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𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐬 — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞.

War was an ugly thing — cruel, like rust upon a blade, threatening to disintegrate all within its path, or a festering plague, leaving destruction in its wake. Such exposure to all of its callousness had startled you, and yet, it did not fracture your pious demeanor.

Wed to Robb Stark in the midst of grueling chaos was something that you hadn’t envisioned for yourself; once caught within a web of luxury, now condemned to a battlefield.

Marriages of convenience were commonplace, with your status and family offering the Stark cause a wealth of resources. With what time you had at his side, Robb did not treat you unkindly — he was often pensive, agitated, brusque — but that was no fault of your own.

As you withdrew from your own family and assimilated into his own, you had realized that he deserved your compassion now, more than ever. The death of his father was still evergreen, like a fresh wound that was slow to heal.

It was effortless for you to sympathize, having lost your own father rather recently, something that did not feel entirely real. A sliver of your being wondered about your siblings — how they fared, if they truly missed you.

According to the innumerable rumors that had reached your ears, you were one of the only Baratheons sired who did not possess the blood of a bastard.

It left you with this chasm, gnawing away at your very soul — your family was not your family, your father slain, gored down by a wild boar, your uncles clawing at the throat of one another. Your Mother, a figure who had both inspired fear and fury, placing your monstrous sibling upon the Iron Throne.

Loneliness was a constant companion, save for that of your lord-husband, who was often away fighting his own battles. Gaining mastery over your own discontent, you made your loyalty to Robb known whenever you could, be it through softspoken whispers or the merit of action.

This night, however, was different; the dew-laden gale had quieted, the sting of dusk’s chill subdued to make way for a temperate evening. Having filled your needy lungs with enough fresh air, you returned to your shared tent, guards posted outside, bearing shields with direwolf sigils.

Poised beside the planning table, Robb sat firmly within a wooden seat, fist tucked beneath his bearded chin, auburn brows furrowed together. Exuding a poised concentration, you did not break his focus, silently striding toward your makeshift vanity.

Ripples of frustration wafted from him, nearly palpable as you reached for your nightgown. He hadn’t moved, picking apart the arrangement of wooden pieces across a board — his hand would soon be dealt.

In the spiritedness of his youth, Robb was both tenacious and methodical, born for the taxing role of leadership. With the title of King of the North weighing down upon him, there were expectations — men counting on him, moves to be made. He did not wish to look weak.

Clutching the silken fabric between your fingers, you quietly approached him where he sat, wanting to inquire about his thoughts. An awkward tension still lingered around the fringes of your blossoming bond — a bond that had moved slowly, but had not yet withered away.

“What is it you seek?” The first to fracture the tenuous silence, you watched as Robb exhaled; steely, resolute. Your untrained eyes were not accustomed to that of a battlefield, but you knew enough to understand the current position.

Eerily quiet, Robb’s gaze narrowed upon the lion figureheads that swarmed The Trident, measuring his own forces against that of Tywin’s. He had lost track of time, wasting away at this very table, attempting to see something that simply wasn’t there.

At last, his hand shifted from his chin to the table, clenching into a closed fist, posture coiled with a bristling irritation. It was not directed at you; merely the situation he found himself in. “I wish that I knew.” He confessed, Northern timbre thick with frustration.

Timidity had not yet gripped you, and you allowed your hand to ghost above his shoulder, clad in leather. Your hold was tender and yet so distant, as if you were afraid of leaning into it fully.

Robb sighed, allowing a sliver of tension to unfurl from his muscles when you graced him with your touch. Cerulean hues flickered from the war table to your hand; as delicate as that of bellflower that grew along the earthy banks of the Trident.

Reaching for you, calloused digits tenderly wrapped around your hand, thumb tracing over the soft ridges of your knuckles. “Forgive me for my absence, my Lady,” Robb did not want there to be some bridge between you — you were undeserving of it. “It is not a slight against you.”

A pang of warmth slithered across your body, heating your features as you squeezed his hand, like velvet against roughened leather. “I did not think it was,” You reassured, voice as sweet as summertime. “You are fighting a war.”

A brief scoff erupted from his throat, one of disdain. “If I do not plan ahead, then I will be losing a war instead of fighting one.” Robb murmured, unable to rid himself of his mounting agitation. He did not enjoy dragging this into your marriage, but it was unavoidable.

Perhaps you’d grown curious, allowing your gaze to drift over him, over his strong, comely features; the thick curls of a dark auburn, visage shadowed by a beard, hues like that of a clear brook. He was handsome to you — moreso like this.

“You underestimate your ability as a tactician,” Lips twitched into a comforting smile, hoping to offer him some brief reprieve. “The answer will make itself known to you. The longer you sit and toil over this table, you will drive yourself mad.”

A threadbare smirk had ghosted over his features, a fleeting gesture that seemed to linger for longer than expected. Appreciative of your sage advice, Robb drew your hand closer, lips pressing against the skin of your knuckles.

“It can rest until dawn.” Robb concurred, albeit reluctantly. As much as he desired to strategize here and now, the lack of clear answers had ruffled him to no end. He turned slightly within the chair, wood groaning beneath him as he angled himself away from the table.

Instead, the sight before him now was far more appealing than that of any parchment or Flayed Men figurines. He found you, standing near him in a gown of buckthorn and ivory, shades that had complimented you nicely.

Robb was fortunate to have you; dutiful, a heart swollen with kindness, and as pious as a septon. Such admirable qualities had only accentuated your beauty, one that far exceeded your rotten kin, the whole of them spoiled, save for you.

It was wrong of him to want you with such ferocity, this innate desire to covet you, keep you tethered to him, but he could not help himself. He had grown rather fond of you — overprotective, perhaps, but such was the duty of a husband.

“Is there anything that I can do to offer some relief? I cannot imagine the weight that you shoulder,” The soothing cadence of your voice had stirred some carnal feeling within him. The relief he sought was of a different sort. “You carry it well.”

A bemused huff of laughter rippled through him, a glint of something peculiar dancing within his gaze. Robb knew that you were paying him a generous compliment, careworn fingers idly caressed over your own, a beat of silence following suit.

It was then that your wandering eyes found the front of his tunic, partially unclasped, revealing a glimpse of his musculature beneath. Even following your stiff consummation, you were still incredibly smitten, as if it were the first time again.

“Your presence is more than enough, I assure you.” There was some partial truth to his words, placating you in the process. He shielded you from the brunt of his desirous thoughts, wanting you terribly, as a man yearned for his wife.

Unconvinced, you let the matter rest, offering him an amiable smile, teeming with a fond warmth as you quietly admired him. In the face of such callous adversity, Robb stood above it all — those who underestimated him would surely regret it, you suspected.

As his stare returned to meet yours, you nearly buckled at the intensity of it, as if he had dared to set you ablaze through eyes alone. A hitch formed within your throat, lips parting as he planted another kiss to your knuckles.

“You are beautiful,” Robb murmured, beard prickling against your wrist as he noted your sheepish countenance. It was easy to ensnare you so, a simple task, and he reveled in it. You were a delight, one that illuminated the hazy murk of his current state. “My wife.”

Words turned to ash upon your tongue, unable to think of some deflecting response, averting your gaze. His cadence had roused some inkling of fire within you, and addressing you as wife only served to fan this flame.

Rising from the chair, Robb’s stature began to loom above you, cerulean hues glistening with the onslaught of desire. His affection for you had steadily grown over the past few moons, and now, it seemed uncontrollable — rampant, even.

“Robb.” His name caught within your throat, feeling the plane of his musculature press snugly against your own body. Your sweetness was beguiling to him, the doe-like look permeating your eyes.

Strong palms cupped your hips through the silken plane of fabric that clung to you, his demeanor melding into something stoic, instead. There was a sliver of hesitancy present, as if he were waiting for you to consent before continuing.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you felt his hand lift, sweeping your tresses aside, exposing the slender expanse of your throat to him. “I’ve missed your warmth.” Robb’s husky confession nearly makes your bones lurch, stomach churning with an intense want.

In the midst of such tumultuous chaos, crushed beneath the weight of a senseless war, Robb found himself needing you more than ever. There was a respite he found within you, a sanctuary that offered him solace from heavy responsibilities.

Admittedly, you had grown to crave him in ways you never thought possible, and this only seemed to stoke the flames. Frustration emanated from him, coiled within his broad shoulders, thinly-veiled upon his rugged visage.

