As requested, here yah go my lovelies! Series are indented separately to keep them together. One-shot stories are listed in numbered format. Requested fics have a "⭐️"
Neil Lewis (Watching the Detectives 2007):
The Gumshoe is a Girl's Best Friend (fluff)
Horror Movies (smut)
Horror Movies Pt 1
Horror Movies Pt2
As You Wish (smut)
As You Wish Pt 1
As You Wish Pt 2 ⭐️
Tommy Shelby (Peaky Blinders):
In Love, in War (smut):
In Love, in War Pt 1
In Love, in War Pt 2
In Love, in War Pt 3
In Love, in War Pt 4
In Love, in War Pt 5
At the Cabaret:
At the Cabaret Pt 1
At the Cabaret Pt 2
At the Cabaret Pt 3
At the Cabaret Pt 4
At the Cabaret Pt 5
Take It on the Run (smut):
Take It on the Run
Take It on the Run Pt 2
The House of the Rising Sun (smut):
The House of the Rising Sun Pt. 1
The House of the Rising Sun Pt. 2
Cillian Murphy:
Under the Weather (fluff)
Method Acting (smut)
So New (fluff)
Like a Good Neighbor... (smut)
Cut the Shit-delusion, Sweetheart (fluff)
Nerves (smut) ⭐️
Dr. Jonathan Crane (Batman Trilogy):
The Experiment (smut + my first work)
The Experiment Pt 1
The Experiment Pt 2
The Experiment Pt 3
I Can Fix That... (smut)
I Can Fix That Pt 1
I Can Fix That Pt 2
I Can Fix That Pt 3
I Can Fix That Pt 4
Moth to a Flame (smut)
Moth to the Flame Pt 1
Moth to the Flame Pt 2
Moth to the Flame Pt 3
Moth to the Flame Pt 4
Jonathan Breech (On the Edge 2001):
The Ward (smut)
The Ward Pt 1
The Ward Pt 2
The Ward Pt 3
Tom (The Party 2017):
Sweet Revenge (smut)
Agent Lenny Miller (Anna 2019):
How About It, Agent Miller? (smut)
Don't Ruin It (smut)
William Killick (The Edge of Love 2009):
What I Want... (smut)
What I Want...
What I Want... Pt 2 ⭐️
Tired and Torn (smut)
Tired and Torn Pt 1
Matthew Joy (In the Heart of the Sea 2015):
Wary Sailor (smut)
Wary Sailor Pt. 1
Wary Sailor Pt. 2
Wary Sailor Pt. 3
Wary Sailor Pt. 4
Wary Sailor Pt. 5
The House of the Rising Sun Pt. 2 | Tommy Shelby x fem!Reader
Summary: The year is 1922 and after Grace's brutal betrayal, Thomas Shelby chooses to focus on building the Shelby empire which he hopes to expand into America where prohibition offers rewards to those who deal in dirty business. After crossing the Atlantic Ocean on a steamer, he finds himself on the docks of New Orleans, facing an adventure he would not soon forget.
Warnings: borderline sexism, objectification of sex-workers, outdated and offensive language concerning the Romani/Roma people (said by Shelby about himself and his family), paid sex, smut, choking, threats (reader receiving), accusations, + some magical shit that I'm still figuring out.
🎶 Fever - Peggy Lee
🎶 Riders on the Storm - The Doors
🎶 Big Love (Live) - Lindsey Buckingham
Note: The longer I worked on this the more it felt like I was writing for a combined Tatiana Petrovna-Lizzie character. Also, how do y'all feel about the magic theme? It makes me feel like I'm writing shitty Winx fanfiction or something. Lmk!
The air seems to change around you as Tommy tilts his head to the side and smirks slightly. He follows you when you stand, your finger crooked to tempt him further. When he steps closer, you start to push the jacket from his shoulders but he stops you, his hands catching your wrists.
“I can’t let you do that here,” he says quietly, “Upstairs.”
You nod once and lead him to the stairs where Madame Demonte smokes a cigarette on a silver holder, keeping a watchful eye on the Johns and her girls.
“What kind of room do you need, honey?” She asks Tommy with an encouraging, indulgent smile. “How much time?”
“Do you have any rooms for the night? I need a place to sleep.”
You furrow your brow, caught off guard. Maybe he really wasn’t interested in a girl for the night, just a room. You and Madame exchange confused looks before she changes her tone and blows some smoke, ashing her cigarette.
“How much you have?”
“Plenty,” Tommy answers calmly.
“$9 in cash,” Madame says.
Tommy exhales through his nose in exasperation and nods. He jerks his head towards you and the stairs. “I’ll pay her upstairs, yeh?”
Madame Dumonte eyes him further, her lips creased in a pout of concentration, “hmm.” They’ve always said she was a witch, passed down through her ancestral blood. From the look in her eyes, you find yourself believing them, but you share her blood and have felt no such natural power. She nods finally and steps aside.
“Honey, if you can pay for it, we can provide it. Take him to the top, your old room.”
You nod quickly and start up the lacquered stairs, Tommy close behind. The air around you feels thicker than before, and the mention of your old room makes you feel sick but you try not to let it show. Tommy takes the stairs behind you, his hands shoved firmly in his suit pockets as if he were totally at ease.
Madame Demonte calls up to you as you take the first few steps. “Alright darlin?”
You nod, “yeah Mama.”
x
The stairs stop first at the second floor landing, already crowded with more patrons loitering with their girls as they wait for rooms to open. You keep your eyes focused on the stairs ahead, scared to look back at the man you can’t figure out. You thought it would be easier.
“Family business?” The voice behind you speaks up. You clear your throat and help him cross to the next stairwell to the third landing.
“Mm. Think it’s another strange custom, I suppose?” You joke awkwardly as you reach the final step. Your toe catches and you stumble slightly, your body folding over. You feel his hands move from his pockets quickly and catch you by the widest point of your hips, where the skirt is ruched. You feel your breath catch like a tangible object in your mouth, hitting the back of your teeth as he pulls you back.
“Know a thing or two about ‘em,” he replies cooly, his lips hovering above your shoulder like a devil. You shiver and the hair stands up on the back of your neck. The air changes around you and the linen drapes in the open window flutter like spectral apparitions. Thunder rumbles in the distance and you feel a new surge of electricity within your body, like a conductor, you use it.
Tommy joins you on the dark, empty landing, the floor only lit by small electric sconces to show the path to each bedroom. The third floor was still private, only for special customers. The third floor was also once your home, the place where you grew up while your mother worked below. Taking a client there now feels wrong, a false circle in the loop of life.
As you stand at the bedroom door now, you look back over your shoulder and the man is standing coolly, his hip resting against the banister. You unlock the door and let it swing open, showing him the room now devoid of your childhood belongings. The windows are still closed in the room so you step inside and push the panels up. Rain scented air seeps in and you feel yourself breathe again.
Tommy has moved to the doorframe, relighting his cigarette. He takes a deep drag, the hollow of his cheekbones turning black in the shadows. His brows are raised quizzically when he looks at you.
“What’s your name?”
“We don’t usually do that around here,” you respond quietly, watching him from the side of your old dresser, now covered in red lace.
“Doesn’t matter,” he frowns and waves your comment off with the cigarette, “I’d like to know who I’m fucking.”
You smile. Your fingers trail over the lace, looking for a box of dusty matches.
“Susanna,” you strike a match and light an oil lamp sitting on the dresser.
“Tommy,” he uses the cigarette to gesture to himself and smirks further.
“Tommy,” you repeat and cross the room slowly, extending your hand to shake his. Tommy has to put the cigarette between his lips before he can mirror you, taking your hand as soon as you offer it. With your hands still clasped together, longer than necessary, you steal his cigarette and move it to your mouth. Tommy watches your face closely as you suck deeply, hold the smoke in your chest, and exhale the smoke across his pale face. You enjoy the way his face doesn’t move at all as the smoke passes over him, like he didn’t feel it.
It thunders again and rain begins to pour from the sky. Tommy kisses you first, his nose brushing your cheek before he finds your lips. His lips are chapped and his upper lip bears the ghost of salt from perspiration. His hands wrap around your lower back, bending you back and forcing your body to relax into the net of his arms. Your teeth nip his bottom lip until you can hear him groan quietly from the back of his throat.
“Can I take that coat now, sir?”
He chuckles and steps away to remove it himself, “Now, don’t be frightened.” He warns you and you’re glad he does because beneath his coat is a holster with two handguns slipped around his shoulders, just hidden from view.
“Good Lord, is this the business you wouldn’t tell me about?” You can finally ask with a pained smile once you’d gasped and clutched your chest.
Tommy removes the holsters and sets the guns carefully on an armchair. When he stands straight again, he faces you, and waits wordlessly, denying you a response.
“You aren’t a man of many words are you?” You speak softly.
“I find it only wastes time.”
He closes the distance again and uses his palm to tilt your chin side to side, trying to catch the look of your face in the dark with only the oil lamp to shed light on the apples of your cheeks. When he seems to be pleased, he kisses you again, drawing your body into his. His hands slide up into your hair, cupping either side of your head with flat palms. He forces your head back and you comply, letting him kiss you more and more as he stands even closer.
It isn’t about love, you must remember. You’re a working girl, a whore. This is your business and he knows that. But unlike other men who would throw you around, hit you, or force your face into the bed, Tommy’s hands have respect hidden in their roughness.
Thunder rumbles behind you through the open window, rain falls in heavy pellets and the room becomes hot and so humid. Tommy drops his hands to your waist, untying the knots keeping your skirt up.
“Do you make ‘em pay you extra to see you naked?” He whispers, holding the ties in his hands to keep the fabric from falling prematurely. He stops kissing you to ask you this but his lips still hover above yours, heat fanning across your face.
“I’ll trade you…” you whisper back with a dangerous smile. Tommy cocks his head to the side in a show of intrigue and patience so rare in the men you work for. “I let you take everything off… and you tell me her name.”
“Whose name?” Tommy asks with his gravely voice, still patient.
“The woman who broke your heart.”
Tommy says nothing and sighs, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling in a show of annoyance. He looks around the room for a moment as if he were changing his mind, checking for his cigarettes so he can find one and smoke the situation away, but he just exhales loudly again and swings back to you, his lips finding yours again. His hands release the fabric of your skirt and it falls quickly to the ground. His hands squeeze the fat on your thighs, clutching and groping you with unabashed desire, like raw anger.
He picks you up by your thighs and holds your pelvis against his waist, kissing you with the same passion that while it lacks love, doesn’t lack substance. Tommy puts you on the end of the bed and stands over you, cast in shadow where only a flash of lightning illuminates the front of his body. He removes his vest and collared shirt, tossing them to the armchair, and as he removes the rest of his clothes, you feel yourself backing up on the bed, waiting to feel the hard pressure of your old headboard.
The oil lamp’s flame burns behind him as he kneels on the bed, his bare chest barely finding a patch of light. You see his muscles tensing from his movements, his tattoo falling in and out of sight beneath the shadow of his arm as he reaches out. Tommy grasps your ankle and pulls you back down the mattress with ease. You find yourself giggling in surprise from his strength but he takes your throat, surprising yourself back into silence. His fingers barely wrap around your throat, just enough to hold your neck up so he can gaze down into your face. His fingers tighten ever so slowly.
You’re not naked yet but you feel overexposed. A strong feeling comes out in you, from somewhere deep in your veins. You both breathe heavily, staring at one another in the near-darkness. Your hands are behind you on the bed, supporting your weight and your knees are bent slightly, spread open. Tommy leans over you and finally looks down at your legs, trapped in the black stockings. His free hand is spread open and he lets every finger touch your shin, your knee, your thigh, up to the waistband of your satin underskirt. He pushes the skirt up enough to see the bare part of your upper thighs.
He seems to falter slightly, losing some of that terrifying mystery that he carries like a cloak over his body. He doesn’t make another move for a moment and you feel that energy surge even further within you, like a dark magic animating your body from the inside out. You can still hear the whine of a trombone somewhere in the rain, out on the street below. You move to the edge and slip your forefingers beneath the lip of his cotton briefs. There is a button at the side and you undo it slowly, keeping your eyes up with his hand still encircling your throat. He groans as your hand moves inside, finding his large erection, pressed against his stomach. You stroke him slowly but the angle makes it difficult so you stand slowly and go again, working your hand up and down over his cock. He bristles at the pleasure, his eyelashes fluttering in a show of rare vulnerability.
“Tell me her name, honey,” you whisper, your lips moving closer to the base of his neck. You close your eyes and smell the pheromones of his skin, your dry lips running up his throat and skipping over his damp skin. The strap of your basque falls, exposing your breast and Tommy groans again, no louder than an echo. Your hand moves up and down, faster, his erection growing warmer, harder, beneath your grip.
“Let me make it better.”
His nose wrinkles now and his grip tightens, holding you still for a moment, standing on your tip toes. “What makes you think you could?” He asks plainly, pointedly.
“Let me show you,” you manage to say beneath his grip. His eyes show the conflict he feels. He wants to give in to his curiosity, but his better judgement refuses to revoke its hold. Your eyes seem to glow in response and Tommy watches you for a moment, unable to make sense of you or his emotions. He thinks of Grace and shivers as a fever boils beneath his skin. The rain intensifies outside. A flash of lightning.
“Grace…” you whisper, seeing her face in his dark eyes.
Tommy falters again, his grip loosening around your throat. His brow is furrowed and shakes his head.
“Witch,” he says but the tilt of his voice sounds more like a question. He drops his hand around your throat and you raise your chin, smirking ever so slightly.
“Devil.”
He hears the words and the space between you changes, charges. Thunder rumbles and you can hear people laugh in the bar below. He leans over again but doesn’t kiss you. His face is so close, his lips just a breath away from yours.
“Would you dare kiss him?” He asks, giving you a moment's pause.
You look up into his eyes and make the decision easily, kissing him as if you needed him, like he wasn’t paying you at the end of the night. Because now you have him under your control and you under his. All of his power is yours.
He wraps his arms around you, his biceps curing into you as he moves you back onto the bed and crawls on top. He wrestles your skirt down your legs and clamps his mouth on your exposed breast, his tongue running over your nipple hard until you arch your back into his chest. Your knees spread and your legs wrap around his hips as he moves his boxers down and holds your thigh farther out to give himself room to enter you. You cry out as he pushes into you, groans and tries again until he slides in without resistance. He holds your thigh back against your chest, your calf bouncing precariously atop his shoulder as he moves into you in deep thrusts. You can feel him move inside you, so large and powerful, his own heart racing like yours as you dig your nails into his chest.
You cry out again, not like you do for show, but ugly hissing screams that make your jaw ache and your stomach tremble. You have only had sex like this a few times, never with a customer, and never like this- some kind of magical madness taking over your bodies. Tommy doesn’t kiss you when he fucks you, but he keeps his eyes focused on your face, his mouth opening to mimic yours whenever it falls open in a moan. His tongue touches the roof of his mouth and he holds your head back with his free hand, his fingers bracing the junction of your chin to your throat.
“I’ve heard stories of women like you…” he grunts. You find you cannot speak, your teeth are clenched in rising pleasure. He lowers his lips above your ear to whisper, “they tell fortunes, sell stories and offer hope. ” Tommy tightens his hold on your throat, “but I also know women who liked to play tricks.” His hips move faster, grinding against you, you begin to orgasm and it blossoms like a white light.
“So what are you, Susanna?”
You moan beneath the deadly pressure of his fingers around your neck and in your new surge of strength, push him off, riding him instead. You take the hand from your throat and force his arm back above his head on the bed, your teeth bared like an animal’s.
“You think I’m a liar?”
Tommy looks up at you, watching but unmoved- but possibly a little afraid. You move slowly back and forth on his cock, depriving him of any satisfying movement. You decide to punish him, be mean to him. But you’ve never felt like that before either. Your anger is fuel and it shows you what you want to see when you look down into his face, bright white now in the moon unveiled by post-rain clouds.
“She’s the opposite of me, isn’t she?” You begin, panting. Tommy furrows his brow but stays silent, his puffy lips pulled into a line. “She’s beautiful, blonde- blue eyes even.” You continue but the image of the woman becomes a tangle of words and emotions, balled up so tightly they feel like a quarry of stone in your stomach.
“She betrayed you, didn’t she? You were dealing in dangerous stuff and she knew, she told on you.”
“Enough,” Tommy mutters, his eyes almost fearful- wide and soft.
“You trusted her, fell in love with her? And that man, Campbell- Inspector Cam-”
“Enough!” Tommy shouts and pushes you off. He pulls out of you and stands, his hands flying to his head in an attempt to steady himself. He pulls his white linen boxers back on and buttons the front. Then he flashes back towards you, his finger pointed at your face, “how do you do that?”
Whatever energy was manifesting inside you shutters and thaws, leaking ice through your veins. You’re still panting and find yourself unable to speak now, so you shake your head. Tommy frowns, turns, and riffles through his suit jacket for a cigarette and lights it, deciding what to ask next.
He takes a deep drag of the cigarette and its red end glows in the near-black room. It is the only thing you can see now as the room seems to grow darker in your vision. Tommy leans against the wall, his arm crossed over his chest.
“I’ll give you two options, Susanna,” he begins in an even voice, “Either you tell me how you can know all of that and how much more you know… or I’ll kill you. I like to believe I can be a gentleman, so don’t make me act otherwise.” His voice is so low, so dangerously slow that you feel lulled to sleep, not scared.
“I don’t know,” you try.
It has stopped raining outside but the air still feels heavy from rain and unfinished sex.
“No,” he shakes his head, “not good enough.”
“What do you want from me?” You rise from the bed, pulling a sheet around your naked body. Your hair is a mess, tangled and frizzy, and you can feel it settle into strange places around your head.
“The truth,” Tommy looks up at the ceiling with a sigh. You look at him from across the bed and scoff. He turns his attention back to you, his brow raised.
You shake your head, “No, you want her back. Whoever she was.”
Tommy pauses and you stare back at him, gathering your clothes. “I’m just a whore, sir. That’s all I am, all I was born to be, and all I will ever be.”
“No, I don’t,” he answers.
You turn, confused. “What?”
“No,” Tommy begins again, “I don’t want her back. You got that wrong, and you know it.” He exhales through his nose, the smoke envelops him.
You falter and your stomach drops. You’re scared of him now, as he changes from good to bad, angel to devil. He’s right, when you watched the memories play out in snippets of bigger pictures, you could feel it- his hatred. He did not want her back, but that wasn’t really your business was it? You shouldn’t have involved yourself in the first place or allowed yourself to get so emotional.
“I don’t know what you want me to say-”
“Tell me if I’m right,” Tommy answers immediately, gesturing with his cigarette. You breathe deeply and fix your hair quickly, deciding it’s best for you to leave this strange and dangerous man alone, even when his presence obviously spurns some magnetic force deep within your elemental arrangement. If he can do that, what else does he have the power to do?
“You’re right,” you answer finally and try to tie your skirt back around your waist. If you hurry, you can still work in a few more clients before dawn.
“Stop.” Tommy orders calmly.
You look up at him, stopping in the dead center of the room. The curtains blow in the wind behind you. Tommy reaches his cigarette over to an ashtray on the small table by the door. He grinds it out and exhales once again through his nose. He looks like a balking black stallion.
“Work for me.”
Silence, broken by the soft return of distant thunder, spurned on by the humidity- heat lightning. You’d like to see yourself leaving with him, being his mistress, telling fortunes as a party trick when he takes a date, and living a life more prosperous than the one you now lead in Orleans. But you realize something else- whatever you’ve discovered, whatever vision you have, it will only ever show you the past, never the future. People cheer below, followed by the clash of symbols and a trumpet. It jerks you back to the present moment.
“What?”
“My mother was one of you. That magic… hers came from her gypsy blood. Yours, I don’t know what you are.”
Tommy steps forward, his arms now fully crossed over his chest, flexing the bands of muscles in his arms where a tattoo sits. Your mouth waters, so you close it.
“I don’t understand.”
“Her blood is my blood, and that makes me part gypsy. We respect those who have… eh gifts like yours. Whether it’s bullshit or not. I need someone like you.”
“Is this a business proposition?” You scoff again, nearly laughing from the absurdity of this conversation.
“Aye,” he nods, shifting his feet as he does so.
“So what? I’d be your mistress and little human talisman?” You cover your face to show how close you are to laughing at him and at his absurd proposition.
“My business partner,” he shrugs.
“A whore, your business partner? Sweet Lord, you don’t know anything about me!”
Tommy cocks his head to the side, regards you for a moment and then nods. He turns on his heels and sits on the tousled bed with a loud sigh.
“Alright,” his hands land hard on his thighs, “tell me.”
“Tell you what?” You laugh finally and feel yourself smile.
The House of the Rising Sun | Thomas Shelby x fem!Reader
Summary: The year is 1922 and after Grace's brutal betrayal, Thomas Shelby chooses to focus on building the Shelby empire which he hopes to expand into America where prohibition offers rewards to those who deal in dirty business. After crossing the Atlantic Ocean on a steamer, he finds himself on the docks of New Orleans, facing an adventure he would not soon forget.
Warnings: borderline sexism, objectification of sex-workers, mentions of historical class divisions.
🎶 The House of the Rising Sun - The Animals
🎶 Good Rockin' Daddy - Etta James
🎶 Seven Nation Army - Postmodern Jukebox
GUYS I PROMISE THERE WILL BE SMUT, JUST BEAR WITH ME
The ground is littered with cigarette butts and spit, the markers of a successful night. You step around the mess, placing careful steps to save your satin shoes as you approach the staircase, carved in dark oak. The stairs are clean, the work of a young woman scrubbing the steps with soap and water. Her name is Amelia and she speaks with a soft creole accent, her skin smudged in places from the wood polish she uses to clean the banister. She always leaves before opening hours and you don’t blame her. You exchange a short greeting but she keeps her eyes averted to avoid any unnecessary familiarities with a woman of your work.
You move past the stairs and enter one of the rooms on the first floor of Madame Dumont’s House, a Creole Townhouse on the edge of the French Quarter. One the first floor is the bar, a short dark oak bar with a glass back bar, smudged indefinitely with fingerprints and spirits. The walls of the bar are set with a dark green wallpaper, interlaid with mirrors for views of the whole room. The front door, kept closed, was shielded by a heavy pink velvet curtain which was pulled aside whenever a patron entered. It afforded the guests a certain level of privacy presented as intimacy. Beyond the bar, Madame Dumonte had her office and private room. The girls had the furthest room on the first floor for dressing, cleaning, and eventually- undressing. The two upper floors were reserved for paying customers, five small rooms with couches and dull oil lamps, veiled with velvet drapes, lace curtains, and frilly things.
By the time the brothel’s doors opened at dusk, the barroom would be clean, music playing, and girls scantily dressed with their bow-lips puckered into inviting smiles. You open the door to the backroom and change from your nice, tailored dress into a corseted costume in dark purple fabric, your breasts pressed against the rim of the basque. Your skirts were ruched to the top of your thighs, showing the tremors of skin when you walked. This work has become normal for you. This was New Orleans, this was Madame Dumont’s.
x
Thomas Shelby lit a cigarette behind his hand as he left the docks of New Orleans. The heat was nothing like he’d experienced before, the humidity so thick that he felt he could swallow it, drown in it. His meeting with a southern moonshiner at the dock had left him sour, irritable. The man’s American haughtiness made it impossible for Tommy to establish a deal, deflecting insulting stereotypical comments and low-ball offers. He hoped to find a wealthy partner in the port city to operate his whisky business in America, paying him the majority of the profits as the main operator and owner.
He flicked his silver lighter closed and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. He was dressed too warmly for the tropical weather and stuck out like a sore thumb against the bright pastels of the city. He ignored the looks he received from ignorant men and women huddled beneath lace parasols in the afternoon sun. His pale face looked as if it had never seen the sun, always hidden beneath the bib of his cap or under a cloud of coal smoke in Small Heath. With his natural bored expression, Tommy strolled down the cobblestreet avenues, glancing at the signs dangling from the second story balconies with lace-like iron framework.
Horse-drawn carriages still maneuvered down the roads, forcing the city folks to step to the side, braving the sidewalks full of musicians and entertainers offering their caps for spare coins. Tommy ducked into the first hotel he came across, letting the cigarette dangle from his lips as he removed his cap and shoved it into his backpocket. The hotel manager, a thin man with more mustache than hair, looked him up and down with large, suspicious eyes.
“Can I help you?” The man asked, his voice lacking the pleasantry he would have shown to any other customer.
“One room,” Tommy answered, glancing around the stale yellow front room that reminded him of the biscuits he’d been forced to eat when the war was on. The manager cleared his throat and shooed away the assistant standing beside him with the room ledger. Tommy watched the young man leave, his brows set firmly.
“I’d recommend you try one of the establishments a few blocks down.”
“This isn’t a ‘otel?” His accent forced its way out as Tommy finally allowed a bit of his stale frustration show.
“It is, yes, but our accommodations here are very… selective.” The man replied curtly.
Tommy said nothing for a moment. His brows were now raised but his eyes betrayed none of the choice words which came to his mind. He cleared his throat slowly and placed his palms on the desk.
“Selective?” He repeated quietly.
“I’m afraid so sir, yes.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Tommy leaned closer, exhaling the words in a gravely voice. The manager reared his head back, shocked by the stranger's tone.
“I must ask you to leave, sir. Respectfully, this hotel is for a certain clientele. We reserve the right to deny service to those whom we deem as… averse to our establishment.”
Tommy inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring slightly, and slapped his palms against the desk.
“Right, then would you be so kind as to point me to an establishment better suited to men like me?”
The manager swallowed and shook his head. “I wouldn’t know their names but I’m sure you can find a place closer to Bourbon Street.”
Tommy studied the skinny twig of a man and contemplated grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him across the counter. Taking another breath, Tommy nodded once, removed his cigarette from between his lips, and stubbed it out slowly on the polished counter until the wood was marked with ash.
“Right.”
The streets were still busy as he exited but of a different sort. The women carrying parasols, arm-in-arm with their husbands or sons were gone. Now people of the night began to emerge, slipping silver flasks from their clothes to get their spirits lightened. Tommy approached a man cleaning his trumpet on the curved corner of a sidewalk and dropped a few coins into the man’s case.
“Know of any places to get a drink around here?”
The trumpet player looked between the coins and the darkly clad man, obviously foreign to the port town. His pale blue eyes seemed to glow in the growing darkness before the new electric streetlamps flickered life.
“This is New Orleans, man. There’s booze everywhere.” The trumpeter shrugged with a smirk.
“Somewhere private then.” Tommy offered.
“Want company too?” The man asked after a moment of thinking. Tommy pulled his cap back onto his head and considered his question. It had been a year since Grace had left Birmingham and he’d rarely paid for a whore since then, too emotionally withdrawn for even a simple fuck. Though he felt no certain way, he removed a cigarette from his case and shrugged once.
“Fine.”
“Then try Madame Dumonte’s. Two blocks down.” The trumpeter pointed and went back to cleaning the mouthpiece. Tommy said nothing, just followed the man’s finger and started off.
x
You down a short glass of cheap clear bourbon, not old enough to be colored from the barrel. Madame Dumonte opens the door to the dressing room and calls your name with a twinge of impatience coloring her tone.
“Susana? Susana, get your ass out there! We’re running out of available girls. Damn busy night tonight.” She huffs but you can tell she’s pleased with the numbers.
“Coming mama,” you answer too slowly or with too much attitude because the shapely woman with greying brown hair tuts and crosses her arms across her large pale chest.
“Are you back talkin’ me, miss?”
You stand up immediately and walk to the door, evading her eyes in a show of compliance. “No ma’am.”
“Because hell! I can take you off that floor if you would rather go do somethin’ else. Honey don’t tempt me because it don’t hurt me.” She keeps calling after you from the doorjam as you reenter the barroom past the second velvet curtain that gives the working girls some sense of safety from the Johns.
When you step beyond the curtain you clearly hear the sounds of competing instruments up and down the street. The gramophone in the barroom plays the same collection of records every night, switched and turned by a little local boy who gets paid a dollar a week to do just that. The room is busy but not too crowded where there are too many men and not enough girls to entertain them, it makes the men start competing, leads to foul language, violence, and the barman’s shotgun eventually being pulled to quell the unpleasantness.
You’d known these men all your life, or at least the types of men who came and went. There was rarely a familiar face among the Johns who came to buy sex and a cheap drink. Travelers are your commodity, something you could expect, spot, and serve. But this evening there is a new kind of stranger. He is dressed poorly for the weather, wears his hat inside, and is too pale to be a laborer. The man sits alone at the bar, his eyes lowered and his expression disinterested in the women maneuvering around him like gracious hostesses.
He is also by far the most handsome man in the room.
x
Tommy keeps his eyes focused on the spirits in his glass, thinking. After all the trouble of coming to New Orleans to expand his business, his first few encounters had been anything but satisfying. Polly had thought it crazy for him to cross the Atlantic for this but America’s prohibition meant money, big money. He’d worn out the racing business, the betting business, and he wanted to sell whiskey for profit and become filthy rich- a final fuck-you to the Bourgeoisie who forced his family into the tunnels beneath the Somme. He had a week in the city, plenty of time to stir things up and make connections, making money later on. He’d only exhausted one option and as a tunneler, he knew how to make more than one route.
