You were born into a world with a silver spoon between your lips, where the air felt as thin as the fine china you were raised to drink from. Every detail around you was carefully chosen, every word weighted and measured, as if the slightest imperfection would ruin the picture your family had painted. Your days were carved out of ritual and routine, wrapped in silks that never felt like your own.

You became something ornamental - a porcelain doll, fragile and flawless, hollow beneath the shine.

The pen touched the page. Another line crossed your mind, ready to be said in silence. Scratch. Scratch.

Maybe you should stop before guilt eats you alive. Uncle wouldn’t be pleased with your behavior.

You set the pen down carefully, rubbing against the dark marks across your hands. Only managing to spread it further, you gave up and closed the diary without any more thoughts. The diary would be hidden back to its sacred place beneath your bed. No praying eyes. Out of sight.

A pink hairbrush replaced the pen. It fit in your palm like a sword to a knight, its familiarity close in your heart. The handle was smooth and worn from years of use. You couldn’t bring yourself to give it up, although you could definitely welcome a new one. This one was a gift from the one woman you’d miss the most.

Most ladies believed that one hundred strokes kept the hair healthy and strong.

You had heard it countless times by governesses and duchesses who visited the house, spoken with such certainty you started to believe that too. You had followed their tips since you were a little girl. Proper habits made proper women. Instructed to sit straight as if you swallowed a ruler, you remember their words.

Your mother wasn’t around for you to ask her yourself.

So you trusted the strangers instead.

A distant glow from the outside caught your eye. You stopped brushing and looked out your window that was right next to your dressing table. A motorcar rolled down the gravel road away from the estate—you could hear it faintly now—the low rumble of its engine, leaving.

Someone was leaving.

You watched the light go dimmer by each second as the car moved farther and farther until it passed through the tall gates and vanished into the darkness of the night.

Gone.

How strange it must feel, you thought, to simply go.

Tonight was the night.

Everything was going according to your plan — the sky looked peaceful and quiet, the household staff ended their shift for the day earlier tonight, and your uncle was away for a business trip. Tonight was the night you had waited for. And it seemed like the world itself was favoring you. A blessing over your escape. This was your chance, perhaps your only one. And so, heart pounding, you began gathering your things.

Beneath your dressing table, a loose wood in the floor hid your traveling satchel you’d borrowed from a poor stable boy. He didn’t stand a chance against your pleading eyes and sweet words. You felt sorry for him, but it was necessary. Kneeling down, you grabbed the satchel and threw it behind you. It landed on the bed.

You crossed the room to the wardrobe and opened it just enough for the hinges not to creak. Your hand moved past the heavier winter coats before settling on something lighter.

It was a soft jacket of creamy brown, the sort you’d often wear during afternoon tea gatherings in the garden when the breeze turned a little cool.

Slipping it over your shoulders, you carefully guided your arms into the sleeves before fastening the small buttons at the front. The jacket sat comfortably on your dress. Warm but not heavy.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed a white ribbon tied on one of the hangers. You’d worn it nearly every day. It was faded now. There was something so tender and sad about that ribbon, like the ghost of a girl you no longer knew. You tied it around your neck as a necklace. It’d go with you.

The satchel followed. Its unfamiliar weight pulled on your shoulder a little bit but you pushed through and walked over to the doorway.

One last look at your childhood.

The porcelain doll on your nightstand, with its perfect curls and painted eyes, was a gift from your dear auntie, back when you were small enough to hold it without feeling like you would break it. A pang of sadness twisted inside you. Back when everything didn’t have to be presentable.

The old rocking horse in the corner, with its wooden mane chipped and worn from years of play. You remembered the way you used to climb on it, clutching the reins as if you could somehow will the horse to carry you far beyond the walls of this house. You hadn’t been afraid then; in those days, the world had felt like a place of endless possibilities. You remembered your uncle’s laughter — warmer, fuller back then — as he’d pushed you on it and laughed at your squeals of excitement.

Taking a deep breath, you closed the door behind you, casting one last glance around your room—a farewell to the girl you’d been and a quiet promise to the woman you were becoming.

You felt your heart beating in your throat. The hallway stretched long before you and for a moment, you felt like a little girl again, wandering through the corridors past your bedtime.

The estate slept, but not entirely. Somewhere farther down the hall you could hear the faint murmuring of two voices — two members of the house staff, probably those housemaids finishing their evening tasks like they always did. They liked to gossip out of earshot.

Stilling at once, you waited quietly until their voices dimmed to silence. Then, you continued towards the grand staircase.

You began descending.

At the bottom of the stairs, you heard voices again, but this time, they were masculine and louder. No housemaid. They echoed from the saloon beside the staircase and belonged to your uncle’s guards, clustered around a table with cigars in hand, playing a game of poker. The room was thick with smoke and deep laughter.

Flattening yourself against a nearby wall, you hoped to pass unnoticed, but as you drew closer, snippets of their conversation reached your ears. Your blood ran cold.

“Shame Mr. Winslet don’t trust the girl no more,” one of the men drawled, tapping his cigar against the table. “Pretty little thing, but she’s got a wild streak, that one.”

Another man grunted in agreement, tipping his chair back as he adjusted the brim of his hat, eyes narrowing at his cards. It wasn’t his lucky night. “Wild streak? More like a head full o’ trouble,” he muttered, smoke curling around him in lazy, twisting spirals. “Winslet gave her more than most folks around here see — education, fine dresses, that big fancy house. Some folk just don’t know how to be thankful, I reckon.”