“As I’ve missed yours, husband.” Breathless, you watched as Robb’s gaze became shadowed with desire, the hint of a mirthful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You felt his hand knead into the swell of your hip, beseeching you to sit against the edge of the table.

Planting a kiss to your jaw, Robb felt your soft palm move beneath his tunic, drifting toward the exposed skin of his chest. It evoked a gentle growl from him, more wolf than man. “I suppose I’ll have to remedy that.” He uttered, watching as you nodded in agreement.

In a heated surge, his lips found yours, biting with hunger, palms continuing to knead at your flesh over your evening shift. A gasp rippled through you, one of exhilaration as you clamored to reciprocate, arm draping over his shoulder.

The soft brush of his auburn curls swept against your fingertips, prompting your palm to cup the nape of his neck. His lips were a kiss of fire, instilled with a wanton vigor as you reciprocated with your own flurry of desire.

A soft moan bubbled within your throat, skin beginning to crawl with heat as he urged you closer, body molding to his own. Robb craved the saccharine taste of your mouth, craved the innocence and purity that wafted from you, a doe laid bare before the wolf.

One hand curled into the fabric of your gown, beginning to guide the material up, letting it drift along your legs. As if acting upon instinct, your legs began to part, as if involuntarily welcoming him in, accommodating his muscled frame that wedged between.

With an incendiary caress, your hand continued to dance beneath his tunic, urging the leather ties to come undone. A brief huff of excitement tore past his lips, gaze eclipsed by a powerful yearning, and in-turn, he coaxed your gown toward your thighs.

Mouths continued to intertwine; desperate kisses born of a mounting desire, one that had grown into an unbounded flame. Leather fell away from his torso, exposed to the pale muscle, chest covered in a generous layer of dark auburn hair.

Robb allowed one hand to slip against your bare flesh, enticed by the way your breath hitched at the brief sensation. Darkening hues raked over you, laced with possessiveness, ardor — it seemed to swallow you whole.

As his digits sought the coalescing heat between your thighs, you shivered at the caress of cold fingertips, making their way beneath your gown. “Robb.” A sharp gasp inhabited your lungs, piercing your ribs as he withdrew from your lips.

“Does this displease you?” Robb’s cajoling tone held inklings of something sultry, intended to tease you as he held you close. Met with the immediate shake of your head, he fought to withhold a threadbare grin.

“Gods, no,” As if possessed, your hips lurched forward, desperately seeking the friction of his hand. “I—I need you.” Unable to smother your own bristling desire, your hands molded themselves to his broad shoulders, egging him closer.

Lips began to pepper themselves along your neck, teeth nipping at your flesh like that of a keen predator. A moan tumbled from your mouth, knees squeezing incessantly at his hips, able to feel his fingers crawl along your inner thigh.

Akin to tendrils of searing heat, you nearly whined as Robb’s digits found your cunt, ghosting over your petals with a torturous, feather-light caress. He enjoyed watching you gasp and writhe, nails digging crimson crescents into his flesh.

Stringing constant kisses to your throat, his cerulean gaze savored you, this creature of beauty. A breathy whimper left you as he trailed his fingers over your slit, able to feel the nectar that had slicked your nethers.

“Easy.” Robb’s sultry timbre fanned beside your jugular, prompting you to still as his digits dipped between your folds. Each languid caress evoked a shiver from you, heat festering over your flesh.

“Do not torment me, I beg of you.” With a whimpered protest, your nails dug further still, countenance a reflection of exhilaration as he began to sluggishly caress along your cunt. A sly chuckle escaped Robb’s mouth, teeth greedily nipping at your jugular.

Treating you to the rhythmic ministrations of his hand, your hips continued to lurch forward, a string of moans freely leaving your mouth. A calloused hand found its way to your thin shift, seeking to remove it altogether.

Adjusting your position, you swiftly assisted your husband in the unceremonious removal of your garments, allowing the fabric to come billowing away from your form.

A low hum of approval resonated from Robb, whose mouth was voracious, seeking to kiss and suck at your flesh. In unabashed rapture, his hungry gaze raked over your form, mouth continuing to lavish you in strings of heated kisses.

“I cannot stand being away from your side,” As the unexpected confession floated into the slim space between your bodies, Robb tensed, teeth stilling against your collarbone. In the wake of rising sentiments, it was difficult not to vocalize your own wanting. “I need you here.”

Darkened hues set themselves upon you, pitch blues that seemed to sink their teeth into you. His chest swelled with desire, a feeling so overwhelming that he nearly pounced upon you.

Continuing to stroke along your slit, he pressed a kiss to your naked shoulder. “Is that so?” Robb’s cadence invoked some lascivious curiosity within you, one that made your hips jolt. “As my lady commands.”

Mouths delicately searched for one another, embracing in a brazen entanglement. The flame of his kiss left you with naught but ash, and you nearly thanked him for it. Steadying yourself atop the table, your hands reached out, cupping his bearded jaw.

Such heat was fleeting as Robb’s lips delved over your throat, his descent steady as he lavished your flesh in kisses. Hunger danced across your skin, and you felt yourself quake with a surge of desire, the scratch of his beard prickling the valley between your breasts.

A strangled whine slipped past your lips, wooden pieces of the war table clattering behind you as your hand reached backwards. Robb remained unperturbed by this, gaze ravenously admiring your physique, from the velvety skin to your feminine curves.

Down, down; his descent was paved with ardor, allowing to bleed freely from each kiss, aided with the occasional gnaw of his teeth. He worshiped you as he would some goddess, a low growl stirring within his throat as he reached your stomach.

With the table’s lowered height, it gave him an unhindered advantage, strong palms continuing to knead into your thighs. “Beautiful.” Robb murmured, hot breath fanning across your abdomen. You were the envy of all, beauty unmatched in his eyes.

Kneeling before you, a sinner come to utter devious confessions between your thighs, Robb urged you closer, feeling the rake of your fingertips through his crown. Kisses continued to etch themselves into your body, from the swell of your hips to the silky canvas of your inner thighs.

“Robb,” A tremulous moan spilled from your lips, wrought with a burning desperation. Wolfish hues did not leave you as he allowed your legs to rest against his shoulders, head nestled comfortably between. “Robb.”

Nails dug into the parchment beneath your palm, a wisp of air lodged within your throat as your husband sought the heat of your cunt. You very nearly lurched from the table, a strangled whine elicited from you.

With a broad stroke of his tongue, he raked hot embers over your core, hands steadying you, calloused digits pressing into the meat of your haunches. The unexpected surge of pleasure washed over you within an instant.

Anchoring yourself to the table with one hand, the other sought to sink into his crown of auburn curls, nimble digits finding a handful. A low, sonorous growl erupted from the depths of his throat, tongue possessing a fervent desire of its own.

The shadow of his beard scratched against your supple flesh, leaving behind a prickling burn in its wake. You cared little for what mess it would leave, galloping after whatever pleasure Robb provided. Eager lips traced the damp outline of your nethers.

Lurching forward, your hips jolted, urging yourself onto his tongue with a twinge of desperation. His tongue continued to greedily lap at your slit, teasing your entrance before moving to ghost around the pearl of your cunt.

A man starved, Robb consumed you as if he were withering away, enraptured by your myriad of throaty praises and tugs of his curls. Calloused digits kneaded into your pliant flesh, keeping you grounded, shoulders spreading you apart.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, Robb made sure to savor you, letting the flat of his tongue fall heavy across your clit. The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit.

It was ambrosial, your taste; a finest stout, the sweetest of nectars that stained his lips with your perfection. A lascivious hunger swelled within him, an innate, domineering need to possess you, claim you like that of a wolf.

Those shieldbearers that stood diligently outside of his tent were, unfortunately, subjected to the sounds of sensuality inside. He cared little if the whole of the encampment heard, so long as they all knew whom you belonged to.

Robb remained somewhat wordless during this process of pleasuring you, preferring for his ministrations to speak for themselves.

A myriad of delighted moans tore past your lips, eyes pleasantly half-lidded, fingers continuing to rake throughout his auburn curls. You urged him closer, hips rolling into the fervent heat of his mouth, thighs quivering as he treated you to a lap of his tongue.

