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with you in shades of blue

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It takes them some time to get here, to Selina’s bed in the apartment she accesses only by skylight, her cats locked— with apologies— out of the room. Rain breaks up the light of streetlamps and taps against the windows and the roof, not loudly or even insistently, but in a constant patter that makes everything beyond the half-lit room smudgy and indistinct— blues and grays and blacks and sodium yellow.

Bruce is twitchy tonight.

It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else. Bruce— it’s still strange calling him that, even in the privacy of her head— does not pace or fidget but stands, instead, with the studied stillness of a boy who was told too often to stand with his hands in his pockets or clasped behind his back, his head angled down and just slightly to one side, listening, or maybe looking out at the sky. They cannot see his signal from here, which is the point. Gotham will survive one night without him. And Selina, when he’s not here, does not have to think about him or what she discovered. What he confessed.

She thinks about it anyway.

“Why don’t you take off your cape and stay awhile, since you dropped in?” she rubs one ankle against the other. “What do you want?”

“You let me in.”

“Yeah, I figured you had something to say. Or, what, you just wanted to know I wasn’t going to push you off the roof?” she levers herself up and forward, onto her knees, hands on the rumpled blanket to either side of her legs.

She has her nails short right now, for the sake of her cats, her claws waiting for when she needs them next, and she plucks at the weave of the blanket, teases a loose thread looser. When she glances up, his gaze is fixed on her fingers.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” she retorts.

“Then why let me in?”

“Why are you here?”

“I—” he pauses, and she just catches a heavy breath over the drumming of the rain. “Wanted to see you.”

“Not enough girls hanging off you in daylight hours?”

She regrets it even before he flinches. He never looks at ease in the pictures that have started to crop up in society pages. Tabloids. Online and on the news. Bruce Wayne at charity functions and auctions and the opening of a new orphanage, opening clinics, refusing to give speeches, and handing off the event to whatever doctor or leader is chomping at the bit to get to the microphones, hopefully with a bit more of an eye toward whether or not they’re in bed with the mob, this time. And whatever girl is on his arm at the fundraiser galas and ribbon cuttings, he’s always near enough for the photos to look convincing, just as long as no one looks at how he never once touches their skin or sets his hand too low, or leans into their whispers.

Selina tips her head. “You wanted to see me.”

“Is that alright?”

“I let you in, didn’t I? Shit. Just… you’re dripping on my floor.”

“Sorry.”

Bruce unclips his cape, then stands there holding it, still dripping onto her floor, until Selina lets out a snort of laughter.

“Toss it on the radiator,” she instructs and slides forward again, legs unfolding, toes first onto the cold, wood floor. She catches his jaw when he turns back to her, and he goes truly still. Her fingers brush the edge of his cowl. “I’m going to take this off now.”

She finds the release, presses the catch, and he dips his head and lets her slide it off, the bat’s face going misshapen before his is revealed. He hasn’t bothered with the greasepaint, just to see her. Nothing to hide, not anymore. She brushes a thumb against his temple, and he tips his head into her hand. The cowl has left his hair a mess. She reaches up to card her fingers through it, blunted nails scraping from his hairline to the crown of his head before she lets her hand fall again.

“You’d just let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you…”

He blinks and doesn’t correct her. The spirit of the thing is close enough. He leans down to her with his eyes fixed on her mouth, his slightly opened, but does not close the distance, even with her very nearly pressed up against his rain-damp armor. He does not touch her. Only his breath tickles her lips.

“What do you want, Selina?”

“A lot of things. Things you can’t give me.”

“Can’t.” He repeats, the sound barely leaving his mouth. “So you can’t take them, either?”

“Not all of them.” She pops a catch on his chest plate.

His breath catches. Not terribly, and he doesn’t run from her. For all that he doesn’t seem to like touching other people, her hands on him don’t seem to cause him any unease. Although his armor will get uncomfortable if she keeps this up. It gives her a vicious little curl of pleasure to think of it— all the times on rooftops up against chimney stacks and walls, him aching under matte black kevlar. She pets at his hip through the suit— he can’t feel it, but that’s fine— and raises her eyes back to his. He cannot quite meet her gaze, but that’s normal. He looks at her face: the corners of her mouth, maybe her forehead, trying to pick apart her expression.

“You got those lenses in?”

He blushes. She doesn’t get to see him do that with the cowl on, but his cheeks go pink at that, and he looks away entirely, throat working. “I— didn’t come here expecting…”

“No, you’re too smart for that, aren’t you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “You haven’t told me what you want.”

