I Have Trembled My Way Deep

I Have Trembled My Way Deep

Morpheus x Naiad!Reader

Summary: The God of Dreams assists you in escaping Poseidon’s obsession.

status: Completed One-shot

wordcount: 15.9k 

warnings: Implied non-con (not Morpheus), slow burn ish? 

18+ only, your media consumption is your own responsibilities. Warnings have been given. Do not proceed if these matters upset you.  

 I have trembled my way deep into surrender

I have stretched my aching body across the world

I have stood at the threshold of your wonder

Bid me enter, Lord, allow me to unfold

—

You remember

that it was a game for Poseidon. A sport. Something to fill his spare time in his eternal life. For you? Your ruin. 

Keep reading

°•☆Open Wounds☆•°

♦️ Dark! Bruce Wayne x Mom! Reader ♦️

You thought the grief of losing your husband would shatter you. And, in many ways, it did. Then, Bruce Wayne enters your life, determined to put the pieces of you back together.

CW: Non-con/Dub-con, forced relationship, gaslighting, implied ED

Words: 7k

Grief is strange. 

It comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Some days, you drown in it, the emptiness he left behind. Some days you float right amidst the confusion of his absence. But peaceful shores are never near, always too far out of reach. Head barely above water and barely able to breathe. Most days, it seems the depth of your loss will drag under if you’re not careful. But you hold on. You have to. For him at least.

A high-pitched, alarmed tone yanks you from your thoughts.

"Mom, you’re spilling c-c-coffee again."

You stop pouring and shake the scalding coffee off your hand. The container is placed back in the machine and the overflowing cup put aside. You pluck a rag near the sink to wipe the trails of hot liquid sliding off your skin and clean the counter. A blank look is tossed at the faint burn mark already darkening on your hand. 

"Oh…" you mutter. 

You turn on the faucet, avoiding your eight year old son’s concerned stare. It should hurt, you muse. Burning oneself hurts, in theory. Some distant part of your body knows it, remembers it. But you’re just numb. Everything is trivial now, unimportant. And the world is dull. All grey and black and…red. So much red.

"I can go a-answer it."

"What?" You pivot, blinking at Tommy. He jumps off the chair and approaches you, cautious, like you’re the child and he’s the adult. Your heart pinches. You’re a bad mother. He squeezes your arm. The simple gesture is enough to bring you back to the present.

"Someone rang the b-bell, mom," he says. He smiles up at you. "I can answer it if you w-want."

You hunker down to Tommy’s level and cup his cheek. 

"What did we say about opening the door for strangers, honey?"

"That I’m too s-small to answer the door," he dutifully replies.

You drop a kiss on his forehead then pat his head softly.

"That’s right. You should always get mommy first."

"Sorry, mom."

"It’s okay, honey. It’s just so you’re safe. We have to be careful. Why is that?"

"Because we live in Gotham."

The lack of hesitation in his blunt response makes your chest collapse. It guts you, that he has to be aware of that at his tender age, all the dangers lurking around him. The gift of innocence is denied to all in this cursed city.

Before, you harbored dreams of moving to Star City or Central City, or even Metropolis, fleeing from the flames and chaos. But each city has its own horde of supervillains these days. Nowhere is safe.

Everyday, little people get crushed beneath the heels of gods and monsters.

"Exactly. How did I end up with such a smart son?" 

He glows at your praise and a sliver of relief trickles inside you. He’s coped with all this so well. Much better than you. 

You trudge to the door and inhale a few calming breaths before opening it. It’s your ritual. Otherwise you’d hide under a table with Tommy tucked against you whenever the bell rings. Undoing each of the six locks takes a couple minutes.

When you finally open the door, you’re startled by who stands before you.

"Mr. Wayne?" you gasp.

Thoughtlessly, you run a hand over your tangled hair, trying to smooth it. You weren’t expecting a visitor. Especially not Bruce Wayne. Sharply dressed in a finely tailored suit and an expensive long coat, he makes you feel underdressed in your own home. Heat nestles in your cheeks as you tug your bathrobe closer to your frame.

"Good morning. I hope I’m not disturbing you…and Thomas?"

Grimacing a little at the formal way he utters your son’s name, you let him in. Still, you fail to correct him. You owe so much to Mr. Wayne. What’s one trivial detail such as this?

"No. Not all," you protest. Anxious motions bring you to the coffee pot. You toss out its remnants. "Coffee? I was about to start a new batch."

You busy yourself with the menial task, fingers shaking as you measure out enough to fill a fresh pot to the brim. You probably shouldn't. It won't help with sleeplessness and paranoia. But you can't stomach most foods these days.

He walks in slowly, hands in the pockets of his coat, peering attentively at his surroundings. A pang of self-consciousness strikes through you. Your tiny house must seem shabby compared to the mansion he lives in. 

"Thank you."

"I’m so sorry. I’ve been so busy with…well, everything. I haven’t taken the time to properly thank you, Mr. Wayne."

The rumble of the coffee machine swells in the tiny kitchen. You let the sound muffle the loudness of your gloomy thoughts. You rest your back against the counter as he sits on one of the stools. Raven locks frame his angular features. Dark rings underline his sharp, hollow gaze. He looks like he needs sleep even more than you. 

"Don’t mention it. And I’ve told you. Just Bruce is fine."

A feeble laugh floats from your lips.

"I just can’t get used to it."

"How is he adjusting?"

