five times Neighbor!Simon helped without you asking + the one time you came to him for help
content(s): afab reader, creepy behavior (not from Simon or Reader)
word count: 2.9k+
MDNI! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked!
Neighbor!Simon, who helps you without being asked. You've always been pretty independent, but the big guy can't help himself when it comes to you, his stubborn neighbor.
A snowstorm hit overnight and Simon was up early as usual, not by choice but rather out of habit. The sun was barely up and the snow had stopped, but there was a blanket over the neighborhood now. It almost seemed to glow a pale shade of blue from what little light there was outside. The path to his door was covered, so was his car... And looking over to the left, he could see the same was the case for you.
Knowing that you wouldn't be up for some time, Simon decided to help you out. He bundled up in a thick parka, a snow balaclava, and a pair of his best gloves. Once his boots were on, he headed outside and got right to work, starting with the path to your door.
About an hour later, your car was dug out from the snow and he just finished with his own side of the semi-detached house. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, looking skyward as a few flakes started to fall again... That's when he heard a familiar voice.
"Oi, Simon!" It was you, clad in your thick winter pajamas and a pair of fluffy slippers, waving at him. "You didn't have to...!"
"I wanted to," he called back as he leaned the snow shovel against the house. "I could come over and shovel it all back into place if it's that much of an issue, though."
You snorted softly and shook your head, and Simon didn't miss the smile that you tried to repress.
"Well, thank you, Si... Come here, I'll start us a pot of coffee," you offered, opening your door wider. "Hurry, I don't want a draft to come in."
Simon, knowing there was no point in saying no, made his way around the hedge that divided your doors and headed into your place.
"Fuck me...!" Your muffled voice caught Simon's attention. He was just walking back from a trip to the store when he noticed you sitting in your car.
The problem became evident when he saw you try to start it... Only for it to not start after it sputtered pathetically a few times. He already knew your car had some issues, and he also knew that you kept putting off bringing it to the shop. After putting his shopping bags inside, he came back out with a jump starter and went to your car.
You were still out there, trying (and failing) to start the car. Your head rested against the steering wheel in defeat, and you didn't even notice Simon pulling his car around.
"Hey neighbor," Simon said when you seemed to have given up. "Need a jump?"
He got out of the car with the jump starter and finally got a good look at you. A cute blue dress that stopped just below the knee, black boots, and your hair and makeup were done up in a way he never saw before. You were wearing a gold chain with a small heart dangling from it, and his eyes lingered on it for a moment. You looked ready to go out and have fun, and yet you were stuck in your driveway. All dolled up with somewhere to go, but unable to actually go⊠Itâs a tragedy of epic proportions.
"God, yes...Thank you." You sighed heavily and watched as Simon hooked your car up.
"You've gotta look into a jump starter," he said gruffly. "Better yet, actually make a bloody appointment for your car."
"Sorry, but with what money?" You asked half-jokingly. "You've seen the prices, what am I supposed to do if my car needs a little more than some light maintenance? Hell, even 'light maintenance' could get expensive..."
"I could pay." He suggested after your car finally started.
"Thank you... And no, Simon." You relaxed a bit and pulled out of your parking spot. "I couldn't ask you to do that."
"I'm offering, love." He said, and you could tell that he meant it. This man was more than ready to shell out whatever amount you needed, he had the paycheck to do it.
He muttered something about you being stubborn as you drove off.
Seemingly out of the blue, the worst heatwave your area had seen in years hit. Simon couldn't handle the heat well, but when he saw how almost all of your flowers withered up as a result of the heat... Well, that just made the heatwave even more unbearable. Not only was it an eyesore to see in your shared backyard, but your reaction to the devastation was worse.
"I spent all spring planting these!" You had complained to him, gesturing to the wilted flora. "All spring, hours of planting⊠For nothing!"
The flowers certainly looked dead, but some research told Simon that they could probably be saved. After a trip to the nearest garden center, he took to the backyard and busied himself in fixing what the heat ruined.
You found him back there, kneeling in the dirt without a shirt on. His pale, scarred skin was starting to take on a pinkish hue in the brutal summer sun. Sweat beaded on his brow and clung to his short, pale blonde hair. And for a while, you just stood there on the back porch... Watching as Simon worked tirelessly in the garden. He set up something to shield the flowers from the sun, and now he was carefully watering the dry soil.Â
When Simon finished up, you came outside with a glass of lemonade for him, condensation already formed on the glass. Your eyes were on every part of him but his face, but he ignored it as he drank the contents glass in one go. To be fair, the short sundress that you were wearing was just as distracting and his eyes felt like wandering a bit.
"Thank you, Simon... Really, youâ"
"I didn't 'ave to, I know," he said before you could finish. "I got bored, and I wanted to."
"Fine, okay... Now come inside, you're gonna burn up out here." You insisted, waving him inside. "I made too much lemonade, you could help me finish it."
You ended up adding some vodka to the remainder of the lemonade and had a drunken movie marathon with Simon, cackling and pointing out the terrible acting until the wee hours of the morning. You sent him off to his side of the house with a kiss on the cheek.
After a particularly annoying deployment and a mission that had him screaming orders until his voice was gone, Simon came home to find you bringing some groceries inside... A lot of groceries. You must've gone out and done enough shopping for the next two weeks, your back seats were down and your car was filled from front to back with bags and boxes.
After he decided that his muscles could stand to lift a bit more, Simon lumbered over and started unloading while you were inside. When you came back out, you yelped in surprise before realizing who was taking your stuff out. The masked man was not a thief, just your hulking six-foot-whatever neighbor being helpful again.
"Oh goddammit, Riley! You scared the shit out of me!" You said, a laugh escaping you. "Jesus, that mask... Did you seriously drive home in it?" You rarely saw him in the skull mask, he only showed it to you after he mentioned it offhandedly during one of your movie nights.
"One of my mates drove me back," he explained, taking two armfuls of groceries. "But yeah... Wore this the whole drive."
"I don't think I'd be able to focus if my passenger looked like the grim reaper... But that's just me," you joked as you followed him inside with a few more bags. "And your voice sounds... Pony."
Simon gave you a withering side-eye, but he was absolutely grinning under the balaclava. "... Pony?"
"Mmhm... You know... A little hoarse...?" You grinned at your own stupid joke, gently bumping your hip against Simon's as you passed him. "Sorry, I spent too much time with the couple down the road... Goddamn dad jokes. Speaking of which, some shit went down between them and the new neighbors while you were gone."
"Oh? Fill me in," Simon muttered as he helped put some things away. âI gotta hear this shite.â
"I will... But only if you help me with this soup recipe I've been dying to try."
Well... Soup is good for a sore throat... How could Simon say no?
Flu season was a bitch, but thankfully Simon's immune system is stronger than anything that could attack it. You, on the other hand... You were suffering. You were holed up on your side of the semi-detached house, not coming outside for anything or anyone.
Simon only found out after texting you one night, having not seen you for two whole days... And the intense coughing fits that he could hear through the wall weren't comforting him.
si: You alive over there?
Not even a minute later, you texted back:
đ€: im fine, just running a fever... turns out that it wasn't allergies, just gotta wait it out and stay inside for a few days đȘ
si: Did the doc give you a prescription?
đ€: yeah, but I don't think I need it, looked it up and it said I could probably heal naturally... tea with honey and lemon and some painkillers for the headaches are enough, i'll survive lol
si: Pick your prescription up.
You responded with some stupid gif that just said "nuh-uh" and Simon could hear you cackle through the wall... Which was followed by another coughing fit and a pathetic wheeze/whine.
She deserved that one, he thought as he put on his hoodie and gloves.
Simon didn't dignify you with another response. Instead, he drove to the pharmacy for your prescription and picked it up himself. Then, he stopped by your favorite deli to grab a quart of your favorite soup, some orange juice, and cough drops for your poor throat.
He banged on your door a couple of times when he got back and left the bags on the porch before going back over to his door. When you came out seconds later, a plush throw blanket draped around you like a cape, he waved his gloved fingers at you.
"Special delivery for a stubborn woman," he called over the hedge. "I don't know how you survived this long if this is how you handle being sick."
"Hey... I told you I have tea and painkillers," you protested, your voice raspier than usual. "But thanks, Si... Really, thank you."
"You can thank me by getting better soon... Got a deployment coming up, and we still have to finish watching that stupid baking show together."
"We could just watch it at the same time and stay on callâ"
"No, it's not the same," Simon insisted impatiently before waving you off. "Now go on, get in there and get better. Take your fucking meds."
Miraculously, you did end up getting better a couple of days before he had to go. Together, you watched the last few episodes on his couch.
Simon looked out for you however he could. At first, it was just because you were a woman living alone, or just the woman he shared a wall with. Maybe it's because he's a little old-fashioned, or maybe it's because he mentally swore to protect any woman after he couldn't protect his own mother.
But after a while, he genuinely did want to help you because itâs you. Youâre funny, too stubborn for your own good, quick as a whip, independent as hell... He had to back off a few times when you were truly adamant on doing something on your own. You never asked him for help, even if you needed it, and he took any opportunity to help you when you'd allow it. Truthfully, you were the one person outside of his job that he grew attached to like this... And probably the only person he felt anything deeper for.
Simon went for daily runs when the weather allowed, and sometimes you'd go for a run a little later in the morning. You'd be waiting at the semi with something light for him to eat and a cup of coffee when he got back, and he did the same for you when you returned. Normally, he got back at 7:30 am or so. You would always come back closer to noon.
So when it was going on 2 pm and you still hadn't returned, Simon was getting antsy. He texted you, but realized you rarely looked at your phone when you were on a run. Tired of peeking out of the window every few minutes, he took to pacing to and from his front door like a caged lion. The only other time you were late was when your mom was in town and you warned Simon beforehand. Hell, if you stopped to see someone you would've shot him a text or called. This was abnormal.
Simon started to consider phoning Price or Gaz to see if either was in the area, give them a description of you so they could keep their eyes peeled. Hell, heâd find a way to get Johnny in on it if he wasnât in fucking Scotland. But then, your voice rang out from down the sidewalk.
"Babe...! Hey, babe!" You yelled out to him, waving a hand. "I'm back!"
Babe...? You had a lot of nicknames for each other, but 'babe' wasn't one of them. Simon looked at you, and there was a look on your face that he never saw before... And he decided that he never wanted to see it again. It was distress, and the reason for that look could be seen just over your shoulder.
A man who Simon had never seen before was following you, and it looked like he was about to say something but stopped when he saw Simon. When you sped the rest of the way over to Simon, he held his arms out to catch you. His eyes never left the man, even as you clung to him... He could feel you shaking like a leaf, heard the fear in your voice as you whispered to him... And he fucking hated it. Hated that you felt unsafe, hated the man that made you feel this way.Â
I should tear this bastard a new fucking asshole⊠If looks could kill, the creep would be vaporized on the spot.
"Si... I've been trying to lose him this whole time... He won't stop," you whispered into his ear before pulling back to look at him. You didn't ask him, not outright, but your eyes begged for help.
Simon gave the man one last glower before he smiled and gently pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Hey, love... I was wondering where you were," he said, loud enough that the creep could hear. "How was the run?"
Your tight smile relaxed a bit as you looked up at him, a shaky exhale leaving you. Instead of answering right away, you tilted your head up to peck Simon on the lips. The simple gesture made his heart leap in his chest and his eyes fluttered shut for a moment... It's not like he hadn't thought of it before, and he wished it was under better circumstances.
"It was fine, but I'm kinda tired now..." You glanced back and saw that the man decided to cross to the other sidewalk. Simon could feel your muscles relax as you turned back to kiss him again, whispering against his lips, "Fuck... Thank you, Si."
"D'you need me to follow him? Report him? Did heâ" His words were disrupted yet another kiss, and he almost kissed back but held off, convinced it was just because you thought the guy was still there. "Hey, he's gone..." Simon's face felt like it was on fire... A man like him, reduced to blushing like a schoolboy.
"S-shit, sorry... Uh, we could file a report, sure," you murmured as you leaned back a bit. "And sorry about... That..."
"It's alright. I didn't mind," he reassured you as he gently guided you to his door. "Hell, I think you should've gone harder with the kiss... Really sell it to that fucking weirdo."
A surprised chuckle bubbled out of you and Simon felt a stab of pride to be the one to comfort you. He felt pretty proud of you too, because even though you didn't ask for help verbally... You, the self-reliant woman that you were, still came to him for help.
"You think so?" You asked once you were both inside. "That might be the last I see of that guy, but just in case I have to deal with another... I donât know, itâs been a while since I really kissed someone, so maybe you could help meâŠ" You trailed off, and Simon pulled you against him again as soon as the door closed.
"Help you...? What're you asking me, love?"
You answered him by pulling him back into a kiss... One that was less chaste than the previous ones, and he kissed back like his life depended on it.
five times Neighbor!Simon helped without you asking + the one time you came to him for help
content(s): afab reader, creepy behavior (not from Simon or Reader)
word count: 2.9k+
MDNI! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked!
Neighbor!Simon, who helps you without being asked. You've always been pretty independent, but the big guy can't help himself when it comes to you, his stubborn neighbor.
A snowstorm hit overnight and Simon was up early as usual, not by choice but rather out of habit. The sun was barely up and the snow had stopped, but there was a blanket over the neighborhood now. It almost seemed to glow a pale shade of blue from what little light there was outside. The path to his door was covered, so was his car... And looking over to the left, he could see the same was the case for you.
Knowing that you wouldn't be up for some time, Simon decided to help you out. He bundled up in a thick parka, a snow balaclava, and a pair of his best gloves. Once his boots were on, he headed outside and got right to work, starting with the path to your door.
About an hour later, your car was dug out from the snow and he just finished with his own side of the semi-detached house. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, looking skyward as a few flakes started to fall again... That's when he heard a familiar voice.
"Oi, Simon!" It was you, clad in your thick winter pajamas and a pair of fluffy slippers, waving at him. "You didn't have to...!"
"I wanted to," he called back as he leaned the snow shovel against the house. "I could come over and shovel it all back into place if it's that much of an issue, though."
You snorted softly and shook your head, and Simon didn't miss the smile that you tried to repress.
"Well, thank you, Si... Come here, I'll start us a pot of coffee," you offered, opening your door wider. "Hurry, I don't want a draft to come in."
Simon, knowing there was no point in saying no, made his way around the hedge that divided your doors and headed into your place.
"Fuck me...!" Your muffled voice caught Simon's attention. He was just walking back from a trip to the store when he noticed you sitting in your car.
The problem became evident when he saw you try to start it... Only for it to not start after it sputtered pathetically a few times. He already knew your car had some issues, and he also knew that you kept putting off bringing it to the shop. After putting his shopping bags inside, he came back out with a jump starter and went to your car.
You were still out there, trying (and failing) to start the car. Your head rested against the steering wheel in defeat, and you didn't even notice Simon pulling his car around.
"Hey neighbor," Simon said when you seemed to have given up. "Need a jump?"
He got out of the car with the jump starter and finally got a good look at you. A cute blue dress that stopped just below the knee, black boots, and your hair and makeup were done up in a way he never saw before. You were wearing a gold chain with a small heart dangling from it, and his eyes lingered on it for a moment. You looked ready to go out and have fun, and yet you were stuck in your driveway. All dolled up with somewhere to go, but unable to actually go⊠Itâs a tragedy of epic proportions.
"God, yes...Thank you." You sighed heavily and watched as Simon hooked your car up.
"You've gotta look into a jump starter," he said gruffly. "Better yet, actually make a bloody appointment for your car."
"Sorry, but with what money?" You asked half-jokingly. "You've seen the prices, what am I supposed to do if my car needs a little more than some light maintenance? Hell, even 'light maintenance' could get expensive..."
"I could pay." He suggested after your car finally started.
"Thank you... And no, Simon." You relaxed a bit and pulled out of your parking spot. "I couldn't ask you to do that."
"I'm offering, love." He said, and you could tell that he meant it. This man was more than ready to shell out whatever amount you needed, he had the paycheck to do it.
He muttered something about you being stubborn as you drove off.
Seemingly out of the blue, the worst heatwave your area had seen in years hit. Simon couldn't handle the heat well, but when he saw how almost all of your flowers withered up as a result of the heat... Well, that just made the heatwave even more unbearable. Not only was it an eyesore to see in your shared backyard, but your reaction to the devastation was worse.
"I spent all spring planting these!" You had complained to him, gesturing to the wilted flora. "All spring, hours of planting⊠For nothing!"
The flowers certainly looked dead, but some research told Simon that they could probably be saved. After a trip to the nearest garden center, he took to the backyard and busied himself in fixing what the heat ruined.
You found him back there, kneeling in the dirt without a shirt on. His pale, scarred skin was starting to take on a pinkish hue in the brutal summer sun. Sweat beaded on his brow and clung to his short, pale blonde hair. And for a while, you just stood there on the back porch... Watching as Simon worked tirelessly in the garden. He set up something to shield the flowers from the sun, and now he was carefully watering the dry soil.Â
When Simon finished up, you came outside with a glass of lemonade for him, condensation already formed on the glass. Your eyes were on every part of him but his face, but he ignored it as he drank the contents glass in one go. To be fair, the short sundress that you were wearing was just as distracting and his eyes felt like wandering a bit.
"Thank you, Simon... Really, youâ"
"I didn't 'ave to, I know," he said before you could finish. "I got bored, and I wanted to."
"Fine, okay... Now come inside, you're gonna burn up out here." You insisted, waving him inside. "I made too much lemonade, you could help me finish it."
You ended up adding some vodka to the remainder of the lemonade and had a drunken movie marathon with Simon, cackling and pointing out the terrible acting until the wee hours of the morning. You sent him off to his side of the house with a kiss on the cheek.
After a particularly annoying deployment and a mission that had him screaming orders until his voice was gone, Simon came home to find you bringing some groceries inside... A lot of groceries. You must've gone out and done enough shopping for the next two weeks, your back seats were down and your car was filled from front to back with bags and boxes.
After he decided that his muscles could stand to lift a bit more, Simon lumbered over and started unloading while you were inside. When you came back out, you yelped in surprise before realizing who was taking your stuff out. The masked man was not a thief, just your hulking six-foot-whatever neighbor being helpful again.
"Oh goddammit, Riley! You scared the shit out of me!" You said, a laugh escaping you. "Jesus, that mask... Did you seriously drive home in it?" You rarely saw him in the skull mask, he only showed it to you after he mentioned it offhandedly during one of your movie nights.
"One of my mates drove me back," he explained, taking two armfuls of groceries. "But yeah... Wore this the whole drive."
"I don't think I'd be able to focus if my passenger looked like the grim reaper... But that's just me," you joked as you followed him inside with a few more bags. "And your voice sounds... Pony."
Simon gave you a withering side-eye, but he was absolutely grinning under the balaclava. "... Pony?"
"Mmhm... You know... A little hoarse...?" You grinned at your own stupid joke, gently bumping your hip against Simon's as you passed him. "Sorry, I spent too much time with the couple down the road... Goddamn dad jokes. Speaking of which, some shit went down between them and the new neighbors while you were gone."
"Oh? Fill me in," Simon muttered as he helped put some things away. âI gotta hear this shite.â
"I will... But only if you help me with this soup recipe I've been dying to try."
Well... Soup is good for a sore throat... How could Simon say no?
Flu season was a bitch, but thankfully Simon's immune system is stronger than anything that could attack it. You, on the other hand... You were suffering. You were holed up on your side of the semi-detached house, not coming outside for anything or anyone.
Simon only found out after texting you one night, having not seen you for two whole days... And the intense coughing fits that he could hear through the wall weren't comforting him.
si: You alive over there?
Not even a minute later, you texted back:
đ€: im fine, just running a fever... turns out that it wasn't allergies, just gotta wait it out and stay inside for a few days đȘ
si: Did the doc give you a prescription?
đ€: yeah, but I don't think I need it, looked it up and it said I could probably heal naturally... tea with honey and lemon and some painkillers for the headaches are enough, i'll survive lol
si: Pick your prescription up.
You responded with some stupid gif that just said "nuh-uh" and Simon could hear you cackle through the wall... Which was followed by another coughing fit and a pathetic wheeze/whine.
She deserved that one, he thought as he put on his hoodie and gloves.
Simon didn't dignify you with another response. Instead, he drove to the pharmacy for your prescription and picked it up himself. Then, he stopped by your favorite deli to grab a quart of your favorite soup, some orange juice, and cough drops for your poor throat.
He banged on your door a couple of times when he got back and left the bags on the porch before going back over to his door. When you came out seconds later, a plush throw blanket draped around you like a cape, he waved his gloved fingers at you.
"Special delivery for a stubborn woman," he called over the hedge. "I don't know how you survived this long if this is how you handle being sick."
"Hey... I told you I have tea and painkillers," you protested, your voice raspier than usual. "But thanks, Si... Really, thank you."
"You can thank me by getting better soon... Got a deployment coming up, and we still have to finish watching that stupid baking show together."
"We could just watch it at the same time and stay on callâ"
"No, it's not the same," Simon insisted impatiently before waving you off. "Now go on, get in there and get better. Take your fucking meds."
Miraculously, you did end up getting better a couple of days before he had to go. Together, you watched the last few episodes on his couch.
Simon looked out for you however he could. At first, it was just because you were a woman living alone, or just the woman he shared a wall with. Maybe it's because he's a little old-fashioned, or maybe it's because he mentally swore to protect any woman after he couldn't protect his own mother.
But after a while, he genuinely did want to help you because itâs you. Youâre funny, too stubborn for your own good, quick as a whip, independent as hell... He had to back off a few times when you were truly adamant on doing something on your own. You never asked him for help, even if you needed it, and he took any opportunity to help you when you'd allow it. Truthfully, you were the one person outside of his job that he grew attached to like this... And probably the only person he felt anything deeper for.
Simon went for daily runs when the weather allowed, and sometimes you'd go for a run a little later in the morning. You'd be waiting at the semi with something light for him to eat and a cup of coffee when he got back, and he did the same for you when you returned. Normally, he got back at 7:30 am or so. You would always come back closer to noon.
