am rat

He chuckles, “Oh, that’s not true. I saw you watching something—anything fun?”

You hum, hiding your face in his chest, mumbling into it, “Not really… just binging another franchise they decided to ruin...” You shift and look up at him, keeping your chin on his chest while grumbling, “I don’t understand why they’d reboot something just to completely disregard everything it originally stood for—and all the effects just make it look cheap.”

He can’t help but chuckle again, ruffling your hair with a fond smile. “You’re such a nerd.” He could eat you up the way you are right now, plated on a silver platter for him all so willingly. “A cute nerd, though.”

You pout, “Honestly, what’s going on out there? I barely understand anything I’m watching anymore—it’s all alien to me.”

His hug on you tightens, but you don’t flinch like you used to—even as the look in his eyes darkens along with his words. “Yeah, the world’s gone mad. You’re better off in here.”

You smile then—agreeing for once. It’s also a new and adorable habit. And then you unzip his jacket for him, helping it off his shoulders and hanging it up for him—all so naturally. Looking back at him while asking, “And how was your day?”

He smiles while beholding you—to think such a question would ever leave your lips all so domestically—it’s enough to make his chest swell. Then with an exaggerated sigh, he whines, “Absolutely horrible without you,” wrapping you up in another hug, this time from behind, nuzzling his chin into the ticklish skin of your neck—making you giggle. Arms around your front, swaying you back against him. “Every second, I was counting down ‘til when I could come home to you.”

“Is that right?” You grin at his gesture—twisting around so that you could look at him straight. Slouched as he stood, all but draping you with his taller form—eyes leveled with yours, half-mast and adoringly admiring you like his most precious thing—his sweet loving girlfriend.

You cup his face in both hands, thinking the same of him—your sweet loving boyfriend. You’re about to kiss him, but then, struck by the thought, there’s a sudden freight in your chest that follows, and you jolt back as if he’d burned you.

He stills, warm expression twisting to one of concern. “Hey—” Stepping after you with his hands laid on your forearms, giving you a small squeeze. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” You don’t know, you think. Something’s off. Something’s not right—about his touch, about your heart, about all of it. “I’m just…” 

You think about it, eyes skittering over his face—did you always look at his face? Since when did he become so familiar? Since when did you walk around wanting to see it?

“I just…” the words feel all strange in your mouth, but there’s no denying there’s truth in them. “I missed you.”

His features blank at that, blinking at you. “Oh…” Then he softens—smiles with a chuckle, “Well, I’m home now, so…” His head slants, looking at you in askance as he gently brings a hand up to thumb your chin. “What’s with this pouty face?”

You bite your lip. There’s so much noise in your chest—so many conflicting feelings. You’ve begun missing him when he’s gone—when he leaves you. You’ve started wishing for his return, spending your day in wait. Since when did you start doing that?

It’s not right.

“I’m slipping,” your voice is shaken and weak, eyes welling up with thick water enough to have him look blurry—you shake your head and squeeze them shut—making the tears fall quickly. “I’m not supposed to miss you—” you cry. “That’s not right. I’m not—you’re not—”

Not your boyfriend.

“Hey, hey, sweetie. It’s okay,” he cuts your sob off with two warm hands placing themselves on your wettened cheeks, holding you tenderly. You layer yours on top of his, feeling it’s the only thing keeping you from spiraling into oblivion. 

“It’s okay, sweetie,” he coos, smearing out your teardrops, making them dry. “It was gonna happen sooner or later, right?”

Your eyes peel and look at him—through the veil. His face is a comfort—though you feel strange seeing it as such, when you know, even though most of you has decided to forget, that he’s a psychotic stalker who’s kidnapped you and held you captive for what must be closing in on a year already.

“Don’t feel bad—it’s only natural,” he assures, pulling you into his chest again—both arms around you snugly with his chin on top of your head, gently rocking you from side to side. “Everything’s fine. So you’re losing your mind a little—we’ll just find something else for you to think about. Right? Is there anything you want? Anything I can get you? More clothes? Sweets? Something fun? Maybe you can take up another hobby?”

He loosens his hold to look down at you—his face warm with devout for you, with a wordless vow saying he’ll do everything, give you anything in return for your happiness.  

You love him, you realize then with a shudder.

You’re in love with your crazy captor—your batshit lovesick oversweet captor who shares your bed and treats you like a spoiled pet. And it’s so fucked up—so, so very fucked up, so very fucking fucked up. But it’s true—you’re in love with him. And you have been for a while.

“What do you say?” he asks in hope.

Yet, you can’t say it out loud. No, not yet—it still feels all so wrong. But, at the same time, you don’t think there’s a need for you to put it into words for him. He’s always known you better than you have yourself, after all. And that wholesome smile on his face says it all—he already knows.

“No… I just,” you start, staring into his eyes—those full-loving eyes that look at you as if you’re the only thing of value in the whole entire world. “I just want…” It’s a scary confession—both admitting it to yourself and him. “You.” 

You look down, curling your fingers into his shirt.

“I don’t need anything else.”

It’s the truth and nothing but the truth—albeit a somewhat sad truth. It’s your one wish—your only wish. You just want him—to stay, to hold you, to kiss you. You can’t even think of wanting anything else anymore.

“Oh, well, that’s easy, isn’t it?” he says, stroking your cheeks, fishing for your shy gaze—smiling once hooking it—pretty teary puppy eyes, lost and looking for directions. 