You follow his gaze to the living room, where your son bashfully peeks at Bruce Wayne from the sofa. Tommy has always been a shy boy, a bit more withdrawn than other kids, the kind of kid who spends a lot of time on his own, doodling and daydreaming.

But ever since that day, it’s been worse. Sometimes you’re afraid that he’s mirroring your behavior. After all, you’ve avoided other people too, dodged calls, abruptly left conversations.

You’ve grown tired of the pity and long faces.

How are you supposed to retrieve a semblance of normalcy if everyone treats you like you’re made of glass?

As soon as Tommy’s eyes catch the billionaire’s, he ducks down and fades from view.

Sighing, you place a steamy cup of coffee in front of Bruce. 

You lick your lips and explain quietly, "He’s so strong, stronger than me really." Your brows crumple. "I just worry about kids at school." Your fingers clench around your own cup. Ire bleeds from your words as you peer at Bruce. "They're making fun of his stutter."

His thick brows crease into a frown. 

"Kids can be cruel." He takes a sip of the coffee. You note the momentary wrinkle in his forehead, a few ephemeral seconds you still catch. This isn’t the sophisticated brew his palate is used to. Bruce puts down the cup. "Have you given more thought to my offer?"

You fidget beneath his insistent stare. 

"For a tutor and a psychiatrist to help him through it? I just…" Your sentence trails off as you scratch your arm.

"What is it?"

"Mr Wayne…" You rush to correct yourself as his jaw ticks. "...Bruce." You take a deep breath before continuing, "This is beyond generous but you’ve already done so much, between covering the funeral expenses and all our late bills."

"I have the means to help, so why not?"

His pitch is firmer. You don’t let it bother you. You’re sure people like Bruce Wayne experience guilt all the time, from their ivory towers and luxury penthouses. He will get over it, and find someone else to occupy his time, some worthy cause to blow out his massive inheritance on. You have no desire to be his charity case.

"I don’t want our problems to become yours, Mr. Wayne," you argue. You then pause. "Besides, going through this again…"

Everyone in Gotham knows about his tragedy. Sure, most don’t have millions to soften the crippling blow of loss.

Still, his pain is as valid as any other. It saddens you that he’s forcing himself to relive it for the sake of you and Tommy. 

"I’ve dealt with my grief, moved on. Let me help you with yours." Warm fingers wrap around yours. Befuddled, you blink at him. When did he get up, and inch so close to you? You must have spaced out. Again. "For him at least."

His head dips in the direction of the dim living room, where your son is still hiding. It occurs to you that the curtains should probably be drawn open by now. You used to do it first thing in the morning. It’s something you fail to notice since it happened, the difference between light and dark, night and day.

Time is a hazy concept now. Each day is as cold and dull and interminable as the next. 

"Have you given any thought to my other offer?"

Startled, you gape at him. You didn’t think he’d bring it up again. You thought it was a fanciful impulse he’d abandon quickly. Rich people have them all the time.

"That…" Your head shakes as you pry your hand out of his. "Our whole lives are here, Mr. Wayne, always have been."

"The Narrows aren’t safe."

You unleash a dry chuckle. "Is anywhere safe? I heard the Joker crashed your fundraiser the other day."

It astonishes you when a slight smile pulls his thin lips. Bruce never smiles, or laughs, or jokes. Sadness always clings to him, etched in the very way he moves about a room.

"Touché." His coat grazes your arm when he bends closer. The breath hangs in your lungs as his smell floats around you. "Wayne Manor has one of the best private security systems in the world," he emphasizes. "It’s a fortress. Impossible to break in. I could protect both of you there."

Clearing your throat, you step back a little. 

"I can’t accept that, Mr. Wayne." You give him a gentle smile. "Besides, what can you do for us that the police can’t? Tommy and I will be fine." Taking a look at your watch, you scowl, "I actually have to drive him to school." 

He nods, silent as you escort him back to the door. Your mouth opens to say goodbye when he interrupts you suddenly. 

"Are you ever angry at him?"

You tilt your head in puzzlement. "Angry at who?"

His jaw clenches. 

"The Batman. He couldn’t save your husband." His eyes search yours, his expression impossible to read. "He failed."

"Failed?" You fold your arms, pangs of hurt needling at your chest. "Mr. Wayne, I miss him everyday. So so much. And I won’t lie, things have been challenging." Certainty vibrates in your tone. "But Batman saved me and my son. Thanks to him, my baby isn’t an orphan, and I still have my precious boy. That’s not a failure to me. That’s a miracle."

He examines you for an unnerving stretch of time before another smile blooms on his face.

"I won’t stop asking."

A laugh burst out of you, more genuine this time.

"And my answer will remain the same." You give his arm a furtive squeeze, a little stunned by how solid he feels under your palm. "Still, I appreciate your concern…Bruce."

You know it’s silly, imagining you’re being watched. You are nothing, insignificant, just another working class single mom trying to make ends meet. Nothing about you stands out. You’re not special.

Yet you can’t shake it. The faint brush of a shadow looming over you. It starts the first time you visit your departed husband’s tombstone. A whisper along your back that has you whirl around in fright. 

When you look around, the cemetery’s always empty besides other grievers. You grip your neck and frown, wondering if you have finally gone insane. They say there’s something in Gotham’s water that may drag its residents in a slow descent into madness. Courtesy of one clown prince of crime. You never believed the rumors, but now you’re not so sure.