This barrage of bliss assaulted your body with such intensity, molten heat churning within the pit of your stomach, oozing between your thighs. Robb savored your taste, hands kneading their way along your legs, keeping you firmly rooted in-place.

The tip of his nose brushes along your petals, tongue splitting deeper still, until he vigorously laps at your nethers. Your taste permeates his mouth, a bittersweet ambrosia that draws him into some lovestruck haze.

“Gods, do not stop,” It became some desirous incantation, breathy pleas spilling from your lips, accompanied by his name, a constant upon your tongue. Thighs twitched around him, with the wolf-king rightfully smothered between your legs. “Robb, please!”

A grunt of approval reverberated throughout his chest, the vibration of it felt along your cunt. A thin layer of perspiration began to coalesce against your spine, cooling with the temperate climate. It was then that his tongue began to circle around your pearl, prompting your hips to lurch forward.

Shockwaves of ecstasy rushed through you, flooding throughout your insides like some cascading wave. Keeping you grounded against the table, he greedily lapped at the pearl of your cunt, savoring the string of mewls that escaped your lips.

A coil of taut heat sat firmly within your belly, beginning to unfurl as your Northern husband has his fill of you with an incessant need. Wanton fingers continue to tug against his crown of curls, evoking a sharp groan from within his chest.

Able to feel the first onslaught of your peak, you fought against crying out, attempting to tame your ecstatic whimpers. A sob of delight wracked your throat, body bending to his ministrations, succumbing to pleasure.

Lips pursed around the pearl of your cunt, suckling upon the sensitive clutch of nerves. A sharp gasp penetrated your lungs, like a sudden stab of intensity that made your thighs tremble. With a roll of your hips, Robb intermingled such actions with broad strokes of his tongue.

“Robb!” Gods help you; such ecstasy had been foreign to you for the longest time, and now, it was overwhelming. Strong, veined hands kneaded themselves into the swell of your hips, urging you onto his tongue as you approached your pinnacle.

It was a melody that he would never tire of, the delighted cadence of your voice, tapering off into an amalgamation of praises and moans. Flushed and desperate, Robb felt his cock throb incessantly within his trousers, aching to bury himself within you.

“That’s it, love.” Robb growled, teeth nipping at the supple flesh of your inner thigh, Northern timbre sending shivers up your spine. His tone was husked with desire, shadowed gaze closely following your face.

Buckling beneath the weight of your mounting arousal, your body succumbed, as if a barrier had been obliterated. A surge of heat flooded your insides, pooling between your thighs as you quivered in the aftermath.

Dutiful as ever, Robb’s mouth teased you further, sluggishly lapping at your nectar, a glistening sheen clinging to his chin. The scratch of his beard made for a pleasant contrast, chest heaving as you attempted to catch your breath.

Feather-light kisses etched themselves into your thigh, as your husband slowly began to withdraw. Darkened hues met your gaze, imbued with a rousing hunger that set your bones ablaze.

Despite the ruinous state of the war-table, pieces having been scattered in all directions, Robb only wished to continue. His hands found the plush swell of your hips, guiding you back against his chest, lips pressing to your shoulder.

“Shall I take you here or in our bed, m’lady?” His inquiry was permeated with a thinly-veiled arousal, tone a touch lower than before. The Northern coarseness of it made you shudder in delight, hands finding the nape of his neck.

The leather-clad swell of his cock gently rocked against your nethers, causing a gasp to inhabit your lungs. With his need made evident, your own eagerness demanded that he not be kept waiting. One hand drifted to the ties of his breeches, giving them a brief tug.

“Bed,” As the singular syllable floated from your lips, Robb steered you toward the makeshift mountain of furs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. In the midst of your movement, you untied his trousers, letting them sag upon his hips. “Please.”

It was Robb whose legs had kissed the furs first, palms molding themselves to your curves, hastily kicking out of his breeches. His mouth sought yours, lips colliding in a fervor of teeth and tongue, able to taste remnants of yourself throughout.

Moving backwards, Robb settled onto the bed, taking you with him, strong hands gripping you with such quiet strength. Muscled forearms remained taut, maneuvering you beneath him in the midst of entangled limbs and desperate kisses.

As your back slithered across the plush hide of elk and bear alike, you gazed at your husband, whose rugged features were flushed, swirling with lust. He made himself comfortable between your legs, savoring the sensation of your thighs squeezing at either side of his hips.

Calloused digits immediately seized the plush meat of your thigh, tracing across the silken skin, reveling in your beauty. Robb considered himself fortunate, to wed one as comely as you, with your graciousness and gentle heart.

Bodies molded together, the brush of his chest ghosting across your breasts, the swell of his cock beginning to press against your stomach. The mesmerized spark within your eyes had set his body ablaze, swallowed in the same warmth that had consumed you.

“You’re mine,” Robb murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw, teeth catching against the delicate flesh there. “My wife.” Such use of the affectionate title had roused a familiar slick between your thighs once more.

“As you are mine,” With bated breath, you allowed your legs to coax him in, continuing to flex around his hips. Shadowed hues roved over your countenance, lips peppering themselves across your throat as he adjusted himself. “I am yours.”

The tenderness of your declaration could not be understated, saturated with a yearning that rivaled his own. It was as if the flame raged between you both, demanding to be extinguished. Maneuvering himself, the tip of his cock gliding along your nethers.

A swirl of molten liquid churned violently within the pit of your belly, skin crawling with a neediness that seemed to glisten within your gaze. Robb held you close, steeling himself as he allowed his restraint to shatter altogether.

With a hasty draw of his hips, you felt him swarm inward, beginning to sheathe himself inside of your cunt. A soft whimper escaped you, feeling yourself clench around him out of sheer want. His groan vexed you, fingertips cupping the nape of his neck.

Your heart pounded within your ribcage, so powerful that you thought it might burst through. His stubble scratched against your cheek, providing a pleasant burn that let you know that this was reality. “I need you.” Your plea was met with a subtle groan.

The initial pace was one of urgency, fervent desire running rampant, an uncontrollable wildfire. Robb’s hips had started as sluggish rolls before turning into calculated thrusts, propped up atop the furs with one arm.

Clinging to him as if you were a drowning woman, your husband maintained an ironclad grip upon your thigh, digits kneading into the flesh there. A cacophony of moans tore past your throat, countenance screwed into a blissful expression.

His cock filled you perfectly, as if he were designed by the careful hand of the Seven, molded especially to your liking. Foreheads momentarily brushed together, lips clamoring until they connected in a bruising kiss.

Robb’s hand splayed next to your face, cock rocking in and out of you at a steady pace, the fervor steadily increasing. Your head spun, clouded by lust as your wolfish paramour ravished you in the way that you deserved.

A breathy ‘fuck’ spilled from his lips, caught between wanton sighs and groans of rapture. The warmth between breath and body kept you feeling feverish, and you hitched one leg around his hips, evoking a growl from Robb.

One could never mistake Robb’s roughness for something malicious, each thrust of his hips passionate; bleeding with ardor. It was this intense pace that you so adored, craved — it kept you grounded, made to understand the depths of his growing devotion.

He was invigorated, driven to madness by the sight of you, writhing beneath him. Friction blossomed between you both, an insatiable heat that only served to further his hunger. With another kiss, Robb’s teeth caught against your lower lip, allowing it to linger.

Robb shuddered at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together. Heat prevailed, licking along your spine as his thrusts grew with haste.

The lewd, crass union of intertwined flesh filled his tent, breathy sighs and strenuous groans only adding to the ambiance. Hot breath fanned across your jaw as he pressed a kiss there, teeth nicking the delicate flesh.

A whimper of bliss bubbled from your lips as he became invigorated in his pace, rocking himself into you with a certain fervor. His grip upon your thigh had only strengthened, fingertips threatening to leave bruises in the wake of your lovemaking.

Digits tangled into auburn curls, briefly tugging at his tresses as you kissed him once more, swollen lips begging for another. Robb obliged you without question, hips urging themselves into you over and over again, his cock hitting new depths.

It was sticky and desirous, perspiration glistening upon his brow, features painted by the now-waning embers of the brazier. Even then, his cerulean hues were filled with such devotion, a yearning that had made butterflies erupt within your stomach.

Heat persisted, gazes meeting with such ardor, causing you to shiver beneath his stare. Arousal permeated between your thighs, slick and ambrosial, the scent of coupling invading your senses.