Don’t worry—he’s here to help.

“Where do you want me then, sweetheart?” His lips near your forehead. “Here?” He gives it a chaste kiss, earning your sniffle, then ducks down to your neck. “Or here, maybe?” Giving that a kiss as well, this time with more behind it, sucking the skin with a soft bite. 

“Or maybe…” His voice is low, and it makes your skin buzz with a desire just as dark—shivering with it as his lips ghost yours. “Here?”

You hang in his hold, leaning after it.

But he just smiles, “Tell me, sweetheart—where do you want me?”

Your lip wobbles, brows cinched as your balled fists needily pull him close—yearning for it.

“Everywhere.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks ♡ JJK – Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi ♡ HxH – Chrollo

"Finished your little game already?" he chirps - cheerful and breathless. You don't have the heart to explain Minecraft never ends; answering only invites him to beg for a lesson with you on his lap, his chin nestled over your shoulder. You shift your weight, ready to bolt, remembering how he forced his tongue down your throat in the bathroom earlier - waiting on the tile with a towel like a loyal dog. He'd sobbed apologies for an hour, then melted when you brushed a hesitant kiss across his forehead.

Now he only watches. A muscle jumps in his jaw before he forces himself into another hip thrust, arms pumping like this is cardio and not captivity.

He's trying to be good, though the slip-ups pile up: that bathroom fiasco, the post-mission "cuddle sessions" where he squeezes you close and recites every horror he "kept from your door." Little things, in Dick-speak.

Still, it's been two weeks since he yanked you by the wrist, slammed you into the wall, and ground his leaking hard-on between your thighs until your sobbed yes let him fuck you stupid. If you stiffen your shoulders just right and keep your gaze elsewhere, the rubber band might hold a little longer.

But tonight his heat reaches you from two strides away. Time to play nice.

"I'm… proud of your self-discipline," you whisper. He drinks the praise like rain. Really? The smile finally sparks in his eyes, though his VHS instructor has already moved on to hip circles.

"Trying to make us both proud," he says, voice bright but fraying. "Thirty more minutes and I'll be calm. I want this to work."

As if you have a choice.

You swallow and study the city lights spilling through the penthouse Bruce "gifted" you both. "Maybe I could stretch with you when you're done - just stretches," you add quickly. No contact that might leave bruises from another dry-humping session, his fingers digging into your thighs while he lists the positions he plans to try.

He stutters a step, hopeful as a child. "Yeah? You'll hang out with me, baby?"

"Just stretches," you repeat, edging toward the kitchen island in case you need the barrier. He tracks you, then forces himself back into the routine with an agreed hum.

Restraint is agony for a body built to chase - especially when your old screams still echo in his memory. Maybe guilt drives him, or maybe these workout tapes are the last wall keeping him from tearing off your clothes and putting a baby - or two - in you.

Just keep your promise when the video ends.

Dick's trying to be good for you, after all. You probably don't want to find out what happens when he decides that isn't working.

Always watch the nice ones. They're the cruelest when they snap.

dividers @/diviniaye

So like, imagine you're just lying there with him after some very eventful, freaky time (you know, with the kicking, the biting, the everything trying to get him off you), so obviously you both are spent. You're probably crying, or maybe by the third round you've gone quiet and accepted your fate and are simply staring at the ceiling, trying to understand how the both of you ended up here.

Meanwhile, Dick can barely look at you. 

The post-nit clarity is hitting him just like your fists did an hour ago because suddenly he can see everything clearly for once: the bruises blooming on your wrists, the way your breathing keeps catching, how small you seem now. He starts replaying how you kept telling him to stop, every ounce of fight he ignored, and how he convinced himself you would forgive him afterward. Like you used to. 

If you're crying, I think he reaches for your hand, carefully, of course. He's afraid even touching you now might make things worse. Kisses each knuckle with tiny, shaking apologies between them. One after the other. 

You know the string: "I'm sorry." "It won't happen again." "I love you."

He keeps hushing your tears, but eventually his voice is breaking too, even crying harder than you are. Not a loud whimper. Just silent tears slipping down his face while he holds your hand over his mouth as if you might forgive him eventually if he doesn't let go. 

He leaves empty promises about being better. That he'll never let himself lose control like that again. How next time he'll listen the first time you say no. Asking if you want him to leave the room, sleep on the couch, call one of his siblings to come comfort you (and throw a punch). Anything. Whatever makes you feel safe again. 

And if you're only staring blankly at the ceiling, that only breaks him more. 

Pulling you to his chest, but even then he hesitates on squeezing you as he kisses the crown of your head. He starts to ramble because he can't stand the silence. 

"We can go somewhere," he whispers. "A cruise, maybe. Or one of those all-inclusive places you used to look at. We could take a whole week. Two weeks. I'll take the time off."

Little bargains to build the bridge once again. 

He'll be normal again, stop hovering all the time. He'll postpone the wedding for another year. 

The entire time, all he can think is, I did this for you. 

He keeps searching your face for forgiveness and for the person who used to smile when he entered the room, and the fact that he can't find the old you anymore makes him sick. He presses his forehead to your shoulder and whimpers that he loves you, a band-aid on an old wound. 

For the rest of the night, he means every promise. Lies awake counting your breaths, wiping away the tears that dry on your cheeks, convincing himself that this was the moment he finally understood what he had become. 