He doesn’t hear you when you lean against the bar, your elbow cocked against your corset. It's your perfume that pulls him away. Bergamot, or something heavy. He turns his eyes to you and the color almost scares you: pale, pale blue.
x
“Are you one of the whores?” He asks plainly, his hand still wrapped around his glass. You tilt your head to the side and raise one eyebrow, more tickled by his question than offended.
“Honey, what else would I be doing here?” You smile slightly, treading lightly.
Tommy looks you up and down slowly, his gaze lingering on the structure of your basque and the tremble of your thighs from the nerves that never seem to go away.
“You don’t look like one,” he answers in a matter-of-fact tone and turns his head to drink.
“No? How do I look like then?” You ask with a slipping smile, the familiar muscle memory beginning to kick in as you begin to realize he will be nothing special, nothing new, just another man, just another few dollars to pay rent. Tommy turns back to you, hearing the edge in your voice, and sets down his glass.
“Like you’re in the wrong profession.” He answers finally and pushes the empty glass away and signals the bartender for another. You’re debating how to respond when he adds a moment later, “too pretty.”
He doesn't meet your eyes as he delivers the compliment but you can’t seem to believe it could be because the man is shy. You can’t help but blush slightly, which he doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Are you looking for a girl?” You ask, remembering your role in this conversation- the bargaining chip.
“Don’t know yet. Right now,” he sighs and readjusts himself in the barstool, “I just want a drink.”
“Buy me a drink then?” You sit on the stool beside him, angling your body towards him, your back to the gramophone. The man turns his cool eyes to yours and you swear you can see a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.
“What makes you think I’d do that, eh?”
“Because I’m pretty, you said it yourself.”
Your response seems to satisfy him the way he leans back in his chair and signals to the bartender. Joel, the old barman, smiles as he pours you and the stranger a double whiskey. You look down at your glass as Tommy sips, his lips parting in a slow seductive manner.
“Men don’t usually just come here for a drink, you know. Our booze isn’t that good. The girls are better.” You smile, watching him drink.
“That so?” He asks and retrieves a cigarette. You hold out your lighter before he can find his own. He nods in thanks and leans forward just enough for you to light the end.
“Here, when someone lights your cigarette, it makes them your whore…” you smirk teasingly, snapping the lighter closed.
Tommy sits back in his chair once again and blows out his smoke, smiling now. “Strange customs here… shitty whisky, pretty whores, and rules I’ve never heard of? New Orleans is a strange place.”
“You’re not from here?” You ask and drink from your glass.
“No need to play dumb, love. It’s not that hard to spot a foreigner here, eh?”
You smile and shrug, “where do you come from then?”
“Small Heath,” he answers without hesitation, knowing you will not know the name.
“I need a country, honey.” You laugh and push your empty glass away.
“England.”
Your eyebrows raise immediately, fumbling any chance to appear unimpressed and cool. Tommy smiles further but you speak before he can make a joke of your reaction.
“You’re a long way from home aren’t you, baby?”
Tommy doesn’t answer, just takes a long drag of his cigarette and eyes you. He studies your face the way a confident man can without catching himself in self-consciousness. His gaze lends you some of his confidence, just enough that you feel empowered to reach for his fabric cap, something like a fisherman’s cap, and remove it. He doesn’t stop you, just watches with silent pleasure. Beneath his hat, you see dark brown hair, nearly black. He reminds you of the Roma groups who settle on the edges of town in their wagons to sell their trades and cultures to white southerners. They have the same dark hair and ancient eyes, plagued by the past. His beauty is remarkable, stunning, and you pause for a moment to look his face over. The freckles hiding in the shadows of his skin.
“Here for work then?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Fine then. Running away maybe? From a broken heart?”
He doesn’t answer but his face falls and you know you’ve accidentally found the truth, or at least one of them.
“Honey this is New Orleans, everyone here is running from a broken heart.” You let the words sit for a moment as you study the hat in your hands. It's warm from his head but it doesn’t bother you, it feels intimate. As you turn it you find silver blades hidden in the crease above the brim. You show him with a soft smirk, one without judgment.
“Strange customs in New Orleans? Seems like you have a few yourself.”
You give the hat back and Tommy rolls it before putting it in his suit jacket. He’s wearing a three-piece suit in 90 degree weather from the humidity coming off the ocean.
“Want me to take your coat?”
Tommy, who looked away, turns his head back and raises a brow. “Well, can I trust I’ll get it back.”
“You could buy a room upstairs, keep it safe. Otherwise, you’d just have to give it to Joel and his shotgun. No telling how safe it'll be down here.”
Tommy grins and shakes his head. He’s sweating and you can see beads of sweat form on the shaved sides of his head.
“You run a crooked business here, don’t yeh?”
“Sir, there’s nothing crooked about me.” You smile back and beckon for his coat.
summary: William Killick wakes up in a London hospital after a bombing raid where he is separated from his date, Vera Phillips. A pretty nurse offers to help him find her but after all their searching, he may not like what he finds and end up missing what he left behind.
He has one month before he goes back.
warnings: Graphic descriptions of war casualties and destruction, blood, and medical care, some misogynist undertones, drinking, getting drunk.
word count: 4615k
Desolation Row- Bob Dylan 🎶
I've Been Let Down- Mazzy Star 🎶
fyi- this will be another one of my famous (and bemoaned) multi-part series
I.
One second she was in his arms, the next, she was dead. Blown up and scattered somewhere, was Vera Phillips. The underground nightclub was supposed to be safe, far from the reach of Nazi bombs and lingering blasts. They had been dancing. Vera had finally said yes to a date with the young, attractive Officer, William Killick. She’d been such a bitch to him, unnecessarily so. After days of pestering her with free drinks and compliments, she still had turned him down with cruel flirtation. When he would give up, she’d reel him in once again with lingering looks and playful teasing. She wanted him to love her, but had no intention of loving him back. But tonight, she’d said yes.
When the explosion happened, Killick was flung through the air and landed roughly on a bar table, but otherwise unharmed. The impact knocked him unconscious and when he came to, the place was dark except for the moonlight that shone through the massive rift in the ground above. He pushed the debris off his body and when he could stand, he searched through the rubble for Vera. Bodies and glass alike littered the ground, the crunching sounds beneath his feet made it hard to distinguish between them. Smoke rose around him and his ears were ringing. War had made him more alert, more adaptable, so he quickly pulled himself together enough to survey the damage. He didn’t see Vera anywhere, though he did see body parts mingled amongst the debris. He expected to find some part of her, somewhere, even to find her alive; but he found nothing. After helping a delirious woman to the street where survivors were congregating, he searched their faces for Vera. She was not among them.
He was crowded into an ambulance with four other people, each lying on a stretcher connected like bunk beds to the wall. He was the only one able to sit up and speak, but he had nothing to say. His mind kept replaying the images of destruction he’d seen. He felt a tremendous amount of anger at himself for not keeping Vera safe. What kind of officer was he if he couldn’t protect just one person? Vera should have been with him in that ambulance. How was it that their fates were so different when they were only inches apart? It could have been him…
Killick’s ears were still ringing when he was carried into the hospital. The dim gas lamps made it hard for him to see as doctors and nurses ran around him into different rooms. Black fabric covered the windows to deter enemy planes from spotting London from the sky. Obviously, they had still been able to see something from the ground or the underground bar would not have been targeted. Vera would not have been dead.
“Officer Killick? Can you hear me?” A woman’s voice coaxed him back to the present. He turned his heavy head, blinked, and managed to nod weakly.
“Yes,” his voice was strained, dampened by smoke and shock. The nurse who stared back at him set down her clipboard and rolled up her powder-blue sleeves. She didn’t smile, though her eyes crinkled as if she were. Maybe she would have smiled at the handsome officer if he hadn’t been there under those circumstances.
“I’m nurse Dark and I’m going to take a look at you, ok?” She asked him softly and pulled on two clean gloves. Her hair was pulled back into a cap, something a nun might wear, but Killick could still make out strands of her hair peeking out from beneath her cap. She was blonde - - not like Vera. When Killick nodded again, she applied her hand gently to his stomach.
“Tell me if there’s any pain.” The nurse moved her hands down his body, checking his face for reactions of pain as she went. He shook his head.
“No pain,” he grunted and looked up at the ceiling.
“Good, now let me check your head.” She carded her gloved fingers through his dark brown hair, checking for cuts and fragments of stray glass. She passed her finger down the side of his head and clucked her tongue when she reached his neck. “You have a pretty nasty cut hiding under your jaw.” She checked the other side and then moved away. Killick watched her wearily, his head now throbbing.
“You need stitches on your neck there but everything else seems fine. No broken bones or anything,” she added and crossed in front of the bed to a cart of medical supplies.
“Nothing else?” Killick muttered, dazed and angry. The nurse turned quickly, catching the tone in his voice.
“I don’t know what to say, sir. I wish there was something comforting I could tell you. God knows you get enough combat on the continent.” She bit her lip awkwardly and then went back to the cart. Eventually, the nurse went to his side again and wiped tenderly at his wound. Killick turned his head slightly to the opposite side, hoping she wouldn’t see his lip quiver.
“I was on a date,” Killick said quietly. He blinked away the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “What kind of man am I to let her die?”
She withdrew her hand quickly, hovering the cotton pad over his skin.
“I couldn’t find her in the rubble…” he said more to himself than to her, “it was so dark. I couldn’t make anything out.” He clenched his jaw tightly as he felt himself start to cry. He was not the kind of man to cry. He heard the nurse move away from the bed and he looked over. The young woman closed the door to the small room and drew the privacy screen over the window. Once that was done, she returned to his side. Finally meeting his inquisitive look, she shrugged softly and shook her head.
“I thought you could use some privacy, sir. What you just went through, well… I think it's only right that you have a moment to be human, not just a man.” Her words were gentle and kind. His embarrassment wavered as she took up her work again.
“Thank you,” Killick finally responded and cleared his throat. His watery blue eyes darted to the side then returned to the wall.
The nurse took her time cleaning the wound before she stitched it up. The pads of her fingers danced across his skin, poking the tendons in his neck as she worked. She smelled like soap, clean things, and hot water. Killick found the smell oddly comforting and felt himself finally coming out of shock.
“What’s your name?” He asked, trying to keep his neck as still as possible.
“Nurse Dark.”
“I mean your first name, sister.”
She smiled and shook her head lightly, placing a metal instrument back on its tray.
“I’m not allowed to tell you that, sir. It's one of the most important rules of nursing we follow here, never share your Christian name with a patient.”
“You can’t be serious,” he snorted and rolled his eyes.
“Oh but I am, sir.”
“Will I ever know your full name or will you remain my anonymous caretaker?”
“Do you think it’s important to know my Christian name?”
“I think it's one of the most important aspects of who we are as individuals. We lose something to one another without our names.”
It was silent between them again as she considered his response. She watched the ridge of his neck move as he breathed slowly.
“Rebecca, sir. My name is Rebecca.” She whispered her name as if it were a secret, her voice running like a feather over the curve of Killick’s ear.
“It’s nice to meet you, Rebecca.” His voice was low and smooth, reminding her for some reason of a rich espresso. She paused momentarily, her tweezers frozen above the stitch until she remembered herself.
“Until the rescue team has sorted through the remains of the structure, we don’t know for sure that she isn’t alive. It’s possible she escaped and got lost in the aftermath. If you give me her name, I can look for her here.” The nurse offered in a small, distracted voice. She spoke with her tongue held slightly to the right which was how she concentrated. Killick swallowed before answering.
“Vera Phillips.”
“I’ll look once we’re done here, sir.” She assured him.
“Thank you,” he whispered and closed his eyes, willing that the nurse was right and in some miraculous stroke of luck, Vera had managed to get out alive.
“There will be some scarring but it’ll be somewhat hidden by your collar.” Rebecca drew a finger just beneath the stitches, checking her work. “The neck is hard to work with because it moves so much.” She threw away her gloves and wrote a few things down on her clipboard. Killick straightened up and ensured there were no tears on his face.
“You wouldn’t have a mirror would you?” He tried to smile as he asked. His hands were covered in dirt and ash, he could only assume what his face must look like. Rebecca smiled and retrieved a small compact mirror from her pocket.
“Bloody Hell,” Killick muttered when he saw his reflection. Soot and blood were streaked across his face, blood that he assumed wasn’t his own. He gave the mirror back and cleared his throat. “I thought I’d be used to seeing that by now… but it’s so different to see it here. The war feels so foreign to my life in London. It’s almost like I didn’t think blood existed anywhere else.”
“I can imagine,” the nurse nodded and submerged a cloth in the bowl of water by the cart. She squeezed out the excess water and sat on the edge of the officer’s bed. “I sometimes forget that war can touch us here too. It already has,” she met his eyes briefly and wiped the cloth across cheek, removing the grime.
Killick watched her face as she cleaned him. Her face was rounded with dimples in each cheek. Her long eyelashes fluttered as she blinked.
“When do you go back?”
“In a month,” he looked down at his uniform. Even his dark wool uniform seemed in-tact and undamaged beneath the blood. A few of his medals and bars had been dislodged and some were missing but it’s not like any of that mattered to him.
“Army?” She raised a neatly trimmed eyebrow and he smiled.
“Yes.”
“Thank you for your service, sir.” She smiled kindly as she finished cleaning his face and moved to his hands. Killick scoffed but said nothing in response. She worked quickly to clean between his long fingers and the curvatures of joints and bone. When his hands were fairly clean, Rebecca put the cloth back by the bowl and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Sit tight, I’m going to go check our patient list for your girl.” The nurse excused herself and disappeared into the hallway. Killick's eyes followed after her until he could no longer see her.
x
Killick felt his eyes starting to close as he waited for the nurse to return. To deal with the trauma of his evening, his body was trying to lull himself into sleep. He was tempted to give in and pretend nothing had happened. Sleep would make him forget for a while. But as he started to fall asleep, he heard the door open again. The nurse had come back, an apologetic expression on her beautiful features (wait, did he just describe her as ‘beautiful?’).
“They haven’t transported all of the survivors yet but they don’t have a Vera Phillips and there aren’t any patients with that name here. They’re still actively searching the rubble, so she may still show up. I also didn’t see her name on the list of confirmed dead. I know that isn’t much comfort but it means that anything is possible right now.”
Killick closed his eyes slowly and nodded. “Right, thank you.” His strong, British reserve took over as he swung his legs over the side of the hospital bed.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay at the hospital until morning? While you weren’t seriously injured, I worry about you getting home in your state of shock.”
“I am perfectly capable,” Killick argued as he stood and fixed his uniform, “of getting home.” The nurse stayed by the door, her hands grasped around the doorknob.
“I’m not sure that I believe you,” she observed matter-of-factly and raised one eyebrow. Killick stopped in his tracks and pinched the bridge of his nose. Dark hair fell into his face and he swept it out of the way.
“I appreciate your care but I’d rather be in my own home right now.”
Killick walked a few more steps before losing his balance slightly and bracing himself on the wall behind the nurse. She looked up at him for a brief moment with surprise, their faces close enough to exchange secrets, before looking away and clearing her throat. She stepped aside and opened the door to the hallway.
“Excuse me,” Killick apologized, embarrassed too. He righted himself and ran his hand over his mouth. He stepped through the door and looked back at the nurse, standing in the doorway with her hand resting on the doorframe.
“Thank you, nurse Dark.” He met her eyes and nodded his head curtly. He looked her briefly up and down before he turned away.
“Take care, sir.” The nurse called after him as he walked away from her, down the dark hallway. He could feel her eyes resting on his back as he walked. He could have stayed… he should have stayed the night, he thought. But as soon as he was out of the hospital standing on the dark street, he realized his overwhelming fear for Vera’s life. Was she still out there?
Instead of going back to his lodging he returned to the place of the underground bar, hoping to help aid in their search for survivors. When he neared the site, he saw small torches moving in the pit below and the calls of men as they communicated with one another. Bodies covered with crude materials were lined up along the side of a neighboring building. He approached the bodies and started to remove the cover on one of them when someone stopped him. When the man saw Killick’s uniform he stepped back.
“Oh, sorry officer.”
“I’m looking for my girlfriend,” he heard himself lie, though it wasn’t much of a lie. He was looking for a girl who would have become his girlfriend eventually, if this hadn’t happened.
“Oh, well she wouldn’t be in this group. These were the musicians in the band and the singer. You should check the hospital.”
“I was just there,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair, overwhelmed again by the memories of the last few hours. He could still hear the music that was being played before the explosion, he knew where it had stopped too.
“Were you here,” the man pointed to the remains of the bar, “when it happened?”
Killick turned slowly to the man and blinked slowly. He felt intoxicated and distant, like he was playing a character in a scene.
“Yes, yes I was.”
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” The man asked, looking at the Officer with concern.
Killick took a deep breath and closed his eyes, “Uh V-Vera Phillips. Vera Phillips. She must have gotten out. She’s around here somewhere.”
“I’ll keep an eye out. You should sit down, you don’t look well.”
“I told the nurse I would go home,” he whispered deliriously and stumbled away. The man called after him but he was too far gone.
x
“You’re back.”
A familiar voice spoke to him in the darkness. Officer Killick wearily opened his eyes and blinked, adjusting to the light. He was in a hospital room once again though this time, it was day. Sunlight still streamed in through the blacked out windows, an unwelcome guest after so much darkness. Killick tried to sit up but a hand directed him back down against the mattress. It squeaked.
“What…?” He groaned and looked around for the voice.
When his eyes focused, he saw the same nurse from before. She was sitting in a chair beside his bed, with a tired smile.
“You…” he whispered, remembering her face.
“Yes, and you, Officer Killick. You’re supposed to be at home. Do you remember how you got back here?” She asked quietly and offered him a small cup of water. Killick took it and drank slowly. When his throat was less dry, he shook his head.
“I remember walking home after I went back to the bar.”
“You tried to walk home but you collapsed and were taken back here.”
“I’m helpless. They should kick me out of the army,” Killick rubbed his eyes and drank the rest of his water.
“You’re not there quite yet but you do need to rest for a little while longer. You’ve been asleep since they brought you in.”
“Have you heard anything about Vera?” He sighed and set his cup on the table beside his bed.
“No, I’m sorry. If I hear anything, I promise that you will be the first to know,” she patted his hand on instinct before quickly withdrawing her hand and folding it on her lap, blushing. Killick looked from his hand to the nurse and nodded.
“Eh, thank you.”
“Are your ears ringing?” Rebecca changed the subject quickly. Killick paused to listen, a dull vibration sounded through his head. He massaged his temples and nodded.
“A little.”
“I’m afraid you just have to wait for that to go away on its own. Your stitches are fine though, I already checked them. You were lucky you didn’t rip them and bleed out.” She fixed her cap and stood. Killick watched her hips sway slightly as she walked. He was in a large room with a dozen other men. Nurses hurried between beds, following doctors with charts and medications. The nurse stood at the foot of his bed and pulled the cap from her head, annoyed.
“Damn cap keeps getting in my way. I don’t know why they dress us like sisters here.”
“Isn’t that what you are, sister?” Killick tried to laugh but it stopped short. The nurse nodded and rolled her eyes.
“They only call us that here. In America, they’d call me a nurse.”
“Do you have something against the term ‘sister?’” Killick raised his eyebrow tauntingly. The nurse’s hair fell in a short cut that cupped just below her jaw. He tried not to stare as she combed her fingers through it.
“Only that no convents would take me,” she smiled as she re-pinned her cap to her head, “I’m not very good at religion. Failed that subject in school.”
“Catholic?”
“Church of England,” she corrected him and her dimples deepened.
“That makes two of us. There aren’t many convents for the Church of England,” his eyes squinted playfully, the blue disappearing behind the curtains of his dark eyelashes.
“Probably for the best,” she shrugged, “less rejections.”
They laughed quietly until a second nurse stopped to ask her a question. Nurse Dark nodded, her face now serious. When the second nurse left, she turned to Killck and sighed through her nose.
“I get off in an hour but I’ve told the nurses about your situation. They’ll go to you if they hear anything about Vera Phillips.” She grasped her hands together and took a step away from the young Officer.
“Thank you…” he responded quietly as he watched her slowly move away. He tried to think of something to say to bring her back, to delay her further.
“I hope you find her, Officer Killick,” her lips drew together into a pretty bow. She looked down at her hands, trying to hide the feeling of falsity she felt in that statement. How horrible could she be to wish the exact opposite? She saw him nod through her eyelashes and turned on her heels to leave the ward. As she approached the doorway leading out of the men’s ward, she heard the man call after her.
“Sister!” The words left his mouth on an impulse. As soon as he heard himself call after her, he forgot what he’d wanted to say. Killick wasn’t the type to blush so he furrowed his eyebrows, feigning confidence. The nurse turned, looking around to see if anyone noticed the Officer’s outburst. Her heart skipped a beat to hear him call for her. Killick cleared his throat as she came closer and licked his lips nervously.
“Yes?” Rebecca picked at her nails behind her back.
“Perhaps… perhaps I could call your home once I’m discharged?”
Rebecca felt herself blush deeply and bit her lip, trying to hide the way the request made her feel. She knew that she shouldn’t be so excited about the prospect of seeing the man again, especially after he may have just lost a girl he’d been seeing. It felt like the beginning of a bad idea. And yet, she said yes.
She wrote down the number of her home phone and address on a slip of prescription paper and watched as Killick slipped it into his uniform’s breast pocket. He patted it and smiled with his cool, calm eyes that made the nurse’s knees weak.
“That’s the number of the flat I’m renting. If someone else answers, ask for me. Goodbye, Officer Killick,” she put her hands into her apron pockets and left the ward, smiling over her shoulder as attractively as she could.
x
When he was discharged the next day, he collected the few things that he had with him and made for the door to the ward. He was the only man in uniform around which made him feel isolated and different from the rest of the world. He clenched his jaw as he passed the wandering, frightful eyes of those around him. They admired him in his smart toffee-colored uniform and medals, pegging him for someone important. He wasn’t, really. But the way his dark hair fell across his eyebrows and his stern face framed the brightness of his eyes produced a collected sense of expectation… for what?
The lobby of the hospital opened out onto the busy street corner of London. Newspapers in nearby stands proclaimed the fatal bombing of a London nightclub. Twenty people dead or missing. He thought he should probably tell someone, call Vera’s family, her roommate, anyone. Vera was probably dead and no one knew but him. But the obvious problem was that Killick barely knew her, he didn’t even know where she lived. Large red omnibuses passed as he tried to think. He could check a phone book or call the police. He crossed the street quickly and entered a telephone booth. As he patted his pockets for change, his hand brushed the folded note in his breast pocket. The paper with her home number stenciled in pretty cursive still smelled like her skin, her perfume- subtle, savory. He pushed the thought away and waited for the operator to pick up.
The operator gave him the last known address for Vera Phillips, a small studio apartment somewhere downtown. He followed the street signs as he’d followed orders in the army, blindly. He’d been in London before so he knew roughly where he was going but his brain still felt fuzzy and cold as if he’d been frozen and hadn’t yet thawed. When he stepped up to the drab, two story apartment he removed his hat and exhaled heavily through his house. He had no idea if Vera was living with anyone, if she had a landlady, etc. He half-expected to receive no reply as he knocked on the door and rang the bell once. But he heard the sound of heels hurrying over carpet and words exchanged under breath.
The door swung open. Vera.
“William? What are you doing here? How did you get my address?” Vera was smoking a cigarette and fixing her hair at the same time. She sounded distracted. Killick stared back at her, his lips falling open in bewilderment.
“You’re alive?” He whispered, his throat suddenly tight and awkward. Vera looked back at him, focusing now.
“Yes,” she answered simply with a nod.
“Vera… I looked everywhere for you after the bomb fell. I thought you were dead.”
“Well I-I’m not,” she chuckled awkwardly and went back to fixing her hair for what would be her hairdo for her night performance. Killick clenched his jaw and his eyes narrowed.
“Obviously.”
She looked at him for a moment, processing his pointed tone and sighed. “Killick, you really shouldn’t bother. I appreciate your worry and concern, really I do, but we hardly know each other.”
“A bomb fell on us,” he responded shortly, obviously.
“And we survived.”
“I nearly didn’t because I went back to look for you,” he snapped, his anger rising.
“Oh…” she started and looked away awkwardly. Killick watched her and noticed for the first time how mean she really was, how horribly plain.
“Well seeing as you are alive,” he nodded once and stepped down off the doorstep, “goodbye Vera.”
Vera looked after him as he turned and put his officer’s cap back on.
“Killick…” she started before taking a drag. He turned, waiting to hear what she had to say but when she offered nothing else, he shook his head and scoffed.
“I kept looking for you. I was in Hospital twice and kept looking for you because I knew I’d want the same if you were in my position. But you wouldn’t have. You would’ve left me.”
Vera stared back, her glassy eyes wide and ashamed. She still said nothing so Killick left, anger struggling against every other emotion in his body. He crossed the street and kept walking until he found a pub with enough people inside that he could beg anonymity. All he could do was drink. The publican gave him two free pints and space enough to brood by himself at the corner of the bar. He was still in his uniform and stuck out like a sore thumb but his expression deterred even the most desperate young lady. He played with his knuckles against the bar counter, a cigarette resting between his fingers. The pale skin reflected the light shining in from the window behind him. He scowled down at his glass and pinched the bridge of his nose, easing the tension between his eyes. After another two pints he looked over his shoulder to watch the blue-collar men still left in London walk home to their wives after the workday.
“Damn it all,” he muttered, slurring only slightly, and reached into his breast pocket for the note still sitting there. He took it out and rolled it open between his forefinger and his thumb, thinking. He wet his lips, took a long drag, and exhaled slowly. Killick leaned back in his seat and smoked slowly.
Rebecca… Rebecca… Rebecca.
The name echoed back to him like a whisper from a buried memory. He wasn’t a good man for doing what he was about to do. But was he really sober enough to be held accountable for his bad decisions? The nurse… God the nurse. She wouldn’t judge him, maybe she’d even fuck him. He nodded drunkenly to himself and paid for all four drinks when he was required to only pay for two. That made him feel better about himself, poor guy.
summary: Sexual tension comes to a head (literally) when a younger female agent (you) makes a move on her superior agent, Lenny Miller, after a successful undercover mission.
warnings: Infidelity, power-imbalance, hazy consent, praise and dubious humiliation, smut.
word count: 3,300k
ONE SHOT! Who would’ve guessed…
Taking What's Not Yours- TV Girl 🎶
That's so True- Gracie Abrams 🎵
You were partners. Partners. And he was married. Married. There were so many fucking ethical reasons why you shouldn’t but damn it all, you did.
“I need your wire,” Agent Lenny Miller said over his shoulder as he sorted the equipment back into their cases. Your heart was still racing from the conclusion of your mission, your body was thrumming with adrenaline. You turned to face the hotel mirror and unzipped the back of your dress. When he was done with his brief task, Miller turned and after a moment of hesitation, approached you slowly. He clenched his jaw as he brushed the zipper away so that he could reach the mic-pack secured to the band of your bra. His pale fingers lingered an extra moment longer on the bare skin above and below the clasp as he pulled the pack off. He blinked his heavy eyelashes slowly, wetting his lips as he followed the wire up your back to your ear. His finger trailed over your skin, pretending to hold to the wire as his eyes glanced up to meet yours in the mirror. You removed the mic from your ear and turned back slowly to hand it to him. Miller looked down at you, still holding the pack, his heart racing too but his eyes deadly calm, keeping a level head just like a good agent would. Staring for a moment at the mic-pack, Miller finally exhaled slowly and nodded, taking the mic pack and wire. He switched the device off and looked back down at you again, face-to-face.
You were a young agent, fresh out of training with an expertise in languages. Agent Lenny Miller was a senior agent, a typical dark, brooding type with attitude issues and a soft-spot for intelligent women. He was always arrogant, but it was because he was always right. God, it was so fucking infuriating. When he wasn’t smiling (which was most of the time), you could barely make out the beginnings of crows’ feet at each outside corner of his eyes. He was in his mid-forties, married with a son. He wasn’t technically your boss but that didn’t make it any more ethical. These were just the things you told yourself as he continued to look down at you with his pale blue eyes.
He was standing with his feet shoulder-length apart and his jaw still painfully clenched. You reached around to the back of your dress and unzipped it all the way, your chest rising and falling quickly. Miller inhaled deeply as he saw what you were doing. Your black dress slowly slipped down your body to pool at your feet. He let himself look down at your body, covered only by your underwear. He stepped closer, just half a step, his lips falling open as he looked down at your lips. You rose onto the balls of your feet, offering your mouth but he inhaled sharply again and ran his hand over his mouth.
Miller stepped back and turned. He walked to an armchair in the hotel room and sat down on the edge of the seat, his hands steepled.
“Len-” you started but he held up a hand to stop you.