Paranoia creeps at the edges of your mind.

It happens more than once. You visit your husband’s tombstone less often. It’s torture. You miss telling him about your day, about Tommy, about all the things he’s missing out on by not being here. You miss him. Visiting him made it a bit more bearable. Now you don’t even have that.

"Corporate wants to have a talk with you."

You lift your head, startled by Margaret’s sharp voice. She works in the cubicle next to yours and nurses the annoying habit of tapping her pen against her wooden desk too loudly. 

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. 

"Why? Did I do something wrong?"

She sighs, already waving a dismissive hand at you and rejoining her cubicle. 

"Just go upstairs. Fifty-second floor," she says, plopping back down into her chair and beginning to type again. 

Unenthusiastically, you rise from the chair.

Anxious energy bounces through you during your time in the elevator. You punch the button to the highest floor as a long, placating inhale drags through your lungs. 

You can do this. This has never happened in your six years of working for this company. It must be a mistake, a trivial request. You're diligent, always hand in your work on time, you never complain. You will be fine. 

You step into the massive office on quaking feet, your stomach growing heavier as you approach your boss’ desk.

Despite the calming words you keep repeating to yourself, a frightful inkling tickles your spine. 

And when your boss finally speaks, your already rickety balance shatters even more. 

"Look, you’re a great worker with a perfect track record. Unfortunately due to a change in ownership, we’re downsizing at the moment…"

"Mom. Are you o-okay?" Tommy asks, squeezing your hand. 

Tossing a cursory glance at your tiny box of meager belongings from the job you were just fired from, you sigh and coax a smile onto your face. You can't cry in front of him. There's been enough of that. 

Still, it stings. Six years. Not a single day of work missed. Not a single report lost or misplaced. Not a single complaint or word out of turn. Yet none of it made a lick of difference. In the end, you were just a number, a superfluous asset. 

A redundancy. 

"Mom?" 

Tommy's worried face is a smudge in your vision. You realize he's cupping your face and his fingers are damp. A watery laugh slips out as you quickly wipe the tears streaming down your cheeks.

You really are a bad mother. 

You buckle his seatbelt and turn the key in the ignition. Eyes peeled on the road, you hone in your focus. Your attention strays frequently these days, but you can't afford a mistake, or another accident. Not with your son in the car with you. 

"I’m great, honey," you chirp falsely. "Let’s just go home. Maybe we’ll even grab some ice cream on the way."

As you near the front of your house, a sensation crawls down your back, uncomfortable and dreadfully familiar. 

For a few seconds, you’re back in the graveyard, surrounded by a discomfort you can’t place.

"Stay in the car, honey," you tell your son, struggling to not let panic govern your tone. 

Uneasiness weighs your ginger steps into the house. Horror tightens your chest when the door opens with a mere nudge. Widening eyes zero in on the center of the door. All six locks were broken, smashed with a viciousness that elicits a series of quivering breaths you can't stop. 

Part of you wonders who would do this, especially as you soak in the mess inside, the absolute disaster. 

But another part of you is keenly aware there's no use in questions. 

This is Gotham. Violence is routine. Cruelty is currency. 

Quelling a sob, you pull out your phone and begin to type a number you never thought you'd call. Glimpses of the things in the house, the furniture, the memories - all shattered and torn now - bleed through your vision. 

Dark intent oozes from the mysterious intruder’s vile, senseless actions.

Don’t try. Don’t attempt to get up, move on. Don’t bother. Don’t hope. 

Your heart doesn't settle, still hammering in your chest when the call picks up. 

"Bruce, I…I’m so sorry. I don’t know who else to call and I…the house, Bruce…"

He doesn't let you finish, interrupting your tearful plea. 

"I’ll be here right away," he says.

"I feel like an idiot."

Bruce’s coffee mug hangs mid-air as he throws you a glance, his thick eyebrows crumpling. 

"Why? You’re doing what’s best for you and your son."

After you called him out of the blue, Bruce came to pick you and Tommy up. Within the hour, both of you were being moved into Wayne Manor. This time, you actually didn’t put up a fight, simply relieved you happen to know a billionaire with a plethora of guest rooms to spare. 

You poke at the scrumptious food on the pretty porcelain plate with the silver spoon. Hunger carves a shallow pit inside you, but you have no desire to eat. Keeping food down has been an issue since it happened. Nothing tastes right; everything is sand in your mouth. Disapproval colors Bruce’s expression when every plate is returned untouched, but you pay it no mind. 

He can’t tell you what to do.

"Yeah, but I turned you down so many times," you say with a grimace, bashfully meeting his gaze.

"Hey, it doesn’t matter," Bruce seizes your hand across the massive dinner table, giving it a gentle squeeze. His fingers are warm and soft. Despite your unease, you try not to flinch. Bruce helped you and Tommy. He’s good, a rarity in a place like Gotham City. No need to read more than there is into his behavior. "You’re here now. Everything will be okay."

"I could have called the police…"

Bruce snorts.

"And hope whichever officer works your case isn’t too busy lining his pockets with bribes to properly work your case?"

Pursing your lips shut, you nod in agreement. The GCPD being a breeding ground for malfeasance and corruption is the worst kept secret in town. It’s well known that every cop is on a criminal’s payroll, if not several. No true justice can ever be served. It’s why Batman building his own and clearing up the streets himself isn’t really frowned upon. 

"First day at a new school. How do you feel?"