“Do I need to?” Another catch comes loose under her fingers, just for something to do.

“You wouldn’t choose not to know.”

“You don’t know that.”

He’s right, though, annoyingly. It’s better she knows who she wants to wrap her legs around, whose mouth she keeps picturing between her thighs, who she thinks other things about that she just— won’t consider right now. She grimaces, and he touches her chin, thumb and forefinger, gloves rough against her skin, but his hand so very gentle.

Selina pulls her head away but takes his hand. “Get those off.

He undoes them immediately— arm guards off, then gloves, both stacked on the seat of one of the only chairs in the apartment and the only one not taken over by cats. Selina steps back to watch him, and he only pauses for a moment before bending and undoing the buckles on his boots.

“Belt, too.”

He hesitates a moment over that, but then the catch clicks, and he stows it carefully with the gloves.

“What is it with rich boys and taking orders?” Selina sinks onto the end of her bed again.

“Taking?” he echos.

“Yeah. You all are weird about control.” He lets out a huff, and she grins. “I should make you buy me this apartment. Bet that would be right up your alley.”

“Alright.”

Selina scoffs and slides further back onto the mattress. “Don’t do that. Just… get your suit off.”

Bruce gives her one of those looks, then, that she should not allow him to give her— the ones that go right through her and come, half the time, a second before he says something that hits her under the ribs and leaves her gasping. He slipped under her skin at some point, and she doesn’t know where she can begin to root him out, and that look makes all her hair stand on end.

Bruce tilts his head. “Do you like it?”

“You, you mean?” He waits, and Selina huffs. “I’m doing it, aren’t I? It’s not like I have to. Keep going.”

It’s not a sexy striptease in the traditional sense. Selina’s seen some artists. She’s seen girls who could make you pant by taking off a glove and have people coming in their trousers when they ran their fingers up a stocking-covered thigh. The suit’s a dozen pieces of armor, interlocking, interconnecting, some rigid and some flexible, and she’s seen him pull bits of it off before. There’s a way to get just his cock out of it, and that had been fun, seeing him gasping and trembling, the contrast between suit and skin so startling she hadn’t been able to keep herself from laughing. But the business of getting the whole thing off of him takes time. The hard plates and whatever specially designed padding he uses to keep from getting his ribs cracked, the not-quite-a-unitard on underneath, the cup that keeps every mook in Gotham from kicking his dick in.

Selina presses her thighs together and thumbs at the waist of her cotton shorts.

Bruce is still winter-pale under it all, and she does not allow herself to fuss even as she catalogs the bruises and scrapes, the few newer scars laid atop the old. Not a hulk of a man, but solid, graceful. She wants to sink her teeth into him.

He hesitates again, down to his underwear, and Selina takes mercy on him, crooking a finger for him to approach. And when she twitches her finger down, he sinks to his knees for her and looks up, patient and still except for the rub of his thumb against his fingers from index to pinky and back. He lets her cup his jaw in her hands. Lets her touch his cheekbones, his mouth, brush her fingers across his closed eyelids.

“I like it.” She says so quietly that the rain almost drowns her out.

Bruce exhales. “I like you.”

Selina lets her legs fall open, tugs him in between them, and allows him to mouth at the inside of her thigh from her knee up to the bottom of her shorts.

“We could go out to the roof, if you’d be more comfortable,” she teases, playing with his hair again.

“No.” He doesn’t lift his mouth from her thigh, and the word comes out muffled.

“Baby, I’m joking.”

“I know.”

“Then why— Get up here. Just get up here.”

He does, settling next to rather than on top of her, which is too polite. When she climbs astride his lap, he waits another beat before resting his hands on her hips. His mouth is soft. She kisses him deeply, slowly, and bites his lip as she draws away, swallowing his gasp and grinning when his fingers tighten reflexively.

“You can touch me,” she murmurs. “You know how.”

He makes a stifled noise down in the back of his throat. When she kisses him again, his hands wander over her thighs, her ass, up to her waist, rucking up her thin tank top before they slip down again, and he thumbs at her hipbones. She rocks against him, one hand in his hair. The other maps out his back. Her nails raise red lines across his shoulder blades as his mouth finds her neck. There’s just the edge of his teeth behind it.