Robb groaned, the blissful noises spilling near your ear as your leg tightened around him, his arm caging you in against him. A coil of heat began to unfurl within the both of you, bodies constantly shifting against the other, an amalgamation of friction.

It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, crying out to the heavens. A sharp moan punctured your lungs, feeling his cock drive deeper still, until it nearly kissed your womb.

A white-hot haze invaded your senses, nearly seeing stars as your body trembled, slowly settling atop the furs. Robb’s hand held your thigh, reveling in the pliant flesh beneath, flesh that he coveted more than anything else.

With a grunt that spread throughout his sternum, Robb spilled his seed within you; a rush of warmth, one that you shared in. As you reveled in mutual release, hot ropes of spend invaded your cunt, an inevitable duty, that of conception.

Admittedly, Robb wished for it — to see you swollen with his babe, a sizable family that rivaled that of his own. There were discussions of this desire beforehand, one that you had taken keen interest in.

Keeping himself sheathed within you, his cock throbbed, relief beginning to unfurl from his shoulders, a tension now extinguished. In the afterglow, he made sure to pepper you in kisses, rugged scruff scratching against your cheek.

“You’re perfect.” His utterance made you smitten, removing himself from you with a lewd, sticky rush of heat. Robb did not depart from the bed, instead moving to recline against the feather pillow, placing one arm beneath his head.

Basking in the blissful aftermath of your tryst, you moved closer, taking refuge in the crook of his shoulder, crown beneath his chin. “That is one way to strip you of any stress.” You mused, smiling as his chest shook with a chuckle.

“It isn’t the only way,” Robb began, peering down at you with a playful countenance. It was the most relaxed he’d been in days — and it was all because of your very presence. Placing carnal appetites aside, he was delighted to be near you. “But I am not opposed to it.”

An ebullient giggle tumbled from your lips, nose wrinkling with amusement as you curled into his side, fingertips tracing across his chest. He was content to hold you close, digits stroking along the space between your shoulders.

“What of your table? I did not intend to ruin it,” Wooden pieces remained haphazardly scattered across the sprawling map, and in that moment, Robb cared little for it. “I suppose it was difficult to focus on anything else.”

Robb’s laugh was as warm as a midsummer’s day, pearlescent teeth glinting through the waning firelight. “Was it?” He teased, prompting you to smack at his chest — and to that, he caught your wrist, sitting up enough to find your gaze.

“It was.” A blissful shiver gripped you as Robb kissed your palm, savoring the sensation of your fingertips caressing his jaw. He leaned inward, a smirk tugging at either corner of his mouth.

“Plenty of dusk left to ruin it further, before the morrow.” He murmured, a mischievous glint swirling within his cerulean hues. It only served to make you squirm — and that was more than enough, your shared laughter filling the tent.

“Then we mustn’t tarry here.” As the lascivious remark spilled from your lips, Robb had captured your lips in a kiss, disarmingly gentle. It made you yearn for him in ways that you weren’t acquainted with — and you suspected you would be.

On the morrow, it was Roose Bolton who had sharply questioned the misplacement of the wooden figureheads — and Robb was none the wiser.

Within the pitch and gloom of a dreary Gotham City, a shadowed spectre lurks atop skyscrapers, lurks within every shred of darkness that falls across dimly-lit streets. Criminals know to fear that darkness, and that paranoia seems to cling to them — he senses it. A harbinger of violent justice, the knight of the nocturnal, the Batman. He’s a predator on the prowl, a vicious protector, a vigilante filled with an unbridled desire for vengeance.

Beware of the Batman — it’s spray-painted onto the brick walls of seedy alleyways and onto the drywall of rundown apartments where the scum and villainy of Gotham hide. Terror is struck into the hearts of all who decide to stay out past dark.

The city is rotting, decaying at a rate that seems far too steady for his liking. Each time he stops criminals, each time he’s pushed to the limit, he’d like to believe that the rot is being cut out — and it isn’t. It’s replaced by something else, something far more heinous than a few common thieves roaming backwater streets. Crime rates are soaring, breaking new records each and every day, and even the light in the sky can’t keep them all at bay.

Each night is just as turbulent and tempestuous as the last — he arrives home with an untold amount of bruises and shallow wounds that he shoddily nurses while he sits at his computer and lurks, relives it all over and over again. It all begins to blur together, night after night of endless fighting, only for a sliver of payoff.

Alfred is the mediator, the voice of reason, making attempt after attempt at nudging Bruce out of the shadows and into a healthier life, a life with socialization and human contact. He’s learned to push him just enough, but Bruce doesn’t listen. He’s consumed by some impermeable fog — consumed by the endless night, swarmed by his desire for justice.

He’s alone — he’s isolated.

He’s become nocturnal, like the creatures that only prowl at night, sinking their teeth into hapless prey — a rageful predator. Bruce is surrounded by darkness, allowing himself to become shaped by it, molded by it. He doesn’t need contact, it doesn’t sustain him in the way that his violent crusade for retribution does.

Bruce doesn’t heed Alfred’s advice this night — he entrenches himself in purging crime, striking fear into anyone who might cross his path of reckoning. It’s a very long and winding path, forged by blood and by the deliverance of reprisal.

Sheets of rain blow sideways, pounding against the many buildings that line Gotham’s inner city, some structures abandoned or dilapidated. Thunder shatters the skies with ominous rumbles, accompanying the signal in the sky — the warning. Lightning pierces across the black, cloudy skies, chasing after thunder with a steady pace.

It’s getting late, and you’re disheartened to find the chaotic state outside of the Gotham City Hall — the weather is horrible, dismal and torrential, but you have to get home. Your studio apartment is a few streets over, and on a normal day, the walk isn’t terrible.

Instinct and a gut feeling tells you to get a taxi, but you reluctantly go against such sensations.

Gotham is active at night, unusually so, a sprawling, scummy hive of unpleasant people and untold depravity. The sound of cars passing by on slick pavement is your ambiance, accompanied by the onslaught of constant rain, which slows down only slightly. Using your coat, you keep yourself covered from the downpour, but it’s ineffective as you make for home.

Vengeance follows from the rooftops above, his watchful eyes raking over you, unknowing and oblivious as you round the street corner. Your vulnerability makes you stick out, especially to his trained gaze — and if you’re vulnerable to him, you most certainly are to any danger lingering in the darkness.

This isn’t the first time that he’s followed you, either.

You’re a new face, a youthful aspirant, a fascination amongst a sea of corruption and exhaustion in Gotham’s political playing field. He knows little about you, only that you’re a rabbit unknowingly waiting to be swallowed whole by the wolfish jaws of vicious politicians and seedy personnel.

He wants to know more — he’s picked you apart at the seams, and with each walk home, Bruce likes to think that he’s learned something new. Every facet about you seems to invite him in involuntarily, as if he’s being drawn to something enticing.

To everyone else, you’re a target — you’re prey, something to be devoured. You’re somewhat timid but resilient, you’re charitable, and you’re blissfully oblivious of the plague that haunts Gotham City. To Bruce, you are the light that warms, the light that comforts, the spark that he follows. It’s a cocktail that he’s vastly unfamiliar with.

Admittedly, he’s gotten too curious, an insatiable itch to watch you make your way home. Intuition tells him to remain vigilant, ensure that you’re safe, but it goes against his better judgment. It makes him seem demented, lurking after you like this, but it’s in the name of safety — the underlying urge to protect you.

The deluge has soaked through your flimsy coat and you’re damp to the bone, your pace hasty. The cloaked castigator quietly slinks along the rooftops, an unreadable glower following after you with each step.

Even from a distance, your form quivers from the bitter bite of rain, cold droplets rolling off of your skin, sticking into your clothing with each sheet of icy deluge. Streetlights flicker overhead, coupled with the slats of faded moonlight that peek through a dreary, black overcast sky.

He doesn’t mind the rain — it’s an advantage, it masks any sound he might make, never slows him down. There’s a certain clarity he gains from this, from the tempestuous weather. As the thunderstorm rages on without any sign of stopping, water droplets roll from the leathery surface of his cowl, dripping like a waterfall from his cloak.

Each step is made with certainty — you round another street corner.

Underneath the tattered, shoddy cover of a building, you seek a temporary refuge from the rain, tugging your phone from the pocket of your skirt. Your digits move quickly across the glowing screen of your phone before you shove the device back into your pocket with some difficulty.