The third man, younger, with a crooked smile that barely hid the wariness in his eyes, leaned in and lowered his voice as though the very mention of you would bring you storming in. “Well, what d’you expect? Heard she’s been sneakin’ off, takin’ those books with her, wanderin’ out past the old creek. Don’t care much for the fences Mr. Winslet set up, that’s for sure.”

Guard number 1 chuckled, shaking his head. “A girl like that don’t realize what kind of trouble’s waitin’ outside them fences. Can’t just go wanderin’ like a pup without stirrin’ somethin’ up.” He took a deep drag from his cigar, dark eyes gleaming in the smoky haze. “She’s got spirit, but spirit don’t mean nothin’ without common sense.”

“Real shame about that,” the younger one, guard number 3, mumbled with a flicker of something between pity and admiration flashing across his face. “Reckon if she don’t settle down soon, Mr. Winslet’s gonna come down harder. Ain’t much room in his house for anyone who don’t toe in line.”

“Old Winslet says she’ll come around soon enough. Girls like her don’t belong in the wild. They belong in fine silk, right next to a rich husband who will keep her in line.”

You clenched your jaw, heart pounding as their words sank in, each one twisting like a knife in your gut. Wild streak? They spoke about you as though you were some animal to be tamed, something decorative to be controlled. A prize to be passed off like a piece of property. Your fingers tightened around your satchel strap.

The man across the table chuckled and leaned back, casting a look up toward the ceiling. “If she were my daughter, I’d have her locked up tighter than she is now. She’s got ideas she shouldn’t have. It’s just asking for trouble.”

Frank Sullivan—a longtime associate of your father’s, one of his most trusted guards. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a face worn by years of harsh sun and harder living. You remembered him vividly, though you wished you didn’t. Frank had always been around, looming in the background of your life with that same unsettling smirk, watching you with eyes that seemed to size you up like some prize horse.

He was the type who laughed a little too loudly, drank a little too much, and often lingered just a second longer than he should have when he caught sight of you in the garden or the hallways. You could still recall the one time he’d caught you sneaking a book from the library when you were supposed to be in lessons. You’d frozen as he sauntered over, his gaze flicking over you with a knowing look that made your skin crawl.

“A girl like you should learn her place,” he’d said, his voice low and smug. “Books won’t do you no good when you’ve got a house and a husband to keep.” You remembered how you’d clenched your fists, resisting the urge to shout back. Even then, you’d known he was the kind of man who enjoyed seeing people—especially women—put back in their place.

And now, here he was, laughing with the others, talking about locking you up as if you were some rebellious animal. His words carried the same smugness, the same belief that he—and your uncle, and all these other men—could control your fate.

Guard number 2 smirked, his gaze distant and lingering, as if he could see you through the wood-paneled walls and swirling smoke. “If she were my daughter, I’d keep that pretty little thing all to myself,” he drawled. “Got a face that could stop a man in his tracks. Shame to let her run wild, wastin’ herself out there, when there’s plenty of use for a girl like that right here.”

The others chuckled, a low, knowing sound, and one of them tipped his hat back, grinning.

“Got a bit of fire in her, too. Makes a man wonder just how wild she really is under all those fancy skirts Winslet always buyin’ her.” He shook his head, amusement glittering in his eyes. “Seems like a waste, tryin’ to make a lady out of her.”

The youngest among them gave a sly grin, his eyes darting between the men as though testing the waters. He desperately wanted to fit in. “Wouldn’t mind teachin’ her a little lesson myself. Make her see where a bird like her belongs. She could scream and fight all she wants, but she’d come ‘round. They always do.”

The men laughed, loud and careless. You felt a surge of anger, cheeks flushing with a mix of fury and rage. These men, who barely knew you, who followed your uncle’s orders like dogs on a leash—they thought they could speak of you as though you were nothing more than a doll to be played with.

For a moment, you wanted to march right in there, let them see that you were not the helpless little girl they imagined. But then, you took a deep breath, reminding yourself of what you had to do. Confronting them would only confirm their suspicions, maybe even alert your uncle to your plans. You bit your lip, ducked low, and slipped past the saloon, forcing yourself to ignore the sour scent of cigar smoke and the sting of their words.

Slipping out the back entrance and into the biting night, you hurried across the gravel path. You had planned to take one of the horses and ride off to open plains that would carry you away from this life but as you approached the stables, your heart sank.

A stable boy crouched near the barn, carefully brushing down a mare whose swollen belly pressed gently against the straw.

Not only was someone awake, the sight of the animal halted you in your steps.

You considered your other options.

One rose to the surface, half-formed, reckless, and desperate—the train.

If you could make it to the station on the edge of Saint Loraine, you might catch the last train out of town before morning.

But it wouldn’t be easy. The station was a long, treacherous walk from here, made all the worse by the guards in the saloon, and you knew there was a real chance they would notice you were gone before you even reached the outskirts of town. Once they realized you had fled, they’d comb every road, every alley, and every station. They’d spare no effort to track you down. But the thought of staying was a sharper fear. This was your only shot. If you turned back now, you would never get another chance.

Steeling yourself, you began to creep along the edge of the garden, sticking to the shadows as you moved further from the estate.

When you reached the end of grounds, you took one last glance back at the manor. Through the dark, it looked like a big looming shape. The only life it held were the people who would gladly hold you captive. Your heart ached as you looked back, but there was no regret. This was the end of your life here, the last you would see of the walls that had held you all these years.

Turning back toward the darkness and the open road ahead, you pulled your coat tighter around your shoulders and stepped forward, leaving the manor behind, your feet carrying you down the muddy road that stretched toward Saint Loraine.

