𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲...?

The first thing you do when you come back to the village after the men’s free skate is finished is coax Ilia into taking a warm shower while you prepare something for him to eat. The disappointment in himself is practically oozing off of him and he’s been leaning on you the whole way from the stadium, hiding his face in your neck on the bus home with his hood pulled up over his head, holding your hand and leaning slightly into you the short walk from the bus to where he stayed. You figured a warm shower, some comfort food and just a quiet night would help him feel at least a little bit better.

You’d seen the moment he skated to his starting pose, something different had passed over his face. Something haunted had settled in his eyes and right there you decided you’d be happy if he finished his program at all. And finish it he did, although with the pieces of his broken heart scattered all over the ice.

“Come on,” you mumble softly, “get in the shower and I’ll prepare something for you to eat.” He shakes his head, the tip of his nose brushes against your neck at the motion. He’s wrapped himself around you from behind, refusing to let go.

“Join me?” He mumbles into your shoulder, pressing you closer to him.

“But-“ your protest, “I need to fix some food for you.”

He shakes his head again, “it can wait.” A pause, blinking back tears. Then; “Please?”

You sigh, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“Alright,” you agree softly.

His breath is hot against your ear. “Thank you,” he breathes out, a bit shaky. You just turn around, facing him and giving him a soft smile, grasping his hands from where they’re resting over your hips and start pulling him into the bathroom.

You put the water on, letting it turn hot while you undress. With heavy movements, Ilia pulls his hoodie off, dropping it on the floor, letting you untie his sweatpants and push them to the floor. When you’re done you guide him to the shower, putting him under the warm spray of water, watching as it visibly melts away some of the fatigue and frustration. You wait a few moments before pulling your own clothes off, joining him as he holds a hand out for you to take, pulling you close under the water, returning to leaning on you.

“I think I’d fall apart without you here,” he mumbles against the wet skin of your shoulder. The words are barely audible but you catch them over the sound of water spraying over the two of you. You only hum, carding a hand through his hair, pushing it back away from his eyes.

He drags in a shaky breath and when he breathes out again, the tears fall. He tightens his hold on you, his grip almost bruising.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you gasp as he surrenders to the overwhelming feelings he’s been keeping inside. They all come flooding at the same time, leaving him gasping for breath. There’s little you can do besides hold him close, upright, keep him from falling apart. He’s shaking in your grasp, gasping for breath between the sobs and holding you so tightly it almost hurts.

“I’m so tired,” is all he gets out between the sobs. You shush him gently, trailing kisses along the side of his face.

You press a soft kiss to the shell of his ear. “I know.”

“And- fuck, I blew it out there,” he hiccups. “I don’t- I don’t know what happened, I just-“ he stutters out between the short breaths he manages to get in.

“You don’t have to know right now,” you tell him gently, the words whispered, your nose pressed into his wet curls. He shakes his head, frustration taking over.

“No I- I should have done better.” It’s insistent, even if his voice shakes.

You pull away, just enough to be able to look him in the eye, and cups his face in your hands.

“You did your best and there’s nothing better than that,” you remind him, gentle but firm. He lets his gaze linger on you, eyes glazed over, breath short and uneven. Then, out of the blue, or maybe out of thankfulness for your words, or just pure love, he pulls you close again, kissing you like there’s no tomorrow. The press of his lips is hot, desperate and hungry. A search for redemption, or revenge, or maybe just a way to drown out the world and his own thoughts. You don’t know but you indulge him. If this is what he needs, you’ll give it to him.

He tugs at your hips, placing a hand flat across the small of your back, pressing you into him, your hips pressing into his and you gasp into the kiss at the feeling. Ilia sighs softly, chasing your lips as you try to pull away, capturing your lips in another kiss.

“Ilia..” you breathe against his lips, pulling away slowly. He shakes his head, not wanting to hear it, opting for directing his attention to the soft skin along your shoulder, up along your neck and over your pulse point below your ear. His hands wander along your sides, down the dip of your hips, up, tracing softly under the swell of your breasts. The hot water feels cold in the wake of his hands.

“Ilia-“ you gasp, gently pushing at his shoulders, trying to get him to listen. “Hey- mhm- stop, stop,” you ask softly. You can indulge in his kisses but both of you know it isn’t right for him or you to channel his feelings into sex, to drown his sorrows in pleasure.

“Sorry,” he whispers against your skin, a bit ashamed, but he still presses his hips into you.

You gently trace a line along his cheek, and his eyes flutter close at the feeling.

“You’re not in the mindset for sex right now,” you tell him, and he agrees with a shake of his head, still mouthing a gentle line of kisses along your jawline.

“I just- want to feel something else, something good,” he confesses brokenly, beggingly. And you can’t deny him that entirely.

You kiss him again, softly. “I know.”

You let the water run over you both as you pour some soap in your hands, warming it between your palms before you let your hands glide across his body. Along his shoulders, down his arms, sides, you turn him around and massage his back gently. He groans under your touch, melting into your hands.

“God, you’re an angel,” he whispers, still sniffing slightly from his earlier breakdown.

“Feel better?” You wonder with a small smile at the sight of him finally relaxing a bit. You can barely remember the last time that happened.

He hums in appreciation, turning around in your arms, and your hands glide from his back to the plain of his chest, one hand settling over his erratic heart. Gently, you lean up, kissing the corner of his mouth. Just as he melts into it, you wrap your hand around his member, and he moans loudly at your touch.

“Gods-“ he groans, almost doubling over.

With slow, gentle motions, you work him through it, bringing a blissful pleasure to his body, his muscles relaxing and his whole demeanor melting away, leaving nothing but him. Simple, clean, pure, innocent, human. Just him.

And he lets you see him, doesn’t try to hide behind humor, or pull up the hood on his hoodie, or skate away on the ice with a smirk. He stays right in your arms, vulnerable and open.

“Fuck, I’m gonna- gods I’m gonna cum,” I groans and you allow him to hide away his face in your neck. The water washes away his release immediately and you let your hand travel back up to rest across his back.

“Thank you,” he rasps, pulling away slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

You kiss his cheek, a lingering press of soft lips against his warm skin.

“Feeling better?” You ask, gentle, kind, patient. He sighs softly, but nods.

His breath fans across your face. “Better than I should,” he grimaces, feeling a bit ashamed at his way of blowing off some steam.

“Something is better than nothing,” you remind him. “I wouldn’t let you go further than a handjob when you’re this overwhelmed,” you apologize. “You’re not in the right headspace to give consent or not.” He nods slowly, his breathing settling back into a rhythm again.

