
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/478941.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Dark_Knight_Rises_(2012)
  Relationship:
      Selina_Kyle/Sal_Maroni, Selina_Kyle/Bank_Manager_(The_Dark_Knight)
  Character:
      Selina_Kyle, Mob_Bank_Manager_(The_Dark_Knight), Sal_Maroni, Johnathan
      Crane, Jen_(The_Dark_Knight_Rises)
  Additional Tags:
      Selina/Not_Getting_Her_Knees_Broken_By_The_Mob, kinkmeme_fill
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-06 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 1541
****** like it's got some disease ******
by nagia
Summary
     She and Jen keep up polite fictions: Selina pretends the deal with
     Maroni about their payoffs doesn't mean she fucks Maroni and a few
     people he tells her to. Jen pretends it isn't obvious that it does.
***** Chapter 1 *****
But what starts with desire can turn into need
The chest gets all tight like it's got some disease
What burns in the fire just ends up as coals
What floats on the water can sink like a stone
-- Mirah, "Body Below"
===============================================================================
Selina peels the shirt off, ignores the way it sticks to her skin. No good
thinking about what makes cotton stick like that; maybe she sweated, maybe she
bled, what does it even matter? She tosses the shirt into the tiny garbage can
under the sink, then twists so she can look at her her back in the mirror, over
her bony shoulders.
This one gouged finger-marks from her shoulderblades on down. Her mouth is dark
red, lower lip thicker than usual thanks to the clot of dried blood, and her
eyes look dark and wide.
She curls her lip at herself and thinks: Just keep doing what you have to.
They'll let you go eventually.
===============================================================================
He's in a double-breasted suit, that fits him perfectly. Each gray thread —
some charcoal, some lighter — is so perfect she knows that she doesn't want to
know how much it cost him. The wallet in her hands is deep brown leather, soft
as butter, and thick with paper and plastic.
Selina smiles up at him.
His hand closes around Selina's wrist.
"We both got problems, little girl," he tells her. "You don't want a whole new
one, you're gonna get in that car and help me with mine."
Sixteen is way too young to die. She gets in the car.
===============================================================================
It does matter if she was sweating or bleeding.
If she was bleeding, it's going to cost him. It'll cost him everything someday.
She'll make sure of it.
She doesn't want to think about what it might mean if she was sweating.
===============================================================================
Things Selina Kyle wishes she didn't know about Sal Maroni: his hands are
always clean. He keeps a small handgun hidden under every suit jacket. He's
uncircumcised. He takes a lot of antacids, always has a roll of Tums in his
right pockets.
He likes her to blow him while he takes important phone calls.
He especially likes her to blow him while he's talking to his mother-in-law.
She doesn't know what that's about. She doesn't want to.
===============================================================================
Maroni passes her off to the bank guy at a party. She learns his name, but it
just gets lost in her thinking: Where does this asshole work, a bank?
"He runs one of our banks," Maroni says. He pats her ass, almost fondly. "And
you're gonna be nice to him. If he finds anything missing..."
Standard threat. Selina almost doesn't pay any attention.
***** Chapter 2 *****
The limo slows and a distinguished-looking older man leans his head out. "Hey,
little girl. Want a ride?"
Selina snaps, "Go fuck yourself!"
===============================================================================
Nine years later, she opens the door of a limo, slips within, and asks him,
"Give me a ride?"
===============================================================================
Selina tosses the ruined outfit in the trash, bra and all. She hates having to
throw out bras — it feels like throwing wads of cash in the garbage — but there
is no fucking way she's keeping this one. She'd pitch the shoes, too, but she
has to give them back to Maroni's friend, the doctor.
He had the most extraordinary eyes. Such a clear, beautiful blue.
Should she hate herself for thinking he was kind of gorgeous, for someone with
obvious mob connections and who didn't mind extorting sex from —
Nevermind. Not worth thinking about. More important: she lost some time; she's
not even sure how much. And even though it was only four hours, it felt more
like four days and she spent way too much of it screaming.
If she ever hears the words, You're really quite pretty when you're afraid ever
again, she might just start screaming again right then and there. She's not
sure she'd be able to stop.
===============================================================================
She and Jen keep up polite fictions:
Selina pretends the deal with Maroni about their payoffs doesn't mean she fucks
Maroni and a few people he tells her to. Jen pretends it isn't obvious that it
does.
