❤️‍🔥

“Tommy, are you sure you can hear anything?” Martha chuckled softly. Reclined against the pillows, she brushed her damp palms against the silk of her ocean-blue nightgown. “I’m only twenty weeks.”

"Yes, dear," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "Trust the doctor." 

For a moment, there was only silence. But then, he heard it.

A tiny rhythm echoed through the hollow cone-shaped instrument and went straight to his ears. His breath hitched at the sound, and the world narrowed to that single, miraculous cadence.

His eyes stung before he even realised he was crying. The anxiety that had plagued his mind extinguished into oblivion. Neurons fired electric storms all over his body, swelling his heart until it hurts to breathe.

Thump-bump. Thump-bump. Thump-bump.

Such heartening rhythm, such sacred feeling.

Gently, he set the fetoscope aside. His hand came to rest over the curve of her stomach, thumb brushing slow circles to greet their child. Then he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where the heartbeat had whispered to him.

“It tickles!” Martha giggled, squirming away. Her laughter was breathless as his moustache brushed her skin. "Do you hear it, honey?"

Thomas gazed at the love of his life, who looked back at him with such adoration in her eyes. He drank in her features—the softness of her rosy cheeks, the way her curls spilled over the pillows, and the rise and fall of her breath beneath his touch.

How beautiful and extraordinary she was to carry their child.

Their flesh and blood.

Their pride and joy.

He swallowed, nodding as a smile broke through the emotion tightening his throat. "Yes, dear. I can hear it, loud and clear."

Martha's breath hitched at the sight of him in tears.

"Honey, are you okay?" She cupped his right cheek, wiping away his tears with her thumb. "Is our baby okay?"

"Yes, yes. He is." Thomas huffed a shaky laugh. He reached up to cover her hand with his own. "I'm just… overwhelmed, that's all. He sounded so real, so perfect.”

Martha pulled him into her arms, drawing him down beside her. She pressed affectionate, rose-warm kisses across his cheeks.

"You scared me, dear. You’re so dramatic for a doctor."

At that moment, everything was perfect.

Things were going well in Gotham General Hospital; Wayne Enterprises was in Lucius' capable hands; the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic operated smoothly under Leslie's care; their foundations were thriving; and their dream of having a child finally came true after years of trying.

What more could he ask for when his life was already perfect?

"Are you really going to name him Thomas Jr.?"

He glanced up at her, caught between amusement and curiosity. "You don't like it?"

"I think it's nice."

"But…?" he probed.

"I was thinking, maybe we can name him something else?" She smiled.

Thomas raised a brow, the corner of his lips lifting. "Any suggestions that are better than mine, honey?"

"I've been thinking. How about…" Martha pressed her glossed lips with a finger, deep in thought as she searched for the right sound. "… Bruce?"

"Bruce?" he echoed, slower this time. "Bruce, Bruce… Bruce Thomas Wayne?"

"Oh!" Martha gasped suddenly, both hands flying to her stomach. Her eyes widened, breath catching in delight. "I feel him moving! Tommy!"

Thomas put his fetoscope back on, pressing it to the usual spot. A soft, insistent tapping graced his ears once more, as if agreeing with their decision.

His smile broke open as emotion flooded back in a rush. He glanced at her, eyes silvered with unshed tears.

"His heartbeat was even stronger than before, honey. I think he loves that name."

“Then Bruce Thomas Wayne he shall be.”

"I promise you, Bruce. You'll be the happiest boy in this world." Thomas pressed his left ear on his wife's tummy, overjoyed with love. "I'll give you everything I have. I love you."

Martha’s hand came to rest over his obsidian locks, red manicured fingers wandering through it tenderly.

“I love you too, Bruce. We can’t wait to meet you.”

______________________________

“Honey?”

It was already half past three when Bruce returned from patrol.

He took a mandatory post-patrol shower before heading to the bedroom, where he opened the door to find you fast asleep.

Moonlight spilled across the bed in a pale wash, catching on the soft rise and fall of your breathing. One arm was draped loosely over a worn Batman plushie, meticulously sewn by Barbara for your birthday. On the floor lay Jason’s Robin plushie.

With a fond smile, he crossed the room and picked it up, thumb brushing over the frayed fabric. The soundbox within had dulled from overuse, but it still meant the world to you. He made sure not to press it as he set it beside you.