So when it was going on 2 pm and you still hadn't returned, Simon was getting antsy. He texted you, but realized you rarely looked at your phone when you were on a run. Tired of peeking out of the window every few minutes, he took to pacing to and from his front door like a caged lion. The only other time you were late was when your mom was in town and you warned Simon beforehand. Hell, if you stopped to see someone you would've shot him a text or called. This was abnormal.
Simon started to consider phoning Price or Gaz to see if either was in the area, give them a description of you so they could keep their eyes peeled. Hell, heâd find a way to get Johnny in on it if he wasnât in fucking Scotland. But then, your voice rang out from down the sidewalk.
"Babe...! Hey, babe!" You yelled out to him, waving a hand. "I'm back!"
Babe...? You had a lot of nicknames for each other, but 'babe' wasn't one of them. Simon looked at you, and there was a look on your face that he never saw before... And he decided that he never wanted to see it again. It was distress, and the reason for that look could be seen just over your shoulder.
A man who Simon had never seen before was following you, and it looked like he was about to say something but stopped when he saw Simon. When you sped the rest of the way over to Simon, he held his arms out to catch you. His eyes never left the man, even as you clung to him... He could feel you shaking like a leaf, heard the fear in your voice as you whispered to him... And he fucking hated it. Hated that you felt unsafe, hated the man that made you feel this way.Â
I should tear this bastard a new fucking asshole⊠If looks could kill, the creep would be vaporized on the spot.
"Si... I've been trying to lose him this whole time... He won't stop," you whispered into his ear before pulling back to look at him. You didn't ask him, not outright, but your eyes begged for help.
Simon gave the man one last glower before he smiled and gently pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Hey, love... I was wondering where you were," he said, loud enough that the creep could hear. "How was the run?"
Your tight smile relaxed a bit as you looked up at him, a shaky exhale leaving you. Instead of answering right away, you tilted your head up to peck Simon on the lips. The simple gesture made his heart leap in his chest and his eyes fluttered shut for a moment... It's not like he hadn't thought of it before, and he wished it was under better circumstances.
"It was fine, but I'm kinda tired now..." You glanced back and saw that the man decided to cross to the other sidewalk. Simon could feel your muscles relax as you turned back to kiss him again, whispering against his lips, "Fuck... Thank you, Si."
"D'you need me to follow him? Report him? Did heâ" His words were disrupted yet another kiss, and he almost kissed back but held off, convinced it was just because you thought the guy was still there. "Hey, he's gone..." Simon's face felt like it was on fire... A man like him, reduced to blushing like a schoolboy.
"S-shit, sorry... Uh, we could file a report, sure," you murmured as you leaned back a bit. "And sorry about... That..."
"It's alright. I didn't mind," he reassured you as he gently guided you to his door. "Hell, I think you should've gone harder with the kiss... Really sell it to that fucking weirdo."
A surprised chuckle bubbled out of you and Simon felt a stab of pride to be the one to comfort you. He felt pretty proud of you too, because even though you didn't ask for help verbally... You, the self-reliant woman that you were, still came to him for help.
"You think so?" You asked once you were both inside. "That might be the last I see of that guy, but just in case I have to deal with another... I donât know, itâs been a while since I really kissed someone, so maybe you could help meâŠ" You trailed off, and Simon pulled you against him again as soon as the door closed.
"Help you...? What're you asking me, love?"
You answered him by pulling him back into a kiss... One that was less chaste than the previous ones, and he kissed back like his life depended on it.
⥠simon ghost riley x virgin!female reader ⥠18+
words count: 6k
You didn't mean to bring it up. Hell, you didn't even mean to think about it. It was just that the air in the safe house was too thick, the silence between you and Simon was too heavy, and the bottle of whiskey you'd been nursing had made your tongue loose and your filter non-existent.
You were perched on the edge of the rickety bed while he leaned against the wall, cleaning his rifle with the methodical focus of a saint polishing a relic. The only light was a single naked bulb, casting a jaundiced glow and carving his face into a landscape of harsh shadows.
The conversation had been about nothing. Mission fatigue, the shitty food, the way the rain sounded like nails on the tin roof. Then, you'd made a joke. A stupid, clumsy joke about a fellow soldier who couldn't keep it in his pants.
"Man's a walking liability," you slurred, a little too loudly. "Thinks with his dick, gets himself into all kinds of trouble."
Simon just grunted, his eyes never leaving the barrel of his gun. But you, feeling the warm, reckless burn of the whiskey, pushed on.
"At least he's getting some, I guess. Not like some of us are dying over here."
That got his attention. His head lifted, his dark eyes pinning you in place. "That what's on your mind, Sergeant? Dying for a shag?"
The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"
He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.
"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."
And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"
The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.
"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.
You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.
He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.
"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.
"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.
He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.
"You want me to fuck you."
It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.
His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"
The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.
"That's the idea, sweetheart."
So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.
But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.
You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.
His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.
He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.
The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.
It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.
Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.
"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"
A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."
Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."
But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.
Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.
You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."
Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."
The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"
He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"
"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"
His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"
"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"
The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.
"No."
Your heart plummeted. "What?"
"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.
You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"
His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."
"Wait?"
"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."
The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.
"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.
He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.
You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.
"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."
You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.
Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.
He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.
"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.
You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.
"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.
"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."
You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"
"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."
He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"
You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."
He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.
"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."
Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.
You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.
"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.
"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."
He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.
He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.
He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.
He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."
"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."
He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"
You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."
He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.
While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.
"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."
"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."
His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.
He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.
"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.
The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.
He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.
You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.
You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.
"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."
His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."
You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.
"Your turn," he grunted.
You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."
You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.
You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.
"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."
You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.
"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."
You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."
"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.
He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.
"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."
"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.
He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.
"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."
You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.
He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.
You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.
"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"
His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.
You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.
Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.
You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.
The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.
You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.
That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.
It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.
You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."
He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."
"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.
You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.
It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.
"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."
His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.
Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.
He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"
"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."
He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.
"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."
He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."
You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.
The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.
You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.
"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."
His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."
"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."
That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.
His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."
He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.
"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.
He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.
And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you realized you were in way deeper than you'd ever planned to be.
CWs: smut! medications & side effects, low libido, subtly touches themes of depression. porn is being watched during sex. this is like two smut fics into one lmao
CoD Masterlist | Main Masterlist
"Do you want to watch porn together?"
Never a dull moment with you, he thinks. Always full of surprises. The way you sprinkle excitement and spice in his slow, boring life is the only thing that keeps him afloat.
And Simon can confidently say that this is the least bored heâs ever been with you.
He's learned to school his expression into place; however, not even years of duty can mask the curious quirk of his brow. He shifts on the sofa, propping one ankle over the opposite knee. One arm rests on the backrest of the couch, fingers thrumming against the leather.
Your eyes fall onto his other hand, sitting atop his thigh.Â
He nods with his chin. "Run tha' by me again?"
You stand barefoot on the carpet. Loose shorts and an old tank top that has stretched out from one too many washes. The nibble of your lip tells him that you're ready to eat your words as soon as he questions them. The same goes for the way you're tormenting the cuticle on your thumb.
But he's interested. Fucking hell, this is the most intrigued he's been in ages.
"Porn?" He inquires the moment you open your mouth to most likely take everything back.
You close your lips with a pop and look at the ceiling, trying to force the heat collected on your cheeks to dissipateâflow southward perhaps, where it's not a bother but a welcome feeling instead.
But then you clear your throat. Straighten your spine. "Yes, porn."
Simon echoes you, enunciating the word. "Porn."
"Porn."
He nods, the corners of his lips curving in a smirk.
"With me?"
You tongue your cheek, eyes sharp. "Did I stutter?"
He pinches the air in front of his face. "A little."
But he must have taken it a step too far, because you're suddenly rolling your eyes and huffing.Â
"Right. I shouldn't have askedâ" You mutter, turning on your heels.
Simon's got quick hands. One of them reaches forward and grabs your wrist, pulling you in. You stumble between his legs, big thighs now parted for you to stand comfortably before him.Â
His eyes soften, then, only because he can tell you've taken pains to summon the courage to ask him such a curious thing.
Simon rests the back of his head against the couch to look up at you. Instead of finding your eyes, however, he sees your profileâstubbornly, you're forcing yourself to look at everything but him.
"M'sorry, alrigh'?" He rumbles. The tip of his finger finds your jaw, and he gently steers you to face him. "Took me off guard is all."
The line between your brows deepens, sudden worry branching through your features. Though when his finger on your jawline turns into a palm cradling your cheek, you sigh, leaning into his hand.
And as your body softens, your tongue loosens, too.
"I justâ" You bite your lip, nibbling at the flecks of dry skin. Once again, your eyes dart around, as if the firmness you need is stuck somewhere in the furniture of the house.
He grounds you again, this time with a light tap of his fingers.Â
You rub your forehead in frustration. "Ever since they upped the dosage of my meds, Iâweâ"
You don't need to finish the sentence for him to understand where you're getting at.Â
Yes, you haven't fucked in months. Heâd wager itâs been at least two, maybe three, and the last thoroughly satisfying fuck heâs had with you goes back to a couple of days prior to that fated doctorâs appointment. Itâs not the longest break, and heâs aware. Fucking hell, before he met you, he couldâve gone years without getting his dick wet. He has gone through years of solitude, in fact.
Though itâs you that he misses. Fucking you senseless. Eating you out. Itâs the taste of your skin, not the taste of skin itself. Itâs the scent that nestles in the creases of your neck, not the smell of sex.
Most people would say that, in such cases, they donât remember the last time they had sex. Simon, however, does. He remembers it quite vividly, actually. Nothing can erase from his mind the picture you paint when youâre feeling goodâwhen heâs making you feel good.
He misses it. Misses you. Heâs human, after all.
But he likes you with that smile. Likes you proper happy. Likes you healthy, hungry, and then sated. Likes you laughing at jokes, at life. Likes the fight thatâs suddenly surged within you. The need for control in a life that left you without it.Â
He misses it, true, but he likes you alive.
And nothing will ever change his stance on that.
His other hand brushes your thigh with the back of his knuckles.
âGo on,â he murmurs.
âWell, IâI canât stop thisââ You gesture vaguely at your stomach, as if itâs there where it all festers. ââSense of guilt. I feel guilty, alright? IâI know youâll say I shouldnâtââ
âAye, you shouldnât.â
ââBut,â you interject, pointing a finger at him. âI still do.â
âLove,â he insists, but not unkindly. âWonât fuck you outta guilt, yeah? You gotta want it.â
âI do!â You whine, lightly stomping your foot against the carpet in frustration. âI swear I do! I justâ"
You rip your cheek out of his touch. His hand falls to your other thigh, then, no matter how reluctantly, just to give you space.
âIâI donât think I remember how to feel like I do anymore,â your voice cracks. âI hate it. I hate how I canât control it anymore.â
Simon falls still. Stays silent, waiting for you to get to the point of your reasoning. No sense in stopping you when, clearly, youâve been trying so hard to tell him what feelings have been festering inside you.
You take in a steadying breath, smoothing your hands down your shirt.Â
âAnd I thought, you know, maybe porn can help me. Maybe it can make me horny.â
He nods, urging you to go on. His hands on you, slow and grounding, draw mindless shapes.
âBut itâs weird to⊠get ready for it.â You cinch your shoulders. âI donât want to watch some porn in the bathroom waiting to get wet only to find you after, becauseâbecause it literally takes a walk from the loo to the bedroom that itâs justâŠÂ gone.â
Simon thinks about it.Â
It would be odd, he doesnât deny that. Doesnât know what you like to watch when heâs deployed. Then, it feels wrong to look at another person while heâs fucking you. Doesnât care much about other people and those fake moans, or selfish ones and their plastic performances.Â
Youâve got a few videos you both took when drunk or when trying to spice it up a little. Perhaps those?Â
He knows heâs got one of you that he canât get tired of.Â
Youâre lying on your front as he pounds into you, pretty ass wiggling against his crotch whenever he stops. The phone is propped up on the pillow, its back leaning against the headboard. The shot shows your face first, then the curve of your spine. Your ass pressed to the V of his stomach, bouncing round and soft.
He put the phone there, even as you insisted itâd be better if both of you were in the frame. But he was stubborn, asked to have something to look at when heâs away, and he joked about how heâs not a fan of his ugly mug.
âCanât have a wank anâ look at this mug now, can I.â
Your face, mainly. Thatâs what he likes to watch. Brows pulled tight, eyes hooded, mouth agape. White paints the knuckle of his hand as it fists your hair, forcing your head back. Then, thereâs you. The uncomfortable and jagged curve of your neck, your tendons bulging at the sides, the veins that branch out from your collarbones and find root at your jawline.
Fuck, the sounds you make. Those strained breaths that stroke your vocal cords like youâre an instrumentâmoans clipped and sharp, rhythmic with the pistoning of his hips.Â
Oh, the groan of your first orgasm. The whites of your eyes eating up your pupils. The curve of your mouth, a pained smile that trembles, unsure whether to cry out or laugh blissfully.Â
Itâs your voice that brings him back. His eyes focus on you once again, redefining the lines of your shape.
He must have stayed quiet for a bit too long, because the worried look on your face starts withering into something even worse, something like rejection.
âWe could watch anything,â you provide nervously, rubbing your palms against your thighs. âYour favourites, maybe? Do you have any? I donât know, you can take the lead on thatâon everything, actually. IâI need toââ
With a frustrated sigh, you run a hand down the back of your neck. âI need to feel like you want to fuck me. IâI want to feel like I want to have sex again. I want to be in control of it.â
Your chest heaves. âPlease tell me Iâm making sense.â
Fucking hell. It would be odd, true, but fuck odd.
Your brows pinch. âItâs okay if you donât waâ"
âI got an idea.â
âThis isnât what I had in mind,â you blabber breathlessly.
Simonâs fingers are buried inside you. The video is muted because you asked.Â
âMet you halfway, didnât I?â
His phone sits propped against the headboard, the lower margin hidden beneath the hills and curls of the pillowcase. The light is dim in the bedroom, similarly to how it looks on his phone. Heâs got you with your stomach pressed against the mattress, just like in that video. The only thing keeping your head from slipping against the bed is his fist, holding firmly onto your locks.
âBut Iââ You choke when his knuckles brush your clit. ââI donât like to look at myself.â
Simon cracks his neck, tilting it side to side.Â
âSâporn, innit?âÂ
You groan. âGod, Simonââ
âYou asked for my favourite,â he rumbles. âThere yâgo.â
Thereâs a slow, accommodating fashion in the movements of his hand. Languid strokes given with two fingers, sometimes slipping out to smear your wetness down your slit, brushing featherlight on your clit.Â
âBut this wonât make me horny,â you whine, though thereâs a telltale weakness in your statement that doesnât manage to mask the lie.
Greedy eyes eat what his mouth still canât. The sweat collecting on your temples, the slope of your nose and the curve of your mouthâlips pouting, teeth sinking into the flesh to silence yourself. Shy thing. Youâve never been one, but he reckons thereâs nothing wrong with a change of pace, every once in a while.
He parts your folds with his fingers and gulps harshly when the thick sound of your wetness reaches his ears. Proved yourself wrong, there.
âWonât it?â
Heâs kneeling on top of you, knees digging into the mattress on either side of your thighs. The video is not what he focuses on, though. Heâs got better things to admire. The angles of your shoulder blades, the indents of your muscles as they tense, and the sweet dip of your spine. Where it hollows and where it endsâtwo tiny dimples crowning the plump of your ass.Â
Fuck youâre a painting, arenât you?
âLook at yourself,â he drawls, forcing your eyes to the screen with a tug of your hair. âLook at how good you were feelinâ, mh?â
The little whine that escapes you matches the clench of your pussy around his fingers. Gladly, he realises that youâre not cutting off the blood flow of his hand, but instead youâre opening up to him, feeling much softer than when he first entered you.
For a brief second, his eyes flicker to the screen.
Thereâs the pretty curl of your lips as you look up at him, subjecting your neck to bend in an uncomfortable arch, though his face is out of frame. You go a little cross-eyed, right there, as your smirk turns into a beautiful smileâall teeth and wrinkled nose.Â
The video keeps rolling, and after a heartbeat, you offer your tongue. From the top of the screen, a rope of spit falls and lands directly on it, and he watches as you drink it down.Â
The soft bob of your throat, the delighted grin it follows, the mouthed âthank youâ.
Simonâs cock sits above your ass. It hangs heavy with blood and gleaming at the tip, aching to be touched. His balls feel painfully tight, and if he ventures and grinds down between your cheeks, he might finish before this thing even starts.
His fingers switch, moving from inside you to lightly tap at your clit. Deliberately slow, circling around your clit to unsheathe it and leave the most sensitive part to his mercy whenever he glides down.
You suck in a breath.
Gentle touches wake up your body, skin rushing with waves of shivers that tiptoe up your spine.Â
âCanâcan you do that?â
Simonâs pads slide forward, from your clit to the curls on your pelvis, slipping easily with the wetness collected on his pads. Back and forth, until the tautness in your thighs melts away into the sheets underneath.
âDo what, sweeâheart?âÂ
Shyly, you look up. Your neck cranes backwards in a mimicry of that same painful curve heâs witnessed time and time again.
Your lashes flutter up to him. âCan you spit in my mouth like that?â
And it goes straight to his cock.
Donât need to tell him twice.
The hand in your hair slowly releases its grip, and by the way your moan comes, breathless and aching, he can tell the sting it left must have added to your pleasure. His fingers grasp your jaw, digging into your cheeks.Â
Shifting forward, Simon aligns his mouth with yours from above.
âOpen up.â
You blink, doe-eyed and bashful. Lick your lips and nibble at the flakes of dry skin, pondering for a moment, before you heed his order and part your mouth for him, letting your tongue loll down your chin.
Simonâs eyes roll back.Â
His throat is parched, and he wonders how the fuck he will spit in your mouth when you managed to dry out his tongue with just a look.
Nevertheless, he summons the strength and purses his lips, letting a rope of spit fall slowly onto your tongue.
He watches your nostrils flare in anticipation. Your brows as they flutter when it lands. How you seem to savour it when you swallow. How you find his face again in your stupor, with your eyes smothered under the dark veil of lust.
His cock grows tighter when you smile.
âThank you,â you mouth, licking your lips as if you might taste more of him again.
Simonâs left breathless as you repeat your own words, and he has to summon all his strength not to spear you with his cock right then and there. He genuinely wants to pace himself, but you look so fucking appetising that he just craves to have a taste. He should give you time to adjust, space to settleâhe shouldnât devour you with his mouth.
He should, should, should. Should be better. Should be softer. Should beâ
I need to feel like you want to fuck me.
Simonâs heart comes to an abrupt stop.
He should, should, shouldâ
âgive you more.Â
Show you how he wants to fuck you, like you asked, instead of going at a slow, far-fetched pace. He was never one to sit down and have a feast patiently. Simonâs hungry, heâs always been. To merely nibble on supper would feel artificial, plainly wrong.
And above everything, Simon wants you.Â
He leans down and smashes his lips to yours.Â
The sound of clacking teeth almost swallows your gasp, but the surprise is short-livedâpromptly replaced with the same kind of hunger, only delivered more tentatively.
His kiss is hungry and unrestrained. His teeth sink into your lip before launching again, smearing spit down your chin. You taste like you. Of mint and sugar. Herbs from the tea you shared, sweet because of the biscuits you dipped in yours, even as he grimaced at the sight.Â
Itâs the taste of you. The feel of your skin.
The growing warmth of your cheeks as his stubble irritates them, the slick of your tongue as it dances with his.
Your palm lands harshly at the nape of his neck, grasping blindly until it clutches around a handful of hair. Your fingers wander and grab, nails scratching his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Now that your hand isnât supporting your weight anymore, youâre using him as leverageâpulling down his head and further smashing his mouth against yours.
Simonâs hand around your throat tightens just slightly.
âRemember thaâ?â He purrs, lips to lips. Then, he steers your face to look ahead, where the video keeps rolling.
And youâre so diligent, following his lead. âYes.âÂ
âMh,â he rumbles. âFelt good, didnât it?â
The swell of your ass grinds against his cock. Simon kisses his teeth, jaw tight in the effort to keep himself sane.
âYes.â
His offhand reaches down to the base of his cock. Slaps the head against the curve of your ass once, twice.
âWanna cum on my cock like that?â He murmurs, reaching down to lick the shell of your ear. You shiver. âWanna feel like thaâ again?â
You wiggle underneath him, letting out the smallest whine. Shy thing, you. Thatâs one of the things that has changed. Heâs always loved the bite of your teeth, the cut of your tongue. Loved the leash you put on him, how it revealed his need for control for what it truly wasâmere, unfettered fear. Shackles he thought were keeping him safe, when they were only locking him up in a cage of his own making.
He recognises that same trait within you, now. Recognises, also, how youâre trying to be rid of it.Â
Itâs why heâs more than delighted to understand that you're fighting against those chainsâforever his clever, clever girl.
He narrowly misses your hand reaching forward to press the buttons on the side of his phone.
Your voice fills the room.
âOh fuck,â you groan.
Simonâs hand has your hair in a brutal grip, pulling you back until all the phone can record are the angles of your jaw and the sharpness of your collarbones. His chest peeks from above, glistening with sweat and ruddy in blotches.
Your ragged moans are punched out of your lips by the rhythmic snap of his hips. Thrust after thrust framed by the slap of skin and his voiceâsome raucous, crackling thing that rips from his chest, claws and all.
âLike thaâ, pet,â he snarls. âFuckinâ take it.â
And you nod, sweet thing. You nod dumbly as you smile up at him. Your tits hang and bounce as the raw force of his hold lifts your chest from the bed. One last pull, tight and strong, turns those moans into one sharp yell.Â
His grin is unseen but clearly plastered in his tone. âYâliked that, uh?â
Another tug, another helpless moan.Â
âAh fuck, yer close,â he chuckles. The wet squelches of your pussy ratchet up in volume as he thrusts in, over and over, picking up the pace. âListen to thaâ. Yer gonna cum, love?â
The lower half of his face pops into frame from above, only to land a kiss on the crown of your head.
