Story: Whispers Of Willows
Characters: Starfire, Richard Bruce
Summary: AU:What were you before you became his gold digger whore ? A waitress? She lowered her eyes, cheeks aflame before muttering something about being an english major. Rob/Star/Bruce
Notes: This isn't meant to be read like a story story/ its not perfect grammar wise but I did that for the flow. Prosey/Poemy/Storyish
It was never going to end well, she knew this, for it hadn't exactly begun well either.
But sin stems from desire and desire
From the moment her lips had pressed against his, she had been met with scorn, disgust and looks of pure condescension.
'You nasty little tramp, what were you before you became his trophy fuck? A waitress, oh no wait, I'll bet you were an actress just aching for your big break were you darling'. A scoff and she had lowered her eyelashes, her cheeks aflame before muttering something about being an English Major.
Is hard to resist, especially when the fireworks shine so
Whisperings and questionings fluttered past them in a hurricane:
'Is she in it for the money? Of course she is, she nothing but a gold digging slut who obviously can't keep her legs shut.' Harsh laughter and a pointed look at the hemline on her dress had followed; she tugged the material down nervously, looking at him for reassurance.
He had smiled softly, small creases forming at his eyes and she had felt special again – like the father she never had, only this father isn't a father by night, isn't a father as he drapes her across his trillion count sheets, perspiring slightly and thrusting. She had smiled up at him and shot a fiery look at the whispering waifs, not doubts wondering when she'll bleach her hair and invest in implants.
bright, pressed up hard against your
After six months the hurricane had died down, only small breezes floating hushed, waiting for her to fuck up. '
Shouldn't he have dumped her by now, honestly the sex can't be that amazing.'
She had smiled a little more confidently at those willows, tapping the ash of her cigarette and calmly stepping into the boutique with his credit card, wondering why she didn't feel that guilty.
leg, with promises of midnight rendezvous' and
An invitation to make his house her own and the wind began to howl again, she had brought a small suitcase; most of her stuff was there already.
Part of her began to tire; the witches would never welcome her into their circle, and so she sat idly at each fucking society/charity/auction/ball/golf club soirée, sipping champagne and pulling up the collar on her dress.
Her fingers had begun to itch, sometimes she'd close the eBay window (buy whatever you want princess, he had whispered his gruff salt and pepper beard chafing her skin) on her new laptop and for a brief moment look at Master degree programs and local concerts, then the maid would enter and she would swiftly click back onto the latest Dior catalogue.
Her fingers had itched for more (she had remembered a time when her days were filled with working, for a living, for a degree, for fun) but she had slammed them down along with her salad fork – he made her feel like she was someone worth something:
'Don't let him go you need this, if you go then you'll be nothing but a wanna be, a filthy gold digging whore who had met her older boyfriend/lover at a diner …were she had been waitressing. Do you want that, to go back to that?' She had picked up the fork and stabbed a leafy green, she was happy now – well, she was loved now.
secret pleasures. Bite down
She had smiled when his son Richard came home, how nice to have someone her age to talk to.
Her smile had quickly faded when his tongue had lashed out, quick witted with cutting remarks. He didn't get along with his father, and he, just like the willows thought she was a whore ( was she now?), he had put it bluntly after Bruce had left dinner early ( some meeting , some colleague, some money) .
She had ignored him after that, it suited her fine. He would enter the house in a whirlwind of cigarettes, booze, lady friends that screamed a little too loud when they came (or pretended to at least – he couldn't be that good).
One time she had found him solitary in the living room, a cigarette in one hand, a well weathered novel in the other; Faust. For a second her heart ached painfully and her fingers twitched, itching so badly; she wanted a cigarette (Bruce had kindly told her to stop with the 'cancer sticks').
But most of all she wanted good book, like the one Richards hands, not a fist edition brand fucking spanking new, but her own one, with memories, coffee stains and little dog ears at the best parts. He had raised an eyebrow (I know what you want), and she had run out, flustered and needing, needing.
hard so your don't make a sound
'It seems I have misjudged you'
His words had been so quiet she had almost missed them.
'Sorry' her words were just as quiet, 'I haven't exactly been the greatest to you either. He had shrugged, she had smiled and then something changed.
Bruce made a comment on the weather, and they both had turned their heads to him smiling ( we owe you so much).
dear this is wrong, so
Bruce was away again, Richard hadn't yet called her a whore, but she knew she was acting like one.
'We shouldn't be doing this' and then her lips were covered with his, backed up against the velvet wall coverings.
It felt. s.o, s.o good, his lips were rough against her, he wasn't treating her like glass and she loved it. She had bitten her lip to stifle a moan, and as her eyes rolled back she had wondered what exactly had happened, hadn't they just been exchanging greetings in the hallway a moment ago?
And then his knee brushed her inner thigh and she forgot that she even had the capacity to think. They had tumbled into his room, never quite making it to the bed. Fuck.
Very wrong. But
Guilt, she had been feeling it for a while now. Dirty, she couldn't remember the last time she had felt clean. But damn did she ever feel good, did she ever feel whole now, it wasn't just sex, it was … intangible, wondrous hours of conversations about anything from what cream cheese tastes good on, to the role of the individual in the emergence of human consciousness. And he was her age, and he was gorgeous and he loved her, loved her, she felt smart again; she was breakable, dirty but by god she was intelligent and she had someone to bring it out in her- glass trophy no more.