Tonight, the fate would either carry you away or break you—but you’d be free. And that was all that mattered.

he can’t say no. he’d be a fool to, not when agreeing means seeing your eyes light up like a kid in a candy store when you drag him to the mall.

that’s how he finds himself in the seventh store of the day, shopping bags and basket in one hand and the other looped in the belt holes of your jeans, keeping you close as you flit through all the aisles. he looks like a big puppy, following you everywhere you go.

secretly, he’s praying that this is your last stop—because really, how much stuff do you actually need?—but he knows he’ll follow you anywhere, swipe his card however many times, if it means treating you.

“gimme your hand,” you demand. he complies, fingers spread out in a fan for you to do as you wish.

it looks massive compared to yours, your whole hand wrapped around just three of his fingers to hold it steady as you swatch different eye shadows along his palm. patiently, he watches as you fuss over all the different options.

he gives his input throughout it all, tells you i like this one or how no, that’s too dark.

“jesus, bubs, this is so fucking expensive. what do you need all this for?”

it doesn’t surprise you, the way he complains when he catches glimpse of all the prices, but it does manage to draw looks from the workers. your boyfriend is a grumbler, through and through, and you’re used to hearing it so often that it’s just become background noise to you. still, you put most of it back, reaching for just the testers.

he knows how it seems to everyone else, though—big brooding boyfriend with an attitude who just bitches and moans.

that’s everyone’s first assumption about him. what they don’t see, though, is how he discreetly grabs every product you look at, swiping it into the basket whenever your back is turned. what started off as just a couple lipsticks and a new setting powder, turns into a basket full of everything you’d shown interest in.

whatever his girl wants, his girl gets.

by the time you get to the register, his hands are littered with swatches—lip liners and lipsticks of all colours and textures, concealers from different brands and the trendiest blushes you’ve seen all over tiktok.

the basket on his arm is full to the brim as he slides it over the counter.

you don’t notice all the extra stuff in there, too distracted by something on your phone, until you look up, muttering, “what’s taking so… long?”

that’s when you see it.

the way the lady is, somehow, still scanning. you realise then, just how much there is. nearly all the lippies you’d looked at—and fuck, there’d been a lot—placed into a sephora bag, along with a foundation you’d gushed about to jason, and your favourite bronzer that you’ve been meaning to top up on but put back because it was too expensive.

“jason…” you purse your lips, almost disappointed that he’s done this.

the truth? inside, you’re melting at the thoughtfulness of it all, the unspoken care and love he shows you—even when you least expect it. how he noticed, and remembered, exactly what you’d shown interest in, even if it was brief.

still, you scold, “i’m never gonna use all this—”

“you never know,” he counters with a raised brow, and it’s enough to make you pipe down. so just you lean against him, squeezing his arm in a premature and silent thank you as he looks down at you with a soft smile—just for you.

the worker tries (and fails) to hide her envy as she scans each product. “do you have an event or something going on…?”

she trails off, waiting for you to respond but jason just shrugs. “nah. just treating my girl.”

her gaze flicks to you, almost knowingly, as she gives you an impressed smile as if to say, lucky you, before pointing to the card machine. “that’s five hundred today, guys.”

“wait, no, that’s too much, jay—”

gasping, you look up at jason, eyes wide with shock. you knew it’d be expensive—just not that much. but before you can truly protest, with half a mind to tell him to put some stuff back, jason’s tapping his card and gathering the bags as he thanks the lady with a curt nod.

he’s still carrying everything from your haul earlier that day, but he finds a way—always does, when it comes to you—to wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you close as you walk out together.

“like i said,” he murmurs as he presses a kiss to your temple, “i’m just treating my girl.”

“see? i knew you’d like shopping!”

this was lowkey kinda ass but oh well

“Not underwater yet, but give it a few hours," Roy says. His breathing is labored. “At this rate, we’ll either be underwater or extinct. Your girlfriend is evil and she wants you.”

“‘Scuse me? I don't have a girlfriend.”

“Not officially, but when you said you'd let her leash you like a dog, I figured that was close enough.”

Heat floods Jason’s face, and he’s suddenly forty percent more awake. “I was drunk when I said that.”

“Yeah, well, in vito veritas and all that. Anyway, she's tearing up downtown Gotham. Says she’ll only talk to you. And that was after she threw bricks at me. I figured you'd wanna handle it before Batman sticks his big bat nose in it.” 

Jason is fully awake now, phone squished between his ear and shoulder as he rips the sheets back, cool air hitting his bare chest and thighs. He finds his tac pants and hops a couple steps when he nearly falls over while shoving his leg through the fabric. Roy's huffing in his ear. Jason hears a distant boom on the phone and the hiss of shattering glass. 

“Aw, shit,” Roy says. “I liked that diner.”

Jason moves faster. He sprints into the bathroom and almost knocks over his waterpik getting toothpaste on his toothbrush. “What the fuck do you mean, she's evil?” 

Yes, start there. That seems like the pressing question considering you're a civilian Jason met through a crochet social. He’d been brand new to crochet and not feeling like roadkill while doing normal people things and you’d taught him how to single crochet and double crochet and find things to smile at. You're perfect and lovely, only associated with him by chance. Evil is a laughable word to use. But Roy doesn't mess around when it comes to you, because Jason won't take it well if he does. 

“She's in full supervillain mode, Jay. She just threw some guy into a wall. He’s fine, but still.”

