Chapter Text
Security detail in the sewer tunnels of Gotham is a major drag.
There is nothing to look at, nothing to see, you are surrounded by the echo of your boots pacing back and forth through shallow puddles of water, the weight of your gun resting heavily against your shoulder, the minutes of your life ticking by inconsequentially.
It’s not that you have more exciting things to do necessarily, but the sight of these same old dingy cement walls, the constant drip of water and the monotony of doing the same thing day in and day out is starting to wear you thin.
When you first took this job a year back you felt…nothing. You didn’t have some cozy life you were leaving behind, no grand plans to be interrupted. The apartment you’d once shared with your family rang with so much silence that it had become unbearable. And though you’d never imagined yourself working for one of the most notorious villains of Gotham, it’s not like you had a plethora of other choices to pick from.
An old friend knew somebody who knew a guy who knew someone else in need of a little extra security.
They’d failed to mention at the time that that person was Bane.
But then again you hadn’t really asked.
With little experience, little to do, and even less expendable cash, you weren’t really in a position to decline.
Despite its faults you love this city, you grew up here. Gotham is where all your earliest memories lie and despite all it’s taken from you, how it swallowed up all the most important people in your life, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. It’s familiar, and it’s home. It’s just…not without its problems. Whether it can get any worse than it already is is hard to say, but it’s not like some guy dressed up like a fucking bat is going to make any real difference. Some masked crusader who’s too scared to show his own face is capable of saving a city like this from itself?
Yeah right.
If you’re being honest, there’s a part of you that respects Bane, what he represents. You like that he’s no nonsense, a “take no prisoners” kind of man. You don’t know much about his upbringing or where he’s from but it’s easy enough to fill in the blanks. Bane wants to impart some sort of control to this city, some kind of order. Had that happened sooner maybe your parents and little sister would still be here.
But it’s too late to wonder about that now.
When the opportunity for this job had found you, you’d been so alone, so exhausted doing the best you could to take care of yourself without completely falling apart. You’d be lying if you said that the idea of someone else calling all the shots for a change didn’t have some sort of appeal.
You hear footsteps approaching from behind you and while they aren’t doing anything to mask their sound, you lower your gun and tuck it beside your body anyways, just in case.
Another guard, Hank? Henry? approaches and nods toward the direction he just came from.
“He wants to see you,” he states matter of factly, barely getting the sentence out before turning away from you and striding back down the tunnel.
You don’t have to ask who “he” is.
“W-what? Why?” You attempt to ask but he’s already disappearing around the corner. You feel cold all over, an icy chill spreading from your hairline to the tips of your toes as you wonder what you could have possibly screwed up and how badly you’re about to pay for it.
Why in the world would Bane want to see you specifically? Does Harold have you confused with someone else?
Having only glimpsed him a few times in the last twelve months, you’re pretty sure Bane is completely unaware of your existence entirely. He’s maybe looked at you directly, one time.
Not that you’ve forgotten about that instance at all.
It was only a week or two after you’d first moved to his underground sanctuary, still trying to get your bearings amidst the many tunnels. Gotham is a dark, gloomy city. There’s no sunshine and the natural light always has a hazy, gray cast to it, but this? This was different. The darkness that constantly surrounded Bane was something else entirely.
Needless to say you’d been completely and utterly lost.
You were coming up a back stairwell, trying to figure out if you had just come down this way or if you needed to go a floor higher to get to your small accommodations. You were mumbling to yourself, trying to mentally backtrack your way through this intricate maze when you noticed him standing at the top of the stairs talking quietly with someone you didn’t recognize, another guard or someone from Gotham’s Underground Network perhaps. The stairwells were poorly lit and that’s putting it mildly but given his size he really wasn't that hard of a man to identify. You’d frozen in place, unsure if you should scurry back down the way you came or proceed forward like you didn’t notice him at all.