âCan feel ya gettingâ tight.â His lips brush your skin. âGo on, sweet girl.â
Before leaving the grip in your hair.Â
âCum on my fuckinâ cockâ"
Your face hits the pillow with a groan that drowns in linen. The phone falls, now recording the ceiling. No one bothers to pick it up again.
âFuck me,â you heave. âFuck me like that again, baby.â
Simon has to close his eyes and inhale to get himself back in line.
âFuckinâ hell.â He kisses his teeth. âCâmere.â
He pulls your head back once again. Kisses you until his lips feel numb. Right beneath him, you keep chanting your plea like he isnât about to give in already.
âFuck me, baby,â you mumble to his mouth, on and on without rest. âPlease fuck me. IâI want to feel you inside me, please. Please.â
I want to feel like I want to have sex again.
âI want it,â you whimper. âI want you.â
Blood pulses from the base of his cock all the way to the tip. He can feel the shockwaves seizing his limbs when he presses it to your cunt, sliding it up and down your slick until heâs drenched in it.
He kisses your temple. Moves upwards to the back of your head, safely cradling your jaw in his palm.
âMissed it, havenât ya,â he purrs by your ear. His cock enters an inch. âFeel thaâ?â
Heâs never been this hard in his lifeânever been this turned on either.Â
You must realise it too. Words fail you, but your voice doesnât. It crackles through your lips with a moan that shatters on his palm.
âMissed you too, pet.â
Heâs barely been inside you, and if he doesnât truly, really, focus, heâll ram his cock and come so fucking deep youâll drip for days.
Suddenly, the thought feels more tempting than wrong.Â
âYer gonna take it, yeah?â He grunts, moving forward with his hips. âGonna take it like a good fuckinâ girl.â
A pleasing sob. âPlease.â
With a groan, Simon gives in.
Not a sound leaves your lips. He can feel them open up against his hand, choking on air, and that is all you yield as he pushes in. The rest tightens into one euphoric knot at the base of his throat, cutting off each intake of air.Â
In a swift motion, Simon buries his cock to the hilt, hips flush to your ass. His head collapses against you, mouth to your shoulder, and peppers kisses all over its curve. When he pulls back, the first stroke after months sends his brain into a frenzy. His teeth sink into your neck, growling like the famished beast that he isâ
One you tame with your hand in his hair, tightening the grip to settle him.
âOh my fuckingâ" Words tumble out of your mouth in a strained whimper. âFuck it feels so good. Move. Move, please moveââ
Simonâs mouth opens against your neck. His tongue licks a path from your thundering heart to the shell of your ear, where he tries to focus.Â
Itâs the smell of you. The floral of your shampoo and the sourness of sweat. The butter of your face cream and the ginger of perfume.
âI got you, pet,â he croaks, as his heart suddenly ties itself in a knot. âI got you.â
Youâre incomparable. Fit like a glove, you do. Adjusting to him in the blink of an eye, already heaving like he stole the air from your lungsâthough heâs just started, and considering the desperation of your hands, he reckons youâre far from done, too.
Heâs deliberately slow, savouring each second that passesâbut sometimes he slips, and thrusts in a little harder. Apologises with his lips down your neck, turning your hiss into the softest sigh. Thumbs your waist with the hand fisting the sheets, also the only thing preventing him from collapsing on top of you.Â
You find his fingers and twine them with yours.Â
The only sound he hears is the one coming from the video, the screen now flush to the pillow. It fell at some point. He never bothered to check when.
His groans, the slap of skin, your pleas as you comeâ
âFuck,â you pant, hissing through your teeth. âNghâkeep going. God, pleaâkeep goingââ
âYeah?â His voice purrs. âFuckinâ feel thatâChrist yer dripping.â
Your breath picks up, ricochets in the bedroom as another orgasm stalks closer.
âMâgonna come againââ
âGo on then,â he rumbles. âDo it, love. Cum all over me.â
Abruptly, your fingers reach for his phone and lock it. The echo of your moans is cut short, and so are his grunts. For a second, his tinnitus manages to shroud the lack of sounds. Â
But then, thereâs the quiet stagger of your breathing that breaches past, poking a hole through the cotton stuffing his ears. The creaking of the bedframe follows. How his movements make the springs moan under his weight.Â
The wet of your nose nuzzles his cheek. âI missed you.âÂ
Your fingers relent the grip in his hair, hand falling down to cup his cheek instead.Â
âI missed you.â
Itâs said so wistfully that Simon, for a moment, feels entirely out of his depth.
He kisses the shell of your ear before guiding your gaze to point his way. Glossy eyes find him, thinly veiled with gratitude. He almost melts then and there. You got him wrapped around your finger, bow and all.
âI love you,â you say, placing your lips on his. âI love you so much.â
Simonâs chest grows tight.
He can feel those words take hold of his heart. Squeeze it bloody, only to travel southward and tighten around the base of his cock, too. In a stutter, his hips falter, and he has to come to a standstill if he doesnât want this to end so abruptly.
âChrist,â he mutters, âYer killing me, pet.â
The smoothness of your teeth brushes his lips as you smile. âMh. And we donât want that.â
He buries his nose in the crook of your neck and inhales the flowers, the butter and the herbs. The ginger, the sweat and the biscuits.
âAye, we donât,â he sighs.
Your tongue licks a stripe across his mouth. âBut I love you.â
Simon groans. âYer a cheeky fuckinâââ
He pulls back and slams in again, as if to chastise you, but it isnât received as punishment at all. In fact, it spurs you onâyou moan into his mouth and put him under your spell. A chant, continuous, of endless I love yous that peel off the layers that make him.
Simon finally gives in. Heâs missed you, too.
He collapses on top of you, punching a gasp from your mouth as your whole body is enveloped by his. His arm snakes under your belly, and you favour him by lifting your hips. The angle has him hit somewhere deeper, and you shatter beneath him. Your throat cracks a groan, soaked by the pillow, and finally, you let go when his fingers find your clit.
âMissed you,â he croaks in your ear.Â
His pace picks up.Â
âMissed this voice âere.â His mouth latches onto your neck. âMissed yer fuckinâ taste. Missed this fuckinâ cunt.â
Doesnât care about the strain in his spine and the burn of his calves, not when your moans start growing louder and wetter.
âFuckinâââ He stutters. âLove ya. Wanna fuck you every dayââ
Your slick rolls out of you thick as liquor for each thrust, coating his fingers. Two, at first. Then three, gliding smoothly from side to side over the tight knot of your clit.Â
âWhen yer knackered, when yer cooking, when yer in the fucking shop anâ bend over to pick up some shiteââ
âOh fuck, Simonâkeep goingââ
ââFuck, yer made fâme. Naked or not. I always want you. I do.â
âIâmâoh fuckâIâm gonna comeââ
And he can fucking feel it.Â
âThatâs it, pet. Give it to me.â
Your body seizes at first, taut as a bowstring. And then, you bloom.Â
Wave after wave, rippling against him with your whole being. Even as cramped as you are, crowded under the weight of him, you fuck him through your ecstasy. Push your ass backwards to ride him for all his worth.Â
And Simon is entirely helpless, so entranced by the pulsing of your cunt around his cock that he barely realises how heâs coming, too. Itâs all it took, really. To feel you clutch at his hair with your fingers, to have you fight for controlâsteal it from the tight grip of his hands.Â
His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck, groaning when his release wrecks him from within. Feels your pulse ratchet up under his tongue, your stutters as they bubble up your throat as you wordlessly beg for him to want you, to love you.
As he silently gives it all to you. All you ask, and more.
Eventually, you fall still. The tightness of your muscles melts. All the effort of your movement turns into mere, occasional twitching as adrenaline leaves your bloodstream.
Youâre soft again. Turning your head on the pillow to find him, resting with his cheek right by your side.Â
âI missed you,â you say wetly. âIâm sorry.â
Simon brushes his nose against yours.Â
He knows how that type of guilt feelsâthe misplaced one, the one with no reason to be there at all. It festers within your stomach and doesnât care about the damage it yields, because itâs not how it operates.Â
Itâs unfounded. Still, he knows words wonât be able to quell the heartache.
But Simon sees what you still canât. It takes balls to survive a life you donât want anymore. He knows a thing or two about that. Swam in his own ocean of shit.Â
Still, he watched you take control back in your hands. You asked for help and crafted a new life that fits you better and patched the wounds left by the one you once led. You witnessed yourself burst at the seams and decided that it was time to pick up the needle.
That requires an incomparable amount of courage.
Simon knows it well. Still bears the scars to prove it.
âDonât gotta be,â he whispers. âProud of ya.â
Your eyes widen. Open the faucet, too. The glittering rim left by your orgasm turns into a river. Tears cascade from the corners of your eyes and branch above the bridge of your nose, down your temple, into your hair.
âFor what?â You chuckle dismissively. âHaving sex?â
But Simon kisses your nose instead. Offers a lovely smile he hasnât granted in a while.Â
âYeah,â he concedes, because you need time. âThaâ too.â
Your giggle is refreshing and genuine, though a bit strangled. He realises only then that youâve been crushed underneath his weight all this time, so he props himself on his elbows. You sigh, wiggling to turn around in the cramped space between his chest and the bedsheets, until your eyes are aligned with his.
Your lashes are clumped, sticking to one another with dewdrops of happiness. They flutter when you look up at his face.
âThank you,â you say. âFor being here. For being proud of me.â
Always.Â
Simon leans down and breathes a kiss on your forehead.
âThere ainât a day that goes by that Iâm not.â
Not that he directly says it, but even an SAS operative is hard-pressed to hide the subtle flinch of touch from his fellow teammates at all times. Skin always covered, always positioned away from people, it's an unspoken rule that no one touches ghost unless mandatory.
So why the hell does he let you, the new secretary, get away with it?
"Oh, sir! Hey, I needed an updated copy of that fileâ" you'll catch him in the hallway, hand on his bicep to get his attention before you lose him in the crowd. The strangest thing? Ghost actually stops and listens carefully. No tensing up or glaring at all.
Or when you happen to be next to him in line for dinner, you have no qualms bumping your shoulder into his side in lieu of greeting with full hands, already saying "hi, sir! Yknow, I was looking over those reports, and I really appreciate how youâ"
It's an absolute mystery to the team. How you ghost is more than happy to be practically manhandled by you in crowded spaces or simply casually touched in conversation. There's only one logical explenation.
Ghost has a crush.
After that, it just becomes more obvious. How he angles himself closest to you in a group. How he subtly leans into your touch on certain days.
Curiously, gaz asks you about it one day. A casual water cooler ambush, designed to look purely coincidental when he interrogates "oh, you and ghost talk often, don't you?"
"Hm? Oh, ghost? Yeah! He's a great friend!" You smile, all wide and unassuming. of course you have no fucking clue, because ghost is damn difficult to read even to trained soldiers. You go on to smile to yourself, fidgeting with the manila folder held against your clipboard. "I'm honestly shocked he tolerates me so much, what with being just some secretary. But he's nice to talk to, yknow?"
...and it seems you are just as horribly enamoured by him. How the hell neither of you has figured it out is beyond the team.
They already have a betting pool going if you two will sort it out before or after next months ball.
baker!reader who's lured simon riley into her shop, home and heart with sweet treats. (pt.1)
pt.2
it happened all too quickly for your mind to comprehend. one day you were manning your bakery, restocking sold out treats in the cases when the little golden bell above your pink, french-style doors. you were expecting anyone reallyâone of your regulars who leaves with a latte and a breakfast desert, or a kid with a sweet tooth.
instead you were met with a tall and shadow-like man, broad and built with a dark mask covering all but his two dark brown eyes and light lashes.
well, maybe you had lied when you said you were expecting anyone because this was not what you had in mind. a quick glance around further confirmed that he didn't look like he belonged. wearing all black and that maskâit faces you chills to meet his eyes, which you only did briefly before you both averted your gazesâhe stood as awkward as a kid getting a scolding from a parent. like he knew he didn't fit in.
in his time from the door opening to standing across the cases from you, you realized you hadn't said your greetings. embarrassed, you flushed red and almost stuttered out the words.
"welcome in," you smiled, grasping a mini tong in your hand. he grunted in response, but you didn't let it deject you. he didn't look like the friendly type. "do you need time to look, or have you figured out what you'd like?"
you offered a question in hopes you'd get a word out of him. does he speak at all? Is his voice dark and rough to match his appearance, or is it high pitched and wonky, like a bad comedy movie?
"tha' one." he pointed at a pastry through the glass, where you noticed a slight tremble in his hand. nerves? a swallow bobbed under his mask, and he retracted his hand. "please."
you simply nodded and avoided thinking about the way his voice gave you butterflies. it was deep, accentedâbritishâand not as rough as you would've thought. his words were smooth when he spoke, and his tone seemed to soften when he remembered his manners.
"of course." you make haste to package his pastry to go in a box with your bakery's logoâsmall and pink with flowers. you were so focused on gently handling the little treat, and when you finally looked up, he was already staring. it caught you off guard. "anything to drink?"
he nodded, tearing his eyes away once he realized he'd been caught. "wha's good?"
you bit back a smileâmost of the drinks offered on the menu did not seem his speed. "our most popular at the moment is a cinnamon caramel cream cold brew."
silence fell over both of you as his attention landed on you again. the rim of his eyes had widened, and an almost concerned glint reflected against his iris. maybe that was shoving him into the deep end?
you chuckled. "I'll get you a black coffee."
"no." he shakes his head. "I'll have...wot'ever y'just said."
a giddy smile threatens to take over your face as you punch it into your device. "what's a good name for that order?" you didn't need his name, he was the only one in here. you only took them when it got too busy and too many people ordered the same drink.
"simon."
simon. you liked his name. it suited him.
"I'll get that made right away, simon," and you turned your back on him to do just that.
the entire time you prepared his drink, you felt the weight of his eyes burning into your back. it wasn't malicious, but it made you nervous. was he just curious? the drink he ordered wasn't something he was accustomed to.
which is why you were conflicted. if you ever had a customer that you thought were cute or attractive, you'd find yourself giving them a little extra in their drink. more caramel drizzle, extra chocolate chips, a free peppermint stick. with simon, you weren't sure about adding in more sugar to a drink that was definitely not in his comfort zone originally. you withheld for nowâand held your breath that he would come back again.
you spun around with the drink in hand, a clear cup with flowers decorating the sides. sliding it across the counter along with his pastry, you gave him an equally sweet smile. "there's that for you, simon. your total is $9.45."
he reached into his wallet and pulled out a crisp twenty, opting to hand it to you rather than sliding it across the counter. for some reason, it meant that much more to you.
"I'll be back with your change!" his mouth moved under his balaclava, but you didn't let him speak before turning around. you fumbled around in the cash register for a few moments before the bell chiming caught your attention.
handful of bills and the correct change, you turn back to simon while simultaneously calling out to the new customer. "welcomeâ" you paused, brows knitting together.
simon was gone. no new customer had walked in, only the one who just walked out without his change. you didn't even see the direction he went outside the window, just that he was gone as quick as he came.
something in your heart sank. you just met the man, but a feeling tugged in your chest that told you something different was going to happen.
that was the first time you saw simon, and you knew it wasn't the last.
!new! â only including this on one post, but I linked a kofi in my pinned post if you ever thought about supporting me! it is not required at all but deeply appreciated! thanks!
âŠsummary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. âŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smutâŠ
âŠwc: 10.9kâŠ
âŠAuthor's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!âŠ
Youâre not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, theyâre a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. Itâs a part of the job, to see whoâs here. What kind of interviews youâre going to be able to get, whoâs already closing in on who, whoâs snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If youâre smart about thisâand you always areâyouâre going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
âTheyâre here.â Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. âHoly shit, theyâre actually here-â
âItâs their fundraiser.â You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. âIt would be crazy if they werenât here.â
âYeah, but- Itâs all of them. Iâve never seen all of them-â
âYes, you have.â
Stacy glares at you. âWell, not so close.â
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. âTheyâre not that close.â
âI could touch one.â Stacy breathes, and you snort.
âYou should go try that.â
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator whoâs going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. Youâve read it three times, and itâs a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize itâs nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesnât stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
âHeâs looking at you.â Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement youâre sure sheâs about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and youâre going to throttle her.
âHe is now, because you,â you shove her shoulder. It doesnât do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. âFucking made him notice-â
âNo, he was looking before-â
âNo, he wasnât-â
âYes, he was-â
âNo, he wasnât-â
âWho wasnât what.â
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. Youâre going to kill her. Youâre going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then youâre going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
âHi, Mr. Captain Sir.â She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed itâs him expression.
Iâm going to kill you. You mouth. She doesnât seem all that bothered by the threat.
âUh- Hi. You donât have to-â You hear him shift on his feet behind you. âSteve is alright.â
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when heâs a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesnât kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like youâre a bit of plastic thatâs stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because itâs not fair.
Steveâs just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, heâs more handsome. You donât know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and heâs so tall it makes you dizzy, and heâs fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like youâre important to him.
And youâre not. You know youâre not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And heâs Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and youâd thought you were already over it so youâd said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadnât made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, youâd thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And heâs got some titanic hold over your heart thatâs left finger marks dug in through the landscape. Thereâs a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now itâs far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. Youâve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope theyâd help you move on.
They donât. They wonât. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you canât even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you canât afford false faith. All you have is whatâs grounded between your fingers.
Steveâs right here. Heâs smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. Heâs got a drink in his massive hand for you. Youâve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
Youâre aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, youâd be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
âHi.â You say, and itâs sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steveâs face splits into a big, happy smile. âHi. Howâs the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?â
You scowl. âItâs not- Theyâre not victims-â
âYou treat them like theyâre victims.â His grin widens. âSometimes I feel like I should be saving them.â
âTheyâre all fine. Itâs not like Iâm drugging them or something.â
Steveâs brows raise. âThat makes me think you are drugging them.â
âNuh uh.â You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
âOne day youâre gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.â He holds out the drink he brought you.
Itâs your favorite. Itâs always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. Heâs never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
âI donât think I will.â You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. Heâs warm. Heâs like a walking furnace, and youâd like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
âKid, you already have.â
Steve looks at you like youâre the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesnât. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. Thatâs all you are to him. Kid.
âBut if I got in trouble, youâd save me.â You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
ââCourse I would. Already saving you by pretending I donât see you getting all those Senators drunk.â
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacyâs abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
âAre you feeling alright?â Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. âYou been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-â
âIâm fine.â You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. Youâd throw up, if you didnât think heâd take care of you after.
âEverythingâs fine.â
Steveâs lips twitch. Youâre not sure he believes you.
But it doesnât really matter anyway. Youâre not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And youâre just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
âYou do look nice.â He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. âThanks.â
I dressed up for you.
âI think heâs in looove with you.â Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
âIs the printer out of paper still?â
âI donât know, you print everything for me.â She pokes your chair with her foot. âPay attention to me, I said Steveâs in love with you-â
âNo, heâs not.â
âYes, he is.â
âNo, heâs not-â
âYes, he is-â
âIs this the same thing you were fighting about last time?â Steveâs voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. âOr is that just⊠How you two talk.â
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. âItâs the same fight as last time.â
âOh.â He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. âIs everything okay?â
âMhm.â Stacy beams. âHi, Steve.â
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
âHi, Stacy.â
She almost glows. âYou remember my name?â
âYeah.â He glances down at you. âI try to remember most peopleâs names.â
Stacy swoons. âOf course you do.â
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âUh-â He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. âLunch, remember? We planned it last week.â
Oh. You did do that. âI told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-â
âOh, she already did.â He laughs. âBut Iâm here for you, not a front page.â
You flush, and Stacy giggles like sheâs watching TV.
âSoâŠâ Steve shrugs. âLunch?â
Right. Lunch.
âHowâd you even get in the building.â You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
âI took a photo with the guards.â
âSteve, I told you to stop doing that-â
âIt made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-â
âI know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.â
Steve frowns. âItâs not that big an inconvenience for me-â
âBut you hate it.â
âI donât hate it-â
âSteven Rogers.â
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
âI donât love them.â He mumbles, and you nod.
âNext time, tell them no.â
âBut then I canât come upstairs.â
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. âYou can text me. Like youâre supposed to-â
âOr I can just do the photos-â
âNo-â
âBye, guys.â Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. Youâd forgotten she was there.
âUm⊠Bye.â You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
Heâs here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, heâd say something. And youâre a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he wonât leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You canât handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that itâs Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
Youâre in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. Youâre obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity whoâs respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. Youâre really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
Itâs impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when heâs everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and heâs on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
âItâs a stupid name, though.â Youâd said, and heâd shrugged.
âTony says the name doesnât matter, as long as itâs got our faces on it. Apparently thatâs what people are buying for.â
Heâd frowned at that, and youâd given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and youâd told him gently youâre sure people will also buy for charity.
Youâd been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, itâs not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. Itâs because Steveâs face is smiling at you from the plastic, and youâre no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that youâre much better about that, either.
âI could give you an interview.â Steve offers on day, when youâd been complaining to him about slow news. âIt can be about whatever you want-â
âI donât want your pity journalism, Steven.â
He frowns. âItâs not pity. Iâm trying to help you.â
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. âWell, I canât accept your help.â
âWhy not-â
âItâs unethical.â
âI⊠donât think thatâs true-â
âWell, I didnât earn it.â
âYou donât have to earn it.â He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. âYou work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-â
âI donât have questions ready.â You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. âMake some up. I know you can.â
You wish heâd stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
âI have nothing I want to ask you.â You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
âI donât believe that.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.â
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. âMaybe I just know everything about you,â you mutter, and he snorts.
âNo. You donât.â
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
âThere she is-â
âShut up.â You lean across the table, and his smile widens. âWhat donât I know about you.â
âA lot.â
âLike what-â
âYou have to ask me to find out.â
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
âYou suck.â You grumble.
He shrugs. âI know you think that.â
Youâre both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, youâd be able to trace the line of his nose. Heâs so handsome. Itâs unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
âIâm going to punch you in the face-â
âIâd like to see you try, kid.â
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you donât give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
âI need a napkin.â You mutter., leaning back into your seat. âTo write questions.â
âYeah. Right.â He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. âIâll go get that for you.â
Of course he will.
