A/N: A story I started back in 2012 but never got around to completing it. I'm trying to edit it, but the rest of the chapters will certainly not be as flowery and poetic as this one. The prologue is short because it's really just a filler, but the other chapters will be much longer. I think I'll be updating this every Monday, or at least trying to. Feedback would be much appreciated, so just drop a review in! Xx
The trembling in Irene's fingers kept the reverberating cigar from slipping past her parted lips. Her eyelids fluttered shut, just as the wings of a butterfly would delicately rest upon its own body. Whisps of smoke persisted with their depart from the tip of the cigar that dangled from the dainty grip of her middle and forefinger.
Pull yourself together.
After too long, she raised the cigar back to her face, where it hovered for another instant before she finally dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of her leather ankle boot. With the hand that had previously clutched the cigar, she pushed a cluster of clammy blonde hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. It took her a great amount of difficulty to blow out the shallow breathes that fell from between her lips and bolted into the night air. Her eyes were cast downwards as she struggled to maintain the steady rhythm of her breathing.
"Dammit." The word - or rather, curse - was hissed under her breath, and her eyelids fell shut once more. She stayed that way for longer than neccessary, until the abrupt slur of ugly words, tinted by the scent of liquor, registered to her.
"Whassa a pretty lil thang like you doin' inna place like this?"
She ground her teeth together. Her eyes snapped open. The words were too constantly hummed into her ear. The whip-like movement of the palm of her hand meeting the man's scruff-coated face was far too habitual for her liking. The shriek that followed his action of thrusting her against the wall and yanking at the material of the golden dress she wore was automatic; it lacked the desperation that another victim's scream would have. It was more about the thrill of feeling the unknown man being plucked from where he crushed against her body, the weight removed from hers as the masked vigilante consistently smashed his fist against the man's skull until his body sagged to the ground - not lifeless, not quite, but unconscious.
When she rushed forward, latching her lips to his, her hands hooking onto the back of his mask, an appreciative purr built in her throat. Nothing tasted as good as his kiss; a ripple of goosebumps would skate across her skin at the slighest graze of his tongue against hers, a response she sparsely recieved from the vigilante. Their kisses were stolen and one-sided, brief when he always vanished from beneath her airy clasp, but the taste made up for brusqueness of them. The taste - oh, God, the taste. So forbidden, and so dangerous, and too good to be fucking true.
She didn't really want to know whose face hid away behind that mask, tucked away into the sanctuary that was Batman, the sanctuary that was his guise. And that would be her downfall.