“Shhh, don’t ruin it, don’t ruin it” he whispered gently and looked you over again from the chair across the room. You stood silently in your underwear for a moment until you felt brave enough to move your arms to undo your hair. Your hair fell around your shoulders and you ran your fingers through it, picking out the knots quickly. Once that was done, you looked back at the man and asked him point-blank.
“Is it your wife?”
“Don’t ask me about her, Y/N.” He responded calmly, his hand still resting against his lips as he stared at you. You raise your chin slightly and inch closer until you're right in front of him. He looks up at you in appreciative silence, like he’s at an art gallery or the symphony. He lets you step between his knees and run your hands down the back of his head starting from the crown. His eyes close slowly and he sighs as your hands stroke his dark hair.
“If only you knew…” you whispered as your other hand slid down his cheek. Agent Miller’s eyes opened and he smiled softly, leaning into your hand.
“Know what?”
“How much I want you,” you answered breathlessly, your heart fluttering beyond beating. Miller chuckled in discomfort and inner turmoil. He shook his head and leaned back in the chair, out of reach of your hand.
“You know as well as I do that we can’t do this, Y/L/N.”
“Don’t talk like that.” You responded cooly, taking a step back as he watched you, his eyes helplessly trailing over your body. Miller leaned his chin against his closed hand, wetting his lips again as you put more distance between you. You could make out the half-hard bulge in his trousers that he tried to ignore. You two stared at each other for a minute on end, neither speaking as your eyes spoke to your individual desires. Finally, Miller sighed and reached out his hand, palm up and beckoning.
“C’mere.”
His voice was gentle but sure, as if there were absolutely no hesitation behind his request. You waited another moment before finally stepping back between his legs. His arms opened, inviting you to sit on his lap. You sat on his upper thigh, within the cage of his arms. Miller used his other hand to pull your legs across his lap, so that you were sitting completely across his legs like a child. His open hand rubbed up and down your thigh furthest away from his chest, slipping all the way down to your calf. You looked down at him and exhaled shakily.
“I-” he started but you pressed a finger against his lips, shushing him gently but firmly.
“Don’t ruin it.”
He smirked softly behind your finger and looked at your lips as you moved your head close to his. You dropped your finger and held the curve of his jaw instead, brushing your lips against his. The short stubble on his jaw tickled your fingers as you pushed them down his throat. His hand moved to hook around your waist and his lips fell open, responding to your tease. You exhaled shakily again, this time against his lips before finally kissing him. The kiss was so soft that your lips barely touched, barely moved. He looked up into your face, exhaling tightly before pulling you closer once again. You kissed again and just as softly as before. When you pulled away, you stared at each other in tense silence, the world around you was shrill like a static that separated you two from the rest of the world.
“Do you want to stop?” You whispered, looking between his blue eyes and his button nose. He briefly pressed a finger against your lips, dismissing your question, before kissing you again. His kiss was harder, stronger, as if he’d finally made up his mind without saying so: he was going to fuck you because damn it, he wanted you so badly. His teeth caught your bottom lip and you moaned against him as your fingers found the buttons of his collared shirt. The process was slow but expertly coordinated as if you already knew each other’s bodies as well as your own. You unbuttoned his shirt, slowly revealing his undershirt once each button slipped out of its eyelet hold. He wore the same undershirts that your dad used to wear beneath his dress shirts, the ones he wore to work, the similarity brought a strange sense of comfort as your hands felt the fabric beneath your hands.
Miller pulled you to straddle his lap so that you were completely facing him on your knees. You rested your butt on his legs, waiting patiently until his shirt and undershirt were completely removed. He held his arms over his head so that you could pull the shirt away from his bare skin. Agent Lenny Miller was by no means a largely muscular man, he’d left his field days behind him, but he was still fit, still lean and handsome. His arms were still muscular and you could feel the tension of his muscles every time he moved them around you. You sat back, ending your kiss for a moment so that you could look down at his bare chest. His pectoral muscles were tight and defined, his stomach shallow and taught. There was a dusting of freckles across his pale chest and a thin line of dark hair beneath his bellybutton. You pressed your hand against his lower stomach and felt the muscle meet your hand as it tensed. He laid his hands on the chair’s armrests and watched you with a calm expression on his face.
You slipped off his lap and opened his legs so that you could kneel between them. He ran his hand over his lips as he watched you, his eyes glued to you. You placed your hands on his knees and rose for a moment longer so that you could run your tongue across his collarbones. You dragged your tongue up his sternum, up to his throat, and ended at his jaw with a gentle nip. He shook once beneath you and groaned softly, so quietly that you barely heard it. When you returned to the place between his knees, his lips fell open in a helpless way, as if he were stuck in a trance. When his pants were undone, you ran your hand over his now-very-hard-cock and looked up into his eyes.
“Go on then,” he whispered, smirking softly as if he were joking. You smiled and pulled down his boxers just enough to find his erection. When it sprang free, he groaned audibly and leaned his head back for a moment. You rolled your tongue around the head slowly, relishing the taste of his precum, showing you just how much he wanted you too. Your hand gripped his shaft and squeezed gently, making him jerk his hips. He cursed beneath his breath as you moved your mouth farther onto his cock. You sucked softly, just wanting to prep him, not to make him cum. His hands tightened on the armrests, his nails digging into the red leather upholstery. You took his cock as far as you could without gagging and rolled your tongue before bobbing up and down.
“Ah fuck, girl. Slow, slow” he praised gently and closed his eyes as you sucked. When you could hear the distinct sounds of masculine whimpers, you stopped and looked back up at him. Miller exhaled tightly and ran his hand over your hair, fixing how it fell at the side of your face. His hand dropped to your shoulder and played with the soft skin there before pulling one of your bra straps off of your shoulder. You waited as he did the same to the other strap. He sighed as you stood slowly and stepped backwards towards the hotel bed, never used. Miller removed the last of his clothes and followed you slowly, his hand reaching out for your body. You let him pull you closer and kissed him as he felt for the clasp of your bra. He undid it easily and pulled it off of your arms so that he could feel your breasts. He nearly growled as he squeezed your breasts, feeling the hard nipple between his fingers. Miller picked you up easily and laid you back on the bed. He took your knees and pulled them apart so that he could stand between them. Still kissing you, he fit his hands beneath the bands of your thongs on your hips. His hands rubbed back and forth on your love-handles, in no rush to take off your underwear.
“Turn over, agent Y/L/N,” he muttered against your lips.
You nodded slowly, your lips starting to feel swollen and hot. You flipped over onto your stomach and felt his hands cup your butt before pulling down your underwear. He pulled them down your knees, over your calves, and off your ankles.
“Look at you. Good girl…” he whispered and tossed the underwear to the side. You pushed your butt up, signaling your need for him. Miller chuckled briefly in understanding and spread your knees again with his hands. With one of his hands, he feels over your wet cunt and leans over you to nip your shoulder.
When you moan he nods, “I know, I know. Me too.”
His long, rough fingers teased you cruelly as you bit your lip to keep from whining.
“Miller…” you whispered after a while of waiting and teasing. The senior agent smiled and leaned closer to your ear.
“Patience, girl. It’s an agent’s best virtue.”
You rolled your eyes and started to respond snippily before you felt him press against you, groaning. He pumped into you, hitting your ass with each quick gentle stroke. His hand that wasn’t being used to support his body went to your chin and pulled your head to lie flat on the side.
“How does it feel?” He asked.
“Hhha,” you tried to speak in a small breathless voice. He moved his hand back to your hip so that he could thrust deeper.
“Mmm fuck, you’re tight,” he panted and moved faster, harder. You cried out in pleasure and arched your back as much as you can beneath his body. “Tell me when you’re close.”
He groaned in pleasure as he found a good rhythm, your cunt gripping his cock better than his wife ever could. You moaned loudly, nearing yelling as he held you down and subjected you to the brutal honestly of his fucking.
He leaned down over you to rub his lips against your smooth upper back. He kissed your shoulder blade and slowed his thrusts, savoring the intimacy of your bodies. He moved his hips forward in a slow and flexed manner, straddling the line between climax and continuity.
“Good girl. Good. fucking. girl.” He muttered, his lips still barely touching your back.
“Shit I’m close,” you whined, your thighs shaking out of your control. As soon as the words left your mouth, Miller pulled out and picked you up by your hips. Nearly cradling you in his arms, he swapped places with you and placed you on top of his freckled upper chest.
“Sit,” he instructed calmly, “I’ll finish you off,” he gripped your thighs, waiting for you to move onto his face. You were panting and red in the face and it took a moment for you to realize what he was asking. With another reassuring nod from him, you shifted your body up and slowly lowered yourself down onto his face. You were skeptical and awkward until you felt his tongue glide over the lips of your sex. His nose rubbed against your clit as he sucked and lapped at your cunt. Your mouth fell open and your thighs immediately reacted by quivering. You placed your hands over his, still on your thighs, and cried out.
“That’s it,” his voice was muffled but still clear as he felt your orgasm building again, “I won’t stop you this time.”
Your body tried to jerk away from his mouth as your climax came on fast and strong but Miller kept you close to his lips. His arms didn’t let you leave even as you writhed from pleasure. You panted loudly, whining, until you finally orgasmed. Miller felt you orgasm against his mouth and waited until you had ridden it out before letting you pull away. You moved back enough for him to sit up. You were both panting and high on pleasure which made it impossible to speak. Miller looked you up and down, his way of asking if you were ok. You nodded softly and he nodded in return.
“You didn’t finish,” you observed breathlessly, straddling his lap as he leaned against the headboard.
“No?” He raised a brow, pretending to be ignorant.
“No, you didn’t.”
“You’re observant, good for you agent Y/L/N,” he responded evenly, raising both of his brows so that his forehead creased into that judgmental look he did so well.
“Fuck you.”
“Already did. Try again,” he tilted his head to the side slightly and nearly smirked. His biceps curled as he ran his hands up and down your arms. When you cocked your eyebrow back, calling him out on his bullshit, he sighed and resigned.
“That was for you, not for me,” he explained calmly, his eyes meeting yours.
“Making me finish, you mean?” You asked slowly, your brows furrowed more.
“Yes,” he nodded slowly and pursed his lips, “that was for you. I wanted to make you come.”
“And now what?”
“What do you mean?” Miller asked, confused.
“What do we do now?”
“We put on our clothes and go back to doing our jobs,” he answered with a half-hearted shrug. You scowled and shook your head.
“No.”
“No?” He repeated.
“You want this too, as much as you try to deny it and shame me for it. I’m not just a pity-fuck. Look me in the fucking eyes and say that you didn’t want me,” your voice dropped and you grabbed his shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscles. He held your gaze calmly but his heart beat faster. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he considered his response. Deciding against words, Miller grabbed the back of your neck and forced you into a hard kiss. You were caught by surprise and moaned tightly as he pulled you close and found your tongue to suck on, delirious with passion. His hands wrapped around you and flipped you over where you were then lying on your back beneath him.
“Fine, how’s this? I’ll look you in the eyes while I fuck you,” he growled and helped himself inside you. Like this, you could see his bright blue eyes as he held himself up over your body. He was already grunting and panting as he started to move back and forth. Both of your mouths fell open and you cried out in more pain than pleasure at this overstimulation. One of his hands wrapped around your throat, his thumb playing with the ridges of flexed muscles as you panted beneath him. His eyes only left you once when he dropped his head to your breasts to take one of your nipples between his teeth. He didn’t press hard, just enough to make you whimper. He flicked his large tongue over your breast, teasing the nipple with quick aggressive flicks. Your back arched and he growled in pleasure against your chest as he allowed himself to feel his orgasm. He returned his head to its original position so that he could watch your facial expression as he came. His mouth was open, his lips wet and pink. His cheeks hollowed everytime he panted, hitting your hips hard with his at the same time. He said nothing as he came, just slowed his thrusts, focusing instead on going as deeply as he could. His eyes closed and he shuttered, cumming inside you.
When it was over, Miller remained fixed above you, his grip loosened around your neck. He traced his finger up and down your throat in a strange show of affection.
“Alright?” Miller asked in a deep, heavy voice. You nodded and ran your hand over his chest.
“You?”
“Alright.” He nodded once. You stared into each others’ eyes, panting and exchanging hot breath.
“Alright,” you whispered.
Another moment of silence passed.
“Alright,” he repeated, staring now at your lips. Slowly, Miller inched closer. Slowly, your lips touched once more.
summary: Dr. Jonathan Crane isn't the only 'crazy' in Gotham City and he's about to meet his match. When confronted with an unpleasant secret from his past, he's skeptical to trust the strange young woman who calls herself Victoria Vale, the rightful heiress to Arkham Asylum (and maybe his downfall).
warnings: smut, aggressive sex, and choking.
Direction - Interpol 🎶
Lovers From the Past- Mareux 🎶
Something breaks inside you, like a rear window or an old family picture. Your breath slows and the night closes in on you, but it isn’t unpleasant, you find yourself welcoming it. Could this man who experienced such similar trauma to you, the man that has as much hate for Thomas Wayne as you, be the person that disarms you? Crane pulls back, looking down at you sprawled beneath him on your bed. Your eyes soften beneath his gaze and you trace his jaw with the pads of your fingers. Crane’s brow furrows slightly, caught off guard by this display of vulnerability from you. Vulnerability, not weakness, there’s a difference and even Crane can see that in the darkness stretched out between you.
You pull his face down to yours and kiss him softer than you ever have before. Crane’s mind draws a blank for a moment as he feels your warm lips work against his with a gentleness that he doesn’t recognize from you, but damn it- he likes it. He removes his glasses and tosses them onto the nightstand and you groan softly against his sticky lips. Your hands run down his bare sides to his waistband. Your fingers rub against the slightly burned flesh on his hip and he winches, growling into your mouth. You smile proudly and keep moving your hands down into the lip of his pants. Crane bucks his hips up as he feels you undo his trousers and find his cock stuck in his boxers. As your hand moves up and down over his erection, Crane’s hands play softly with your skin, following the dips and curves of your body. He kisses the mounds of flesh that form your breasts, his teeth teasing the skin.
“You can be rough with me, Crane. My body isn’t as fragile as you think it is. I can hold my own,” you whisper against his cheek, a groan of frustration escaping as you speak. Crane pulls his head back and smirks down at you, shaking his head.
“Oh I know your body isn’t fragile, darling. I’ve never gotten so close to losing in a fight before…” he chuckles and runs his finger over your right eyebrow. You take his hand from your face and move it slowly to the junction of your thighs, resting his fingers where the waistband of your damp underwear began.
“Then use it.”
Crane raises his eyebrow at your tone and nods, as if he’d consider your proposition with little concern. But as his fingers touch the wet lips of your sex, his eyes cloud with desire and disbelief. His cock hardens in your other hand and he bucks against you again, his mind stuck on how wet you are. He looks down as his hand slips further into your underwear and he slides a free finger between your folds. He looks back up at you, his forehead creased as he plays with you like an experiment. Words escape him for once but you can understand what he wants by the way his mouth falls open and his cock warms in your grip.
Crane lowers his lips to kiss you again, harder this time, with an animalistic urgency that you revel in. His breathing becomes shorter as his hands rip off your underwear and throw them somewhere in your bedroom. You push down his pants and he slips out of them, kicking off his shoes with the same quick motions. He immediately spreads your thighs and pulls them up around his hips, his erection already seeking entrance. When there are no more clothes between you, he pushes himself flush against you, his fingers digging into the pump flesh of your hips. Your fingers card through his hair and catch when he pushes into you roughly. You both tense as he enters and then both relax, taking a breath to make the intrusion easier for both of you.
He can feel you relax around him and takes the opportunity to thrust further, hitting the base of your uterus. He growls and his biceps quiver from the shivers of pleasure rushing through his body. You throw your head back and grip his shoulders, pulling him closer, deeper. Crane pants deeply above you and moves faster, his thighs straining as he tries to go as deep as he possibly can, wanting to feel every inch of you. You grin, already overwhelmed with pleasure from the pace of his hips, but he’s going too fast and at this rate, you’ll finish in a minute. You roll him over and perch yourself on top.
In a show of dominance, you press your hands against his smooth, sweaty chest and slow the pace. Crane groans at the change in pace and grips your hips, pulling you hard against his cock in an attempt at regaining some control. You allow Crane the shred of control he’s taken back from you but you also wrap your hand around his throat and lean closer to his face.
“Tell me Dr. Crane, do you find this display of control just fascinating?”
“No, no, no. We’ll have none of that, Miss Vale,” Crane tuts at your teasing and thrusts up into you, smirking when you cry out. To get back at him, you lean down and lick the length of his jaw, whimpering dramatically into his ear. Your hand tightens around his throat as you nip his earlobe.
“Are you trying to actually kill me?” His voice is deeper with your hand squeezing his throat like that. You loosen your fingers just slightly and rock back and forth on his cock faster, your mouth falling open against his cheek as you nod. Crane rolls his eyes and moves your hips for you, grinding you faster and prompting more breathless moans from your mouth. You sit back up and move your hand to rest on top of his, still gripping your hips. Your head falls back, your breasts pushing up as you groan in pleasure. You roll your hips and Crane curses beneath his breath, one of his hands dropping your hip to play with your breast, his palm teasing your hardened nipple. You take his other hand and slip two of his fingers into your mouth so you can suck them, soothing some of the displaced energy in your body. Crane arches his back, groaning loudly as he feels your tongue swirl erotically over his fingers.
You ride him faster, harder, spurned on by the way his beautiful eyes roll back into his head. You drop his hands so you can lean over him, supporting yourself on your forearms on either side of his head. Crane bends his knees and grips your hips, taking the opportunity to thrust up into you.
“I’m almost glad you won…” you whisper against his ear and Crane shivers.
“Damn you, darling.” Crane slips one of his hands around the back of your neck, holding you flush against his chest. You’re gasping against his shoulder as he builds you up to a climax. As you feel the pressure build in your navel, teetering on the edge of an explosion, you bite down on his shoulder.
“Come for me,” Crane grits his teeth and curses.
“You first,” you growl back, stubbornly. Crane rolls his eyes and laughs breathlessly at your stubbornness.
“You’re just making things harder for yourself. Just come for me, darling.”
You raise your head and press the tip of your nose to Crane’s, determined now not to cum first. “Then make me, Crane.”
He meets your gaze and looks deep into your eyes. You’re such a defiant, stubborn, frustrating brat, but God he loves that and he loves the challenge you give him.
“Oh, I’m going to”
He flips you over and grabs your jaw, clutching it between his fingers. He lets out a low chuckle and grips the headboard with his other hand. Your beautiful, defiant, infuriating face is close to his as he keeps you completely under his control.
“Not so defiant now, are you, darling?”
“Oh shut up and fuck me,” you tangle your fingers in his hair and smile, tugging at the dark roots.
“You’re such a brat,” he growls and tightens his grip on your jaw, subjecting you to the mercy of his thrusts as he moves again. You start to pant louder, so loud that you worry the neighbors will hear you through the thin plaster walls. Crane chuckles breathlessly between moans, “do you want the whole apartment complex hearing you, Miss Vale?”
You don’t respond because being beneath his body weight, forced to feel the brunt of his thrusts, your climax hits you like a blinding wave of light. You take Crane’s throat and pull him closer, forcing him to make eye-contact with you as you cum. Your climax wracks your whole body, making you grab the base of the headboard for leverage as your body shakes and you cry out. Crane groans, looking at your face screwed up in what looks like pain, but you both know it’s pleasure.
“Fuck…” Crane curses and feels himself cum, seizing his whole lower body. His eyes close in weak ecstasy until his hips slow and you ride out the pleasure of your combined climaxes. Sweat drips from his chest onto yours as you stare at each other in silent serenity. You reach his lips with yours and kiss him slowly, sporadically, distracted by the force of your heartbeats. You can feel his pounding against his chest as he comes down from his high, and the same is true for you.
He no longer looks so frightening as he lies on top of your chest, his hair tousled from where you had pulled it. You stroke his hair, his cheek pressed against your breast.
“I have to say that I’m impressed, Crane,” you whisper with a content smile.
“Mmm? Impressed by what exactly?” Crane murmurs against your breast, kissing your nipple.
“How quickly you found me. I knew you’d probably find me but I definitely had to put up a fight. I think I’m officially glad that you won…”
He lifts his head off your neck and looks down at you with a smirk, “You are a challenge, Miss Vale, but that makes it even more satisfying when I won, though you put up one hell of a fucking fight, jesus.”
“But you liked it, didn’t you?” You smile, running your hands over his cheeks up to his ears. Crane catches your hands and holds them away, his eyes shining.
“Yes… but you seem to forget- I will always win.” He mutters as he raises himself up onto his forearms over you, smiling.
“Mmm no,” you answer, rubbing your nose against his with a sly smile, “you and I will always tie. We’re too similar.”
Crane huffs and shakes his head, “it’ll be a cold day in hell when you win against me. I am very dedicated to getting what I deserve.”
“Maybe I just need to raise the stakes. I haven’t shown you all my tricks,” you shrug and play with his dark hair, unphased by his dark teasing.
“Neither have I, though I’d like to hear more about these tricks of yours… and what better time than now, when I have you pinned down in such a pretty position…” he whispers down against your lips. You laugh as he trails his lips down your neck, tickling you gently. He inhales deeply against the crook of your neck and pulls back.
“You know what I love more than anything?”
“What?” You ask, trailing your pointer finger down the curve of his dark brow.
“That now you’re mine. As much as you may try to deny it, you’ll always come back to me.”
“Don’t let it get to your head, Crane.” You smile and trails your hands down his pale neck, brushing your nails against his collarbones.
“Too late…” he whispers and kisses you briefly. “You’re stuck with me now.”
“Yes sir, whatever you say sir,” you respond drolly and roll your pretty eyes.
“You’re infuriating,” he groans and shakes his head.
“Don’t pretend it doesn’t turn you on just to hear me call you ‘sir.’ I bet you love it when your pretty little students do it, don’t you?” You tease as you pull him closer once again, nibbling on his ear as you whisper. Crane laughs and wraps his fingers around your throat, holding you in place gently.
“My students call me ‘sir’ every day. Why do you think you’ll get that kind of reaction out of me, Miss Vale?”
“Because none of your students know who you really are. I know what you want sir,” you emphasize the word ‘sir,’ “I know what you crave because I crave it too.”
Crane lets out a huff and grips your neck tighter, angling your head back so he can whisper against the point of your chin.
“You, Miss Vale, are my darkest desire. I crave you in ways you could never understand, and that infuriates me more than anything else in this world. And you insist on furtherly pissing me off, don’t you, darling?”
You nod and bite your lip, already getting turned on yet again, your thighs growing warmer. Crane look over your face and his eyes rest on your lip caught between your teeth and closes his eyes before looking away.
“Do me a favor. Don’t bite your lip like that,” he mutters.
You release your lip with a pop and raise your eyebrow, “why?” You run your tongue between your lips, wetting them from where they’d gone dry from kissing him.
“When you bite your lip like that, all I can think about is biting it for you… maybe leave a few extra marks in other places.” He trails his eyes down your body beneath him, imagining himself sinking his teeth into the soft places of your body.
“If you get to mark me then I get to mark you. Fair’s fair.” You move your hand to touch his hip where you’d burned him.
“Now that’s not fair,” Crane interjects, tutting, “you burned me first, remember darling? So if you got to mark me…” Quickly he drops your throat and takes your thighs, spreading them and pulling you down the bed.
You gasp before finding the words to respond, “then what?”
“Then I’m going to mark you, Miss Vale. I’m going to have fun with it too.”
“How…primal of you,” you whisper and shift your hips, feeling the pressure build between your thighs.
“Oh darling, you don’t even know the half of it. I fully intend on being savage with you tonight,” he strokes your face, smirking, “we both know that you can handle it.”
“Do what you wish, Crane. Victor gets the spoils…” you remind him, your breath short as you look up at his pale face distorted in the dark into a mask.
You see a new version of Crane emerge as he lowers his head to your neck, sucking roughly on your skin until you could feel the blood vessels crackle beneath the surface. You moan from the roughness of his actions, your sex getting wetter. His hand slides up to grasp your throat again, his warm fingers squeezing only slightly as his teeth scrape against you.
“Beg for it,” Crane whispers in a strained voice against your ear, his hips settling against yours.
“Crane, please, please Dr. Crane…” You whimper sarcastically, smiling as his fingers tighten around your throat and his cock lies warm against your stomach. Crane huffs and rolls his eyes. He angles his face just above yours, his lips curved in a look of patient warning.
“Try again, my little brat, and this time make it more persuasive. Say my name, and say please, and do it more sincerely.”
You take a breath and wiggle against his hold until you can get comfortable. Finally, with a small smile, you do as he asks. “Please, Dr. Crane. Ever since I saw your lecture on phobias… I’ve wanted you. I don’t just want you to fuck me… I want you to hurt me… I want you to take everything from me… because you’re like me. I trust you to hurt me as much as you want to. I need you…”
“Mmm,” Crane pretends to think it over and nods slowly, “better but it’s not enough, not after you treated me earlier this evening. Beg.” His voice is a command now and you gasp softly, feeling his free hand drift between your thighs.
“Beg.”
Crane whispers again against your ear and exhales, shifting strands of your hair from your face. His hand runs up and down the inside of your thigh as he drops his mouth down to your shoulder, leaving a painful hickey in a prominent position. You whimper and moan, words stuck in your throat as your hands feel over his body, his arms, his shoulders.
“Beg, darling.” He says again, losing some of his patience. You gasp and shake your head, your fingers gripping his shoulders.
“I’m already begging, doc. Jesus just rip me apart.”
“Mm that works,” Crane shrugs with a smirk and aligns himself with your sex, pushing in fast. He slips easily inside now and he curses loudly from how wet you still are. He holds your hips down and moves his hips deeply, hitting your hips every time with his. He pulls one of your thighs around his lower back and settles as closely as he can against your pelvis until you cry out in pain. His hand around your throat strokes your skin as he smiles down at you, proud.
“I have all the time in the world to figure you out now. I’ll find what makes you tick, and more importantly, what makes you cum,” Crane growls with a sick smile and moves faster. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and your scratch your nails down his back, overcome by both overstimulation and pleasure.
“Look at you, pet. Oh that’s it, darling, give it up. You’re so close to feeling everything that I’m going to give you. Damn, you’re already so fucking close, aren’t you?” He teases, his face set in a sneer.
“Crane…” you whisper, your eyes squeezed shut now as you feel yourself already starting to cum again. He groans as he feels you tighten around his cock, prompting his second climax of the night. As he cums, you feel your orgasm wash over you, your back arching and your fingers drawing blood on Crane’s back.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful when you give into me…” he sighs and strokes your face with his palm, his chest heaving.
“Don’t get used to it,” you pant and swipe his hand away from your face, smiling.
Crane laughs and watches you as you try to catch your breath below him. He notices how you don’t try to move or change positions, and your thighs are still shaking from the aftershocks of your orgasm.
“You can’t move now, can you? You’re too weak…” he smiles and kisses your neck.
“Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be able to kick your ass again.” You laugh breathlessly and pull his mouth to yours to kiss him. He kisses you back and pulls out, lying beside you and wrapping his arm around your side. He traces the curves of your body with his palm, smiling against your mouth.
“God, darling, a minute ago you were begging me to ruin you. Now you think you’ll be fine in a few minutes? Look at you, you can barely move right now. I think I did a damn good job, don’t you?”
“I’m never going to live that down will I?” You roll your eyes and bite his lip gently, playfully. Crane shakes his head and kisses you again, biting your lip back. “I like this side of you.” You pull Crane closer so that you can feel his bare chest against yours.
“Of course you do. You like whatever version of me that takes you and breaks you. You’re such an easy little pet to figure out, darling…”
“I keep forgetting you’re a shrink…” you groan and push him away playfully. Crane kisses your neck instead, his lips barely touching your skin. He smiles and chuckles.
“It’s part of my job, darling. I take apart the minds of the most deranged criminals of Gotham. You think I can’t solve you, too?”
“I let you get into my head.”
“You let me get into a lot more than that, Miss Vale.”
“Well soon it will be my turn to return the favor.”
“You’re going to figure me out the way I figured you out? Seems a bit arrogant, darling…”
“I found you first, didn’t I?” You smile.
“That’s true. Finding me doesn’t mean you’ve figured me out, though, does it?”
“No, but I think I just about have anyway. Maybe I’ll tell you what I’ve learned one day.”
Crane perks up, his eyebrows raised, “Maybe I don’t want to wait until another day to hear what you think you’ve figured out. That’s just too much for a man like me to handle.”
“You need to learn how to handle disappointment,” you respond coolly and kiss his cheek. Crane laughs and takes your wrists, holding them against the headboard. “Don’t be a brat, darling. Just tell me. Tell me what you think you’ve figured out about me. I’m dying to know.”
summary: Dr. Jonathan Crane isn't the only 'crazy' in Gotham City and he's about to meet his match. When confronted with an unpleasant secret from his past, he's skeptical to trust the strange young woman who calls herself Victoria Vale, the rightful heiress to Arkham Asylum (and maybe his downfall).
warnings: more sexual tension but not quite smut yet, violence, mention of a gun, sexual violence.