But like most things, the guilt softens in the mornings. You didn't leave, so that must mean you forgive him. You even let him hold you. That's new. 

So little by little, he convinces himself once again that your silence is forgiveness and your exhaustion must mean trust. That his own horror at his actions is proof that he's still good. 

Clark saw your initial fuss and upset as nothing more than growing pains; he understood that your transition would be hard on you. While you saw yourself as a wild, ferocious animal hellbent on breaking out of your cage, Clark only ever saw you as untamable as the feral kittens he used to pick up off the side of the road when he was younger. You weren’t used to the kind of affection he would give you. That’s okay, it’s not your fault. Once he could manage to get you to put your claws away, you’d see how nice it would be to all curled up in a loving, warm lap at home instead of surviving out there all on your own. A little love and attention from the right person would set you straight in no time. 

Getting you home was the easy part. It was the kicking and thrashing that were the hardest for him to work through. He was fine with the shouting and the insults, mostly. (You just didn’t know him well enough to hit him where it really hurts, yet.) But physically restraining you during your outbursts proved to be a challenge not of his strength, but rather of his ability to keep good on his word to never hurt you. 

Roughing you up with even a minuscule amount of his power would, one, get you to stop trying to throw a punch or kick at him every time he walked in the room, and two, would scare you beyond straight into submission with him. Killing two birds with one stone was the easy route, but he wasn’t interested in the fast results. He wanted to build something he could guarantee would last between the two of you. Fear would not be the foundation of your good behavior.  

So, Clark seemed content to let you tire yourself out – that’s what frustrated you the most. Any attempt to antagonize him was met with gentle patience and a tired “that’s not very nice to say, honey.” Any mad dash escape attempt out the door once he came home from work was met with his very solid forearm, herding you back into the house like you were one of his cows that refused to turn in at the end of the night. Even your hardest kicks were caught with no effort as he knocked you off balance into his arms, scolding you with a gentle “careful, you’ll hurt yourself like that.” 

Even when he treated you with such tender love and care, you didn’t trust any part of his lover boy charm. Despite his status as your captor, he was still a gentleman at heart. Clark told you he loved you at least four times a day – once when he woke you up in the morning, once when he would leave for work, once when he would come home, and one more time for good measure before he tucked you in at night. It was like he was afraid you were going to forget if he didn’t remind you every chance he got. You vowed never to return the favor. 

He never peeked when you changed. His hands never wandered when he hugged you or when you would finally settle into his arms at night. He liked to kiss you often, even if it was just to your forehead or the back of your hand. Even when he begged for a little peck and nothing more, he knew a kiss on the lips was more than off limits. He knew your boundaries well, even if he pushed on them sometimes.

Letting your guard down was not an option. Each morning he left for work, you’d stew on a new plan to make him slip up. You refused to trust his self-proclaimed good nature. You were hellbent on finding any reason to hate him, any cracks in his boy-scout facade, and show him he wasn’t as good as he claimed to be. One day, you’d anger him enough to show you the real him. 

But all your fight seemed to sizzle out the night he revealed himself. Granted, it was an accident –he wanted Clark Kent to do all the wooing first before introducing you to Superman. But when he felt your steadied heartbeat and slow breaths in the quiet of the house on the flight home from his latest fight, he assumed you were asleep upstairs and not resting peacefully on the couch in the den. 

He was always so quiet when he came back in the middle of the night after a long fight, never waking you up until he slid into bed next to you. You never asked why he would be gone suddenly at night, and he would never give you an explanation. Clark could tell under your rowdy facade that you were still skittish, still too frightened to push too many boundaries too soon. You could pretend you knew exactly what he was capable of so long as it happened within the house. To you, you’d much rather live in the fantasies limited by your own mind about what he was doing rather than learning a much more sinister truth. 

You always kept to yourself like that, always guarded with any emotion that wasn’t white-hot anger. Despite Clark’s gentle reassurance, you refused to let him into anything soft or inviting. But even in your righteous fury, you couldn’t help but feel the anxiety pulling at you when Clark didn’t come home for the night. Or the next day. It wasn’t like him to be distant, let alone be gone from the house entirely. Even if it was late, he always came home at the end of the day.

The idea that he could just up and abandon you out in the middle of the miles of endless, rolling fields all alone was something you never even considered before. You thought you would be comforted by finally being left alone, but his absence suddenly became much more horrifying than his unyielding attention and affection. 

Which is how you found yourself sleeping out in the den, falling into a shallow sleep after watching out the windows for any sign of life besides the animals, which Clark would have put away in the barn if he were here. You never ventured into the den alone; it felt too much like Clark’s space, especially when he wasn’t in it. But desperation was clawing at you, the cold truth that Clark really did just leave you locked in there to die seemed more real with every passing minute he didn’t walk through those doors. 

You didn’t miss a beat when you heard the first of several locks click open when it finally hit 3 AM, feeling relieved that you woke up to find him in the doorway rather than waking to the sun rising on another day Clark did not show up for. Despite never questioning him before, you were ready to grill him on both sides to find out just who the hell he thought he was to leave you for so long without a word. Your relief was short-lived when you didn’t see Clark walk in, but Superman, who had to duck under the doorway to fit inside the house. 

His shock was just as palpable as yours before his small sigh broke the tension. He closed the door behind him and locked it from top to bottom, just the way Clark would. The man of steel had no use for common house locks, and when he turned to look at you, all you could see was a bashful Clark with a nervous hand on the back of his neck. 