He was supposed to cuddle you in bed, but he had to get something out of his mind first.

The drawer slid open with a faint creak, revealing his father’s medical instruments—tympanic thermometer, glucose meter, blood pressure monitor, stethoscope, and fetoscope. The tubing had faded into a muted charcoal, the once-polished chest piece dulled by years of usage, its surface graven with fine scratches.

Of all of his father’s possessions, Bruce cherished his medical journals and stethoscopes the most.

He had found them years ago, tucked among stacks of case notes. But scattered between them were his father’s scribbled reflections on Martha’s pregnancy. Alfred had told him it was Thomas' way of anticipating his son’s arrival.

And among them, pages after pages detailing his mother’s special cravings, blood pressure levels, symptoms, rough nursery room sketches, and yellowed ultrasound prints.

At twenty weeks, Thomas first noted his heartbeat and underlined it twice with blue ink, pressing too hard and leaving an indent that persisted for several pages.

The weeks that followed, until the forty-first, were documented with increasing wonder, including the record of his heartbeat when he was born.

Bruce Thomas Wayne 02/19 - 1:37 AM, HR 105 bpm, regular, 2+

As a child, Bruce would drape his father’s stethoscope around his neck, the chest piece knocking lightly against his knees as he tried to imitate him. Thomas indulged his son’s naivete by showing him how to use it properly. He guided Bruce’s hands and adjusted the chest piece’s angle on his sternum, and Bruce had been fascinated.

But more than anything, he loved pressing it to his mother’s chest.

When sleep wouldn’t come, he curled into a fetal position against her and listened instead. He preferred it over her lullabies, eyes fluttering shut to the rhythm until it lulled him under within minutes.

Because it was the vigorous heartbeat of his mother, who loved him unconditionally.

He’d even brought the stethoscope to school once for show-and-tell, standing proudly at the front of the class as he demonstrated what his father had taught him. With all the earnestness a child could muster, he explained the five auscultation points, reciting the mnemonic APE To Man. He’d earned the nickname Dr. Wayne thereafter.

Of course, there were nights when life shattered beyond repair.

The first night after their funeral, Bruce tried again. He knelt between their headstones and pressed the diaphragm against the cold marble. The frail, traumatised boy pleaded for the stone to yield, to mercy his ears with the only thing he cherished the most.

But all he heard was the sound of a broken heart.

Thenceforward, he couldn’t bear to use it again. Not for a long, long time.

Until you entered the picture and granted his wish.

One night, he’d reach for his father’s stethoscope and settle beside you, gently pressing the diaphragm on your chest. The first time he heard it, it had undone him. His own pulse stuttered, then quickened in answer to match yours.

The exhaustion embedded deep into his muscles melted into a puddle. It transmitted into his brain, and the cardiac rhythm seared into the back of his skull. He became enamoured with the pulse echoed in his ear canals. Because it sounded just like his parents’ heartbeat—strong, consistent, and healthy.

A heart that solely beats for him.

The familiar rhythm beneath his fingertips satiated his hedonistic needs.

He would use the instrument on you, and did the same sporadically with the children, slipping into their rooms under the pretense of routine checkups, ensuring their health was in the tip-top shape.

But you knew it was his unique way of stimming after patrol.

Back to the present, you stirred when he adjusted you on your back, wiping away the escaping drool with a tissue. He cooed you back to slumber, caressing your right temple with his thumb. Once you were settled, he pressed the diaphragm on your chest.

Thump-bump. Thump-bump. Thump-bump.

Such heartening tempo, such marvellous feeling.

It was the equivalent of frolicking in your neorxnawang.

“Aortic…” he breathed, closing his eyes to savour it. Sliding east, he lowered his heart rate to match yours. “Pulmonic…” And south. “Erb’s point…” And south. “Tricuspid…” And below your left chest. “Mitral…”

Eighty-four bpm per minute, he mentally noted.

Bruce released a contented sigh, his chest filled with gratitude.

Your heort was pumping strongly. Blood flowed like red rivers, travelling to the rest of your body, carrying a piece of oxygen with each sweet breath. You were perfectly healthy.

After everything that had happened for the past ten years, it was the only consonant sound that calmed the noises inside his head.

