exhaustion. He needed to finish his homework. He needed to sleep. His brain would cooperate to do neither. The paintings in his art history textbook ran together like the dregs of soggy cereal in a bowl.
Stiff-legged, he rose from his desk chair, took the Ouija board off the shelf, and sat down in the middle of the floor with it.
He rested his fingertips lightly on the planchette and felt it skate easily across the polished surface. It was just a piece of plastic, produced by Hasbro. Joseph knew that. He felt no spirits. “Mark Rothko,” he said out loud. “What does your art mean?”
The planchette drifted to NO.
Joseph laughed. The lights flickered. He stopped laughing.
“Rothko?” he said, slightly more hesitantly.
“I refuse to explain my work to small minds,” said a harsh voice, and Joseph looked up.
A man stood there with a cigarette between his fingers. His clothes were spattered with something red, which might have been paint.
“Well, I need to come up with something for my paper,” said Joseph, gesturing to his notebook on the desk. “It’s about how your paintings relate to American individualism.”
The ghost scoffed. He looked around the dorm room, at the books on the bookshelf. “Wait, are you Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“Shit. Me too. What’s your name, kid?”
“Joseph Stern.”
Rothko snapped. “Joseph Stern. I’ve heard that name before. I’ve got a message from you. From the beyond.”
“From who?” Joseph thought of deceased relatives, anyone who might be the type to deliver a message through a dead artist.
“He wouldn’t give me his name. But he said I’d run into you eventually, and he wanted me to tell you that that thing you’re looking for, you’re gonna find it.”
“...That thing I’m looking for?”
“Yeah. I can’t remember what he said. It wasn’t a word I’d heard before.”
“What I’m looking for? Like..” Joseph swallowed. What was he looking for? “A sense of belonging?”
“No, no, not that. Not love or belonging or any of that horseshit. A thing. An entity, maybe?”
“And where did you meet this person?”
“Not in this plane.”
“In the afterlife?”
“Not that, either. I’m still hanging on. In an.. In-between place. It was strange ‘cause I don’t meet many non-ghosts there. And he was a vivacious type.”
“A living person told you this?”
“Yeah. I guess he’s going to care about you, but he doesn’t yet, and he doesn’t want you to run yourself ragged waiting. Or something.” Rothko took another drag on his cigarette. “Good luck with your paper. If it helps, your professor won’t know what the hell the right answer is either, so you could just say some bullshit that sounds good.”
–
Joseph saw Rothko on and off throughout the years, frequently when drunk or otherwise down in the dumps. His brain supplied the phrase “guardian angel,” not that he’d ever say that to someone so prickly.
Once he asked if Rothko had any unfinished business, to which Rothko had snorted and said “nothing you could help with.”
Down in the dumps. Like now. Fresh off a breakup, driving home through Iowa, alone except for the silent revenant in his passenger seat.
In the late afternoon, when the shadows started to collect like cobwebs in the corners of the world, he stopped for gas at a Casey’s at the edge of a cornfield.
While his car was filling, he stared out across the bare earth, cleared for the winter. A stubble of mown-down stalks. A line of trees separated one field from the next. At the edge of it, probably a mile away across the flat land, he saw something moving through the trees and his heart leapt into his throat.
Bigfoot.
The shape was indistinct, the gait bipedal but somehow not quite human. It must be a human, he told himself. There was no way for it to be anything else.
He was the only person pumping gas. Rothko was staring the other way, at a silent Winnebago parked at the edge of the lot.
“Mark,” said Joseph urgently. “Mark.”
“Hm?” Rothko turned.
The shape between the trees was gone.
“Is bigfoot real?”
“What? I think I’ve heard that word before, but I don’t know what it means.”
“Bigfoot. You know. Sasquatch. The wild man. Humanoid ape who lives in the woods.”
Rothko laughed. “I don’t give a fuck what happens in the woods.”
Joseph had thought it would be easier to go to a flat place where there’d be no room for a cryptid to hide, rather than in a forest where bigfoot could be anywhere. But seeing something he couldn’t identify between a thin line of trees between fields was worse, actually. Scarier.
The gas stopped pumping. Joseph got back in the car, pulled into a parking spot. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he turned his back on the field and went into Casey’s.