And when heâs talking to the waitressâpaper and a pen in his handâshe twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didnât know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think thatâs where you all went wrong.
This all mightâve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you donât like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interviewâfeeling little detached from your own body, like heâs a million miles awayâand touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You mightâve gotten to touch him more, if he didnât mean something to you.
But you wouldnât trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steveâs been trying to get you out with his team for years. Youâve said no, over and over and over. You donât need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Donât need the reminder that he probably rejected you because youâre not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think youâre any less because youâre not enhanced. You know he wouldnât.
Consciously.Â
But that doesnât change the reality of it. He wouldnât want you, when heâs surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you donât have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And youâve heard the rumors about them.
Youâve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isnât a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasnât theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of itâs true. Steveâs told you himself.
But that doesnât make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didnât want to do this. And Steve had always respected thatâbecause heâs perfect, and he respects everythingâso youâd thought youâd never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesnât push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks youâre just too busy to go out the other times. That youâre saying no because you simply donât have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you donât want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldnât stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now youâre here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasnât left your side since you got here. Itâs been the only anchor you have. Youâd been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you donât really want to have. Itâs not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But youâre the only one here right now. And if you could, youâd sew your hand into Steveâs so he couldnât leave you alone.
And thatâs always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
âIâm going to get drinks.â He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
âWait- Iâll come with you-â
âDonât worry, Iâve got it.â He grins down at you, patting your head like youâre a dog or something. âYou donât have to stand up.â
You want to shout at him that this isnât about him being a gentleman, itâs about him not leaving your sight. But youâre weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesnât work.
âYouâre the journalist.â A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
âIâm a journalist-â
âNo. Youâre Rogerâs journalist.â Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but donât dare to move away.
Thatâll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you donât inch away from him.
âI understand what heâs been going on about.â Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. âDidnât know they made them like you anymore.â
Your eyes narrow. âLike me?â
âMhm.â Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
âWhat am I like, Mr. Stark?â
He chuckles, leaning back. âLittle spitfire, arenât you-â
âOnly to people who deserve it.â
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. Heâs by the bar, your drink already in his hand. Itâs the same one you always get. Heâs holding it close to his chest, like itâs something priceless.
Thereâs a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steveâs entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You donât want to be here. You didnât want to be here. You donât want to see how itâs not even the Avengers that heâd want more than you, itâs everyone else. Sheâs getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but youâre not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because heâs probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like sheâs talking sweet, and heâd probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. Heâs a God. Heâll say heâs not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
Thereâs a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you donât want to see this. You canât see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you canât.
âWhatâs wrong with you?â Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
âNothing.â You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. âI just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.â
You glance over to Steve again. Heâs laughing at something sheâs saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
âRight now.â You mumble. âI have to go do it right now.â
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. âRight now, huh.â
âYep.â You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
âWhat is it? If itâs so urgent.â
âStuff.â You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. âJesus, heâs batting in a whole other sport with you.â
âWhat the fuck does that mean-â
âNothing.â Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. âGo on. Iâll tell Cap you had stuff.â
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And heâs grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, youâre going to vomit.
You have to go now.
âThanks.â You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. âHave a good night.â
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
âOh. Iâm sure I will.â
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, youâre going to respond to them. If you respond to them, heâll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, youâre never going to get over him.
Youâre going cold turkey on him, like heâs a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesnât come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You donât know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say heâs walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And youâre going to be able to do this. Youâre finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
Youâve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they arenât Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
Thereâs a guy youâve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and heâs far from bad to look at. And itâs not like youâre going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isnât Steve.
And maybe this guyâyou canât really remember his name, but youâll learn itâis blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but thatâs nobody business expect yours, and your pillowâs. It knows better than anyone that thereâs only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until youâre over Steve, and thereâs never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain youâre going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing thatâs nobodyâs business. Youâre doing what you need to, and itâs going to get you over him. Youâve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesnât seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but thatâs where you need to shut your brain up. Thereâs not going to be anyone whoâs like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but itâs not him, and thatâs okay. Thatâs good. Itâs going to help you move on. Youâve got your jacket, and your purse, and youâre going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you canât remember how to speak. Heâs here. Why is he here. Heâs been giving you space, because heâs amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didnât care when he wasnât right in front of you. Looking like youâd just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if heâs lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesnât smile. It makes you want to cry.
âSteve-â
âYouâve been avoiding me.â He mutters, the words thick and low. âAnd- Iâm not here to fight about it. I didnât think you were going to open the door, I didnât- I wasnât going to bother you. Just- Never mind.â
 You blink. âI- What are you-â
âYou got a date?â He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. Heâs fisting his hands.
âUm-â You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. âYeah. I do.â
âWith whom.â
Shit. You still canât remember. âSomeone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-â
âOn an app.â He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. âYou know, Stark made me try those once.â
You swallow. You donât want to hear about his dating life. âHow did that go.â
âBad. And I tried, I justâŠâ He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.Â
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. Heâs got a gravity over you, and he doesnât know it, and why is he here.
âIs he nice.â
Steveâs voice is low. Pained. You donât understand the question.
âWho?â
âYour date.â He grunts. âIs he nice to you.â
âOh.â You forgot about that part. âYeah.â
âGood.â
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you canât look him in the eyes.
âWhat did I do?â
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and youâve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just⊠Sad. Defeated. Like even he isnât sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
âYou didnât do anything-â
âI must have.â He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. âYouâve never been mad at me before, and- Now youâre-â
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
âItâs just a date-â
âJust a date.â He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
âIâm allowed to date, Steven-â
âI know you are!â His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. âI- I know, but thatâs not- Why are you avoiding me?â
Heâs pleading. Itâs almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isnât fair. Steveâs not stupid. He canât have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, heâs not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly canât be dense enough to not tie together that youâre avoiding him, and going on a date. You donât go on dates. Youâre usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesnât understand. Being so nice about it, when itâs clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because heâs golden and perfect. All respectful, like youâre just another lady to him.
Like youâre not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. Itâs a battle to hold his gaze.
âWhy do you think Iâve been avoiding you.â You mutter, and he shakes his head.
âI donât know, thatâs why Iâm asking.â Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. âI canât fix it if you donât tell me what I did-â
âSteve-â
âAnd Iâll fix it, whatever I did, Iâll fix it-â
âYou canât fix it!â You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
âYou- You canât fix it, Steve.â You whisper, staring down at his shoes. âJust- Stop.â
âStop what?â He rasps. âI- I know I messed something up, but-â
âStop being so nice to me.â
Heâs silent for a moment. You donât even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
âI... Iâd rather not.â He mutters, and you sigh.
âThen please leave me alone.â The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. âI- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I canât.â
âCanât-â
âCanât be your friend.â You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. âI canât be your friend, Steve, itâs too hard. I- I-â
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He canât talk right now. Itâs already too hard.
âI love you.â You say, barely a breath. It doesnât matter. Heâll hear anyway. âI love you too much, and- Itâs not your fault that you donât- That itâs not the same. But please.â You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. âI- I need space.â
Steve doesnât say anything. There isnât anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think itâs hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that youâd tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day heâd look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And thatâs all itâs ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. Youâre going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
Youâll get over it. Youâll get over it. Itâs hard to breathe right now but youâll get over it-
âGod- Screw it.â
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you donât even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesnât know heâs already got a claim on you. Like heâs trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with whatâs happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and youâre sure he ate something earlier but you donât really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and youâre being crushed under the force of him but itâs intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like youâre being remade-
Itâs over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like theyâre still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure whatâs happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. Youâre breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But youâve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
Heâs never been a drug. Youâd been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and youâre quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steveâs arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until youâre drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think youâre going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and thatâs all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You canât help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
âSt- Steve-â You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. âJesus fucking- God-â
âI know.â He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
âFuck- You-â You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, youâre almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. Itâs one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didnât think you could cum like this, but thereâs a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and youâre sure itâs a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isnât the kind of thing you thought heâd be into. Heâs too perfect, too good, and maybe youâve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steveâs all about honor. Youâd been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But thatâs not what you see in Steveâs eyes. Theyâre hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
âOh-â You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.Â
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. Youâre wound so tight youâre certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steveâs hold, and his attention snaps back up.
âYouâre good, doll.â He coos. âRelax for me.â
You blink at him, shaking your head. You canât stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like thereâs nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
âLook at me.â
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours. Â
âI donât want space.â He mutters. âI want you.â
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. âYou- You canât just-â
âShh.â He pushes further down, until it feels like heâs almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. âIs that all I did?â
âWha- Oh-â
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesnât even break a sweat.
âYou and me.â He mutters, studying your every expression. âThatâs it. Thatâs what was gonna make me lose you.â
âYou- You didnât lose me-â
âAlmost did.â He squeezes your knee. âYou walked.â
You glare up at him. âYou let me-â
âNo, I didnât.âÂ
Steveâs lips slam back over yours, and you canât really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and heâs hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.Â
âI- I didnât want to ruin something.â He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
âRuinâŠâ
âUs.â Steveâs face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. âYou were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didnât want to risk that.â
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
âI was willing to risk it.â You whisper, and he sighs.
âI know. But-â He looks away, words choked and low. âI thought it was a crush. That youâd get over.â
You laugh weakly. âWell, it wasnât.â
âI know.â He sighs. âMine wasnât either.â
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
âI love you.â He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. âIt is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.â
It does.
Just as fast as theyâd shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. Theyâre clearer than before. More colorful. Itâs no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesnât ripple away. And thatâs more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. Itâs slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steveâs cock that canât be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
âHey.â Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope heâs holding tight enough to leave a bruise. âEasy.â
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. âEasy?â
âYeah, thatâs what I-â
âI just came on your knee.â
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. âI, uh- Fair.â
âMhm.â You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. âJesus- Baby-â
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steveâs eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
Youâd very much like to see him give up.
âDoes that feel good?â You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. Youâre going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
âI donât want to go slow, Stevie.â You purr, and his chest heaves under you. âI want you to fuck me. Pleeease.â
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steveâs face drops against your chest.
âJesus, woman.â He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. âCome on, âs not playing fair-â
âDonât wanna play fair.â You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. âWasnât fair how you turned me down.â
ââM sorry about that-â
âYou should be.â You kiss under his ear. âHurt my feelings.â
âThought-â He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. âThought I was helping-â
âYou werenât.â
âI got that now-â
âBut you know what would make it better?â You lean back up, holding Steveâs gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
âFucking me.â
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
Youâd peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and heâs so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steveâs a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesnât like things that he canât account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
Youâre sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if youâre begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
âPleaseee.â You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. âFuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I canât walk-â
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
âMake me yours, make me cry, fuck-â You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. âGod, fucking- Please, Steve-â
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steveâs resolve, and heâs on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
âSteve- Shit-â Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. âFuck, slow down-â
âYou said you didnât want to slow down.â He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. âSaid you didnât wanna play fair.â
âI- Um- Ooooh-â
You drop your head against Steveâs shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
âWet fuckinâ pussy.â He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. âKnew you got soaked for me, princess. Didnât know it was this bad.â
âYou- You-â He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like youâre burning alive in the best way possible. âYou knew?â You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
âAlways knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.â
You try to twist and glare at him. âAnd you didnât tell me-â
âLike you wouldâve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.â Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
âFuck-â You whimper. Heâs right. You can barely even stand that right now. âSteve, please- Please-â
Youâre not even sure what youâre begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like youâre about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
ââCourse you like that.â He mutters. âDirty girl, testing me every fucking day.â
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
âFelt that.â Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. âGreedy, princess. Youâve been waitinâ this long, you can hold it a little longer.â
âCa- Canât-â You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. âCanât, Steve- Canât wait-â
âYeah, you can.â He grunts. âChrist, youâre dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, arenât you, baby.â
Heâs playing with your clit like itâs just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
âSteve- I- Iâm going to- Oh my god-â
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
âGetting you ready.â He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. âItâs okay, babydoll, youâre doinâ real good.â
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. Youâre struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you havenât been turned to a puddle under his hands.
âBreathe.â He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like heâs being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as youâd like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
Heâs massive. Thatâs the kind of dick youâve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry canât replicate it. Youâre not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
âI was⊠Endowed.â He mumbles, ears red. âBefore the serum. ThenâŠâ
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
âJesus, Steve-â
âIt wonât hurt you.â He says quickly. âI know there are those rumors âbout be being a virgin, but-â He sighs, pouting slightly. âGod forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesnât want to talk about his sex life, suddenly heâs never even touched a boob-â
âDude.â You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. âLook me in the eyes and tell me if I still think youâre a virgin after that.â
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
âDude?â
âUm-â
âDonât call me dude when Iâm about to fuck you.â He grumbles, and youâd laugh at him if that didnât make your heart skip. e
âSorry, sir.â
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steveâs jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and youâre still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
âYou think somethingâs funny?â He grunts, and you shake your head.
âNo, sir.â
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
âGonna be the death of me.â He mutters under his breath, and youâre still laughing softly.
âSorry.â
âNo, youâre not.â
You laugh again, because youâre really not. Itâs hilarious, and heâs adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like youâre a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
âAlright, princess.â He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. âOpen.â
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.Â
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didnât even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think heâs found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
âI know.â He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. âYouâre taking it, baby, there you go.â
âSteveee-â
âFeels good, doesnât it.â He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
Youâve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steveâs still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. Heâs patient. You donât want him to be.
âMore.â You push out, and he raises his brows.
âSweetheart-â
âMore.â You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. âFuck me, Steve- Mmm-â
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
Heâs unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
âYeah, thatâs it.â He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. âPretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, donât you.â
âYe- Yes-â You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. âYes- Oh my god, yes-â
Steveâs started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until youâre moaning and writhing around him.
âFeel that, donât you.â He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. âFeel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesnât-â
âSo good.â You babble, but who can blame you. âSo good, Steve, youâre so-â
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and heâs going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
âYouâre so fuckinâ wet.â He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. âIf Iâd know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.â
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
âOh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.âÂ
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. Youâre spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. Youâre just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steveâs massive body draped over yours, and youâd probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
âYou were made for me.â He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. âIâm gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-â
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
âGood girl.â He coos. âThere you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know youâre getting close.â
You are. Youâve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steveâs breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
âFuck- Fuck- You feel so good,â he groans your name in your ear. âSo good, itâs- Christ-â
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
âSteve.â You breathe out. âSteve- I- Iâm gonna-â
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
Itâs a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like youâre an angel, fucking you like youâre just a toy, and you canât even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
âSteveâŠâ You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. âSteve- Ooooooh-â
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how heâs turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
âMy pretty girl.â He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. âClose. Weâre so close. You can make it. Make it for me.â
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steveâs abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
âSteve- I- I canât-â
âYes, you can.â Not a suggestion. Steveâs thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. âCome for me, now.â
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
âFuck,â he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
Itâs almost as good as your own orgasm. Youâre tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. Youâve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then itâs drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out itâs everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
âWoah.â
âShit.â Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. âI- I didnât- I usually pull out, you just-â
âSteve-â
âWe need to get you in the shower, itâs everywhere-â
âSteve-â
âIâm so sorry-â
âSteven.â You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
Youâre already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. Youâre going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that youâll keep next to the bed.
âDoes that happen every time?â
He swallows, and nods.
âUh- Not that much.â He mumbles. âBut yeah.â
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. âOkay.â
Steve blinks. âOkay?â
You nod, and he shakes his head.
âI ruined your room-â
âI liked it.â
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
âYouâre impossible.â He mutters, and you giggle.
âYeah, but you love me. And you canât take it back now, you already said it-â
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
âI do love you.â He mutters against your lips. âAnd no one could make me take it back if they tried.â
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And thereâs no way youâre letting him go now.
âŠEnd note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!âŠ
âŠIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŠ
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Notes: Not beta-read, cause when is it ever. Future chapters will have explicit content.
Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only
Warnings: Fake dating; implied age gap; miscommunication
Summary: You had toyed with the idea of texting Emma to explain that you and Robby werenât a thing, that you just worked together, just happened to be attending the same wedding in a cruel twist of fate. Then youâd thought it through, realized that those messages would be screenshot, sent across family group chat upon family group chat. You just couldnât risk it.Â
So now, you have to find Emma, pray that Robby and whoever he brought with him havenât arrived at the reception yet, and wonât make this situation even more difficult than itâs already going to be.Â
An excerpt from the book I'm working on! Feedback welcome! (don't ask if I'm actually gonna be able to finish this thing, your guess is as good as mine)
The warmth is always the best part. It is splattered around our bodies and the room. Flowing out and over my hands, flooding my brain, seeping into my bones. Sheâs so beautiful like this, spread open for me; I can see all of her. The way the intestines twist together, weaving around the abdomen like snakes in a burrow. Their weight is heavenly in my hands, wet and warm. She is stunning like this, and I have the perfect place to display her.Â
There is something wrong with me. It looks so beautiful; spread out near the river bank, intestines hung around the shrubs like tinsel, throat slit cleanly, though thereâs not enough blood for it all to have been done here. Something is wrong with me. I should leave; I should call someone. Instead, I step closer. I want to touch it; I want to pull the skin back further, expose more meat and bones, see the path of veins and nerves through the body. I need to. I step closer, kneeling beside it and narrowly avoiding staining my one pair of jeans. The slice up the abdomen is impossibly neat. I could slide my hand into the opening and feel how the organs fit together in the space, though Iâm sure they have shifted a bit to fill the space left by the intestines. The body is pale, with a dusting of freckles and a few light stretch marks, unblemished other than the wounds on its stomach and neck. And the face - her face - that reminder, that this was a girl, 16 or 17, Iâve seen her at the local high school, now here nude, eviscerated, and exposed in a small wooded area beside the highway, brings me back for a sickening moment. The gore seems to have a magnetic pull on me as I dig my claws into my skin and force myself to stand. I must keep moving. The birds have gone silent. I can not remember where I am. There is no wind. I must keep moving.Â
There is a storage shed behind the library that they have forgotten about. Itâs small and cluttered, but it has a cot and power from the main building. I think Bea knows I stay out here, but neither of us mention it. She has been my best friend since I was six. I walked into the Locust Public Library in awe of all the different worlds contained in one building. Beatrice Favor had been the library manager for five years at that point. It was always practically deserted, so she had plenty of time to entertain a child who had just finished her first chapter book and was eager to find another place to escape into. We have spent almost every afternoon together since then. I have no idea what she thinks of me.Â
âSorry. I was⊠distracted.â She just nods. In the ten years Iâve been officially working with Bea, Iâve only been late a handful of times. She never bothered to say much to me about it.
After dropping my bag in the back room, I can start my favorite part of the day, sorting and reshelving. I start around the local history section. Very few of these books can actually be checked out, but they get pulled off the shelves quite often. Mostly genealogy buffs looking for more information about great-grandpa. The monotonous rhythm of sliding books into their proper place soothes me. I almost forget about my morning. The body in the bushes. Iâve never seen anything like it in person before. But god, Iâve dreamt about it. Such a wonderful shade of red. It felt like artistry. It felt vile. She was just a girl. She will always be a girl. The clarity that I find in the library allows me to consider what I hadnât before. Who is responsible? Finding the body had felt like a wonderful gift and vomit-inducing curse just for me, but it wasnât. Someone killed that girl. He sliced her open and dropped her in the brush. I will never see her walking to lunch again. Why? It was one of the most beautiful, brutal scenes I have ever seen, but it didnât appear that her actual death was particularly violent. It was methodical. Detached. It was what I would like to do.Â
A woman is in the library with a little girl, about five years old. She comes in to use the computers often. The girl usually grabs a storybook from the childrenâs section and sits with who I presume to be her mother. Twice, I have used our puppets to act out her chosen fairytale with her. Today, she is screaming. The woman looks exhausted and embarrassed. The sound is piercing into my brain. I can not think about anything else. I can not see anything but the girl. Her face is red with anguish.Â
The red is spreading, pouring forth from her like a fountain. She is still screaming. Is anyone else? They must be. The third time my hand brings the girlâs head down, I hear it. She is cracking, splitting open. I can feel her skull shifting. I don't know where her mother is. I don't know where anyone is. I can only see my hands gripping the girl's hair. I can only hear my own heavy breathing and the girl's gurgles through the blood. The girlâs brain is on the table, the computers, her sweater, my hands.Â
I turn to look at her four times as I leave the library. The girl is still there. Still screaming, red-faced in her mother's arms. My hands are clean.
I've kinda been thinking about it as Dexter Morgan vs. Patrick Bateman. The woman narrating has been struggling against her urges for most of her life. She hasn't at this point, but eventually she starts killing abusive men in town while kind of dancing around this other killer. The italicized part is the internal monologue of the killer in the book. I'm planning to have that start each chapter. The indented part is the woman's hallucination/intrusive thoughts.
warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part
You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then youâd have to go back out to the main room and manâŠyou really do not want to do that. So youâll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.
The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. Youâre not immediately sure how to act as though itâs normal that youâre sitting in the stairwell outside the gala rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesnât look like youâre alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.
Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.
Should you stand up?Â
No, heâs rich, not royalty.Â
You are in his house thoughâ
He looks you over contemplatively, âI donât know you,â Itâs not accusatory, rather he says it like itâs something interesting.
You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. âOh, uh, noââ the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, âIâm just a plus one for my bossââ
âWhoâs your boss?â he asks, relaxed.Â
âArthur Mullins.â
He looks to the side, squinting, âMullinsâŠheâs the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?â
You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like heâs processing through something. âIâm Bruce,â he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.
You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, âIâyeah, I know,â you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.
Thereâs a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. âA pretty name.â
âOh, itâs justâŠâ Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.
He smiles kindly anyway, âWhat are you doing in here? Partyâs out there, or so they tell me.â
âIâŠIâm hiding in here,â you admit sheepishly.
He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. âIâll let you in on a secretâso am I,â he smiles at you like itâs easy.