Would that be disrespectful? Or were you supposed to acknowledge him formally? What if it looked like you were eavesdropping? As you'd mulled all these thoughts over his companion abruptly stopped talking, and Bane’s shoulders had turned slightly and then just like that he was looking right at you. There was a brief moment when you’d felt genuinely terrified. You’d never been held under such intense attention by someone who exudes as much power as Bane does. His eyes on you were like a physical weight you couldn’t seem to pull away from, as if his gaze was hammering nails through your feet and into the floor below.
But then his head had tilted to the side ever so slightly, a subtle gesture of curiosity and your fear had quickly been replaced by something…else.
“I’m so sorry,” you’d stammered, clasping your hands tightly behind your back to stop them from shaking, “I was trying to find Floor D but I think I’m turned around? I wasn’t listening to your conversation I swear I just-”
“For fucks sake it’s below you,” his companion interjected impatiently and had it not been for the flash of white in his eyes you would have missed how Bane’s gaze had flicked over to him, how his posture had tensed for the briefest of moments. Like maybe he was unhappy, angry even, with the man’s tone.
“Anything else?” Bane had asked calmly, almost kindly when you didn’t move, still unsure if you should wait to be dismissed or just walk off. It was the first time you’d ever heard his voice up close and it should have sounded off somehow, modulated and false. But there was something pleasing about the crackle of his mask, the way his words seemed to rumble up from his chest.
“No sir. Thank you, excuse me.” That was all the out you’d needed to finally take your leave, barely resisting the strange and sudden urge to bow your head to him before you turned and fled. As you’d hustled toward the stairs, hands slick with sweat, you’d chanced a final look up at him only to find his eyes still firmly pinned on you.
“Let’s move it!” Harvey shouts now, voice echoing from somewhere down the tunnel and you realize you still haven’t moved from where you’re standing, still trying to figure out what the hell is going on, your mind frozen on that image of Bane gazing down at you from the top of the stairs all those months ago.
You shake some feeling into your hands, reminding yourself that you’ve been loyal, kept your head down, followed orders however rarely they were given.
There really is only one way to find out what he wants.
_______
The only thing more surprising than standing face to face with Bane himself, is being in his office.
It seems so weird, almost comical, that someone who has a reputation like he does, would be sitting in an expensive espresso colored faux leather chair behind a vintage, ornate mahogany desk. The room is large and extremely organized. There’s a wall carved deep with bookshelves, a variety of world maps and a few blueprints of buildings and sewer systems strewn across his desk. There’s no windows of course but there are two lights recessed into the ceiling, emitting a low, easy light and highlighting a small seating area with two chairs that match his own and a coffee table that holds a beautifully etched authentic Chinese tea set.
How very…quaint.
You’ve been stalling in making direct eye contact with him even though you can feel his eyes assessing you. Instead you choose to take your time looking at the luxurious rug underneath your feet, the stunning art on the walls, the glass vase of vibrant flowers on a stand in the corner.
Who knew his taste would be so refined?
There were two guards in here which he’d dismissed once you’d arrived and they seem to have taken all the air in the room with their departure. You squeeze your hands together and remind yourself to breathe.
He hasn’t said anything yet and when you finally do look over at him, he seems in no hurry to break the tension, simply letting the soft click click of his steady masked breathing fill the silence.
His height isn’t all that considerable, maybe 5’10 on a good day, but there’s no denying how massive he is. Generously rounded shoulders, biceps and forearms a size you’ve never seen, weighed down with muscle. You once catalogued all the veins in his arms and hands during a security meeting a few weeks ago and the effect that had had on you was startling to say the least.
To see them threaded underneath his skin up close makes your mouth water.
There’s something about the shape of his back, how it tapers at the waist but flares out once you get up to his ribs that almost entrances you. All his strength is packed so densely together, his lats flaring out wide like the head of a king cobra.
He’s wearing a dark green army vest, complete with straps and pockets but no weapons that you can see. He also doesn’t have a shirt on, which is pretty typical, but when you’re this near to him it’s so incredibly distracting you have to force yourself not to fidget. His barrel chest strains against the fabric, and the curve of his pecs is so visible, so delicious you’re suddenly imagining the skin there against the flat surface of your tongue. Your eyes linger for just a beat too long and it makes something low in your belly tighten, your insides tensing like a twisted up towel. Heat flares in your cheeks when you realize that you went from appraising the room to openly appraising him.