Satisfied, he set the stethoscope on the nightstand before scooching to your side of the bed. He peeled back the duvet, revealing your lotioned, freshly pedicured feet. Gently, he took your right foot in his hand, lifting it to press a soft kiss to the bridge, kissing upward to your ankle and calf.

When he finally lowered your leg back onto the mattress, he drew you into his muscular arms, callous fingers tangled in your locks as he dotted affectionate kisses across your face.

Past the shadows of your dreams, you released your Batman plushie to hold the life-sized version. You pressed your right ear to his broad chest, his beating heart lulled you back to sleep.

Thump-bump. Thump-bump. Thump-bump.

He was finally home, safe and sound in your arms.

And just like that, life was perfect again.

dividers by me, please dont use

Inspired by the nights when my ex would lie on my chest and fall asleep listening to my heartbeat. and my not-so-subtle foot worship.

guys bruce is a pisces, of course he's submissive and likes feet. i dont make the rules ;P

You like working the late shift at your job. And job is more of an overstatement. If anything, at this hour, you’re more caretaker for the bleary-eyed apostles that need alcoholic baptism in lurid neon lighting.

Your avenue of employment is nothing to write home about. It’s a dingy, stuffy bar that’s overdue for renovations. It bears typical signs of disrepair: clotted with cracked, peeling walls, dim lighting to obscure the rest, and ample inventory of alcohol to blur that which doesn’t appeal to the senses. At least the toilet still flushes when you need it to.

All this means is that when potential clientele look for the opportunity to find some spirits to drawn their sorrows—they spot your locale and move right on by. But that suits you fine. It means that you get the dregs of New York sub-society.

The ones looking to scour their memories with the scald of alcohol, the dissociative who sit on the threshold of death’s door. The forgotten who drift in and and out of life, long having forsaken thought of finding more purpose than occupying the housing of a world-weary body.

But sometimes—and this happens so rarely indeed—you get an interesting character to shake things up.

When this particular character makes their introduction to your doorstep, it’s three in the morning on a sleepy-eyed Thursday. There are a few customers that occupy the corner by slow-petering rotating fan. Another remains hunched over their self-proclaimed final drink that’s extended into a few half-dozen.

A brittle wind ghosts through the open door, offering little to any wayward spirit that needs a drink. But still you keep the post-midnight oil burning, swabbing what you can of the greasy counter—every hand down with the ship, after all.

This is what distracts you from the new wayward soul that meanders in to the bar and seats himself down at the counter. You only catch him in your peripheral as he settles himself with lithe ease on a bar-stool that you could’ve sworn always creaks.

But for him, it makes nary a sound; you get the feeling that the only reason that you’re aware of his arrival is because he allowed you permission to perceive it. You afford one final cursory swipe over the counter’s edge before you look up to him, taking in your new patron of the night.

You don’t recognize him, this man in his casual wear, a hat tucked over his head even though it’s past midnight and the shadows could disguise what he needs obscured. His eyes are focused on the smeared chalkboard labeling the specials of the day that have been the same the past week. But you know that he’s aware of you.

There’s something in his eyes that makes it quite clear that he’s keener than anyone in the bar: he’d already made studious inventory of everything by the time that he took three paces in.

His hand scratches idly at the edge of that sharp jaw, giving you marked observation of the fresh bruises, the cracked, barely-coagulated blood that mars the ridge of his knuckles.

But it doesn’t seem to bother him any: almost as though this is something that he’s used to. Perhaps you needn’t question the hat after all, though he doesn’t seem to be taking any pains to conceal more of his appearance.

Seems like you owe him the ol’ customer introduction; this one looks like he can handle his alcohol. There’s a half-finished bottle of Sazerac that you keep under the register, honeyed amber liquid caramelized and velvet in pour as you ease it into an open shot glass. Let this be your olive branch as you approach your newest patron.

He doesn’t spare you the heat of those intense eyes until you’ve planted yourself directly in front of him, gently placed the shot glass that gleams with sterling clarity even in the suffused lighting.

Sharing the meter of that gaze—the way that that sly, glacial quality of blue sinks an ominous feeling down the marrow of your veins: he’s trouble.

But still you hold your ground. Still you stand before him with the shot, until his stare finally drags down to your introductory gift.

“What’s this for?” He asks, and he takes physical purchase on it with long, dexterous fingers; he offers it appreciative appraisal as he holds it up to what limited illumination the bar offers. Admiring the spirit turned bronzed when given proper incandescence.