Your grin matches his, âItâs your party,â
âThatâs why I need to hide.â He tilts his head, âDoesnât give you much of an excuse though, does it?â
âI donât know anybody here.â
He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, âYour boss.â
You shake your head, âIâm just his assistant. Iâm pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.â
He laughs at that, âBased on the way Iâve seen Mullinsâ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.â
Well, heâs certainly right about that. Your boss doesnât exactly âhave it togetherâ per se. Heâs an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, heâs a bit of a try-hard and youâre constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say heâs necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. Itâs honestly a bit exhausting to watch. Itâs more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.
You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. âMr. Mullins hasâŠa unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, Iâll give you that.â You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. âBut that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I donât know anyone, so..â
âWell then it sounds like youâve got it all worked out,â he ribs, âOr donât you agree?â
You smile coyly, âI would never be so bold.â
âI donât mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.â
You laugh at that, âMr. Wayneââ
âBruce.â
âMr. Wayne,â you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. âI think heâs just networking.â He doesnât have the money to give.
He nods surely, âHeâs definitely just networking.â He really doesnât have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.
You check the time and realize that youâve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasnât already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, âI should..â
He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. âSo should I.â
You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown youâre wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and youâre sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.
If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.
He follows after you, hands behind his back. âWould it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?â
Itâs busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.
You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far youâve only managed to find a couple shops that werenât several ranges above your budget.Â
A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if youâre lost. It doesnât take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and itâs only half a second longer before you realize heâs walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.
You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, âIs there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?â The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.
He sways a bit, âBruce. Iâm not sure yet,â he looks down to the couple of bags youâre holding, extending his hand out. âMay I?â
It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. âAre you in a rush?â
You shake your head quicker than you meant to, âNo, Iânot at all,â he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.
You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, âWhat exactly is it youâre not sure about?â
He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, âWhether or not youâve got plans on the 19th.â
You look back at him, âWhatâs on the 19th?â
He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, âWeâre hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.â
You blink, âYouâre inviting me?â He nods. âWhy?â
âI could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.â
He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, âThatâs notââ you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.
You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. âI donât think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that Iâm attending a business gala without him.â
He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, âHe canât fire you for that.â
âHeâll try.â He would. A petty little man, he is.Â
He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. âWell, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldnât be for business.â And then he just lets that sentence linger.
It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, âWhat do you think?â
You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, âI donâtâŠuh, I donât really haveâŠâ you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.
He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, âWell then Iâd say weâre in the right place.â
You canât manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.
Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways.Â
The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.
You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty.Â
âThis way.â You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, âYou donât seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.â
Thankfully, he laughs at that. âWell, special occasions.â
You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, âIs this a special occasion?â
He hums in consideration, âIâd say so.â
You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options.Â
âWhat are you doing up here anyways?â you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.
âAh, I was headed to a meeting.â
âOh,â you frown, looking at him. âDonât you need to go?â
He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, âNo.â
A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that youâre in their path.Â
Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. âSweetheart,â he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though youâre quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldnât have been the worst thing in the world.
As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.
Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something youâd see a model wearing on a runway. âYou like that one?â
âItâs nice, yeah,â you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. âItâs $800.â
He nods thoughtfully, âWe can find a nicer one,â he says, though itâs clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.
âI canâtââ you restart, âI would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.â
He shakes his head coolly, âThatâs alright.â
Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, âItâs not, though.â
âYou like it?â He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.
âI mean, of course, but itââ
He nods affirmatively, âThen weâll get it. Problem solved.â He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. âPick your size.â
Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit.Â
You sigh, realizing that youâre running out of time to mention that you donât have $800 to spend on a dress. âI canâtââ
âYou donât need to,â he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.
You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, âIt really is okay, I donât needââ
His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, âSweet girl..â to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that heâs not looking at you right now because youâre certain the look on your face would give you away.
He still doesnât face you as he calls out, âCome on,â as he continues on.
Obviously youâre not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesnât even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dressâŠno, youâre not sleeping with him because he bought you a dressâof course notâand youâve made absolutely no promises to do so, so whatâs the harm in letting him? Really?
And yeah, maybe itâs a plus that heâs not bad looking, but how is that your fault?
You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.
As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.
âYou will be there?â he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for.Â
You nod, gesturing the bag up, âWell you just bought me the dress.â
He shrugs that off, âI wouldâve bought you the dress anyways.â
You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesnât stop you from considering it, though.
A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldnât quite verbalize, youâd naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk.Â
âHello there, Miss.,â The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.
âHello,â you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room.Â
This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. âHaving a nice time?âÂ
The man is clearly from money, if his attire didnât give it away his attitude sure did. Thereâs an heir of entitlement around him, like heâs inherently deservant of your attentionâa quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce.Â
You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.
âCan I buy you a drink?â He asks, gesturing to the bar.
âIâm okay, thank you,â you say, gesturing your wine glass up.
A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, thatâs not really saying much. âWell, pretty little thing like you shouldnât be all alone here,â
âIâm afraid youâre mistaken,â Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than youâd previously received.Â
Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, âMr. Wayne,â he fawns, âWhat a lovely event youâve thrown. Iâm sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.â
Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. âYou areâŠâ
The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, âAlexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.â
He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. âAh. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating computers.â
Youâre trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.
âWhat exactly is a self-operating computer?â
Watsonâs face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposalâs funding. As he rambles, Bruceâs gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though heâs not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You donât know him well but you can say confidently that he doesnât look pleased.Â
He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. âSurely youâre not poking around where youâre unwelcome?â
Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. âNo, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. Thatâs all.â
âAnd so you have.â
âIâ,â about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, âYes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.â He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.
âMr. Wayne,â you smile knowingly, turning to him. âHow are you?â
The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress youâd picked out.
âThings are looking up,â he smiles, âYou look lovely.â
 âThank you,â you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. âMr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.â
His smile turns a bit sullen, âYou know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?â
You blink, tilting your head, âThought you didnât know who he was.â
His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing heâs been caught but not really caring. âIâm sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.â
âAt the gala that you threw? Iâd imagine so.â
He rolls past that smoothly, âYouâre having a good time?â
âI am,â you say with a confirming head bob.
He regards the room with a numb expression, âYou know, I think Iâm getting bored with all of this.â
You smile at him, brow furrowed, âItâs only been an hour.â
He looks at you, eyes wide. âItâs only been an hour?â Heâs exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.
âI think we should go,â he says lower.
You stare at him, bemused. âYou still have a whole room full of guests.âÂ
He shrugs, âTheyâll filter out on their own eventually.âÂ
He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. âWhat, youâre not ready to leave?â
You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, âAlright, yeah. Letâs go.â
He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor thatâs significantly longer than youâd expected.Â
âDo you always ditch your parties this early?â you ask, following closely.
He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, âIf I can manage it.â
You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. âArenât some of them friends of yours?â
He shakes his head, âMy friends arenât here.â
You frown at that, âThen why do you throw them at all?â
âWhy did you show up last weekend?â
You nod slowly, understanding. âItâs your job.â
He returns the nod, adding, âOnly difference is, thereâs not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.â
For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, youâre going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.
âWell, moneyâs money,â you say wryly.
His smile fades a bit, âYou shouldnât have to worry about things like that.âÂ
You shrug, âA day in the life,â
He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than youâd have expected from someone of his stature. Heâs done nothing if not surprise you, though.
âHere,â he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress youâd chosen is so long.
Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.
It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you wouldâve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.
He doesnât look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didnât happen. âWas hoping it was warmer,â he murmurs.
Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.
You start to say something, though youâre not sure what it wouldâve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.
Well, he certainly knows what heâs doing, doesnât he?
His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, âYouâre a pretty girl, you know that?âÂ
God, heâs a professional.
You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.
He doesnât.
You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. âYou canât just do thisââ
He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, âThen what can I do for you?â
âYouââ you blink rapidly, âStop it.â
His coy beam persists, âStop what?â
You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that youâre trying to sell as serious. âYouâre trying to make me nervous.â
âDo I make you nervous?â He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, âI donât mean to, sweet girl.â
Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. âYeah.â
His simper grows, âIâm serious. Iâd hate to scare away a new friend.â
You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, âWhat? Weâre not friends?â
You cock your head to the side, âYouâre the one who said none of your friends are here.â
He hums, âMaybe I spoke too soon.â
âYou think so?â You should probably stop flirting so much.Â
âYeah,â he leans in a bit closer, âI do.â
âWhyâs that?â
âMaybe I want to be your friend,â his hand finds a place atop yours.Â
Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, âWhat if I donât want to be yours?â
His eyes are on your lips, âIâm sure we can work something out.â
You take a slow deep breath, âYour intentions are blurry.â
He smiles lightly, amused. âWeâll have to clear that up then, wonât we?â His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, âIâm going to kiss you now, okay?â
You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms.Â
He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when itâs over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.
He hums lowly, âSweet thing..â
Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. Itâs starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.
âYouâŠâ you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence.Â
âWhat?â he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, âNo, itâs alright. What is it?â he asks gently.
It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, âYou just want to sleep with me..â
He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. âNo. IâmâŠâ he sighs, âIâm not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.â
That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you werenât prepared for.Â
He continues, âI would like to, yes. Yeah. Youâre beautiful, of course I would, but..â he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, âNo, thatâs not the most important thing to me.â
You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If thatâs not the most important thing to him, what is? You canât think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex.Â
Right?
He exhales, âIf you want to leave, Iâll call you a car. No hard feelings.â He nudges your chin up gently so youâll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.
You let him move you.
âI donât want to leave,â you tell him, looking into his eyes. âWhat do you want?â
âWhatever you want,â he says it like itâs automatic. You physically canât help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, âSeriously. Anything.â
You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.
âAlright,â he returns your smile, straightening, âHereâs what weâre going to do. Do you need a ride home?â
You blink at him, âIâm going home?â
âYou are,â he nods softly, âDo you need a ride?â
âNo.â
He nods again, more like heâs working through something in his head. âOkay. Youâre going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.â he stands up, extending his hand out to you, âThen you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.â
You start to shake your head, âI canââÂ
He drops his chin seriously, âThink on it.â
You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.
âAlright?â Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if youâre on board with this plan.Â
Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, âOkay.â
He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.
It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.
Youâd considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.
Youâll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.
Heâs not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, youâre able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but thereâs a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. Thereâs portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but thereâs still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, itâs very, very placid.
Youâve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You donât really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. Theyâre usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and youâre not sure where to begin with placing new ones.
Youâre about halfway through a second game, and while youâre not awful at chess, you get the impression that heâs easing up on you considerably.
You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.
âI think this is stressing me,â you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.
âItâs just chess,â he says, not looking up from the board.
You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, âAnd thatâs all weâre doing?â
âAs it stands, yes,â he looks up at you, though you donât return his gaze.
âYeah,â you sigh, sliding your rook, âBut later?â
âLater?â
âWell, you said...â you meet his eyes, âYou said you wanted to sleep with me.â
He nods slowly, âI do. Is that alright?â
You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really werenât okay with it you wouldnât have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.
âYes,â you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.
âAre you sure?â he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.
You do the same, sitting on your knees. âYeah, I just..â you shift your weight, eyes wandering. âIâm notâŠoverly experienced.â
He just smiles at that, like itâs endearing. Your words didnât quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. âThatâs alright, sweetheart. Iâm not going to throw you in the deep end.â
You nod, looking down again.
âYouâre nervous,â he comments.
âNo, IâmâI mean, maybe,â your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.
Heâs quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. âWhat if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.â
He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that itâs at least a couple hundred dollars.
You shake your head instantly, âI canât take that.â
He doesnât put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. âPlease. I just want you to feel good.â
âBruceââ
He wavers a bit at that but itâs more of a falter than youâve seen from him before so itâs easy to take notice of. âWhat?â
He shrugs barely, âI like when you say my name.â
Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to waver almost instantly.
You exhale, âIâm not taking more than a hundred.â
âTwo hundred.â
âBruce.â
He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You donât comment on the fact that itâs a hundred and fifty more than youâd agreed on.
You look down at the money in your hand like itâs a foreign object, shaking your head. âI donât even know what to get.â
His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, âAnything you want,â he tells you. âWhat do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.â
You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. âIt doesnât matter what I like, thââ
âIt only matters what you like,â He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. âIâll love it, no matter what you pick. Donât worry about that.â
You lean forward a bit instinctually, âOkay.â
His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.
âWhy are you looking at me like that?â you whisper.
âI want to kiss you again,â he says, voice even quieter.
Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.
He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than youâd gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.
You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.
âEasy, sweet girl,â he smiles, nudging you back with little force.
You groan, âWhy?â
He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. âIâm not fucking you for the first time on the floor.â
âThen let's go somewhere else,â you nod up towards the stairs.
He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. âNot tonight.â
You sit back on your heels again, frowning.
He brushes your hair back, murmuring, âNo. But for now, I'll kiss you âtil you canât think if thatâs what you want.â
You really hope you didnât perk up at that as much as you think you did.
đŸđœ i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know đŸđœ
Synopsys: When Bruce surprises Lucius with a visit to his department, he wasn't expecting to find a beautiful woman there. He asks about her and that's how he discovers she's not only pretty, but extremely talented, an engineer who's been working under him for years. He's immediately mesmerised.
Words: 6.1k words
Warnings: Not much, I'd say? There's a lot of fluff, and a lot of funny moments, and like, one suggestive moment? One twinge of angst, but it lasts like two minutes. Maybe some inaccuracies about engineering? I really don't know much about it so I kinda went with my gut and holy fuck I hope I don't get it wrong or upset / offend anyone.
A/N: Hey everyone!!! So, this is a funny story, because a while ago I got an ask. And I thought I was writing that ask, but turns out I got everything mixed up, and this is not really what my sweet anon requested of me. So, while I work on that piece, have what I ended up writing! I think it's rather fun. I'm sorry to my anon, I'll get started on their request right away!
I hope y'all enjoy this!!! <3
You were brilliant.Â
In fact, if there was a word for anyone better than brilliant, thatâd be you.
Bruce first saw you when he visited the Applied Sciences Department. He was quite sure Lucius was the only one who actually did any of the important work there, but boy was he wrong.Â
He was just visiting the floor to ask Lucius for some help (his suit needed improvements), when he spotted you under a flurry of blueprints and reports. There was a pencil on top of your ear, and you were nibbling on another one as you erased something on the paper in front of you.Â
âAnd who might this be?â He asked no one in particular, eyes trailing the way your eyebrows furrowed as you wrote and sketched away.Â
You told him your last name, not even daring to look up. You were far too busy - a new particle reactor was being built, and it had fallen upon you to build its security system, something thatâd keep the machine should it fall on the wrong hands. Bruce leaned over and looked at your sketches, observing the careless handwriting and the doodles and the little comments you had on top of each calculation. âNot goodâ, âdoesnât workâ, âtested and failedâ.Â
âAnd how long have you been working for me?â He inquired once again, still looking over your blueprints. Your calculations were good - far too good. Where the hell had Lucius found you?Â
âLucius,â you mumbled, removing the pencil from behind your ear and drawing a big cross on top of whatever you were writing.Â
âExcuse me?âÂ
âI work for Lucius, not you,â you said, not even bothering to look up.Â
âLucius works for me, though.â
âAnd I work for him.â Finally, you looked up, and what you saw did not surprise you. You knew Bruce Wayneâs voice, after all, Lucius did work for him, and youâd overheard them talking once or twice. You looked up to him immensely - he was an insanely smart man, you knew what he had achieved in your department (or at least you knew he had something to do with it), and you wanted to cause a good impression. It also did not help that he was extremely attractive, and you were afraid your body would betray you and give you away. It was nothing, really, just a small little crush. It was harmless, really, and youâd rather be noticed for your work, than anything else. You wanted him to see how smart you were, not notice just how much you admired him.Â
âAre these for the particle reactor?â Bruce asked, leaning against your desk, hoping to hold eye contact with you for a little longer. He liked that look on you, that focused gaze of yours. It reminded him of himself.Â
You nodded and shook your head with a sigh.Â
âIâm working on the security system. But so far, itâs been a bust. I canât find any combinations that allow Wayne Enterprises full access to the system. Full and only. I'm trying to come up with an algorithm thatâll prevent third parties from accessing whatever services the reactor might have, but itâs tough.â
Bruce nodded.Â
âHow long have you been at it?âÂ
âTwo weeks, give or take. I managed to write a short thing for the opening sequence, but thatâs about it. I still have to come up with the rest, and itâs killing me.â You leaned backwards in your chair and stretched, letting out a groan. âAnd my back hurts like a bitch.âÂ
Bruce chuckled ever so slightly - he wasn't used to this kind of honesty and openness right off the bat. He supposed anyone who worked under Luciusâs supervision would be just like him, honest and truthful.Â
âHow about you take a break?â He crossed his arms, tilting his head. You looked away - was that the famous Wayne Charm he put on every time you watched him on television? You weren't going to be fooled. You didn't want to be just a number on his list. You admired this man far too much to get your heart broken by him - not to mention your job at Wayne Enterprises was a dream, and you did not want to risk that. Did all of that even make sense?
âMr. Wayne, I donât think I can afford the luxury of taking breaks,â you chuckled, turning back to your blueprints.Â
âAnd if itâs an order?âÂ
âYou wouldn't do that. You have far better things to do than order some random nobody to take a break.âÂ
âYou donât seem like a nobody to me.âÂ
âUp until today you didn't even know who I was, and I've been working for you for about two years.âÂ
âFor me.â
âHuh?â
âYou said you were working for me.âÂ
âUnder Lucius.âÂ
âSame difference.âÂ
You chuckled at his smugness and let your eyes return to his handsome face. The magazines did not lie - he was even better-looking in person. Sharp jawline, chocolate-brown eyes, he was an absolute dream, and he probably knew it too. Which is why it felt wrong to be laughing along with him. You didn't want to taint the image of Bruce Wayne you had in your head. He seemed like an airhead in public, but you knew just how much he did and contributed to your department - not every airhead can do that. The little crush youâd allowed yourself to develop should remain just that - a crush. People say never to meet your heroes - well, you didn't want to date them either. You thought it would end just as badly.Â
âLooking at security algorithms all day isn't going to make you come up with them faster. Take a break. I know a nice coffee place not far from here, I'm sure itâd help. And after that, if you want to, you can come back here, drown in blueprints, and never be disturbed again.âÂ
You eyed him curiously, raising an eyebrow.Â
âWhy?â
âBecause you look like youâre a sketch away from having a mental breakdown, and despite what everyone says, I do care about my employeesâ health.âÂ
You weighed your options.Â
You could either get coffee with your super hot, super intelligent, super incredible boss, maybe talk to him a bit about your work and prove that youâre an amazing employee, or -Â
Yeah, itâs not really a hard choice, is it.Â
That's how you got yourself seated across from Bruce Fucking Wayne, yapping away about your ideas and projects. And surprisingly, he drank up every single word.Â
Bruce took a liking to you almost instantly. You were so smart, so full of ideas and so innovative. It also helped that you were strikingly beautiful, and that he felt himself drawn to you every time you were near.Â
You allowed yourself to fall for Bruce. Slowly, but you did. Only after he proved to you that he was a good person, that he was nothing like the man people saw on TV and gossip magazines. He was more, much more than that. He was extremely intelligent, being an incredible match for whenever you wanted to discuss any new technological advances, and a very good conversation partner. It helped you two had a shared interest in applied sciences - soon, spending time together also doubled down as him giving you a hand with your projects, and you with him.Â
It was a win-win situation. You enjoyed spending time with him, he enjoyed spending time with you. You liked doing a good job, he liked helping you. It was perfect.Â
And it wasn't just about work, of course, you just liked being with him, in his presence. He was comforting and so very funny, and your heart could about burst with joy whenever he was near.Â
You had that same effect on him as well. During company dinners, he started paying attention to you more and more, dragging you away to dark corridors and telling you jokes and anecdotes about other workers and people he disliked. He'd place his hand on your lower back and bring you close so you could hide your face in his chest and giggle into it. It felt natural to be in his arms, like nothing had changed and nothing ever would.Â
About three or four months after you began talking and hanging out, he officially asked you to be his girlfriend.Â
You knew it was a big deal - normal people could date and fool around all they wanted, but not Bruce Wayne. So when he took your hand and looked into your eyes, you knew it was serious.Â
It had been a lovely evening. A dinner at some nice restaurant youâd always wanted to try but could not afford, a stroll in the park, and his sweet confession under the bright lights of Gotham. It was perfect, and youâd kissed him and thus sealed your romance.Â
Work became easy to manage after that. You could often be found at Lucius's department, and were often buried with a thousand different projects, so you really didn't have the time to miss Bruce. It's not like you didn't miss him as a whole - simply that you knew the both of you had business to tend to, and the quicker you got it done with, the quicker you could meet up after.