“Well, obviously, she's been hit with magic or something,” Jason says, voice garbled from toothpaste. 

“Yeah, duh. But until we figure out what, she needs to be contained. She almost leveled an entire block.”

Jason shoves his arms through his jacket, scowling. “Who would fucking do that to her? Fucking bastard.”

“Maybe it was an accident. Shit, I gotta go help evacuate. Hurry the hell up, man.”

“I'm on my way now,” Jason says, and hangs up. 

His mind races. You're hurting people, and while that's worrisome, Jason knows that the guilt you'll feel when you recover from whatever is controlling you will tear you apart.

He takes his bike and his helmet, just in case. Jason doesn’t like reminding you of the fact that you’re friends with the Red Hood. He knows that one day it’ll be too much for your psyche; you’ll ditch him like you should’ve all those months ago when he started spitting curses at your baby blue skein of yarn because it’d gotten tangled around his fingers. But you’d just pulled him free, unraveling the yarn and wrapping it up. Your hands were cold relief against his too warm skin. Ever since Jason returned, his blood has been too hot. It feels like there’s something fighting to get out of him, but he doesn’t feel like that with you. 

“Don’t worry,” you’d said, a smile kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been bested by yarn too. You just have to show it who’s boss.”

So, yeah. You? Evil? He’ll have to see it to believe it. And even then, Jason’s doubtful. 

He runs three lights to get to the location Roy sent him. It’s a block from your apartment and near a diner that he and Roy like. 

Said diner’s windows are gone. The street is a mess, littered with broken glass, debris from nearby buildings, and torn up asphalt. It’s a lot of damage from one person. From you, it’s unthinkable. Luckily, it seems to be contained to this block for now. 

Jason puts on his helmet because people listen a lot better when it’s the Red Hood barking directions at them. He evacuates anybody left behind and helps an old lady go into a coffee shop for safety. Jason finds Roy at the end of the block where the chaos seems to be centralized. He runs. 

“She’s up there!” Roy says when he sees Jason. His cheek has a nasty bruise and he’s got an arrow perched in his bow, ready to fire. Jason can’t see you but he hears you yelling on the roof of your apartment building. He can’t make out what you’re saying. 

“Don’t shoot her!” Jason snaps. 

“I’m not! But you don’t understand, H, she’s dangerous. I’ll cover you.”

“No, just keep evacuating. I’ll go talk to her. She asked for me, didn’t she?”

“Jay—”

“Go.”

Jason jogs into the apartment, running up five flights of stairs. He takes off his helmet as he goes, thinking it’s probably better if you see his face. 

You asked for him. 

That’s probably not the most appropriate thought right now, especially since you threw bricks at Roy. But it’s all Jason can think as he forces himself to inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth. His knees ache by the time he gets to the roof access door. Well, the door is on the ground. Evidently busted open. By you?

You don’t look much different, your side facing him. Your eyes are tinged purple, confirming magic influence, and your clothes are dusty and torn. But if Jason saw you like this, he’d think maybe you’ve just had a busy day. 

Except that you have what looks to be your landlord hooked under your arm by his neck. The guy’s feet dangle in the air. 

“Hey!” Jason calls your name.

You turn and your eyes light up in delight. That makes Jason nervous. You've never looked at him like that. Like you could devour him. 

“Finally, you're here!” you say, jostling your landlord, who yelps. 

“Uh, yeah,” Jason says. “‘M here. How ‘bout we put him down, yeah?”

“But I haven’t even held him over the railing,” you say. “He needs to be taught a lesson, Jason.”

And hey. Jason’s all for teaching people lessons. But he doesn’t want you to do the teaching. Doesn’t want that on your conscience when you inevitably snap out of whatever’s making you do this. 

“Lesson on what?” he asks, edging closer. 

Your arm tightens around the guy’s neck. It would actually be a comical sight if your landlord wasn’t turning purple. 

“He’s been overcharging me and every other tenant for the water bill,” you say. “So I’ve decided to throw him off the roof.”

The landlord wriggles with panic. 

“What made ya decide to do that today?” Jason asks. He wants to say, shit, I’d have solved your problem in a day if I’d known. But he doesn’t want to be an accessory as a civilian. He files it for later.

“This morning I woke up feeling different. I decided I wanted Gotham for myself. And I’d start with the people who have wronged me for so long. Now I can do something about it.”

Jason licks his lips. “You could do something about it before, honey. You know you got me.”

You sigh, leaning against the railing. You haven’t even broken a sweat holding the landlord. “I needed to match you, Jason. It won’t do if you’re the only one who does the dirty work when we take Gotham.”

You heave the landlord over the railing and he squawks, limbs flailing. Jason strikes while you’re distracted. He grabs the landlord first, hauling him to the door. He puts an arm out to block you from snatching the landlord back. It works, but you punch Jason in the process. And oh good Mary Shelley, you are strong. Jason’s molars rattle, his vision whiting out for a moment. It’s like getting punched by Artemis, something he has had the displeasure of experiencing. 

His saving grace is that while your strength rivals his, your skills do not. Jason’s not sure what he’d do if you’d woken up with Amazonian strength and Batman training. Probably call in the Outlaws. Or maybe propose. 

He manages to shove the landlord through and turns just in time to block your next punch. 

“You let him get away?” you screech.

“I’ll take care of him later. You shouldn’t—fuck.” You shove him and he stumbles. “Y’shouldn’t kill people.”

“You kill,” you say, frowning.

Jason winces. He’s never heard you say it out loud. You don’t seem to mind, but you also just tried to throw a guy off a roof. He takes a deep breath. 