There’s no contest to what impresses you more.
When you finally reach his face you can’t decide whether to stare at his mask or his eyes first. The mask you were expecting of course as it’s sort of his trademark, an intricately designed matte black contraption that covers more than half of his head and the entirety of his nose, mouth and chin. There’s something fascinating about it, how he wears it with so much confidence that it seems as much a part of him as an arm or a leg, but honestly it’s his eyes that win out. From a distance you’d always assumed them to be cold. Dark and flat and jet black.
Empty, like space with no stars.
Instead you’re met with something comparable to the Indian Ocean, outstandingly vibrant, an entrancing greenish blue that’s toned warm, laced with rich amber near the pupil and so deep you can already feel yourself drowning a little.
“Please,” he gestures toward a chair in front of his desk, finally speaking, “sit.”
The sound of his voice rakes over your spine and your eyes glance over the mask once more. It’s very menacing in a way that, like the man himself, excites you.
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” he states, his large forearms resting on his desk, thick fingers interlocked in a relaxed position of dominance.
“I am,” you answer, forcing yourself to look him in the eye, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as wobbly as you feel. You think back over the last few weeks, wracking your brain for some detail you missed, something you could have possibly screwed up that’s gotten you to this point.
“It’s come to my attention that you’re unsatisfied with your current assignment,” he begins, not seeming angry at all but your face warms with embarrassment regardless.
Shit shit shit.
Being below Bane’s notice is one thing, but knowing that he’s not only aware of your prescence but that you’ve been complaining, however offhandedly, about your position is another.
A dark pit forms wide in your stomach. Things don’t seem to be looking in your favor regardless of how calm his demeanor is. This is a man who has tortured and killed people, a man who is willing to do whatever, remove whoever to get to where he wants to be. He will make an example out of you and only then will he destroy everything you’ve ever so much as passingly cared about.
You don’t have any family left, no real friends to speak of, but you look over the size of his frame, the deep snow white scar running along his jaw and almost feel like laughing.
He’ll undoubtedly think of something.
“I,” you start, clearing your throat, “I didn’t mean any disrespect-”
But he holds up a hand to cut you off, his palm scored with rough calluses.
“I don’t care about that, I only care if you’d be interested in being reassigned.”
Your heart is slamming against your sternum, your blood pumping so hard it’s making you dizzy. This conversation is not at all going how you’d expected.
“Oh. Is there somewhere else I’d be better suited for you, sir?” You ask, ignoring how suggestive that seemed to sound.
He slightly adjusts his vest, his massive palms grasping and holding onto the straps as he leans back in his chair, the fine leather creaking beneath his weight.
“Are you always this obedient?” He asks instead of answering your question and you aren’t sure how to respond to that. You like structure and rules as much as the next person. You need order and guidance and consistency to make your life feel like it’s not constantly spinning out of control, especially seeing as your parents certainly weren’t going to provide it. You like knowing which way is up, knowing what your day will look like before you get out of bed each morning. You survived so long on your own that knowing how far you could make a dollar, a meal, a pair of shoes stretch and for how long was imperative. You made yourself a routine, a schedule, you did the same thing day in and day out until the high pitched scream of your daily anxiety turned down to a low static.
“I suppose so,” you finally reply, sitting up a little straighter, “is that a bad thing?”
“On the contrary,” he says immediately, the muscles of his biceps bunching as he adjusts his hold on his vest, “that’s the exact quality I’m looking for.”
He stands from his chair, revealing the full solidity of his frame, the trunk-like size of his legs.
“Tea?” He asks, gesturing toward the set on the table.
You blink hard at him, confused if you’re really hearing this correctly.
“Uh, yes please,” you manage.
He stalks over to a buzzer on the wall behind you and his scent like cool metal and freshly sliced pears brushes past. It makes your hands tremble a little in your lap. He jabs his finger against the button twice before walking back over to the tea pot.