The Batman catches them before you do — a group of leering thugs, lingering across the street, far back enough for you not to take enough notice. There’s four of them, men without morals, expressions glistening with salacious intent. There’s an unrestrained fury that rips through his chest, the hunger for vengeance strikes again, blistering this time.

As you continue your trek, you decide to take a shortcut against your better judgment, slipping into a little alleyway masked by shadows, reeking of garbage and everything musty.

They begin to wander behind you, keeping their distance until you foolishly duck into the paved alleyway. He follows, a knight cast in black, shrouded by stealth as he leaps from rooftop to rooftop, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

You hear something rustle at the mouth of the alleyway, followed by footsteps. Startled by the noise, you suddenly swivel around, spotting the silhouettes of four strangers. The distance between you and them is beginning to grow slim — your heart hammers so fast that it nearly slams into your throat.

“Goin’ somewhere, sweetheart?” One of them croons, clucking his lips together in a series of mocking sounds.

“That’s the bitch from City Hall,” Another voice cuts in, malicious intent interwoven into his voice. None of them are friendly — their shadows are cast onto you by the momentary glimpse of moonlight, making your stomach lurch. “No cops out here, baby.”

Your legs feel heavy, as if anchored down by cinder blocks, and time seems to fall still. Fear grips you in a way that it never has before, and the reality of your unfortunate situation becomes all the more apparent. You consider running, kicking off your heels and dashing for the other end, but it seems futile.

The unmistakable terror in your face is delicious to these goons — they’re too close for comfort, only a few feet away, but the gap is closed as soon as a scream wrenches free from your mouth.

As a hand clasps around your face, you’re knocked to the ground, wind stolen from your lungs, head colliding with the soaked, uneven pavement. You feel dizzy, stomach rolling within your gut, bile rising within the back of your throat. An assailant is on your left side, covering your mouth to muffle your screams.

“Shut the fuck up,” He barks, attempting to rip your bag from your arms, “Shut the fuck up!” It’s desperate this time as he trains his eyes toward the rooftops — your attacker is searching for something.

“Grab the bag and go! What are we waitin’ for?” The third man snaps, and you scream again, violently thrashing against your assailant, attempting to bite at his hand. The fall stings, but the slap is what hurts the most, palm connecting with your cheek as you double over.

There’s another scream — and it isn’t yours.

A hulking shape drops into the alleyway, fists clenched, eyes kept trained upon the group of thugs. A dark knight, a dangerous vigilante that eclipses any sliver of light left in that narrow space. He’s the night — he’s an all-consuming abyss. You barely see him, but you see the whites of his eyes, the flesh exposed by the cut of his shroud, jaw tense with rage.

He moves like a battering ram, slamming his fist into the face of the man closest to him, using his body as collateral to toss him into the second attacker, who doesn’t stay grounded for very long.

Bruce is vicious, unyieldingly so — he doesn’t pull his punches, never executes an ounce of mercy. Each clash of fist to flesh is brutal, accompanied by the visceral sound of bones breaking, bodies being battered by his fury. He grounds the second attacker with a knee to the jaw, rendering him on the verge of unconsciousness.

His cape snaps behind him, fluid like moving liquid, dancing to his movements as he dismantles your assailants with ease. They aren’t practiced — they’re opportunistic, sporadic and incompetent without any planning. They land a few good hits, but none of them are enough to phase the Batman. They’re all weak, they’re nothing.

You’re filthy and disheveled, bleeding from the back of your head and from your lip, cheekbone beginning to flourish with the first inklings of a dark bruise. Crawling away from the violence, you almost feel too weak to stand, helplessly reaching for the base of your skull, the source of a constant throbbing.

From the corner of your eye, you watch this stranger beat down the attacker that struck you, slamming his fist into his face repeatedly until he’s out cold, bloody and nearly unrecognizable. Flesh meets the cold ground repeatedly, again and again.

It’s a terrifying display of strength, of prowess, but you don’t feel afraid — you’re uncertain, instead. Gotham’s caped crusader is very real, once a rumor, now standing before you, surrounded by the defeated bodies of your assailants. They’re still breathing, but they’re beyond broken.

A coppery, pungent smell begins to intermingle with the wet asphalt and foul garbage, both the blood of thugs and your blood. Bruce knows that you need a hospital, more than likely, but he can’t bring himself to take you there.

He meets your doe-eyed, bewildered stare, the fearlessness that burns within your gaze. You seem appreciative without vocalizing it, but you’re weak — you’re likely concussed, and he catches the scent of blood on you as he steps closer.

Words coagulate within your throat and his, and whatever he intended to say seems to die then and there. He wanted to comfort you, ask if you were alright, but he didn’t — he was as silent as a tomb, coming to hunch in over you.

In the shadow of the Batman, you’re offered another respite from the rain. You reach for him, this impenetrable scion of darkness, trembling hands grasping haplessly at his chest. He keeps your upper half suspended from the ground, listening to the erratic pattern of your breathing.

He’s there to keep you safe, intense stare boring into yours, and you shiver in response. Your vision is steadily becoming blurry, ears ringing, head pounding — you don’t say anything, only letting out some pitiful whimper as you succumb to unconsciousness.

Strong arms are there to catch you, sweeping you up without hesitation. You’re limp, skin cold to the touch, lips a shade paler. He shields you as best as he can from the rain, retrieving your bag from a shallow puddle before departing into the bleak night, the shadow of an eclipse.

Impulsivity — that was the only term needed to explain why he’d brought you home instead of a hospital. He wrapped you up in his cloak, gently placing you into the passenger seat before heading back. Alfred was aware of the situation, of him bringing you back to a place so sacred and secret to him.

Brought into the darkness of Gotham’s vengeful guardian, Bruce let Alfred handle stitching you up. The wound on the back of your skull was shallower than he thought, but the bruises and scrapes you endured almost seemed as countless as his own, only you didn’t bear the scars as he did.

You would bear them after tonight.

“Why?” Alfred inquired, shifting his weight toward that of the mahogany cane, his gaze momentarily flickering toward you, asleep on the chaise lounge.

Silence hung between both men — even Bruce was unsure of his decision to bring you here. Was it pity? Curiosity? Loneliness? That underlying desire to shield you from the untold horrors that lurked within the darkness? He didn’t know. Truthfully, he didn’t care to discover the answer for himself, either.

“I don’t know.”

Bruce’s admission was barely above a whisper, husky and hushed as if he were sharing a secret. He remained inside of the suit, stuck within the guise of vengeance. He didn’t know if he wanted you to see him as Bruce Wayne, as the orphaned son whose family legacy was smeared all over Gotham City.

Maybe he wanted you to see him as the man who saved your life, the man who would protect you.

Alfred’s theory was different and far more straightforward — Bruce was undeniably lonely.

His loneliness bled through, clear as day, yet he continuously pushed it down for the sake of the city, for the sake of everyone else. Attachment was fear — the fear of losing what was closest to him. That was why he closed himself off, trapped himself beneath a mask, isolated himself, all to avoid a very simplistic yet harrowing premise.

It was Bruce’s greatest fear, a trepidation that gripped him tightly. The more he watched you, the more he began to wonder what it would feel like to open up to someone else — to bare his heart, to feel that pang of vulnerability. It was daunting, like some monster lurking in the darkness, waiting to strike.

He decided it would be better this way — better to keep himself at bay, keep Bruce Wayne away, stay behind the mask for your sake and for his.

Roused from your slumbering state, you were greeted with an environment most unfamiliar to you. It reminded you of some gothic castle, complete with pointed arches and rib vaults, ornate decor that seemed to look and feel completely ancient. None of this felt real — it was more akin to some dream you’ve had, but the dull pounding in your head brought you back into the present.

You were wrapped in something heavy, something dark and slick — it didn’t feel like a blanket, it lacked the softness of one. An orange glow crackled from a roaring hearth, a fireplace that seemed to be ripped straight from a storybook, lined in beautiful masonry. Considering the chill of the rain, the fire was appreciated, and whatever you happened to be draped inside of.

Soaked to your very bones, your clothing hasn’t dried very much, uncomfortably clinging to your flesh, feeling heavy with water. A constant chill licks across every inch of your body, goosebumps collecting at the base of your spine, causing you to shiver in the midst of the open flame, fingers curling into the material you’re swaddled in.