Selina pretends she comes home sometimes in rumpled clothes because she was
running, or because it was all part of the stealing. Jen pretends to believe
her.
Jen pretends that none of it matters anyway. Selina does, too.
===============================================================================
Two weeks before the Joker hits this particular mob bank, the bank guy takes
her in after hours. He laughs at the way she looks up at the cameras.
"Don't worry about those, sweetheart. I run the place," he says, like she's
worried about what will happen to him if somebody gets hold of that footage.
She turns to look at him. He pats the desk and smiles, one of those tight-
lipped, pointed smiles she's always tempted to remove by way of fist to the
crotch.
But Selina knows the drill. She shucks everything but the shoes (what is it
with Maroni's cronies and high heels?) and gives a little turn for the cameras.
Might as well, since she's apparently going to add "unintentional internet porn
star" to her long list of misdeeds.
She bends over the desk, flexes into her favorite stretch for a moment, and
then looks over her shoulder at him.
He doesn't strip. That's probably a favor, although he's broad-shouldered and
dark-eyed and, surprisingly, lacks the pencil-pusher paunch. Maybe it's a shame
the internet won't get to see what he hides underneath his suit and tie all the
time.
He starts with her legs. His fingers wander the top of her foot, not far from
her toes, and then he trails his hands up her ankle. Smooths his palm along her
calf, itches his nails against her thigh. He tugs her leg a little when he gets
close to her cunt, so she widens her stance.
After that he's playing with her clit, rubbing his thumb in slow lazy circles
while his other hand skims along the undersides of her breasts. He squeezes her
breast lightly, flicking his fingers over the nipple.
She doesn't bother trying to hold in a gasp when he slides two fingers into
her.
The touch on her clit gets a little faster, a little rougher. Maybe she's
fucked up, but if she didn't basically have to be here, it'd be just the way
she likes it. Fast and rough and a little filthy.
He pinches her nipple, but leaves her only a second to register the minor pain
before he slips a third finger inside her. It's sudden, and even though she's
starting to get slick she still winds up making another wheezy gasping noise.
"That's my good, pretty girl," the bank guy says, and lets go of her breast so
he can bury his hand in her hair. He tugs her head back and sucks on her
earlobe.
Selina doesn't tell him that she's not his anything, and what she does on a
regular basis usually gets the "bad girl" label.
Then he pulls his hand out of her cunt and shoves her just a little farther
over the desk. She lies there, a little dizzy from the sudden change.
Then she hears him unzip.
He leans over her, presses his mouth so close to her earlobe he's practically
tonguing her cheek. Even through the shirt and tie, he's burning hot against
her skin.
"Do you want it?"
No. "Yes."
"Say it."
"I want it. God, I want it. Come on, baby, give it to me." (If he believes
that, he is too dumb to live. She works hard to believe it, herself.)
And then the head of his cock is pushing against her, into her. She pushes back
and fakes a throaty moan.
She's not quite faking when he grips her hips hard enough to bruise. She jerks
her hips forward and he moves too, pounds into her hard and fast. It hurts and
she can feel her body lodging protests despite the slickness of her cunt and
the fast-building, throbbing tension in the pit of her stomach.
He keeps going, his shirt dry and scratchy against the bare skin of her back.
She braces more weight on her forearms and focuses on keeping her hips moving.
Forward, backward; forward, backward; forward, backward, squeeze and oh god —
He kisses the junction between her neck and shoulder when he finishes.
===============================================================================
Bastard didn't even take the time to roll on a condom. She buys a morning after
pill and almost cries when she sells his Patek Philippe for only seven hundred
thousand, which a quick Google reveals is easily half its worth. It's hormones,
she tells herself, not frustration at how little that money's going to help in
the scheme ofthings.
He dies twelve days later with bullets in his knees and a grenade full of
mustard gas in his mouth. Joker's personal touch, apparently.
She doesn't have to Google mustard gas. She doesn't pretend to be sorry when
she next sees Maroni.
Maroni's dead before the year is out. Car crash. Certain underworld types say a
half-burned man walked out of the wreckage flipping a coin, but that's a crock
of shit she doesn't buy.
If Maroni didn't die, he has the grace to keep his tax dodge convincing.
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