(October 30th, 1963)
I giggled as I watched the little girl in front of me excitedly tell me what she was going to be dressed as tomorrow,
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I love that the modern-day tumblr post equivalent of chain emails only requires me to reblog a relatively pleasant image instead of forward an email to a bunch of my friends and family members to quell my raging anxiety.
warnings: 18+ minors DNI, implied smut, discussion of sex
“Baby…”
You don’t look up from your book as you hum, “Hm?”
“You’re being mean,” he pouts from the end of the couch.
You purse your lips. “If I am, you deserve it.”
His head lulls backwards pathetically, “I don’t deserve this. No one deserves this.”
You ignore him, scanning over the words littering the page with little thought.
He takes your lack of response as an invitation to climb up the couch a bit, just close enough that he can nibble kisses at your neck.
“Come on, I’ll make it up to you,” he promises.
You roll your eyes, flipping to the next page in your book as his hands feel up your waist. He’s apologized a few times already, but you’re not ready to let it go. He’d bailed last minute on your date nights one too many times and you’ve had enough. So if no sex is the only thing that seems to get his attention, no sex it is. You’re not mad, not really, but if you can give him a taste of the neglect you’ve been feeling, well…
He continues despite the lack of acknowledgement, pestering on. “This is deprivation of nourishment.”
All in all, he’s really not putting up his best argument. He could be doing better work, much better work, and you’re certainly not going to let him off so easily.
“I don’t care.” You move the book you’re not really reading up higher, removing him from your line of sight.
Sensing the challenge, he takes the book from your hands, tossing it blindly out of reach. It lands with an unflattering thump on the hardwood. You gawk at him, but he doesn’t notice, too busy minding his own motivating force.
He pulls you further down the couch, so he’s face level with your stomach. The top of his hair tickles you as he kisses below your navel, hands holding you in place firmly by your waist.
“Baby,” he murmurs against your skin, dragging his lips over. “Please, please let me eat you out.”
You cross your arms over your chest, glaring at the wall.
He rests his chin gently over your stomach, peering up at you with puppy dog eyes. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
This pushes him to borderline pouting, huffing, “Come on, you’re not having any fun like this either.”
Yeah, but it’s more torturous for him than it is for you.
His lips edge at the seam of your underwear, and his fingers hook under the elastic as he looks up at you expectantly.
You take a deep breath upon the sight, steeling yourself.
“No.”
He lets out an honest to God groan and drops his forehead against your stomach, whining.
You push him off of you, though he does most of the work of shifting his weight for you. You stand up from the couch and retrieve your book from its place on the floor, flipping through it to refind your page as you move for the bedroom door.
“You’re gonna leave me like this?” he calls out at you, watching you leave.
You shrug, “Take care of it yourself.”
“Myself?” He gapes, like he’s shocked at the audacity of the suggestion.
He stands up quickly, scrambling after you into your room.
He watches as you plop down onto the bed, pretending like you’ve got the concentration to keep on reading.
He pouts in the doorway, both surprised and annoyed with your commitment to making him suffer.
At this point he can take care of you better than he can take care of himself, and God knows he prefers to. So it’s bordering on inconceivable that you could have gotten so mad at him as to take away his privileges to do his very favorite thing in the world.
So he snatches your book straight from your hands again—just as you’d found the right page, too—and holds it up high.
“Dick Grayson!”
You swat at him and try to grab it back, but he’s too quick and too tall.
You kneel on the bed, reaching up in a fruitless effort before you drop your arm at your side, glaring.
He raises his chin, silently imploring you.
“Talk to me.”
You roll your eyes, “I am talking to you. I’m not sleeping with you—”
He shakes his head, “No, you’re still mad.”
“And you think this is what’s gonna help?”
He throws his head back. “You’re killing me,” he whines.
“Good.”
“What’s the plan here? Neither of us get to come ever again?”
You all but throw your head back, “I think it’s pretty fucking bold of you to assume that I rely exclusively on you to come.”
He levels you with a look.
“You do though.”
You gape at him. He says it with such self-assurance, so matter-of-fact that it’s not even a joke. And you know what? Yeah, he’s right you do, but you are nowhere near ready to give him the satisfaction.
So, you did something that you knew would piss him off.
