Chapter 6
1014words
But as daylight faded and forest insects began their chorus, a different chemistry emerged in their confined space. The curse rose like a tide, flooding Bruce's rational mind. His body burned hot, muscles coiling beneath his skin, golden flames dancing in his darkening eyes. No longer a man drowning in self-hatred, but a beast imprisoned and inflamed with desire.
And Dick, when darkness fell, shed his daytime persona. Off came the lab coat, leaving just a black tank that revealed muscled arms mapped with scars. No longer the healer but the beast-tamer—equally consumed by desire. He abandoned chemical solutions for a more primal approach: using his own body to meet, provoke, and conquer Bruce's savage nature.
"Bruce," he'd approach the man huddled in the corner, his voice a deliberate provocation, "look at me."
The beast would snap to attention, golden pupils narrowing with predatory intent. It would roar and pounce, pinning Dick against floor, wall, or table with overwhelming force. But Dick no longer resisted—he welcomed the violence, craved it. His body moved fluid and strong beneath Bruce's savage assault, a deadly dance of strength and skill driven by raw desire.
When Bruce gripped his wrists with bone-crushing force, Dick would arch his neck in deliberate exposure—a gesture of triumph, not submission. He lived for this thrill, this dance on destruction's edge. He reveled in how Bruce's golden eyes reflected only him, how that raw power yielded to his skill and seduction.
"That's it…" Dick would whisper, legs wrapping around Bruce's waist, feeling corded muscle and burning heat against him. "Give me all your pain, all your anger."
He'd claim Bruce's mouth, challenging those sharp teeth with his tongue, sharing breath tinged with blood. And Bruce—the untamed beast—found his only release in this cruel intimacy. He'd respond with savage hunger, tearing clothes, marking Dick's chest, shoulders, back with possessive bites and scratches.
Dick savored every moment of pain. He craved it—the marking, the possession. He gave as good as he got, raking nails down Bruce's back, biting into his shoulder hard enough to taste blood. Two predators tearing at each other, licking wounds, confirming their existence through primal violence—declaring their twisted bond to a world that would condemn them.
Night after night, Bruce began to change. Dick's unconditional, almost manic devotion pierced the darkness like a brutal shaft of light. Not gentle—often painful—yet it illuminated the abyss of self-loathing and despair within Bruce. He was no longer drowning alone; someone had willingly followed him to hell, embracing the monster he'd become.
He began to accept his reality. On nights away from the full moon, when the curse weakened, he maintained human form longer. Sometimes after their passionate encounters, he'd rest against Dick, forehead to forehead, golden pupils slowly fading to the deep black eyes of Bruce Wayne.
He'd examine the bite marks on Dick's neck, the bruises across his body, and his eyes would hold more than pain and self-hatred—a complex emotion of guilt, obsession, and something he dared not name: the feeling of being needed.
"Dick…" he rasped once—the first word he'd spoken in weeks.
Dick shuddered, raising his hand to Bruce's gaunt cheek. His eyes held no fear—only deep, overwhelming love. "I'm here," he whispered against Bruce's blood-tinged lips. "I'm always here."
Bruce said nothing more, just tightened his arms around Dick, crushing him against his chest as if trying to merge their bodies, never to be parted. The light hadn't banished his darkness—it had taught him how to exist within it, no longer alone.
But their fragile world built on desire and madness stood on shifting sand.
Miles away on a ridge, Azrael watched the cabin through high-powered binoculars. Night vision bathed everything in eerie green. She waited with predatory patience for the perfect moment to strike.
Finally, she saw it. Through carelessly drawn curtains, two figures entwined—one tall and powerful, the other lithe and agile. They pressed against the window, bodies locked together in the dim light, the scene charged with primal energy. Even at this distance, she could imagine the scene—sweat, desperate breaths, filthy desire.
She recognized the figure against the glass, head thrown back in surrender—her once-admired, always-envied subordinate, "Nightwing." And the beast-like figure dominating him could only be the cursed werewolf.
Jealousy, rage, and betrayal exploded in her chest. Her fingers whitened around the binoculars. Intolerable! The Order's finest weapon—her perfect tool—defiled by a filthy beast, wallowing in perverse desire!
"Prepare to move," she lowered the binoculars, voice cold as arctic wind.
Killing intent flashed in her eyes as she raised her hand, then brought it down sharply.
"——Attack!"
The silent command sent specialized bombs flying from the darkness, cutting through night air to land precisely around the cabin.
"Boom——!!"
Explosions ripped through the night simultaneously! Not fire but silver and light—countless particles of silver dust mixed with holy oil rode the shockwave like a deadly blizzard. Blinding light flooded the cabin as windows shattered and wooden walls splintered under the assault.
Inside, their frenzied passion was brutally interrupted. The shockwave tore them apart like a giant's hand. Dick slammed to the floor, ears ringing, vision washed white.
But instinct outpaced thought. Silver powder! Flash grenades! The Order's standard raid protocol! They'd found them!
"Bruce!" Ignoring his glass-shredded back, he lunged toward the blurry figure. Through the blinding light, he saw Bruce covering his eyes in agony, skin blackening where silver powder burned him, howls of pain tearing from his throat.
"Hide!" Dick snatched his "Wing" baton from the corner, eyes wild with desperate fury. He shoved Bruce toward the basement entrance, shielding him with his body as he roared into the silver mist, "They're here to kill you!"