Tocka - Molchat Doma 🎵
The Masochism Tango - Tom Lehrer 🎶
A/N I know it's frustrating that we're building up to the smut so slowly but I promise that it'll be worth it. I'm trying to replicate the sexual frustration and tension (plus you know how much I love world-building)!!
“This…”
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you press your lips against Crane’s. You exchange breath quickly as he realizes what’s happening. You pull back only slightly to see Crane’s reaction, your eyes turned down at the corners. Crane sees the look in your eyes and his body begins to thrum. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrow as a primal surge of energy explodes within him. His hands release the counter behind him and grab your face, pulling you roughly to his mouth. The moment your mouth crushes against his, he feels the last bit of his restraint snap. His body feels like it’s on fire, and he lets out a soft, barely audible moan against your lips.
You kiss Crane harder, not caring if it hurts either of you. Crane groans again, his fingers tightening around your jaw. You reach your hand between your two bodies and grab his lapels, pulling him even closer. When his chest hits yours, Crane moves his hands up to your hair, tangling his fingers around strands of hair and tugging harshly until you whimper. His tongue parts your lips and tangles with yours. Now it’s your turn to moan and stumble back into one of the other lab tables. You grunt when your back hits it but you never break your rhythm.
The sound of your moaning against his mouth makes him grow completely desperate for you. His hand that was gripping your chin releases your face and grips the side of the lab table that you’ve stumbled back against, pushing his body even closer against yours. His tongue is tracing over your bottom lip, his teeth just barely nipping at your lip. You wrap your hands around his neck and rise up on the balls of your feet to keep your balance. Crane moans lowly and clenches his hands on either side of you on the table. His tongue moves deeper inside your mouth and his hips move against yours. You feel how hard he is and moan softly into his mouth again.
You move his tousled dark hair out of his face with one of your hands and take off his glasses, setting them to the side. Then pulling him closer by his throat, you start to lean back on the table. Crane groans in response and helps you back onto the lab table, spreading your legs so that he can stand between them. His hands run up and down your thighs caging his hips between them. You move his hair from his face again, pulling the dark hair back with your hands.
Crane pulls back suddenly, looking down at you and panting, his eyes wild. You stare back, your lips parted and wet from his tongue. You realize suddenly, that he almost looks afraid. You’re not naive enough to assume that he’s a virgin but perhaps its hard for him to trust women enough to fuck them like this.
“What is it?” You ask, your brow furrowed.
Crane seems to finally snap out of it and leans down, his thumb playing with your bottom lip. “I don’t want another man to ever see you like this.”
You laugh and sit up, still hugging him with your thighs. When you sit up, you only come up to his chin so you trail short kisses along his jaw, your other hand stroking his chest beneath his lab coat.
“Oh, Crane… you haven’t even seen what’s under these clothes.” You whisper as you kiss his jaw. Crane groans and closes his eyes. His hands move to your hips and start to slip up beneath your shirt.
“Then let me see you…” he nearly whines, his deep voice tapering off as he asks.
You run your nose up and down his throat and kiss his Adam's apple with a smile.
“Are you sure, Crane?” You whisper.
“I’ve never been so sure about anything, Miss Vale.”
You stroke his face, one of the rare acts of kindness that you’ve offered him so far. Because you can’t reach his lips, you lean your head back and give him permission with your eyes. Crane groans and drops his head to his chest, shaking his head.
“This is a trick, isn’t it?” He mutters, chuckling, “Business partners, not fuck buddies, isn’t that what you told me?” He groans again.
“Mmm that’s right, Crane. Good boy.” You smile and kiss his neck once.
“You’re making it incredibly hard for me to compose myself right now, Miss Vale.”
You smile softly and gently push him away. Hopping off the desk and fixing your clothes, you grin at Crane over your shoulder. “Then try harder, Dr. Crane.” You walk to the door of his lab while he remains by the lab table, his eyebrow raised.
“You’re playing a dangerous game…” he grunts darkly, his lip twisting into a scowl.
“Then let's play another one, shall we?” You respond calmly, fixing your clothes to fall normally.
“Oh? What kind of game did you have in mind?” Crane smooths down his lab coat and the tented front of his pants. His fingers itch to grab you, to hit you, to hurt you, but mainly to kiss you, fuck you, take you.
“Hide and Seek. I've proven my skill for finding people, watching them, following them... now it's your turn, Crane. I know you like to 'stalk' the women who rub you the wrong way. So, here's your invitation. Come and find me. If you can, and I'll warn you it won't be easy, then your lack of 'composure' will be of no issue.” You propose, your back close to Crane’s lab door.
Crane smirks and looks down at his feet, impressed that you’ve learned so much about his tendencies, especially when it comes to other women. He feels a shiver run down his spine at the idea of chasing you down, hunting you. Something about that thought is so thrilling. His chest rises and falls with every deep, shaky breath he takes. He keeps his head down as he speaks again.
“And if I find you, what then?”
“Whatever you want. Victor gets the spoils.”
Crane looks up, his eyes dark like a predator’s. A smile forms on his lips and he nods slowly.
“Alright, Miss Vale, I accept your challenge.”
“Good. You leave your lab at 10pm every night. I have until then to get home. You have 42 hours to find me... or the deal's off. We're back to being just business partners.”
You open the door of the lab, looking back to get one last glance at Crane. He looks flustered and dark, like an escaped maniac. You want him to stalk you. You want him to watch you sleep. You want him to be a freak.
When the door finally closes, Crane pinches the bridge of his nose and groans aloud. In his entire life, he’s never felt this sort of excitement before. He can already feel himself growing frantic, desperate for your scent, his mind completely fixated on you. He takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down, but the faintest hint of your perfume still in the air only causes his thoughts to go more wild.
“I’m going to find you, Miss Vale. You’ve really started something now, and you may regret it.” Crane says under his breath and turns back to his work, finishing what he can before he can start the clock, the countdown.
…
You’re already home when Crane can leave his lab and start the game. The streets of Gotham are dark and uncomfortably warm but he keeps his suit jacket on, who would he be without it?
He stops outside the university building and sniffs the air like an animal, seeing if he can still smell your perfume in the air. But the air around him smells like a college campus stuck in the middle of a large city: stale beer, gasoline, and cigarettes. Crane looks around at the cityscape in front of him. He could go to the nice part of town, the area where he lives, an area that a woman working for the police department would live too (assuming their paychecks were similar). He started walking towards his part of town when he stopped.
Victoria Vale was the child of the Arkham family, you’d told him that the first night you met. You would probably want to stay close to the asylum, the last thing that reminded you of your parents. Plus, you were just as dangerous as any of the criminals in the Narrows, so the neighborhood wouldn’t scare you away. So, Crane decided, you lived in the Narrows, but where?
He knows he’d have to be absolutely crazy to go through every single apartment in the Narrows looking for you, so that's out. No, he’s going to have do this by thinking like you. Which place would make you feel the most comfortable, safe, and at home? You’re just a lowly detective, at least that’s what you want everyone to think. You don’t play by the rules, you don’t respect the players, so neither would he.
Crane headed home to his own apartment, planning out his moves for the next day. He wouldn’t need the full 42 hours, especially if he broke the rules. No, he’d only need a few.
…
The next evening Crane leaves his lab at the university early, rebuffing his usual routine. He waits outside the precinct, hidden in the shadow of a city bus. A drunk man approaches him, babbling about Wall Street. Crane ignores the stranger as he watches for you but he doesn’t leave Crane alone, trying to pick a fight. Crane grits his teeth and grabs the man’s collar and pulls him close.
“Fuck off,” he growls. The drunk investor’s eyes widen and he babbles again. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“What are you doing?” The man slurs and Crane smirks suddenly.
“I’m waiting for a woman to leave that building,” he points to the precinct’s front doors, “then I’m going to follow her home and watch her sleep, and then I’m going to break into her home and win the little game she’s playing with me.” Crane answers in a clear, dark voice, his eyes taking on a frightening glow. When the drunk man says nothing, Crane shoves him away. “Oh don’t look at me like you haven’t done something worse, wannabe Wayne.”
Crane focuses his attention back on the building and the man scrambles away. Crane chuckles as the man trips over his own trousers and shouts in terror. As he does though, Crane sees a woman standing on the opposite side of the street, her head turned towards the source of the shout. His eyes narrow and he notices that it's you, the bane of his existence and fuel to his sadistic fire.
You keep walking, shaking your head as you see what looks like one of those rich finance bros scurrying away from a city bus. Your eyes watch him as you make your way home towards your apartment. The precinct is in the heart of downtown Gotham, a few blocks away from Arkham and the Narrows. The sky is dark but has a sickly-yellow tinge to it from the smokestacks standing tall in the clouds of smog. You pull your hair up into a clip to keep it off of your neck. Sweat drips down your spine as you cross intersections and get closer to your apartment in the Narrows.
Crane follows you like a shadow, only the reflection from his glasses would be visible if you looked over your shoulder. His heart beats faster as he watches you walk, completely oblivious to how close you are to him without even knowing it. He watches behind a dumpster as you climb a set of slotted iron steps up to your door. You remove your keys smoothly from the pocket of your trousers, the only pants you like to wear he notes to himself. There’s no fear or urgency in the way you look for the right key and slip it into the lock. You live in a dangerous part of town, break-ins happen while the residents are still inside. A young woman standing in the dark at her door, distracted, well she was just asking for trouble now.
You open your door and close it behind you. The apartment lights up as you turn on lamps and kick off your pumps. Crane watches from the alley, a window providing him with a clear view of your living room. He watches as you take down your hair again and open the freezer to get the tray of ice cubes. You take an ice cube from the tray and let it melt on the back of your neck, its trail of water wetting your t-shirt.
You have a box unit in the window of your bedroom and Crane finds it easily. It takes him a few tries to pull the wire poking out from the corner of the window. Naturally, he has a pocket knife stuffed into one of the pockets in his suit jacket. He takes the wire and holds it taut as he cuts, killing the air conditioning in your apartment. The result is almost instantaneous. You get hotter, so you slip a second ice cube down your shirt into your bra. When that still doesn’t help, you tug off your t-shirt and drop it on the couch. Crane watches from the alley with an amused smile. He feels himself getting hard, excited.
You move into your bedroom and find the broken air conditioner in the window and groan aloud. You curse below your breath and undo your trousers, letting them slip to the ground. When the warm air hits your bare legs, you sigh, finding some relief. Holding the air conditioner with one hand, your other hand gropes the side panels holding it inside the window. You free it from the window pane and set it roughly on the floor. Fresh air rushes in and you close your eyes, taking in a deep breath. The severed cord connected to the A/C unit doesn’t even catch your eye, you’re so distracted by the heat.
Crane watches as you close the sheer curtains over the window and step away. He steps closer, invisible in the dark. He can see through the gauze-like material that you’ve stepped into your bathroom and turn on the shower. Through the medicine cabinet, he watches your reflection unclip your bra and drop it onto the tiled floor before you close the bathroom door and he can see no more. Crane waits for a moment, imagining you stepping out of your frilly little underwear you were wearing when you removed the A/C unit from the window, and tossing it into a laundry hamper beside the sink. He imagines you turning on the shower and stepping below the freezing stream of Gotham city water. His cock gets harder and his pupils dilate. He catches himself salivating… literally salivating at the thought of you. Unable to stand it any longer, Crane opens the window a little more and pushes himself over the lip of the windowsill. His long lean body slips easily inside and he closes the window behind him, hoping that you will notice.
He takes the opportunity while alone in your bedroom to take a very quick look around. He finds the gun in your bedside table (looks legit), he admires your underwear drawer (why so many frilly things, Victoria?), and smirks at the stacks of his research papers on your floor around your bed (so sweet, really). When he hears the shower cut off, Crane slips quietly into the living room, unlocks the front door and leaves.
This is when he waits.
Back under the protection of the alleyways in the Narrows, he waits for you to notice the window, then to search the house for an intruder, and then finally to check the front door where you realize the front door is unlocked. Being the level-headed woman that you are, you will lock the door, get your gun and search the house again until you are convinced that the window must have slid shut while you were in the shower and you must have also forgotten to lock the door when you came home. Minor mistakes.
But you never make mistakes, Miss Vale.
Like clockwork, Crane muses, now in a big t-shirt and underwear, you roam around the small apartment with your gun cocked. Multiple thorough searches leave you perplexed. You allow yourself to consider Crane as the suspect. You’d told him to stalk you, but why would he risk running down the clock like this and not stray to claim his prize? You make sure the door is locked again before you go to bed, leaving the lamp on as you skim an article Crane had written on the intersectionality of pleasure and fear (riveting stuff).
You’re starting to fall asleep. Your eyes are getting heavy. The words on the page are bleeding together.
Someone knocks on the door. You jump.
Taking your gun again from the nightstand, you walk slowly to the front door. The person knocks again, harder this time. Crane wouldn’t knock, he’d find a way in, you tell yourself. You open the door, but the door chain keeps it from opening all the way. Before you even have a moment to breathe, Crane kicks in your door, breaking the chain in the process.
The moment Crane steps into your apartment, his predatory instincts immediately start to kick in. Before you even have the chance to step back, he grabs you by the shoulders and slams you back against the wall, pinning you in place. You gasp, dropping the gun, but before you can scream, Crane clamps a hand over your mouth. He shushes you sweetly, his eyes wild. You try to knee him in the groin but his free hand stops you, slamming your thigh back against the wall.
He pulls you completely flush against his body, pressing you into the wall as he leans his head even closer to yours. His voice is low and rough as he speaks, his words are almost like a hiss as he speaks directly into your ear, “You’re completely trapped. There’s no way out of this, Miss Vale.”
You roll your eyes, your attempt at words are too muffled to be heard behind his hand. He tilts his head to the side slightly and looks down at you, taking in the way you look completely trapped between his body and the wall. Having your eyes look up at him defiantly as he feels you struggle against his body, it’s so incredibly arousing, and it’s making his skin burn.
But is it just pleasure, or is it an actual fire?
You strike a flame with the Thomas Wayne lighter you’d slipped from the breast pocket of his jacket just 42 hours before. The one you’d originally given to him the first night you met. It was still in your other hand, clamped in your sweaty palm. With the flame lit, you angled it close to Crane’s hip and waited for him to react. Crane pauses for a moment and looks down.
“You fucking bitch-” he cusses and he releases you from his grip and bats the flame away with his hand. “You just ruined one of my favorite suits…”
Crane drops his hold on you momentarily and you try to catch your breath as he examines the edge of his suit jacket and the inflamed spot of flesh below the fabric, flashing you a deadly look. His dark hair has fallen into his icy blue eyes, making him look reptilian.
“I can’t make this too easy for you, I’m sure you understand.” You scowl, your chest heaving.
“That was a nice try, Miss Vale. However, I’m afraid that I’m not deterred just yet,” his low voice sounds manic, unpredictable.
“I assume as much,” You snap the lighter closed and puff a strand of hair out of your flushed face. You may want this as much as Crane, but fighting is equally as fun.
“So what? You think you can get away from me?” Crane steps in again, looking down at you with a challenging smile. You shrug and scowl up at him, your thighs shaking as you notice the smell of his cologne. Crane laughs at your shrug and cocks his head to the side, his jaw clenching for a moment.
“Ok then,” he continues, “Go ahead, pet. Let’s see what you can do. Try to get away from me.”
“Such a gentleman,” you give a false smile and toss the lighter up and down. Suddenly striking a flame, you throw the lighter at Crane and dive for your gun all the way across the room near the door to your bedroom. Crane ducks his head to avoid the lighter, his reflexes quicker than you anticipate. He watches as you dive for the gun and laughs, taking his time, unconcerned with your attempt to reach the gun in the dark.
“Ah, ah, ah. That’s cheating, darling,” he clucks his tongue and steps slowly towards you.
“I made the fucking rules,” you manage to say as you scramble in the dark for the gun.
Crane frowns and rolls his eyes. He steps over you quickly, grabbing a fistfull of hair on the back of your head and pulling you back.
“Perhaps but I’m the one who started this game. And I’m the one who’s going to win it,” his voice is low and nearly inaudible as he turns you over. You grab the gun just in time and turn it on him, both hands angling the gun at his pale face above you.
Crane stops mid-step and smirks slowly, his hands rising in surrender. His head turns partly to the side and he regards you with a cocky and unconcerned sidelong glance.
“Are you going to shoot me with that, Miss Vale?” Something flickers in his eyes and you shrug, unable to decide whether you’re pissed off or turned on.
“I don’t know yet.”
Crane scoffs and looks you up and down as you lie on the floor beneath him. Your shirt has ridden up to your ribs, exposing your plain cotton underwear. He clenches his jaw and turns out his lip in a show of restraint. His eyes are glued to your thighs.
“God, look at you. You’re such a damn tease,” he jerks his head at your underwear, his arms still raised.
“Funny, that’s what all of my ex-boyfriends said before I dumped them. Maybe they just couldn’t handle temptation,” you sneer back, the gun still trained on Crane’s sour expression.
Crane chuckles at your response and braves a step closer. When you don’t shoot him immediately, he decides to push you further.
“They couldn’t handle you at all… but I can.”
“I’d like to see you try,” you sass back with a smile. You keep smiling until Crane jumps on top of you, knocking the gun out of your hand again. You try to struggle away immediately but he yanks you back into place on the floor beneath him. Crane holds your wrists down and grits his teeth, his glasses slipping down his nose slightly.
“Oh believe me, I’m going to try my hardest, Miss Vale.”
As the words leave his mouth he lowers his head to your neck, dragging his tongue along your throat. Then he begins to suck gently, his teeth nipping at the thin skin above bands of muscles. His lips pause just below your earlobe and he smiles, exhaling against the skin.
“You taste so good, darling…”
You whimper softly, trying your best to hold it in. The last thing you want at the moment is for Crane to know how turned on you actually are. You can feel Crane smirk again against your throat. He moves one of his hands to your hip, the other now holding both of your wrists above your head. The hand on your hip slides over the soft pouch of flesh above your navel. His warm fingers follow the natural dip between your ribs and then back down to your stomach. You bite your lip, muffling the dirty sounds slipping from your mouth at his experienced touch.
“Do you like that, darling? Look at you… finally starting to submit,” he whispers and changes the direction of his hand. His fingers move back up your stomach, slipping below the bunched up hem of your shirt to find one of your breasts. His middle finger circles the hardened breast before slowly making the circle smaller until the pad of his finger teases your nipple.
In his moment of distraction, you use your knee to force him off of you, spinning him around and landing on top. Crane looks up at you, surprised to find you straddling him now. Before he can open his mouth to speak, you slap him hard against his cheek. His smile changes immediately to a sneer as he grabs your wrists and flips you over again, slamming you down against the floor. Finding strength in your adrenaline, you push him back and you both end up rolling around on the floor, knocking furniture and lamps down as you move. Finally, you shove him away long enough to launch yourself from the floor. You scramble into your bedroom and make it a few steps before you feel Crane’s hand grab your shoulder and spin you around. He pulls you flush against him and time seems to stand still as you look at one another.
And then you’re kissing, kissing as if you’ll never kiss another person again. Crane hands hold your face, pulling your mouth against his. You moan against his mouth, stumbling back and forth, grappling at his suit jacket for balance. Crane forces you backwards until you fall back on your bed. Temporarily apart, Crane swipes your papers from the comforter, knocking over the lamp on your nightstand. As the lamp crashes onto the floor, the room is thrust into semi-darkness with only the city lights of Gotham to illuminate your bodies.
Crane kisses you again, finding your body on the bed. You push his suit jacket off his shoulders and immediately start to unbutton his starched shirt. Crane moves his mouth over your body, kissing whatever exposed skin he can find. When his shirt is off, he grabs the bottom of your shirt and pulls it off, throwing it across the room where it knocks a picture from the wall. There are no words of praise or desire, no speaking, just heavy breathing and desperate moans.
Only when you are completely disrobed does Crane pause, looking down at you. His eyes trail over the peaks of your nipples and the valley between your breasts, glistening with sweet sweat. His hand passes over one of your breasts, his palm flat. Your nipple rubs against his rough skin and you moan, your thighs twitching. Crane wets his lips and does it again, watching for your reaction. When he’s satisfied, he handles your breast roughly, squeezing it and lowering his mouth once again to your neck, biting you gently.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and by far the most dangerous.”
summary: Dr. Jonathan Crane isn't the only 'crazy' in Gotham City and he's about to meet his match. When confronted with an unpleasant secret from his past, he's skeptical to trust the strange young woman who calls herself Victoria Vale, the rightful heiress to Arkham Asylum (and maybe his downfall).
warnings: mentions of attempted suic*de and an insanity plea (follows the plot from the movie Batman Begins).
A/N: I really enjoy using the original DC comic lore so if you've been following me for a while, you'll recognize the backstories in this but I've tried to make a completely different plot line.
Choke- I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME 🎶
A few days pass but they feel like weeks. You’re expecting Dr. Jonathan Crane at the precinct to conduct Falcone’s psychological examination, and shift impatiently in your seat. You check your watch routinely, having assumed Crane would be a very punctual person and arrive right at 4:00. And you’re right.
Crane saunters down the hallway like a black cat, his dark hair combed back against his head and his glasses perched perfectly on his button-like nose. You stand as you see him, pushing your chair back from your desk. You step out to meet him, keeping one hand securely on your hip to ensure your gun stays there and doesn’t get picked up by this handsome criminal mind. Dr. Crane smirks softly when he sees you and gives you a curt nod.
“Detective Vale,” he greets you and sticks out his hand. You give a professional nod back and shake his offered hand, surprised to find it so warm.
“Dr. Crane, thank you for coming on such short notice. One of the men we have detained in the precinct attempted last night, I’m sure you understand that we have to follow protocol- get him checked out before his trial in case there’s a more serious issue here.” You explain, knowing Crane can see right through you and your speech (just a matter of routine).
“I’m always… happy,” he takes a breath, “to help law enforcement when I can.” The smile he gives is false, a lie, but one that you share. You nod and open your mouth to speak again when you hear Rachel Dawes’ voice splinter the conversation.
“What’s he doing here?” Dawes stands beside you, crossing her arms over her chest in her crisp suit. You watch Crane suppress a scowl as he sees Dawes appear in front of him in her annoyingly professional suit. Though he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to having a thing for powerful women.
“Ah, Miss Dawes. To what do I owe this… pleasure?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Dawes retorts, her nose scrunched in distaste.
“Dr. Crane is conducting a psychological examination on Falcone for the department,” you turn to Dawes, putting your hands casually into the pockets of your pants.
“Is he? Then perhaps he can also explain why so many of Falcone’s men end up in Arkham because of his diagnosis.”
Crane holds back a sigh and gives his best charming smile. “Miss Dawes, I’m simply giving professional diagnoses and my most honest clinical opinions about each of Falcone’s men. They end up in Arkham because that is where they belong. That’s hardly my fault, if criminals have a certain association with the insane.” Dawes begins to level a threat at Crane when you cut in.
“Rachel, we’re going to get him on this one, I promise you. I’m going to oversee the examination with Dr. Crane.” You speak softly to Rachel, meeting her dark brown eyes.
“Well I’m glad you're overseeing it, some people need it,” she glances over at Crane who looks back without speaking. You look between them before clearing your throat softly.
“Let me know what the results are, Victoria. The judge wants to meet with Falcone on Monday,” Dawes directs her words to you and then turns to Crane again. “Falcone has no history of psychiatric problems. He got a hold of a blade and claims he wanted to hurt himself. I think he’s faking it.”
Crane nods once, still cool and clinical despite the unspoken accusations launched at him. “We’ll see.”
Dawes and Crane scowl at each other before you nod once again and gesture down the hallway.
“I’ll be there to watch, Rachel, and I’ll let you know what the decision is. We all want a conviction as much as you do.” Your words sound truthful and sincere. Rachel’s pager buzzes and she looks down at it, frowning. She turns and nods at you in thanks before walking away, her black stiletto heels clicking angrily. You look again at Crane whose eyes are already on you, examining you silently.
“Very interesting…” he says coolly. You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms over your chest.
“How’s that?”
“It’s interesting how you interact with her. You deal with her so casually.”
“I have many talents,” you answer distractedly and turn down the hallway, beckoning him to follow, “shall we?”
“Lead the way, Miss Vale.” His voice feels close to your neck, prickly and hot like a hand. You close your eyes for a moment and sigh, allowing yourself to dissolve in the riptide of his voice. Then you’re back, you glance around to make sure that no one has seen your “friendly” interaction and continue walking, your steps wide apart and fast. Crane follows easily behind, his gaze unfazed and silent. You stop in front of one of the soundproof interrogation rooms in the precinct where Falcone has already been placed. You step inside, Crane just behind you, and close the door, locking it and pulling the blinds.
Falcone is sitting at the table with his wrists cuffed, though there are thick bandages between the steel and his skin. He has a cigarette placed between his purplish mouth that reeks of sour milk. He raises a bushy eyebrow when he sees Crane and looks between you, unimpressed.
“Geez doc, I gotta get help. The voices… blah blah blah,” Falcone looks around for a lighter and then turns his eyes up to Crane’s. “Got a light?”
Crane’s jaw clenches and he sighs deeply through his nose before he pulls the lighter from his breast pocket. He flips open the cap with his thumb in one swift movement and leans over the table to light Falcone’s cigarette. You watch as this moment passes between the men, your eyes following the silver lighter as it returns to Crane’s pocket. When Falcone leans back in his chair, his cigarette lit, that’s when Crane finally speaks.
“Now Mr. Falcone, I’m going to ask you a few questions. Answer… honestly,” Crane clears his throat and sits at the table, opening a file folder of Falcone’s medical records.
“Sure, great,” Falcone mutters and looks at you, narrowing his eyes. “Are you staying? Is she gonna stay?” He turns back to Crane who looks up at him, frowning.
You regard Falcone coolly and nod once. “I’m here to observe.”
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to get started, Mr. Falcone,” Crane cuts in, his patience thinning quickly. Falcone grumbles and nods, waving his chained hands to prompt Crane to continue. Crane takes another file from his briefcase and opens it on the table. You can sense Falcone starting to get irritated, Crane’s lips pull into a small smile.
“I was just looking into your medical record. You’ve got a bit of a history with drug use, don’t you, Mister Falcone?”
Falcone looks over at you for help, confused by Crane’s line of questioning. You shrug and remain silent, your arms crossed over your chest. Falcone thinks for a moment before answering.
“Oh… yeah. Meds and stuff.”
“And stuff? In your file it says that you’re taking a prescription for a severe anxiety disorder. Is that true?” Crane raises an eyebrow, a plan brewing behind his blue eyes. One that neither you nor Falcone can predict.
“Say, doc, what kind of question is that? You’re supposed to declare me insane and get me out of here. We had a deal.” Falcone’s tone is low and sounds slightly scared but he tries not to let it show.
Crane pauses for a moment, the statement hangs in the air like a cloud of smoke. You look between Crane and Falcone, your curiosity piqued. Crane maintains a clinical tone as he continues slowly as if he were talking to a child, “I know we had a deal, Mr. Falcone. Our deal was that I’d keep you out of jail, not out of my line of questioning…” Crane smiles, his heart beats faster with adrenaline, “I’m curious. Are you taking any anxiety medication?”
“Sure, of course…” Falcone stutters and furrows his eyebrows. “I take all that stuff. I’m crazy…”
You can feel the tension in the room build, and it sets your teeth on edge. You try to keep your focus on Falcone but the dull throbbing between your legs reverberates whenever Crane speaks. He reaches into his briefcase and removes a vial containing one singular pill.
“This is an anti-anxiety pill. Quite powerful, actually. Do you know the name of this medication, Mr. Falcone?”
Falcone’s face is a bright red now and he strains against his handcuffs. You regard Crane curiously, asking yourself why he’s asking all these strange questions. Why not just declare him insane and let that be the end of it? Crane feels a deep sense of satisfaction as he watches Falcone struggle, and you notice it evidently on his face and the way he holds his body, taut like a coiled wire.
“Well? I asked you a question, I do expect an answer. I’m not going to declare you insane until I know for certain that you’re not faking. So, what is the name of this anti-anxiety medication?”
"I... I don't know! Why are you asking me all of these questions? Just declare me insane already!” Falcone lowers his voice, “You know damn well I don't take any of that..."
Crane sighs deeply and puts the vial back into his briefcase. He clasps his hands together, pleased. He smiles menacingly and lowers his voice too.
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Falcone- that pill I was holding? It’s not anti-anxiety medication…”
When he says that you turn, your brow furrows. Where is he going with this? Falcone rolls his eyes and stubs out his cigarette angrily.
“You see, this medication isn’t used to treat anxiety. This medication is a powerful hallucinogenic, an extremely potent, mind-altering drug. It’s my most recent concoction, a fear toxin.”
Falcone freezes and narrows his eyes at Crane. You feel yourself match Crane’s smile, a knowing excitement creeps into your body, your fingers flex. When he sees Falcone start to struggle even more, Crane’s smile widens. Falcone goes white and begins to panic, resorting to a feeble attempt at blackmail.
"I'll tell everyone that I was working for you. I'll testify. I don't know what kind of drug you had us moving but I know it was something dangerous!”