Inside it smelled like greasy pizza. Rothko stood up in front of the counter, looking up at the display of cigarettes and vapes. “Didn’t have those when I was alive,” he said.
Joseph left him there, collected some almonds from the snack aisle, and went to look for a drink.
A very unusual-looking man was standing next to the refrigerator case. Red sunglasses, silver hair. Rings in his eyebrows, his ears. Tattoos on his arms, hints of more ink between the hem of his tank top and the top of his jeans. He caught Joseph looking at him, lowered his sunglasses, and winked. The lines around his eyes told Joseph he was much older than he’d originally assumed.
The stranger picked out a bottle of fruit punch and took it to the counter. Joseph stood frozen for a moment and then grabbed an Arizona iced tea.
After he checked out, Rothko fell into step with him. “That man,” Rothko said in a low voice. “He could see me.”
The stranger loitered in the parking lot next to the Winnebago, drinking his fruit punch. Joseph went over to him.
“Hello there,” said the stranger. “He’s with you, then?” He gestured to Rothko with his fruit punch.
“In a manner of speaking.”
The stranger smiled. “Would you like to come in? I’ve got a new tarot deck and I’m looking for people to practice on.”
Joseph glanced at Rothko, whose face was impassive. “Alright.”
The stranger held the door. “My name’s Indrid.”
“Joseph,” said Joseph. “And this is-”
“Mark Rothko,” said Indrid at the same instant.
“There’s no way you recognize me,” said Rothko, sounding annoyed as he followed Joseph inside. Then he looked around, distracted. There were pencil drawings pinned up all around the walls of the tiny living area, still ragged at the edges where they’d been torn out of a sketchbook. “You’re an artist.”
“In a manner of speaking.” Indrid gestured at the booth and the tiny kitchen table. “Sit down, please, Joseph.”
Joseph sat.
Indrid pulled out a pack of tarot cards with gold leaf edges, and shuffled the deck. “So, what brings you to Iowa?”
“It’ll be harder if he has to cold-read you,” grumbled Rothko.
Indrid’s smile widened.
“I got dumped,” said Joseph. “He thought I wasn’t being realistic.”
“About what?” asked Indrid.
“I… I want to find bigfoot.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” A recurring dream of petting a furry chest, of brown eyes, of feeling safe. Of knowing for sure. “Do you believe in bigfoot?”
“I don’t think bigfoot wants us to believe in him. At least not in that way.” Indrid cleared his throat. “Shall we start with a simple three-card reading?”
“Sure.”
Indrid dealt three cards facedown onto the table. “The first card represents the past, the center card represents the present, and the third card represents the future.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, and then turned over the first card.
Joseph leaned over to see it. Death.
“Unusual,” said Indrid. His gaze flickered up to Rothko, but only for an instant. “It doesn’t have to be literally death, of course. It could mean anything to do with cycles or rebirth.”
He flipped over the second card. A yellowish moon hung suspended below dark ground. “The moon, reversed. Suggesting doubt.”
The flipped over the third card. “The empress. Kindness and connection.”
“So you’re going to get a new lover soon, probably,” said Rothko. “Does that make you feel better?”
Joseph didn’t look at him. “Should I give up on finding bigfoot?”
“No,” said Indrid, so quickly Joseph was surprised. “If searching for bigfoot brings meaning to your life, of course you shouldn’t give it up.”
“Why are you in Iowa?” Joseph asked.
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. I don’t have as concrete of a goal as you do.”
“What if bigfoot’s a metaphor for something?” interrupted Rothko. “Maybe ‘finding bigfoot’ is about finding your own strength and independence.”
“Maybe,” said Indrid, and packed up his cards.
“Oh, now you’re a literalist,” Rothko grumbled.
–
The snow was falling thick and heavy, and Barclay pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a diner. Better safe than sorry, and it was about time for dinner anyway.
The place was mostly deserted, and the teenage waitress showed him to a booth by the window where he could watch the snow fall. She handed him a laminated menu that was slightly sticky to the touch.
“What’s good?” he asked as he perused it.
She just stared at him blankly. Not a great sign.
“I’ll start with coffee.”
To her credit, she brought him the coffee fast, and it was decent coffee. Then he ordered a skillet of hash browns with eggs and vegetables.
A man walked in. Flakes of snow rested on his neatly-combed black hair and on his navy-blue quarterzip like stars in a fleece sky - very preppy.