You consider it wise to opt for honesty with a man like this, so you do so. “You look like you need it.”

It’s a creeping slink of sensation as his eyes finally turn back to you. The shot glass is lowered back to the bar counter with nary an echo of noise.

“You should see the other guy.” He returns, and when he grins, it’s an unkind expression. Enough to inform you that whatever sincerity that he provides answer with, it’s genuine.

You’ve heard things amongst similar line from those who tread water through here, so this doesn’t faze you much. You offer your own observation.

“I’m assuming if he can drink,” You nod your head in the direction of the glass your guest has forefinger and thumb eased around, “It's probably through a straw.”

This prompts a laugh, a harsh chord of sound that he makes through his teeth, serpentine in quality. Still the arc of his gaze remains centered upon you, this interloper who has placed themselves directly in his sights.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” He returns. Finally he raises the drink in ascent to the zenith of his mouth and downs it in laggard particularity. Whilst others would knock it back in hopes of downing it, he savors it. You knew that you chose the right drink for the right man.

And, though it may contrast with your necessity to operate by common sense, you can’t help but be interested. Interested in this man who seems to have undressed you with his eyes down to the bone.

“What brings you in here today?” You ask, taking posture to lean your elbows on the counter’s edge. You’re the watchman for tonight, it’s your bar. And yet something insists in the background of your mind that this is unwise to step into the big cat’s cage like this.

But the growing smile on his face seems to indicate that he likes the challenge that you’re rising to. The hint of teeth that you see only confirm it.

“I like looking at crappy hole-in-the-wall bars,” He returns with glib, cavalier intonation. “It gives me something to do while I let the paint dry.”

At this, he finally settles down the shot that he’s nursed in appropriate, whiling manner: waiting to see if you will rise to the bait. But you think that you have better retort in your arsenal.

You shrug, keeping your tone blithe. “This might be the best crappy hole-in-the-wall.”

“Because of the smell?” He sneers. You think that you take offense to this, considering you spent the better half of an hour cleaning it when you clocked in. But you don’t let it ruffle your feathers that way he wants to see if it will.

“That’s there for atmosphere,” You say, reaching for the shot glass—ignoring the way that your fingers brush against his own, yet to relinquish his trophy of the night. “A customer-exclusive perk, you know.”

The smile grows, though classification of it as one is just barely skirting the definition.

“You want another?” You ask, holding up the empty vessel to him. The Sazerac packs a punch—you’ve had the misfortune of trying it before. But his eyes seem clear as ever as they seize upon you.

“No—”—He returns—“—Just your name.”

You know this song and dance. You have just the retort you need to keep this fella on his toes.

“You want the fake one or the real one?” Your hand props on the crutch of your hip. While the sight would entice others, his sight never wavers from the full of yours.

“Which one do I get, honey?” He inquires, no necessity made to undercut the taunt in his voice. He likes to play the game, this one.

You hum against your lips, a pert tone of amusement as you wander back to the Sazerac.

“You get the real one if you become a regular.” You make answer to him as you reach for the glassy neck of the bottle. You can feel the heat of his focus even when you tear your eyes away from him; it’s scorching with the gravity that he affords it.

You resurface with bottle and glass, making swift return.

“I give you the fake one if you’re only stopping by.” With this, you settle the bottle, contents sloshing around the interior in arterial means.

“That so?” He asks, reaching for the bottle. You let him: it’s not often in this line of work that you find yourself a man who can hold his liquor. You watch as those arms roll to splay taut muscles barely restrained by the sleeves.

“Yeah, it is.” You let him know that this is a boundary that you will brook no argument for as he makes liberal pour for himself.

“So what’s it gonna be, handsome?” You ask. He relinquishes the bottle besides your awaiting hand that rests on countertop. No decibel of noise is made as he does so.

“Guess you’ll find out when I see you next time.” He grins—and you think that you see blood caked in between the intervals of his teeth. But you don’t spare too much investment into it; the plea of another customer arriving to hallowed ground calls you away.

You spare your tall, dark and handsome stranger one final smirk before you turn to offer your services elsewhere. “Sure thing.”

It’s a quick refill. But somehow in the process of doing so, though you still face the only exit: he manages to disappear into the night without so much as a farewell.