Crane lets out a small, humorless laugh and leans back in the thin plastic chair, his eyes never leaving Falcone.
“How? You don’t know anything. And even if you did, who would believe you? You’re a delusional psychotic criminal with hallucinations. No one’s going to believe you if you tell them you’ve been moving drugs for me.”
“Get me away from this madman! I’m not fucking crazy!” Falcone shouts at you, pulling at his cuffs. You stare back, a small smirk pulling at your lips.
“Not yet, but you will be. You see, if you want people to believe that you’re crazy, wouldn’t it just be easier to be crazy?”
“What-what are you implying?” Falcone tries to push away from the table but the chains binding his feet prevent him from making it very far. Crane smiles and looks at you, his gaze giving you permission to contribute.
“Mr. Falcone, I’d suggest that you shut your mouth before you say anything else you’ll regret. You’re in no position to make threats here.” You lean forward, your palms fisted on the table. Falcone looks between you and nods slowly, a slimy smile appearing slowly on his lips.
“Oh, I see. You’re working together, aren’t you?” Falcone laughs.
Crane’s smile drops and he turns back to Falcone, his steel gaze sharp enough to slice right through the mobster.
“It seems we’ve reached an impasse, Detective Vale.” Crane’s voice is rougher now, more sadistic. Your whole body shivers, your cunt throbs with morbid excitement.
“Might I make a suggestion, Dr. Crane?” You cross your arms over your chest and rock back and forth on your heels. Crane looks you up and down briefly, discreetly. You can tell by the way he’s looking at you that he likes how your body looks in your dark slacks and a green blouse.
Don’t get too distracted, Crane.
Crane’s struggling to control his breathing as he watches you, his eyes lingering on the way your body moves. He tears his gaze away from you as he answers.
“A suggestion? And what might that be, Detective Vale?”
“Well if he isn't going to be able to convince anyone that he's as 'crazy' as he says he is, maybe we should help him out. Make it more believable…” You shrug, your voice light and misleading. Falcone looks between you, his eyes wide as he tries to understand what you mean. Perspiration dots his forehead but he doesn’t wipe it away.
Crane raises an eyebrow at your proposal but his eyes remain on Falcone, shaking in the seat across the table from him. There’s a dangerous tone in his voice as he murmurs.
“And how exactly do you propose we do that?”
“Don't you have anything else in that briefcase of yours? Maybe something that could make him a little more... convincing?” You tilt your head towards the open briefcase, your eyes saying more than your words. Crane looks over at you, he swallows and nods, another soft smile on his face. He glances down at his briefcase and a slight shiver of excitement passes through him. Crane glances over at Falcone and feels a cruel grin spread across his face as he realizes what you’re implying.
It’s like you’ve given him permission. You don’t need to tell him twice. Crane removes his glasses with a sigh and folds them neatly on the table beside him. Falcone watches him warily, his eyes dropping to the glasses then back up to Crane.
“As a matter of fact, I do have something else that would… help.” He slowly reaches into the briefcase and pulls out the burlap mask, his hands holding it with an almost reverent excitement. “Would you like to see my mask?”
Falcone doesn't even respond. He's gone silent and dumb with fear. In his lack of words, You smile kindly at the man, giving him a false sense of safety.
“He uses it for his experiments, you know. It's probably not very scary to someone like you but to the crazies in Arkham… they can't stand it,” you trail off, backing away in preparation for whatever the hell Crane is about to do.
Crane’s voice remains low as he leans forward, the mask still gripped in his fist.
“But for you, Falcone? This isn’t just something to fear. For you… it’s going to be a nightmare.”Falcone struggles in his plastic seat, the chains shaking and clattering against each other as he tries to escape. You release a euphoric sigh as Crane pulls on the mask and gestures to the front of its burlap facade.
His voice is no longer gentle, no longer friendly, no longer even remotely human as he continues to speak, “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in Arkham, Falcone. That’s a promise.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth his finger presses a button inside his briefcase, releasing a narrow cloud of fear toxin. It hits Falcone squarely in the face, his eyes bulge and lose their focus as some horrible nightmare overcomes him. Crane’s mask morphs into a real scarecrow, something uncanny and deranged. Falcone screams and Crane laughs, rising up from his seat and letting his palms rest on the table.
“I did warn you, didn’t I, Falcone?”
His voice is barely audible over Falcone’s frantic screams. Crane rips off his mask, smiling contently. His hair is tousled and crazy about his head, your thighs throb. He looks over at you and you nod back, only allowing him a smirk.
“He certainly isn't going to testify now. Dawes won't be able to argue with you either.” He looks more psychotic without the silver glasses that you’re so familiar with seeing. There’s almost a ring of red in his eyes. “Impressive, Dr. Crane.”
Crane tosses the mask aside and runs a hand through his hair as he tries to catch his breath. His face is flushed with excitement and adrenaline, and he can’t help but smile wider at you, the adrenaline making him bold.
“Thank you, Miss Vale,” he chuckles and shakes his head, looking back at Falcone, “That went well, didn’t it?”
You both look back at the screaming Falcone, smiles on your faces. A match made in hell, you and him.
“I'd stay and savor this moment with you but people will get suspicious. I'll go and arrange for his transfer to Arkham but first I need you to tell me that he's not faking it and that we need to move him to a secure wing in Arkham for treatment. I just need to hear you say it, legality,” you wave your hand about your face briefly. Crane raises a surprised brow.
“You pick and choose the laws you follow now? How interesting,” Crane says in a soft sarcastic manner, his eyes still wide with pleasure.
“Technically you are the expert and we brought you in here to diagnose Falcone…” you roll your eyes playfully.
“Fine,” he takes a deep breath which is more attractive than you’d like to admit, “No, he’s definitely not faking. I believe he’s actively having a psychotic episode and will be in no position to testify. I recommend moving him to a secure wing at Arkham Asylum immediately. He’s a danger to himself and others.”
“Thank you, Dr. Crane,” you smile and turn towards the door.
“So what? I do this favor for you, Miss Vale and then you leave me alone with the deranged?” Crane chuckles and puts on his glasses, looking you up and down. Your hand is on the doorknob but you turn and regard him, a sly smile on your face.
“I thought you liked being around the deranged…”
Crane raises an eyebrow back and turns his back on Falcone who continues to scream in the background. Crane’s nice dark gray suit shifts as he shifts.
“And what does that mean for you?”
“You’re the psychologist, not me,” you whisper back and open the door. The door closes sharply behind you but not before Falcone’s screams can be heard echoing down the hallway. You pull an officer aside.
“Tell Prosecutor Rachel Dawes that Falcone needs to be moved to Arckham. It’s true, he’s insane too. He’ll need to be moved immediately, he’s already becoming violent. Dr. Crane is completing the paperwork and I’ll see to the transfer myself.”
…
It is late at night when you finally finish Falcone’s transfer. You had shed your quilted jacket days before because Gotham City was in the middle of a miniature heat-spike after weeks of cold, damp weather. You check your watch and look off into the city skyline, thinking. You had followed Crane for weeks before you decided to speak to him, so you know his schedule just as well as your own. He would be in his lab at the university, working on his own projects in the secrecy of the night. His students would never know what their strange professor was up to. You make a rash decision and change directions, your feet taking you a few blocks to the left, to Gotham University.
Gotham University was not the type of institution that most students strive for but it still offered a good education for those who could pay. The buildings on campus were all dark and gothic, like orphanages set against a city scene. Students walking home from the library walk past you, speaking softly to one another. Some mention Professor Crane, some don’t.
The science building is silent and empty when you break in, using the door with the broken sensor (your doing). You find Crane’s lab on the third floor, the only source of light in the dark hallway. You go to the door and open it slowly, silently. Crane has his back to you as he makes notes in a notebook with a red pen. He’s wearing a white lab coat that nearly makes his shoulders look broader, stronger. You stand by the door, watching, and waiting to see how long it takes until he notices you’re there. You pull the string that closes the blinds with a soft snap.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” Crane's voice rises from the opposite side of the room. Your eyes widen only slightly in surprise, but then you smile and approach his lab table slowly, eyeing him up and down. His gray-blue eyes remain fixed on his work.
“Did I frighten you?”
“Oh no, I’m not scared of anything, remember?” Crane retorts with a distracted smirk as he finishes writing a line in his notes. When he finishes he finally turns and leans against the lab table, looking you up and down. “So, what are you doing here, Miss Vale? Why’d you close the blinds?” His smirk widens, the fact that you’re both completely alone excites him. He nearly shivers.
“No one can know that I was here. I'm sure Dawes is already suspicious of me because I 'oversaw' your evaluation and approved the transfer when the three of us all know he was fine when we walked into the examination room the first time.” You smile and mirror his posture.
“Mmm yes, I’m sure Dawes has already had a few choice words with you,” Crane nods and looks up, remembering the exchange the three of you had earlier at the precinct: two smart, powerful women in one room, amazing.
“I can handle her, don’t worry.”
Crane looks back at you and shakes his head, “Oh I don’t doubt it. You’re a highly intelligent woman, I’m sure Dawes doesn’t pose much of a problem for you.”
You smile, flattered though you don’t need Crane to tell you what you already know. You ignore the way Crane’s eyes continue to trace the length of your body, imagining what he’d find beneath your blouse…
“No, but I'm concerned that she'll prove to be a bigger problem the more she finds out. Which is why I'm in charge of the case... or at least until she kicks me off. I'll make sure she doesn't learn too much about the 'operation' you're running here. But I need something from you first.”
“And what do you need from me, Miss Vale?” Crane’s voice is low, husky, and short, like the response was second nature.
You look him up and down, a smile growing on your lips. You can tell that he wants you and it's exhilarating to be wanted by such an attractive man... but first, you need information from him. It must be so frustrating for him but hey, that's life. You walk around the lab table and put your hands over his, gripping the edge of the table. You lean forward only slightly, leaving some distance between your bodies.
“Tell me about your plans for Gotham, Crane.”
His jaw clenches but he keeps his voice calm, composed, and his eyes evade yours. “What do you want to know?”
“If I'm going to be an equal partner in this, I need to know what you've been doing with Falcone and his men.” You look down at his lips as you speak.
Crane’s breathing gets heavier, more ragged. His eyes are still avoiding yours, but he knows exactly where your gaze is fixated.
“I know that Falcone has been moving shipments of your fear toxin into Arkham and I noticed that the military’s microwave emitter happened to go missing recently. Did you have anything to do with that, Crane?”
Crane can smell your pheromones like perfume and he stifles a frustrated sigh. He rolls his eyes and shrugs slowly.
“Perhaps.”
“You could have made Falcone take the fear toxin pills you had in the box but you didn’t. You used a different form, gas. The microwave emitter vaporizes water… Your fear toxin doesn’t work in water, does it? It’s water soluble. It needs to be in a gas or powder form, correct?”
“You’re clever, pet.” Crane smirks and moves his hands away from yours to cross against his chest. “But the pill I showed to Falcone was just a sugar pill, a placebo. Here’s a little lesson in Psychology: the body’s sense of smell is the fastest to recalibrate. By putting the toxin into gas form, the subject inhales it and reacts much faster. It’s all about speed. Water washes the toxin out.”
“So the microwave emitter?” You prompt him to continue.
“Yes, you’re right. If it works, it will dry up the main water line on the island, then I can release the toxin into the air… Every man, woman, and child in Gotham city would be paralyzed with fear.”
You let your lips inch closer, exhaling against his lips. Crane almost believes that you’ll kiss him until you pull away at the last moment and smirk.
“I’ve read everything you’ve ever written about the chemical components of fear. I’ve tried recreating your ‘recipes’,” you look back at the experiments on the table, “but I can’t get the same results. There’s something important missing from your original research isn’t there? What’s the final ingredient? It has to be exotic, something you could only recently get access to. Maybe you met someone with connections. Someone who also read your research and offered to fund your project….”
Crane is still recovering from your little trick and sighs tightly, impatiently. He looks up at the ceiling, the fluorescent lighting reflecting off of his glasses. “Is that right?”
You hum once in confirmation and reach your hand out beside his left arm, brushing his sleeve. He keeps his gaze averted, still pissed that you teased him. While he pouts, you pick up a small petri dish from the lab table. A bright blue flower is preserved inside.
“Blue poppies?”
Crane raises an eyebrow, finally looking down at you. He wets his lips and sighs, rearranging his arms to rest over his chest.
“You can recognize obscure botanicals now?” He nearly snaps. You flick your eyes up to his, meeting his icy gaze.
“That was a lucky guess.” You shrug and smile, “I’ve only read about these. So how did you get these? Who are you working for?”
Crane’s body reacts strangely to your smile, his navel warms. Your smile is so wrong… he loves it. He’s still slightly wary of your skills of deduction. He looks down at the petri dish for a moment, his mind trying to get back on track before he answers your question.
“I came into contact with someone who has strong connections. He’s agreed to fund my research and supply me with all the necessary equipment and ingredients.”
“Who?” You ask with a little less patience. Crane enjoys witnessing one of your rare moments of impatience and smiles, getting the upper-hand. Crane’s smile only widens as he leans back against the edge of the lab table again, his hands gripping the edge in a white-knuckled grip to keep his body in check.”
“Oh, I’m sure you know him… He’s quite the controversial figure….”
You lick your lips and you try to think. Surely it wasn’t Bruce Wayne- Crane would never work with him. Not Falcone. Not Gordon. What criminal would have both the money and power to operate something like this. Someone in the League of Shadows?
Crane’s eyes focus on the way your tongue moves across your lips. His mouth waters and he feels himself start to get hard. Instead of shying away, he steps closer, one of his hands fixing the bridge of his glasses.
“I’m honestly impressed you haven’t figured it out yet…” he tuts patronizingly.
“Are you going to tell me or are you going to make me figure it out myself?”
Crane laughs and shakes his head.
“Oh, this is just too good. You’re clearly bothered by the fact that you don’t have a name yet, Miss Vale.” He leans closer to you, his head tilting to the side as he continues in a low voice, “I wonder what you’ll do to get me to answer your question…”
You scowl, Crane getting on your nerves now. You push him back gently with a few clicks of your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “It hasn’t come to that yet, Crane.” You think for a few more moments and then something you read randomly comes to you, “the blue poppies grow in South Asia… Bhutan.”
“Ding ding ding, good girl. The blue poppies are indigenous to South Asia.”
“There’s only one man that I know of from Bhutan, he has a warrant out for his arrest in multiple different countries… Ra’s Al Ghul.”
Crane’s smile widens into a crazy grin. He claps softly and then takes the petri desk back from you. “Correct.”
“Does Al Ghul know you plan to lead Gotham when it’s all said and done?”
Crane nods slowly, looking away for a moment, his lips pursed. “He believes that my methods are necessary in order to bring about the change that the city needs. We already agreed that I will have control of Gotham when my plan is successful.”
“Then what’s in it for him, Crane?” You ask with a raised eyebrow.
He steps even closer to you, until there are only a few inches of space left between you. His voice is lower now as he continues to speak to you.
“He gets to auction off the city back to the government, he gets the money, I get the power. Oh, I’ve also promised him a certain number of…let’s say…highly skilled individuals for his cause.”
“People you’ve locked up in Arkham?” You clarify, thinking it all through.
Crane nods and turns back to his research, his hand moving once again to the pen to write something down, putting his arousal to the side for a moment. Work will always come first to a man like Dr. Jonathan Crane.
“Do you trust him?”
Crane looks at you, surprised by your obvious question. He scoffs finally and turns back to face you. “No, I don’t trust him. But I see our partnership as a mutually beneficial arrangement. And honestly, I wouldn’t be able to continue my research at the same rate without his financial support and his access to the poppies.”
“Something about him gives me a bad feeling…” you mutter, crossing your arms beneath your breasts and tucking your head slightly to think.
Crane tilts his head to the side in curiosity, as if he’s studying you. “Why do you say that?”
You shake your head and furrow your brow. “I don’t have a reason exactly except that it’s just an instinct. Something tells me not to trust him.”
Crane clenches his jaw slightly and his eyes harden as he starts to take you seriously. He raps his fingers against his elbow and lowers his voice slightly, almost like he’s trying to be kind.
“When have your instincts ever been wrong, Miss Vale?”
You look up at him and shake your head finally, confident. “Never.”
Crane takes a final step closer to you, his chest nearly touching yours now. He can’t help himself from being drawn even closer to you, like a magnet. His voice is even lower than before as he looks down at your face.
“So, what do your instincts tell you now, Miss Vale?”
You look up into his eyes, heavy with desire. You feel the same desire, the same unquenchable and animalistic urges. Your noses are nearly touching as you exhale softly against his lips. You swallow and then speak.
summary: Dr. Jonathan Crane isn't the only 'crazy' in Gotham City and he's about to meet his match. When confronted with an unpleasant secret from his past, he's skeptical to trust the strange young woman who calls herself Victoria Vale, the rightful heiress to Arkham Asylum (and maybe his downfall).
warnings: none yet but oh baby just you wait...
A/N: I really enjoy using the original DC comic lore so if you've been following me for a while, you'll recognize the backstories in this but I've tried to make a completely different plot line.
bury a friend- Billie Eilish 🎶
i
“Professor Crane?” You poke your head into the small office, the heavy door slightly crushing your body against the doorframe. The raven-haired man looks up from a stack of research papers on his desk and cocks an unwelcome eyebrow.
“Come back during my office hours.” He waves you off with his free hand as he grades a paper with a red pen. His voice has the strange ability to both attract you and put you ill-at-ease at the same time. You step inside and let the heavy door close behind you. You don’t need to lock it, yet. Dr. Crane looks you up and down quickly, his lip curled in displeasure and disinterest.
“It’s a quick question, I promise sir,” you lie through your teeth, your dimples showing beneath your full cheeks as you smile. Dr. Crane looks up at you from over the rim of his harsh rectangular frames. He stares at you for a moment, his blue eyes shifting as he thinks, then finally he sighs and sits back in his desk chair.
“What’s your name?” He removes his glasses and wipes the lenses clean with the corner of his suit jacket. He puts them back on as you sit down opposite of him, the desk between you. You glance down at the research papers, an action that is barely noticeable, if at all.
“Victoria,” you answer and watch as Dr. Crane sighs again, impatiently. He rolls his eyes after a moment of silence and leans forward, gesturing his hand through the air to get you to continue.
“What did you want to ask me?” He asks pointedly, losing whatever patience he had left.
“Well we’ve spoken once before but it was just a brief exchange after one of your lectures,” you start and Crane watches you, barely paying attention now. His eyes seem to glaze over. “I asked you about the chemical components of fear. I’d like to hear your answer.” You say slowly, your hands playing with the edge of your seat. Dr. Crane barely cocks his head to the side before he clucks his tongue and looks away.
“Did you not like the answer I gave you before?”
“I’d forgotten what you said,” you explain as you wipe your clammy hands on your thighs. Dr. Crane threw his gaze back to you and raised an eyebrow, his expression one of obvious judgment.
“Fear is an emotional response to a threat. It’s a basic evolutionary survival mechanism. The two primary parts of the brain that deal with fear are the amygdala and the hippocampus…” he answers dully, regurgitating what every psych student already knows.
“Respectfully, sir,” you start, your voice steady, “I’m talking about the chemical components of fear, not the anatomical.”
Dr. Crane regards you with an unreadable expression and then removes his glasses, sighing deeply again. He looks down at his glasses and then clears his throat.
“You’re interested in fear chemistry, are you?” His tone is low and dry, like he’s mocking you.
“Interested isn’t exactly the right word.” You answer with a small shrug.
“What is the right word then, Victoria?” The way he says your name is sharp, like a door closing when you aren’t expecting it. He finally looks up at you again.
“I’m…” you search for the right word and then wet your lips, “... attracted to the concept of fear. It’s almost like a passion project that can’t be satisfied.”
“Attracted to fear?” Crane repeats slowly, though his face doesn’t change.
“Fear is one of the most fascinating phenomena in the creation of our universe, don’t you think?”
Dr. Crane regards you differently, his breath shifting to a new rhythm. He wets his lips before he answers, his words measured.
“One could debate that. I’d say pleasure or desire are more complex and powerful. Why fear?”
“It’s the power of control over both the mind and body,” you respond without batting an eye.
“Is it power that fascinates you, Victoria?” Crane asks softly, his hands clenching and relaxing in his lap. “One could say that pleasure can have a similar effect.”
You allow yourself to blush, knowing it’ll look more believable if you do. “Well, it’s also about control…”
Dr. Crane looks down at his hands again and thinks for a moment before responding, his voice still calm and even despite the shift in the room.
“Do you find control attractive?”
“Well, don’t you? Isn’t that why you became a teacher? The role gives you control over the development of new minds,” you smile sweetly.
A rare smirk creeps across Crane’s face. He looks up at you and puts his glasses back on, the silver frames catching the light of the fluorescent bulbs.
“You’re very perceptive,” he trails off and folds his hands on the desk in front of him. “Control is a powerful and attractive aspect of fear.”
“And what’s so fascinating about fear specifically is that it is universal. Everyone has something that they’re afraid of… even you. And that’s what led me to ask myself this question: what are you, Professor Crane, afraid of? And for the life of me, I can’t figure it out.” Your eyes meet his with an obvious change in intentionality. Crane doesn’t react but feels himself leaning forward slightly like a snake rearing its head.
“I have a few guesses but it doesn’t matter for right now,” you continue when he doesn’t respond. “I read your old thesis about fear in mammalian species and it’s given me a lot of insight into my own mind.”
“You’ve read my thesis?” Dr. Crane cocks his brow again and grips his hands together painfully. His body goes cold in warning like a lightning rod in a thunderstorm. “Most of my students barely attend class, much less decide to read my work.”
This is the moment. You lean forward slightly, your hair falling off your shoulders, your eyes wide with excitement.
“Oh, I never said I was a student, Professor Crane.”
Dr. Crane freezes, his cold heart stuttering in his chest. He swallows slowly, trying to collect his thoughts before he responds.
“Then who, may I ask, are you?”
“I attended one of your lectures on radical treatment of phobias, which is where we spoke for the first time, and yes, I did sit in on one of your classes and left with additional reading materials and a better appreciation for your work. Your thesis however,” you tilt your head away in a show of shyness, “that’s available for any ‘crazy’ to find.”
“Mmm so, you’re just a ‘crazy’ then?” Crane hums cooly, “But that still doesn’t answer how you managed to get a copy of my thesis. It was pulled from circulation and all hard copies that I was aware of were destroyed.”
“I’m good at getting answers and it helps when people find you attractive…” you shift in your seat, looking away. You can feel Crane’s eyes on you as he considers your answer.
“And I guess that means you think that I find you attractive?” Crane guesses cooly, his eyes not leaving your face. You look back at him and take note of his guarded expression. Taking a breath, you fix your hair and meet his eyes.
“I think you’re attracted to my mind.”
“Who are you?” He asks again, leaning closer against his better judgment, like a moth to the flame.
“I’m surprised you’re so unconcerned with my presence here, late at night when everyone else has gone home…” your posture is rigidly still as you speak. Dr. Crane smirks softly.
“You are a very beautiful and intelligent young woman, and you don’t look very dangerous to me. Why would I be concerned?”
“Because I think I know what you’re afraid of, doc.” You whisper and Crane freezes again, his heart jumping in his chest at your thinly veiled threat. Despite his feelings of unease, Crane smiles. He studies your lips as you speak and the way your body is angled towards him.
“And what is it that I’m afraid of?”
And just like that, it’s become a game.
You smile a little, wanting him to feel safe and comfortable. He isn't intimidated by you yet and you want him to take you seriously. You lean closer, ducking your head in a whisper.
“Being found out…”
“About what, pet?” Crane asks pointedly, in a challenging tone.
“Well…,” you sit back in your chair casually and tuck your hair behind your ears. “I’ve always had a natural inclination towards crime. That’s what made me become a detective. I thought what I wanted was to restore justice in Gotham, but I’ve quickly learned that justice is a jealous mistress and maybe my interest in crime has other motives… Are you following me so far?”
Dr. Crane massages his mouth with his hand, listening intently. His lips are pursed beneath his fingers, his eyes void of any telling secrets.
“So far,” he sighs.
“You and I share something very important. It’s made us both who we are today. I just realized it before you did.”
“Oh? And what do you think we share?” He furrows his brow skeptically.
You stand and brush the hem of your dress over your thighs. As Crane watches you, you trail a finger over the books on your bookshelf, stopping at one and pretending to read one of the pages.
“Thomas Wayne.”
You toss the book in front of him on the desk. The book is open to the author bio. It’s a picture of your parents, the authors of a book on criminal psychology. The Arkhams.
"These are my parents. My name was Victoria Vale when I was born. Thomas Wayne murdered them and they put me in an orphanage. I didn’t know they were my parents until I started looking into the Waynes. And then I found you…” You keep your story short and to-the-point, not wanting to reveal too much. Dr. Crane looks between the photo and you, his brow furrowed as he works it all out in his head. Maybe for the first time in his life, he finds himself speechless.
“So you really are crazy, aren’t you, pet?” He covers the shaky tone of his voice with a sneer. You ignore him and close the book, pushing it aside on the desk.
“Tell me, what did Thomas Wayne do to you?”
Dr. Crane looks up at you and scoffs. He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and his thumb until the pressure between his eyes fades.
“And why would I tell you that?”
“Because I already know the answer, I’m just giving you the opportunity to say it.” You lean against the bookshelf and cross your arms over your chest. Dr. Crane regards you with suspicion and shakes his head.
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” You bite back. You stare at each other, eyes narrowed and blood pumping. Dr. Crane finally sighs through his nose and puts his glasses back on. His eyes bore into you, punishing you for asking him this question. He holds your gaze with a mixture of pain, bitterness and cold rage. He speaks as if the words are acid in his mouth.
“Thomas Wayne destroyed my family and my childhood. He was a ruthless and cruel man and I’m glad he’s dead.”
You stare back at him and notice the original tension between you changing, shifting as your power shifts.
“Then we’re kindred spirits, you and I. It was only a matter of time until I found you, the famous criminal psychiatrist with-” You lean over the desk, looking directly into his eyes,” startling blue eyes.” You take a breath before continuing, not waiting for him to respond.
“Because I’m a good detective, not like any of my ignorant male peers, I looked into a string of unusual robberies and I noticed that most of Falcone’s men were being moved to Arkham Asylum… on your orders.”
Crane is silent for a moment, impressed by your intelligence and deduction. He feels his heart starting to pound a little faster again. He does not deny it, but doesn’t confirm your suspicions either.
“I may have had some influence in those transfers.”
“Don’t worry, Crane, I’m not here to cause trouble for you. I just wanted to meet the man I’ve admired for so long and see if I can be of some… help.” You smile and pass your fingers over the research papers organized across the desk. You’re catching him off guard on how well you know him and he can’t tell if he likes it or not. His eyes flick across your face again, taking in the sight of your dark eyes and darker eyelashes.
“You admire me?”
“Don’t let it get to your head.”
“How does a young, beautiful girl like yourself become so interested in a man like me?” Then he pauses and wets his lips before adding with a smirk, “why, exactly, do you admire me?”
“Your work, it’s impressive. And what can I say… ” You look back up at him with a serious look on your face as you drag a finger across the research papers, pulling out a piece of scratch paper. “I like your style.”
On the corner of the paper, there is a drawing of a scarecrow. You drag it slowly across the desk until it sits in front of Crane on the desk. You don’t need to say anything else. He looks down at the drawing, swallows, then looks up at you.
“Stop acting dumb, doc. I know more than you think. Like I said, I’m good at finding information and sticking my nose into places where it may not belong.”
Crane’s pulse quickens at the edge in your voice, his fingers reaching for and clutching the paper tightly. He wants to be irritated, but somehow you’re bringing out a different, a darker and playful part of him.
“Once again, you’ve proven yourself to be a very observant and talented young woman. Maybe too talented. I think you’re too dangerous to keep around my office, Miss Vale. You’re a liability.”
“What are you going to do to me, Crane? Are you going to use your… little fear toxin on me?” You smile, leaning further across the desk where Crane hasn’t moved from his seat. He looks up at you, smirking slyly.
“Maybe I will.” Dr. Crane starts to stand, and when he does, he’s taller than you but not by much. He isn’t a very tall man, you could easily take him if you needed to. You’re still separated by the desk but you’re close enough to smell his cologne.
“Impressed by my skills of deduction?” You ask, clasping your hands behind your back.
Crane walks slowly around his desk to stand in front of you, looking you up and down intently. He tilts his head to the side, his voice distant and distracted.
“More than a little impressed, yes. You’ve figured out an awful lot about me in a very short time.”
“Now don’t you want to know why I’m here? Your survival instincts are annoyingly slow, Crane,” you tease.
Crane bristles, displeased with your slight to his intelligence. He crosses his arms over his chest and sits back against the desk, clenching his jaw. “I would love to know why you’re here. You’ve been very coy about that point.”
You nod and move away from him to continue looking at the books, organized meticulously on the bookshelf. “I have a proposition for you. I want to be… business partners.” You can see Crane watching you from out of the corner of your eye. Crane chuckles a little, stunned.