“Aw, shucks. Guess the cat’s out of the bag.” 

That night was the final nail in your coffin for your fight. Any hope for escape was crushed with each step under his red boots as he carried you back up to his bed, gently scolding you for falling asleep on the couch. Clark had graduated from being a crazy man to an insane god, even when he took his cape off and crawled back into bed in his pajamas. It didn’t matter how fast you ran or how far you got; Superman would already be there before you could even consider what direction you would escape in. The idea that you would ever leave the farm again never crossed your mind after the sun rose on the new day. 

Despite his absolute confidence in your inability to run away, he wanted you to adjust to life inside the house before introducing you to the rest of the farm. It was where you were the safest. Even though Clark could sense your restlessness, he was insistent that you could get all the fresh air you needed by an open window. Every time you pressed him about going outside, he would leave you with nothing but a, “Soon, honey. It’s still early for you.” 

Your acceptance of the situation, though, was not good enough for Clark. Having you there wasn’t enough; he wanted a willing participant, much to your distress. Your anger had sizzled out into pure fear and depression. He wasn’t too concerned as you began to retreat inward, hiding yourself from him in new ways. You even kept your tears hidden from him, waiting until he was all the way in Metropolis before letting yourself fall apart. His heart broke when he heard you crying all on your own, wanting nothing more than to rush home and sweep you up into his arms. 

But Clark was quick to remind himself that going slow and steady would win the race to your heart. You’d open up to him eventually. This was just a step in the right direction. Now that he knew his kitten had accepted her new home, he needed to figure out how to get her to stop running under the bed and learn to play with him. He needed to earn your trust.

Clark tried to pry you open in different ways, showing you that trust was a two-way street in the Kent household. If you gave a little, you could get a lot with him. He could admit he was trying to bait you into some harmless affection, a big ask for you, who barely tolerated sharing the same bed as him. He thought it was only fair to finally offer you something big in return – outside time. 

Clark coaxed you into a cuddling session outside on the porch swing, wanting to watch the last sunset of summer together before the cold months rolled in. He was half-expecting you to bolt as soon as he let go of your hand, even if you knew better than to think you could outrun him. Some primal instincts could override your logic and have you take what looked like an opportunity to escape. He only hoped that you would be on your best behavior in an attempt to prolong your reward. 

But what Clark wasn’t expecting to see was your utter despair at the wide open space of the fields. He thought you would welcome the change of scenery, even if you saw it as a chance to escape. He held you close to his chest, hoping to soothe the anxiety he could feel radiating off of you as you both took in the last bits of sunlight. 

The idea that the house was the tallest thing for tens of miles deeply unsettled you. There wasn’t a lick of civilization besides the house and the barn, no matter what direction you looked in. There wasn’t even a car anywhere in sight. When you stared up at the ceiling next to Clark in bed later that night and realized the only thing you could hear for miles was his quiet breaths, cabin fever seemed much more preferable to prairie madness.

The initial turmoil nearly killed you from the inside out. Two things couldn’t be true at once, not under Clark’s roof. You didn’t want to accept that for a kidnapping by Superman, you were under the quite literal best possible circumstances. You didn’t even want to accept the idea that there could be good circumstances for your situation. You didn’t want to accept the idea that there was good in him. 

But it was very hard not to see that now that you’ve seen the real him. A superpowered alien from space, considered to be the strongest force on the planet Earth and possibly the universe, was holding you captive, yet he had given you all the choice in the world, even if it didn’t feel like it. He didn’t have to let you adjust on your terms. He didn’t have to meet your pathetic attempts at rebellion with reassurance. Hell, as his captive, he didn’t even have to keep you in the house, warm and well-fed.  

Clark’s gentleness became even more unnerving when you understood his true strength. His affection remained tender and chaste even when he tells you he loves you in ways that make the heat rush to your face. His patience never wavers, even when you still have outbursts of panic and frustration when the idea of forever with him seems all too real. 

His choices in restraint speak much louder than any of the powers he has. 

You realized, too, that you had a power in choice. Clark never forced you to do anything you didn’t want to do, especially not in the bedroom. Sure, he made it clear that he wanted you to sleep in his bed and that a little innocent affection every now and then wasn’t going to totally kill your pride. But for as much as the situation seemed to call for it, sex was the biggest taboo in the house. That was a conversation you’ve yet to have, but you felt somewhat assured after the first few months that he was unwilling to make big moves unless you were, too. But, he still made the small decision on his own. 

You ate what he cooked, you wore what he dressed you in, and you relished in what entertainment he gifted you. You never complained. It’s okay, he understood. The situation at first was too jarring for you; you had no choice but to trust, or rather yield to, him with everything. Asking for your input initially would have been too big a slap in your face when faced with the loss of your freedom. You slowly realized that it wasn’t that you were going unheard, but rather that you were simply going along with Clark’s flow. 

Your choices came slowly, unsure and afraid with every request. Testing the boundaries seemed easy in theory, but the fear of finding out that your opinion actually was worthless to him scared you the most. If he said no to the small stuff, why would he listen to you when it came to something important? 

Dinner wasn’t exactly important, but you were tired of eating breakfast. Breakfast for breakfast, brunch, and breakfast for dinner – you were decidedly over breakfast outside of breakfast. He liked to cook for you, said it made him feel good knowing he was taking the very best possible care of you. You were just grateful Clark hadn’t tried to force you into some demented version of a housewife for him. But when he came in for the night, holding another basket of eggs from the hens, you couldn’t hold your tongue. 

