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Bates Motel (2013)
Norma Bates/Alex Romero
Norma Bates, Alex Romero
Additional Tags:
Love, Sex, Romance, Hurt/Comfort
Published: 2015-08-24 Words: 2401

Home Invasion



He just needed to know she was safe. Like oxygen, it was essential. [A Normero one-shot request. Rated M for sexual content.]

Now and again it stole its way into my veins. In through the elbow or the wrist, like a junkie's needle, it burned a path up my arm and across my chest until it settled, invasive and constricting, around my heart.

In another life I would've called it fear. Death collected in the streets of my county, an ever-present threat thinly veiled by small-town distractions, old money, and modern crime. Deadbolts were so quickly broken; guns so easily misfired; would-be thugs hopped up on their own cheap product had put an end to more than a few innocent lives. This was the ever-present state of the world, an inescapable term of the bargain made in exchange for consciousness.

I'd always managed to set it aside, use my badge and title as a shield, tools to clean up the bullshit and minimize the bluster. To protect as many as I could, and contain whatever infestations I couldn't eradicate. That was enough to let me sleep in relative peace, even if I'd only ever managed to capture a few stray hours here or there.

But it was different now, no longer something I could control. And it was entirely her goddamned fault.

I flipped open my phone for sixth time in as many minutes; she hadn't responded to any of my text messages, hadn't picked up when I called. Twenty-four hours without a word, and the creeping dread was back, a bone-deep terror I'd never known until she infiltrated my world and my thoughts, unwelcome and unavoidable and inherently intoxicating.

For the past three weeks I'd spent nearly every night parked in my SUV outside her house. Watching the windows, the door, the occasional passerby and the guests milling about. Not that I had any particular concern; I didn't. I just couldn't bring myself to relax until I saw her bedside lamp click off, and her house wind down into the telltale dark of sleep. I'd wait an hour before I made the rounds: running guests' plates, checking the lock on her front door (quietly, so as not to wake anyone), sweeping the grounds for an unknown face.

It was an urge beyond fear, nurtured by waking nightmares I didn't understand and couldn't name, an all-consuming drive to make sure, just this once (or so my mind claimed each and every night), that she was safe.


Her light was on but the house was still.

I managed to stay in the car an entire twenty minutes before the need to see her safe and whole overwhelmed my better judgment and sent me sprinting across her driveway and up the winding stairs just beyond the motel's sign. I took them two at a time, my boots loud on the concrete, and slowed only when well-honed observational awareness slammed with a war-like fury into my sense of legality: the goddamned door was open.

"Norma?" I pushed the door with the tips of my fingers, leaning in just enough to see into the foyer. "Norman?"

Silence. Stillness. The bottom floor was dark, the curtains drawn, and had it not been for the moonlight above me I would've had to pull my flashlight.

"Anybody home?"

Nothing. No answer, no creak of floor boards, no boisterous family turning to ask just why the Hell I had the nerve to come waltzing in uninvited. Just the open door and a dawning sense of caution, the same sense that followed me on a bust or a chase, clued me into the moments I required a gun or backup or both.

I reached for my holster on instinct, palm curving around the butt of my pistol. My skin stretched tight over my shoulders as the muscles tensed, coiled on a hair trigger and ready to be employed for whatever essential purpose required them; something was clearly off, though I couldn't immediately identify what.

But then a sound caught my ear: a tiny, delicate cough, the sort of noise that would prove utterly insignificant in a crowded room but set my nerves on edge in the foreboding lull. Soft, high-pitched hiccups followed, the hitch of breath.

Panic flooded down my spine as the unmistakable sound of a woman sobbing hit me like a slap, horror rooting my feet to the floor for a single second before alarm thrust me back into motion. I ran up the steps, gun in hand, threw myself into Norma's bedroom door—the crying emanated from there, I was certain—and immediately took a readied aim.


"Norma?" Her presence was expected; her solitude was not.

She'd sat up in bed with a shriek when I'd busted in, the shock bringing an end to the tears, though I could still see the moisture streaked down her cheeks.

I lowered my gun slowly, half-expecting to spot an intruder hiding in a corner or behind a door. Adrenaline buzzed through me, only years of training keeping my hands still. My heart hammered against my rib cage, but my breathing was steady.

Norma, on the other hand, stared, mouth agape. Hair wild and mussed, it caught the light form the bedside table, reflecting, haloing her in subtle, warm gold.

"You're alright?" I asked. I holstered my gun, pulled my jacket forward to conceal it. She nodded, but said nothing. "Your door was open," I said. Too wired to be conscious of any embarrassment, though I had a feeling it would creep in soon enough. "I was concerned."

"The boys," she said slowly. "Dylan's out with Emma, and Norman … well, I'm not sure where he is right now." Her voice was gentle, the words tumbling out one after another in a way that reminded me of a broken doll. "They must've left it open."

I nodded, and stepped closer to the bed. "But you're alright?" With calm came awareness, the microelements of the room making themselves apparent, no longer blurred by search-and-destroy vision.

I caught black satin and lace first, a fact I wasn't overly proud of but nonetheless couldn't deny. The same nightgown I'd watched her peel off in the ghost-light of her bedroom, when sheer curtains and a dent in my willpower collided with enough heat to keep me in place, staring up at her from the parking lot all those months ago.

Her eyes flicked away from mine, down and to the side, either uncomfortable or preoccupied, or perhaps simply unsure: I'd begun to feel like all the air was leeching out of the room. I was looking at her legs, the way they curled under her. The slight forward hunch of her shoulders, the way her breasts stretched the satin, formed the curves that drove men to fight, to kill, to wage wars.