“Business partners, huh? And what exactly would that entail?”
Crane’s eyes sweep over your figure again as he imagines what kind of ‘business partners’ he’d want to be.
“I’ll help you with your grand plan for Gotham and in return I get two things…” you keep your eyes on the spines, your fingers following the edges of each book.
“Mm?” Crane hums, listening carefully now that you have his full attention.
“1. I get to lead beside you when you successfully turn Gotham upside down and 2. I get what’s rightfully mine… Arkham Asylum.” You turn back to look at him, refusing to be intimidated by him even when he looks at you like something he’d like to eat.
Crane’s eyes widen and he almost starts to laugh. His navel warms, aroused by your attitude and threats. He chuckles softly and moves his hands to grip the desk on either side of his body.
“Gotham city flipped upside down, and Arkham Asylum in your hands. Your terms are surprisingly bold, Miss Vale.”
“What can I say, Crane? I’m in the business of retribution.” You shrug, not backing down.
Crane chuckles again and shakes his head, “Touché.” He imagines himself pinning you against the bookshelf and feels himself get hard just at the thought of it. He watches you closely, noticing your unwavering resolve. “And how can you be sure I won’t use my toxin on you?”
It’s your turn to laugh now. You smile and step closer to him, meeting his cool eyes. You let your eyes look him up and down, admiring the way his lean body hides beneath his expensive suit.
“I’ve prepared for that possibility… but I like playing with fire.” You pull a lighter out from your pocket and strike a flame. It glows between your faces.
Crane smiles in amusement at your audacity then his eyes dart between your face and the flame separating the two of you.
“You are playing a dangerous game, Miss Vale.”
“My favorite,” you respond coolly and play with the flame in your hand. Crane’s eyes follow the flame and he swallows. “So? What say you?”
He should stop you, he should kick you out of his office and ignore you, but the fire in your eyes and the confidence in your words makes him want to take a risk. He reaches out quickly and takes hold of your chin, tilting your face up so that he can see it clearly. His voice is a low whisper.
“You’re a dangerous little thing, aren’t you?”
“Oh, you have no idea.” You snap the lighter closed and tuck it into Crane’s breast pocket. “Regards from Thomas Wayne. I thought you should have it.”
Crane looks down at the lighter, dropping his hand away from your chin. His eyes dart back to your face, assessing the weight of your words. Your demeanor is cold and almost amused. Crane swallows, his skin growing cold where the lighter now sits.
“Where did you get this, Miss Vale?”
“Not only do I want what’s rightfully mine, you deserve what they took from you too. Think of this as my promise and a peace offering.” You pat his breast pocket, your face getting dangerously close to his. He flinches when you touch him and clenches his jaw. He looks down to your hand patting his pocket and raises a sharp brow.
“And you’re willing to help me get my revenge?”
“It would be mine too.”
“Against Thomas Wayne?”
“Against the whole city… but especially the Waynes.” You whisper, managing to take a step closer. Crane chuckles, admiring the way your eyes darken when you speak so severely. He leans down a little closer to your ear, his breath ruffling your hair.
“A pretty, vengeful vixen. I’m starting to like you, Miss Vale.”
“Now, now, now-” You push him back with a sly smile, your teeth showing, “We’re business partners, not fuck buddies. You’ll need to behave yourself if you want to make this work.”
Crane actually laughs, though the sound is raspy and dark, it’s still a laugh. He allows you to push him back and holds up his hands in mock surrender, sitting back on the edge of his desk.
“Feisty. Ok, I’ll play the part. No need to worry, Miss Vale… though the thought is… tempting.”
“Not intoxicating? I’ll just have to try harder next time,” you smile as you pull on your coat from the chair. Dr. Crane watches you from his desk, his eyes following your arms as you slide into the quilted coat.
“Oh you know exactly how intoxicating you are. Don’t be coy, Miss Vale.”
“Maybe I’m just a Jack of All Trades,” you shrug and move to the door. Crane crosses his arms over his chest again and nods slowly.
“Yes, I’m starting to see that now. You’re full of surprises.” He can’t help but look you up and down again, his eyes lingering on the shape of your thighs or the angular way you hold your head. He wets his lips, wetting his pallet.
“Well, here’s another one,” you smile, fully aware of his arousal, “Falcone was taken into custody today. Someone, and I’m not saying who, may have given him a razor blade. He’ll need a psych evaluation and you need to be the one to do it. I don’t trust him to keep his mouth shut if this goes to trial.”
Crane raises an eyebrow, impressed by your thoroughness.
“Falcone in custody. Hmm. A razor blade? What a coincidence...” he starts to wonder exactly how far you’re willing to take this revenge of yours. He can feel himself getting excited in more ways than one.
“You’ve got the right idea, Miss Vale. I’d be more than happy to take over his evaluation.”
“Good. I’ll arrange for you to administer it between your lectures. You’re such a busy man. Professor by day, psychopath by night. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I’ve made a lot of sacrifices,” he answers cooly, calmly, “As have you, it seems.”
Something passes between you, something shifts once again in your eyes.
“Goodnight, Dr. Crane.”
You start to leave but turn around briefly to speak, your eyes growing softer. You’re actually capable of feelings too, not just well-worded threats. “Don’t lose the lighter… it’s the one he used…”
You leave the sentence in the air between you, hoping he’ll understand what you mean. Dr. Crane seems to freeze again as he processes what you’re saying. He puts his hand against his breast pocket to feel the outline of the lighter. He clenches his jaw and finally nods.
“Goodnight, Miss Vale.”
You nod once and open the door, pushing against its heavy weight.
“I’ll be in touch,” you say over your shoulder and Crane fixes his glasses.
“I’m sure.”
Only when the door closes behind you and you’re walking down the dim hallway do you allow yourself to exhale. Dr. Crane was so much more impressive in person… and so much more attractive. You had almost faltered on your plans until you remembered how much you needed him, and how important it was that the two of you meet. Though you must admit, acting unbothered has never been harder. You run your hand through your hair and slip out of the science building on campus. You’re wearing a quilted coat, more for professionalism than warmth. It’s late Spring in Gotham and it’s too warm for a coat. In fact, there’s a heatwave coming in the next week. But you keep the coat on because the color is dark, helping you blend into the shadows of every building in the city.
The moment the door closes, Crane finds himself almost unable to breathe. He’s nearly shaking and feels strangely off-balance like you’ve completely turned his world on its head. He walks back around his desk to his chair and slowly lowers himself into the seat. He exhales shakily and pinches the bridge of his nose above his glasses. Part of him wants you, the other part wants you gone. With a sigh, Crane pulls the lighter out of his pocket and places it on the desk, looking at it while his thoughts run wild.
You hadn’t needed to say the words for him to piece it together: this was the lighter that Thomas Wayne used to kill his mother, and by extension, his father. The knowledge of what you’ve given him finally sinks in and he takes a deep breath, his jaw clenching again. He feels a cold shiver rush over him, a thousand thoughts running through his mind at once. He can’t tell if he wants to cry or scream or laugh. Crane reaches out and grabs the lighter, his knuckles turning white. He thinks of you, of your audacity to crash his carefully constructed life with your own plans of revenge. He plays with the lighter, his lips pulled into an unhappy snarl. But the longer he thinks about you, the more he feels himself growing to like you. As much trouble as you could cause him, he liked how fast you thought on your feet and how good you looked in that dress.
Hours seem to pass before he can slowly regain control of himself enough to clear his head a little. He’s trying to understand you… he wants to trust you but there’s a very loud part of his mind that’s screaming not to. He can’t deny the fact that you’ve completely enthralled him, in fact, the thought of seeing you again makes his heart pound in perverse excitement. He tosses the lighter back on the desk and runs a hand over his face.
summary: Tommy keeps coming back to the cabaret but you never know why. Sometimes he stays but usually he doesn't, leaving his cigarette still smoking on the table. His flighty behavior and emotional unavailability starts to rub you the wrong way, but you can't bring yourself to hate him... but maybe you should.
warnings: outdated language concerning sex-workers; smut
word count: 4142k
Do I Move You?- Nina Simone 🎵
Daylight- David Kushner 🎶
Tommy Shelby told you that the cabaret “wasn’t his… thing” just a week ago and yet, when you begin your solo routine in a cream and sheer bodysuit, guess who’s sitting at that familiar table? You’re singing your song when you notice him, leaning back in his chair and holding a lit cigarette between his knuckles. His cheekbones are cast in an aggressive shadow but you can still make out his icy blue eyes looking back at you.
You meet his gaze and match his neutral expression. You hadn’t expected to see him again after that night, maybe once or twice in passing but not here. You curse silently in your head and continue singing, feeling more self-conscious than usual beneath the hot stage lights. You can see his eyes pass over you though he makes no show of his thoughts when he takes another drag of his cigarette.
Your song finally comes to an end and the crowd cheers with wolf whistles. Tommy doesn’t even clap, he stares at you for another moment and then stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. He downs the rest of his whiskey and stands, and leaves. You watch his back as he walks through the doors of the cabaret and doesn’t look back. Suddenly, you feel like a little girl, standing alone on the stage in a room full of strangers.
…
After the cabaret closes, you go back onstage to grab your jar of tips. The house lights are dimmed, practically off. The rudimentary electricity flickers every few seconds, stimulating a migraine the longer you look. Your bare feet make no noise as you walk across the sticky stage. The sound of a lighter flicking open sounds from somewhere in the audience, revealing a cut-angular face and a peaky cap. The lighter snaps shut and a cigarette ends burns red in the dark.
“Sorry I didn’t stay- had important business to attend to,” Tommy stands from his seat and drops his lighter into his breast pocket. He looks you up and down, smirking slightly at what you look like after the show.
“Were you waiting for me?” You ask, not sure whether to be flattered or afraid.
“I thought I’d congratulate you on a good performance,” Tommy shrugs and weaves between the tables with the chairs upturned on their tops.
“You didn’t look like you enjoyed it,” you banter back and move closer to the lip of the stage. Tommy waves his hand in a dismissive fashion, scoffing.
“I told you, cabaret’s not really my thing.”
“Right,” you nod and come to the edge of the stage. Tommy stands just below you, his face coming up to your hips from his position on the floor. He looks up at you, tilting his head to the side as he looks you over. Your bodysuit is revealing, barely covering your tits and cunt. He twists his mouth slightly in an expression that almost looks like anger- jealousy.
“Nice costume,” Tommy mutters and takes a long drag from his cigarette. You don’t respond so you both fall into a tense silence until he speaks again. “So you said you live here. Is that right?”
You nod and point backstage. “Back there. Just me and the other girls. We all have rooms back there.”
“Is that where you take all the men?” Tommy asks, gesturing with his cigarette.
“Jealous are we?” You tease. Tommy looks away and shakes his head once.
“Don’t.” His voice is stern and sharp. You know you’ve touched a nerve and you smile softly, biting your lip and looking down at your feet.
“It’s affordable and safe here with the other girls… that’s why I live here.” You answer finally and Tommy looks back at your face, studying you.
“Safe?” He asks softly, his judgmental brow raised.
“It’s safer than walking home alone every night after the cabaret closes.” You elaborate, gesturing loosely to the streets of Birmingham right outside the cabaret walls. “Anyway, I’ve been here for five years now- I started sometime after the war. You get used to it pretty quickly.”
Tommy clenches his jaw, silently counting the number of male clients you might have entertained in your time here. He takes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair, exhaling tightly.
“Sounds like a lonely life,” he says at last and you shrug.
“So does yours.”
Tommy looks back up at you with cold, annoyed eyes. He sets his cap back on his head and shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Yeah? And what do you know about my life?”
“Nothing, I can just tell.” You tilt your head to the side, looking at him intently. Tommy falters beneath your direct eye contact and bristles.
“Really?” He asks, his tone hard, “how?”
You crouch down on the lip of the stage so that you’re face to face with Tommy. You take his left hand and hold it with his palm facing you.
“No wedding ring, so you’re not married. You’re a criminal, so you struggle to trust others which is why you usually work alone. And… you came here. What were you looking for if not for a distraction?” Your eyes look between his. He scowls, pissed that you can see through him- or at least that you’re saying it aloud.
“Very observant,” Tommy says coldly.
“It’s part of the job, you have to know what the men need from you…”
Tommy keeps his face neutral but his eyes leave your face, flicking to the side before going back to your face. His jaw is tight.
“And what is it that I need?” He asks slowly, dangerously. You look at him for a little while longer and then shake your head.
“I don’t know…” you admit. You look down at his hand and turn it around in your hands. Tommy looks down at you, his brow furrows and he scoffs sarcastically.
“Why are you holding my hand like that?”
You look up at him and roll your eyes. “You’re mean, you know that?”
“I’m aware,” he scoffs again and pulls his hand away. He clenches his fist and relaxes it. You laugh softly at his attitude and lean closer.
“Why are you so mean?”
Tommy looks you up and down, his eyes stopping briefly on your chest. Slowly, he raises his hand to your cheek and slides his thumb across your bottom lip.
“Why do you try to get so close?” Tommy asks, his lip curled.
“Does it scare you?” You ask softly against his thumb.
“No, it doesn’t scare me.” His words brush against your lips like a slap. He smells richly like tobacco, and it almost makes your knees weak. You sigh and stand, stepping away from the lip of the stage. Tommy’s hand falls to his side again and he watches after you with a tilt to his head.
“Goodnight, Mr. Shelby.” You whisper and grab your jar of tips. You can’t help but almost storm off the stage. Whenever you try to get closer to him, he has a way of ridiculing your feelings and affections. You don’t look back as you leave him standing in the dark cabaret.
…
Then a few nights later, you see him again. And then again a few nights later. Those two nights he didn’t stay after or try in any way to speak to you. He’d started to just become another patron, another man that liked to watch you- fuck you, but nothing more. You couldn’t tell what he wanted or what he was thinking anymore and it started to really bother you. It’s not like you really had feelings for Thomas Shelby but you couldn’t deny how beautiful he was. As much as you hated the way he showed up and said nothing, you still loved seeing him in the audience surrounded by smoke like a veil. You knew he was there to watch you so you always tried to put on a good show in the hope that he would wait for you after. But he never did.
Tommy was trying to avoid the Cabaret. He didn’t even have any feelings for you, not really. He was still grieving his true love and first wife, and didn’t have the ability to feel anything for anyone else. It wasn’t love that he felt for you- it was something else that he couldn’t quite put into words. He felt that you were really similar to him, that you could deeply understand one another and maybe even benefit from helping one another. But at the end of the day, you were just a cabaret dancer and Tommy didn’t need another cabaret dancer. But each time he forced himself to forget about you, he thought about your situation and the way you had spoken to him the first time he’d met you. You’d said that you wanted to be a “normal woman,” and while Tommy certainly wasn’t a normal man- maybe he could provide you with a more “normal” life. He knew he was capable of doing that, of giving you an escape from the cabaret into a life of safety, stability, and normalcy but wasn’t the idea too ridiculous to pursue? He didn’t even know you but he kept going back to the cabaret and seeing you. It made him angry to see you onstage, maybe it was jealousy but it was also knowing how much you hated the work. He knew he wasn’t a good man, but the boy he used to be was. He could do something right, something good but could he bring himself to do it?
So Tommy finds himself at the Cabaret again, sitting at his usual table, a cigarette dangling between his lips. This time when you see him sitting in the dim light of the bar, you stare him down. Tommy swallows tightly and taps his cigarette over his ashtray, watching you still. He knows what you’re trying to do. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from yours, his expression one of subtle challenge. You trail your fingers over your body starting from your pelvis up to your breasts. The whistles of the audience are lost on you, only capturing Tommy’s attention matters at that moment. His eyes follow your hands as they curve over your body and his jaw tightens. When your routine ends, he doesn’t leave, just blows out a cloud of smoke slowly. You bow and disappear backstage, a twitch of annoyance on your lip.
Tommy flags down a waiter, one of his fists clenched at his side.
“I need you to pass a message to Diana, tell her to meet me backstage after the show tonight. Understand?” He mutters darkly and takes another drag. The young waiter, realizing who the patron is, swallows tightly and stutters.
“Y-yes, Mr. Shelby. Anything else?”
“No, that’ll be all.” Tommy exhales and returns his attention back to the stage. More dancers come on stage and perform but you aren’t among them this time. He downs another glass of whisky and checks his watch, the time is nearing midnight and the cabaret will be closing soon. Tommy watches from beneath his cap as patrons start to leave and waiters start busing the filthy tables. As the cabaret closes down around him, Tommy puts his cigarette between his lips and stands, sliding on his jacket. The waiter hurries over and ducks his head.
“She’s ready for you backstage, Mr. Shelby.”
“Alright, thank you.” He says around his cigarette and follows the man backstage through a greasy side door.
“She’s in ‘er dressing room through there.” The waiter points to one of the doors along the thin, dim hallway. Tommy nods once again and waits for the man to leave before opening the door.
When the door to your dressing room opens, you can’t help but jump a little. You turn around quickly, already ready for a fight.
“Tommy-” You start but he waves his hand through the hair, silencing you.
“Don’t.” He says calmly and slams the door behind him. “Sit.” He points to the chair behind you. You look back at the chair, your brow furrowed. Slowly, you do as you’re told, looking up at Tommy with a hint of resentment in your eyes.
“Why the hell are you looking at me like that?” Tommy steps closer and rubs his hands over his face, stretching the skin.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, ignoring his question. Tommy steps closer, his brow raised. He can’t exactly explain why he’s so pissed off at you and because he can’t, it makes him angrier.
“You know damn well why I’m here,” his voice is strained and tired.
“You keep showing up, just watch me perform and leave without speaking to me. What am I supposed to think?” You protest, your voice steady in its frustration.
Tommy smiles and laughs, shaking his head like he’s laughing at his own joke. He sniffs and clears his throat.
“You’re a smart woman, you can figure it out.”
You narrow your eyes at him. The truth is, you don’t know why he came back this time. You assume it’s for sex and that makes you even angrier.
“Fuck you,” you snap and Tommy chuckles, his lips curving into a smirk. He closes the distance and leans his hands on the armrests of the chair, boxing you in. His face is just above yours, his eyes more vibrant in their emotion.
“What that mouth of yours,” he says lowly, evenly.
“Or what?” You start, “we fucked once and then you practically disappeared. You don’t have the right to tell me what to do.” You growl.
Tommy’s grip on the armrests tightens as he tries to swallow down the mixture of anger and lust rising in his chest. Exhaling, he grabs your chin and holds it roughly in place.
“I said watch your mouth. I’m not some random man you can just push around.” His voice is low and dark, like a threat.
“No,” you mock unapologetically, “your’re Thomas fucking Shelby.” As if his name even means much to you. It certainly carried some weight in and around the cabaret but you’d told him before, you don’t concern yourself with business outside of the cabaret.
Something snaps in Tommy’s eyes and he grits his teeth. “Listen to me. I won’t tell you again. Watch your fucking mouth,” he nearly spits.
And before you can think it through, you respond.
“Make me.”
With a quick movement, Tommy suddenly pulls you to your feet by your arms and pins you against the wall, your face just beneath his. He doesn’t worry about being gentle with you, in fact he hopes it hurts you a little when he does this. You gasp out a breath of air when he shoves you against the wall and holds you by your shoulders. Your eyes widen and your lips fall open in surprise.
“Is this what you wanted?” Tommy pants, his hand coming up to hold your throat. He stares directly into your eyes as you take a breath and struggle against him, your palms beating his chest.
“Let me go, Tommy.” You ignore his question again, pissed.
He grabs your wrists to keep you from hitting him and pushes his weight against you. He looks down into your eyes, his gaze changing from anger into one of passion.
“You don’t really want me to do that, do you?”
You stop thrashing and take a breath, your eyes looking between his. As much as you hate him right now, god damn his eyes are beautiful. Remembering your frustration, however, you try to speak.
“Tommy-”
Tommy interrupts you, seeing the look of defiance in your eyes. He leans in, his lips close enough to brush against your neck.
“Say my name again,” he orders softly.
You take a deep breath, your heart racing. You can feel his breath against your neck and it sends shivers down your body into your cunt. Taking a second deep breath, you exhale.
“Tommy…”
He smiles against your neck and starts to nip the sensitive skin beneath your ear. Then he moves his lips to rest against your ear.
“I want you, Diana.”
You close your eyes, sighing, your body starting to give in. But in the next moment you remember yourself and push him away. You move across the room, your legs weak and shaky. When you turn around, you’re both breathing heavily. Tommy removes his heavy coat and tosses it over a clothing rack.
“For God’s sake, woman,” he grits out and runs his hand over his mouth. You exhale tightly, trying to hold yourself together and ignore the throbbing in your cunt. Instead of responding, you start to pull off your shoes and accessories, dropping them aggressively on the floor and makeup counter. You can’t even look at him without wanting to go back to him and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Tommy scoffs as he watches you discard parts of your costume and ignore him.
“Are you gonna keep acting like a child?” Tommy grumbles and leans against the wall with his arms across over his chest. You spin around, your arms gesturing wildly and your eyes flaming.
“Jesus, Tommy! What do you want from me? Why do you keep coming back here just to never speak to me?” You rip off your feathered headband and toss it to the side angrily. Tommy watches you discard parts of your sheer costume. His eyes roam over your body, his lust once again starting to rule over his frustration. He sighs and passes a hand through his dark hair. He takes a breath, looking away from you, then finally turns back, his eyes jumping from your body to your eyes.
“I can’t get you out of my mind,” he says softly, as if he’s exhausted.
You freeze, never expecting him to say something like that. Tommy shakes his head, frustrated at himself now for giving you and your situation so much power over him. Though he won’t say it, he might be obsessed with you. He suddenly feels ashamed and his eyes go cold again.
“Is that not what you wanted to hear?” He asks, his eyes turning away from you. In the harsh dressing room light, his cheekbones cast dark shadows on his face in profile. You wet your lips and shake your head, not able to believe him.
“I’m not a whore, Tommy. You can’t just come back whenever you want to fuck me,” you mutter, suddenly exhausted too. Tommy looks back, his brow immediately furrows. He jumps off from the wall and closes the distance once again between you. He places his hands on your shoulders, holding you still.
“That’s not what this is,” his voice is low but clear- direct. He’s becoming more impatient by the minute. It’s like you’re refusing to see sense, to understand what he’s trying to tell you. He doesn’t understand why you’re the only thing he can think about and why he wants more of you, in all senses, now. His hands travel up your shoulders to the sides of your neck before they come to rest on either side of your face. His pointer fingers rest behind your ears, tucked beneath your flapper’s bob.
You finally look up into his eyes, your heart falling into your stomach at what you see. You start to believe him, god-damn it. You do. Tommy lets out a gruff sigh and caresses your cheek with his thumb, his eyes traveling over your face as if he has all the time in the world to do so.
“Don’t act like you don’t want me just as bad,” he mutters, his voice quieter than before. And when he says it, it doesn’t sound like he just means sex anymore. But what more do you want from Tommy Shelby than just sex?
Your hands move to his lapels, gripping the button holes. You close your eyes for a moment as Tommy’s thumb passes over your bottom lip. He sighs when you close your eyes, his head immediately tilting down to get closer to your lips.
“You drive me fucking mad, you know?” Tommy mutters so close to your lips that you can feel the sound of his words. His mouth dodges your lips and finds your neck, kissing below your jaw.
“I hate you sometimes,” you whisper back, your breath jumping when you feel his hand slip down to your waist. He nods against your skin and moves his mouth slowly up to yours.
“I know.”
As he says this, you break and pull your chemise over your hips so you can undo your garters. Tommy groans softly against your mouth as he feels your garters snap as they fall away. Tommy runs his hands up your thigh as you unbutton his trousers, both panting softly between kisses. Tommy unbuttons his shirt and lets it hang open as he picks you up and sits back in the chair. He sets you down on his lap where you’re straddling him. His hands roam over your thighs as you take his face in your hands. The straps of your chemise roll off your shoulders but the fabric still covers your chest.
“I want to see you, Diana.” Tommy slides his hands up your sides. You look down at him, your eyes meeting and holding contact.
“Not yet,” you whisper.
Tommy’s hands slide back down your sides to rest on your hips. One of his hands starts to rub circles on the small of your back over your chemise. He smirks softly and tilts his head to the side.
“Why not?”
You smile back and lean down, brushing your nose against his. “You have to earn it,” you whisper. You kiss Tommy gently and he sighs against your lips, pulling you closer by your hips.
“Earn it,” he asks, his eyes still closed, “how the hell do I earn it then?” He smiles and looks back up at you. You kiss him briefly, adding to his sexual frustration.
“You have to be good to me.”
“Good to you?” He repeats, groaning when you start to taunt him with short kisses.
“Be good to me,” you whisper again and begin to kiss him harder.
He slips his arms around your waist and pulls you flush against his chest. He kisses you passionately and deeply. You moan softly against his lips and Tommy moves one hand to slide up and down your thigh, holding you securely on his lap.
“Is this good?” Tommy mutters, smiling. You giggle and shake your head, breaking the kiss.
“You can touch me… but you can’t look- not yet.”
Tommy leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes, trying to contain himself. He sighs tightly and opens his eyes, his head still leaning back. His hands roam up your body to your waist and up to your chest. His hands are open and flat as he passes his palms over your breasts, still veiled in silky fabric. He watches your reaction as you gasp softly, your nipples hardening beneath his light touch.
Your hands trail down his bare stomach to his unbuttoned trousers. You reach into his pants and pull out his erection. Tommy groans, his eyes not leaving yours as he continues to feel you up over your chemise. You rise up on your knees and align his cock between your thighs. You sit down slowly and sigh tightly as you feel him fill you up. You move slowly, rocking your hips back and forth. Tommy holds onto your hips, guiding you and matching your rhythm. He watches you in admiration as you take the lead, grinding harder and faster as you please.
“Fuck.” Tommy pulls you down harder on his cock, causing you both to groan and gasp against each other. His hand slides up your back to rest against your spine, supporting you as you lean away from his chest. You’re whimpering as Tommy breathes heavily against your sternum, sweat glistening beneath your collarbones and between your breasts. You’re moving your hips as quickly as you can as Tommy guides you up and down. When you kiss him, he lets you slot your tongue between his lips. He groans when you suck on his wide bottom lip and his hips sputter up into yours.
“Slow down, girl,” Tommy warns you between kisses, his hands slowing your hips down. “Stop for a second, look at me,” Tommy speaks softly though his words are broken up by heavy breaths. You stop and look down at him, your neck flushed with blood.
“W-what is it?”
Tommy looks up at you, his hands rubbing up and down your sides. Why he chooses this moment- he doesn’t know. He wets his lips.
Summary: Tommy checks out the local cabaret to survey the business potential of the place. You're a dancer and in need of some sort of change.
Warnings: borderline sexism, objectification of sex-workers and female performers, unprotected sex, no aftercare.
🎶 Ode to a Conversation Stuck in Your Throat - Del Water Gap
Author's note: I had to go back to Tommy to get out of my writing slump lol. This is very similar to my previous series but less intense, more lighthearted.
Thomas Shelby takes a deep drink from his glass of Irish Whiskey and lets his eyes wander around the room. He’s not as interested in the show occurring onstage as he is in the number of patrons sitting at the tables around the stage. Most are men, many of them are working class. They’re drinking cheap ale and whistling at the dancers on stage. Tommy takes a note in his notebook and finishes his whiskey. His pale skin takes on a tan hue in the darker light of the bar. He has his hat pulled down over his eyes and slips the notebook back into his pocket. When he finally turns his attention back to the stage, he sees the group of scantily dressed dancers and sighs tightly. This is not really his type of scene- he’d much prefer to be alone, somewhere quiet, private, calm. He’d only come tonight to take notes on the number of patrons, a factor in his future business dealings that may or may not include buying the bar and cabaret in which he was currently sitting. Arthur and John had volunteered to do the survey for him- of course they did- but Tommy needed a clear-headed, realistic description of the place. His brothers couldn’t do that for him, they just couldn’t.
His eyes fell on one of the dancers as she steps up to the microphone stand and starts to sing “Over There."
Johnny get your gun- get your gun.
Johnny get your gun- get your gun.
Take it on the run- on the run.
Take it on the run- on the run.
Hear them calling you and me, every son of liberty.
She was a plain girl and couldn't have been more than 25 at the oldest. The song she was singing was a war song, one he’d heard in France from the Yankees. Hearing the young woman sing it forced a peculiar feeling in his chest to rise into his throat. He swallowed tightly and flagged the waiter for another drink. He turned back to watch the young woman, his face betraying no thoughts or feelings. He was leaning forward in his chair, his hand propped on his knee. He checked his pocket watch and paid the waiter for his drink.
…
From the stage, you look out at the mass of patrons hooting from their seats. This is not really what you imagined when you pictured your future as a little girl. You’d wanted to perform, and frankly, you were, just not for the right audience. You’d just turned twenty-two and felt decades older as you pranced around in your flapper dress with the low cut v-neck. You may have been the headliner, as you usually were at the cabaret, but it was certainly nothing special. Your name was up in lights but did it count when the cabaret was on a dirty side-street in Birmingham? Obviously, you have a problem with self-deprecation. You’ll have to work on that- note to self.