He’s left bruises before— dark ones on the insides of her thighs that ached the next day, and she should hate it. She shouldn’t trust the possessive edge to them. There are a lot of things she shouldn’t trust about him, though, and that’s not the one she’s going to make a thing over if she’s only going to get one.

Selina pulls her tank top over her head before she can get any weirder about it and looks down to Bruce’s eyes on her face again. Even with her tits out. For a man who hates eye contact, he’s very consistent about that, at least until she nudges his head down and gets his mouth on her nipples, rising onto her knees and pressing close to his chest. She tugs one of his hands to her ass, too, and scratches at the nape of his neck with her other hand, smiling as he shudders and pulls her closer.

“Fingers,” she orders.

He slips his hand under her shorts and muffles his groan in her neck when he finds her soaked and slippery. She rocks into his hand, grinds against his fingers, and he keeps them stiff enough for her to use and doesn’t try to put them in her until she angles her hips and goes for it herself, two at once, the calluses on them rubbing against her walls as she rubs her clit into his hand. And she comes like that, clenching on his fingers and gasping with her head tipped back toward the skylight, mouth open like she means to catch the rain.

“Fuck,” she gasps, then leans back and gets his hand out of her pajamas. “That’s good. Here—”

Selina curls her fingers around his wrist and brings his hand to her mouth, and kisses his palm. She flicks her tongue against the tips of his fingers, then takes one just to the first knuckle, enough to close her lips around it and suck just to watch the way his eyes go wide and his breath catches. She grinds down into the hot shape of his cock. Then she pulls off with a pop. His mouth is open. It’s easy to turn his hand and guide his fingers into his mouth for a taste, down on his tongue, her hand on his jaw again, fingers curled behind his ear, even though she knows he won’t try to pull away. He still makes a noise like he’s never tasted her pussy before.

“Like that?” she laughs and scratches at the base of his skull.

He lets out another sweet little sound, trying to talk with his mouth full, and Selina lets him go, kissing him on the cheek as she slips off of his lap.

“Still with me, baby?”

“Yeah.”

“Lose the underwear for me, okay?”

He doesn’t scramble. That’s a better sign than anything else he might have done— that he takes them off and gets up, moving as smoothly as a man with a hard cock can, to set them with the rest of his clothes. While he’s up, Selina slips out of her shorts and retrieves her shirt, dropping both off in a pile to one side of the bed before she roots around in the nightstand drawer where she’s stashed a few things. Black leather straps and silver buckles and— not the black dildo but one in a lovely shade of violet, not too big or too stiff. She lays them out on the bed and sets the lube on top of the nightstand and listens to Bruce gulp when he turns around.

“Oh,” he says. “You want.”

“I do, but I want a lot of things.” She walks to him, then draws him down for another kiss, rubbing a soothing hand against his hip. “Anyone ever done that with you before?”

“No.”

“No boys?”

“I—” he starts. “No. It’s complicated.”

“Doesn’t have to be. Do you want it?”

Groaning, he presses his face into her hair. “Yes.”

“Help me put it on?”

He kneels for her when she presses on his shoulder and holds the harness steady while she fits the dildo in it, his gaze slipping back and forth between her and it, her hips and the silicone, the damp curls between her legs and the leather straps. His breath hitches when she shows him how to tighten them around her thighs and her waist, how to buckle everything into place so the violet cock juts out from the apex of her thighs with its base pressed up against her clit. Then she cups her hand beneath his chin and draws him back to his feet.

“Get on the bed and lie down.”

He thinks about it a moment, eyeing her rumpled sheets, and then arranges himself on his left side, his head on her pillows, one arm tucked under his head and the other in front of him, fingers curled in the sheets. Like he means to sleep, except for how he shifts his thighs when she settles in behind him and kisses the nape of his neck, his spine, his shoulder blades. He shudders. He does it again at the sound of the pump top on the lube bottle unlocking, and she drops another kiss on his shoulder.

“Gonna touch you,” she warns.

Then she does, slipping slick fingers down to rub around his rim. He gasps, and Selina bites softly at the back of his shoulder and presses her fingers in when he opens up. She could leave it there, too— get him wet, then let the toy do the rest; it’s not wide— but there’s something captivating in how he shivers under her hands. When she hooks her chin over his shoulder, she can watch his fingers curl and uncurl around a bit of the sheet and listen to the ragged rhythm of his breathing. So she pumps more lube onto her fingers and comes back with two, and he bears down for her until they slide in up to the last knuckle. The noise she makes when she curls them comes from the bottoms of his lungs. He bites his lip afterward, immediately, eyes shut, hand clenched tight, and Selina tsks softly as she rubs at him.