Bruce’s unusual cheerful tone startles you. You blink as you watch Tommy enter the dining room. It’s strange seeing your son in a brand new, fancy uniform, but it’s impossible to deny the excitement on his small features. As a result, your spirits lift slightly. 

Hastily, you remove your hand from Bruce’s grasp. You don’t let his deep frown when you do bother you, or the way his hand lingers where yours was. 

"A bit n-nervous," Tommy replies. A bright grin illuminates his face. You smile, getting to your feet to wrap him in a tight hug. 

"It’s gonna be great," you assure, holding his face. 

"You’ll be okay, son. Gotham academy has a very strict policy regarding bullying."

Son. You shudder. Then, you remind yourself Bruce is being there for Tommy, supporting him. He’s gotten him a tutor to help with his speech impediment, he’s pulled strings to facilitate a scholarship so he could attend Gotham Academy. He’s done nothing wrong. You’re just paranoid, raw. Sadness warps the way the world looks. 

Tommy peers at Bruce, reciting the words you told him to say. 

"Thank y-you for the opportunity, Mr. W-Wayne."

"Still applying for jobs?"

Bruce’s gravelly timbre tears you from your musings. You stop poring over your application forms, a confusion frown adorning your brow as your gaze finds his. 

"I don’t understand. I’ve applied everywhere," you lament getting up from the desk in the corner of the palatial, comfortable room Bruce allowed you to stay in. "My resume speaks for itself. But they never have anything for me."

It’s been a few weeks of staying in the manor now. While the vast space and luxurious surroundings aren’t unpleasant, you hate the idea of relying on your host’s seemingly infinite supply of generosity to survive. You must find a job and a new place eventually, and stop being a burden on Bruce.

Thoughts appear to crowd Bruce’s mind as he remains quiet, studying you. Slowly, he approaches you. His large hands land on your shoulders.

"I’m sorry. But…maybe it’s not so bad."

"Not so bad?"

"That way you can focus on Thomas. He needs you more than anyone right now."

"True, but I have to provide-"

Firm fingers rub and down your arms, a subtle smile unfurling on Bruce’s thin lips. 

"No, you don’t. You two can stay here as long as you need."

You shake your head. It’d be unwise, reckless. 

A cautious admission exits your lips. 

"I don’t want to abuse your generosity, Bruce."

His fingers squeeze you tighter, pressing into your skin. The almost intimate touch stuns you and your breathing slows, the intensity in his gaze drawing you in. 

"You’re not. It’s been a while since the manor has felt this warm. You’re the one doing me a favor."

"Can I at least make myself useful? Cook? Clean? Anything, really. I’m going a little stir crazy to be honest."

Bruce hums, his eyes never leaving yours, "I have staff for this, whom Alfred oversees."

"I feel so useless."

"You’re not useless."

The vehemence with which he replies edges on ire.

"I can’t get past it. I want to but…"

When big, muscular arms wrap around you, burying you in a warm embrace, you hardly find it in you to resist. You’re in sore need of comfort and Bruce is there, so willing to give it. 

His chin rests atop your head as he massages your back, whispering softly,

"You’ll get there. I promise. Grief isn’t a steady road. It’s a slow path with many bumps along the way. At first, you think the hurt will shatter you inside, forever… but it just takes time to put the pieces back together." Rogue tears escape the confine of your lashes but Bruce doesn’t seem to care you’re soaking his shirt. His lulling words soothe your distress. "The pain will not last. Brighter days will come."

"How do you know?"

Hands sweep over your back as he reveals,

"Because they have for me." He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. You feel hot air on your scalp. "I only knew the night, then one day a light pierced through the darkness."

After uttering these words, Bruce’s arms feel tighter around you.

Settling into a routine is easy enough. As Bruce won’t let you take over housekeeping duties, you remain busy by reading and doing some light gardening. In the past few weeks, you've come to learn the greenhouse on the estate has been criminally neglected. Removing all wilted flowers from their pots and planting new seeds in hope of seeing them grow naturally became the new project occupying most of your time. 

Bruce has been very encouraging, which you’re thankful for. The search for a new job has been pitifully fruitless. The distraction had been welcome. 

But your fragile peace is tested one day, when you return from the gardens and find Bruce and Tommy trading blows in the wide living room. Terror twists your gut as the clamor of the staffs slamming into each other reaches you. 

Tommy’s little face is wrinkled in concentration as he parries every strike. It’s clear Bruce is going easy on him, but you’re profoundly alarmed by what you’re witnessing.

"What’s going on here?" you curtly inquire, removing the gardening gloves as you inch closer to the scene. They immediately stop, both shocked to see you appear so angry. 

An apology creeps on Bruce’s handsome face as he puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

"I’m just teaching him a few techniques to defend himself…"

You cross your arms.

"Bruce, I don’t want my son to learn violence."

"It’s not violence. It’s self-defence."

"Still…"

Shaking your head, you grab Tommy’s hand, dead set on dragging him away from Bruce’s antics. Your son’s resistance doesn’t deter you but your host’s calm words make you freeze in your steps.

"It helps with his confidence. He’s stuttering less and less."

You pivot, uncertainty seeping in your staggering stance. Your gaze narrows, traveling from your son’s proud grin to Bruce’s unreadable expression. 

"I’m just not sure," you mutter. 