Peeling the cloak aside, your eyes have fully adjusted, no longer groggy or fringed with a blur as they were before. It’s still dark outside, the thunderstorm having calmed to a mere monsoon of rain instead. Inside of this hallowed citadel, there isn’t a sound — an eerie silence is what follows, save for the lull of the weather outside.

That’s when you see him — the shadow.

Off to the left of the fireplace, your savior lingers there, his eyes hauntingly bright beside the raging flame. You gasp, startled by his lack of reaction, lack of announcing himself. A shiver grips your body in its entirety, causing you to shudder as you stay poised atop the velveteen lounge.

“Thank you,” Your voice emerges as a tremulous squeak, but you gain your composure as quickly as allowed. “Thank you for saving my life.” You remember every detail — you aren’t likely to forget about the man who saved your life, the ghost of Gotham.

He’s quiet, unnervingly so, but you let that uneasiness subside as much as possible. You don’t feel fear around him — you feel safe, you feel harbored within his shadow. A strange sense of fascination washes over you, a curiosity to know more about him.

“How’s your head?” His gravelly, husky voice is what surprises you the most. Those hawkish eyes fall to your visage, subtly drinking you in from afar.

You fumble around to gently feel the back of your skull, digits gingerly sweeping across the patch of gauze that sat atop a series of very meticulous stitches. He must’ve patched you up, you realize, which you feel eternally grateful for. The ache is present, but it’s alarmingly dull.

“Just aches,” There is a brief pause in your words, breath hitching momentarily. “Where are we?” You’re curious to know the location — it reminds you of some vampiric stronghold, an ancient castle with untold secrets. Despite the regality of it all, you still feel safe.

He doesn’t answer right away, standing as still as a statue, as if he were one of the gargoyles perched outside upon the terrace. The militaristic suit he wears reminds you of some practiced soldier, shrouded by the darkness — there are some little tears within the kevlar material that rests underneath the sheen of body armor.

Instead, Bruce cranes his head over his shoulder, peering out into the endless abyss that is Gotham’s dusk. Rain continues to fall, glistening against the marble surfaces outside. “Somewhere safe.” The grit and coarseness of his voice is wonderfully alluring, effectively drawing you in.

You shiver, tugging the black cape tighter around your frame, gradually feeling warmth return to your aching bones. As you peer toward the Batman, you feel a pang of heat creep across your visage when you realize that he’s staring too.

“Is this yours?” You murmur, motioning toward the sweeping shroud of darkness that surrounds you, engulfing your body in its penumbra.

Bruce nods, but doesn’t ask for it back. You’re the one trembling from the cold, not him. Instead, he steps closer, maintaining a comfortable distance as he comes to sit at the opposite end of the chaise lounge, stealing several glances in the process. You’re exceptionally beautiful, which makes him feel all the more mesmerized.

Maybe it’s your lack of fear or suspicion, your timidity, or the way you curl in on yourself — Bruce doesn’t know what to say in your presence. Fortunately for him, you are wary by the strange silences, so you cut through it as swiftly as possible.

“Do you bring everyone that you save to this place?” Your inquiry is hushed, a lull of a whisper, soft voice trembling with some quiver at the bottom of your throat. Again, you survey your surroundings with intrigue — the architecture reminds you of French cathedrals.

There is a twinge of humor that flickers across the lower half of his face, accompanied by a gentle scoff. He answers you with a little more haste this time. “No.” Bruce hesitates, lips parting slightly. “Just you.”

The Batman offers no elaboration as to why that is — maybe it’s better left unspoken. You don’t question him, but you do shuffle closer, still leaving a good gap of distance between the both of you. He’s hailed as this myth, something to be feared, something dangerous. Now, you see more of a man.

His breath hitches ever so subtly when you maneuver yourself a little closer. Whatever you can see of his countenance strikes you as handsome, and you begin to wonder how he looks underneath his dark garb. Charcoal is smeared around his eyes, which are brilliantly green, the whites of his oculars remain bloodshot. His stubbled jaw is both strong and angular, pallor as pale and translucent as a ghost, a stark contrast between his skin and the black of the suit.

“You’re not what they say you are,” In a moment of silence, you speak again, canting your head to one side. “The press, the police.” He’s demonized in the media as some menace that needs to be put down — you never thought that way, especially now.

“You’re a good man.”

For the briefest moment, Bruce tenses underneath your soft gaze and the tender affection laced within your words. It’s something he clings to — something he’s desperate for, deep down. His jaw tightens and he averts his stare, avoiding eye contact. He wants to reach out, but he knows he can’t, he knows that he can’t afford to get attached to you.

But he brought you here, didn’t he? This was his fault.

“You don’t know the things I’ve done.” Finally, Bruce speaks — he comes off as callous, warding you away from his encroaching shadows, away from his darkness. You are the glimmer of light that falls across him, pierces the gloom, desiring to break through.

Your breath hitches within your throat, shivering hard enough to coax you into the sanctuary of his cape. The icy chill of the rain hasn’t worn off entirely, but you angle yourself toward the crackling fireplace. “You save lives,” You whisper, “You protect people.”

Bruce longed to be as innocent and as pious as you — maybe he was, a long time ago, but he’s not anymore. He’s living along the edge of duality, one side eclipsed by the shadow of revenge, by the Batman, the other a reclusive orphan with nothing left to his legacy aside from what he does each and every night.

“And I destroy them.” He uttered, which happened to catch you off-guard. There is a tiny inkling of intimidation that settles into your doe-eyed gaze, maybe trace amounts of fear.

You’re right to be afraid. Everyone should be — they are afraid.

Between the crackling of the hearth and the tenuous silence, you direct your gaze toward your lap, fingers idly tracing over the frayed edges of his cloak. There is something about him that seems guarded, actively keeping you at-bay, but it only furthers your desire for knowledge, for understanding.

“Are you afraid?” His voice cuts through like a knife, deliciously rugged and almost hushed, as if he’s trying not to startle you.

The hitch in your breath is far from subtle, but you don’t offer him an answer, not immediately. Instead, you reach out — reach for him as you had back in the alleyway. Your soft, dainty palm falls across his armored bicep, and he immediately tenses underneath you.

Bruce’s mouth goes dry, startled by such a foreign sensation. How long has it been since he’s been touched like that, with a semblance of care? There’s a feeling of desperation laced with longing, something that he’s bottled for a very long time.

He doesn’t recoil, even after you let your palm settle atop the kevlar and plates of body armor. Again, you allow yourself to move closer, close enough to nearly seal the gap that lingered before. You swore that you heard a little stutter in his breathing, but what you do hear for certain is his quivering exhale.

In such close proximity, Bruce lets himself drink you in, and he’s blatantly shameless instead of conservative, like before. You’re beautiful, both inside and out — so beautiful that he feels completely undeserving. It’s daunting to be with someone like this, to feel the tension and the intimacy, to feel cared for.

“I’m not afraid.” You whisper, letting your hand drag from the solid muscle of his bicep to the exposed flesh of his jaw, outlined by the sharp, black leather of his cowl. He’s warm, opposite of your current temperature, which is slightly above icy.

He can’t help himself — the tender embrace makes him shiver, and Bruce closes his eyes, sinking into the silken surface of your palm. It’s the loneliness and the many years devoid of physical contact that make him this way, make him ravenous.

You can’t help but realize the humanity underneath.

Inside of the vengeful shade of Gotham, inside of that shroud of darkness, there is still a man — a man at the very heart of it all, selfless and protective. He feels much more real to you now, he feels mortal.

But he’s lonely — there is an unmistakable yearning that burns bright within his hooded gaze, but it’s coupled with a twinge of dejection. This long, solitary life that he’s led can only last for so long before it begins to weigh on him, and as you caress his cheek, the weight feels like it could crush him.

“Your hands are cold.” Bruce murmurs, sighing as you trace your fingertips along the angular slope of his jaw. His monotonous, husky remark brings the hint of a sheepish smile to your visage, and you find yourself getting closer and closer, until you’re nestled against him.

With a soft ‘sorry’, warmth blossoms within your cheeks. You nearly pull away, but he stops you, gloved hand lightly curling around your wrist. The frantic gallop of your heart hammers within your ears, and you long to feel his skin without the obstruction of gloves.