When she finally looked up at me again it was like a hand at my throat, squeezing until I couldn't breath but asphyxiation coming as a sweet release.

We stared at one another for a long moment. Silent, still but for her slight trembling.

I walked over, never breaking eye contact, sat on the edge of the bed. She flinched forward slightly, like she wanted to touch me or pull me into her, but thought better of it at the last second. Her lips were swollen from crying; I studied her face intently, lingering over the tear stains on her pale skin, her tender-pink little mouth, the curve of her cheekbones and jaw.

She had beautifully shaped ears, I realized, probably for the first time. I pushed an errant curl behind one, my finger tracing over the lobe. Something shifted in her eyes as I did it, the normally light blue gone dark, pupils blown.

I let my hand trail from her earlobe to her neck—she held her breath as I ran my thumb over the pulse point—down to her collarbone, trying to read the definition of bone like braille, and then up to her shoulder. Rested there, unmoving. Her face was blank, almost unreadable, save for the slightly parted lips and her soft, erratic breathing.

She was made of warmth and yielding when I brought my mouth to hers, used my superior weight and leverage to push her back on the bed. Her hands wrapped around my neck instantly, fingers snaking up into my hair, tightening against the back of my skull when I nipped her bottom lip.

I could feel the heat of her through my clothing, but craved exploration and flesh; I wanted to memorize her, to map her, to note every sigh and shudder, seek out every nerve and delightful quirk. I carefully removed my jacket and holster, breaking away from her mouth only long enough to make sure my gun was securely on the floor, tucked away from any accidental contact that might endanger her. And when I returned to her it was with my lips on her jaw and the line of her neck, her fingers now ghosting down my shirt, fumbling with buttons and trying to tug the cloth down over my shoulders.

But she was pliant and willing, made no effort to resist when I took her hands in my own, kissed the tip of each finger, the tender lines in her palm and the sensitive underside of her wrists. Her eyes followed me as I pushed her wrists above her head, and she hissed in a breath when I locked my handcuffs into place, securing her to the bed. An eager captive.

Self-control was nothing but a memory, and I ran my hands from her naked arms down to her hips, my touch light, skimming over satin and curve and skin I wanted to taste. I watched her eyes drift close as I did it, mouth pursing with anticipation.

I shed my shirt quickly, tossing it onto the floor, and busied myself with the most important task at hand: relieving her from that nightgown. Part of me was loath to see it go. Too fucking beautiful, the way it hid her breasts yet made no secret of their shape or fullness. How it pinched in at her waist, bloomed out over her hips and the taut apple of her ass. Her thighs were so white in contrast, and so smooth when I leaned down to kiss the top of each one.

My fingers snaked up and under the hem of her gown, pushing it up her legs slowly, my mouth following with each inch, until I felt her minutely lift her hips, just enough that I could slide the fabric over her ass, and I came to the glorious realization that she wasn't wearing any panties. Her thighs spread for me like honey when I brushed my palm over the soft, dusty little mound of blond pubic hair. The scent of her flesh and her want perfuming the air, until my skin felt like it was on fire and my erection pressed painfully into the zipper of my jeans.

I ran my hands along the inside of her thighs, urging her to open for me, and bent to meet my tongue with her center, an explosive cluster of nerves that I lavished with my full attention. I kissed, and licked, and gently suckled, holding her hips while she bucked beneath me. Her face turned scarlet, and she tossed her head back and forth rapidly, something resembling my name but not quite forming the whole word tumbling out of her in a desperate chant that made me ache to take her deep and rough. Only when I felt her muscles contract, heard her sob out her pleasure, did I begin to slow my pace. When there was nothing left but trembling and gasps for air, I eased my way up her body.

Eyes still closed, panting out the residual tremors of pleasure, she moaned softly when I kissed her flush on the mouth, let her taste her own desire. I gently scooped her breasts out from under the nightgown, let them fall into place over the cups. Her nipples were tiny, stone-hard and flushed rose when I bent down to brush my lips over each one.

"Alex," she whispered, and I heard her tug at the handcuffs. "Alex, please."

I paused, looked up to meet her eyes. "Please what?" I asked. But I already knew.

Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me tight against her. I let her draw me in, settling my weight on top of her. Sucked at her throat while I reached down to unbutton my jeans and unzip my the fly. Her breasts pressed against my naked chest, and I readied myself at her entrance, my lungs working overtime to gulp down enough air, something close to lightheadedness sweeping over me.

She whispered my name like a prayer when I sank into her, nuzzled against me when I buried my face in the crook of her neck and groaned.

She was too soft, too sweet and too tight around me; the heat building too quickly, my hips betraying me, moving with a mind of their own. I could feel my erratic heartbeat in my throat and in my veins, whatever sense was left to me being quickly overrun with the scent of her, her pleading little mewls, the way she pulled helplessly at the cuffs whenever I thrust into her hard, made her shudder.

I took her face in my hands before it was too late, tilted her chin towards me so that she opened her eyes, stared at me, hazy with desire. "Norma," I breathed, and leaned down to kiss the corners of her mouth and the tip of her chin. I slid a hand under the smooth curve of her ass, pulled her roughly against me, eliciting a shaky moan.

My throat was dry. The pressure building, I was beginning to lose my rhythm. The mattress creaked under us, over and over, almost like birdsong.

There wasn't enough air in the world. There wasn't enough her in the world. I couldn't breathe; I couldn't see; my eyes slammed shut, and there was only her hair brushing the side of my face, the sway of her breasts beneath me, her lips on my neck and my shoulder, whispering, gasping, moaning my name over and over until the final moment arrived, and every muscle in my body tensed while I held back as long as I could.

"Norma," I said again. My voice was thick, barely above a whisper. "Say please."

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