“Make whatever noise you want. Just relax for me.”

Bruce hitches a leg up, tips forward. Buries his face in his arm and pants. He’s half-hard and wetter than he normally gets, getting harder. If she stroked him, he would fly apart or yank himself out of her hands. She draws her fingers out instead, then tugs softly at his hips.

“How do you want it?”

He moves, then, knees up under him, the line of his spine twisting and untwisting as he comes to rest on all fours, head hanging down over his hands. Selina comes with him and rises up on her knees and—

“You’re too fucking tall,” she mutters and pushes at the insides of his thighs. “Come on. Down a bit.”

He spreads his legs for her, sinks almost onto his belly, his shoulders and his arms tight, thighs open. She strokes a hand down his back, and he melts, pressing his face into his forearms again. At the brush of her fingers against his hip, he arches his back. There’s nothing studied about it, no calculation in how good he looks, just the naked reality of his body under her and his cock dragging against her sheets. He looks back, chin tucked, his eyes flickering up to meet hers, just for a moment.

“Hi, baby,” Selina grins down at him.

Bruce drops his head. “Hey. Will you— would you, please—”

He cants his hips back, and Selina laughs softly and rubs a hand over his hip. “Okay.”

She gets more lube and gives the dildo a few quick strokes, turning it slick and shiny. Bruce waits, breathing a little too fast, quiet, but still audible— little huffs into his arms as he waits for her so sweet and patient, and a sharper one when she lays her hand against his hip, lube-sticky. He twitches and looks back again.

“Selina.”

“Want me to stop?”

He swallows, then shakes his head. “Please.”

Selina waits, anyway, searching his face for any sign of bravery or stubbornness, and she comes up with a whole lot more than nothing. But none of it is him swallowing fear for her, and the rest is something for her to deal with later, the kind of thing she does not want to name while she’s between his legs. She heaves a breath, ragged, stunned, then rocks her hips forward. The dildo bumps against his ass, then catches on his rim, and Bruce drops his head again.

“I’ll make you feel good,” she promises. “Relax.”

She guides the toy in, and he goes silent, lungs frozen, a fine tremor running down his legs. He pushes back toward her before she can check in again. Takes another inch. The toy, she reminds herself, is not huge, not long or girthy. Even going slowly, it doesn’t take long for them to bury it in him, her hips pressed against the curve of his ass, her clit throbbing behind the harness. She circles her hips, and the base of the toy rubs up against her, blunt and clumsy, and the length of it moves inside him, and Bruce finally loses all his air in a muffled cry, face still hidden in his hands. It sounds like he’s been punched, and Selina squeezes her eyes shut at the way it makes her drip. She should stop, go still. But when she tries, he grinds back against her with another low noise.

Selina starts slow— draws back, thrusts forward, tilts her hips, and braces her body over his, hand by his side, weight on her knees. Again. A third time. She angles down, and Bruce makes that noise again, the one like she’s cracked him open, and shudders all the way down his spine.

“Am I hurting you, baby?”

She knows she’s not. She’s seen him in pain, and he was not like this in any way that matters. Panting, yes, stunned, but he is not so still. The stutter in his movements is uncertainty, not a flinch. Still.

Bruce reaches back, shoulders bunching, and grabs her hand, squeezing tightly enough that Selina gasps with it. Then she presses her other hand against his back, pushes him down, and snaps her hips forward. Her nails bite in between his shoulder blades as she fucks him, hips pinned to the bed, her arms trembling, sweat on her neck and between her breasts, a burn starting up in her stomach and in her thighs, and an ache and pressure between them that grows more insistent with each rub of the toy against her. She fucks him so he trembles and groans and goes silent, one cheek pressed to the mattress and his mouth open as he gasps for breath. She can’t see his cock or the wet spot it makes on her sheets, cannot see how he grinds down against them. She can feel it, though, when he presses back into her rhythm. He pants through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. Fighting, even here. His grip on her hand might raise bruises. Then his spine arches, arcs, nearly pushing her up, bad leverage or no, and he lets out a cracking cry, hips jerking once, twice. The third time, he does flinch, and Selina draws back.

He does not let go of her hand, even as the toy slips out of him.

“Baby?” she asks. “Bruce. Are you…?”