“You’re too considerate sometimes,” Ilia whispers. You only shake your head.

“It’s nothing,” you insist. “Let’s get you clean for real and then I’m fixing some food for you, okay?”

He sighs, but finally, for the first time since he stepped off the Olympic ice, a small smile makes its way to his lips.

“Okay.”

The sight of his smile has something settling in your chest. Fulfillment, happiness, contentment, you don’t really know. But it feels good. Seeing him smile is good.

You shampoo his blond curls, massaging his head gently. Then you soap him up again and he does the same to you, even if you protest that you should be the one taking care of him.

“Who takes care of you then? While you’re busy taking care of me?” He mumbles softly, pushing away the wet strands of hair from your forehead. You sigh but a small smile adorns your lips as he massages shampoo into your hair and runs soap covered hands along your body.

When the water almost runs cold, you step out, take turns to dry each other off and you leave Ilia wrapped in a towel as you go to fetch a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie for him. You pick a pair that he brought himself, leaving all the sponsorship stuff in the bags on the floor. It earns you a soft, thankful look as you pull the hoodie over his head. It still smells like home.

Ilia buries himself under a blanket on the bed while you go out to fetch some food. When you come back, he’s on his side on the bed, scrolling on his phone. He looks up when you step inside the door, sitting up a little, leaning back against the pillows.

“When I went to take my starting position,” he tells you, quietly as if something loud would break him again, “I was overwhelmed by- all the traumatic things that have ever happened to me just flooded my mind and- and I couldn’t handle it.”

You set the food down on the small table before joining him on the bed as he starts to tell you about what happened.

“It was just- too much and, well I broke under the pressure.” He falls back a little, the voices in his head are still loud and demanding but… sharing the burden with someone, sharing it with you, makes it a little easier.

“I saw it,” you admit quietly. Ilia’s eyes go a bit wide at your confession, but he doesn’t say anything, allowing you to continue. “I didn’t know what it was but, I saw it and my only thought was that I just wanted you to cross the finishing line, finish the program, without hurting yourself. And you did finish, grandly so.” He begins shaking his head but you stop him.

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, angst, hurt/comfort (if u read between the lines), fingering, unprotected sex (i mean the village ran out...so...), rough sex, ilia speaking russian, disclaimer i did use a translator so tell me if it's incorrect, reader is highkey a dacryphiliac on the dl, she's still so dedicated to her job that she's literally trying to comfort him while they're fucking, other us skaters mentioned

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

you came to the olympic village to support your closest friend; you didn't come to contribute to the condom shortage.

look, ilia's attractive, and all that, but he's kind of like your brother. sort of. at least, that's your typical excuse.

so when you're sitting in some stuffy lounge in the backrooms of the dingy ice arena alone, snacking on shitty olympic-branded chips and sipping from a tiny water bottle, you wonder why you still put up with this bullshit, have endured it multiple times in the last handful of years. sure, it isn't pleasant — and it's a little sad to be watching it completely alone — but you could've sat in the crowd as most people would. you chose not to because you thought it would be too nerve-wracking, yet you suppose this alternative isn't exactly ideal, either.

you're typically walking on air when he takes the ice. today is no different. you're a little nervous, and the ice doesn't look particularly grand, but you have faith in ilia. you won't give that up until he really screws up. and that's what everyone knows you as: the friend who would go to war for him.

but when his free skate turns to mush at the drop of a hat, time nearly stops. ilia doesn't fall; it doesn't take another skater or even a fan to know that. you sit stunned, frozen with the half-empty bottle of water perched between your fingertips as your lips part in shock.

"oh my god," you mumble to no one, blinking as if to wake yourself up from some kind of sick dream sequence. but you don't wake up. because you're not asleep, and it's real. the domino effect of one little mistake is very fucking real.

because — while ilia doesn't make mistakes — he's his own worst enemy, and once he's messed up, he can't recover.

your eyes catch the visible wince as he comes out of his ending pose — displayed on the surprisingly large flatscreen tv mounted to the wall — and covers his face with gloved hands. places his hand on his heart and gives curt bows to the crowd. and as rough as the sight of your friend is, you…can't look away.

has his hair grown exponentially? yeah. has his face matured over the years? also yeah. and does the sight of him holding back tears make your thighs involuntarily press together?

well, fuck. it does.

you can't stay to watch him score. you know he won't medal; he knows he won't medal. and now you have a particularly unpleasant pit forming in your stomach that needs to be dealt with. which cannot be eradicated or taken care of within a mile radius of this arena, regardless of the outcome, out of a) sheer embarrassment, and b) pure confusion.

your hand scrambles for the remote lost somewhere in the leather cushion beneath you until your fingers find the sleek plastic and press hard on the power button to turn the trainwreck off. you grab your phone and your keys — and an extra bag of off-brand chips for the ride back that you can only assume will be long and painful — and beeline for the door, not bothering to acknowledge the wandering eyes watching you sprint out of the building.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

after about twenty minutes' worth of being hounded by reporters in the back hallway, ilia finally gets a moment to himself after what was, for all intents and purposes, the single worst moment of his career.

and the person who is supposedly closest to him — so much so that amber, alysa, and isabeau have all become by-association friends with — is nowhere to be found. ilia swallows, nodding and composing himself as his father finally catches up to him, mumbling something in russian that his ears barely register from the mix of disappointment and irritation coursing through his veins.

on the lovely bus ride back to the village — earbuds sitting comfortably in his ears to drown his thoughts — he checks his phone. for a missed call, a message, fuck, even a dm on instagram, or something. his face is absolutely everywhere, and you haven't even acknowledged him, nor his loss, nor the negative emotions floating in his head that your sole purpose is to quell. maybe he's pissed. maybe he has a right to be.

the bus drops him near the building he's lodged in, giving him time to (lazily) grab his bags and step off. a few staggered stares greet him as he walks into the lobby, an unpleasant reminder that he opts to ignore as he heads for the elevators. his finger presses the button, and he opens his phone, staring blankly at the home screen without clicking on anything.

his mind wanders for half a second, back to the messages (or lack thereof), back to the ice, the falls, the eighth place score, and then—

ding.