“Green or black?” He inquires, his large fingers gently sifting through tiny glass jars. For a moment you think “ohhh I get it he’s going to poison me” (because that would make way more sense than Bane making you a cup of tea) but then you immediately ask yourself why he would go through the trouble of poisoning you of all people? Up until today you didn’t even know he knew your name.
“Black would be great, but-”
“Cream? Sugar?” He interrupts as the door opens and a guard hustles in with a steaming pitcher of water. He sets it down on the table not looking at you or Bane before promptly exiting the room.
“Both please, but sir I can-”
“I admit,” he continues, ignoring your rambling as he pours hot water over the loose tea leaves he tapped out into a ceramic strainer that sits inside of the teapot, “I used to be much more stringent in my preparation but I’ve been in this country too long.”
It looks like a child’s play set the way his fingers engulf the little curve of the teacup handle.
“I can’t deny there’s something calming about the process,” he continues with an almost dreamy sigh, “how meticulous it requires you to be. I could just throw it in the microwave but,” he shrugs as a curl of steam lifts up and out of the spout, “there are certain vices I simply can’t deny myself.”
He looks you in the eyes for a beat after he says this, his words much too weighted to simply be discussing proper tea preparation.
He finishes it a few minutes later, pouring the rich dark liquid over two sugar cubes, delicately stirring until they dissolve completely before adding a small splash of cream and setting the tea cup on a matching saucer beside a folded linen napkin. He even places a tiny silver spoon on top.
Were it not for your surroundings and current company you’d almost feel like a little princess. He’s certainly treating you like one.
“Have you ever had a pet before?” He asks now, taking a seat back behind his desk. It takes you a moment to realize he didn’t make a cup for himself.
Obviously.
“I- no sir. I always wanted one but,” you trail off, deciding now is not the best time to divulge your less than nurturing home life. He hums understandingly, the sound barely audible behind his mask but still vibrating out from throat.
“When I was a young man, I found myself in the company of a stray cat. I had just barely escaped captivity, finding refuge where I could under cover of darkness and then one night there she was. Her life seemed about as fortunate as my own had been up to that point so maybe that’s why she was so drawn to me? Who’s to say. There was something so beautiful about her brokenness, her need to find comfort in me.”
He takes a deep breath, the air pulling through his many filters before entering into his lungs. He leans forward and looks directly in your eyes.
“You remind me of her,” he says quietly, appreciatively.
Meaningfully.
And you don’t know how you know, but suddenly you do. It’s so clear, so obvious you’re shocked you didn’t understand what it was he wanted from his very first question. And you should get up and leave right now. A man like Bane would only break you, wouldn’t he? If you’re reading this correctly, if it’s a…submissive of some kind that he’s looking for, could you really do it? He’s dominant enough without even trying, but intentionally? Purposefully?
Could you survive that?
And yet you watched how gingerly, almost lovingly he measured out the proportions for your tea, how carefully he’d set it down in front of you, his eyes softly scanning your expression for…not approval necessarily but appreciation maybe?
And you’re so tired. Of thinking all the time, of fending for yourself.
You have been doing it your entire life and it got you nowhere and nothing.
Would it really be so bad to let someone else take the lead for a change?
“Thank you, sir.” You whisper in response, in acceptance, cheeks burning with what those three words are truly acknowledging.
He didn’t frame it as a compliment, but you know that it is one.
“If I were to take you in, if you were to be my…pet for lack of a better term, your accommodations would change,” he explains with an almost hesitant tone to his voice, “you’d be reassigned to my room, you would report to me each morning. You’d still receive your monthly stipend but your monthly expenses would no longer be charged to you. You’d be free to do with your current and future funds as you please.”
Despite your wariness it’s impossible that he’s saying this in a hypothetical sense, as if you’d honestly be insane enough to decline.
You’re sort of insane to agree but you’ll mentally address that some other time.
“You would go wherever I go, you would do as I say, you would behave and be a good girl as I well know you’re capable of doing.”
His appreciative stare washes over you like a warm tide. Despite all the commendation he’s giving you the blue in his eyes melts down into a soft fuzzy green when he looks at you.
