#dcu insert

He tries to go, of course he does, but you stop him. Your arguments get stronger, and he sees no reason to negate that which you seem to fight for: he likes your determined eyes, the light that they show in contrast with the dimmed-out light of the room. Your place is not very big, but enough so that you can help him get in your bathroom. He takes everything off, like it’s not a big deal, and maybe it’s because he understands that you can be trusted, you don’t have no one to tell this to, truly. It’s not that you don’t have friends, but you are a bit by yourself, and you don’t really mind.

He touches you, and your skin lights up in fire. Is new, it’s foreign; maybe you haven’t been touched much. The random hook-ups, the teasing kisses shared in dark bathrooms - before putting up an excuse to be free, fly somewhere else - are not enough. And you know you can’t get throughly through with it, you aren’t able to, unless there’s love. It’s cruel. Gotham it’s cruel. It makes you aware of those terrifying touches going up your thighs; men that purposely get behind you and touch you, innocently. You flinch, you feign it’s alright, and after - after you cry - everything goes on repeat

But his touch is soft. Like you are a precious crystal, something that can be destroyed with a mere stare, a gentle breeze of air. It changes you. That night everything changes.

You can’t remember how or why the kiss happens, not really; after getting him in some weirdly fitting clothes (too tight on the chest, too loose on the hips), you move to somewhere with more light, to see the wound better. And it’s really a comfort to see that it was not his blood, no - it doesn’t even occur to you to ask, and he likes that - but he has a darkened and painful looking area on his left side. It has a bad color, but not so much that you think he’s internally bleeding: a terrible fall, perhaps?

— Were you the “crash” thing?

— Crash thing? — . He asks, confused, but with half a smile.

— Yeah, before you entered. I heard a metal sound, now that I think about it, too loud to be a cat-

— You thought that was a cat? What kind of cat do you have?

The special emphasis on one of his words makes you laugh. Shyly, with a slight smirk: he can see you have perfect teeth, a really good bone structure-maybe even pretty, more than pretty.

— I’t was just unexpected. It’s was around two when I heard it. Even if some things happen around here, it’s not... Not common for people to appear  around here. In my living room. With blood which is not his own and obviously from a situation I do not want to know about.

You fetch him some water, and when his eyes move to your door, you kind of know he is staying. His feet look at you. He touches lightly your hip, grazes it mostly, and then you are all over him. Yes, you did it. And no, you are not ashamed. Even if with strangers it’s difficult, it’s impossible, this is your crazy act of the year.

Maybe it’s because your kiss is passionate, is comforting in some way - probably because he has been touched-starved as well - but he returns it. His hands push your body against his, and you are careful with his side, always aware of the wound he has. It’s not about making love, it doesn’t start as so. You don’t make it to your room, and indeed it’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, the most dangerous

—’uck, I didn’t even ask your name —. He whispers against your neck, making a first attempt to nibble on it, teeth baring and tasting skin. Soft, so soft —. It’s just-

— Too much, I know, I know — . You answer, gasping, jelly in his hands, truly — . It doesn’t matter. Tell me yours, it’s all were gonna need.

He laughs, almost out of breath, and you like it. His laughing makes you feel good, but it’s nothing compared to the hands that make their way up your body. It’s not correct, again, but you moan - you like it.

— Dick. Just Dick, for you tonight.

You both laugh, and it’s funny, it’s comfortable. He desires you: takes you by your hips and makes you face the wall of your kitchen. The bending is almost automatically, but still, still he makes sure to dominate you, make you know how much he wants it. Yes, you, but it. It’s been some time.

— Help me — . You are not sure what you’re asking for, but it seems he does, because he acts.

It’s brutal, fast-paced - not much is needed. It’s an act of desperation, and in the wood of the table, the one where you’ll tomorrow have breakfast, you try to pierce your nails in, as if it you are trying to cave in some type of future memory: a remembrance that it really happened.

He satisfies you: you don’t have to talk and he knows where to bite, where to kiss and where to touch you to make you melt. It’s horrible, truly, and pathetic how close you are with so little and how much he seems to-oh, no. You laugh, out of breath again, and it starts. It takes up the pace pretty quickly. But no, Grasyon, the name that you can barely pronunciate once it is done, he doesn’t kiss you. There’s not a good angle to do so anyways, and you don’t mention it - it doesn’t really matter.