But thatâs not to say you didn't spend time together at work. Bruce visited you on your lunch breaks more than often, the two of you pressed against each other as you spoke and ate your respective meals. There was nothing Bruce wanted more than to bring you to his office and spend time with you there, but it was risky. No one knew you were dating, and it could mean trouble for your department and his company. You didn't mind it - your space felt like home, and having Bruce there just added to its charm. Besides, you felt like some sort of character from a movie, hiding your secret relationship with your boss from the entire world. Well, not the entire world. Lucius found the both of you quite often, shooting you Bruce a wink, and you a knowing smile, and telling his boss about how âreal smiles look good on himâ and how he should smile them more often.Â
Speaking of home, you got to meet his. Bruce took you to his Manor a few days after youâd started dating. He wanted you to be around his place more often. Being Batman was lonely - being Bruce Wayne was even worse. He had to go home to an empty Manor pretty much every day, with only Alfred for company. And no offense to the older man, he had taken care of Bruce his whole life and he was extremely grateful for that. But the Wayne heir did not exactly want to come home to his butler sleeping on his bed, clad only in one of his shirts. It was a vision he never wanted to have.Â
Instead, he gave you a set of keys and told you to make yourself at home. If you didn't know just how serious he was about the two of you, you wouldn't have accepted them. And itâs not like youâd be moving in right away - the keys were simply so you could come in and out as you pleased, spend some time with him, spend the night if you wanted to.Â
He had rules, which you understood. No going in the piano room - that was his fatherâs old study and he did not want anyone in there. It seemed inviting, and the books on the shelves tempted you, but you did not want to break Bruceâs trust and never entered it.Â
You made friends with Alfred rather quickly. You found the way to his heart was fixing the coffee machine he so loved and refused to replace.Â
âMiss, with all due respect, do you know what youâre doing?â Heâd asked in that low British voice of his, somewhat worried.Â
âI promise you, itâll be good as new.â
To your credit, it was. You'd fixed it after a few minutes, and Alfred marveled as the machine heâd tried to have fixed about seven times the past month worked flawlessly before him. When Bruce got home that day, the butler turned to him with a proud nod and declared you were the one for him.Â
Bruce thought so too.Â
Thatâs why he began planning how the hell he was going to break up with you before things got too serious.Â
He knew he liked you - that much was obvious. He liked you very much. He liked you, and your personality, and your voice when you chastised him but also when you praised him and told him you loved him, loved your sarcastic sense of humour, loved the way you made his heart leap out of his chest with a simple smile. He thought of all the reasons that made him like you so much, and they only reminded him of why you couldn't be together. He couldn't have you in his life - not when he had a double identity, when he kept a secret as big as life itself. He couldn't drag you into his mess of a life.Â
Which is why breaking up hurt him a thousand times more than it did you.Â
He sat you down in his living room and spewed some bullshit about not being able to give you the future you wanted, something about not being a good person and you deserving better. He wasn't very clear, kept it short and concise, and confined himself to his bedroom after it was done so you wouldn't see him cry.
It broke your heart to say the least. You'd come to know this man and learned to love him so deeply, and to have all that happiness taken away from you was devastating. You wanted to follow him to his bedroom, ask why the hell he was doing that to you when you loved each other so much, when you were sure your love was stronger than any force in the world.Â
But something inside you made you hesitate in front of his fatherâs study. You were told to never enter that room, but right now, all you wanted to do was go against each and every one of Bruceâs rules. You wanted to love him, to be with him, to go inside the stupid room and play the piano he told you never to touch.Â
You walked inside, marveled at how pretty everything was, how right. Everything was in its right place, and the room seemed like a very soothing room to be in. You imagined yourself, sitting by the window, book in hand as you sipped your coffee. You could get used to that.Â
Bruce clearly had no idea what you were up to, because if he did, he wouldn't have let you wander around the room, looking through bookshelves to find out what kind of reading his father did, and finding a weird contraption that seemed far too odd to belong to a bookshelf. That sort of mechanism belonged in doors, in gateways, in entrances - more specifically, to the kind of hidden doors Luciusâs office had.Â
Bruce clearly had no idea what you were up to, because if he did, he would've found you as you figured out how the hell to open that mysterious door that posed as a bookshelf, and would've stopped you before you could enter the elevator inside.Â
Perhaps he shouldn't have let an engineer and a technology prodigy alone in his most forbidden room.Â
Bruce clearly, most assuredly had no idea what you were up to, because if he did, he wouldn't have let you wander around his cave, eyes wide in surprise and amazement. You looked around, wondering why the fuck your boyfriend had a whole ass dungeon to yourself. So you got busy. And it didn't take much for you to understand exactly just what the fuck was happening there.Â
You looked through the blueprints, through the prototypes, through the endless stashes of papers. You eyed every sketch for gloves and utility belts, and confusion clouded your brain until your eyes laid on top of a cowl. A very familiar one.
Holy shit.Â
Your boyfriend is Batman.Â
And then suddenly, everything clicked into place.Â
The weird schedules, the missed dates, the exhaustion, the odd bruises you managed to get glimpses of.Â
The breakup.Â
It all made sense now.Â
And when Alfred confronted you a few minutes later, having found the secret entrance to the cave open and having quickly followed inside, you frowned and asked out loud why Bruce had hidden such a thing from you.Â
âI think that is something you should discuss with Master Wayne himself,â was what heâd told you, and you were quick to cradle the cowl next to you and run back upstairs.Â
You knocked on Bruceâs bedroom door incessantly, and for a while you thought he had gone out or abandoned you for good, but after an assertive âI know who you areâ, he opened the door at the speed of light, eyes widening once he took note of the cowl tucked under your elbow.
It was an extremely awkward conversation - for him, that is.Â
While half of you was freaking out because your boyfriend (you refused to call him your ex. You were not breaking up with Bruce Wayne.) was the fucking Batman and heâd never told you, but the other half told you that everything wasn't always what it seemed, and that you should let him explain himself.Â
He did, very awkwardly. He wasn't expecting you to find out - not at all. So, this whole âyou-found-out-iâm-a-masked-vigilante-after-i-broke-up-with-youâ atmosphere was one he was simply not used to. And he hated it! Heâd just told you a bunch of bullshit about the two of you not being able to be together - somewhat true - and heâd tried to erase you from his mind. And now you were sitting in front of him while he tried to explain everything to you.Â
It took a while to settle in, but once it did, it was easy to understand why he did what he did. He told you how afraid he was to lose you, should any of the criminals he fought against get a hold of any personal information on him. He told you about how it was already hard enough to trust Alfred, the man that had raised him his entire life, the man he saw as a father figure, too afraid something would happen to him. The more you knew about his double-life, the more itâd put you at risk.Â
StillâŠ
You grabbed a nearby pillow and hit your boyfriend on the head repeatedly.Â
âYou - â HIt. âAre - â Hit. âSuch - â Hit. âAn - â Hit. âAsshole!â Hit. âWhat the hell were you thinking!â You hit him once again for good measure and he removed the soft weapon from your hands, tired of being hit.Â
âI was thinking that I had to protect you.â Bruce said calmly. Heâd be lying if he said a massive weight hadn't been lifted off his shoulders. He loved you, truly. He wanted to keep you safe and away from harm and away from him, from Batman, from the one figure that could doom your life forever. But he also trusted you and wanted to share everything that was his with you. He wanted to show you everything, to show you who he truly was and what he did and just trust you because it felt so nice to have someone like you. Someone he could trust. âYou shouldn't be with someone like me, with someone that could endanger you so easily.âÂ
âI think I can make that decision by myself,â you retorted, reaching for the pillow again. When it was clear Bruce was not relenting it to you, you scoffed and playfully pushed at his chest. âYou're an idiot, Bruce. I thought you didnât love me anymore.â It seemed like a playful remark, but Bruce could make out the sadness in his voice, and kicked himself mentally for causing it.Â
âHow could I not love you anymore?â He asked, caressing your cheek with his hand. âYouâre everything to me. That's why I was willing to let you go, so you could be happy.â
âI canât be happy without you,â you mumbled.Â
âYou'd learn how to. Find some nice man with no secret identities, who spent his night doing something normal like puzzles or crosswords, whose life would never put you in harmâs way.âÂ
âPuzzles? Crosswords?âÂ
âAs long as he didn't go outside dressed like a bat, I'd be happy.â
âBut I donât want that. I want you.âÂ
Bruce sighed and looked away, but his hand never left your face.Â
âYou shouldn't. Itâs not good for you to be with me. Hell, look at me. I'm Bruce Wayne. my whole life is under scrutiny and the public eye is merciless. How can I willingly let you be put under a microscopic lense just like I am?âÂ
âThatâs not your choice to make, Bruce, and you know it. I donât mind. I donât care whatever I go through, as long as I go through it with you,â you held his hand with your own, and placed a few soft kisses on his.Â
âStill. You just saw my cave. That's not exactly boyfriend material now, is it?âÂ
âIâd say a sex dungeon is worse.âÂ
This earned a chuckle out of him, and for a brief moment, he got lost in your gaze, as he often found himself getting.Â
âOnly you could make me laugh at moments like these.â
âAnd I'll be here too do that for many more years to come.â You scooted over, and wrapped your arms around his neck. âJust⊠Donât shut me out, Bruce. I love you. We can do this together, and I'll be fine, I promise. And honestly, you don't even have much of a choice here, because you said yourself you didn't want to break up with me, so, well, thereâs no real reason to do it.âÂ
He sighed, and after a while, nodded. He was allowed to be selfish, wasn't he? To take you for himself, to allow himself the comfort of being loved.Â
He didn't have much of a choice, it seemed. You were intent on being with him no matter what, and despite a little voice in his head telling him that was a terrible idea, he let himself smile and agree to whatever you had to say. He always would, really.Â
âSo you just weren't going to let me break up with you?â
âPft,â you scoffed, kissing him softly. âI wasn't. Youâre mine now, Wayne. Or should I call you Dark Knight from now on? You gonna save me or something, Batman?â You chuckled slightly and something dark flashed in Bruceâs eyes. With one swift motion, he had you pinned down to the mattress, and your giggles had evolved to full on laughter.Â
âPretty cheeky, aren't we today?â He asked with a soft smirk, the one you recognised not from the tabloids and the gossip magazines, but from time spent with you. âYou seem awfully into roleplay.âÂ
âNothing of the sort. Just wondering if having a goal such as rescuing the fine maiden would improve your performance.âÂ
âImprove my performance, huh?âÂ
Bruce reached down to spread your legs and slot himself in between them.Â
âWeâll see.âÂ
Now that Bruce could be completely open with you, life was good.Â
He'd no longer come home to an empty Manor and even emptier bed, but you working on some sort of new prototype by the fireplace, or reading about some new technological advancement in bed. Such sights made his heart melt. It was all worth it. The sleepless nights, the bruises, the exhaustion. It was all worth it for you.Â
Your time together went by quickly, and before you noticed, you were celebrating your second year as a couple. It was a lovely celebration, quiet and private - the way you two liked - a nice dinner by the river, music, some champagne, promises of a future together, and a question to move in with him.Â
The answer was more than clear. You already spent a lot of time at his Manor, so moving in felt natural and comfortable. You wanted this. Wanted to move in with the love of your life, wanted to wake up to his lovely face every day, wanted to teach him how to make coffee and laugh as he gets it wrong after all this time, want to massage the knots caused from stress off his shoulders, wanted to be with him at all possible times.Â
Moving in was extremely fun. You had some stuff from your apartment that you simply had to keep. Old memorabilia or some furniture you were super attached to. Items and clothes and such. But aside from that, you simply sold everything else and began your life inside Wayne Manor.Â
It was great. It was perfect, even. Bruce still came home rather late sometimes, and he still cancelled your days ever so often, but at least you knew where he was, what he was doing. Sometimes, youâd go down to the cave and talk to him, ask him how patrol was doing through the intercoms and ask him to drive home safely. He always complied.Â
One night, he came home to you fiddling with some of his old grapple gun prototypes. Useless, he thought them, having only kept those for spare parts.Â
âWhatâre you doing?â Bruce asked, walking up to you as he removed his cowl.Â
You smiled. Seeing him in his suit did things to you - it reminded you he was the just vigilante that kept Gotham safe, risking his own life for others, of course - and you gave him a head to toe look, clearly enjoying the view.Â
âWorking on something,â you said simply.Â
Your boyfriend walked up to you, looking over your latest creation. It was still his old grapple gun, and yet it looked different.Â
âI implemented two other grapples.â You handed him the object, crossing your arms over your chest. âWas a bit tricky, but I managed to do it. The line is strong to handle five times your body weight now, and you can use it not only to holster yourself up in the air, but also pull heavier objects towards you. What do you think?âÂ
Bruce took the gun in his hands and examined it. It was slightly heavier, but youâd managed to keep it small and efficient. It would be of extremely good use.Â
âThank you,â he smiled, pressing a kiss to your head. âYou're brilliant, really. What would I do without you?â
âProbably die in a ditch.âÂ
âProbably.âÂ
At first it was hard convincing him that it was totally okay for you to help him in his endeavours as Batman. You told him over and over again that there was nothing wrong with it. You weren't out there, you weren't actually out there, itâs not like you were in danger. No one could hurt you so long as you were in the safety of your shared home. After a few helpful tips and some upgrades on his gadgets, Bruce relented.Â
And it was when you began to slack off at work that he realised that something had to change. He'd find you asleep on the job, too tired from having spent the night working on some new concoction for him. You couldn't keep your eyes open during meetings, and would fall asleep during every single ride you took.Â
You told Bruce you were fine, of course. You'd been a college student once, and youâd survived. This was nothing. Still, your too sweet boyfriend would force you to stay home for days on end just so you could get some rest. He needed you not only safe, but also healthy, even if his demands for you to take a break were met with groans and eye rolls.
One night when you were huddled up in bed, you confided in him that you loved helping him out as Batman. It was a way for you to be involved in his life, do something nice for the city, and put your inventions to test.Â
That's when he came up with the idea.Â
It took a while for him to confess it, after all, he knew how much of a hardworking woman you were. You wouldn't simply abandon your job to help him out, now would you?
To his surprise, you did.Â
You loved the idea as much as him. Sure, you loved your job at Wayne Enterprises, and were extremely proud of what you had achieved so far. But you had to admit you were stretching yourself too thin. Between your job and your little side gig, you had no real time to rest and it was killing you. So, you accepted.Â
You handed in your resignation letter to your boss, billionaire Bruce Wayne (who smiled and spun you around in the air as he kissed you. You teased him about his lack of professionalism and he reminded you the company was his with a pat on your backside.) and headed home.
From then on, you made being Batmanâs sidekick (a title he hated, really. You were much more than just a sidekick) your full-time occupation. You had your hobbies, sure, and your interests, and you went out with friends and made the most out of your life. Only this time, instead of working a 9-to-5 job at your boyfriendâs company, you remained inside his cave, crafting new objects and tools for him to use during his nightly duties.Â
You created an explosive gel for him, a tool he could use to blast doors down and even stun enemies with. You were quite proud of that one, laughing loudly when you heard him use it for the first time through the intercoms. All youâd heard was a loud âboomâ, and Bruceâs voice muttering a husky âfuckâ. That was how you knew youâd done a good job.Â
The Remote Control Batarang was one of your finest inventions. Bruce first asked you what he hell he needed a remote control Batarang for (he also hated the name Batarang - truly, no fun), but it proved to be useful real quickly.Â
âYou have two men to your left, one of them has a gun, the other has a bat.â Chuckle.Â
âVery amusing,â Bruce whispered.Â
âI think itâd be a good time to try the remote control Batarang,â you said, eyes flicking between the screens in front of you. âThe one with a gun seems confident, but the other one not so much. If you tackle him down, heâs sure to not put up a fight.â
âYou were dying for me to use this, weren't you?â
âSo much.âÂ
You heard him remove the Batarang from his belt, and the few beeps informed you he was done setting it up. The slight woosh as the object cut through the air, and a distant manâs scream of agony was enough for you to know youâd succeeded once again.Â
âNow who doesnât need a Remote Control Batarang?âÂ
âDonât call it that.âÂ
âLove you too. Coast is clear though, go ahead.âÂ
Maybe the Shock Gloves were your favourite. They were a quick and easy way for your boyfriend to stun his enemies and leave them unconscious long enough for him to do whatever he had to, while not taking their lives.Â
You took Bruceâs no killing rule extremely serious. While you thought some of the people that terrorised Gotham most certainly deserved a fate worse than prison, you thought it was noble of him never to take a life for himself. His moral code was commendable and something you loved about him.Â
Your freeze blasts were quite useful as well. He'd used them only a handful times, but as long as he did and they helped, that's all that matters.Â
Sometimes, Bruce would come home in the late hours of the night (or perhaps the early morning), and find you doubled over your desk, sketching prototypes or putting pieces together.Â
It warmed his heart to see you were working so hard just for him, but tugged at it because you needed sleep. You needed rest, and here you were, working away for him. Creating new âtoysâ, as youâd so often call them.Â
âWhatâre you still doing up?â He asked one particular night/morning, after having taken off his suit, and resting his head on the juncture between your shoulder and your neck. You sighed at the gesture - after such a tiring day,Bruceâs comfort was all you needed.Â
âWorking,â you mumbled, fingers moving with dexterity, tugging and twisting at some cables.Â
âIsn't it a bit too late for you to still be working?â He replied against the skin of your shoulder.Â
âIsn't it a bit too late for you to be coming home?â
âIâm not working anymore though. Coming to bed.â
âAre you? Goodnight then.â
Bruce shook his head and you could feel his brown locks brushing against your skin, tickling you.Â
âLook at how far weâve come. I used to be the one abandoning you in bed.âÂ
âYou're lucky I found a new hobby.â
âHm.â
You remained in silence for a while as Bruce watched you work. He had no idea what this new contraption of yours was, but he was sure itâd be brilliant, as they all were. As you were.Â
âThis,â you said, voice only above a whisper, as if to not distract you, âIs a remote electrical charge.â
âInteresting.â What was interesting though, was that he began pressing kisses to the column of your neck, hands wandering to your waist. âI canât wait for you to tell me all about it tomorrow.â
âTomorrow?â
âYes. Because now, weâre going to sleep.â
You scoffed.Â
âI have to finish this Bruce, I'm sorry.â
âYouâre stubborn. So very stubborn. Why did I hire you anyway?â
You turned to face him and feigned a thoughtful expression.Â
âBecause I'm really hot and you love me?â
âDamn it. Both of those are true.â
You chuckled and leaned in to kiss him, sighing as soon as his lips slotted against yours. You'd never get tired of kissing your boyfriend, that was for sure.Â
âFine,â you mumbled.Â
âHm?â
âTake me to bed, Batman.â
âNo. No Batman here. With you, I'm Bruce.âÂ
âAnd that's what I love the most about you.â You smiled and lifted your arms, a silent plea for him to carry you. He rolled his eyes but did so effortlessly nevertheless, happy to obey your every command. And he of course was a sucker for having you near him at all times.Â
âLetâs take a shower first. You reek, Batguy.âÂ
âWhatever you say.â
Needless to say, the Remote Electrical Charge was extremely efficient.Â
You were the perfect pair, really.Â
Although you joked about being Bruceâs sidekick, you felt more like a partner, really. You'd go and make the tools, heâd go out there and use them to kick some ass. It was a perfect situation. A win-win. And you didn't mind not working at Wayne Enterprises anymore, not really. You still visited Lucius often, and, when you weren't too tired, youâd help him out with certain projects. Your ideas and skills had only gotten better after all the things youâd help build, and your former boss appreciated the effort.Â
You helped Bruce with pretty much everything.Â
Helped improve his suit, fixed his car (more than once), his motorcycle, and even made a few prototypes for other means of transportation. Heâd tested everything from jetpacks, to something that weirdly resembled a rocket and a flying suit. There really was no limit to your imagination.Â
Your life as Bruceâs girlfriend was eventually discovered, shortly after you two moved in together, and you decided to take in a âsecretâ identity, just as he did. To the public, you were Bruce Wayne and his dumb girlfriend who spent her days inside his mansion, sunbathing and spending his fortune. To those who knew you better (so, like, about two or three people), you were the Caped Crusader and his inventor girlfriend.Â
Although that title didn't stick for long, because after a few years, Bruce asked you to marry him.Â
Thatâs when you became his inventor wife.Â
And that was a life you were happy to lead.Â
A/N: And that's it!!! I hope you guys enjoyed this! Once again, I'm so sorry to my anon. I've been super busy and tired, and I got the requests mixed up. If it helps, I really enjoyed writing this - Bruce and an engineer girlfriend who builds stuff for him sounds like a pretty cool idea.
Iâm not sure if Iâm doing this right Iâve never done an ask before. Would you consider writing an autistic! fem reader x tasm! Peter Parker please? Maybe like they go to a place thatâs focused on her special interest? Or her stimming? Or sensory overload and heâs trying to help her stim in a way that doesnât hurt herself? No pressure either way, just wondering. Thx đ«¶đŒ
you wrote this wonderfully love, thank you for the request <3 i hope this is to your liking
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!autistic!reader àŒ 1.5k
cw: overstimulation/sensory overload, harmful stimming/skin-picking, reader has mean thoughts about themself/their disability, maybe some not-so-great friends
You could still see the mixture of expressions on your friend's faces when you decided to leave early. The pity and concern for your state, telling you to text them when you arrived home. And the reliefâyouâd excused yourself quietly, you hadnât fallen into a meltdown, and you hadnât asked them to go with you.
You had wound yourself up tight to steer clear of becoming an inconvenience to them
It had worked.
They would be on their way to the author meet and greet to get their books signed. Already there, even. While you hadn't even made it through the coffees beforehand.
It was all so unfair.
For the past few weeks, you had been strung with anticipation. The knowledge that you were going to meet the author of one of your favourite book series and have them sign a copy had buzzed in your veins. But noâyour brain had to work against you, your body had to protest an ability to regulate itself.
Now you were sat in the dark, curled up atop your bed, a weighted blanket thrown over your head to encapsulate you in solitude. All without having attended the awaited event.
It was unfair, cruel, and wrong.
And everything was so loud.
Had your quilt always made a scratching sound when your arm rubbed against it? Did the floorboards in the apartment above yours always creek even with the softest footsteps? When had the fridge started humming so loud you could hear it through the closed bedroom door?
Why wouldnât it all shut up?
You had already switched off all the lights to cease the burning in your eyes, and the humming their wires made. Your phone was dead tooâyou couldnât stand to hear the buzz of the charger as it worked.
Perhaps it was wrong to let your phone lie dead. How were you to contact anyone if something were to happen? How were they to contact you if there was an emergency?
It didnât matter.
There werenât any emergencies. Your blinds were drawn closed, your eyes were squeezed shut, and your body was coiled inwards. You were nothing but a small dot on a very loud planet where time was all too slow and so very quickly all at once.
âAngel?â he whispered in a murmur that was right there.
Even without touching you his warmth radiated into you through the thick blanket. His presence was all-consuming as he stood over you.
âAre you asleep?â
If only. Perhaps then your brain would be quiet. Or maybe the world would be. It was hard to tell which was causing you more pain. Both, perhaps. The worldâsociety, refused to accommodate people like you.
âItâs too early to sleep,â you murmur through a mouth that feels stuffed with cotton.