“I—” you pause. “Fine.”
You dip your hand underneath your waistband, prepared to prove your fucking point.
“Don’t—” he bats your hand away. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He gawks at you, keeping an arm between your hand and your body. “That’s my job.”
You push his arm, with minimal real effort. “It’s my body!”
“You really don’t want me to touch you? Really?”
He levels you with that look he knows you can’t rebound from, giving you no room to squirm away.
Your chin lowers out of pure habit and your mouth shuts. He takes the opportunity to drop the book on the bed, scooping up both your wrists in one go. He pulls them up above your head and holds you against the bedroom wall.
“What can I do?” he asks lowly, face only inches from yours.
You glare at him, not trying to escape his hold.
“You can fuck off.”
“I’m serious,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
You raise your eyebrows as to say, ‘yeah, I am too, buddy.’
“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me have my girl.”
You tug your hands out of his grasp, and he lets you without complaint.
You huff, looking at him.
“You have to take me out on a date tom—a real date—tomorrow night, the whole night, flowers and everything.”
He’s nodding along with your words eagerly, terms he couldn’t be happier to agree to.
“Even if some vigilante shit comes up—”
“Of course, of course.”
“…and do what you said before,” you say, quieter.
“What did I say before?” he asks, like he truly can’t remember.
“Dick,” you warn.
He smiles, perfectly content to let you off easy.
He leans forward, kissing you deeply but with an air of sweetness.
“I’m sorry I missed our date, pretty girl. I’m so sorry.”
Your shoulders noticeably relax and you take a deep breath, nodding.
“Yeah,” he says as he kneels down on the ground. He grins up at you as he hooks your leg over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of my baby, of course I will.”
☀️ i’m worried the sun will go out soon if you don’t start reblogging fics ☀️
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 you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll 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. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the fundraiser rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re 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?
No, he’s rich, not royalty.
You are in his house though—
He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.
You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”
“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed.
“Arthur Mullins.”
He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”
You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” 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, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.
There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”
“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.
He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”
“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.
He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.
Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”
“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”
“I don’t know anybody here.”
He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”
You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”
He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”
Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s 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, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.
You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”
“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”
You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”
“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”
You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”
“Bruce.”
“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.
He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t 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 you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”
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. “So should I.”
You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re 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. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”
It’s 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 you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget.
A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s 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, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” 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, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”
It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”
You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” 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, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”
He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”
You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”
He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”
You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”
“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”
He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” 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. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”
He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”
“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is.
He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” 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, “What do you think?”
You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” 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, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”
You can’t 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.
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.
“This way.” 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, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”
Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”
You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”
He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”
You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options.
“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.
“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”
“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”
He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”
A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path.
Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” 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 you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t 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 you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”
“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”
He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.
“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”
He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”
Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”
“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.
“I mean, of course, but it—”
He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”
Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit.
You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”
“You don’t need to,” 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, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”
His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.
He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.
Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?
And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s 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.
“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for.
You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”
He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”
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 doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.
A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d 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.
“Hello there, Miss.,” 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.
“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room.
This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?”
The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce.
You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.
“I’m okay, thank you,” 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, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received.
Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”
Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”
The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”
He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating cell phones.”
You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.
“What exactly is a self-operating cell phone?”
Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased.
He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”
Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”
“And so you have.”
“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.
“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”
The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.
“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”
His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”
You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”
His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”
“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”
He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”
“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.
He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”
You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”
He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.
“I think we should go,” he says lower.
You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.”
He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.”
He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”
You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”
He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected.
“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.
He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”
You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”
He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”
You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”
“Why did you show up last weekend?”
You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”
He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”
For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re 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.
“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.
His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.”
You shrug, “A day in the life,”
He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.
“Here,” 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 you’d 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 would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.
He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” 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 you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.
Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?
His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?”
God, he’s 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 doesn’t.
You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”
He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”
“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”
His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”
You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”
“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”
Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”
His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”
You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”
You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”
He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”
“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much.
“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”
“Why’s that?”
“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours.
Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”
His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”
You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”
He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
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.
He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s 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, “Sweet thing..”
Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.
“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence.
“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.
It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”
He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”
That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for.
He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”
You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t 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.
Right?
He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.