Barclay glanced up at the sound of the phone ringing behind the counter. The waitress looked around mystified, and then picked it up. “Hello?”
For a moment she was silent. Then she looked at Barclay. “Hey, is your name Barclay?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a guy on the phone for you.”
Barclay got up and went to the phone. He could guess whose voice he was about to hear. “Hello?”
“Hello, Barclay. The man at the next table is called Joseph Stern. You should ask him to join you.”
contains: sex, marriage, sexualization of pregnancy
This fic is a sequel to @thiswasinevitableid's Comte fic (and the sequel). Thank you, Sam, for letting me play in your sandbox (and constructing such a wonderful sandbox to begin with.) In this one the protagonist is married and pregnant and also in a throuple with Paul and Willem Dafoe's character Jopling from Grand Budapest Hotel. (His name in the movie is just J. Jopling but in my head his first name is Jens and he generally goes by Jay.)
You agreed to a Catholic wedding, because it was important to Paul. And Paul agreed that you’d keep running your bookshop, because it was important to you.
–
Paul’s house (your house, too, now that you’re married) is not opulent, but it is beautiful. The stone floor in the entryway has been smoothed by generations of feet. The big fireplace in the living room now contains only embers.
Tonight you sit curled up in an armchair in front of the fire, sipping hot cocoa from a mug and watching the snow fall, while Monsieur Jopling criss-crosses the room.
Paul had to travel on business, and was so loath to leave his pregnant wife behind that he asked Jopling (who had courted you before you took up with Paul) to stay and look after you. You don’t really need looking after, but it’s still nice to have him to shovel the snow and chop firewood for you. And he is very attentive.
Jopling double-checks that all the doors and windows are shut and locked, he makes sure plenty of extra wood is stacked up next to the hearth, he fluffs the pillows and piles your big bed with blankets until it’s almost a nest. Earlier today you caught him staring into the larder as if the food would disappear if he didn’t keep an eye on it.
The first time you realized he was missing a couple of toes, you thought it was from some kind of mafia punishment. No. He’s got a history with hypothermia.
Finally he stands over you, rather threateningly. Jopling doesn’t know how to do anything but loom. “Are you ready for bed, Madame?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.” You hand him your empty mug and he takes it to the sink, washes it, and puts it in the dish drainer. A richly embroidered tapestry hangs on the wall in the dining room, showing a scene of grape vines drooping from the heavy fruit.
You climb the stairs, brush your teeth, and change into a white nightgown with lace around the neckline, a gift from Paul. It’s not your warmest pajamas, but it’s warm enough for climbing into the nest of blankets Jopling constructed. Though it’s a little tight around your stomach - you’ll have to buy new clothes soon.
After a moment Jopling joins you. “Are you warm enough?” he murmurs.
“Mmhmm. You did a wonderful job.”
He makes a soft pleased noise in reply.
You’ve hardly closed your eyes when you hear the front door opening and footsteps downstairs.
Jopling tenses.
“Hello!” calls a voice up the stairs.
“It’s Paul,” you say to Jopling. “We’re up here!” you call more loudly.
He sounds like he’s taking the stairs two at a time. And then he’s there, your Paul, smiling, pink-cheeked from the cold, snowflakes on his hat and the shoulders of his brown coat. He puts down his suitcase and kisses you. You sit up in bed and he puts his arms around you, making you shiver a little at the cold clinging to his coat.
“I thought you weren’t getting home until tomorrow!” you say.
“I wasn’t planning to, but I saw the snow was coming and I didn’t want to get snowed in anywhere but here. I see I just barely made it.” He takes off his hat and coat and folds it over the back of a chair.
“Have you had dinner?” you ask as you watch him unbutton his waistcoat and hang it up.
“Oh yes. So I’m ravenous, but only for you, my darling.” He climbs into bed and kisses you. The thick gold wedding band on his ring finger glints in the semidarkness.
After your whirlwind honeymoon, Paul held you close in this bed - white sheets, solid wooden headboard and footboard - and fucked you with his hand over your stomach. You could guess what he was thinking about.
“Thinking about putting an heir in me?”
He looked up at you, wide-eyed. “Would you allow me…? Ma cherie. I would be … it would be an honor. The greatest pride of my life.”