“I know, but that doesn’t mean you should. C'mon, I don't wanna hurt you. And I’m not gonna. Just come with me, we'll figure this out.”

You bite your lip, eyes glittering. “I wouldn't worry about hurting me, Jason.”

You step forward, and Jason immediately plants his feet, raising his hands defensively. But you shake your head, reaching for his hands.

“I honestly don’t want to hurt you either, Jay,” you say softly. You slip your hands into his, thumbs rubbing his index fingers. 

“Wouldn’t we be unstoppable together?” you croon.

Jason shifts. You barely touch him, mostly because he won’t let you. A hug from you turns him upside down. 

“We can’t,” he says. He knows you’re not in your right mind. He knows that regular reasoning won’t work. “Too many eyes.”

You tilt your head. “Since when does that matter?”

And then you grab Jason's wrists, hard enough to bruise, and drive him backwards. He's caught off-guard, tripping over uneven pavement, and he goes down. You land on top, pinning his arms and legs. Jason squirms and finds that he can't move. 

“Jesus,” he says, the wind knocked out of him. “How’d you get so strong?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I woke up feeling powerful. Alive. The only reason I'm here is because I was waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” 

This is a problem. You're under some kind of influence but your eyes are bright and beautiful and you smell the same, like your hibiscus and eucalyptus conditioner, and you’re holding Jason down. He can't think of the last person who was able to do that in this new life of his. Brute strength is usually his forte. You wouldn't normally be able to hold him down (though Jason would let you, if you really wanted to), and it happening now is quite inconvenient. Jason should be diffusing the situation, but he can't stop thinking about your knee resting dangerously close to his crotch. 

“Yes.” You lean in, breath hot against his neck as you speak in his ear. “I know you've always wanted Gotham. It can be ours. I'll take it for you.”

Christ. This is not helping. 

“Sweetheart, you aren't yourself,” Jason says, squirming again. But you hold fast. Your brows furrow. 

“I'm more myself than I've ever been. Is this how it feels, Jason? To be so strong, unstoppable? I've always admired you for it.”

“I'm not unstoppable. I just fake it really well. And if you ever took over Gotham, I wouldn’t want it to happen like this.”

A lie. If you weren't under a spell and you'd suddenly gotten strong and evil and you held down Jason to persuade him to be your partner-in-crime, he'd agree in a heartbeat. If anyone deserves to be evil, it's you. 

Then again, if you were really evil, you'd be tactful about executing your plans. This is proof that you aren't yourself. You'd be a perfect villain. You're a perfect everything. 

You glare. “Where's all that fury and fire? You're always telling me to get mad, feel what I feel. Take what I want. Well, that's what I'm doing. I'm taking Gotham and I'm taking you.” 

Jason swallows so hard, it scrapes his throat. “Me?” The word comes out high. 

Your eyes slit and you grin. He's never seen you be seductive. Is his brain melting through his ears? Suddenly, he can’t remember why he came up to the roof. 

“Isn't it obvious?” you say, leaning in to brush his jaw with your nose. Jason shivers. “Why else do you think I let you come up here and give me your this isn't you speech? All I have to do is convince you. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

He wishes he had a free hand to pinch himself. This feels like one of his dreams. Not that he fantasizes about you being evil, because he doesn't. He adores you just as you are. But if you were evil, well… well.

“A real villain would just knock me out,” Jason says. 

“I could if I wanted to,” you say, and Jason thinks he could hold his own if you were anybody else, but you're his weakness, and Evil You seems to know that. 

“Yeah, you probably could,” he says, voice thin. You smile. 

“You're my favorite,” you say. “I meant it when I said I don’t want to hurt you. When I build my empire, you'll be my consort.” 

You get close enough to his mouth to kiss him and Jason almost swallows his tongue. His body feels like an overrun engine. At least you let the landlord go free, right? 

At what cost? My sanity?

“Um.”

You and Jason turn to see Roy on the edge of the roof, his grip on his bow steady. He has an arrow aimed at you. You scowl. 

“Roy,” you say, dripping with disdain. “I thought I knocked you out with the bricks. How disappointing.” 

“I'll try not to take that personally,” Roy says. He raises an eyebrow. “Dude, I thought you had this under control.”

“I do have it under control,” Jason says irritably.

“She's got you pinned and you're not even trying to escape!”  

Jason grunts. “She's freakishly strong. I'm playing the long game.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.” 

“Jason is joining me,” you say happily. “He’s going to be my queen’s consort.”

“Oh my God.”

“I never said that!” Jason looks at you. “I never agreed to that.”

“You didn’t have to. I could see that you liked it,” you say, smirking at him. Apparently, Evil You is a lot more perceptive than Good You. It’s fucking annoying. 

“We need to plan,” he says. “No one ever took over a city without planning. I planned for months before even coming here.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Jason,” you say, voice rich like dusk. “You’re trying to protect me. It’s sweet. You know how sweet you are?”

Sweet hasn’t been used to describe Jason in a long time. But you call him sweet. You say he’s sweet when he bakes you baklava and changes the oil in your car. You say he’s sweet when he watches a movie with you or after you fix his hair. Evidently, he’s sweet enough for you. And right now, you sound so much like yourself, Jason suddenly feels desperate to change you back.

He looks at Roy, who nods. 

“You’re sweeter,” Jason says. 

You snort. “Old me was.”

“No. Just you.”

An arrow zings past you. Jason knows Roy missed on purpose. But you’re distracted, and it’s enough for Jason to roll you over and hold you long enough for Roy to stick a sedative into your neck. You thrash, and Jason’s stomach curls in protest at your screaming. But then you settle. 