“Clark?” 

His head whipped from where he was standing in the kitchen to stare at you – you rarely spoke unless spoken to nowadays. And you definitely did not come down before dinner unless he called you. If he had it his way, you’d be waiting for him with a kiss the moment he came inside and would quietly pad into the kitchen after him. All in due time. 

“Yes, honey?” He offers gently, approaching you as if you were a cornered animal. 

He couldn’t hide how pleased he was, even if he wanted to. You could practically see every tooth in his mouth with how wide his grin was. He was glowing at your unprompted attention, even if you were only offering crumbs. 

You felt your voice dying in your throat as he stood in front of you, having to crane your neck up to see his adoring eyes and stupid dimple. 

“I, um, just wanted to know what was for dinner.” 

You hated how small you sounded.

His hands came up to your arms to rub gently up and down as he listened, trying to soothe the subtle shaking he felt from you. His poor girl, being so brave and coming down on her own to ask him something.

“Breakfast for dinner, sweetpea. Some of the hens had a late start, I’d hate for the eggs to go to waste.” He commented, rubbing small circles into your shoulders with his thumbs. He relished the rare moments he could stare shamelessly up close. 

He knew you wanted something different; breakfast had never been your favorite, even before you knew him. But, Clark was insistent on pushing you to ask for your wants; he wanted you to learn that he could be trusted. Sure, he could approach you and ask you all day long about what you wanted, as if he didn’t already know everything about you. But he wanted you to approach him, to come to him when you felt in need. He wanted you to learn that he could be trusted to care for you in the right way.

Maybe not tonight, he thought. Clark could see you thinking, see the gears in your head turning about whether or not you would be brave enough to challenge him on something as simple as dinner. Coming down and even asking him was a good enough start in his mind; it’s okay if you didn’t go all the way the first time.

“Could we…” Your confidence almost died in your throat when you saw his eyes sparkle at your unprompted input. Maybe he had been waiting for the right moment to strike you down emotionally. “I mean, aren’t you tired of breakfast?” You mumbled, barely able to get the nerve to raise your voice above a whisper. His stare was still just as piercing as you looked him in the eye now. “I’m sure whatever you make will be great.” 

Praising him was a dirty trick. Even if he thought he was reserved with his desperation, it was clear to see how eager he was for it. It was silent for a beat before he chuckled with a big smile and pulled you in for a tight hug, lifting you to his height. 

“Sure thing, honey. All you have to do is ask.” 

He had to fight the urge to say “good girl” as if you were a dog who learned a new trick.

Even graduating from something as simple as dinner took a lot of your courage to muster up. For a while, you wouldn’t even request a specific meal, but rather ask for “something new” every now and again. Despite trying to test his boundaries, you still kept the ball in his court. It was a full month before you finally made your first real request, quietly asking him if he would make pot roast again on a particularly chilly morning in bed together. He had to admit, you were learning how to get him when he was at his most vulnerable with you. 

Slowly, but surely, vague dinner requests graduated into skimming Ma’s old cookbooks for inspiration and sending him out with a curated grocery list. Food was one thing, but asking for something material was an even harder wall to knock down. He liked to spoil you and bring surprises home often, but nothing made him happier than the first time you asked him to bring you a particular book. 

“Only if you read it to me.” He teased, light-hearted and empty of conviction. 

Clark melted on the spot when you actually agreed before retreating upstairs as he was leaving for work one morning. He hadn’t been serious, but how could he deny himself when you already said yes? You spent your second night down in the den with him, curled up by the fire, quietly reading as the two of you shared a blanket. 

Clark never told you no to anything, not when you felt like you had to sweet-talk him every time. He didn’t want to discourage you from reaching for him. He was prepared for some ridiculous requests in the future – he was sure you were still testing boundaries – but what he wasn’t prepared for was your brattiness to come back so soon. And he couldn’t say he didn’t like it. 

Requests became demands, expectations. If you were really going to be stuck here forever with no possible chance for escape, you deserved whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. You beamed with pride when you thought he wasn’t looking, finally feeling like you had some control over your circumstances, or rather, feeling like you had some control over Clark. Clark was just happy to see more of your personality come back to you. You were working your way through your fear of him, all on your own.

You still had your moments; you didn’t let him forget that you were here against your will, no matter how much free rein you had over him and the house. But your outbursts were few and far between now, lessening in intensity each time. Your grasp on your anger was slipping; you didn’t want to let go completely. The last shreds of your dignity were hanging on by the idea that you still rejected him in the ways that counted, despite his best efforts. He could keep you here physically, but he would not have you emotionally. Complete submission felt like it would be the death of you, no matter how much it entices you with each passing day. 

More and more of yourself started coming back to you. Long-forgotten hobbies reignited their spark once you peeled through every piece of media in the house about five times over. You had to do /something/ with your time besides read and watch the DVDs Clark accumulated for you. You needed to feel alive on your own, not spending your time without Clark, just waiting for him to come home from work on weekdays or come in from the farm work on weekends. You had to do something for you. 

Baking seemed an easy enough outlet. You liked sweets, and Ma’s cookbooks provided more than enough recipes for you to try. Clark was hesitant to let you into the kitchen, only allowing you to work under supervision for a time. While he was sure you had complete acceptance of never leaving the farm, he didn’t want you to get any bright ideas with the knives in the kitchen. But you wanted this to be your time, not an activity he could use to bond with you. 