You let him move you.
“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”
“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”
You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.
“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”
You blink at him, “I’m going home?”
“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”
“No.”
He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”
You start to shake your head, “I can—”
He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”
You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.
“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan.
Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”
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.
You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.
You’ll 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.
He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re 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 there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s 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 there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.
You’ve 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 don’t 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. They’re 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 you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.
You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s 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.
“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.
“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.
You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”
“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.
“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”
“Later?”
“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”
He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”
You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.
“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.
“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.
You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”
He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”
You nod, looking down again.
“You’re nervous,” he comments.
“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.
He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”
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 it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.
You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”
He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”
“Bruce—”
He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”
He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”
Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to shake almost instantly.
You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”
“Two hundred.”
“Bruce.”
He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.
You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”
His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”
You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”
“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”
You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”
His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.
“I want to kiss you again,” 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 you’d 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.
“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.
You groan, “Why?”
He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”
“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.
He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”
You sit back on your heels again, frowning.
He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”
You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.
part two
🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽
Yeah.... Sorry for going offline, I had a bit of a chaotic past years. Friendships created then torn down. My first actual relationship, which lasted for five months before my dumbass ruined it. I even became an intern at Disney, where I discovered what I really wanna do with my life.
But enough about that.
Thank you all to my dear amazing readers who liked and reader my stories. Unfortunately, I am putting the story to a brief rest in favor of a newer interest and urge to write: Getting nasty with monsters, dark romance/kidnapping style.
Will I pick up Grilled Cheese again? Yes, absolutely. Unfortunately, not now. I appreciate your patience and your support with Grilled Cheese, and I still have plans with it. In fact, those plans include a slight change in the narrative, bc to be honest my mind reached a dead end once Michael kidnapped Y/N.
So I may be rewriting the story. ANd also posting shit for the monsterfuqqers.
THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR EVERYTHING!!!! I love you all<3<3<3
Okay, first and foremost, I would like to apologize to all of you. I underestimated my ability to juggle junior year of college, friends, work, and my story. I sorry if I disappointed any of you with my inability to keep a consistent posting schedule for the story. It's still going on, I have big plans and I needed to take a break due to a severe writer's block that came out of nowhere, along with friendships falling apart last semester and needing to maintain my grades for the sake of my scholarship. I assure you, I will be posting in the future. As for how soon, I am unsure. However, I will be posting more than just the Boogeyman of Haddonfield. I have five majorly important assignments due this week, but hopefully I will be able to update this Saturday, if not the next. I'm hoping I have your forgiveness and understanding, but I understand if you don't.
Once again, i'm sorry. Updates to story and other one shots will happen in the future!
I groaned, rolling onto my side, away from the blinding ray of sunlight that shone on my eyes. My back ached from whatever the hell Michael laid me on. I knew we were no longer driving, but I didn’t know where we were.
I opened my eyes, sitting up and rubbing my neck. I was in a dirty, bare-walled room with stains on the carpet. There was a small, smashed window, the glass scattered on the ground beneath it. On the ground next to me was a shattered mirror, with bits of my reflection along the floor, a constellation of me. What was the white thing on my forehead?
I reached up and touching the side of my head where it was aching. My fingers brushed along gauze. Taking one of the pieces of glass, I investigated my reflection. There was gauze wrapped around my head clumsily, but with intent. There was a small dark stain on the side of my head, probably from where Michael smashed my head against my headboard. I gently lifted the gauze, grimacing at the wound. It didn’t look too deep, but it was a head wound so it seemed worse than it probably was.
Getting up, slightly wobbly, I made my way to the door on the other side of the room. I glanced back at the makeshift bed I was on. It seemed like a sleeping bag, well, my sleeping bag. Michael must have packed it. I noticed another sleeping bag, maybe a few feet away from mine. Maybe someone left it?
I slowly opened the door, stepping out into the next room. I think I was in some abandoned mobile home. It looked like someone was in a rush to leave, and whoever used to live here had problems. By that, I mean the various amounts of cheap beer bottles scattered along the hallway.
Stepping into the front room, I saw Michael. He was sitting on a broken sofa that was tilted on its side.
“Hi,” I croaked out, my throat dry from lack of water.