The Bo staff is still in Bruce’s hands as he closes the distance and explains patiently, 

"Learning autonomy, discipline, self-control…it helped me when I was young." He peers down at Tommy with a kind smile, almost fatherly in nature. "I’m teaching him to not be a victim, to not be scared." He slants his head, his attention corralling you again. "I know what it was like after. The powerlessness. I want him to get better, like I did…Feel safe, in control."

"Mom, please?"

"Tommy, I don’t think-"

While his logic is sound, violence took so much from you. You don’t want it being a part of your son’s life in any way. 

You look down as your sleeve is being pulled. Tommy tosses you a pleading gaze, one that tugs at your heartstrings. 

"I want to continue, mom. I don’t want to give up."

Your mouth drops. He didn’t stumble through any of the words. Even if the tutor has helped with his speech, it is the first time you’ve heard your son speak without a stutter since the accident. 

A sigh rolls from your tongue as you peer at Bruce sternly.

"Just keep him safe. And promise me, no dangerous moves."

Your son’s your everything. You don’t want him hurt, but you also don’t want him to be scared of the world. Tommy should live a fulfilling life, unhindered by past trauma. As much as you loathe it, if sparring sessions with Bruce help, you can’t get in the way of them. 

Bruce beams at you.

"Of course. I’ll always protect him. You can trust me."

You nod. After all, what could possibly go wrong from the safety of the manor’s walls? It’s not like Tommy will start prowling the streets of Gotham like those nutjobs dressed as bats, birds or cats. 

"Sorry to intrude."

A gasp of awe echoes in the room as you register Bruce’s presence by the door. Dressed in his usual dark attire, he looks perkier than usual, a small smile lifting his mouth at the sight of you sitting on the bed. 

"It’s your house," you simply reply, flipping the book and placing it over the pillow. 

"Yours too."

You don’t know how to respond to that. Once again, you were lost in the fog of your thoughts. He sits on the bed and you squirm a little, forcing a cheerful smile on your features. 

"I…did you need something from me, Bruce?"

There’s a pink tinge to his face as he scratches the back of his neck, clearing his throat. 

"There’s a charity gala tonight, it’s an annual event that my father championed, and his father before him…"

"And his father’s father?" you jest.

Bruce chuckles. 

"Something like that."

"What’s the cause?"

His smile grows. 

"Rebuilding this orphanage that caught fire a few years ago. I also plan on making it a safer, happier place for the kids. I thought maybe…you could even help me. I’d pay you, of course."

While awaiting a response, his gaze clings to yours. Astonishment slithers through you. It’s unexpected. But how can you refuse when finding a new job has been much tougher than you realized it’d be? Besides, it sounds like such exciting work, much more rewarding and meaningful than your tedious office job.

"I’d love that," you belatedly answer. "Thank you, Bruce."

His fingers drum over the sheets as he swallows. 

"Thing is, there’ll be some bigwig donors at the gala. I think they’ll love to know where their money will go, who will make sure it’s put to good use."

You nod in understanding. 

"It’ll look better if I’m here."

"I also don’t have a date."

His pointed, ponderous stare makes your insides wrench oddly. 

You try to brush off his offer with a light joke.

"Doesn’t Bruce Wayne always have a thousand women to pick from?" 

"None of them are you."

Your jaw nearly drops.

"I don't have a dress."

He ignores your last ditch effort to turn him down.

"It’s taken care of."

Words are amiss to express the sheer bewilderment blazing through you when a rack of clothes is brought inside your room by Alfred. There’s every color and every style. The possibilities are beyond vertiginous. 

"Take whichever you like. Every single one if you want," Bruce mutters, leaning in closer than ever before. His lips ghost over your earshell, gone before you can process his breath on your temple. "Everything you want, you can have, I promise."

'Out of place' cannot begin to describe how you feel in the overly expensive red dress amidst Gotham City’s elite. 

It’s another universe, surreal and unattainable. Until now.

Many puzzled eyes prickled your skin when you entered the venue on Bruce’s arm. 

Looking strikingly handsome in his suit, he proudly introduced you as his date, and now partner in his new endeavor. 

Champagne flows and upbeat piano notes fill the place, mingling with idle party chatter. Being surrounded by this many people spins your head a little. It’s been so long. You thought you were ready. Now you’re not so sure. 

"Bruce, I need to find a bathroom," you apologetically say, extricating yourself from his grasp.

Truly, you need air, space, but it’s best to keep that detail to yourself. You’re suffocated by the crowd, the tight dress, but specifically…by Bruce. His unrelenting touch. His unwavering focus. His inescapable presence.

The brightness of his face dims. "Can it wait? I wanted to introduce you to Harvey. He’s an old friend…"

Conjuring another smile takes painstaking effort. Your face hurts as your head throbs.

"I won’t be long." It’ll be easier to leave if you promise to come back. He gives his assent with a dip of his head. 

Hastily, you stride through the throng of people, cringing as you bump into several bodies. You’re a little tipsy, you find out, having emptied more flutes of champagne than you thought. 

"...and if Wayne Enterprises hadn’t purchased Ace Pharmaceuticals and made it go public…"

Hurried steps halt as you catch the tail end of a conversation that makes your pulse pick up in speed. You’re not the kind to eavesdrop, but Ace Pharmaceuticals is the company you worked at for all these years, the one you were fired from a few weeks ago. Wayne Enterprises? As in…Bruce Wayne.

There’s no forethought or care for decorum as you get in the face of the woman who spoke and bluntly inquire,

"When did Wayne Enterprises buy the company?"