He makes a low noise in the back of his throat, then tugs at her hand, gentling his hold, rubbing his thumb across her palm. Slowly, he turns his hand so they can interlace their fingers and squeezes softly. With an unsteady sigh, Selina stretches out next to him.

“Yeah,” he says after another minute. “Good.”

“Okay.”

He turns halfway toward her, grimacing as he lifts his hips from where he came on her sheets, then runs the fingers of his other hand over the straps of the harness and down to her thigh. She’s so wet that his fingers come away shiny, and he makes another sound at that, a little more awareness coming back into his posture. His tongue sweeps his lower lip.

“Do you want,” he starts, then swallows.

“Fuck, yes. Help me with this.”

They adjust the sheet first, folding it up so they won’t make a mess of anything else, and he doesn’t have to lie in the same spot anymore. And he takes a moment to wipe away the worst of it on his skin.

“Condom, next time,” Selina suggests. “Want a dam for this?”

“No.”

Which says he trusts her, that he believes she wants him safe. Selina cannot ignore how that makes her breathing catch, no matter how much she tries. It’s a piece of latex. She shouldn’t care.

The harness comes away quickly between the two of them, and Selina bites back a whine as she loses even the useless pressure of the dildo against her clit. Then she spreads her legs and braces her heels against the mattress. Bruce lowers himself back onto his stomach between her thighs, looks up, and then closes his eyes.

He kisses her, first, open-mouthed and wet, and Selina bites down on the heel of her hand to muffle the way she keens. Her hips flex.

“May I?” Bruce asks and brings a hand up to press at the inside of one thigh.

Selina’s stomach flips. “Sure. Not both hands.”

He doesn’t ask to use the other— he needs it to prop himself up, anyway— but he pins her gently in place with his hand spread wide before he licks her again. Curiously, still, even though he’s had his mouth between her legs a dozen times, even though she had him suck the taste of her off his fingers just a little while ago, even though her clit is swollen and she cannot stop herself crying out as he circles it with his tongue. She hisses when he touches it more directly, and he makes a thoughtful little noise right into the core of her that almost has her snapping her thighs shut around his head. He presses her leg back, and Selina swears through her teeth. Then he pushes his tongue into her pussy, and her head falls back as she groans.

It’s not the kind of thing anyone can keep up for long without getting tired, but he gives it his best effort, tongue-fucking her until her thighs tremble and her toes curl, and she can no longer tell what’s saliva and what’s her until she moans instead of yelping when he moves up to suck on her clit, instead and grabs at his hair with both hands.

“Fuck, fuck,” she gasps, “Baby, Bruce, just like that, God—”

She whines, restraint forgotten, and he does not let up. He does not slow. When she comes, only his hand on her thigh keeps her from wrapping them both around his neck, and she curls her toes so hard one of her calves cramps. He does not pull back until she shoves at his forehead, hissing curses.

“Hm?”

“Leg,” she mutters

He reaches it before she does, laying his head on her stomach while he massages the muscle into unknotting, and she runs her fingers through his hair in a steady rhythm. Outside, the rain slows. More of the city sounds creep in. It’s late, so late it’s almost early again, and the city is at its slowest, but it’s never completely quiet, and she shifts as she catches the faint sound of a car alarm.

“Hey.”

He looks up.

“This place’s shower works.” Its original owners are only away, after all. “What about your legs?”

Bruce stretches first one, and then the other, and then eases himself to his feet. He does not wobble or wince, although Selina watched him move fallen scaffolding with cracked ribs. If his ass is sore, she’ll have to wheedle it out of him. So instead of demanding he carry her, she grabs the dildo by the harness so she can wash it off in the sink and shoves the sheets onto the floor to deal with later. Then she nudges him toward the door away from the living room and the kitchen, away from all her cats, who will bother her to feed them in just a few hours, because she finally figured out where she could safely stash the kibble she’d lifted, and through the door to the bathroom. She does not turn on the light— just leaves the door open so they can catch a little of the streetlight glow from outside.

“Here,” she says. “You can stay the night, if you want.”

Even in the dark, she catches the curve of his smile. “I’d like that.”

“Good.”

For a moment, she thinks of saying something else— that he should leave a note when he leaves or that he doesn’t have to. That he knows where to find her when he wants to see him again. That she might crash his place next time. She says none of it and leans up instead, stretching onto her toes so she can kiss him softly on his bruised mouth. Then she turns on the shower, and the apartment fills with the sound of drumming water again.