Well, discounting the liberal stack of cash that he leaves under the heel of the bottle. You can’t help but note that he’s an excellent tipper as you count and re-count to make sure your eyes aren't deceiving you.

But you decide to tuck that away and wonder when he’ll darken your doorstep next.

You aren’t spoiled with the lack of his company for long: he returns from whence he came a week later, in the passage of night to cusp of dawn. Not that you mind.

You can’t help but let an instinctive, curious smile rise to your face as you watch him take a seat that he made no audial or visual announcement for.

“Hi, stranger.” You offer in quiet gentility, as though you don’t want to intrude on the night’s ambience. “Want a shot?”

Already, you reach for the Sazerac when he speaks, his voice corrugated with huskiness beset by lack of speaking.

“Want to take you out on a date.” He returns. Your hand stalls on the bottle, but only for a moment. You allow yourself to laugh at the absurdity of an idea, whilst smothering the interest that blooms nascent in the pit of your stomach.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask as you place both glass and bottle before him. When you cross your arms over the plateau of your chest, he allows himself to the well-earned trophy he’s apparently earned.

That is, if trophies he makes are the slab of meat his knuckles have been reduced to, the bruises taking burgeoning maturation on his temple, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“You got date money?” You ask as he rewards himself with another unsparing pour, barely exceeding the amber meniscus of the glass.

“That'n more, sugar.” He retorts back with casual, malicious glee. When he raises the overfull glass to his lips, he spills nary a drop as he waters himself, watching for your reaction.

“So how’s about it?” Is the question that he resurfaces with when he’s taken his draining fill.

You set a dubious smirk upon him. Far be him from being the first to ask you out in the span of your shift. But this is the first one that approaches with lucidity of sobriety and ambiguous malevolence.

“Is a date with you gonna end with me trying to figure out how to get your hands out of my pants?” You ask dryly. The empty glass is relocated back onto the counter, reflecting broken fractals of light from the neon sign the two of you are set awash in.

“‘Course not.” He lies through his teeth, but how the visual is so appealing to you, with that angular cut of jaw, those daring, brilliant eyes, that wicked smile. “I’m a real gentlemanly type of fella.”

“That so?” You ask, and this time you finally permit him the privilege of a full-bodied grin at his baldfaced lie. “You a walking on the beach type of guy?”

“Sure I am.” He continues with gracious, ebullient response. “Open the door for you and everything, honey.”

“Hmmm.” You pretend to think, though you don’t move: motion-based predators require the balking of prey in their sights to make strike, after all. “You’ll have to let me think about it.”

“Sure thing.” He chuckles, and it’s clear that this quarter that is given is only temporary. “I’m patient.”

“I bet you are.” You say. The punch of laughter he makes from deep within only complements the reverb of rye that flows into his glass.

He becomes more familiar customer, allowing you the confidential allowance of calling him “B” whenever he stops by. You still have yet to provide yours, but it appears that he’s well-suited to this challenge of whiling away your defenses. In regularity, he becomes someone that you look forward to seeing when he makes gracious appearance to you.

Except this time. As you try to maintain generous attitude that you always do when clocking in. But with one caveat: to exact your side profile to keep from the customers seeing—and then doing the next worst part, which is asking.

But as is customary with the two of you, you don’t have privilege of foresight to know when he arrives: so he sees it all the same. Though you can barely see him through the limited visual acuity the bruise has barred you with.

It hurts to smile, tugs on the meat of your cheeks in painful rictus, but you still manage it for your favorite customer. In odd, uncharacteristic manner, rather than make comment to introduce the prelude to conversation, he surveys you.

While the gawking evaluation from the other customers has been excruciating in its own right, the way that you are perceived now is different. There is no smile on his face as he evaluates you. As he takes in the approach you make to him with familiar offers of tribute.

You wouldn’t say that his voice is more regulated in delivery when he accepts the bottle. But there’s something that ripples in odd undercurrent as he speaks.

“Who gave you that one?” He asks. Something belatedly makes recognition as to what he speaks with. But you need to provide the lie that you’ve given everyone else.

“Oh, no one.” You’d roll your eyes, but it’s no small agony to do so; you opt to shrug instead. “I tripped and hit my head on the doorframe.”