"…fuck."

he enters the unoccupied elevator with a sigh, presses his floor, and watches the blank wall across from him until the doors close. he scans the compact space, looking for something to focus on. his eyes settle on the tiles beneath his feet. they're new — freshly polished, if the potent chemical scent is anything to go by — a little scuffed in the far right corner by someone's luggage.

the tile is neat, pretty, clean, perfect. it has an image. a reputation to hold in the upscale building. but even the newest and shiniest square feet of tile, even the most pristine-looking pieces in the world, can be damaged just as easily.

yeah, really fucking easily.

he finds his door and unlocks it in a mindless trance, pulling his earbuds out and tying them off neatly before tossing them onto his nightstand. the inviting pile of half-folded, half-bunched clothes welcomes him from the spot where it accumulates, just beside the window. rather than bothering to care, ilia grabs the pajama pants lying across the top and a loose hoodie from one of the umpteenth sponsored brands. then a pair of boxers from his suitcase as he walks into the bathroom and runs the shower.

he submerges his face in the gentle rainfall, running his palms through his thick, dirty blond hair as it dampens. eyes closed, he breathes — lungs emptying and refilling with the warm, comforting steam arising from the water's temperature. the shower doesn't clear his head, but it tames the ache. a problem that could have been solved a lot sooner. maybe a bit more effectively.

"take it easy," is what you'd always tell him, offering a hand on his shoulder or a soft brush of your fingers along his hairline. never in a way that suggested more; just your presence, your support. "you're human."

ilia doesn't take things easy. even when you are there to remind him.

pants hanging loosely around his waist, hoodie draped over his tired shoulders, he leans over the bathroom counter. he takes the folded-up bandana from the corner of the sink and ties it around his forehead, adjusting it until it blocks the moisture from his half-dripping, towel-tried hair. his routine feels a little monotonous — wash face, rinse, pat dry, brush teeth, rinse, wipe dry — but he gets it done.

his (complimentary) slippered feet hang over the edge of the bed, arm behind his head, phone in his hand. he stares, reads an article, a comment on his last post, and breathes unsteadily. everything is ilia malinin; his failure, his embarrassment, his contorted face on blast for the entire fucking world.

the three quiet raps on the door come just as the phone's screen turns black.

ilia stands up, placing the phone face down beside his earbuds, and walks up to the door. he doesn't bother to check before his hand is migrating toward the chain lock, while the other wraps around the handle and pushes down, eventually pulling the door open with a slow, soft creak.

his face turns cold.

"ilia," you try, but he shuffles away carefully, letting the door start to swing shut until your foot wedges between the carved wood and the doorframe. "ilia, please."

"where were you?" the words spit in a tone he doesn't use with you; with anyone, really. not even at his worst.

"i left," you admit quietly, "but—"

"—no," he interrupts, shaking his head almost in pity of himself. "the one time. the one time i need you there, you're gone," he mumbles. "was it that humiliating for you, too?"

"illie—"

"—don't."

"do you seriously think i'd just get up and fucking leave because you lost? is that really what you think of me?" you counter, stepping closer; ilia doesn't move. "i wouldn't come all the way to milan for that, ilia. you know that."

"mm," he mumbles, lips pressed together as his eyes stay fixed on your face, heart torn between keeping cold or pulling you into a hug that he really fucking needs.

"since the day i met you, i've never missed as much as a minute of a program. i've sat with you when no one else would. i came halfway across the world to watch you skate. you're the most important person in my life."

he doesn't speak.

"okay," you nod, "fine."

"cut the shit."

your eyes fall shut.

"if you weren't angry with me, too, then tell me why you left."

your heart throbs in your chest, nervous heat spreading to your fingertips as your gaze reconnects with his. hurt still sits in his eyes; you can't help but feel guilty. you know that part of it is because of this, you, while the other is his mind's own way of torment.

"watching you didn't feel right. not the way it should," you admit tentatively, giving him no more room for accusation. "i don't feel like this, okay? i don't look at you and want—" you hesitate, "more." your gaze flicks between his eyes, studying them as if one wrong word will push him away. but you see it, the subtle shift.

"but seeing you out there, on that ice, looking the way you did? yeah, fuck, i wanted you, ilia. that's why i left."

his throat bobs when he swallows. heavy, intense.

the decision flashes briefly in his eyes before he steps forward, hand sliding under your jaw and angling it just right to kiss you. it's hard — emotion pouring into it like a dam had exploded inside of him — but it doesn't hurt. it isn't controlling, it isn't punishing. it's careful, calculated, desperate. it's ilia; a painful, beautiful reminder.

one hand fists the bright red coca-cola hoodie, while the other tangles into his damp hair, the edge of a finger catching on the bandana's fabric. you giggle when it shifts a little on his head and sits just slightly crooked. ilia smiles back against your lips, hand ghosting over your waist as he walks you backward, around the corner of the bed until you're standing between it and the wall.

"i'm sorry, ilia," you murmur into his mouth, fingers tugging at his hair when he leans forward to lower you down, back pressing carefully into the soft mattress. "i shouldn't have left."

"it's okay," he counters as he curls his fingers into the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the floor beside him in one motion. you run the tip of a finger along his midsection, upward to trace a line through the center of his chest, and flatten your palm at the crevice between his neck and shoulder, tugging him down again.

he moans against your lips; gentle, soft, a little fried with exhaustion. your stomach flutters, back lifting slightly from the mattress as your body seeks his warmth.

"lemme help you, illie," you whisper, your t-shirt bunching at your ribs as ilia's hand pushes it up. "want you to feel better."

he lets your shirt fall to the floor beside his hoodie, palm sliding up to the curve of your chest and dragging his thumb over your nipple. your mouth tries to form his name, but only a half-moan, half-gasp slips into the room. his lips press a trail of kisses against the side of your neck, dipping a toe into a realm he'd never imagined.

"you angry?"

he breathes, lifting his head until his eyes meet yours. "yeah."

"are you mad at yourself, or me?"

"myself," his voice low.

fingertips glide up the side of his cheek, still a little red from the scalding hot shower, the ghost of a tear lingering in the skin. your manicured nails land just above the bandana, snug around his head; you think if he ever wears it in public with you, he'll never be allowed to skate again. at least, if any cameras are around. or a person.