But as you sing, the steaming spotlights blind you from everything except for one patron sitting near the center of the audience. You can only make out a shape, like a black silhouette, but you can tell it's a man. When the spotlight moves, your eyes adjust and faces become clear again. Your eyes return back to the man and this time you can see his cap pulled down over his eyes and the way he lies his forearms on the table as he holds his cigarette. When the routine ends, you bow, your hand covering your cleavage as you bend over. When you look up again, the man is staring at you, clapping slowly like he’s from a different point in time and space entirely. You regard him curiously as you straighten up. Cheers and whistles berate you as you hurry offstage.
It doesn’t take long for your boss to find you backstage.
“Diana,” he starts, brushing off a thin layer of sweat from his balding forehead, “there’s a patron that wants to meet you… he's one of the Peaky Blinders.”
You turn, your brows furrow skeptically. “Peaky Blinders? What’s that?”
“You-you don’t know? Eh well they’re basically the most powerful gang in Birmingham, Diana. They’re the ones that run the illegal gambling rings and whiskey dealings.”
“And someone from the Peaky Blinders wants to meet me?” You clarify, a note of distaste and disbelief in your tone.
Your boss nods and shrugs hesitantly, “Seems like it. I mean I can tell him that you’re not feeling well, I’ll say whatever you want, but…” he trails off. You stare at him for a moment, your morbid curiosity piqued.
“Well… I guess I’ll meet him. Tell him that I’ll come out once everyone leaves. Can he wait?”
Your boss nods and turns away to relay the message. He returns after a few minutes and nods, confirming that the man will wait. Exhaling, you pinch the bridge of your nose and try to prepare yourself for whatever the man may want- god forbid. To be completely honest, you’re tired. You’re dead tired. Work at the cabaret is exhausting and emotionally taxing. The spotlights may hide the eye bags and shaky muscles but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. You adjust your makeup to hide the purple circles beneath your eyes before you force yourself to stand and greet the strange visitor.
…
Tommy is lighting another cigarette when he sees the velvet curtain shift and a person steps out from behind it. Looking over the end of his cigarette, he sees you step down from the stage and approach him slowly, your expression neutral. Tommy sits silently as he watches you approach his table, the last patron left in the establishment after closing. You stop on the opposite side of the table, your eyes unable to rest on his face for longer than a few seconds.
“My boss told me that you wanted to meet me…” you say as your hands rest on the edge of the seat. Tommy looks up at you from his seat, his face finally fully visible beneath the shadow of his Peaky cap.
“Yes, I did want to meet you,” Tommy responds coolly, his eyes on yours.
You take a deep breath, unsure what to say next. “You’re a Peaky Blinder?”
Tommy smiles slightly and tilts his head to the side in a curious manner as he responds, “I am. You’ve never heard of us?”
“No, I try not to get involved in business outside of the cabaret,” you respond, trying to gauge what kind of person he is and whether or not he’s trustworthy. Tommy raises a dark eyebrow and adjusts himself in his seat, a deep sigh escaping his puffy lips.
“That’s smart. Most people would be better off keeping their heads down… but sometimes business has a way of finding you, whether you’re looking for it or not. Just like trouble." Tommy’s eyes return to yours as he says the last line.
“So this is a business proposition?” You ask, gesturing between the two of you.
Tommy pauses for a moment and takes a sip of his whiskey. His eyes leave yours as he considers your question. Finally, his chlorine-blue eyes meet yours, a new expression visible beneath his eyelashes.
“In a way, you could say that. I’m… interested in you,” Tommy explains slowly.
“And I suppose I should be flattered,” you add, your eyes narrowing down at Tommy.
Tommy chuckles and shakes his head before he finally responds.
“Most women would consider it a compliment to be told that they’ve caught the attention of a Peaky Blinder.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not like most women,” you shake your head softly.
Tommy nods slowly, his eyes leaving yours as he thinks. “Hmm, that much is true but you wouldn’t be my type if you were ‘most women’.”
You try not to roll your eyes at his response and smile down at yourself, unable to take him seriously.
“Well the problem is that I’d much rather be like most women,” you open your small pocketbook to find a cigarette. “My line of work isn’t exactly ideal.”
Tommy raises his eyebrow and drums his fingertips against the sticky tabletop. He watches you rummage around in your handbook and pulls out his gold embossed cigarette case. He holds the case open for you, offering you one of his own cigarettes. You hesitate before taking a cigarette, meeting his eyes slowly again. He takes a drag of his cigarette and watches as you find your lighter and strike a flame.
“A woman as talented and captivating as you can have whatever she wants. Why settle for being like most women?” Tommy’s brows furrow as he taps his cigarette over the ashtray by his elbow.
“The safety… the normalcy,” you light your cigarette and place it between your lips. “I’m a dancer, most men see me as one step up from a common whore.”
His eyes follow the way you place your cigarette between your pretty pink lips and he nods finally, taking a deep breath.
“Safety and normalcy are vastly overrated. And for the record I can think of several steps between a cabaret dancer and a common whore.”
You give him an appreciative smile and pull out your chair to sit down opposite him at the table. You tap your cigarette over the ashtray by his elbow, your bare forearm nearly brushing his coat sleeve. He looks down, following your arm with his eyes as he takes another drag.
“Well,” you start as you exhale a thin stream of smoke, “are you going to tell me your name?” There’s a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
Tommy’s eyes almost darken as he watches you bring the cigarette back to your lips. He allows himself to smile softly, glancing away and then back at you.
“Thomas Shelby. People call me Tommy… or Mr. Shelby.”
“Well, Mr. Shelby, what can I do for you?” You bring the conversation back to its original purpose, still morbidly curious why he wanted to meet you.
“I wanted to get to know you better… I’m not usually interested in women but you grabbed my attention.”
“Was it the low cut dress?” You respond nonchalantly, your free hand brushing over the deep V-neck of your dress.
Tommy laughs and rubs his thumb over his lips, shaking his head. “It certainly didn’t hurt.”
You shrug and cross your legs beneath the table, “at least you’re an honest criminal…”
Tommy takes a sip of his whiskey and smirks, laughing again. “I find it's best to be upfront about who I am… no point in pretending to be a good man when I'm not.”
You regard him carefully, your foot jostling nervously beneath the table. “You don’t consider yourself a good man?”
Tommy’s expression darkens and his lips pull back tightly. He downs the rest of the whiskey in his glass before pouring another one. He leans back in his chair, thinking of a response.
“I think ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are relative terms. I think I’m a man with ambition and the will to achieve my goals. But some of those goals may not be what most people consider… ‘good.’”
“Cheers to that,” you raise your cigarette and Tommy chuckles, raising his glass of whiskey back.
“And what about you? Do you consider yourself a good person?” Tommy asks after taking a sip of his drink.
“I don’t think it matters anymore,” you shrug and take a drag of your cigarette.
Tommy clears his throat and sets his glass down. “Why not?”
“To most of the men here, I’m just a dancer. And after years of feeling less than human, I've lost any sense of introspection.”
Tommy regards you closely, his eyes focused but look relaxed.
“And yet, you don’t act as if you feel less than. I can’t imagine you’re as shallow as most of the men in this room think you are.”
You blow out a skinny cloud of smoke and it wavers around Tommy’s face like a gray serpent. “Funny,” you smile softly, “I didn’t peg you as an optimist.”
He chuckles and shakes his head slowly, “I’m not much of an optimist. I’m more of a realist. And any man with a brain should know there’s more to you lot than pretty faces and a pair of legs.”
You give a snort of laughter and stub out your cigarette. You don’t know what to say at first so you twist your mouth to the side, thinking.
“Thank you.”
He gives you a short nod, “You get used to men not seeing you as the person you are. I won’t claim to know you, but I know you’re not the type of woman who’s content being just an object for the men in this room to ogle at.”
You nod, appreciating his perspective, especially coming from a man. “It pays the bills,” you shrug.
There’s something about that moment between you. The cabaret is empty besides the two of you and everything is still and quiet. You suddenly feel so close like the space around you has shrunk. Though a table separates your two bodies, Tommy’s eyes push in with the cold severity of a cement wall.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Tommy finally breaks the silence, his voice is low and straightforward.
You stare at Tommy for a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Finally, you shake your head.
“No.”
He nods, his eyes lingering on your face. The way your hair is shorter than your shoulders, the faint hint of rouge left on your lips, the way your dress clings to your body… it makes his skin grow hot.
“Do you want one?” He asks, his voice low.
Your heart starts to hammer against your chest and you take a sudden breath. Your instincts are suddenly silent like the system has been overrun.
“I don’t know…” you whisper.
He gazes back at you intently, watching your reactions to his question. The way your breath hitches slightly, the rise and fall of your chest, your lips parting ever so slightly.
“Do you want me to be more plain with my question?” He asks quietly, gently, like he’s addressing a child.
You regard him curiously and not knowing what to say, you say nothing. Tommy doesn’t even wait for an answer before he speaks. He leans forward, his chest pressing into the edge of the table. His eyes are locked on yours.
“I want you.”
“That,” you start shakily, “isn’t a question.”
Tommy takes in the way your cheekbones glow with color and how your neck flushes. He nods and meets your eyes again, serious.
“No, it isn’t.”
The way he says it sounds so effortless, so normal. You take a breath and shake your head, forcing some sense back into the situation.
“You don’t even know my name,” you argue.
Tommy looks down, smiling softly. When he looks back up, he’s still smiling.
“I asked your boss.” Tommy stands and trails his finger around the rim of his glass. One of his hands stays in his pocket as he clears his throat. “Your name is Diana.”
“So you do know my name,” you look up at Tommy. Your heart seems to forget its original rhythm and hammers at an uncomfortable pace.
“Yes, I know your name, Diana.” He repeats your name and the way he says it sounds so sexy. He’s leaning across the table now, his arms crossed against his chest.
“So you asked me to meet you just to tell me that you want to fuck me?” You clarify, your eyes narrowing. He’s not surprised by your bluntness. He’s heard much worse when talking to other gang members and criminals. He shrugs and clears his throat softly.
“That was my initial intention.”
“And what is it now?”
Tommy looks at you for a long moment, his eyes moving slowly across your face, taking you in. Your gaze is strong, but he can sense that beneath it there’s a hint of uncertainty. He lowers his voice as he answers.
“Now… I want more.”
“And what makes you think I’ll give you what you want?” You mutter up at him.
He’s acutely aware of how close your lips are now to his. It’d be so easy to reach out and pull you to him, over the table. He can almost hear your heart hammering in your chest and he can smell your perfume, your sweat. His eyes wander over your face, his voice low as he answers.
“Because you’re not saying no.”
“I could say ‘no’ right now.” You threaten, whispering now.
He places his palms on the table and leans down. He hears the lack of conviction in your voice. He's close enough now that he can feel the heat coming off your body, see the way your breathing is quickening, and his own body is reacting to your nearness.
“Then do it. Go on, say no.”
“And what if I do…” Your voice drops off at the end like an open ended question. Tommy lets his gaze drop to your mouth briefly, seeing the way your lips fall open at the end of your sentence. His heart might be beating slightly faster but he’s completely relaxed as he leans even closer.
“You won’t,” he says quietly but with calm conviction, his breath tickling your nose.
“Are you always this arrogant?” You ask, too aware of the closeness of his lips. You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, throbbing in time with your pulse. Tommy sees the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks as you blink, his voice just as soft.
“Only when I know I’m right.” He pulls back and steps around the table towards you.
“And are you very frequently right?” You press, trying to ignore the growing tension between your bodies. His cheekbones look deeper in the offcast shadow from the bar’s electric lanterns.
He smiles slightly at you, amused. He doesn’t answer you right away, just stares down at your lips. Just before he closes the distance between your mouths, he murmurs, “almost always.”
You feel him kiss you. The movement is fluid and deep like he’s breathing you in like a cigarette. He pulls you up from your chair and holds the place above your ribs with a gentle yet assertive touch. Your hands start on his elbows and slide up to his shoulders. The fabric of his shoulders bunch up as he holds you. When you kiss him back he immediately takes control, parting your lips with his tongue. Your lips are soft and hot against his and your breath is ragged against his face.
He tilts your head back with one of his hands by cupping the back of your neck beneath your bob. You’re leaning back against the table when you push his hat off his head and slide your hand into his hair. Tommy groans softly against your lips and cups your jaw in his hand.
“Can I fuck you?” He breaks the kiss you ask against your lips. His voice is gravelly and deep, like what you’d imagine coals sound like when they’re shifted over a fire. You gasp against his lips, feeling a shock through your throbbing cunt at his words. You normally don’t do this. But…
“Yes,” you whisper and nod against his face, your noses crushed against each other. He takes a breath before slowly starting to kiss you again.
“Here?” You ask breathlessly, looking around at the empty cabaret.
“It’s as good a place as any…” he responds calmly and kisses you again, his other hand cupping the other side of your face. You smile and laugh softly against his lips, nodding.
“I only ask one thing,” you break the kiss again as he presses his body against yours.
“What is it?” His eyes are closed as he bites your bottom lip and releases it.
“You won’t pay me afterwards. I’m not a whore. I’m not doing this for any favors.”
Tommy chuckles and moves his hands to your waist, picking you up and dropping you down on the table behind you.
“As you wish.”
He immediately slots himself between your knees and rolls up the skirt of your short flapper dress as he starts to kiss you again. You push off his jacket over his arms and pull him closer by the neck of his vest.
Once his jacket is off, he pushes against you again and reaches under your skirt to unclip your garters. The bands snap against your thighs and he groans quietly against your lips at the noise of them hitting your bare skin. He guides your back down to the table, kissing you deeply as he pulls down your silk underwear.
You’re panting as you feel Tommy slowly pull down your underwear down your thighs. He stops kissing you to watch your reaction as your underwear slips over your knees. You both exhale simultaneously as your underwear slips down to your ankles and finally comes off. His hands then slide up your thighs, his eyes still on yours. In one quick motion, he spreads your legs and presses his hips against yours. You gasp when you feel his large erection through his trousers
“You’ll be alright,” he mutters before he crushes his lips against yours, harder than before. He undoes the button at his crotch and opens his boxers with one hand with expert ease. You pull him closer, gasping when he enters you a bit too forcibly for his size.
“There you go,” he whispers, breaking the kiss to exhale against you. Your stomach tenses in pain and you whimper tightly. Tommy slows his thrusts down only slightly and puts his hand beneath your head to support it. His other hand holds your thigh up to rest at his hip. You moan and grip the fabric of his dress shirt on his shoulders as it starts to feel better. Tommy moves his mouth down to nip at the skin beneath your jaw. His thrusts get progressively stronger, leaving you gasping against his ear.
Tommy moves his hands down to your hips and holds them in place as he moves, lifting his chest from yours. His jaw is clenched as he puts space between you. You cover your mouth with your hand as you start to cry out in pleasure. Tommy chuckles down at you, his grunts and groans are dark and low. He says nothing as he goes deeper, his hands pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table.
You feel your pelvic muscles contract as a wave of pleasure comes over you. Your heart’s racing and you can feel sweat pool between your breasts. Tommy leans down again as he feels you get closer and nips down your neck again, his teeth barely scraping over your skin. He kisses your collarbone and pants against the shelf of it.
“That’s it, girl,” Tommy groans against you, his fingers digging into your upper thigh.
“Mr. Shelby,” you gasp against his scalp, feeling a climactic surge of energy through your body.
“It’s alright, girl. You’re alright,” he nods reassuringly. His words pull an internal trigger in your body and you orgasm. In your orgasm, you grab the back of his neck. Feeling your grip, Tommy raises his head to look into your eyes and watch you cum. Your mouth falls open in a way that makes him shiver in pleasure. His hips slow as you ride your climax and he starts to feel his. He thrusts deeply into you, his hips rutting against you with reserved power.
“Open your eyes,” he mutters and presses his thumb against your bottom lip, pulling it down to expose your row of bottom teeth. Your eyes flutter open and you see him looking at you. His gaze is nearly as penetrating as his cock.
Without giving you further instructions, he looks down into your eyes, his mouth open in a sigh. With a few more deep, slow thrusts, he finishes. He groans softly and lowers his face to yours but doesn’t kiss you. After a second of sharing breath, he pulls back and pulls out. He fixes himself back into his clothes and shrugs his jacket on once again. You sit up slowly, your thighs and abdomen shaking.
Tommy bends over and takes his cap from the floor and secures it onto his head. He hands you your underwear and looks away respectfully as you pull your underwear back on and clip your garters back to your garter belt.
“Alright?” Tommy nods at you as he looks over his shoulder, ensuring that the cabaret is still empty.
“Jesus Christ, Mr. Shelby,” you fix your hair quickly and push the skirt of your dress back down. “Ever a businessman, aren’t you?”
Tommy chuckles and offers his hand to help you down from the table. His eyes study your face down to your body.
“I try to stay efficient…” he mutters with a small smirk.
“Of course,” you smile softly back and smooth down your dress. Tommy chuckles again and shakes his head, enjoying your attitude. He leans in close to your ear.
“Thank you for your company this evening,” he whispers and pulls back to see your face. You blush and nod once.
“My pleasure, anything for a Peaky Blinder.”
“You tease me,” Tommy drops your hand with a chuckle and fixes his suit lapels.
“Yes,” you nod and take a few steps back towards the stairs of the stage. Tommy turns in the opposite way at first and then turns, slightly surprised to see you turn back to the stage.
“Live here, do you?” He asks, half joking. You look between him and the stage and shrug nonchalantly.
“It’s affordable.”
“Right.” He nods and takes a cigarette from his cigarette case. You watch him in silence as he switches the case for a lighter and lights the end of the cigarette.
“Will you be back to watch my shows?” You ask, and it surprises you that you almost hope that he says yes. You want him to treat you suddenly like all of the other men in the cabaret, to adore you. Tommy clicks the lighter closed and slips it back into his pocket. His brows are furrowed when he finally looks back to you.
“It’s not really my… thing,” Tommy gestures loosely with his cigarette. You nod in understanding and turn your back to him as you climb the stairs up to the stage.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Shelby,” you call over your shoulder. Tommy grins around his cigarette as he watches you cross the stage.
“Goodnight, Diana,” he calls back and after a few moments of watching you retreat backstage, he exits the cabaret. On the street outside of the cabaret, Tommy takes a drag of his cigarette and looks back at the small building. Your name is spelled out on a hand painted sign. He runs his hand over his mouth and exhales a slow line of smoke. He contemplates going back inside, finding the girl, finding you. For what reason? He can’t say.
The lights start to go out inside the cabaret and Tommy watches them as he smokes his cigarette down to a stump.
Book Recommendations Based on Cillian Murphy's Characters! | Pt. 1?
These are all books that I've read and associate with Cillian's characters. Just because I include a book does not mean I completely agree/condone anything in them... they just remind me of the character. Characters included:
Crane
Jim
Matthew Joy
Killick
Raymond
Neil
Lenny Miller
Fischer
Let me know which books you’d recommend and which character’s recommendations you like the best!
Summary: You're running away from Mr. Daws, your adoptive father on Nantucket Island and happen to be saved by a curious sailor. You seek refuge on a whaling vessel in your hopes of making it to the mainland of Massachusetts. The man promises to help you, even if it costs him his job.
Warnings: Hints at possible sexual assault attempts from adoptive father, old-fashioned perspectives on prostitutes, 10-year age gap, mutual trauma.
word count: 4040k
Seventeen- Sjowgren 🎶
“Stop her!” Mr. Daws shouts from the doorway of his store in the overcrowded market. You duck between two men carrying a large basket of oysters, your feet nearly slipping in the deep layer of mud that has only gotten worse in the snowy winter months. Mr. Daws chases you but his rotund belly and smallish legs hinder his pursuit and you manage to put some distance between yourself and the angry fish-marketer.
“Thief! Grab her, by God!” You can hear the anger rising in his voice and notice that more people turn to inspect the scene. Thankfully, no one tries to intervene, they’re too confused by the scene to do anything. To the people of Nantucket, all they see is a young woman, probably 18 or so, in a printed blue dress holding onto her bonnet as she runs down the market lanes. They look for a thief or a criminal and see none, just a girl. You look like the well-off daughter of a merchant or clergyman in your colorful frock and braided blonde hair stuffed into the brown bonnet.
“For thee love of God, grab tha’ girl!” The man tries again to rally the bystanders as he lumbers after you, slipping and sliding in the mud. The passing of a cart cuts him off momentarily but you can still hear his voice calling from a too-close-for-comfort distance. You can’t help but smile as you race down to the docks, clutching a cloth duffle of bread, preserves, and personal belongings- some of which you did sorta steal but from your own home. Mud splatters up the back of your legs, staining your cotton pantletts and underclothes but you daren’t stop and incur the wrath of the fishman.
Your feet scramble in the mud, your boots losing traction. A frightened squeal escapes your throat as you keep running, praying that you make it to the docks and catch a sailboat before the man reaches you. This is not how it was supposed to go. Mr. Daws was not supposed to see you as you snuck out of the fish stall in the market, but he had. Mr. Daws is the man that wishes to marry you, and most shockingly, the man that adopted you a year before from the Nantucket Island Orphanage. He’d treated you well, buying you new frocks, and showering you with kindness until you turned 18… then his true intentions were revealed. He’d only shown you kindness in exchange for your trust. A marriage proposal from the man who by your understanding was your legal father was enough to shatter any trust or affection you held for him. And the things he’d tried to do… you couldn’t stay there any longer. Your only choice is to pay for passage to mainland Massachusetts on one of the many sailboats docked in the harbor.
“Thief!” He screams again and you nearly feel like sobbing because you can’t seem to outrun him in the horrible mud.
“Umph!” The sound of surprise leaves your mouth as you’re jerked to the side by a strong hand. You fall between someone’s arms in the cutaway of an alley and immediately struggle to remove yourself.
“A thief eh?”
You look up. A sailor smiles down at you, his hands still holding your shoulders in place. You look over at the busy market and the man follows your gaze, registering the look of fear in your eyes. Without a word, he pushes you into the shadow of a stall and covers any view of you from the street with his body.
“I hope whatever you stole is worth it,” the man mutters over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the busy market lane.
“I didn’t steal anything… well not really,” you whisper back, your voice dipping as you added the last part.
“I paid for ye!” Is the last thing you hear Mr. Daws scream as he limps right past you and the sailor. The sailor turns and cocks his eyebrow.
“He paid for you?” His tone is quizzical as he looks you up and down. You don’t look like a prostitute. “Aren’t you a little young?”
You look at the man for a moment, still in shock and totally unfazed by the man’s intervention on your behalf. You narrow your eyes, trying to understand what the man means and open your mouth slowly to respond but the sailor shakes his hand dismissively.
“No, no it's alright. That’s not important. Are you alright?” He glances over at the market again, checking to ensure the angry man wasn’t on his way back. You release the breath you were still holding and bury your face in your hands with a groan of relief but it’s still too soon to celebrate. Mr. Daws could be on his way back any minute now and see you. He could realize that you didn’t go down to the docks once the crowds of the market faded before the harbor. Your eyes snap open again and you grab the sailor’s forearms desperately.
“Please, can you help me?” You manage to ask, your heart still racing. The sailor’s brow furrows and he nods with visible concern.
“I can try, what’s happened? If you are a thief I won’t report you…”
Your knees buckle randomly and you collapse. You would have landed in the mud if not for the sailor grabbing beneath your arms and holding you up. He looks around for a place to set you but there is mud all around, so he exhales tightly and supports your body weight.
“I’m sorry,” you squeak in embarrassment and try to stand on your own.
“Never mind that, are you in trouble?”
You nod emphatically and glance over again at the market lane.
“Was that man chasing you?”
You nod emphatically again and nearly begin to sob for a second time. Your gasps of breathlessness make you feel lightheaded and weak. You lick your lips and try to take a steady breath so that you can speak.
“I- I’m running away. I have to get away from Nantucket. I was going to buy passage to the mainland but I’m worried he will see me and make me go back.”
“Go back… where?” The sailor tries to follow but you shake your head.
“I just need to get off this island. I need to get on a ship and go, go anywhere. Can you help me? I have money for the fare.” You reach into your pocket with a shaking hand to withdraw the roll of banknotes you’d stolen from Mr. Daws to pay for a ticket, either legally or under the table.
“Put it away,” the man nods towards your pocket and looks down at his feet as he thinks. You shove the money back into the safe pocket of your skirt and wipe a tear from your eye. Finally the sailor looks back up and nods.
“Can you walk?”
He lets you go for a moment so you can try to stand without assistance. Your legs are weak but the moment of helplessness has passed. You nod.
“Ok, follow me closely and take my coat.” The stranger pulls off his navy blue peacoat and helps you pull it on over your dress. He takes the duffle from you and when you start to protest, he shushes you with a finger to his lips. “Now take off your bonnet and put it in the pocket of your dress. Put on my hat.”
The sailor removes his cap and hands it to you. You tuck your hair beneath the lip.
“Good, now come on,” he grabs your hand and pulls you through the edges of the market towards the dock. His grip is tight and reassuring as you both walk quickly towards the dock.
At the harbor, the air is thick and gray. You can barely see the mass of shipmen working on the docks as they confer with other men. In your strange disguise, you look like a sailor’s wife wishing your husband farewell and indeed, you see wives doing just that as their husbands set off for whaling expeditions or fishing trips.
“There’s a ship here leaving for the mainland…” His sentence is cut off as you both approach the sailing boat. You squeeze his hand and duck behind a wall of water barrels. Quickly, he realizes what you’re doing and joins you.
“He must be telling the captain. Wait here.” The man tells you and steps back onto the busy path of the dock. He approaches Mr. Daws and the captain of the sailboat with a casual jaunt in his step. Mr. Daws turns toward the man and waves his hands about his head in his usual animated fashion. The sailor rubs his chin as he pretends to look interested. He pats Mr. Daws on the back and bows to the captain before walking back down the dock. The men don’t notice as he ducks behind the barrels beside you once again.
“Whoever that man is that you’re running from, he’s forcing the captain to postpone all his trips to the mainland for the next few days. You won’t be able to get on the vessel without being turned in.”
“Oh God!” You exclaim softly and sink down against the barrels, tears spilling down your pink cheeks. The sailor jumps at your tears and holds his hands out helplessly, unsure what to do.
“Oh please don’t cry! Look, I’ll take you aboard my ship. I stay docked for a few days and in that time, you may be able to board the sailing boat. If not, maybe we can drop you off at our next stop.” The man spoke quickly, his ideas coming to him on the spot. You pause your crying to look at him. You don’t even know who this man is, much less trust him to keep you safe aboard a random ship. But this is what you wanted. You wanted to get away from Nantucket in any way that you could.
“What’s your name?” You ask softly, wary to follow the man now that your shock has subsided slightly. The sailor chuckles at your question, his smile lopsided.
“Matthew, but we can introduce ourselves formally on the boat.”
You nod and wait for the sailor named Matthew to give you a sign that it was safe to move. He glances around the wall of barrels and after a few moments, his hand gropes blindly for your back. Pushing you along by your back, Matthew leads you down a dock and to the right where the larger vessels are docked. A ramp has already been set up and when no one is looking, Matthew scoops you up. You gasp, startled and very uncomfortable as he hurries up the ramp.
“Pretend you're a sack of potatoes or something…” Matthew mutters between his teeth and you dejectedly comply. He throws you over his shoulder and beelines for the passage leading below deck. You can tell immediately when Matthew passes through the threshold because the air is stuffy and humid. It smells like stale food and mildew but thankfully, it isn’t unbearable.
“We’re almost there,” he whispers as he turns a corner or two. The hallways are dark, only lit every few feet with a lantern. When he finally stops, he opens a door and steps inside quickly. He sets you down gently on your feet and steps back to give you room. You exhale slowly and look around. It’s a closet of some kind, full of extra rope and canvas for sails.
“You should stay here for a little while, at least until we know if you can catch the sailing boat. Just don’t wander about. This side of the boat isn’t as busy because we use it for storage and for our workshops but it wouldn’t be good to have you walking about…” He clears his throat pointedly and you realize suddenly, that you haven’t really gotten a chance to look at him since he pulled you to safety. His face had completely slipped from your notice all day, as desperate as you were to get away from Mr. Daws.
Matthew has a grayish face in the pale light below deck, and attractive hollow cheeks below prominent cheekbones. He has an impressive scar above his top lip, splitting his pallet down the middle at a diagonal. He is clean shaven but his hair is unkempt and about as long as you would assume for a sailor. His hair is a chestnut color, lightened from months spent beneath the sun at sea. And his eyes! You draw your eyes up to his. You’d never seen eyes quite like his, so dark blue they championed the color of the sea.
“Well,” Matthew clears his throat, trying to fill the period of silence that you didn’t notice, “now that you know my name, I think it’s only fair that I should know yours.” He keeps his back against the door, creating a respectful distance between you. You look down at your hands, for no reason really, though the blush spreading across your face may be one.