Trips, every time Bruce had uttered the work business and trip in the same sentence her heart soared, and her eyes would meet Richards from across the room. Then she would kiss Bruce goodbye and she would feel guilt, and she would feel dirty.
sin stems from desire and
The whisperings had begun to howl a real gale again; it wasn't just the ogling waifs this time; it was the maids, the cleaners- buzzing humming,
'Is she going behind Bruce's back? How dare she, she's basically living off of him, what can she do herself?'
Richard had talked to the butler Alfred, and he has sealed his lips with an icy smile, she hadn't dared to ask what words they had shared together.
He was being faithful, there had been one incident during their …( twisted sordid unethical plain old wrongful) affair that he had come home with another girl. He had been angry that morning, had walked down the stairs to find her embracing Bruce, ( She had felt guilty and dirty, how many more showers to wash this last one off?) and he was the passionate jealous type.
They had screamed at each other that night, and she had felt tears spring to her eyes. He had kissed them away with apologies and promises. (We'll make it work, I know it's hard, I know, I know but we can make it). Dreams of running away had filled her head, of soft sandy beaches where she could spend hours with him, only him touching breathing talking being, with him.
She had whispered I love you in his ear, and he had whispered it back, kissing her (breaking her) slowly, softly.
Bruce heard nothing but the clicking of his computer keys and he worked steadily in the study.
desire is hard to
(Present)Two pink lines appear after five unbearable minutes. It's in a stuffy smelly public bathroom; she just couldn't let herself do it at home.
Two pink lines and she feels her face break out in many lines of worry. Two pink lines and the guilt, the shame multiplies unbearably and she is screaming, sobbing her back slumped uncomfortably against the dirty side of the stall.
She comes home with mascara streaked cheeks, and the small test wrapped up in a bundle of toilet paper, hidden in the darkest corner of her latest eBay purchased bad.
It takes her two weeks to tell Richard, and even then it is only because he is all too aware of the vomit that tumbles each morning, and her midnight desires for chocolate chip muffins and pickles.
It's two more days before they speak again, two days that feel like a lifetime to both of them, where they sit alone, staring unseeingly at a well worn novel trying to reaffirm all the good they've done in their lives.
She feels like all the names those whispering willows have called her; she looks in his eyes and sees the woes of a troubled son.
Its eleven thirty on the third day before he comes knocking on her bedroom door. He pulls her away from her conversation (what lovely weather) with Bruce, mumbling something about his birthday present, Bruce scratches his head dazedly – his birthday isn't for six months.
Then they're in the hallway, the velveteen one that started it all. She's sobbing and he's struggling to remain sane, they're shaking and clinging to each other, too far gone, too far in.
Oh what tangled webs we weave.
Bruce pops the question with a bitter smile. 'You're pregnant,' he nods to her somewhat visible bump 'This is the honorable thing to do isn't it'.
It's not his, he knows this, they haven't fucked in four months and she's now two months along. She gazes at the rock forlornly, it sits cold and hard; silver and diamond atop blue and purple silk. She feels sick dirty and lost (she's six again, holding her pink teddy bear and crying in the middle of the rushing crowd).
It's an out – for all of them, for Bruce to quell the rumors of infidelity and ' be the man'- for her to build a secure family for the little one in her belly ( it's so hard to build on a net of lies) – For Richard, he could leave then, go back to womanizing, spending and plotting to take over the family business.
She holds the ring steadily in her palm, but her eyes are locked on the figure behind Bruce, Richard.
'Give me time?'
A slow nod and she is running back to her room, throwing each object in reach at the wall before collapsing in tears and wondering how things got so fucked up.
Darling, you love
It's Christmas now, and she proudly cuts the (catered) turkey, the light catches her silver ring and sparkles dance on the table. Noise of relatives and random individuals fill the air, she laughs at something Bruce says, kissing his cheek when he mentions how beautiful his wife looks.
Conversations buzz around her, and she smiles and laughs like she knows she should, stopping only to wipe some food off of her son, Robins face. He gurgles and she ruffles his black hair.
That's when her eyes catch the silent figure at the end of the table, her breath hitches (she knows his does too); he meets her gaze, coolly hiding a small meaningful smile, instantly her face is flushed and her hands are itching under the table.
Bruce cracks a joke and she smiles halfheartedly, she doesn't give a fuck, not about this house, the hundreds of presents, the new car and the fucking guests who won't stop talking. She doesn't give a fuck not even about Bruce anymore, he's never there, and when he is she feels shameful. She hates feeling shameful, she hates pretending, she hates the Valium in her dresser drawer- she hates this whole fucked up situation.
But somehow she remains sane, for the sake of her small son beside her, and the man who gave said child his hair, his eyes and her heart, the man who appears every once in a while. The man who comes home not enough, offering a polite word to his father, to Alfred and to whoever else may be there. The man who comes to offer a quick wishing kiss, a treasured hello to his secret son and to slip a small note into her hand (time, place, what to bring) before he leaves again with her heart.
"Someday Richard, someday. For now just keep me sane, just keep me hanging on. Someday Richard Someday"
is impossible to resist.
I wrote this in one go so pardon the mistakes, some are purposeful and others and me rushing to get this posted while on my homework ignoring high. Oddly enough this came to me while I was brainstorming for Disintegration last night, it was a 'what if' Starfire and Bruce were to be together and then Richard were to come along - it was going to be multi-chaptered but I have thing for one shots. Star is OOC, well so is everyone I guess but I had fun writing it.
Comments, (constructive) Critique ( no flames please)
Please review darlings I'd really really really really really appreciate it.