His mild praise feels like silk brushing against your skin. You haven’t heard so much as a “thank you” within these walls since the day you arrived and yet Bane is looking at you with this expression that makes you feel a hundred feet tall.
You nod your head slowly, trying to form your next sentence.
“Will you hurt me?” You ask, swallowing nervously.
His brows pull together in confusion and even that small gesture is enough to give you the reassurance you need, but you clarify anyway.
“I mean, if I don’t behave. Will you punish me?”
He visibly relaxes, though his eyes momentarily flare with heat.
“If I have to,” he replies with a mild shrug, watching your mouth greedily as you take a sip of tea, “but that won’t be a problem, will it?”
You set the cup back down, raising your eyes again to meet his.
“No, sir.” You whisper, a faint smile ghosting your lips.
You know you’ll never be able to see him smile, but there is an undeniable flicker of approval in his eyes.
You cannot believe this is happening.
“And will we…” you let this sentence hang open ended in the air between you.
“No,” he replies sharply and it’s the first unpleasant shift you’ve seen in his attitude during this entire interaction. You have to say you’re…surprised but you refuse to address the internal stab of disappointment you feel.
“You won’t be unsatisfied,” he continues, his tone smoothing over, “if that’s your concern.”
Your face heats, eyes immediately falling to the floor. You’re no virgin by any stretch of the imagination but the thought of Bane satisfying you is already more arousing than anything you’ve ever experienced in your life so far.
You hear him softly chuckle at the sight of you all flustered, the sound skipping a little as it tries to flow out of his mask. You take in his massive form, the smooth curve of his pale arms, the sturdy column of his neck. He’s not classically handsome but there’s an undeniable magnetism about him that surely someone other than you isn’t impervious to.
Is a ‘pet’ truly all he could want out of this arrangement?
“What do you get out of all this?” You eventually build up the courage to ask. You love that he waits to let you speak, that he’s comfortable in the surrounding silence as he watches you slowly build your thoughts together.
For a man who’s known to be ruthless and volatile, he’s surprisingly patient.
He turns his chair to the side, legs facing out and away from the desk as he crooks two fingers at you, beckoning you to come closer.
He leans forward, elbows resting on his spread open thighs as you come to stand in front of him. He looks up at you, his long, dark blond lashes fanning up toward his eyebrows. The hum of faint voices out in the hall and the sounds of water rushing through pipes below fades away into nothing. There is only you between his legs, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric of his cargo pants and out against your body.
People are terrified of this man and yet as he points a solid finger at the ground between his boots you don’t have to think twice about kneeling. There aren’t many things you can say for sure about Bane, you don’t even know him, not really, but you do know intrinsically, on a soul deep level, that he would never hurt you. That there is a part of him he may never explicitly voice that wants to take care of you.
That he looked at you and saw everything he needed to know.
A stray cat in need of a home.
“I get you,” he finally replies to your question in a matter of fact tone, as if that was the first answer you should have thought of, as if it’s obvious.
It makes you want to preen like a peacock.
He brushes the back of his hand across your cheek as he looks down at you, and his touch is so light, if it wasn’t for how electric his skin feels against yours, you’d barely register the movement at all. He caresses your skin as if it was as delicate as a butterfly's wing, stroking down your jaw, along your neck, behind your ears until your eyes flutter closed. He runs his thumb gently down your nose, over the curve of your bottom lip, along your eyelashes and your breathing starts to slow, growing more even and heavy. Carefully you lay your cheek against the inside of his thigh, brushing your face against the fabric with the smallest hint of pressure. This should be embarrassing, it should be so awkward and strange and yet…
The rough glide of his palm against your throat, over the top of your head and trailing down the back of your scalp feels absolutely sublime.
“That’s my sweet girl.” He murmurs and the sound of that feels like finding a buried treasure, like his voice is draping you in fine gold, adorning you with giant diamonds and priceless emeralds and big sparkling rubies.