"then show me," you whisper.

he surges forward, lips crushing yours firmer than before. anger bleeds into it, alongside the leftover adrenaline from the performance that he couldn't wash away in the shower. his hips roll against yours, an involuntary moan wisping into the warm air.

his every move is suddenly more intentional — fingers gliding down your side until they're hooked in your sleep pants. you lift your hips to let him slip them off, watching the way his eyes study every curve from your outer thighs to your ankles. you've only ever seen him so intent when he skates; it's jarring, a little hot, if you're being honest.

the pads of his fingers trail along your inner thigh until they brush over the dampened black fabric adorning the space between your legs. your breath hitches; he leans closer, and the faint scent of his soap wafts into the air you suck in. a droplet of water falls from a strand of blond hair and lands on your collarbone.

ilia's mouth covers the spot, teeth grazing the skin there as he sucks gently. you're not sure if the noise that follows originates from that — as erotic as it looks, blue eyes still focused on your face through his lashes — or the pressure of his fingers pushing into you without warning. you don't remember feeling him push the underwear aside, though you don't think you'd realize an axe murderer if there was one standing beside you.

the excruciatingly deep push and pull distract you from fully processing that this is ilia. the same person who you've heard say at least eighteen times that his main focus would always be the ice. though, you guess he never denounced sex. but that wasn't a typical topic of conversation between two people who were supposedly completely unattracted to one another. and you figure a guy like him doesn't get this kind of expertise naturally.

in five years, you never even batted an eye in his direction like that, and after seeing one measly clip of him crying, you wanna fuck him? goodness.

"y'know, you could have — fuck, taken them off," you nudge, delivering a harsh tug to his thick hair when he curls a finger into your sweet spot.

and instead of responding like any sane person, he rips his fingers out and yanks the half-ruined panties down your legs. shocked — and a little more turned on than before, admittedly — you listen to the stitches tear as they catch on your ankle, and then, they're out of sight and on the floor.

"i liked those," you pout.

ilia leans forward again, placing a hand on your waist that leaves a stain of your arousal on the skin beneath it. "then don't complain next time," he mumbles into the crook of your neck, and you hear the smile in his voice. intentionally innocent.

"next time?"

"maybe."

you don't try to make sense of it. really, you're on the same page here.

yeah, you kinda regret complaining because you wanted to come, and sure, your hand is pulling the tie on his pants loose, but none of this should really be happening in the first place. it's just the result of your sexual frustration and his remaining adrenaline-turned-anger.

did you actually rub one out to the mental image of your best friend suppressing tears? no. you got back to the village, ate the extra bag of chips you swiped, and sat idly on the bed, munching and irritatedly reprimanding yourself over and over again. did it work? also no, because you still got up and went to ilia's room.

the end goal wasn't to get his dick in you. you were supposed to see his face and remember that you should be comforting him. then he was angry, you admitted to something you probably shouldn't have, and then you essentially implied that he should take said anger out on you.

y'know, comfort, and all that.

new technique.

it's a bit hypocritical of you to judge him for not taking everything off, only to stick your hand past the waistbands of both his snoopy-themed sleep pants and his boxers just to wrap your hand around him. out of sheer impatience, mostly, and it's difficult to maneuver your wrist that way, but the reward comes in the form of a whine in your ear.

you've known ilia since you were sixteen, and you have never heard him sound like that.

your pussy throbs. thing is practically screaming for him, despite the fact that you typically wouldn't even entertain the idea of him fucking other girls, let alone yourself.

his hand constricts over your hip bone, and you squirm, palm gliding along the length of his cock. slow, careful strokes that shoot up his spine. you're not even trying to be an asshole about it; you simply want to feel him. and — wow.

he pulls back to kick the remaining clothes off; you don't even think they've fully left the bed by the time his elbow nudges your knees open, keeping it in place as your pussy clenches around nothing, slick dripping onto the expensive sheets beneath you.

"you know they're out," he states plainly. not a question, not even proposing a choice, really.

"don't fucking care."

you don't receive a single word of warning before he's buried inside of you. the sudden stretch sears between your thighs, pulls a cry from your chest that sounds long overdue, like every ounce of tension from the night releasing in one fluid motion.

"fffuck," he breathes, the russian word rolling harshly off his tongue. even in your clouded state, your brain instantly recognizes it, after years of him unintentionally lodging it into your memory (and inevitably, your vocabulary).

your stomach flutters; oh, yeah, that'll do it.

"ilia — jesus," you sputter, breath hitching as your hand reaches for his bicep and squeezes. "oh my god."

"sorry," he half-whispers, hips barely giving your body time to adjust before moving against yours. he sets a pace that sits somewhere between tolerable and blinding, leaning forward as he settles into the movement. the angle shifts just enough for you to notice he's deeper.

you're somehow more alert with your eyes squeezed shut. the bed creaks quietly beneath your bodies; you're aware of every individual finger dragging up your side; the edge of his necklace — which you don't think you've ever seen him without — collides with your chest, so you know he's closer.

ilia's always been particularly attentive. you can't decide whether it works in your favor or against your favor now. the pace quickly turns brutal as his mind fogs with the surfacing emotions from just a few hours ago. and he lets it happen, because he'd know you like it even if you never told him so. because he watches. because he listens.

your hand would pull his hair, or you'd clench subconsciously every time the tip of his finger just barely brushed your cervix. your eyes perked with the first harsh stroke of his cock inside of you. the moan that initially left your parted lips entirely lacked displeasure and simultaneously begged for more.

and like, the look in your eyes when you finally open them is completely unfamiliar.

it's hungry. desperate. literally fucking dripping with want that he hadn't even seen you look at your ex or a drunk hookup with.

he props himself up on a flattened palm — just above your shoulder — and wraps his hand around the opposite bend at your knee, pulling back far enough to sling it over his shoulder. his lips kiss your inner ankle, and your pussy flutters around him from the sight. he groans, mumbles something incoherent.

your hand impatiently leaves the sheets in favor of the bandana's knot, tugging it off his head and watching his air-dried hair fall into his face, the roots at his hairline decorated with sweat. as you pull him back down, he braces himself with a bent elbow, and the mattress shakes under the weight.

ilia laughs, kissing you messily while his hips drive into yours, forcing a whimper from your chest with every rough push.

"stop saying things i don't understand," you argue, fingers brushing his hair back and fisting the fluffy strands.

he squeezes your calf, "no."

well, okay.

the following kiss is all tongue and teeth, sloppy and grotesque as wet noises blend with the squelch between your legs. he's moaning into your mouth, burying every inch of your body into the mattress beneath you, sheets turning damp from the mixed sweat dripping onto them. you almost forget entirely that he even touched ice tonight.

the light in the dorm's hallway flickers; a bus from below pulls in at the building's entrance to drop off another group of athletes; a half-empty water bottle crinkles on the nightstand.

and none of this is pleasant.

it's not private — anyone in the rooms adjacent to or below his will surely have something to say tomorrow, if they're awake now — and it's not quiet, and the room smells like a mix of sex and shampoo and plastic from the pile of sponsorships lying on the floor.

still, all you can focus on is the way he pounds into you, bruising the sweet spot inside you with every thrust until your head, too, becomes hazy, and a tear springs to the corner of your eye that you blink away.

he finally pulls back to take a breath, chest heaving as the metal necklace swings forward and hits the underside of your jaw. his face tenses, eyes squeezed shut as the same pained expression from earlier appears — the one plastered on every national broadcast you could possibly name. the face that catapulted you into this mess in the first place.

fuck, he's gorgeous.

you've really been missing out by not entertaining romantic feelings. on that face and good sex.

great sex, even.

your fingers trace the side of his head. the gesture's gentleness is a heavy contrast to the rough nature of his thrusts, but you've always been good at multitasking. though, taking his dick and simultaneously pressing a kiss to his cheek (and another to the corner of his mouth) isn't a challenge you've taken on before. this would be a first.