“Fuck,” Roy says, sitting on his haunches.

Jason nods, your sleeping body in his lap. “You said it.”

****

For the record, Jason didn’t want to go to the Cave.

He would’ve barreled past Bruce had he not made the irritatingly good point that his tech would figure out what affected you a lot faster than Jason’s tech. He hates it when Bruce is right. 

Jason doesn’t let go of you in the car. Roy’s agreed to drive Jason’s bike there. Jason can feel Bruce’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror. He ignores them in favor of propping your head so your neck won’t hurt tomorrow. 

“Do you know her?” Bruce asks.

“Yes,” Jason says, clipped.

And that’s all either one says. Alfred helps you into one of the medbay cots. Zatanna is already there and she does some tests. Jason holds your hand the whole time. He doesn’t know if you can feel what’s happening, but he doesn’t want your brain to be scared if you do. 

“She’ll be fine,” Zatanna says. “It seems that this was an accident. Probably the result of a cursed object. I do not know if there will be extended effects, however. Perhaps you’d like to take precautions in case she wakes up and the magic hasn’t worn off.”

Bruce nods. “We’ll restrain her.”

“Fucking absolutely not,” Jason snaps. 

“Jason—”

“No! You’re not cuffing her or tying her or whatever. She’s not gonna wake up like that. I’ll be here the whole time. If she needs restraining, I’ll handle it. I’ll sedate her again if I have to, but no restraints.”

Bruce’s mouth is a line, but he nods. And that’s that.

Jason settles into a chair that Alfred drags over for him. You don’t sleep for long, maybe three hours. Roy calls after dropping off Jason’s bike. 

“You need me there?” he asks.

“No, ‘m fine. She’s gonna be fine.”

“She’s lucky to have you, Jason.”

Jason looks at your sleeping face. “Hm. Other way around.”

***

You wake up frightened. Reality and nightmare blurs together and it causes you to sit up, heart racing. There’s immediately an arm around you. You blink, turning to see Jason. He gingerly touches your back.

“Hey,” he says, searching your eyes. No sign of purple. “Y’okay?”

“Jason,” you say, full of relief, and you wrap your arms around his neck. He hugs you back after a moment, squeezing your arm.

“Hey, what’s ‘a matter?” he murmurs, petting you. “‘S okay, ‘m here.”

“I had this awful dream that I… that you…”

You pull back and stop short at the sight of Jason’s swollen eye. You look and sure enough, his wrists are bruised. 

“It was real,” you say, looking like you're about to burst into tears. “I hurt you. Oh, Jay—”

“Hey, c'mon, ‘s just some bruises. I'll heal up in no time. You weren't tryna hurt me.”

You shake your head. “No, I remember everything. I hurt you and that man and my landlord! Oh God, I’m gonna get evicted…”

“Don’t worry about that. You’re not gonna get evicted. And that guy was perfectly fine. Full recovery.”

“Don’t act like it was nothing,” you say. “It was terrible what I did. I punched you, I kicked you, I…”

Jason shrugs. “Just a scratch. You were mostly trying to persuade me.”

You look green at the memory. “I can't believe I did that. Holding you down, forcing you to go along with my plan. I… I understand if you want some distance. I don’t know how you could forgive me.”

Nothing to forgive, Jason wants to say, except a normal person wouldn't say that. A normal person would probably have to work through this in therapy. For Batman, today would've been a typical Thursday. For Jason, well… therapy wouldn’t help here. Maybe a confessional. Or a cold shower. 

But you’re looking at him with such heartbreak, like you think you’re the ugliest, evilest creature in the world, and Jason can’t bear to see it. He gets bold, sitting on the edge of your cot and sliding a hand onto your waist. 

“You were forgiven before you woke up,” he says. “It was magic. A cursed tea set, from what Zatanna reported. Maybe don’t go thrifting alone anymore, yeah?”

Your pout is watery. “I was just terrible. I hurt you.”

“You were very strong. But it’s nothing I haven’t faced before. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I threw bricks at Roy!” you wail. “Oh, God. He hates me.”

You bury your face in your hands. Jason frowns, coaxing you forward. 

“Hey, c’mon. He doesn’t hate you. He knows it wasn’t your fault. He’s more impressed by your aim, honestly.”

But that doesn’t soothe you, and Jason gets truly worried. He gently pulls your hands away. Your face is tear-stained, lashes thick with water. 

“Honey, why’re you cryin’? Wasn’t your fault. Everything can be fixed.”

You shake your head. “Not everything. Not me.”

“Not you?”

You sniff. “I have real evil inside of me, Jason. I must. I really meant what I said.”

“What? I seriously doubt that. How do you know you meant it?”

“I meant other things, so I must’ve meant the evil stuff too!”

Jason freezes. He remembers the other things quite well. 

“Other things?” he asks carefully.

You seem to catch yourself then, your eyes wide. “I-I don’t… know.”

And it’s still, fraught with the possibility of maybe. Hope swells so fast, Jason chokes on it. He removes his hand from your waist, for his sake. But he doesn’t stray far, fingers holding the hem of your shirt. 

“Well,” he says. “Just ‘cause you meant some stuff doesn’t mean you meant the evil stuff.”

You look at him. “Really?”

Jason nods. “Sure. ‘Course, even if you did mean the evil stuff… it’d be okay. I mean, if you were really evil, which I don’t think you are, I’d still be your friend. Or…”

Something inside Jason screams Danger! Danger! Do not go down this road. She doesn’t want you like that. You’re lucky to have this.