Disbelief distorts her features as she scowls at you. 

"I…"

"Answer me!" you urge, as people gasp around you. 

"F-Five to six weeks ago, I think."

The world falls out of orbit around you, the room swaying in your vision. Bile rises and a headache, sudden and vicious, pounds away at your skull. 

You back away from the woman. Puffs of air rush from your mouth as your brain strains to connect obvious dots. How could you be that naive, stupid? 

Fucking stupid.

The timeframe of the merger matches when you were fired, when the suspicious break-in occurred. It was all so convenient, and you never pondered on it too deeply, too ensconced in bereavement. 

Bruce has been engineering your doom this entire time and you never knew. 

"Hey, are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out."

When the source of all your troubles appears, false concern etched on his features, your blood boils.

"Get away from me!" you shout, shoving him off you before dashing towards the exit. 

A series of hallways, each more long and dizzying than the last, greets you. There’s no chance to escape very far however, as your wrist is snatched and you're dragged into an empty room by a grip made of steel.

While you bang on his chest and scream, Bruce is frighteningly serene. 

His palm covers your mouth, muffling your frantic yelling. 

"Hey, hey. Look at me," he whispers, inspecting your face. "What’s going on? Everything was going so well-"

"For you!" you screech under his hand.

He carefully removes his fingers, his brow furrowing. 

"What are you talking about?"

His pretense expands the well of fury overflowing your insides.

"I know everything, Bruce," you hiss, squinting at him.

"I don’t know-"

When you go for a slap, he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head.

Tears spill over your cheeks as you fervently chastise him.

"You don’t know? Is this what rich people do? They get so bored, they mess with normal people’s lives. You got me fired! The break-in…it was you, wasn’t it? How dare you? I’m not a toy for you to-"

Heated accusations are smothered by the firm press of his lips on yours. You moan against his mouth as he swallows your protests, forcing his tongue inside, stealing your taste and humming in satisfaction. He only stops when you bite his bottom lip, staining it crimson.

Shivers dance through you as you stagger in the dismay of the abrupt kiss. Bruce gulps in a wide lungful of air, his tongue darting out to wipe the blood on his lip. 

"I know you’re not a toy," he murmurs, cradling your face. His gaze softens, a sickening caress on your skin. "You’re much more than that."

"I don’t…feel that way for you, Bruce," you sob, your mouth quaking. "I’m still mourning my husband."

There’s only hope in his eyes, certainty. Delusion. 

His thumbs press along your jaw.

"It will pass. And you’ll learn to love me, I know it." As you shake your head, tears landing on your dress, a cloth is suddenly draped over your mouth. A cloying scent surrounds you as your eyes find Bruce’s. Through your fading senses, the muted echo of his voice fills your head. 

"I think it’s time to go home. You’re not well. You need to rest."

The ascent back to consciousness is unpleasant. Your skull rings with pain. Cotton coats your tongue. Your senses are hazy.

And last but not least…When you attempt to move, you find out you are bound to a bedpost, thick ropes tying your wrists above your head. As you soak in the somber hues of the decor, the practical furniture, you realize the place strikes no familiarity. This isn’t your room.

Again, you twist your hands to wiggle out of the restraints. You begin to shake as you fail to get free.

"Don’t worry. It’s just a precaution so you don’t hurt yourself. Better safe than sorry, right?" 

Your breath hitches as Bruce’s voice sinks through your confusion. Harsh awakening comes. You recall everything and venom bursts from your tongue. 

"You’re insane!"

Bruce sighs, crawling over the sheets until he’s looming over you. Eyes bulging, you peer up at him as he strokes your cheek. 

"No… I love you."

It’s unsettling, how tranquil he sounds, a peculiar contrast to his actions. 

"This isn’t love!"

A shadow flickers in his eyes. You tremble. Something shifts in the air, a heaviness settling in your lungs. 

Bruce’s scorching breath rolls over your face.

"I’ve been so patient with you, but I think now I just have to show you." He begins to tear at your clothes, ignoring your sobs and screams. "What we can have…" He begins to trail heat over your skin, with his mouth, with his hands. You keen against the sheets as his teeth graze your naked skin. Your pleas are met with kisses. Your disdain withers in the throes of his desire. Agonized, you’re powerless as your body bends in unwilling pleasure. "What we can be…"

"Please…" you wail. 

Bruce sheds his clothes too, baring rippling muscles streaked with silver scars. Your stomach clenches at the sight. 

He sinks inside you with a satisfied groan, as if he rehearsed the moment, as if all patience fizzled out in an instant. 

You cry out from the sudden stretch. You haven’t been touched in that way in so long, you blink, trapped in befuddling daze. A mix of disgust and awful delight coalesce in your belly. 

For a few minutes, he remains still inside you, basking in the sensation of your silky warmth around him, soft words of awe dropping from his tongue. 

Soon, he sets a wicked pace with his hips and gargled nonsense pours from your mouth. The sting of him doesn’t wither but you loathe how tingles of heady bliss bloom from your core, spreading treacherously through your body. 

His mouth curls victoriously against your shoulder. 

"Are you begging me to stop…or continue? It’s really confusing, honey." He nips your skin as you whine, licking the bite mark afterward. He rasps against your ear, spearing you with more vigor. "Nevermind. The way you’re squeezing my cock…tells me everything I need to know."

Shame burns deep in the pit of your stomach, carving a hole you wish you could disappear in. 