There is a pang of yearning that openly bleeds from his incendiary stare, and he carefully guides your hand back to where it sat before, poised along his jaw. Bruce doesn’t say anything — truthfully, he’s too enamored to speak, and what he wants to say only sounds embarrassing.

He’s getting closer, and so are you — merely breaths apart. Bruce is dazzled, simply put, and he’s slowly crossing the point of no return when it comes to you. He knows that he shouldn’t cross that line, but it’s too late. His hawkish, dazzled stare falls to your lips, swollen and mottled with dried blood, which still look as soft as ever despite the injury.

You aren’t sure what prompted you to initiate the kiss, but you’re rather smitten, noticeably hesitant. Truthfully, you’re unsure if this is what he wanted, but the sensation of his mouth gingerly tangling with yours cancels out that uncertainty.

Bruce’s lips are thin, deceptively soft as they move in tandem with yours, and he’s gentle. You taste of copper, bitter and metallic, yet so does he — he tastes like blood, like a smoky rainfall, like darkness. A low, husky groan resonates within the back of his throat, absolutely enthralled by the kiss itself, and by you.

This time, he takes more initiative, wanting nothing more than to have you close like this, take the sting of his isolation away from him. Bruce is breaking his own rule of attachment, but he can’t bring himself to care at the moment.

The kiss is blistering, unyieldingly tender, yet it rips through your entire being, tearing you into shreds. You’ve never felt so safe before, so held — you’re melting into him, melting into the shadows with him, letting one of your hands perch against his broad shoulder.

He can’t ignore the desire that’s beginning to bubble within him, bound to reach a boiling point if the both of you continue. Bruce needs to be sure that this is what you want, and so his lips still against yours, breathing a touch ragged and heavy as he gains his composure.

“We can stop.” His voice surrounds you, rough and gritty, armored physique pressed into yours. “If you don’t want this.” Bruce understands the potential for you to change your mind, to politely turn him down — he’s expectant, awaiting your answer.

As your palm settles over the jagged sigil placed atop his chest, you steady yourself, meeting his gaze fully this time. Goosebumps form at the base of your spine, prompting you to shiver from exhilaration. “No,” With a hushed whisper, you tilt closer. “I want this.” You hesitate, teeth skimming across your lower lip. “Does that sound crazy?”

Bruce finds some humor in that — and maybe it is crazy, being with someone you’ve just met, and his impulsivity plays a rather large role in this scenario. He can’t fault you for wanting this, and in all actuality, he wants it just as terribly, if not more.

Maybe it’s just being alive.

That hollow shell he’s been living inside of, his fortress of carefully-constructed barriers, it all begins to crack. It’s rather terrifying, the idea of letting someone in, but he’s done for now, isn’t he? The way you look at him is invigorating, it’s electrifying — it makes him feel less like the Batman and more like a man.

“No.” He murmurs, and you can feel the sincerity from that single utterance alone.

In another meeting of lips, there is a flurry of passion this time, less subdued than the kiss before. One of his bulky arms rests at your side, the two of you nearly chest to chest, flush atop the velveteen cushions. Whatever chill you had before is now replaced with warmth, from both the fire and from him.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve been kissed like this — for a man as unyieldingly strong and dark as he is, the Batman’s tender approach takes you by surprise. He almost seems shy, as if this is a new realm he hasn’t traversed yet himself, but you make no comment on his potential inexperience.

Beside the light of the dying fire, swallowed by the eerie calm of his shadow, you let yourself be consumed by his vengeful void. You kiss him again, listening to his sharp inhale as you cling to him, feeling the firm planes of his body armor.

Bruce pries the leather away from his hands, shedding both gloves and gauntlets, knuckles wrapped in tattered gauze that’s stained with old blood. The yearning he feels is almost overwhelming — he wants to touch you, but asking seems disorienting, daunting even.

As your fingers curl around one of his hands, he nearly gasps, tensing at the icy embrace of your digits, the silken texture of your skin. Tracing your thumb atop his knuckles, you see the traces of grime and fading bruises, specks of his blood, the calloused expanse of his palm — hands that have done far too much.

“Look at me.”

The sensual intensity of his sonorous voice commands your attention instantaneously — your eyes snap to find his, those brilliant green oculars. He inspects you with a trace amount of affection, his hand coming to slip underneath your chin, effectively making you shudder.

He kisses the corner of your mouth — it’s sweet.

Eager to feel all of you, Bruce hesitates, his gravelly lull seemingly perturbed as he murmurs another ‘look at me’, gaze raking across your countenance and toward the rest of your body. He’s somewhat sluggish to ask for what he wants, and he hopes that you’re keen enough to pick up on his physical implications.

Your breath hitches, ears prickling as his voice wraps around you each and every time. “It’s okay.” Reassuring as ever, you nudge his hand. For a man as vicious and mysterious as he is, the vigilant enigma, he’s rather nervous — if it is nervousness, at least. You can’t tell what he’s feeling, he’s indiscernible.

Quick to act this time around, his roughened, powerful hand falls toward the hem of your blouse, skirting across your skin as he feels you shiver underneath him. You simply jerk past the row of pearlescent buttons, letting it loosely sag around your shoulders.

Bruce doesn’t stop himself this time, pressing his mouth against your neck, leaving a trail of searing kisses in his wake. Freeing yourself from the confines of his cloak, a soft moan slips past your parted lips, reaching for his arm.

He’s weak — your skin is like satin underneath his lips.

The brow of his leathery cowl bumps against your flesh as he slowly maneuvers his way down the length of your body, kissing the pain away, both yours and his, kissing away his loneliness. His mouth falls across the tops of your breasts, taut digits coming to cup your chest, hooking underneath the hem of your brassiere.

Slotted between your legs, your skirt rides high, hitching toward your hips as you accommodate his bulky frame. You’re cold to the touch, but wherever Bruce touches, warmth blooms there instead of the icy sting. His confidence is slowly growing, but he’s focused on you, drowning himself in your very being.

The more you watch him, the more your mind runs rampant — who is he underneath? You wonder what exactly he looks like, the fluctuations in his countenance, the taut, strong muscle of his body as he closes in on you.

He’s perfect, you think, perfect and terrifying in the best of ways.

Continuing the string of kisses along your body, he meticulously lingers on the faint bruises you received from your fall. His soft lips mold themselves to your ribcage and stomach, drifting wherever they please. His hand curls into your skirt, but you quickly wriggle out of the garment, kicking it off toward the floor.

Each kiss sends shivers down your spine, his hand settling along one of your thighs as he continues his descent. You have an inkling of his intentions, and it’s enough to make you squirm, your hand falling toward his shoulder.

Bruce hasn’t done this for some time — the pressure to please you is certainly there, but the overwhelming sensation of not feeling alone is present, too. The doe-like look in your mesmerized stare is enough to make his skin grow hot, lips parting as he kisses your hipbone.

As his digits curl into the elastic band of your panties, those striking eyes look to you for approval, a stare that will be burned into your mind for days to come. There is a reverence present that you’ve never experienced before, a certain level of care that you desperately crave.

“Please,” You whisper, listening to the heavy lull of the rain outside as it begins to pick up again. The little hitch in your voice is more than noticeable, a pang of anticipation hitting your gut. “Please.” Nearly rendered breathless this time, you shiver when he presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh.

The shadows come for you — his shadows, his darkness. It’s enticing, and it sucks you in as if he retains some gravitational pull. You gasp when you feel his teeth nip at tender flesh, leaving behind a trail of marks that he revels in.

Smoothing his palm along your leg, his deft, roughened digits swipe across your cunt, prying you apart with careful deliberation. His lips move to press firm, heated kisses to your opposite thigh, nipping wherever he pleases, pushing his fingers into your wet slit.

You don’t know where to grasp except for his shoulders — it’s an unstable grip and you wish to tug on the hair underneath his stitched cowl. The linen bandages that stay twined around his knuckles and palm graze your leg, and instinctively, you place your hand atop his.

The Batman shudders, his breath hitches in the faintest of ways, as if he’s been exposed to something foreign. Bruce feels as if he could combust from the weight of your stare alone, coupled with the affectionate way in which your dainty fingers tense around his hand.

Through fleeting, heated glances, he drags his digits along the length of your cunt, dwelling within the slick heat as he moves in deliberate motions. As soon as he grazes your clit, your hips spasm, a wanton moan tearing past your parted lips as you keen into his embrace.