“Or?” you ask. You don’t look disgusted. In fact, something about your gaze reminds him of earlier. The way you wanted to eat him alive.

“Or… something more,” he finishes lamely.

“Oh,” you whisper. “Well, for the record, I didn’t want to hurt you. I remember that.”

Jason’s mouth quirks. “Good to know. You were kinda kicking my ass.”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

You lean in, breath on his neck again. He follows. 

“Nah, don’t be.”

Jason sees your eyes close. Your face is like a lily, blooming for him. He seals the distance. 

You despised the way he slouched with his muddy boots while you sat proper with polished Mary Janes. You despised the lazy smirk he wore whenever you corrected him, because of looking annoyed, he looked entertained.

And worst of all?

The way he made things look good that had no business looking that good.

Like his glasses.

The first time he wore them in class, you nearly choked on the pen you were chewing. Thin, black frames sliding down his nose as he tilted his head to see better. It was supposed to make him look serious — yet somehow, on him, it looked infuriatingly attractive. He didn’t even wear them all the time, only when the small letters became unreadable to him. And every time, you found yourself staring at him, silently begging him to take them off before you went insane.

He must’ve caught your eyes once, because the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk, like he knew. He wore them longer just to irritate you.

You despised the effect he had on you. Jason Todd wasn’t supposed to make you feel this way. He was supposed to be the thorn in your side, the arrogant rival who never let you win. Not someone who could make you feel like stealing a glance at his face was a sin.

The morning was quiet. Peaceful. For once, you were content about your life choices of attending Gotham University.

You were seated near the front, in your usual spot, with your notes neatly spread across the desk. along with the worn copy of Pride and Prejudice.

Today was supposed to be your day. You’d prepared the night before, rereading passages, memorizing details, ready to shine the moment Professor Harding asked the first question about the book. For once, there was no Jason Todd to ruin the polite conversation with his smug documentary.

Until the door slammed open.

He strode in like a storm with mussed hair and the cursed glasses at his nose. The leather jacket draped across his shoulders was dripping wet with rain but he couldn’t care less. He muttered a half-hearted apology to the professor before climbing the stairs to a seat a few rows behind you. His boots thudded against the wood and the sound grated your ears.

You stared straight ahead, jaw tightening. So much for a peaceful morning.

Professor Harding cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying — Bennet’s pride and Darcy’s prejudice. . . both characters embody flaws that are equally crucial to the development. But tell me —,” his eyes scanned the room. “Why does Austen choose to frame Elizabeth’s wit as her strongest weapon, yet also her greatest weakness?”

The whole classroom went silent. A few students shifted uncomfortably to avoid the professor’s gaze. Opening your mouth, you felt ready to seize the opportunity and be the perfect student you tried to be — when his voice cut in.

“Because wit isn’t all that,” he drawled out behind you. You could hear the smirk in his voice. “Elizabeth’s intelligence is charming, sure, but she also uses it to cut down anyone who threatens her pride. It blinds her. Just like Darcy’s arrogance blinds him. That’s the whole point; they’re mirrors. Same flaw, different disguises.”

Of course. Leave it to Jason to swoop in late, unprepared, and still make it sound like he’d unraveled the entire novel on his way to class.

Your hand shot up before you even realized it. “With respect, that’s oversimplifying.” You twisted in your seat just enough to meet his eyes. He was lounging back, glasses sliding lower on his nose, watching you with lazy amusement. You continued. “Elizabeth’s wit isn’t the same as Darcy’s. Hers is survival. Darcy’s comes from privilege. To call them mirrors is to erase the context.”

The corner of Jason’s smirk tugged up into a small grin and you knew it was specifically for you. He leaned forward on his desk, eyes never leaving yours. “So what you’re saying is, Elizabeth gets a free pass? That her judgment isn’t just as flawed because she’s, what, poorer? A woman? Sounds like a double standard if you asked me.”

“Well, it’s a good thing no one asked you. I’m saying she earned her perspective. Darcy had his handed to him. There’s a difference.”

Professor Harding sighed a heavy breath before his fingers splayed across his temples, rubbing the upcoming headache away. It always happened like this — you and Jason locked in some kind of a duel while everyone sat back like spectators at a theater.

Your nemesis leaned back in his seat, voice smug. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

Your pen nearly snapped in half.

Jason Todd was a menace. And somehow, he always knew how to get under your skin.

The moment the professor dismissed the class with a wave of his hand and a reminder about an upcoming test, you stuffed your notebook into your satchel with more force than necessary. You refused to glance back, refused to give Jason the satisfaction of seeing your flushed cheeks or the way your hand still trembled from how tightly you’d gripped your pen.

Stupid Jason Todd.

Ten minutes. It would take you exactly ten minutes to make it across the rainy campus to your next lecture. It was more than enough time if you didn’t get slowed down. Which is why you walked quickly. Your heels clicked against the marble floors, weaving through the crowd of students.

“Hey, trouble.”

Your entire body stiffened at the sound of his voice.

Of course.

Jason fell into stride beside you, his long legs slowing down to match your pace as though he had all the time in the world (which, he probably had). His bag was carelessly slung over one of his shoulders and his hair stuck out in all directions. Probably because of the way he often ran his fingers through the strands. His grin was infuriating.

“Not now,” you muttered under your nose, eyes locked straight ahead to avoid the restless butterflies in your stomach.

He ignored you. “You know, I think the professor was about two seconds away from telling us to take it outside. You get so worked up every time we argue, it’s adorable.”