It’s impossible to ignore how your pussy grips him with a desperation nearly matching his own, your body yielding to the primal needs it was denied. To your horror, slickness flows from your core and whimpers rip from your throat. The restraints chafe the raw skin of your wrists as you squirm beneath Bruce, your body bouncing with his devilish rhythm. 

Your lip wobbles as grief bleeds inside you, a fresh wound barely scabbed over, ripping open, again and again. And again. 

It’s a betrayal you didn’t choose, but a betrayal still. An insult to his memory.

Rivers of salt flood your vision. 

Your eyes rise to the ceiling but Bruce seizes your chin, drawing your attention back to him.

"I’ll fuck the memory of him out of you," he promises, his voice hoarse with lust and his eyes dark with desire. He steals your lips in a possessive, ravenous kiss. His forehead rests on yours when he comes up for air. Determination radiates from every forceful thrust along your aching walls. "Make sure his name fades, and there’s only mine."

"Honey, you shouldn't be on your feet."

Bruce rushes to you as you waddle blindly in the hallway. The sounds of weapons clashing roused you from your sleep. 

Hearing them practice always worries you.

A groan leaves you as you lean against him, wincing at the ache in the soles of your feet. 

"I wanted to watch him train. How’s it going?" you mutter, hand resting on your gigantic bump.

Pregnancy’s just as awful as you remember. You missed none of it. Not the sickness, or discomfort, or ache in your joints. It’s why you swore to yourself Tommy would be your only and last. But every right to your own body was stolen months ago. 

Bruce’s wide hand covers yours as he smiles.

"Thomas is a quick study. He’s bright and attentive. I’m sure he gets that from you."

The internal grimace warps into a feeble smile. You don’t bother correcting him on your son’s name once more. He already took so much without asking. What’s one more thing? What’s a name really?

You are exhausted. Fighting Bruce is draining. Remnants of rebellion prevail despite him fucking you into submission every time you step out of line.

But change hovers in the air. Maybe it’s the life growing inside you, making you softer, meeker, protective.

Resolve is waning. Stubborness is withering. 

Soon, you’ll be his obedient doll, just like he’s always wanted. 

"We should go outside. It’s nice and sunny. I’ll have the maid bring refreshments," Bruce chimes. He sounds infuriatingly happy. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s in heaven while you’re in hell. 

"Have you eaten today?"

The abrupt question unnerves you. When did you eat last? The memory’s fuzzy but the very idea of food down your throat irks you. 

"I’m not hungry."

Bruce’s strong arm tightens around your waist. 

"You’re eating for two," he upbraids, a warning lacing his heated tone. 

He bends over your ear, mumbling lowly,

"Honey, you need to properly feed yourself. It’s one of the rules, remember?" Every word he utters next is a vicious stab through your heart. "If you can’t be a good girl, I’ll send Thomas to boarding school. You won’t see him for years. Would you like that?"

You peer up at him with a bright smile, so large your face hurts. 

"I think I’ll eat outside. I’m feeling a bit peckish actually."

"Great idea," he hums, pleased with your answer. As a maid walks by, Bruce calls out to her. "Greta. Prepare a plate for Mrs Wayne. Only her favorites."

His soft gaze settles on you and your gut turns. He escorts you outside. The porch is bathed in warm sunlight and a gentle breeze sweeps through the gardens. He helps you in the plush armchair installed there just for you.

"I hate you," you whisper, glancing sharp daggers at him. 

Instantly, you’re better, your sore limbs dipping in the heavenly cotton. Bruce hunkers in front of you and massages your swollen feet as you lean back in the chair. He plants a butterfly kiss on your foot and you resist the urge to kick him in his chiseled jaw.

He’s the reason you’re in such pain. He’s the reason you’re trapped here. A piece of paper and forged signature do not change the fact that he is your jailor, not your husband. Wayne Manor, a fortress indeed, your very own prison.

"And I love you," he coos, clasping your hand to drop a long kiss on the back of it. Sparkling blue eyes rise to yours adoringly. "You look beautiful and I’m so proud of you, honey."

Tommy’s joyful voice breaks the twisted intimacy of the moment. 

He shows you moves with his wooden staff, swinging it around with ease. He’s so fast you can barely follow him with your tired eyes. 

"Mom, I’m getting better! I even mastered that move. See?"

There’s a glint of pride in his gaze. He’s so happy, almost back to normal. It’s all you ever wished for him. You just never imagined the price would be so hefty. 

"Good lord. That’s…amazing," you say, beaming at him. 

Bruce rises to his feet. Pride and fondness mingle on his features as he considers both you and Tommy. 

Knuckles slowly drag over the apple of your cheek. 

"Like I said, honey, your boy truly is a wonder."

My girl is strong rejecting him.. I would have folded right there and then.. 

Edit done by @aemondsvhagar for my fanfic

The Fool and the Dragon

Aemond Targaryen/Original Character - Faune Follard

“You will not marry me.” Faune said dismally, her emotions were starting to get the better of her.

“I want to, but I was told not to.” Aemond swore to her. He lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed her palm desperately. “Be my paramour. I’ll give you children. I won’t love whatever wife they give me. She will not be you. I will not love any children she provides me, for they will not be yours.”

damn Aemond... You started off so good..

The Adopted Princess| Dark! Targaryen and Velaryon Boys x Reader (Aegon II, Aemond, Jacaerys, Lucerys) V

"Your father and I going to miss you so much, my dear" Rhaenyra says as she and Laenor, both, pull you into a tight hug.