He makes acknowledging grunt, allowing the rye to reach transparent rim. Still keeps careful visual ken upon you.

“This doorframe got a name?”

Figures he wouldn’t swallow that one. But still you hesitate in answer, knowing the doors you may be opening. You proceed down the boulevard of vague answers.

“Not any worthwhile one.” You reply, deigning him with the privilege only he has received: a full, regarding stare. “Just an ex trying to start some shit.”

“That so?” He clarifies. You finally can apply categorization to the tone he’s striking: wrath.

He takes his typical swallow before he proceeds forward, voice casual.

“I'm pretty good at startin’ shit myself.”

The door beckons open, under-the-counter offer overt in such clandestine means. You skirt around what he holds palm-out to you.

“Bet you actually do something worthwhile when you do.” You say; it’s not affirmation. But it is admission. It is acknowledgement.

He drains the glass without drop spared, squaring that stare upon you.

“So I hear.” He tells you. “Haven’t let down a customer yet.”

Your silence is far too long to be negation. And in the elapsing of that time—you think he knows what choice you have made. But when you find verbalization again, your voice is of normal pitch and cadence.

“Speaking of which—”—You gesture to the rye and its sole consumer—“—You want another, or try something different?”

The possessive slink of his hand around the bottle would almost be comical, if you had the strength to shore up a laugh.

“Think I’ll stick with the usual.” He informs you.

“Stickler for punishment, huh?” You ask.

“Always, sugar.” And when he refills, he does not blink once as he continues to regard the disrupted symmetry of your face. Almost as though he is lost in thought.

World always travels fast amongst the rats in the underbelly. So, when quick-footed gossip finally reaches you, you realize that you already have known before anyone came wandering your way.

Your ex has died—home robbery. A few marginal things stolen to classify an open case, a tragic set of circumstances.

But what draws raised eyebrows and hushed whispers is the closed-off crime scene, the retching police officers that must rotate in revolving door shifts as they carry the pieces of him out. The extra manned forces that are made to guard where he spent his last brutalized minutes in, to keep wandering eyes out.

You hear his family is apoplectic with grief, the necessity for closed casket ceremony adding insult to injury. But when you hear the news, all you can think of is the tightness that your healing eye makes every time you blink.

So all that you can do is smile.

He strolls back in a few days later, a familiar grin on his face and nary a scratch to his name. He’s chosen his arrival well—all other customers have vacated the premises as the sun begins to breach the horizon. You are still in the throes of dusk as night makes vacancy for other misbegotten realms.

But still, he sits at his familiar table. Still watches you as you approach with familiar goods and services to offer him.

The only thing that errs in routine is you, when you say your name to him—and find that it rolls off the tongue as easily as breathing.

“What’s that?” He asks, though the cant to his eyes already indicates that he’s well-aware. He only wants to bask in the privilege of you saying so.

“My name.” You confess to him. “My real one.”

“Oh?” He deigns in nonchalance as he uncorks the bottle, makes a final aperitif to the coming new day. “What’s that for?”

You smile—the bruise has been consumed by the passage of time, and it causes you no anguish to give one to him.

“For giving me the best present anyone’s ever given.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.” He says, and when he gives you his teeth, it’s a dare. Another hurdle that he wants to see you clear.

So you do, leaning forward to eat up distance you have deliberately kept between you both.

“Then I’ll say it in a language you get.” And when you pull him forward to kiss you, you find that his tongue is already searching for yours, eager to taste you.

Eager to scrape the flat of the muscle against yours, starving to swipe in slick, greedy motion against the back of your teeth. Desperate to grab handfuls of you that you are already seizing of him. Swallowing up the moan that you confess to him of desire you've made concealed for far too long.

When you finally release him, pull away so that you can acquiesce to the necessity of air—you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look more handsome in this rising ascent of light.

“Think I get it more, sweetheart.” He smirks, and you like the look of it on him. You think that you can suffer the taste of iron evaporating on your soft palate, if he keeps kissing you like that.

“You’ll get more once I'm off the clock.” You say, and tug him forward in forewarning. “I like Italian food.”