“I want to see you.” You murmured, dazed and drunk upon your own desire. It wasn’t a demand, but a gentle plea — one that Bruce couldn’t give into, even to you. The pad of your thumb grazed over his knuckles, stomach churning as he continued to stroke at your cunt.

Pressing his mouth to your inner thigh again, he made eye contact with you for the briefest moment — you were painfully beautiful. He made you whimper when he nudged at your clit again, warm breath and days-old stubble drifting across your flesh.

“Use your imagination.” Husky and rugged, mysterious and alluring like the night, he kept you hooked, kept you wondering. The answer sufficed — it was enough to let your mind go in a thousand different directions, but he grounded you as he eased two fingers into your cunt, breathing heavily.

Rolling into his hand, the both of you groaned in tandem, his being far more subdued than yours. Swallowed by your tight heat, Bruce steadily fell into some sort of pattern, moving his digits forward and back, just enough to make you squirm.

The euphoria he gains from this is blinding — it spurs him on, fingers dutifully touching you everywhere, no matter how clumsy and swift it seems. You haven’t experienced something like this before, not to this magnitude, and it almost doesn’t feel real — Bruce unknowingly shares such sentiments.

Sprawled atop his cloak, you nudge your legs apart just a little more, a strangled whimper escaping you as his fingers diligently work away at your cunt. Lulled into submission by his husky breathing and the deluge outside, you melt into him — you want to fade away.

You quiver when his mouth meets the cleft between your thighs, tongue sweeping open heat across your slit, aching and wanton. The first motions of his lips are hesitant, testing the waters and searching for your reaction, which is more than enthusiastic.

The sensation of his mouth intermingled with the deliberate motion of his digits made you choke on whatever noise began to rise from the back of your throat. Words died upon your tongue, any shred of pleasurable sound being ripped apart by your winded gasp.

Bruce shuddered, inexperienced yet willing, lapping at your clit with an enthusiasm you hadn’t felt before yourself. Your taste was intoxicating, making him scramble for more, his own mind becoming murky with lust. Desperation trickled through the cracks, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. Everything about you drew him in, magnetized and enamored — it was a mutual feeling.

He needed you, too.

The leather of his cowl grazed against your pelvis, and for a moment, those viridian hues snapped forward, locking in a stare as you gripped his hand so very tightly. The arch of your back brought your hips into closer quarters with his face, evoking a low groan from him, enough to make you quiver.

He was an abyss between your legs — the dying hearth left him shrouded in shadows, save for the pearlescent pallor of his jaw, the bloodshot whites of his eyes. With another breathy moan, you keened into his embrace, feeling his hand squeeze at your hipbone. His tongue raked embers across your aching cunt, making your head spin.

Incendiary was a mere understatement — you were set ablaze, submitting to each thrust of his fingers and roll of his tongue, melting around him. He was attentive yet sloppy, a touch unrestrained and perhaps desperate, but you didn’t care. You were happy to melt, happy to let his shadows bleed into you.

The sensation of his lips pursing around your clit jerked you right into the heat of the moment, breathy sighs and shrewd moans escaping you. They entangled themselves with Bruce’s sonorous grunts and the low echo of his groans, vocalizations of pleasure.

“I need you,” You sputtered, choking upon whatever sound intended to rip through your windpipe. “You’re perfect.” Again, your declarations of desire and praise fell upon attentive ears, as Bruce continued to eat you out with vigor. He lightly sucked at your clit, enough to make you jolt forward a time or two.

Far from perfect, he knew this — hearing you say it aloud through a strangled moan was enough to almost make him believe that he was perfect. Bruce was nearly drunk on your own pleasure, uncomfortably hard underneath the codpiece of his suit. He couldn’t fathom what brought him here, but he wanted to come back.

For a man with his immeasurable wealth and notoriety, Bruce was inexperienced, lacking any shred of sexual tact. The suit was more than helpful, a barrier to shroud him from his ineptitude as Bruce Wayne. There was a confidence present now that he lacked otherwise.

A shrewd string of incoherent whimpers left your mouth, intermingled by the pleasant pitch of your moans. His breath was ragged and hot against your core, alternating between eager laps of his tongue and the pursing of his lips around your clitoris. It was an electrifying lust, burning inside of you like a fever, leaving you breathless.

The kevlar and roughened plates of his suit scrape across your delicate flesh, leaving behind reddened marks. Such blemishes are accompanied by the gentle love bites left behind on your thighs. You hope that they don’t fade — you want the visceral reminder of what’s happened to you, of him happening to you.

That sensitive clutch of nerves between your legs jolts and ripples with ecstasy, sending white-hot pleasure throughout your body. His head is still buried there, eating your cunt as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, sucking around your clit with a noticeable vigor. You want to explode then and there, but something else pushes you over the edge.

It’s the breathy, subtle sigh of ‘fuck’ that the Batman gives that sends you spiraling out of orbit, and you can hear him nearly moan. In fact, you swore you heard him moan, watching as he shifts his bulky frame whilst trapped between your thighs, and he makes momentary eye contact with you.

You cum then and there, doe-eyed and hearing static as the tension unfurls from within your gut.

Even through your orgasm, his fingers are slowly plunging themselves inside of you, curling within your wet heat, purging sinful noises from your mouth. The intensity within his stare is enough to make you shudder, a mystique that is alluring all on its own. It isn’t until you’re shaking that he removes his digits, absentmindedly wetting his lower lip.

Bruce can’t escape you — you’re everywhere.

You are on his tongue, the taste of you becoming something that he wants to commit to memory. You are on his skin like a thick haze, a hazy fog that he cannot wade through. Your scent — whatever concoction of perfume you wear will be burned into his brain for weeks, for months to come. The sight of you quivering beneath him, lips agape and eyes bright, he wants to have you again and again.

He wants you always.

He leaves one last kiss against your thigh, lingering for a second longer than he should’ve. Whether you notice the hesitation or not, he isn’t sure.

Moonlight glistens through the haze of rain, thin slats falling across his shadowed frame as he sits backward. His silence is somewhat unsettling, but you assume it’s the exhilaration — you feel it too, hanging heavy within your head like a thick shroud.

You’re tired, but you want to force yourself to stay awake, legs twitching as you sluggishly come down from your high. A dull ache radiates from the source of your stitches, and you know that he’s keen enough to pick up on your exhaustion.

“You should rest.”

His gravelly lull attracts your attention, and you meet his stare with an awestruck expression. The tension hasn’t fully subsided, enough to make your heart skip a beat as he moves off of the lounge, watching his deliberate steps toward the rainy terrace.

“What about you?” Your voice is quiet, strung with enough concern to make him stop in his tracks.

The Batman turns, a stoic, solemn air about him. A sliver of him wishes he could stay, keep watch until the first inklings of dawn — but you’re safe here. Gotham is still a hellish landscape that requires him, requires vengeance. Bruce knows that he can’t stop now, he can’t quit until morning. The night is far from over.

“You shouldn’t worry about me.”

His utterance leaves behind a trace of darkness — the subtleties of what might happen to any villain who crosses his path. Every shred of intimidation that you felt toward him before comes crawling back. It’s enough to make you shiver, covered by the throw blanket that’s draped across the back of the lounge, and you miss the slick material of his cape.

Without another word, vengeance blends into the shadows, melding into the abyss of a bleak cityscape.

When you wake, you’re home — the ornate gothic architecture has disappeared, exchanged for the tidy, well-kept quarters of your studio apartment. It’s somewhat disheartening to see, but you should’ve known better. Your belongings sit neatly at the foot of your bed, and you’re still wrapped in the very same blanket he left you in.

Dawn begins to touch the horizon of Gotham City, and your mind immediately finds him. You wonder what happened to him after he left, if he was safe, what sorts of foul individuals he encountered.

From the dew-covered, dingy windows of your apartment, you can see the light still in the sky — you know that it won’t be there for much longer. Sluggishly, you sit up from your bed, bones aching with a dull throbbing that is still persistent.

Part of you longs to see him again — it’s wishful thinking, the thoughts of a smitten schoolgirl that make you cringe. There are other people who need him, need his protection, his selflessness. Everyone at City Hall, everyone at the GPD warns of him, as if he’s some blight, a plague on the city.

The city is rotting, decaying at a rate that seems far too steady for your liking — Gotham needs him.

You need him.