"you know — mmph — you're incredible, ilia," you offer unsteadily, eyebrows knitted together. "right?" your palm flattens over his hair, using the pressure to ground you. "one performance isn't — everything."

"i looked like a fool," he laughs bitterly, "and then i cried like a fucking baby."

"i thought you looked good."

he opens his mouth to ask a follow-up question that you don't let him get to. you kiss him again, gasping when he lifts your waist off the bed just enough for him to hit the spongy spot inside you again, nearly ramming into it repeatedly until the stimulation actually coaxes a squeak, and you shake your head embarrassedly.

you cannot believe you just did that for him. he's never letting you live that down.

thankfully for you, he's too focused now to comment on it.

"ебать," he sighs into your mouth, voice all strained and whiny, and you huff out a frustrated breath. "я сейчас кончу."

confused, you choke out, "what?"

"'m gonna come," he instead mumbles. you involuntarily tighten around him, a mix of irritation and (unfortunately) arousal bombarding your nerves.

the angle of the following thrust is just accurate enough to tip you over the edge and snap the coil of tension built in your lower stomach. a gush of hot, white cum drips all around his cock where you're joined, coating the inner faces of your thighs and connecting your skin to his with thin strings. a ring of liquid builds up at the base and coats the whole length of his dick as he keeps the punishing — albeit gratifying — pace afloat until the bubbling sensation grows in his own stomach.

he twitches inside of you; envelops your mouth to muffle the wrecked moan that escapes. definitely the hottest sound you've ever heard, second to the whiny russian you just tried to complain about. the noise buzzes against your lips, and warmth spreads across your belly as your inner walls fill with white. you fight to keep your head up, gripping his hair like a lifeline as the weakness finally starts to wash over you, the physical release of tension leaving your body more exhausted than it's been in months.

he lowers his shoulder to let your leg roll down his arm, catching it and placing it carefully on the warm mattress. a hand slips below your jaw, perches his thumb underneath your chin, and he kisses you. sweetly — slow and deliberate, unlike the others, tongue grazing your top row of teeth as if to map them out. he isn't claiming; he's studying.

the pad of his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, blue eyes flitting back and forth between yours, with the softest affection in their gaze.

"feel better now?" you ask quietly, voice weak as your chest rises and falls. ilia's necklace's cold metal rests between your collarbone and the center of his chest; you briefly wonder if it will leave a mark.

"is it bad to say yes?"

you roll your eyes and ruffle the hair on the back of his head. "considering i suggested it, no."

his smile is pretty, too. you just never took the time to notice.

for the first time today, you actually recognize the person looking back at you. it's ilia; your ilia, who you know better than the back of your own hand. and after all of this, that does frighten you. just a little.

just enough.

"hey," you say, lazily nudging him with your shoulder. "i'm sorry for leaving. i should've sucked it up."

"i was already mad at myself," he counters. "i just redirected it at you." he carefully lifts himself up and shifts your leg to let him lie beside you. suddenly becoming aware of the cold air hitting his bare skin. "that isn't fair, either."

you shiver when his palm lowers onto the curve of your hip. he assumes it's from the exposure — much like his own discomfort — and tugs the sheets out from under you, pulling them up to the tip of your shoulder. the gesture is sweet, almost domestic.

meanwhile, your body can't decide whether the reaction actually came from the cold or the fact that it was ilia's hand touching you.

"you know everyone is still going to love you, illie," you whisper, resting at the edge of the bed as the blanket's warmth envelops you. "they'll still watch. and if they're not on your side, you know that i always will be."

"yeah," he shrugs, "i guess."

your fingers toy with the elastic part of the fitted sheet, right where the fabric cinches at the corner of the mattress. "this doesn't…change anything, does it?"

ilia chuckles behind you; the noise eases your muscles enough to relax into the bed. "we're friends," his tone reassuring. "i think it will take a lot more than one night to ruin that."

"good," you sigh with relief, letting your eyes fall shut. "but i'm not leaving this bed until i've slept. sorry."

"be my guest."

ilia's hand doesn't move. you let it stay there.

he doesn't move any closer. keeps a comfortable distance and studies the small patch of skin that is still exposed, a few droplets of sweat still decorating it. the negative emotions and voices still linger from before, but they're not as strong, as loud.

you've always been able to eradicate them, no matter how poorly he skated or how deeply he'd been ripped into. tonight was no different, albeit the unconventional form of comfort you gave him (and he accepted). it worked, didn't it?

his head inches forward — so slightly that you won't even notice — until he can smell the familiar softness of your signature vanilla perfume.

"я люблю тебя," his voice so soft that it blurs into the air before it can even reach your ear. not that you'll understand. and even then, you've already fallen into a gentle slumber, unable to hear anything that leaves his parted lips. he can tell by the way your fingers hang idly over the edge of the mattress and how your breathing evens out.

you don't have to understand that he loves you; you don't even have to know.

he just needs you to hear it.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

love u all <3

Though it was nothing new to see Bruce being sort of skulky and mopey— that was typical of the last twenty years without his parents— he usually wasn’t so avoidant, or hard to reach. You’d been so close your whole lives, ‘peas in a pod’ as Martha Wayne used to say, and up until somewhat recently, you saw him almost every day.

At first it was subtle, he told you he was just a little bit busier and you didn’t think much of it, you saw him less and less— and you figured it was a phase. It was May when you noticed, suddenly, that you hadn’t seen him in a week, and you couldn’t remember if that had ever happened before. By August, you realized this ‘phase’ had been much closer to indefinite than you originally expected; in September, he stood you up after agreeing to be your (platonic, obviously) date to a charity gala.

So, you were pretty done with his shit by October, when he left you on read after you inquired about holiday plans— because you always spent Thanksgiving and Christmas together, and you needed to start figuring out if you should host something at your place or if he was going to want you two to do something by yourselves.