His foot shuffled on the floor. âItâs almost midnight,â Peter says. âDo you know how long youâve been under there?â
Perhaps if you werenât a battery leaking all its charge your eyebrows would pull themselves together and your lips would purse. But your face stayed frozen in its dead expression. All you could muster was to heavy-handedly push the blanket away from your face to glare at the curtains.
No sunlight tried to seep out from under them. The bedroom was entirely dark now, a cloud of inky black that began to soothe a persistent ache in your head.
âWhen did it get dark?â
Peter inhales sharply. At your question, or maybe you look as bad as you feel. It wouldâve been more enjoyable to drag yourself through a hedge attached to a run-away dog.
âAround six. I didnât know you were homeâI wouldâve come back if Iâd have known-â
âThat would have sucked.â
Your words were as blunt as a well-used pair of scissors.
âI think this is one of those situations that sucks either way,â Peter suggests. âAt least I couldâve dealt with some of the sucky-ness too.â
Rolling your head to the side, you looked up at him.
His mask was discarded somewhere out of your sight, the rest of him clothed in his spandex vigilante suit. His hair stuck up in odd directions like he had run his fingers through it recently.
What ached was the exhaustion lining his face.
Did you do that? Or had it been a rough patrol?
You had to be contributing either way.
He mustâve wanted to come home and collapse into his bed, and sleep deeply before he had to get on with his dual life again in the morning. Not find you curled up in the centre of it allâa dazed mess who wasnât even entirely sure how long theyâd been there.
âYou were busy,â you tell him. âWas it busy?â
Peter shakes his head. âThey all seemed to lack brain cells tonight. A pity, really, I was using some of my best quips.â He smiles as he speaks and you wish you could reciprocate.
âLike what?â
âI dubbed one guy âElvisâ. It was the hair.â
You nod your head slowly. âSwooshy?â
âVery.â Peter lowers himself down to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand under the blanket to encase one of yours. It's cold when he pulls it into the open air, toying with your fingers. âI take it you didnât go to the book signing?â
Your lips do pinch together then and he nods.
âDid anyone bring you home?â
Heâs not going to like it. Peter glances over his shoulder at you as you shake your head. And itâs like igneous rock the way his eyes seem to harden for a moment. Then they turn molten again, drifting over your face with a sincerity that could turn you to ash.
âAnd youâve been lying here for at least half the day?â
âHas it been that long?â you ask groggily.
âPresumably,â Peter sighs. âWhereâs your phone?â
âDead.â
He hums. One of his fingers smooths over the tip of one of yours and a burning sensation begins. Unthinkingly, you jolt your hand away from his, but heâs quick to reclaim it. This time it's his lips on your skin.
It still burns. But less.
âI didnât realise I was picking,â you tell him apologetically. More sorry for the fact you did it than that you did it to yourself.
Peter has always seemed to have an inability to be disappointed with you. But that doesnât mean you donât fear the day he is. Even for something as small as picking at the skin around your fingers until theyâre raw and bleeding.
In a mildly masochistic way, it grounds you. You donât realise youâre doing it until itâs too late, but the feeling distracts you from other feelings inside of you. If youâre feeling something outside of yourself, the inside feelings become lesser.
Itâs better than the way you used to hit your thighs and whack your head on a wall.
âWeâll get some aloe and band-aids on them,â Peter says, reaching for your other hand. You offer it up, knowing the damage is done now. âAt least you didnât pick your face too.â
No. That you didnât do, at least.
âMy fingers are going to be sore tomorrow,â you frown. You focus on the feeling of his skin against yours instead of the burning at the tips of your fingers.
âWe can make them better.â
Itâs impossible not to sigh then.
He always says that. We. We can make it better.
As if it was his problem that you were unable to regulate yourself properly. Instead ending up a burrito in blankets, hiding in darkness, finding ways that are ultimately damaging to fight through your waves of emotions. And the heaviness of the outside world.
âPeter,â you whisper.
âPretty girl. Let me take care of you.â
âPete.â
He twists, bending one leg beneath him so heâs facing you. If you were less boneless you would move over so he could properly sit on the bed.
The thought dissolves as his lips press to your forehead. The crease at the side of your eye. Your cheek. Your nose.
Itâs a deep breath of clean air as the world goes silent when his lips glide against yours. Heâs still holding both of your hands in one of his, the other keeping his weight from collapsing down onto you.
âDonât argue. We can have a bath, Iâll sort your fingers, and itâll all be fine.â
A harsh breath of air draws itself from you. âIâll fall asleep in the bath.â
âIâll be right there. I promise not to let you drown.â
Your eyes narrow. âThat would be very un-Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man of you.â
âExtraordinarily. Do you want bubbles?â He asks against your lips.
âUnscented ones?"
He shrugs like itâs a given. âStay here and look pretty while I run the bath, Iâll be back in a minute.â
And you freeze, making a mockage of his instruction to stay. You arenât so sure if you look pretty, not with the carnage you feel inside, but if he says you are then you wonât argue.
Peter has a habit of getting pouty when you argue just how pretty you are.
warnings. | graphic violence, reader is attacked, attempted robbery, stalking, inexperienced!battinson, sexual tension, mutual pining, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f!receiving).
word count. | 7.9K. I went wild.
authorâs notes. | Iâve been working on this since the release of the film, wanted to make it as good as I could despite my hectic schedule. Major Batman brainrot, if this is well-received, I will do a part 2. Expect Dano!Riddler content sometime soon.
a song to listen to while reading.
â That hollow shell heâs been living inside of, his fortress of carefully-constructed barriers, it all begins to crack. Itâs rather terrifying, the idea of letting someone in, but heâs done for now, isnât he? The way you look at him is invigorating, itâs electrifying â it makes him feel less like the Batman and more like a man. â
Within the pitch and gloom of a dreary Gotham City, a shadowed spectre lurks atop skyscrapers, lurks within every shred of darkness that falls across dimly-lit streets. Criminals know to fear that darkness, and that paranoia seems to cling to them â he senses it. A harbinger of violent justice, the knight of the nocturnal, the Batman. Heâs a predator on the prowl, a vicious protector, a vigilante filled with an unbridled desire for vengeance.
Beware of the Batman â itâs spray-painted onto the brick walls of seedy alleyways and onto the drywall of rundown apartments where the scum and villainy of Gotham hide. Terror is struck into the hearts of all who decide to stay out past dark.
The city is rotting, decaying at a rate that seems far too steady for his liking. Each time he stops criminals, each time heâs pushed to the limit, heâd like to believe that the rot is being cut out â and it isnât. Itâs replaced by something else, something far more heinous than a few common thieves roaming backwater streets. Crime rates are soaring, breaking new records each and every day, and even the light in the sky canât keep them all at bay.
Each night is just as turbulent and tempestuous as the last â he arrives home with an untold amount of bruises and shallow wounds that he shoddily nurses while he sits at his computer and lurks, relives it all over and over again. It all begins to blur together, night after night of endless fighting, only for a sliver of payoff.
Alfred is the mediator, the voice of reason, making attempt after attempt at nudging Bruce out of the shadows and into a healthier life, a life with socialization and human contact. Heâs learned to push him just enough, but Bruce doesnât listen. Heâs consumed by some impermeable fog â consumed by the endless night, swarmed by his desire for justice.
Heâs alone â heâs isolated.
Heâs become nocturnal, like the creatures that only prowl at night, sinking their teeth into hapless prey â a rageful predator. Bruce is surrounded by darkness, allowing himself to become shaped by it, molded by it. He doesnât need contact, it doesnât sustain him in the way that his violent crusade for retribution does.
Bruce doesnât heed Alfredâs advice this night â he entrenches himself in purging crime, striking fear into anyone who might cross his path of reckoning. Itâs a very long and winding path, forged by blood and by the deliverance of reprisal.
Sheets of rain blow sideways, pounding against the many buildings that line Gothamâs inner city, some structures abandoned or dilapidated. Thunder shatters the skies with ominous rumbles, accompanying the signal in the sky â the warning. Lightning pierces across the black, cloudy skies, chasing after thunder with a steady pace.
Itâs getting late, and youâre disheartened to find the chaotic state outside of the Gotham City Hall â the weather is horrible, dismal and torrential, but you have to get home. Your studio apartment is a few streets over, and on a normal day, the walk isnât terrible.
Instinct and a gut feeling tells you to get a taxi, but you reluctantly go against such sensations.
Gotham is active at night, unusually so, a sprawling, scummy hive of unpleasant people and untold depravity. The sound of cars passing by on slick pavement is your ambiance, accompanied by the onslaught of constant rain, which slows down only slightly. Using your coat, you keep yourself covered from the downpour, but itâs ineffective as you make for home.
Vengeance follows from the rooftops above, his watchful eyes raking over you, unknowing and oblivious as you round the street corner. Your vulnerability makes you stick out, especially to his trained gaze â and if youâre vulnerable to him, you most certainly are to any danger lingering in the darkness.
This isnât the first time that heâs followed you, either.
Youâre a new face, a youthful aspirant, a fascination amongst a sea of corruption and exhaustion in Gothamâs political playing field. He knows little about you, only that youâre a rabbit unknowingly waiting to be swallowed whole by the wolfish jaws of vicious politicians and seedy personnel.
He wants to know more â heâs picked you apart at the seams, and with each walk home, Bruce likes to think that heâs learned something new. Every facet about you seems to invite him in involuntarily, as if heâs being drawn to something enticing.
To everyone else, youâre a target â youâre prey, something to be devoured. Youâre somewhat timid but resilient, youâre charitable, and youâre blissfully oblivious of the plague that haunts Gotham City. To Bruce, you are the light that warms, the light that comforts, the spark that he follows. Itâs a cocktail that heâs vastly unfamiliar with.
Admittedly, heâs gotten too curious, an insatiable itch to watch you make your way home. Intuition tells him to remain vigilant, ensure that youâre safe, but it goes against his better judgment. It makes him seem demented, lurking after you like this, but itâs in the name of safety â the underlying urge to protect you.
The deluge has soaked through your flimsy coat and youâre damp to the bone, your pace hasty. The cloaked castigator quietly slinks along the rooftops, an unreadable glower following after you with each step.
Even from a distance, your form quivers from the bitter bite of rain, cold droplets rolling off of your skin, sticking into your clothing with each sheet of icy deluge. Streetlights flicker overhead, coupled with the slats of faded moonlight that peek through a dreary, black overcast sky.
He doesnât mind the rain â itâs an advantage, it masks any sound he might make, never slows him down. Thereâs a certain clarity he gains from this, from the tempestuous weather. As the thunderstorm rages on without any sign of stopping, water droplets roll from the leathery surface of his cowl, dripping like a waterfall from his cloak.
Each step is made with certainty â you round another street corner.
Underneath the tattered, shoddy cover of a building, you seek a temporary refuge from the rain, tugging your phone from the pocket of your skirt. Your digits move quickly across the glowing screen of your phone before you shove the device back into your pocket with some difficulty.
The Batman catches them before you do â a group of leering thugs, lingering across the street, far back enough for you not to take enough notice. Thereâs four of them, men without morals, expressions glistening with salacious intent. Thereâs an unrestrained fury that rips through his chest, the hunger for vengeance strikes again, blistering this time.
As you continue your trek, you decide to take a shortcut against your better judgment, slipping into a little alleyway masked by shadows, reeking of garbage and everything musty.
They begin to wander behind you, keeping their distance until you foolishly duck into the paved alleyway. He follows, a knight cast in black, shrouded by stealth as he leaps from rooftop to rooftop, adrenaline pumping through his veins.
You hear something rustle at the mouth of the alleyway, followed by footsteps. Startled by the noise, you suddenly swivel around, spotting the silhouettes of four strangers. The distance between you and them is beginning to grow slim â your heart hammers so fast that it nearly slams into your throat.
âGoinâ somewhere, sweetheart?â One of them croons, clucking his lips together in a series of mocking sounds.
âThatâs the bitch from City Hall,â Another voice cuts in, malicious intent interwoven into his voice. None of them are friendly â their shadows are cast onto you by the momentary glimpse of moonlight, making your stomach lurch. âNo cops out here, baby.â
Your legs feel heavy, as if anchored down by cinder blocks, and time seems to fall still. Fear grips you in a way that it never has before, and the reality of your unfortunate situation becomes all the more apparent. You consider running, kicking off your heels and dashing for the other end, but it seems futile.
The unmistakable terror in your face is delicious to these goons â theyâre too close for comfort, only a few feet away, but the gap is closed as soon as a scream wrenches free from your mouth.
As a hand clasps around your face, youâre knocked to the ground, wind stolen from your lungs, head colliding with the soaked, uneven pavement. You feel dizzy, stomach rolling within your gut, bile rising within the back of your throat. An assailant is on your left side, covering your mouth to muffle your screams.
âShut the fuck up,â He barks, attempting to rip your bag from your arms, âShut the fuck up!â Itâs desperate this time as he trains his eyes toward the rooftops â your attacker is searching for something.
âGrab the bag and go! What are we waitinâ for?â The third man snaps, and you scream again, violently thrashing against your assailant, attempting to bite at his hand. The fall stings, but the slap is what hurts the most, palm connecting with your cheek as you double over.
Thereâs another scream â and it isnât yours.
A hulking shape drops into the alleyway, fists clenched, eyes kept trained upon the group of thugs. A dark knight, a dangerous vigilante that eclipses any sliver of light left in that narrow space. Heâs the night â heâs an all-consuming abyss. You barely see him, but you see the whites of his eyes, the flesh exposed by the cut of his shroud, jaw tense with rage.
He moves like a battering ram, slamming his fist into the face of the man closest to him, using his body as collateral to toss him into the second attacker, who doesnât stay grounded for very long.
Bruce is vicious, unyieldingly so â he doesnât pull his punches, never executes an ounce of mercy. Each clash of fist to flesh is brutal, accompanied by the visceral sound of bones breaking, bodies being battered by his fury. He grounds the second attacker with a knee to the jaw, rendering him on the verge of unconsciousness.
His cape snaps behind him, fluid like moving liquid, dancing to his movements as he dismantles your assailants with ease. They arenât practiced â theyâre opportunistic, sporadic and incompetent without any planning. They land a few good hits, but none of them are enough to phase the Batman. Theyâre all weak, theyâre nothing.
Youâre filthy and disheveled, bleeding from the back of your head and from your lip, cheekbone beginning to flourish with the first inklings of a dark bruise. Crawling away from the violence, you almost feel too weak to stand, helplessly reaching for the base of your skull, the source of a constant throbbing.
From the corner of your eye, you watch this stranger beat down the attacker that struck you, slamming his fist into his face repeatedly until heâs out cold, bloody and nearly unrecognizable. Flesh meets the cold ground repeatedly, again and again.
Itâs a terrifying display of strength, of prowess, but you donât feel afraid â youâre uncertain, instead. Gothamâs caped crusader is very real, once a rumor, now standing before you, surrounded by the defeated bodies of your assailants. Theyâre still breathing, but theyâre beyond broken.
A coppery, pungent smell begins to intermingle with the wet asphalt and foul garbage, both the blood of thugs and your blood. Bruce knows that you need a hospital, more than likely, but he canât bring himself to take you there.
He meets your doe-eyed, bewildered stare, the fearlessness that burns within your gaze. You seem appreciative without vocalizing it, but youâre weak â youâre likely concussed, and he catches the scent of blood on you as he steps closer.
Words coagulate within your throat and his, and whatever he intended to say seems to die then and there. He wanted to comfort you, ask if you were alright, but he didnât â he was as silent as a tomb, coming to hunch in over you.
In the shadow of the Batman, youâre offered another respite from the rain. You reach for him, this impenetrable scion of darkness, trembling hands grasping haplessly at his chest. He keeps your upper half suspended from the ground, listening to the erratic pattern of your breathing.
Heâs there to keep you safe, intense stare boring into yours, and you shiver in response. Your vision is steadily becoming blurry, ears ringing, head pounding â you donât say anything, only letting out some pitiful whimper as you succumb to unconsciousness.
Strong arms are there to catch you, sweeping you up without hesitation. Youâre limp, skin cold to the touch, lips a shade paler. He shields you as best as he can from the rain, retrieving your bag from a shallow puddle before departing into the bleak night, the shadow of an eclipse.
Impulsivity â that was the only term needed to explain why heâd brought you home instead of a hospital. He wrapped you up in his cloak, gently placing you into the passenger seat before heading back. Alfred was aware of the situation, of him bringing you back to a place so sacred and secret to him.
Brought into the darkness of Gothamâs vengeful guardian, Bruce let Alfred handle stitching you up. The wound on the back of your skull was shallower than he thought, but the bruises and scrapes you endured almost seemed as countless as his own, only you didnât bear the scars as he did.
You would bear them after tonight.
âWhy?â Alfred inquired, shifting his weight toward that of the mahogany cane, his gaze momentarily flickering toward you, asleep on the chaise lounge.
Silence hung between both men â even Bruce was unsure of his decision to bring you here. Was it pity? Curiosity? Loneliness? That underlying desire to shield you from the untold horrors that lurked within the darkness? He didnât know. Truthfully, he didnât care to discover the answer for himself, either.
âI donât know.â
Bruceâs admission was barely above a whisper, husky and hushed as if he were sharing a secret. He remained inside of the suit, stuck within the guise of vengeance. He didnât know if he wanted you to see him as Bruce Wayne, as the orphaned son whose family legacy was smeared all over Gotham City.
Maybe he wanted you to see him as the man who saved your life, the man who would protect you.
Alfredâs theory was different and far more straightforward â Bruce was undeniably lonely.
His loneliness bled through, clear as day, yet he continuously pushed it down for the sake of the city, for the sake of everyone else. Attachment was fear â the fear of losing what was closest to him. That was why he closed himself off, trapped himself beneath a mask, isolated himself, all to avoid a very simplistic yet harrowing premise.
It was Bruceâs greatest fear, a trepidation that gripped him tightly. The more he watched you, the more he began to wonder what it would feel like to open up to someone else â to bare his heart, to feel that pang of vulnerability. It was daunting, like some monster lurking in the darkness, waiting to strike.
He decided it would be better this way â better to keep himself at bay, keep Bruce Wayne away, stay behind the mask for your sake and for his.
Roused from your slumbering state, you were greeted with an environment most unfamiliar to you. It reminded you of some gothic castle, complete with pointed arches and rib vaults, ornate decor that seemed to look and feel completely ancient. None of this felt real â it was more akin to some dream youâve had, but the dull pounding in your head brought you back into the present.
You were wrapped in something heavy, something dark and slick â it didnât feel like a blanket, it lacked the softness of one. An orange glow crackled from a roaring hearth, a fireplace that seemed to be ripped straight from a storybook, lined in beautiful masonry. Considering the chill of the rain, the fire was appreciated, and whatever you happened to be draped inside of.
Soaked to your very bones, your clothing hasnât dried very much, uncomfortably clinging to your flesh, feeling heavy with water. A constant chill licks across every inch of your body, goosebumps collecting at the base of your spine, causing you to shiver in the midst of the open flame, fingers curling into the material youâre swaddled in.
Peeling the cloak aside, your eyes have fully adjusted, no longer groggy or fringed with a blur as they were before. Itâs still dark outside, the thunderstorm having calmed to a mere monsoon of rain instead. Inside of this hallowed citadel, there isnât a sound â an eerie silence is what follows, save for the lull of the weather outside.
Thatâs when you see him â the shadow.
Off to the left of the fireplace, your savior lingers there, his eyes hauntingly bright beside the raging flame. You gasp, startled by his lack of reaction, lack of announcing himself. A shiver grips your body in its entirety, causing you to shudder as you stay poised atop the velveteen lounge.
âThank you,â Your voice emerges as a tremulous squeak, but you gain your composure as quickly as allowed. âThank you for saving my life.â You remember every detail â you arenât likely to forget about the man who saved your life, the ghost of Gotham.
Heâs quiet, unnervingly so, but you let that uneasiness subside as much as possible. You donât feel fear around him â you feel safe, you feel harbored within his shadow. A strange sense of fascination washes over you, a curiosity to know more about him.
âHowâs your head?â His gravelly, husky voice is what surprises you the most. Those hawkish eyes fall to your visage, subtly drinking you in from afar.
You fumble around to gently feel the back of your skull, digits gingerly sweeping across the patch of gauze that sat atop a series of very meticulous stitches. He mustâve patched you up, you realize, which you feel eternally grateful for. The ache is present, but itâs alarmingly dull.
âJust aches,â There is a brief pause in your words, breath hitching momentarily. âWhere are we?â Youâre curious to know the location â it reminds you of some vampiric stronghold, an ancient castle with untold secrets. Despite the regality of it all, you still feel safe.
He doesnât answer right away, standing as still as a statue, as if he were one of the gargoyles perched outside upon the terrace. The militaristic suit he wears reminds you of some practiced soldier, shrouded by the darkness â there are some little tears within the kevlar material that rests underneath the sheen of body armor.
Instead, Bruce cranes his head over his shoulder, peering out into the endless abyss that is Gothamâs dusk. Rain continues to fall, glistening against the marble surfaces outside. âSomewhere safe.â The grit and coarseness of his voice is wonderfully alluring, effectively drawing you in.
You shiver, tugging the black cape tighter around your frame, gradually feeling warmth return to your aching bones. As you peer toward the Batman, you feel a pang of heat creep across your visage when you realize that heâs staring too.
âIs this yours?â You murmur, motioning toward the sweeping shroud of darkness that surrounds you, engulfing your body in its penumbra.
Bruce nods, but doesnât ask for it back. Youâre the one trembling from the cold, not him. Instead, he steps closer, maintaining a comfortable distance as he comes to sit at the opposite end of the chaise lounge, stealing several glances in the process. Youâre exceptionally beautiful, which makes him feel all the more mesmerized.
Maybe itâs your lack of fear or suspicion, your timidity, or the way you curl in on yourself â Bruce doesnât know what to say in your presence. Fortunately for him, you are wary by the strange silences, so you cut through it as swiftly as possible.
âDo you bring everyone that you save to this place?â Your inquiry is hushed, a lull of a whisper, soft voice trembling with some quiver at the bottom of your throat. Again, you survey your surroundings with intrigue â the architecture reminds you of French cathedrals.