His smile grows with the determination of a man looking to slake his thirst. “I think I know a place.”

dividers and banner made by me :)

the vibe i had the entire time I was writing this:

taglist: @colonelfish @just-peachy-babe @thescrawler @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @cassiecasluciluce @mortisetspei @lettucel0ver @paankhaleyaaar @lala131lsjsl @infinictus @inkievoid @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @newangelle @st4rctic @planetevermore @glimmerthief @bubbletae7 @ficcharsimpsblog @incantatrxs @unicvnthlle @lillycore @pixie2k5

You live on his floor, he remembers your face—the smile you shoot at him awkwardly every morning you two pass each other. Your pretty eyes hurt him. When he's working, tossing boxes in the back of a truck, he sees you in his mind. Wondering if he could just say something to you, would you be the first person to finally listen?

Even now, as he strolls out in the rain—he doesn't have an umbrella. He doesn't care—he's thinking about you. That's why it shocks him to actually see you. He's convinced he's just hallucinating you, that maybe he's completely gone. It doesn't stop him from approaching your form, standing at the edge of the lake. The rain makes your hair sink to the side of your head, even now you're perfect. He wants to see the rain roll down your skin, to feel the cold of your flesh and press against it.

You're killing him.

You're.. you're..

What are you doing?

There's something in your arms, and you're approaching the water. Lawrence is far from being one to judge strange habits, but he's never seen you do anything like this. He starts to walk towards you, knowing the rain masks his sound. He didn't want you to know he was here, but he needs to get closer—he just does.

Deeper and deeper, you go—it's a rock in your arms—something that large would surely weigh you down. It would..

He watches you go under with wide eyes, stunned like a deer in headlights. His mind and heart are racing to understand what he just saw. For a moment, he considers leaving you—waiting for you to float up and claim you, take you home to be his. Yet his body moves, his legs dragging him forward after you. The lake shocks his body, but he doesn't stop for a second. His head is underwater, his eyes blurry, but he catches sight of your form. The rain is quieter now, a million miles away—it's just you and him.

Everything is slow motion, your hair framing your face, moonlight striking down on you. You almost look at peace.

His hands latch onto your clothing, and he pulls with all the strength he has. The two of you fall harshly onto the dirt and choke. More water comes from you than it does him, even now it seems like you haven't really escaped when the rain continues to cover you. Your body is shaking from just about everything—the cold, the lack of air, the sudden rescue. You can't catch up quickly enough as you tremble on your side. Clarity finds you as Lawrence, who lays to your side, grabs you by the arms.

"No!" He yells, his lip trembling. "You can't do that!"

You've never seen him so angry, so expressive. For the time you've known him, the closest you got to him feeling anything was the shift of his eyes hidden deep in the shadow of his hood. Now, you're being faced with a whole different side of this man you never expected to see.

Lawrence's grip tightens as he grits his teeth—even now in the rain, you can tell—hurt begins to well up in his eyes. "You—You can't go without me."

Your body stiffens at his words.

"It's not fair. It's not—"

Tears stream down your face as you let out the most broken wail you can muster. His hold loosens on you as you fall apart, here in his hands. You have no words, none left after you find yourself stuck back in the existence you so desperately wish to leave behind. Even worse, you've hurt someone else on the way. You never wanted this, you just wanted quiet, you wanted it all to just stop for one fucking second—

Lawrence holds you, it's unsure and uncomfortable due to your position on the ground, but it's the best you've felt in such a long time. Your sobbing doesn't stop when you lean into him, in fact, it worsens as you find any comfort in his arms. Neither of you knows what to do, where to go, how to proceed.

Right now, it doesn't matter. The world doesn't matter.

It's just you. It's just you and Lawrence.

"I know.." He begins, so quietly you almost didn't hear him. "I know what you were looking for."

You weren't even sure what you were looking for.

"The river, I've seen it." He mutters against your forehead.

You don't interrupt, you listen closer as you try to stifle your hiccups and snot filled sniffles. If there is an answer for any of this, you don't care who gives it to you.

"I could show you, I could take you there."

Your head tilts upwards, and you meet his eyes. He's enamoured by the sight of you, even as you're broken and messy, he's the lucky bastard that gets to hold you in his arms. You're perfect, you're beautiful, you're more than he could have dreamed.

He wants to sink with you, he wants to be the last air you breathe. It has to be him.

It's clear you want to speak, but all that follows is a whimper before you hide yourself in his neck. You'll go anywhere with him, as far as you know, he's all you have. He was here when no one else was. That had to mean something.

Lawrence has you now.

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