Only a week later, you spotted him at an auction, not that you were too surprised to see him: you specifically attended because you knew he’d be there, considering a painting by Degas— which up until a few days ago hung in the parlor at Wayne tower— was on sale. For quite some time, Bruce had basically left the entire tower untouched, its gothic interior more and more like a mausoleum each day as he kept everything exactly how his parents had left it. It was a recent development that he had begun to donate old belongings and heirlooms, though you could tell from what you’d seen that he was getting rid of the stuff he’d never cared for much in the first place; he hated that Degas, he thought it was a blurry orange mess that your average kindergarten finger-painter could outclass. Honestly, you were happy he was taking control of the space, allowing himself to decide what he wanted to see in his own home every day— and the money bid on the painting would go to a fabulous cause, you just wished you didn’t have to keep tabs on him like this for only a stolen moment alone.

Quite literally stolen, actually, since he started avoiding you as soon as he spotted you at the event: you kept trying to find a good way to get to him, but then as the bidding began, he got up from his seat and started to leave. You got up to follow, and he moved faster. The bastard was literally just going to outrun you! Not about to let him get away that easy, you went backwards— around the auction room into the hallway he’d have to cross to leave. Apparently when Bruce Wayne was dodging your calls, you literally had to ambush him: you hid behind a pillar and waited for him to jog by to grab him by the sleeve and drag him into the shadows.

He yelped slightly, jerking his arm out of your grasp but trapped again by your fist snatching his lapel.

“What gives?” you hissed.

“I— I have to go,” he insisted.

“No,” you snapped. “You need to talk to me. If I’ve done something wrong, just tell me— but I’m worried about you and I need to know that you’re okay.”

“Why?” he dodged.

“I’m not letting you leave until you tell me that you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” he mumbled unconvincingly, and you deflated, anger sizzling out into sadness. You dropped his lapel and he relaxed slightly.

“Stop pushing me away, Bruce, please,” you breathed. “I miss you.”

He stayed stoic— of course he did— and just glanced down.

“Whatever’s going on,” you assured, “you can tell me. And if you can’t yet, that’s okay— you can tell me that, and I’ll wait. Just let me in, just a little bit? Please?”

His gaze darted around, and you reached up to rest your fingers on his jaw; that seemed to startle him slightly, but it got his attention, and you held his face to keep him looking at yours.

“Look at me,” you whispered. “It’s me, okay? Whatever it is, you’re not gonna scare me away— I’m just scared that you’re shutting me out.”

He blinked, sinking his shoulders down a bit, and exhaling sharply through his nose. “Okay,” he said softly. “You’re right, I’m sorry… we’ll talk tomorrow— come over for dinner.”

“Great,” you smiled.

“I may not be able to tell you everything, right now,” he warned.

“That’s okay,” you assured, “we can just start with ironing out Thanksgiving plans.”

He smiled, barely— for a normal person, it wouldn’t mean much, but for him it was a pretty massive expression of emotion and it soothed you greatly. It wasn’t like you’d never seen him laugh until he snorted and had tears in his eyes, it’s just that you hadn’t seen him like that in probably years now. You missed those glimpses of his joy so much; you hoped this was the beginning of a return to normalcy for the two of you, and you’d have a chance to make him happy like that again.

“Now go,” you offered, stepping back a bit, “do whatever mysterious thing you need to go do.”

He gave you a quick kiss on your temple before he departed, hands stuffed into his pockets and hair already starting to fall out of the style he’d gelled it into. You watched him leave, soothed at the idea you would get your best friend back soon.

~

You glanced at the clock, again, wondering if time was standing still somehow. It was almost 9 last time you checked, and now it was still only 8:59.

Either way, it was pretty late to still be alone at the dining table when Bruce had told you to come for dinner at 7. You toyed with the bracelet around your wrist; you’d dressed pretty nice, maybe a little too nice, because it felt like you were celebrating something. Now it just made you feel even more foolish for being here by yourself.

Alfred had checked in on you a few times, each visit less optimistic than the last, and he appeared once more with a sympathetic smile on his face. “I’m sorry, dear,” he sighed, “but Mr. Wayne will likely not return in time for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” you shrugged, “sorta saw it coming.”

“I can bring a car around for you?”

“Oh— no, I’ll wait,” you smiled. Alfred wrinkled his eyebrows together. “He’ll be back sometime tonight, won’t he? I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

His eyes darted around— you knew him well, he was looking for an excuse to get you to leave. Why didn’t he want you here? You were more sure than ever that Bruce had been hiding something from you by being absent for these months.

“I’m sure you have plenty to do,” you waved your hand, “I won’t keep you— you certainly don’t need to entertain me. I’ll make a visit to the library, explore a bit, and you can find me when Bruce is back, hm?”

Alfred cleared his throat. “Alright,” he decided.

When he was finally gone, you slipped out of the kitchen— but instead of going to the library, you wandered the halls much more aimlessly. Maybe you just hoped you’d find something to explain Bruce’s bizarre demeanor of late, maybe you were just killing time. He had replaced the Degas he sold at the auction with a new painting, a much more modern one you didn’t recognize; darker, abstract, a little creepy. Much more his style, certainly.

You tinkered on the piano in the parlor, admiring the view of Gotham from the window— yes, this city was filthy in a literal and metaphysical sense, but it was home, and you thought it was beautiful. There was a light mist in the air, not the heavy rain you got so often out here, and it made all the lights sparkle that much more in the deep blue night.

The distant sound of music, coming from one of the floors below, made you stop playing. It took a few moments for you to recognize the tune when it was so muffled, but the echo of the bass was familiar; Nirvana. Bruce must be home. You smirked to yourself… he was rather predictable.

You heard a door slam down the hallway, and you figured it had to be Bruce, because none of the staff would be so careless. Heavy steps started to move down across the creaky floorboards, and you silently leaned back on the bench— yes, just a few moments later, Bruce skulked by. He was wearing jeans and a baggy black t-shirt, but that didn’t give you much clue what he’d been doing since that was what he changed into the second he got home from any event that required anything nicer to be worn.

He didn’t seem to notice you, having forgotten you would be here tonight (you assumed) and not noticing you in the shadows. You thought you might just watch him until he noticed, but then you caught a glimpse of his face.

“Woah,” you chuckled, and he jumped, turning to look at you with wide eyes. “Did you just get back from a rager or something?”

“Huh?” he mumbled.

“The makeup,” you pointed to his face, and his hand shot up to wipe around his eyes. “Kinda lost control of the smoky eye, eh?”