Clark finally agreed to leave you alone in the kitchen only when he was on the farm and not in Metropolis. As long as he could see you through the window, that was good enough for him. Baking alone gave you the sense of agency you hadn’t realized you were sorely missing. As pathetic as it felt, you finally felt a sense of accomplishment, a sense of identity that wasn’t living and breathing for Clark. 

In these quiet moments in the kitchen, you could allow your thoughts to wander. You were desperate for other things to do, other ways to feel useful, other ways to feel happy. You were finding ways to mold an identity that could exist in your new environment, whether Clark was there or not. Learning to make very limited choices for yourself in the house with Clark’s permission was one thing. Doing things by yourself and only for yourself was another thing to relearn entirely. 

It made you yearn for things you hadn’t allowed yourself to yearn for out of sheer necessity and survival. You were lonely. You were bitter. And yet, you couldn’t find it in yourself anymore to place the blame on Clark. He was every bit of human warmth and affection you found yourself dying to have, yet you were the one who kept him at arm’s length. You were the one who refused to let him in when he always had his heart and soul on display for you. You were the one who believed life on the farm was lonely, yet Clark was only ever a step or two behind you, waiting, watching. 

You yearned for companionship, for love, for affection. All of these things were in your reach, but you just couldn’t seem to grasp them. Even Clark could see the conflict in you slowly melting away. You stopped flinching at his touch, you didn’t push him away when he leaned in for a kiss on the cheek, you didn’t cower when he pulled the covers over the two of you and held you in the quiet hours of the night. 

Now, he realized, was the time to give you the push he knew you needed. 

You were baking quietly in the kitchen again. It was still early in the day, summer was heating up quickly, and you both agreed to beat the heat with an early start. But Clark was still out there by noon, now shirtless as he continued his work. Your apple pie was almost done baking in the oven by now, a request you begrudgingly accepted from Clark in exchange for unsupervised kitchen time the next time he flew out, allowing you to finish the whipped cream you were planning to top it off with. 

You spared a quick glance outside to see where Clark was, wondering how much time you had left to yourself. He was trying to wrangle the cows back inside the barn, not wanting them to overheat while grazing in the pasture. The sight of him shirtless had you flushing almost immediately. Clark was very rarely ever undressed around you. You could count on your fingers the number of times you’d seen him shirtless, today included. 

In your loneliness, it was harder and harder every day to admit to yourself that you found Clark attractive. He was handsome, offensively so. Without his glasses, it was easy to see how perfect and almost otherworldly his features were. His eyes were kind, and despite his massive size and sculpted muscles, he carried himself with a gentle vulnerability that was cozy and inviting. He refused to allow his physicality to be a source of fear and intimidation for you, and it showed.

It was everything you tried so hard not to see in him, not a monster masking himself as a man. Truly, the perfect specimen, it’s what made him so hard to hate. Seeing him out basking in the sun, glistening in sweat from a hard day’s work that he said was just for you, had you stirring in ways you never thought you would for him. Your own pleasure had been on the back burner for so long, it damn near overcame you when it hit you again. The last time you had even touched yourself was before you came to the farm, and the touch from another was long, long before that. Clark is the only person you’ve seen in months, and even his touch was still noble and chaste.

It made sense that your body started to catch up to your emotional acceptance. It was just biological, right? A natural response to a body and mind that was so, so lonely and starved. Besides, it was your little secret if seeing Clark exerting himself made you feel hot and bothered. He never had to find out unless you told him. 

Your whipped cream was forgotten as you continued to oggle from the kitchen window, unbeknownst to him. The way his muscles flexed had heat rising to your face as he herded the last few cows in the barn. The Clark you knew inside the house was gentle and bashful, nothing like the strong and sturdy farm hand you were witnessing out in the field. In a way, this was the first time you could really get a good look at him without the worry of him catching you. Unlike his, your staring was your secret and your shame. 

When Clark got tired of the stubbornness of the last cow refusing to be herded in, you inhaled softly as he picked the cow up with a single hand and carried it over his right shoulder into the barn. The sheer display of strength had heat pooling in your gut. Clark was not a show-off, especially when it came to his powers. It’s not like he didn’t want to impress you, but he worried that seeing his true strength would scare you too straight. To him, the man of steel who could hold up an entire building’s weight on his own, a cow was less than nothing, and it certainly showed in the ease of his movements. 

You shifted slightly onto your other knee and gasped when you realized the entire interaction had left you feeling a little more than hot and bothered. Clark’s head perked up towards you at the window, worried at the sound of your gasp. Shit, you were caught staring red-handed. You were certain he could see just how childishly embarrassed you were before turning away from the window and going back to your whipped cream, trying to steady your racing heart.

You knew Clark had heightened hearing, or rather heightened senses, but it never occurred to you that he had a particular sensitivity to smell, too. And he, most certainly, could smell you. Here he was, worried you had hurt yourself in the kitchen, and instead found a shameful peeping tom. What a naughty little thing you were, spying on him and keeping it all to yourself. He wondered how many times your gaze lingered on him when he wasn’t looking. He could feel your heart rate climbing as he raced to the front door, not wanting to waste such a promising opportunity. 