Your face presses up into his palm, turning in so that your nose rubs against it. Back and forth you turn your head, rubbing your lips, your cheek, your forehead against his hand. His legs seem to tighten around you of their own volition. You sit up on your knees a bit, opening your eyes even if you are too nervous now to look directly at him before bodly pressing your face into his neck.
He smells so fucking good that you sudddenly can’t get enough of him. Of that tart fruit orchard scent that rolls off of his skin, of the heat that seems to radiate out from his bones. The overwhelming urge to flick your tongue out and lick him is so strong you have to squeeze your eyes shut again just to fight it off.
“Such a good kitty already, aren’t you?” he rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you better access as a helpless little moan escapes your mouth. He has a large palm braced tenderly on the back of your head as you snuggle into him and you know that there should be more details to discuss, guidelines and boundaries to set in place but you don’t care about any of that right now. An hour ago you were bored out of your skull, holding a gun you didn’t want, living a life that felt aimless and now you’re convinced that if he stops touching you, stops holding you and petting you like this you may be willing to throw yourself at his feet and weep.
It’s been a long time since someone has needed you, has willingly given you something that you had to fight tooth and nail just to give to yourself. How long has it been since someone’s looked you in the eye, has seen you? Acknowledged you? Done something for you just because they wanted to?
Too long.
It’s been so fucking long.
He leans forward and effortlessly wraps an arm around your back and underneath your legs, tilting you so that your face is still against his neck but your shoulder is cradled against his chest. You’re nestled in one of his arms and he’s about to carry you easily out of this room.
Just like a little kitten.
He looks down at you, eyes glowing with pride as he takes in your curled up form.
“Let’s get you settled,” he says before he strides toward the door.
____________
By settled he of course means, in his room. You’d always assumed it’d be on the highest level down here but it's actually the opposite. It’s so incredibly dark down on the lowest floor that you’re astounded at how easily he can find his way without stumbling over anything.
Still holding you he uses his free hand to input an 8 digit numerical code before a steel door hums then unlocks. The room is pitch black when he steps inside. He seems reluctant to set you down but finally does so he can turn on a light. You’d think for a man of his size he’d be like a destructive rhino down here, knocking over everything he isn’t able to see. And yet you can just barely hear him moving around the room, his moments graceful and light before there’s a soft click and the room is bathed in a soft yellow.
The space is much larger than you were expecting. There’s a California king bed on a low platform with black satin sheets and a fluffy black comforter, dark gray concrete floors, a night stand, a bookcase and another small lamp on a bedside table. There’s a desk in the corner and underneath it you notice…your backpack. You see your shoes neatly lined up, your notebooks, your pillow, your clothes washed, folded and stacked into a neat pile.
You turn to him with a questioning look in your eyes, eyebrows raised with surprise but all he does is shrug and rub the back of his neck.
“Wishful thinking,” he replies quietly, almost self consciously.
And you try not to smile at this because he’s probably going to end up thinking you’re some kind of lunatic. You shouldn’t feel flattered by this overly invasive type of behavior but you look around and notice how he intermingled your books with his own on his bookshelf, spines out, organized in alphabetical order by the authors last name, exactly how it was in your room. How there’s what looks like a brand new jar full of black tea leaves sitting next to the teapot on his small kitchenette.
How there’s a thin baby blue collar with a little bow and a silver bell on the front sitting on top of a matte black box with a big satin bow. You should be freaked out alone in the half dark with this beast of a man, this monster among mortals, but you don’t.
“Is that mine?” You ask him, nodding over at the box.
“It is. But you can try everything on tomorrow.”
“And I’m sleeping with you? Or should I curl up and sleep on your face?”
You meant that last part as a joke but there’s nothing comical about the way his eyes devour you.
“Wherever you’d be the most comfortable.” His voice is low, his fist clenching once by his side before he averts his attention, his eyes taking extreme interest with a painting on the wall.
You walk over to the desk and pick up your collar, running your fingers over the fine material. You can tell that he’s looking for some signal that you aren’t about to bolt. He’s certainly not going to ask outright about your feelings on your new situation but the tension surrounding you says that he’d like some kind of indication that you aren’t going to grab all of your things in the middle of the night and flee.