Here and now, you’re pressed between them - Jopling spooning you from behind, while Paul kisses you. He cups your cheek with one hand and your breast with the other.
You squirm a little. “M’sensitive,” you whimper into his mouth.
“Oh?” Now he tugs down the neckline of your nightgown. Your tits have swollen a little since you’ve been pregnant, your nipples puffy, and Paul kisses each in turn before he puts his mouth on one nipple and sucks. You yelp at the sudden sensation.
His other hand pets possessively over the curve of your belly. You try to buck your hips up, desperate for friction.
“Jay, hold her down,” says Paul firmly. “I won’t have her exerting herself.”
“Yes, sir.” Only someone who knows Jopling as well as you do would be able to detect the amusement in his voice as he holds your hips.
“Please, Paul,” you plead. Pressed between them you’re almost too warm. Paul’s thick body is a furnace.
“I told you I was ravenous, didn’t I?” He presses the heel of his hand to your clit, his fingertips stroking your entrance. “Did I or did I not ask you to attend to her?” he says to Jopling. “She’s so wet she feels like she hasn’t cum for weeks.” He inserts a finger, and you tighten around it. Christ, his fingers are thick. You’ve missed his hands.
“I brought her to climax every morning, sir,” says Jopling. “She’s just insatiable.”
“Only my husband’s cock can truly satisfy me,” you say. Jopling did indeed attend to you every day. Often more than once. His cock is an unreliable beast, and his libido is far less than Paul’s, but he is efficient and attentive with his mouth and fingers.
“Very well.” Paul kisses you again on the lips. Then, finally he guides his cock into you. The stretch is wonderful, just enough to feel. “Oh,” he groans as he presses in. “Oh, I missed this. Missed you.” He’s gentle, careful not to jostle your belly as he fucks you. You know how much self-restraint that must take for him, a man who usually gorges himself on sex like he does on food. His fingers circle your clit in time with his careful thrusts.
“I’m right here, mon cher,” you tell him. “I’m yours.”
“Oh, my wife, my darling beautiful wife.” He pants into your neck. “I love you so much. The honor you’ve allowed me, my comtesse, queen of my heart-”
Behind you, Jopling skates his hands over your sides, pets your thighs, and squeezes your ass. “Queen of my heart, that’s a good one,” he mutters in his low voice.
“I’m not going to last long,” says Paul. “I’ve missed you so, been rather pent-up…”
“Poor Paul,” you coo. “Cum anytime you like.”
He grinds his cock as deep inside you as he can manage, and cums with a groan of your name. For a moment his body goes slack as he catches his breath. His fingers go still, but your hips keep trying to chase the friction - you haven’t gotten off yet.
“Yes, darling,” he promises. “I haven’t forgotten you.” He slips two fingers inside you and presses up against your inner walls.
When you were first married he refused to cum anywhere except your cunt, which led to him walking over to the bookstore at lunchtime on more than one occasion for a quickie. He fucked you with your back pressed to the wall of the back room and one leg hiked up to let him deeper. He came in you and plugged your cunt up with his fingers to keep his spend from dripping out, massaging your inner walls as he worked you up. You came twice before he let you go.
He works you up just as insistently now.
“Oh, oh Paul,” you whine. Jopling reaches an arm over you and massages your chest firmly, digging his fingertips into the oversensitive flesh.
Paul slides further down the bed and plants a kiss on each of your thighs. “I’ve missed you, too,” he says softly, and then he puts his mouth on your cunt.
His fingers are still inside you, and his tongue flicks upwards over your clit, and you’re gone, shuddering and clamping your thighs tight around his head as you cum.
“That’s my girl,” he says, smiling. He presses his soft lips to your thigh. “As I was leaving Paris I passed by a church just as the bells started ringing, to signal that the service was about to start. The sound was so beautiful, and loud, so loud I could feel it in my body. I felt filled with the Holy Spirit.” He kisses your belly, and turns his face up to meet your eye. “If I wasn’t coming home to you, I would have stopped to attend the service. But I needed to spend the night with my family.”
“Oh, Paul,” you say. “We would have survived the night.”
“I know. But if the Holy Spirit has called me anywhere in my life, it’s been to here. To you.”
“You old softie,” says Jopling. “Come here.” He hauls Paul into a kiss, and you roll over to watch.