Clark was slow to walk inside, letting his footsteps creak against the wooden floor as he made his way in front of you on the other side of the kitchen counter. You were busying yourself whisking the cream by hand, not daring to meet his gaze as he leaned down towards you with his palms flat on the counter. Your resolve was more important than a temporary lapse in judgment. Hell, any resolve you thought you had left would crumble if you actually saw him shamelessly shirtless and sweaty this close. 

“Hi, honey. How’s the pie coming along?” He greeted sweetly, waiting to see if you would look at him or even grace him with a response. 

“‘S good, it’s still in the oven.” You breathed out, careful not to let your neediness be vocalized in your tone. 

Clark ambled his way into the kitchen, stopping to stand behind you with his chest flushed against your back. His gentle disposition sometimes made you forget just how huge he really was. The span of his shoulders easily eclipsed your own, and his chest was hard and broad as he pressed himself against your back. He hummed softly as he placed a hand on your right shoulder, rubbing gentle circles into your shoulder blade with his thumb. His sweet girl, how far you’ve come from the first day he brought you home. Instead of shaking with fear, you were nervous with anticipation and excitement for him. 

The kitchen was quiet with his humming and the sound of metal against metal in the mixing bowl. His left hand came up and grazed past the dip of your waist, reaching to take a scoop from the bowl on his index finger. Clark was at least a head taller than you, forcing you to crane your neck back as you watched his hand move towards his mouth, meeting his eyes as he licked the finger clean. His right hand slides across your shoulder to rest under your chin on your neck, stroking along the side with his thumb. 

His finger was back in for another taste, but he brought it up to your lips instead. The cream was spread carefully across your bottom lip, daring you to have a taste. His smile was easy, but his gaze was piercing. He was waiting for you to take the bait.

Your eyes moved down to his finger, watching it smear the cream more as it stroked your lips. Were you really going to let this happen? This was a point of no return, a line that could never be uncrossed. Barring real intimacy was the last and most steadfast wall you had up. If you gave in to his touch, there would be nothing left of you that wasn’t already his. 

“Taste’s sweet.” He offered, gently moving your bottom lip down. 

Fuck your resolve, you can have him just this once. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, you dared to look up at him again and found his eyes right where you left them, waiting and wanting. You surprised yourself with your boldness, but you remembered you had choices. You had control. Clark’s will was not the only one in the house. When you parted your mouth, Clark had expected you to take a shy lick from your lips and avoid his finger entirely. His eyes lit up as you grasped his wrist gently and took the entire appendage in your mouth, keeping your gaze steady with his. 

Your tongue stroked under his finger as you bobbed it gently in your mouth. A smile slowly reached his eyes as he watched, letting you use his hand as you pleased. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be ashamed anymore, not when he offered himself up so willingly. It was as filthy as it was tender. This wasn’t his lust at work; it was his devotion in action. 

Clark slowly removed his finger, letting your tongue drag along the underside as he pulled it all the way out. The hand cupping your chin tilted your back further as he dipped down to lick the remaining cream off your lips himself, thumb still stroking under your chin and down your neck. His other hand snaked its way around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he hardened against your back. His tongue was slow to circle your lips, catching every part of your mouth before capturing it in a slow, sweet kiss. 

Your eyes shut as he laid slow kisses on you, relishing the way he felt unrushed to have you. There was a quiet, unspoken confidence his kisses gave you. They weren’t heavy and desperate, as if you would slip through his fingers if he weren’t fast enough. They were deliberate and devoted, savoring you like he had all the time in the world to do it. He finally had you right where he wanted you; you finally felt like it was the right place to be.

A small whine broke through the last kiss as he pulled away, causing you to stand on your tiptoes to follow him. You, as much as he, were not going to let the opportunity slip you by. He more than made up for the offense of breaking the kiss by picking you up and placing you on the counter, coming to stand between your legs. Your back rested comfortably on the cabinets behind you as you relaxed under his touch, your line of sight finally even with his. 

He had the nerve to have slow, steady breaths when your right hand came to lay on his chest, just over his heart. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, even from just a few minutes of tender kissing. His smile was sweet and genuine as he leaned in to kiss you again, pulling you against him with your legs around his waist and his hands roaming you freely. Your hand slid up his chest, resting on the back of his neck as the other one made its way into his curls and pulled him closer. 

Clark found himself hardening more and more each time your hands moved across his body. He was straining, almost painfully so, in his pants against you, feeling the heat radiate off you between your legs. His kisses became deeper, more demanding as he started to pull small sounds of you beyond sighs and labored breathing. All of his hard work in patience was more than paid in full as he felt you were so sweet and willing for him. He could only reward you in kind. 

His right hand came to cover you over your short sleep shorts, feeling your wetness seeping through all the way. You were soaked. Your gasp was sharp as he rolled the heel of his palm into you, making his way down your cheek and just under your ear with his kisses. 

“You smell sweet, too.” He murmured, placing wet kisses along your neck. He was more than eager to hear you fully as he nibbled on your earlobe, following your lead as you rolled your hips into his hands. “You need me to take care of you, don’t you?” He whispered lowly, letting his breath tickle your ear as he chuckled. 

You nodded, sighing in relief as his hand slipped under your waistband and came to stroke you gently over your panties. While Clark was determined to take his time, you were feeling impatient. It was obvious how swept up your desperation became in the moment, wanting nothing more than for him to have his way with you. But, Clark was patient as two teasing fingers slowly stroked up and down, never using enough pressure to give you any sort of real pleasure. 