You cringed when he started to rub his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Woah woah, hey, that’s not how you get that off,” you corrected, standing up and coming closer to grab his arm and guide it away from his face. Of course, you felt a lot more muscle under your touch than you expected; you cleared your throat as he looked down at you, eyes red from the irritation. “Let me help you, man, I’ve got micellar water in my purse.”

So yeah, that was how you ended up with cotton balls pinched between your fingers and thumb, carefully wiping the black off from around his eyes. The cleanser got the job done, but the application was so heavy that you had to go in a few times just to get it all— plus the grey-ish watery residue left behind each time you smeared a used cotton ball around.

“And then just a damp washcloth to get off the extra,” you explained under your breath as you wiped his face gently.

He looked up at you between strokes of the fabric over his face, his blue eyes especially striking when they were examining you so closely. “Why are you good to me?” he asked quietly, suddenly.

The question took you aback; it seemed so obvious that you weren’t even sure how to answer it, and at the same time it made you feel all vulnerable and warm. “I— I love you,” you insisted, “of course. Bruce, we’ve been friends longer than I can remember.”

Of course, this was not the first time you had told him that you loved him. It was also not the first time you said it somewhat strategically, so he wouldn’t realize your love for him was far greater than it was supposed to be; that being ‘friends forever’ was a compromise for you, the thing that made you happiest and broke your heart all at once.

“Gotta be careful going out to seedy parties at this hour,” you smirked awkwardly, “that’s when the bat-freak goes out and beats up random citizens. Watch your step.”

You slipped down off the bathroom counter, grabbing the used cotton balls from the edge and chucking them into a wastebin. You could feel his stare on the back of your neck; you even saw him looking at you when you checked the mirror in your peripheral vision.

“I mean, you’re not as poor and desperate as his usual fare,” you joked, “but still— watch out.”

“I’ll try,” he offered plainly after clearing his throat. “I’m sorry I missed dinner.”

You turned around and looked at him again, offering your best shrug and smile. “It’s okay. I just miss you, Bruce— I don’t understand what you’re going through.”

He looked down. “I know you don’t.”

You sighed and stepped closer, so he’d have to look down at you. “Give me a chance to try,” you pleaded. “Whatever it is— you don’t need to hide anything from me, okay? You can’t scare me away.”

He started to chew the inside of his cheek— he was thinking. And that was a good thing, it meant he was thinking about whether or not he could be honest with you. You just needed to convince him that he could be.

“C’mon, Bruce, it’s me!” you smiled. “It’s us— it’s always been us, nothing could change that.”

“You’d be surprised,” he challenged.

“I just want you back,” you sighed, “all of you.”

When he looked in your eyes, it was like he saw right through you; before he even said anything, you knew that he knew. “When you say that you love me,” he interrogated softly, “what do you mean?”

You tried to step back, but he grabbed your arm— not too hard, but… hard, still. “I…” you breathed.

“What way do you love me?” he demanded.

“The— the way that’s forever,” you offered.

“Don’t avoid the question,” he instructed. “Just tell me what you really mean when you say that.”

“I mean,” you began, looking off to the side because looking straight up at him would be too difficult, “that— that you’re my best friend. And I want you to be happy more than anything, and I… think about you, when we’re not together. And I don’t want you to be alone. Unless you want to be, but— but if you don’t, I just want to love you however you want me to.”

After he said nothing for a moment, you looked up at him again, and found his expression infuriatingly unreadable. “Come back tomorrow night,” he decided. “Late. Alfred will call and tell you when to come— and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Really?” you smiled.

“Of course,” he nodded, “because I love you, too.”

He didn’t say what way he meant it— but you felt it in his stare, in his hand on your shoulders, in the weight of his words. And you not only hoped, but really believed, that he might love you the way you meant it.

~

You threw on a dress and rushed to the tower when you got Alfred’s call, even though it was almost midnight… you weren’t going to be able to sleep tonight regardless. There was something difficult to describe in his expression when you saw him inside the tower. “Good evening,” you greeted, waiting for the resolution to the strange energy in the air.

“Mr. Wayne has asked me to take you to another part of the tower,” he explained, “where you can wait for him to return.”

“O…kay…” you agreed, confused but sort of indifferent. He took you to the lowest floor of the tower— the garage, which seemed like an incredibly strange place for you to wait for Bruce. It was stranger, even, when the elevator doors opened and you realized this was not at all the place you thought it was. “Wh—?” you started to ask as you stepped into the dimly-lit room, filled with things you didn’t recognize. There was a computer, itself surrounded by devices you’d never seen before, and clippings from newspapers— and journals, writing scrawled here and there all over everything. You knew Bruce’s handwriting, but none of these words made any sense coming from him. Among the menagerie of random, yet disconcerting, items was a knife: not like a kitchen knife or switchblade, it had a mechanical piece like it was meant to be attached to something. What was something like this doing in what used to be the Wayne Tower garage?

You heard the elevator door close, and you spun around to see the lift start to move— Alfred had left you rather unceremoniously. And you felt, in that moment, the only thing worse than feeling alone…

Not feeling alone.

You looked over your shoulder, turning slowly; your heart started to race as you looked into the shadows. Even though you prayed not to see anything, you still couldn’t look away. Embarrassingly, your knees almost buckled and you nearly crumpled onto the floor when a towering figure stepped out of the shadows. The points at the top of his head gave him away: the Batman. The caped crusader; the most prolific dealer of assault & battery to never see a day behind bars.

So, not really somebody you wanted to run into tonight.

At first, your instinct was that he was here to attack Bruce, though you couldn’t imagine why; but the way he was looking at you made you wonder how far he was willing to go to silence you— or if, somehow, he was here for you.

You grabbed for the knife beside you on the desk, but he was on you before you could even lift it in the air completely— he shoved you back into the wall as you whined, holding your wrist so tight you were forced to drop the blade. It clattered to the floor as you choked out a sob.

You waited for him to do whatever it was he wanted to do to you— because you knew you couldn’t stop him. Nothing happened; you waited for him to say something, then, but he said nothing. You were forced to soften your face from the perpetual wince of terror, so you could turn to look up at him and hopefully see why he hadn’t done anything.

Afraid to look at his masked face right away, your eyes lingered on his armored chest first, and the metallic symbol embedded in the center of it. Carefully, you moved your gaze higher and higher, finally finding the strength to meet his stare. It took you longer than it should have for you to realize, when you looked into his eyes. Well, that’s not entirely true: you realized instantly, you would know those eyes anywhere. It’s just that it took you a little too long to let yourself believe it.