"Me too"

You pull away from them, your lips quivering as you try to stop yourself from crying.

However, when Jacaerys and Lucerys hug you, that's when you break down.

"That's not fair, you are supposed to be my wife, not his, I would treat you much better than Aemond" Jacaerys exclaims angrily.

"It is all my fault, (Y/n), please don't leave!" Lucerys cries out, feeling guilty that he is the reason why you are leaving them.

"I believe the king already arranged the whole thing before the fight, so don't blame yourself, Luke" you assure him.

"But it is true, we dragged you into this fight and you even got hurt because of us" Rhaena exclaims. 

"And Aemond is cruel, and he might treat you badly" Baela adds with a sad tone.

You stay silent, wanting to say that Aemond has been treating you kindly and you two were exchanging letters but decided against it.

Just because he is your friend and future husband, it doesn't excuse him from calling your brother 'bastards' and also claiming Vhagar, even though the dragon is the one who chose her rider.

"If he ever upsets you, I will shove my sword into his good eye" Daemon states all of a sudden, smirking at you.

You smile at his overprotectiveness, nevertheless, you still can't believe that the rough prince is your grandfather.

"I wonder why my father didn't allow you to raise me" you inquire.

"Because he is chaotic," Rhaenyra says, grinning at her uncle.

"But, aren't all dragons chaotic though?" you point out playfully, easing up a bit.

Daemon stares at you, realizing how you have his son's smile and playful attitude.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but the ship is ready to departure"

Alicent says after walking up to you and your family like she didn't try to poke out Luke's eye the other day.

"I'm ready to leave, your highness," you say timidly, which made the queen smile, and link her arm with yours.

"Oh dear, no need for formality, just call me mother" Alicent insists, making Rhaenyra glare at her angrily.

While you and the queen ascend the ship, Lucerys notices Aemond smirk down at him and Jacaerys from the ship, mocking them.

As if he is trying to say, that 'you might have taken my eye out, but I claimed Vhagar and (Y/n)'

However, Aemond doesn't realize that the real danger is his older brother.

𑁍𑁍❀𑁍𑁍

You stare down at the water, tears still wet on your cheeks while anxiety is eating at you in slow motion.

Even though the queen showed good intentions toward you, yet, you still feel afraid, after all, you don't have anyone by your side in King's landing if something would happen.

Yes, the king promised your mother and grandfather to keep you safe, something which Daemon laughed at, due to the king's declining health.

If something would ever happen between you and Aemond, let's say a fight for example, who would stand by your side?

No one, absolutely no one.

"Princess?"

You quickly turn around to face Larys Strong, surprised to even see him.

That man never approached you, sometimes you would catch him inspecting you just like he does with everyone, but he never spoke to you. 

"Lord Larys," you say, softly, trying to look anywhere so he doesn't see your red-shot eyes.

"It saddens me to see you crying my princess," the cunning man says, offering you a handkerchief to wipe your tears. 

You take it from him, smiling in gratitude at his kind gesture.

"May I know what worries you, princess?" Larys inquires, standing beside you.

"I just feel like I'm a bargain of peace in this arranged marriage" you confess.

"Oh, I don't think you should think of it in this way, my dear, it will benefit you greatly" you frown in confusion.

"How would it benefit me?"

Before Larys could answer you, Aegon storms up to you.

"There you are, I have been searching everywhere for you..." Aegon stops when he sees the new lord of Harrenhal.

"Greetings, Lord Strong" the Targaryen prince greets the man with a spiteful tone at his instruction with you.

"My prince" Larys greets him back, bowing his head a bit before Aegon turns his attention fully towards you.

"You need to rest, this trip will be long and tiring, and your stupid dragon almost bit my finger off" you roll your eyes at him.

"That's because Quicksilver hates arrogant brats" you mumble, rushing away before Aegon asks you what you just said.

Aegon turns to Lary and sneers at him.

"Stay away from her, you fucking creep"

With that, Aegon follows after you, leaving him standing alone.

Larys would do anything but stay away from you, that's for sure.

After all, your father was a dear friend of his.

𑁍𑁍❀𑁍𑁍

"What are you doing here, Aemond?" You question the said boy, looking at him sleepy.

"I came here to apologize about what I did to you the other day, I had no right" your gaze softens at his apology.

"You should also apologize to Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena when you meet them again" Aemond scoffs at this sentence.

"They started it, they attacked me first because Vhagar accepted me as her new rider" the silver-haired boy defends himself.

"You called my brothers bastards" Aemond chuckles.

"Aren't they though?" you narrow your eyes at him.

"No, they are not-" he stops you.

"Yes, they are, and if you are to become my wife, then you must stand by my side and support my views"

You stay silent, not knowing what to say.

It's true, that once a woman gets married into her husband's family, she is expected to support her husband even against her own family. 

Aemond grabs your hands into his warm, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"My family is now your family, you have to support Aegon's claim to the throne, by doing that, you are doing your duty"

You gulp, coming to realize the fact that Aemond has changed.

"And if I don't?" 

His grasp tightens on your hands, his stare becoming colder.

"Then I will force you to do your duty"

Taglist:

Honestly, too many people to tag, and I just needed to update quickly, sorry 🥺

I'm cheering, laughing, popping bottles

sometimes, I hate tumblr.

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”