There is a twinge of humor that flickers across the lower half of his face, accompanied by a gentle scoff. He answers you with a little more haste this time. âNo.â Bruce hesitates, lips parting slightly. âJust you.â
The Batman offers no elaboration as to why that is â maybe itâs better left unspoken. You donât question him, but you do shuffle closer, still leaving a good gap of distance between the both of you. Heâs hailed as this myth, something to be feared, something dangerous. Now, you see more of a man.
His breath hitches ever so subtly when you maneuver yourself a little closer. Whatever you can see of his countenance strikes you as handsome, and you begin to wonder how he looks underneath his dark garb. Charcoal is smeared around his eyes, which are brilliantly green, the whites of his oculars remain bloodshot. His stubbled jaw is both strong and angular, pallor as pale and translucent as a ghost, a stark contrast between his skin and the black of the suit.
âYouâre not what they say you are,â In a moment of silence, you speak again, canting your head to one side. âThe press, the police.â Heâs demonized in the media as some menace that needs to be put down â you never thought that way, especially now.
âYouâre a good man.â
For the briefest moment, Bruce tenses underneath your soft gaze and the tender affection laced within your words. Itâs something he clings to â something heâs desperate for, deep down. His jaw tightens and he averts his stare, avoiding eye contact. He wants to reach out, but he knows he canât, he knows that he canât afford to get attached to you.
But he brought you here, didnât he? This was his fault.
âYou donât know the things Iâve done.â Finally, Bruce speaks â he comes off as callous, warding you away from his encroaching shadows, away from his darkness. You are the glimmer of light that falls across him, pierces the gloom, desiring to break through.
Your breath hitches within your throat, shivering hard enough to coax you into the sanctuary of his cape. The icy chill of the rain hasnât worn off entirely, but you angle yourself toward the crackling fireplace. âYou save lives,â You whisper, âYou protect people.â
Bruce longed to be as innocent and as pious as you â maybe he was, a long time ago, but heâs not anymore. Heâs living along the edge of duality, one side eclipsed by the shadow of revenge, by the Batman, the other a reclusive orphan with nothing left to his legacy aside from what he does each and every night.
âAnd I destroy them.â He uttered, which happened to catch you off-guard. There is a tiny inkling of intimidation that settles into your doe-eyed gaze, maybe trace amounts of fear.
Youâre right to be afraid. Everyone should be â they are afraid.
Between the crackling of the hearth and the tenuous silence, you direct your gaze toward your lap, fingers idly tracing over the frayed edges of his cloak. There is something about him that seems guarded, actively keeping you at-bay, but it only furthers your desire for knowledge, for understanding.
âAre you afraid?â His voice cuts through like a knife, deliciously rugged and almost hushed, as if heâs trying not to startle you.
The hitch in your breath is far from subtle, but you donât offer him an answer, not immediately. Instead, you reach out â reach for him as you had back in the alleyway. Your soft, dainty palm falls across his armored bicep, and he immediately tenses underneath you.
Bruceâs mouth goes dry, startled by such a foreign sensation. How long has it been since heâs been touched like that, with a semblance of care? Thereâs a feeling of desperation laced with longing, something that heâs bottled for a very long time.
He doesnât recoil, even after you let your palm settle atop the kevlar and plates of body armor. Again, you allow yourself to move closer, close enough to nearly seal the gap that lingered before. You swore that you heard a little stutter in his breathing, but what you do hear for certain is his quivering exhale.
In such close proximity, Bruce lets himself drink you in, and heâs blatantly shameless instead of conservative, like before. Youâre beautiful, both inside and out â so beautiful that he feels completely undeserving. Itâs daunting to be with someone like this, to feel the tension and the intimacy, to feel cared for.
âIâm not afraid.â You whisper, letting your hand drag from the solid muscle of his bicep to the exposed flesh of his jaw, outlined by the sharp, black leather of his cowl. Heâs warm, opposite of your current temperature, which is slightly above icy.
He canât help himself â the tender embrace makes him shiver, and Bruce closes his eyes, sinking into the silken surface of your palm. Itâs the loneliness and the many years devoid of physical contact that make him this way, make him ravenous.
You canât help but realize the humanity underneath.
Inside of the vengeful shade of Gotham, inside of that shroud of darkness, there is still a man â a man at the very heart of it all, selfless and protective. He feels much more real to you now, he feels mortal.
But heâs lonely â there is an unmistakable yearning that burns bright within his hooded gaze, but itâs coupled with a twinge of dejection. This long, solitary life that heâs led can only last for so long before it begins to weigh on him, and as you caress his cheek, the weight feels like it could crush him.
âYour hands are cold.â Bruce murmurs, sighing as you trace your fingertips along the angular slope of his jaw. His monotonous, husky remark brings the hint of a sheepish smile to your visage, and you find yourself getting closer and closer, until youâre nestled against him.
With a soft âsorryâ, warmth blossoms within your cheeks. You nearly pull away, but he stops you, gloved hand lightly curling around your wrist. The frantic gallop of your heart hammers within your ears, and you long to feel his skin without the obstruction of gloves.
There is a pang of yearning that openly bleeds from his incendiary stare, and he carefully guides your hand back to where it sat before, poised along his jaw. Bruce doesnât say anything â truthfully, heâs too enamored to speak, and what he wants to say only sounds embarrassing.
Heâs getting closer, and so are you â merely breaths apart. Bruce is dazzled, simply put, and heâs slowly crossing the point of no return when it comes to you. He knows that he shouldnât cross that line, but itâs too late. His hawkish, dazzled stare falls to your lips, swollen and mottled with dried blood, which still look as soft as ever despite the injury.
You arenât sure what prompted you to initiate the kiss, but youâre rather smitten, noticeably hesitant. Truthfully, youâre unsure if this is what he wanted, but the sensation of his mouth gingerly tangling with yours cancels out that uncertainty.
Bruceâs lips are thin, deceptively soft as they move in tandem with yours, and heâs gentle. You taste of copper, bitter and metallic, yet so does he â he tastes like blood, like a smoky rainfall, like darkness. A low, husky groan resonates within the back of his throat, absolutely enthralled by the kiss itself, and by you.
This time, he takes more initiative, wanting nothing more than to have you close like this, take the sting of his isolation away from him. Bruce is breaking his own rule of attachment, but he canât bring himself to care at the moment.
The kiss is blistering, unyieldingly tender, yet it rips through your entire being, tearing you into shreds. Youâve never felt so safe before, so held â youâre melting into him, melting into the shadows with him, letting one of your hands perch against his broad shoulder.
He canât ignore the desire thatâs beginning to bubble within him, bound to reach a boiling point if the both of you continue. Bruce needs to be sure that this is what you want, and so his lips still against yours, breathing a touch ragged and heavy as he gains his composure.
âWe can stop.â His voice surrounds you, rough and gritty, armored physique pressed into yours. âIf you donât want this.â Bruce understands the potential for you to change your mind, to politely turn him down â heâs expectant, awaiting your answer.
As your palm settles over the jagged sigil placed atop his chest, you steady yourself, meeting his gaze fully this time. Goosebumps form at the base of your spine, prompting you to shiver from exhilaration. âNo,â With a hushed whisper, you tilt closer. âI want this.â You hesitate, teeth skimming across your lower lip. âDoes that sound crazy?â
Bruce finds some humor in that â and maybe it is crazy, being with someone youâve just met, and his impulsivity plays a rather large role in this scenario. He canât fault you for wanting this, and in all actuality, he wants it just as terribly, if not more.
Maybe itâs just being alive.
That hollow shell heâs been living inside of, his fortress of carefully-constructed barriers, it all begins to crack. Itâs rather terrifying, the idea of letting someone in, but heâs done for now, isnât he? The way you look at him is invigorating, itâs electrifying â it makes him feel less like the Batman and more like a man.
âNo.â He murmurs, and you can feel the sincerity from that single utterance alone.
In another meeting of lips, there is a flurry of passion this time, less subdued than the kiss before. One of his bulky arms rests at your side, the two of you nearly chest to chest, flush atop the velveteen cushions. Whatever chill you had before is now replaced with warmth, from both the fire and from him.
You canât remember the last time youâve been kissed like this â for a man as unyieldingly strong and dark as he is, the Batmanâs tender approach takes you by surprise. He almost seems shy, as if this is a new realm he hasnât traversed yet himself, but you make no comment on his potential inexperience.
Beside the light of the dying fire, swallowed by the eerie calm of his shadow, you let yourself be consumed by his vengeful void. You kiss him again, listening to his sharp inhale as you cling to him, feeling the firm planes of his body armor.
Bruce pries the leather away from his hands, shedding both gloves and gauntlets, knuckles wrapped in tattered gauze thatâs stained with old blood. The yearning he feels is almost overwhelming â he wants to touch you, but asking seems disorienting, daunting even.
As your fingers curl around one of his hands, he nearly gasps, tensing at the icy embrace of your digits, the silken texture of your skin. Tracing your thumb atop his knuckles, you see the traces of grime and fading bruises, specks of his blood, the calloused expanse of his palm â hands that have done far too much.
âLook at me.â
The sensual intensity of his sonorous voice commands your attention instantaneously â your eyes snap to find his, those brilliant green oculars. He inspects you with a trace amount of affection, his hand coming to slip underneath your chin, effectively making you shudder.
He kisses the corner of your mouth â itâs sweet.
Eager to feel all of you, Bruce hesitates, his gravelly lull seemingly perturbed as he murmurs another âlook at meâ, gaze raking across your countenance and toward the rest of your body. Heâs somewhat sluggish to ask for what he wants, and he hopes that youâre keen enough to pick up on his physical implications.
Your breath hitches, ears prickling as his voice wraps around you each and every time. âItâs okay.â Reassuring as ever, you nudge his hand. For a man as vicious and mysterious as he is, the vigilant enigma, heâs rather nervous â if it is nervousness, at least. You canât tell what heâs feeling, heâs indiscernible.
Quick to act this time around, his roughened, powerful hand falls toward the hem of your blouse, skirting across your skin as he feels you shiver underneath him. You simply jerk past the row of pearlescent buttons, letting it loosely sag around your shoulders.
Bruce doesnât stop himself this time, pressing his mouth against your neck, leaving a trail of searing kisses in his wake. Freeing yourself from the confines of his cloak, a soft moan slips past your parted lips, reaching for his arm.
Heâs weak â your skin is like satin underneath his lips.
The brow of his leathery cowl bumps against your flesh as he slowly maneuvers his way down the length of your body, kissing the pain away, both yours and his, kissing away his loneliness. His mouth falls across the tops of your breasts, taut digits coming to cup your chest, hooking underneath the hem of your brassiere.
Slotted between your legs, your skirt rides high, hitching toward your hips as you accommodate his bulky frame. Youâre cold to the touch, but wherever Bruce touches, warmth blooms there instead of the icy sting. His confidence is slowly growing, but heâs focused on you, drowning himself in your very being.
The more you watch him, the more your mind runs rampant â who is he underneath? You wonder what exactly he looks like, the fluctuations in his countenance, the taut, strong muscle of his body as he closes in on you.
Heâs perfect, you think, perfect and terrifying in the best of ways.
Continuing the string of kisses along your body, he meticulously lingers on the faint bruises you received from your fall. His soft lips mold themselves to your ribcage and stomach, drifting wherever they please. His hand curls into your skirt, but you quickly wriggle out of the garment, kicking it off toward the floor.
Each kiss sends shivers down your spine, his hand settling along one of your thighs as he continues his descent. You have an inkling of his intentions, and itâs enough to make you squirm, your hand falling toward his shoulder.
Bruce hasnât done this for some time â the pressure to please you is certainly there, but the overwhelming sensation of not feeling alone is present, too. The doe-like look in your mesmerized stare is enough to make his skin grow hot, lips parting as he kisses your hipbone.
As his digits curl into the elastic band of your panties, those striking eyes look to you for approval, a stare that will be burned into your mind for days to come. There is a reverence present that youâve never experienced before, a certain level of care that you desperately crave.
âPlease,â You whisper, listening to the heavy lull of the rain outside as it begins to pick up again. The little hitch in your voice is more than noticeable, a pang of anticipation hitting your gut. âPlease.â Nearly rendered breathless this time, you shiver when he presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh.
The shadows come for you â his shadows, his darkness. Itâs enticing, and it sucks you in as if he retains some gravitational pull. You gasp when you feel his teeth nip at tender flesh, leaving behind a trail of marks that he revels in.
Smoothing his palm along your leg, his deft, roughened digits swipe across your cunt, prying you apart with careful deliberation. His lips move to press firm, heated kisses to your opposite thigh, nipping wherever he pleases, pushing his fingers into your wet slit.
You donât know where to grasp except for his shoulders â itâs an unstable grip and you wish to tug on the hair underneath his stitched cowl. The linen bandages that stay twined around his knuckles and palm graze your leg, and instinctively, you place your hand atop his.
The Batman shudders, his breath hitches in the faintest of ways, as if heâs been exposed to something foreign. Bruce feels as if he could combust from the weight of your stare alone, coupled with the affectionate way in which your dainty fingers tense around his hand.
Through fleeting, heated glances, he drags his digits along the length of your cunt, dwelling within the slick heat as he moves in deliberate motions. As soon as he grazes your clit, your hips spasm, a wanton moan tearing past your parted lips as you keen into his embrace.
âI want to see you.â You murmured, dazed and drunk upon your own desire. It wasnât a demand, but a gentle plea â one that Bruce couldnât give into, even to you. The pad of your thumb grazed over his knuckles, stomach churning as he continued to stroke at your cunt.
Pressing his mouth to your inner thigh again, he made eye contact with you for the briefest moment â you were painfully beautiful. He made you whimper when he nudged at your clit again, warm breath and days-old stubble drifting across your flesh.
âUse your imagination.â Husky and rugged, mysterious and alluring like the night, he kept you hooked, kept you wondering. The answer sufficed â it was enough to let your mind go in a thousand different directions, but he grounded you as he eased two fingers into your cunt, breathing heavily.
Rolling into his hand, the both of you groaned in tandem, his being far more subdued than yours. Swallowed by your tight heat, Bruce steadily fell into some sort of pattern, moving his digits forward and back, just enough to make you squirm.
The euphoria he gains from this is blinding â it spurs him on, fingers dutifully touching you everywhere, no matter how clumsy and swift it seems. You havenât experienced something like this before, not to this magnitude, and it almost doesnât feel real â Bruce unknowingly shares such sentiments.
Sprawled atop his cloak, you nudge your legs apart just a little more, a strangled whimper escaping you as his fingers diligently work away at your cunt. Lulled into submission by his husky breathing and the deluge outside, you melt into him â you want to fade away.
You quiver when his mouth meets the cleft between your thighs, tongue sweeping open heat across your slit, aching and wanton. The first motions of his lips are hesitant, testing the waters and searching for your reaction, which is more than enthusiastic.
The sensation of his mouth intermingled with the deliberate motion of his digits made you choke on whatever noise began to rise from the back of your throat. Words died upon your tongue, any shred of pleasurable sound being ripped apart by your winded gasp.
Bruce shuddered, inexperienced yet willing, lapping at your clit with an enthusiasm you hadnât felt before yourself. Your taste was intoxicating, making him scramble for more, his own mind becoming murky with lust. Desperation trickled through the cracks, and he couldnât bring himself to care. Everything about you drew him in, magnetized and enamored â it was a mutual feeling.
He needed you, too.
The leather of his cowl grazed against your pelvis, and for a moment, those viridian hues snapped forward, locking in a stare as you gripped his hand so very tightly. The arch of your back brought your hips into closer quarters with his face, evoking a low groan from him, enough to make you quiver.
He was an abyss between your legs â the dying hearth left him shrouded in shadows, save for the pearlescent pallor of his jaw, the bloodshot whites of his eyes. With another breathy moan, you keened into his embrace, feeling his hand squeeze at your hipbone. His tongue raked embers across your aching cunt, making your head spin.
Incendiary was a mere understatement â you were set ablaze, submitting to each thrust of his fingers and roll of his tongue, melting around him. He was attentive yet sloppy, a touch unrestrained and perhaps desperate, but you didnât care. You were happy to melt, happy to let his shadows bleed into you.
The sensation of his lips pursing around your clit jerked you right into the heat of the moment, breathy sighs and shrewd moans escaping you. They entangled themselves with Bruceâs sonorous grunts and the low echo of his groans, vocalizations of pleasure.
âI need you,â You sputtered, choking upon whatever sound intended to rip through your windpipe. âYouâre perfect.â Again, your declarations of desire and praise fell upon attentive ears, as Bruce continued to eat you out with vigor. He lightly sucked at your clit, enough to make you jolt forward a time or two.
Far from perfect, he knew this â hearing you say it aloud through a strangled moan was enough to almost make him believe that he was perfect. Bruce was nearly drunk on your own pleasure, uncomfortably hard underneath the codpiece of his suit. He couldnât fathom what brought him here, but he wanted to come back.
For a man with his immeasurable wealth and notoriety, Bruce was inexperienced, lacking any shred of sexual tact. The suit was more than helpful, a barrier to shroud him from his ineptitude as Bruce Wayne. There was a confidence present now that he lacked otherwise.
A shrewd string of incoherent whimpers left your mouth, intermingled by the pleasant pitch of your moans. His breath was ragged and hot against your core, alternating between eager laps of his tongue and the pursing of his lips around your clitoris. It was an electrifying lust, burning inside of you like a fever, leaving you breathless.
The kevlar and roughened plates of his suit scrape across your delicate flesh, leaving behind reddened marks. Such blemishes are accompanied by the gentle love bites left behind on your thighs. You hope that they donât fade â you want the visceral reminder of whatâs happened to you, of him happening to you.
That sensitive clutch of nerves between your legs jolts and ripples with ecstasy, sending white-hot pleasure throughout your body. His head is still buried there, eating your cunt as if itâs the last thing heâll ever do, sucking around your clit with a noticeable vigor. You want to explode then and there, but something else pushes you over the edge.
Itâs the breathy, subtle sigh of âfuckâ that the Batman gives that sends you spiraling out of orbit, and you can hear him nearly moan. In fact, you swore you heard him moan, watching as he shifts his bulky frame whilst trapped between your thighs, and he makes momentary eye contact with you.
You cum then and there, doe-eyed and hearing static as the tension unfurls from within your gut.
Even through your orgasm, his fingers are slowly plunging themselves inside of you, curling within your wet heat, purging sinful noises from your mouth. The intensity within his stare is enough to make you shudder, a mystique that is alluring all on its own. It isnât until youâre shaking that he removes his digits, absentmindedly wetting his lower lip.
Bruce canât escape you â youâre everywhere.
You are on his tongue, the taste of you becoming something that he wants to commit to memory. You are on his skin like a thick haze, a hazy fog that he cannot wade through. Your scent â whatever concoction of perfume you wear will be burned into his brain for weeks, for months to come. The sight of you quivering beneath him, lips agape and eyes bright, he wants to have you again and again.
He wants you always.
He leaves one last kiss against your thigh, lingering for a second longer than he shouldâve. Whether you notice the hesitation or not, he isnât sure.
Moonlight glistens through the haze of rain, thin slats falling across his shadowed frame as he sits backward. His silence is somewhat unsettling, but you assume itâs the exhilaration â you feel it too, hanging heavy within your head like a thick shroud.
Youâre tired, but you want to force yourself to stay awake, legs twitching as you sluggishly come down from your high. A dull ache radiates from the source of your stitches, and you know that heâs keen enough to pick up on your exhaustion.
âYou should rest.â
His gravelly lull attracts your attention, and you meet his stare with an awestruck expression. The tension hasnât fully subsided, enough to make your heart skip a beat as he moves off of the lounge, watching his deliberate steps toward the rainy terrace.
âWhat about you?â Your voice is quiet, strung with enough concern to make him stop in his tracks.
The Batman turns, a stoic, solemn air about him. A sliver of him wishes he could stay, keep watch until the first inklings of dawn â but youâre safe here. Gotham is still a hellish landscape that requires him, requires vengeance. Bruce knows that he canât stop now, he canât quit until morning. The night is far from over.
âYou shouldnât worry about me.â
His utterance leaves behind a trace of darkness â the subtleties of what might happen to any villain who crosses his path. Every shred of intimidation that you felt toward him before comes crawling back. Itâs enough to make you shiver, covered by the throw blanket thatâs draped across the back of the lounge, and you miss the slick material of his cape.
Without another word, vengeance blends into the shadows, melding into the abyss of a bleak cityscape.
When you wake, youâre home â the ornate gothic architecture has disappeared, exchanged for the tidy, well-kept quarters of your studio apartment. Itâs somewhat disheartening to see, but you shouldâve known better. Your belongings sit neatly at the foot of your bed, and youâre still wrapped in the very same blanket he left you in.
Dawn begins to touch the horizon of Gotham City, and your mind immediately finds him. You wonder what happened to him after he left, if he was safe, what sorts of foul individuals he encountered.
From the dew-covered, dingy windows of your apartment, you can see the light still in the sky â you know that it wonât be there for much longer. Sluggishly, you sit up from your bed, bones aching with a dull throbbing that is still persistent.
Part of you longs to see him again â itâs wishful thinking, the thoughts of a smitten schoolgirl that make you cringe. There are other people who need him, need his protection, his selflessness. Everyone at City Hall, everyone at the GPD warns of him, as if heâs some blight, a plague on the city.
The city is rotting, decaying at a rate that seems far too steady for your liking â Gotham needs him.
You need him.
You twist the knobs on top of your bedroom window, ensuring that itâs unlocked. Maybe youâll cross paths with the shadowed crusader again, maybe you wonât. Whatever the future holds, you know that heâs out there, that heâs real, heâs a hero â and maybe, just maybe, he thinks of you, too.
Would anyone be interested in reading a section of a paper I wrote for class discussing why Edward Nashton (and Bruce Wayne) in The Batman (2022) may have Borderline Personality Disorder? It's from almost 2 years ago and I don't necessarily agree with everything I said (I was just getting a grade you know how it is) but I think it's still interesting.