“What time is it, Mikey?” He pointed to a clock leaning against the wall. 2:45.
“How long are we going to stay here, uh, wherever here is?” He didn’t respond, only returning his attention back to the sketch book he had in his lap.
“Okay…Do you still have whatever you wrapped my head in so I can maybe clean the wound?” I asked. He pointed to the bag on the floor.
Retrieving the first aid kit, I went to the bathroom and tried to find a reasonably clean spot on the messy and stained counter.
I hissed as I felt the alcohol sting my skin, gently cleaning the wound. I was surprised Michael had bandaged my head, although it was a sloppy job. It’s the thought that counts I suppose, though.
I gently applied fresh gauze, content with the job I did. I mean, it wasn’t nurse-level good, but when you are virtually alone most of your life, you learn how to treat a wound decently.
As I cleaned my wound on my head, I thought back on the strange and crazy turn of events that led to this moment. It’s been, what, four days since Michael has entered my life? He entered my home one night, demanded I prepare him food, choked me, spanked me, killed my assistant manager in my own fucking home, and then knocked me out and took me God knows where. To top it all off, despite my dizzy head, probably from the wound he gave me, I am relatively calm about the whole situation.
Shouldn’t I be screaming? Begging, pleading for my release? Saying I won’t tell a soul if he lets me go?
Why am I taking this whole situation so well?
“Mra?” I softly smiled as I finished the knot on the freshly applied gauze wrapped around my head, feeling Mrs. Petunia brush softly against my leg.
I guess having something that provides some sort of comfort does keep me more grounded and less likely to act irrationally. Okay, aside from my escape attempts which have ended with me being choked or spanked cruelly.
Exiting the bathroom, I walked back into the living room. Michael was in his same position, only moving to draw more to…whatever was on his sketchbook. Jesus, was that a picture of him stabbing some poor blonde girl?
“Um, so, what now?” He paused his drawing, slowly looking up at me.
“I mean, I’m surprised I’m taking this whole situation well right now, but what will happen from this point on? Stay here forever? Because if it is, I need some cleaning supplies because this looks like some, uh, drug…place,” I finished weakly, looking at the several grossly colored stains along the wall along with the cheap empty beer cans around the room. Why did it smell like…a skunky smell, I wanna say?
He said nothing, only nodded before drawing his attention back to his sketchbook. I sighed, crossing my arms. I jumped, feeling Mrs. Petunia begin to climb up my pant legs and then up my side, perching herself on my shoulders. She began to purr in my ear, content. I reached up and stroked her, my attention still on the silent masked killer who was using crayons to graphically depict the blood spilling out of whoever that poor lady was.
“Mikey, I’m going to be honest with you here. Why me? What’s so important about me that you couldn’t just, I don’t know, leave me at my house, at least tied up so I couldn’t escape to get help and you could get away?” He once again paused. He looked up at the wall, as if pondering his words, or something like that.
It’s really hard to tell what he’s thinking since he always has that damn rubber latex whatever on.
Finally, he flipped to a new page of his sketchbook and his hand flew across the page, writing something.
He got up once he was finished and made his way over to me. As he got closer, Mrs. Petunia grunted and hopped off my shoulder. Soon, he stood right in front of me, making me feeling immensely small and weak compared to his towering and built figure.
He handed me the paper, and I took it.
“Becuse you are m ine,” Is what was messily written on the paper.
“‘You are mine?’ Mikey, what does that even m-“ He grabbed the back of my throat and pulled me close, crouching slightly to my level. The nose of the mask briefly rubbed against mine before he pressed the fake lips against mine. Shock ran through my veins along with fear. It was over as soon as it started, and he walked back to his seat, plopping down on the sofa. It creaked under his form as I stood there frozen.
Well, this just got more complicated than I thought. Fuck.
~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~
WHAT IS UP MY BITCHES????? Yeah, things are now gonna move more into the Michael being his more bad side!!! I'm sorry it took so fuckin long to update. I've had a mental breakdown, got a new job being a waitress, been sick, and am slowly losing some of my best friends. Oh yeah, and I've officially entered the stage of having alllllll level 3000 courses at uni. so yeah. next chapter might be out next weekend. Fairwell, my fellow slasher sluts ;-3