“I think I’ll take a bath before bed then,” you sigh, setting the collar gently back down on top of the box and he’s already in motion. Buzzing for hot water, setting out fresh towels and clean clothes for you. You reach out a shaking palm and touch it lightly to his arm, his skin smooth but tense beneath your touch. He stops moving immediately as if you’d shoved him, as if he’s stunned by just the feeling of the pads of your fingertips on his bare arm.
“Will you join me?”
__________
20 minutes later you scoot down into a luxuriously hot clawfoot tub filled to the brim with cloud-like puffs of shiny bubbles, Bane sitting behind your head in a sturdy wooden chair.
“Are you comfortable, little one?”
The nickname makes your nipples harden beneath the soapy water but you try not to let it show.
“Yes sir, extremely.” You reply almost dreamily, leaning your head back against his knee.
He finds a brush from somewhere and gently starts pulling it through your hair. He gathers it up into a loose ponytail, starting at the bottom of your strands he moves it though, tenderly working out any knots or tangles. The bristles scratch deliciously against the base of your neck, the soothing repetitive rhythm of him brushing and gathering your hair lulling you toward the edges of sleep.
This.
Feels.
Utterly.
Divine.
“You don’t strike me as someone who would be lonely,” you hedge after a while, unable to temper your curiosity.
He makes you scoot forward a little with a firm hand between your shoulder blades before pouring a pitcher of warm water over your untangled hair. Then he reaches for the shampoo, coincidentally a brand new bottle of the exact brand and scent that you use, and pours a generous amount into his palm.
“I’m not.” He replies, but not coldly, simply stating a fact. He rubs his palms together and the scent of peonies bursts around you, his hands gliding over the top of your head and spreading the shampoo all the way down to the ends.
When his strong, blunt fingers start scratching your scalp your toes curl with delight.
“Then why do this? Why- ohh-,” your train of thought is interrupted by the way he piles your hair on top of your head and presses his thumb in deep to massage your neck and shoulders.
“Why agree?” He counters, moving his hands to rub his fingers around your temples.
Touché.
The silence stretches on for a while after that. He rinses your hair before he moves to clean your body. He lathers a bar of soap on a loofa, running it along your shoulders, your neck, down your back, over your legs, between your toes. He worships your body in a way that doesn’t feel sexual at all; it feels sacred. He washes your breasts, down your stomach, under your knees and it occurs to you that maybe you should feel shy. You now live with this man you barely know and he’s seen you completely naked, the sharp lines of his mask, the bulk of his vest, the squeak of his boots a stark contrast to your complete nudity in this elegant bathtub.
It’s all made you so slick between the legs you can hardly stand it.
But you decide to ignore that for now, letting your head rest against the porcelain, allowing yourself to float off and enjoy yourself just in case this turns out to be a very vivid dream.
He makes you stand as you drain the tub, rinsing you with a final pitcher of warm water before turning to retrieve a towel from the double vanity countertop. When he turns back he’s frozen in place, the towel held open and clenched tightly in his fists. He’s looking at you like a man who accidentally peeked past the gates of heaven as you lock your eyes with his and slowly lick the back of your loosely closed fist.
You open your palm, running your tongue flat over your skin, holding him in place with your stare as he once did to you as you lick up your fingers, playfully batting your eyelashes as you repeat the same action on your other hand before you gently clean the water off your bottom lip.
“Thank you for my bath,” you purr with a soft smile.
He’s in a trance, eyes hooded, his breathing pattern slightly off as if the pink of your tongue sweeping over your hands managed to hypnotize him. Breathlessly he looks at your soft lips, your rose pink cheeks, your collar bone dotted with moisture. His eyes are flame blue as they follow a trickle of water snaking over one of your nipples, down down down as it travels lower and curves around your belly button and then past it.
He doesn’t allow himself to look any farther than that.
He rolls his shoulders like he’s preparing to go into battle and clears his throat.
“You’re very welcome, princess,” is all he gives as a response, before drying you off, scooping you up and carrying you off to bed.