“Y/N,” you answer, looking up again. Matthew nods and trails his fingers absent-mindedly down the strap of your duffle bag still slung over his shoulder. He realizes the bag is yours and sets it down. Seeing him do this, you remember that you’re wearing his peacoat and cap. You remove them and hand them back to Matthew with a shy smile. Your body begins to drain of its initial adrenaline as you watch Matthew put his belongings on once again.
“I’ll be back in an hour or two, and when I come back, I’ll bring you some supper. If another man happens to open this door and see you…” Matthew trails off, his eyebrows pulling together. He looks just above your head on the opposite wall, thinking.
“What?” You prompt him, apprehension clear in your small voice.
“I’m trying to think,” he mutters and sighs gravely. “Tell them you’re my sister, blame it on me. It’s better for both of us that way if you’re caught. Besides, you’ll only be hiding here for a few nights at the longest.”
“Just until I can get safe passage on another ship,” you add with a tense exhale. You try to convince yourself that everything will be ok, despite the extremely strange circumstances.
As if he read your mind, Matthew promises you, “Everything will be fine.” You nod thankfully and watch as he ducks out of the room. When the door is closed, you hear keys jingling against the door which tells you the door is being locked. A rush of anxiety takes you and you rush to the door. The door to the closet is locked by the time you turn the doorknob. Your breath catches in your throat and you panic.
Oh God, I’ve been locked in a closet on a ship by a man I don’t know at all. No one knows I’m here besides him and if I draw any attention to myself and someone else comes… Damn it all!
You think and slide down to your knees behind the door. Matthew seemed so kind and trustworthy… but to be fair, so had Mr. Daws after he adopted you. Your stomach turns.
The closet has only one window, a dirty porthole, but no lanterns so save the aura of sunlight streaming in underneath the door, the room was dark. You stare at the face of your watch by resting your wrist beside the gap beneath the door. You’d decided to give Matthew the two hours he said he would need to return before screaming as loud as you can. You’d already watched one hour go by, fearful tears falling from your eyes. You have stopped brushing them away because it was straining a muscle in your neck. You’re fairly convinced that you have just left one horrible situation for another when you hear footsteps approach the door.
You scramble back in time to see the door swing open. The direct light behind Matthew is too aggressive for your eyes, so you blink and shield your face with your palm. You can’t tell if you’re relieved or not to see him.
“You locked me in,” you tell him flatly.
“Yes…” Matthew starts cautiously, hearing the tone in your voice. “My belief was that you would be safest if you were locked in.”
“Don’t please…” you ask softly and Matthew finally sees the tears on your face.
“Oh, child. Don’t cry again! I shouldn’t have locked you in. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m one of the only men on this ship with keys, so I believed this would be the safest arrangement.” Matthew closes the door quickly and crouches down to your level. “Are you alright?” He asks softly and sets down a canteen by your knees.
You wipe your stale tears and wipe your nose on your sleeve. When you nod, Matthew sighs in relief and pushes the canteen closer to you.
“Supper,” he opens the lid. You take the warm receptacle and drink the watery broth. “Now that we know each other’s names, will you tell me why you’re running away?” Matthew tries, his eyes watching your carefully for more tears.
“It’s a long story,” you murmur after you swallow some of the broth. Matthew twists his mouth to the side and sits down on a pile of coiled rope, exhaling loudly.
“We have a few days,” he shrugs and clasps his hands together.
“Right…” you concede and regard the man carefully, still wary.
“Why are you running away from home?” Matthew asks again, not harshly, but his tone is strained with fading patience. He’s risking a lot to hide you aboard, a young girl (and probable prostitute) he doesn’t even know. “If you don’t tell me, I’m likely to remove you from this ship.”
You shake your head wildly and stop him from continuing with an outstretched hand.
“No, please… I’m just not sure where to begin.”
Matthew nods and leans back against the wall, listening intently.
“Um well the man that I was running from is my father, though only legally. He adopted me a year ago.”
Matthew raises a quizzical brow but doesn’t interrupt.
“When I turned 18, just a few months ago, he tried to change the um nature of our relationship.”
“To what?” He leans forward.
“He wanted to marry me.”
“Oh…” Matthew grimaces and scrunches up his nose in disgust.
“When I refused his first offer, he kept asking but more and more forcibly…” You wring your hands uncomfortably.
“Did he try to take you?” Matthew asks without thinking of his audience. You narrow your eyes, confused again by his choice of language for everything.
I’m not sure…” you try to answer, not having understood his question to begin with.
“You’re not sure?” Matthew looks pointedly puzzled for a moment before exclaiming and rubbing his hand over his face. “So, I assume that means you aren’t a prostitute?” Matthew crosses his arms across his chest and cocks his head to the side.
“What?” You gasp in surprise, knowing what that word means.
“I just assumed when your, eh, father said he ‘paid’ for you,” Matthew shrugs apologetically.
“No!” you lower your voice, “I am not a bad woman. Mr. Daws had to pay the orphanage a certain amount to adopt me. He feels like he owns me now because of it.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. Sailors happen to have a lot of respect for prostitutes.” When Matthew sees your mortified face he sighs again and shifts uncomfortably on the coil of rope. “Forgive me, I’m not used to speaking with young women. We don’t interact with many of you,” Matthew chuckles beside himself and gestures to you.
“But tell me,” he turns serious again, “what do you plan to do when you get to the mainland?”
You shrug honestly, “I’m not sure. I was going to find a family to take me in and work as a maid.”
“You’d do better as a prostitute,” he mutters beneath his breath, then at a normal volume, “Boston would be the place to go. They have wealthier families there. I don’t know how easy it will be to find a job as a maid, especially without references which I assume you don’t have.”
“I’ll do whatever work I can find,” you assure him quickly but then pause and add, “within reason.”
“Ah,” Matthew chuckles at you softly and crosses his arms over his chest again.
“And who are you?” You drink from your canteen as Matthew looks up at the ceiling.
“Well, I’m a whaler. I’m First-Mate on this ship, The Essex,” he turns his gaze to the side, leaning forward, as he tries to recall anything else to say.
“How long have you been a whaler?”
Matthew chuckles again and shakes his head, “A long time.” He meets your gaze with a sheepish smile, “Probably for longer than you’ve been alive.”
“I’m 18,” you say though Matthew had already gathered that from your last story. The truth still shocks him.
“You’re no more than a child,” he shakes his head in disbelief and runs a hand through his messy hair. As you watch him, you realize how old he could possibly be. He must be at least 30, you decide.
“Did you go to school?” You change the subject after a period of silence. Matthew raises an intrigued eyebrow at you and nods.
“Yeah, yeah I did. How could you tell?”
“The way you talk… and your grammar,” you stammer, not realizing how intrusive the observation had been.
“Hmmm,” he nods thoughtfully and scratches his chin. Did you go to school?”
“Some, the orphanage had a good schoolmaster. He was from Boston.”
“Must have been a pretty fancy orphanage,” Matthew laughs softly and clears his throat.
“Are you married?” You break the silence again and Matthew’s eyes shoot up to yours. He swallows tightly and you can tell you’ve stumbled upon a sensitive topic.
“I was,” he answers simply. You look down at the canteen in your hands, ashamed that you asked such a personal question of someone you don’t know.
“Smallpox,” Matthew whispers and you look up in shock.
“My parents too.”
You stare at each other in silence, save the muffled sound of waves hitting the side of the boat facing the harbor.
“Horrible disease. I hear that you go fairly quickly… I wasn’t there.” He moves as he tells you, hiding his emotion with his hands.
“I was there when my parents died but I have no memory of them, not even their faces.”
“How did you know how they died?” Matthew runs his hand over his mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, an image of the communal grave on Nantucket Island springing into your mind.
“The island kept track of everyone who died from the Pox. My parents’ names are on the list.”
“How old were you?” He continues to ask. You furrow your brow, trying to remember.
“Just a baby, no more than three years old.” You sigh and look back up at Matthew. “What was your wife’s name?”
Matthew frowns when the conversation is turned back onto him. His face darkens and he exhales, not liking to talk about her.
“Abigail.”
You can hear the change in his tone and finish the broth instead of asking anymore questions. Matthew watches you drink the broth silently. When you finish, he takes the canteen and stands.
“I’ll go now, and I won’t lock the door this time.”
“Thank you for- for everything that you’ve done for me today. I owe you.” You stand as he had and clasp your hands together against your apron shyly.
“You're welcome child,” Matthew smiles with closed, full lips. “I’ll come back in the morning after I see about any ships sailing to the mainland. Goodnight.”
He leaves quickly, before you can say goodnight back. Once behind a closed door by yourself, you realize how dark the room had become. The sun is setting and you can just barely see it through the dirty porthole.
Do You Know How to Bend? | Raymond Leon x fem!Reader
summary: You're working the streets in Dayton (the poorest timezone) when your old client and famous Timekeeper, Raymond Leon, comes calling just to spite you. He takes pleasure in reminding you of your differences and takes pleasure in seeing you struggle.
warnings: Mentions unsafe sex and paid sex. Derogatory/sexist words used for and against sex-workers. Slut-shamming. Smut.
Word count: 4331k+
I Don't Want to Be- Gavin McGraw 🎶
Lunch- Billie Eilish 🎵
*Inspired by the line Billie Eilish's song "Lunch": Don't want to break it, just want it to bend. / Do you know how to bend?*
“Well!” A low, arrogant voice pulls your attention away from your next client. You pause, recognizing the voice and set your mouth in a perturbed frown. “I thought you’d be retired by now, Miss Y/L/N. You must be pushing 50 at this point, right?” The man laughs softly at your expense, it’s short and sounds almost like a clap. The quick glance he gives to your potential client sends the man scrambling away. You sigh, watching your rent time leave with him.
“Oh, sounds like he doesn’t like older women…” Raymond Leon observes casually over your shoulder, his palm resting on the wall behind your head, as if he knows you well enough to do so. You don’t bother turning around to address him when you respond, your arms still wrapped around her chest as they had been to display your cleavage to the clientele.
“Or…he saw your face. What did I tell you, Ray? If you’re going to start whoring yourself out, you need to do something for your features, they’re too…”
“Intimidating?” Ray offers with a smirk, enjoying the derogatory banter. You turn and move your hands to your waist, pretending to examine the annoying Timekeeper.
“Pretentious.” You correct cooly, copying his unemotional expression, a knack you’d picked up after his frequent visits decades before. Ray clenches his jaw and raises an eyebrow lazily.
“I haven’t seen you around here lately,” you add, changing the subject. Ray nods and shrugs again.
“Are you here for business or pleasure?” You ask, your eyes dropping lazily to his clothes, still a sucker for leather and zippers, you notice. 60 years old and he still loves his leather… you nearly smile.
Ray smirks, chewing a piece of gum on the left-side of his mouth. His blue eyes fall to your breasts, half-hidden by your low V-neck dress.
“I can multitask,” Ray talks around the gum in his mouth and draws a finger down your waist to prod gently at your wrist.
“Look at you…” his tone hinders on distaste as he trails his eyes over your short dress. “This is something you would have worn in your teenage years, not in your 50s.”
“A woman has to work right? I’m not getting any younger,” you shrug playfully, and smile when Ray rolls his eyes at your joke, his hand sliding over your hand to grab your wrist.
“You disgust me…” he mutters half-heartedly, stepping closer so he can look down your dress. You cock your head to the side, studying the prominent scar below his right eye.
“So are you here to arrest me? Is what I’m doing illegal?” You ask with a skeptical tilt of your head. Ray scoffs and looks up, weighing his words before responding.
“No, it’s not illegal.”
“Mmm,” you raise your hand, Ray’s fingers still wrapped around your wrist like a bracelet. He looks at you, making no move to release his grip or even to loosen it. You slowly grasp the thin metal zipper on his shirt, tugging it teasingly. You can feel Ray’s heartbeat quicken through the pulse point on his wrist. You wait for him to speak first, your eyes giving him an invitation by fluttering your thick black lashes. Not yet taking the bait, Ray looks down at the time displayed in vibrant green light on your arm. He takes your forearm with his freehand and rests his shoulder against the wall instead. Taking your arm, he raises the clock to see it better and clucks his tongue in a pitiful gesture.
You look away and roll your eyes, scoffing at the turn in his behavior. Ray will always be Ray. You try to snatch your arm from his grasp but Ray clucks his tongue again, this time in disapproval.
“This is no good, no good at all, Miss Y/L/N,” Ray releases his fingers from your wrist and instead brushes them across the light colored hair on your arm, barely visible over the clock’s long face. You tilt your head away from him and focus your eyes on the building around the block where people walk by noisily.
“Are you here just to shame me?” Your voice sounds tired and distant. Ray smirks, his eyes jumping to your face, taking pleasure in the way your head is cocked away from his to avoid looking at him.
“Only 1 year left… You’re not a very good whore anymore, are you?” Ray looks down at you, his nose angled into the air. You roll your head back to center and cock your eyebrow.
“Is this the part where I tell you that I’m a ‘good whore’?” You clarify disingenuously and Ray barks out a laugh, your attitude turning him on.
“Are you?” He asks after a moment, expectantly, “Are you a good whore?”
“I don’t know, you thought I was that one time. Or really, multiple times, if I remember correctly.” You answer, your tone cold. You could never tell if you liked Ray or not, right now, you didn’t. You yank your hand away and rub your sore arm with your hand as if you were nursing a wound.
Ray nods, his mouth straight. Adam's apple bobs as he tries to restrain himself. His eyes return again and again to your chest, your breasts pushed together by the fabric of your dress. Exhaling suddenly, Ray grabs either side of your waist and holds you close. He licks his lips quickly, maintaining his nonchalant nature, and pressed them close to your ear.
“How about for the sake of the old days I’ll give you an hour for fifteen minutes?”
Ray’s voice is warm against your ear, sending tingles down the tendons in your neck. You bite your lip, hiding a smile.
“Two hours and you have a deal,” You barter back, Ray’s mouth still against your ear. Ray draws back, his eyebrows drawn together in a skeptical expression.
“Cost of services just went up,” you shrug and press your hands to his chest beneath the edges of his long leather coat.
“Cost of services my ass.” Ray scoffs and moves his hands up to your breasts, his thumbs rubbing over your nipples, covered by your dress.
“Careful, Ray. You break it, you buy it…” you push him back gently, merely a few inches. He doesn’t even seem to notice, his eyes are still tied to your face.
“I won’t break you, I just want you to bend.” Ray moves one of his hands up to the side of your neck, turning your face with his thumb so you’re forced to look at him. He leans in once again, his turquoise-blue eyes getting closer. His chest is nearly pressed against yours when he tilts his head, looking you up and down. “Do you know how to bend?”
Your breath catches in your throat as you look up at him, his face deadly serious.
“Yes, sir.” You swallow tightly, your face flushing. Your other clients never turned you on this much. Ray nods and takes your wrist firmly, paying you two hours without breaking his gaze. When your clock reflects the hours he’s given you, you slide your hand down into his and pull him further into the alley. Ray follows you, glancing briefly over his shoulder.
“No, we’re going to a motel.” Ray tells you firmly and takes the lead, pulling you behind him with a strong grip. You follow happily, craving a bed anyway.
“There’s one around the corner.” Your voice is soft and feminine, grateful to be taken care of for once. Ray nods as he walks, his coat swishing about his legs with a leathery squeak. His styled hair resembles feathery waves down the back of his head and you resist the urge to run your fingers through it. When you turn the corner, the cheap motel’s lights wink like an old woman with dragging eyelids. Ray leaves you on the sidewalk outside the motel’s office and scans his wrist on the reader, paying the notoriously low-rate of one hour for a room. His jaw is still clenched when he comes back out, his eyes scanning the line of pale pink rooms above you as he takes your hand once again.
Ray’s grip is strong as he takes the steps quickly and unlocks one of the doors, strips of paint peel from the walls on either side. His nose is turned up in disgust as he throws open the door.
“It’ll do,” he shrugs and jerks his head towards the room, waiting for your approval. You look at the plastic bed with its greasy pink bedspread and shrug.
“It’ll do,” you repeat his words and nod once, your mouth turning up into a closed smile. “Are you going to invite me inside?” You gesture through the doorway and Ray scoffs, rolling his eyes in jest. He looks down at you, standing beside him in the doorway and looks back into the empty parking lot.
“Looking for the wife?” You follow his gaze out onto the street and Ray smiles, shaking his head.
“No…” his voice is low and breathy, like it takes him effort to relax. He raises his left hand, showing a hand without a wedding ring.
“Ah, so the famous Timekeeper Raymond Leon still hasn’t found a woman good enough to be his wife,” you nod in faux-appreciation and lean against the door jam.
“And you, did you ever marry?” Ray raised a skeptical eyebrow, his eyes looking you up and down almost judgmentally.
“You know I'd never do that.”
“You like your work too much to quit?” Ray chuckles and leans over you, his arms wrapped around himself as his face inches closer to yours. You roll your eyes, silently cursing him for his cruelty. He knows you wouldn’t do this kind of work if you didn’t have to.
“And run the risk of never seeing you again, fat chance.” You tease him, your tongue resting on the roof of your mouth. Your hands slide up his chest once again and take hold of the lapels on his leather coat. Your thumbs run over the hem, dipping into the buttonholes.
“Would you still fuck me,” he started, his tone even and cool, “even if I was married?”
You look up into those cold blue eyes of his, a tint of meanness sparkling in your eyes.
“I guess we’ll never know,” you shrug, your response icy and indifferent except for the tug of a smirk on your lips.
“You’re a bitch,” Ray leans closer, his breath fanning across your lips. His nose nearly touches yours as he tilts his head slightly. He doesn’t kiss you, but he wants you to know that he could if he wanted to. You keep your hands on his coat and use your leverage to pull yourself up on the balls of your feet, even though you’re already in heels. Your lips are barely touching as you nod and whisper.
“I’m whatever you want me to be.”
As you say it, Ray’s instincts take over, pushing himself against you and kissing you hard. His hands have flown to your hips, supporting you as you hold yourself higher. He breaks the kiss briefly to spit out his gum on the concrete. With remarkable ease, Ray guides your hips inside the room and slams the door behind him, throwing the room into semi-darkness. The leather on his body is warm to the touch as your hands slide over his chest. Backing you up against the bed you fall back on the mattress, landing on your butt. Ray stands so closely that your chin grazes his stomach. His hand goes to your chin and he runs his hands across your mouth.
“I’m going to need more than fifteen minutes,” Ray mutters and pulls down your bottom lip with his index finger.
“It’ll cost you…” you respond cheekily, your hands running up the sides of his legs.
“Oh, I know it will.” He nods and it startles you when he drops into a crouch at your feet, his body positioned between your legs and his head turned up to look at your face. You look at him curiously, your eyebrows nearly furrowed.
“Don’t worry, Miss Y/L/N, I just want to get a good look at you,” Ray answers the questioning look you give him with a daring smile. Your muscles tense when you feel his hand slide up the inside of your thigh. In one motion, he spreads your legs, forcing your dress to roll up your thighs, exposing the fabric of your underwear. Ray smirks, his fingers etching circles into the cellulite on your upper thighs as he looks at your underwear.
“Pretty,” he teases you, his eyes flicking up to yours, but you’re too stunned to say anything smart back. He inhales deeply as his hands travel the rest of the way up your thighs and pull down your underwear to your knees. You move your thighs together again to allow him to do so and exhale softly as you feel the lacy fabric fall down your calves to the floor. Once gone, Ray turns his eyes to you and spreads your legs with his large hands draped over both of your knees. You watch him, your heart racing and your cunt beginning to throb. Ray’s hand slides up your bare thigh to your cunt. Without breaking eye contact, he slips his middle finger inside you, rising slowly to lean over you as you lie back slowly and support yourself on your elbows. Your breath comes out in pants as you feel a second digit join the first, thrusting in and out of your core.
Ray rests one of his knees on the mattress beside your thigh, giving himself more leverage to finger-fuck you.
“Eyes on me…” he snaps when your eyes start to close. Obediently, you open your eyes and bite your lip as his fingers start to move faster, his knuckles hitting your cunt each time. His gaze bores into your eyes as you raise your thigh to rest against his knee. Your dress rides all the way up to your waist but you leave it on.
“You’re already so wet. Do you get like this for all of your clients or only for your best customers?” His tone is condescending and mean but you love it coming from him. You moan softly before answering.
“Jealous?” You egg him on and grind your hips against his fingers. Ray smirks, leaning his face down to yours and shakes his head.
“I bet you haven’t had a good fuck since you saw me last.” He breathes heavily against your cheek as he fucks you even harder with his fingers, adding a third and you grit your teeth. “Poor guys don’t even know how to do it properly, do they?” His lips brush against your cheekbone and you arch your back, trying not to whimper from the mixture of pleasure and pain.
“Such a pity, isn’t it?” Ray whispers and you can feel him pout against your ear. Your body jerks as you begin to build to a satisfying climax, his fingers never ceasing in their work. “Don’t worry, honey. If you’re a good whore for me, I’ll make you cum, ok?” His words are cruelly intoxicating and you curse yourself for allowing him to turn you on so easily again and again. Your eyes are screwed shut as you gasp against his cheek, your left hand grabs onto his shoulder as you feel yourself shaking. You nod and try to open your eyes again, containing your reaction.
“I don’t want you to hold back… I want to hear every sound you make.” Ray can tell you’re trying not to seem weak and needy and smiles pleasurably. His fingers edge you closer, your breath quickening.
“And no faking. We’ll keep going until we get it right, understand?” He pulls back to look into your eyes, he’s dead serious, so you nod emphatically, panting from the pleasure. You’re reaching the peak of your climax, a shaky whine spilling from your lips.
“Now do you remember what I asked you before? Do you know how to bend?” Ray asks, his voice breaking the climax suddenly as he removes his fingers, a pleased smile on his lips as he sees your disappointed expression.
Taking a second to process his question, you nod and lick your lips quickly. “Yes,” your voice is a soft whisper as you wait for his instructions. Ray steps back and takes off his long leather coat, tossing it over the back of one of the chairs. When he looks back at you, your legs still spread before him, he looks up and down the length of your body.
“Then take off your dress and bend over.” He jerks his head to the left, directing you to turn that way. You pull the dress over your hips and up your chest. Ray’s stares at your breasts, his lazy eyes studying them indifferently. He’s so good at that, looking totally disinterested, put out, and bored. Strangely, it turns you on. When your dress is over your head and discarded to the floor, you let your feet slide down the edge of the comforter. You turn over, your feet flexed in the pink carpet and your butt held out above the edge of the bed. Your hands rest on the bed, your elbows extended uncomfortably on the uneven surface. You flip your hair to the side and wait for Ray.
With your back turned and your perfect ass pushed out before him, Ray grapples with the layers of clothes on his body. He strips off his shirts, his hands undoing the buttons and zipper with swift expertise. When his clothes are all off, he places his hand on the base of your spine. You almost flinch, not knowing where he was going to touch you. His hand drops around your waist, pulling your hips closer to him but still not touching. Ray’s other hand trails from the back of your left knee to your ass which he grabs harshly. You gasp softly when he grabs you, allowing yourself to make any noise you need to, as per his request. Ray makes a clicking noise with his tongue in approval and moves his hand to your breast, his thumb drawing circles around your nipple.
As he leans over you to message your breast, his hips pressed against your butt, his erection physically noticeable against your skin. You let your mouth fall open in an expectant, half-strangled sigh.
“Oh you desperately need a good fuck.” His voice ruffles your hair and you close your eyes in pleasure, wanting him even closer.
“Ray…” your voice is barely a whisper as his name escapes your lips. He presses his face into your shoulder blade in response, his nose rubbing gently against your skin. His breath tickles the sensitive place on your back and you arch your hips back, bumping against him.
“Umph,” Ray groans softly and moves his hand up even further to your throat. His grip is loose enough for you to breathe but you still wear his hand like a choker. “You’re so fucking desperate…” he reprimands you distastefully but you can hear his smirk pulling at his tone. He tugs at your throat, moving your head back to rest against his forehead. His teeth find your earlobe and nibble gently at the curve of your ear, you moan softly. You can feel your thighs getting wetter as desire drips from your cunt.
“Ray…” you say again and tighten your grip on the comforter below you. Ray tightens his grip on your throat in response and moves his lips to your ear.
“Are you desperate for me?” His question is a husky whisper in your ear. You almost don’t hear what he’s saying, it's so low. You nod and swallow beneath his grip.
“Yes, yes…” you agree twice. Ray seems to like this response because the hand that was still on your hip takes his erection and plays with the head against your cunt.
“You can’t ever get enough of me, can you?” He doesn’t wait for a response as he pushes inside you vigorously. You yell out, your voice fading into a moan as he fills you up.
“What was that? I didn’t hear you?” Ray smirks and thrusts into you again. You moan louder, your body desperately adjusting to his shape and size. Your eyes are screwed shut as he begins a rhythmic motion, in and out. Your jaw falls open slightly and you catch yourself squealing as he pulls your hips against his and continues his harsh movements, knowing you can take it. You can hear him panting behind you, his eyes stuck on the base of your spin and your heart-shaped ass shivering with each of his thrusts.
“I bet no one appreciates this, how excellent your body is.” Ray manages to say, his voice disrupted by pants. You shake your head no, agreeing with him. No of your other clients even talks to you and you honestly prefer it. But you know Ray, you know his body and the way he uses it. When he talks, it excites you, drives you to do better for him. Ray chuckles breathlessly and pulls out, breaking the tension of pleasure.
“Flip over,” he tells you and waits patiently as you roll over onto your back, your knees bent and your heels pushed into the edge of the mattress. You take a moment to look at him, having not seen him naked in years, he still looked the exact same. You both do. You both look 25, no older, no younger. Ray’s chest is rising and falling quickly and you admire the way it shows off the muscles in his body. You tear your eyes away from his taut stomach and look into his eyes, now more of a chlorine blue.
Quickly, Ray is on top of you, pushing you farther back on the bed where your head nearly hangs over the other side. He pulls one of your thighs around him and pushes himself back inside, watching your reaction with a determined gaze. You throw your head back against the bed and raise your other thigh, pressing both of your knees into his waist. Stopping his thrusts briefly but still inside you, he drops his mouth to your breasts and circles one of your nipples with his tongue, his eyes closed to savor the experience. You moan loudly, digging your nails into his shoulders, watching his tongue lap at your nipple. Words escape you as you try to formulate an appropriate reaction. You squeal in pleasure as he moves on to sucking gently on the bud, his teeth sometimes nipping the sensitive flesh. You can feel the sensation in your cunt, as if the two places were connected by a cable. Your moans and gasps are more frantic and you feel lightheaded.
“Too…much,” you manage, your nails biting into his flesh.
“Good,” Ray responds shortly after your breast leaves his mouth. He kisses the side of your neck and applies a hickey at the junction of your throat and shoulder muscle, his hips beginning to move again. His hand holds your thigh tightly, using it to steady himself as he speeds up. Your hands fumble around his neck, scratching your own forearms to spare his skin.
“No, I want you to mark me. Show me how well I’m fucking you.” He unclamps your hold on your own skin and waits for you to settle your nails back into his shoulders.
“I won’t ask you again,” he warns darky when you don’t scratch him immediately. You manage to smile back, your mouth falling into a pleasurable gasp as if to say: do something good and I will. Taking it as a dare, Ray rolls his eyes and grabs the edge of the mattress above your head and pulls himself harshly into you. This makes you nearly animalistic. You writhe beneath his body weight and scratch your nails down his back, your thighs shivering. The pain from your nails down his back only makes him thrust deeper, his cock colliding with the base of your uterus each time.
Your whimpers become a routine of gasps. Ray lowers his nose to brush against yours, almost in a gesture of affection but you know better than to read into it. His brow is furrowed from the effort but you can feel him start to climax, heat building between your bodies. Sweat drips from his chest onto yours, pooling between your breasts.
“You’re going to make me cum,” Ray growls as his grip tightens on the mattress, pulling himself up and into you faster. You cannot speak for the life of you so you nod emphatically and cry out as you feel the muscles in your pelvis begin to contract when you start to cum. You feel your nails cut into his skin, drawing pinpricks of blood but Ray doesn’t even notice as he groans, his muscles tensing. He feels you tighten around him in your climax and it squeezes him, releasing his cum and bringing about his orgasm.
Ray pulls out with a loud gasp and drags a hand across your stomach as he lies beside you, his feet hanging off the edge. You both pant, trying to catch your breath. After a few minutes of euphoria, you both begin to breathe normally.
“You should really be paying me,” Ray says and you nearly take him seriously.
“You’d actually make a good whore,” you laugh breathlessly and rest your cheek against your bicep, looking over at him. Ray scoffs and crosses his arms beneath his head, sweat still sparking on his freckled chest.
“Well I’ll keep that in mind if the whole Timekeeping career doesn’t work out.” He sounds gruff and rude but you know him better. That’s how he sounds, that’s how he is, and so you smile softly to yourself.
"You never change," you tell him. Ray pauses for a moment and cocks his head to the side, nodding as he contemplates your observation. He's frowning as he nods, and he sighs slowly before responding.
"Rochester's character is exemplified by the Byronic hero, a character who is dark and moody, sexually intense, mysterious, emotional, troubled, and arrogant." (Google AI)