You whipped your head towards him with a stunned glint in your eyes, your scrunching up like a bunny’s would. His gaze dropped from your irises down, if only for a second before returning. “First of all, we don’t argue. We discuss. Arguing would mean I care about you, which I don’t. And second, adorable? Are you sane?”

Looking to the side with a chuckle slipping past his lips, he shook his head before looking at you again, tucking his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “What do you want me to say? You’re fun when you’re angry at me. Brings out that spark in you. Keeps class from being boring.”

“I don’t exist for your entertainment, Todd.”

“Oh, you definitely do,” he shot back without having a thought to think about his answer. Always so ready to counter you. “Come on, admit it — you’d miss me if I weren’t around. Who else would keep you on your toes, huh? Half the class is terrified to speak up when you’re in the room.”

“That’s because they know if they’re wrong, you’ll humiliate them.”

“And you won’t?”

Your jaw clenched so hard you thought your teeth would break at the strength of the muscles. The worst part was he wasn’t entirely wrong, and you hated that he could read you so easily, hated that he always seemed to be one step ahead no matter how prepared you were. Your legs sped up your pace, but Jason matched you once again, longs legs having no trouble to keep up.

“Trouble, slow down,” the teasing undertone in his voice raised yet another grin on his face. The nickname rolled off his tongue like it had belonged to you forever. “Scared I’ll join you in a debate in another one of your classes?”

“I’d rather walk into traffic.”

“See? That’s why I like you, Trouble. You’ve always got a bite.”

You stopped suddenly in front of the lecture hall, and turned to him with a final glare sharp enough to kill. “For the record — if you call me trouble again, I will not hesitate to make you regret it.”

But he just leaned in slightly, making you catch the soft scent of his cologne. “Promises, promises.”

You spotted him across the campus, leaning against one of the stone pillars, reading a book.

Clutching the crumpled paper in your hands, you strode towards him with a confident pace in your steps. The heels of your Mary Janes clicked against the pavement as you neared him. The red ink on top of the paper burned proudly like a crown of victory: 97%. Not perfect, but close enough. And — if the universe had any justice for you today — better than his.

“Todd,” you called out once you were standing in front of him.

He looked up from his book with a raised eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched into that infuriating almost-smile. “Trouble. To what do I owe the honor?”

You showed the paper towards him with the number gleaming under the pale morning light. “Ninety-seven. Highest in the class, I’d bet.” The grin on your face was triumphant, hurting your cheeks from how wide it was becoming. You’d been waiting weeks for this moment.

Jason’s eyes flickered to the grade, then back to your face. Tucked inside the folder under his arm, hidden behind the worn cover, was his own paper. 100. A perfect score.

But instead of pulling it out and cutting you down with the truth, he slid it further from sight.

He smirked lazily. “Not bad, trouble. Guess all those late nights actually paid off.”

Your chest swelled with pride, and damn it, you glowed. The look on your face, the spark in your eyes — it was brighter than any win he’d ever had, and he couldn’t bring himself to snuff it out.

“Admit it,” you tucked the paper back. “You’re jealous.”

“Hurts like hell.”

You shot him a smug little smile before brushing past him.

Jason watched you go, fingers tightening slightly on the folder hidden under his arm. When you were far enough away, he pulled it out, eyes tracing the perfect 100 scrawled at the top.

Nothing compared to the sight of you smiling at him like that.

You weren’t supposed to be there.

Students weren’t supposed to climb the rusted fire escape. Students weren’t supposed to open the crooked window that led to the roof. Students weren’t even supposed to stay up late on the school grounds. And yet, fuck the rules.

Gotham stretched below beautifully in its own dangerous way. The storm from earlier had passed, leaving the air damp and cool. Your shirt clung to your skin and you hated the feeling, but the urge to escape reality was much stronger.

You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the scrape of boots behind you.

“What are the odds,” his voice drawled.

You spun around from your sitting spot on the edge of the roof. He was perched a few feet away, leaning against one of the chimneys with a lit cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers. He looked like every sin wrapped into one person, and you hated how your heart jumped at the sight.

“Don’t start,” you turned your gaze back to the city beneath you. “I came here to get away from you.”

Jason exhaled the smoke from his lungs, the orange brightening briefly in the dark. “Funny. I came here to get away from you.”

You rolled your eyes. Neither of you spoke.

Then, he broke the silence.

“You really can’t stand me, can you?”

Glancing at him from the corner of your eye, startled by the softness in his tone. He wasn’t teasing, he wasn’t mocking. He was just. . . looking at you. And the truth, heavy and real, pressed against your ribs.

“I hate the way you never try,” you mumbled finally. “The way you make it all look so easy while I. . .” Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. “I work myself sick, and you still get the first place.”

He was quiet for a long moment. You almost felt the embarrassment creeping up your neck at his silence. Then, he shook his head with a laugh under his breath. “You think it’s easy? Trouble, if you knew half the nights I’ve spent hunched over those books, trying to make sense of it all. . .” He trailed off with a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess I hide it better.”

“They why act like you don’t care?”

“Because if I let myself care, I’d care too damn much.”

He wasn’t talking about his studies anymore, and those words hit you much harder than any argument he’d ever thrown at you in class.

You swallowed. “Jason. . .”

Your nemesis leaned in, recklessly, as always, closing the remaining space between you. His chapped lips brushed against yours once hesitatingly before you kissed him back with all the fire you’d spent throwing at him. The kiss was messy, fierce, all teeth and heat.