He must’ve realized he would need to force you to accept the truth literally staring you in the face. He reached up— and no, you didn’t use the opportunity to try to run because it would’ve been useless anyways, and you were petrified in fear and morbid curiosity— and removed the mask from his head.

“No,” you said under your breath, because you couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Yes,” he insisted.

“I— this— you—” you started over and over again. “Oh, Bruce, what have you done!”

“What I had to,” he answered.

“What you do— it isn’t right,” you implored, “those people—”

“They’re not good people.”

“They have rights!”

“You love me,” he reminded you.

“I don’t even know you,” you denied, finally finding the willpower to walk away— but he grabbed your shoulders and pushed you back again, keeping you still as your eyes watered.

“You said you wanted me,” he sneered. “All of me. This is who I am.”

“N-no it’s not,” you denied, “you would never hurt anyone, Bruce.”

“I hurt a lot of people.”

“But you’d never hurt me,” you whispered shakily. “You’d never hurt me…” you repeated, not sure who you were trying to convince by saying it.

“Not if I didn’t have to,” he responded eventually. You turned your head and he instantly grabbed your jaw, much too hard, with a gloved hand; you gasped and whimpered as he forced you to turn your face back towards him, wrenching your chin up. “Look at me,” he growled.

You bit your lip to stop it from shaking, staring straight into his eyes— they were so much darker now, and not just because of the black smears around them. “Bruce, you’re scaring me,” you mumbled nervously.

“Fear,” he replied flatly, “is a tool.”

In one swift motion, he swept aside most of the scattered papers and items from the desk and pushed you to bend down over it; you sobbed as you felt his grip tighten on the back of your neck and his other, gloved hand run over your back slowly.

“I knew you’d be afraid of me,” he admitted, “but you begged me to tell you. And now you know.”

His hand departed from your body for only a moment, and with your face turned to the side and your cheek pressed to the cool surface beneath you, you could just barely make out on the edges of your vision Bruce bringing his hand to his mouth to pull off his glove with his teeth.

You gasped at the feeling of his bare touch, reaching down to brush over your thigh just below the hem of your dress and slowly moving up.

“Bruce, stop,” you whispered.

“This is what you wanted,” he replied quietly. “This is what I wanted, too, but I knew you couldn’t understand. Now I realize that doesn’t really matter.”

You shivered when he lifted the skirt of your dress up over your back, revealing your panties; your face burned so hot it heated up the metal desk beneath you. You'd worn nice ones just in case tonight went well… this wasn't what you had in mind.

He made a low noise, like a deep, sustained hum, as he reached up and carefully pulled down the waistband of your underwear. You whimpered as the fabric dragged along your skin, feeling yourself become more and more exposed.

"Don't— don't do this," you began to bargain. "I'll just… I'll just go and I won't tell anyone and—"

"Is that what you think I want?" he sighed. "For you to leave? I'm so tired of being alone… you can't leave. I'm never letting you leave."

You panted anxiously, hardly believing this was Bruce, your Bruce, rubbing your bare hips and kicking your legs apart.

“Please, please,” you sobbed weakly.

“Shh, hey,” he soothed, “I won’t hurt you, it’s not going to hurt. It’ll feel good, you know why?”

He leaned in closer, so close that his lips brushed against your ear when he spoke. You felt the head of his cock poke at your opening and you whined.

“Because we’re made for each other.”

In one strong, quick stroke he filled you; you bit down hard on your lip and held back the cry that threatened to break from your throat. He let out a low moan, so deep that the bass of it made a chill run up your spine, and carefully began to move.

You were wet, way more than you should’ve been in a time like this, and you knew it was because of the fear rather than in spite of it. Fear is a tool. He was right after all. At least your arousal eased the pain a little… just not the pain in your heart, unfortunately.

He held your hips tightly for leverage, but the desk beneath you still scraped against the concrete floor cacophonously with every thrust. Yes, you'd wanted Bruce this way for some time— but not like this, of course. You wanted him to make love to you; he was treating you like a means to an end now, he was forcing you to accept every part of him in a much more literal sense than you wanted to believe.

This was clearly, to him, about making you understand that Bruce Wayne is the Batman, an alter ego of sorts. But to you it was about realizing that neither of them were who you thought they were.

When he held your arms tighter, guiding them under your chest and wrapping you up in his embrace, you realized you’d never felt so trapped before. He kissed your neck, and you hated that your back arched at the feeling even though you longed for the strength to squirm away.

“You love me,” he whispered again. “Don’t you? Tell me you love me.”

“Stop,” you choked, whining as his grip on your wrists tightened painfully.

“Don’t make me ask you twice,” he warned.

“I love you,” you whimpered. “I— I love you, Bruce. You… you’re hurting me.”

“Sometimes love hurts,” he explained nonchalantly. “All the most important love hurts.”

Unfortunately, you knew he was right about that; loving him all this time had hurt, in its own way, but never like this. Maybe this was just the cost of him loving you back.

“You said you’d love me however I wanted you to,” he remembered. “This is how I want you to love me. Bent over.”

Crying harder, your breathing got shakier and less useful— his weight sinking into you didn’t help with that, either. He wouldn’t suffocate you right here in this basement, right?

“Can you do that?”

You nodded, and sputtered when he started to fuck you faster. His breathing was hot and heavy against your skin, his hair was falling down around his face and tickling your cheek.

“This is what I need from you,” he explained. “I think you need this, too. I’m gonna give you what you need okay, just… hold still…”

You didn’t realize what he meant until a string of low groans filled your ears and you felt a throbbing inside you that wasn’t your own.

“No, n-not inside,” you gasped, “Bruce, wait—”

“You can’t leave,” he simply repeated, “I can’t let you leave…”

“Please,” you sobbed, “please—!”

It was too late to beg, or to struggle against his tight hold on you, or to cry when he bit down on your neck— but you did all three, just because you couldn’t do much of anything else.

He sighed as a dull warmth radiated from your core; you could feel his come starting to leak out and run down your thighs and you thought you might be sick. His weight was already crushing you, but when he relaxed and sunk down further, you honestly got the wind knocked out of you. “Bruce,” you croaked out, and he seemed to get the message because he pulled you back with him as he slowly lowered to the floor— and so you were held tightly to his chest and stuck in his lap while he leaned back against the wall.

You tried to move so he wouldn’t be inside you anymore, but he quickly grabbed your hips to keep them still. “Shh,” he soothed, “just keep me warm for a while, okay?”

You didn’t answer: agreement was moot, denial was futile.