It wasn’t like Clark to tease, not when he knew he had you. He was earnest and eager, like an overgrown puppy who had just been offered a treat and was trying so hard to be a good boy for it. The moments he had you before this were few and far between, only a select few times you had really leaned into his touch and allowed him to hold you. He never took them for granted. But now, when he had you on a silver platter, eager and earnest for him, he decided to hold himself back. 

You tried to roll your hips down harder for more friction against his fingers, but he only pulled back slightly as you did. An irritable whine ripped through your throat as you leaned in to kiss him, only for him to chuckle against your lips as his were gently ghosting yours. Why was he being withholding now, of all times? You realized, like everything else you wanted that he could provide, you had to ask for it.

He asked you a question, and you didn’t answer him. 

“Clark,” Your voice was small and so painfully in need. “Please, take care of me.” 

He hummed softly in response, letting his petting stop as he left his hand hot and heavy against you. “Good try, but that’s not what I asked you.” 

Oh, he was going to make you work for it.  

“I said, you need me to take care of you, don’t you?” He repeated, staring you down as he rested his forehead against yours. His palm moved up and down slightly, barely petting over your throbbing cunt. 

“Yes!” You whined, tossing your head back as you tried to roll your hips again. “I need you.” 

“Need me for what?” He questioned, unconvinced as his hand came to a stop. Your chest was heaving as you stared right back, the conflict and need swimming in your eyes. He could see you fighting with yourself, deciding if begging was really worth it. Maybe he could help you decide by showing you what you’d miss if you didn’t. His hand started to slip out of your shorts before your mouth dropped open to respond. 

“You’re right, I..I need you to take care of me.” The confidence died in your throat by the end of your sentence, feeling your shame begin to sober you up as you begged for the man you once rejected at all costs. You didn’t care that you knew you’d kick yourself for this later.

“Good girl.” He cooed with adoration, finally slipping his hand under your panties and stroking his middle finger against your clit slowly. “So good for me.”

You let out a grateful sigh as he did, pulling him closer to your chest and kissing him hotly. It was messy this time, moaning into his mouth as your teeth and tongue clashed with his. His tongue licked inside your mouth as your back arched and pressed your chest against his. His finger was steady and measured, following every jerk of your hips as you ground yourself against him. 

Clark drank in your moans, taking them greedily for himself as if he felt the vibrations from them. His finger dipped down, feeling for your wetness as he teased you. He could have been satisfied hearing you parrot back to him and having you come apart on his fingers, but hearing you beg so willingly had him feeling selfish with you.

“Pretty girl.” He cooed against your lips in between kisses. “So beautiful.”

“You like it when I take care of you, don’t you?” He chuckled as you nodded against his lips. You gasped as he sank his finger into you, arching yourself against him as you moaned against his lips. “Aren’t I so good to you, too?” He murmured sweetly, pressing small pecks against your parted mouth. Clark was always a sucker for your praise. 

“So good to me, so good,” You whimpered, whining softly as he curled his finger slowly once he was down to his knuckle. His slowed movements worried you. You couldn’t bear it if he pulled away again. “L-Love it when you take care of me.” 

Love? You should know better than to tease him like that. But you were willing to say anything he wanted to hear if it meant he would make you come. 

“You love it?” Clark implored adoringly, resting his forehead against yours again as he slowly pumped his finger in and out of you. 

His touch was electrifying after all this time on your lonesome. His gentle and chaste touch might have had a chill run up your spine before, but now his hands lit you on fire. His gaze was piercing, having even more heat rush to your face from the sheer intensity of his shameless eye contact. Your eyes flicked down to watch his hand work, clenching around his finger as it pulled back. 

“Eyes on me, honey.” He whispered, bringing his free hand to cup your cheek and stroke his thumb gently under your eye. 

You nodded again, feeling shame creep its way in as you stared back. How quick you were to crumble against him, how quickly you lost yourself to him for a fleeting moment of pleasure. You promised yourself it would be just this once, but you couldn’t help how relieving it was to welcome his undivided attention. Now that you’ve had a taste of his affection, you weren’t sure if you could deny yourself in the future. 

Maybe you didn’t have to anymore. 

“I asked you a question, honey.” He reminded you, pushing his finger back in all the way down to his knuckle. Clark always had a way of bringing you back down into reality when you got lost in your thoughts. 

“I…” Feeling him so deep inside of you left you damn near incoherent. “I love it, Clark.” You whined, starting to believe the things you were saying. You were wading in deep water now. Accepting his touch for your own selfish gain was one thing, but playing with his feelings was something you don’t think he’d easily forgive if you weren’t honest. 

Clark laid a deep kiss on your lips, groaning softly as your hand shot down to grip his wrist. He pulled his finger out all of the way before pushing both his middle and ring fingers back into you. You moaned loudly against him, screwing your eyes shut as he slowly made his way back down to his knuckles. 

“I love you.” He sighed wistfully, curling his fingers as deeply as he could, and stared at your shut eyelids. “I love you so much, sweet girl.” Clark decided he had finally heard enough and would stop his torturous teasing. He would give his good girl all the pleasure she deserved. You had more than earned it, and he was more than willing to give it. “So good for me.” 

He started pumping in and out at a steady pace, watching as your face started to contort with real pleasure. It had been so long since anyone had touched you, and he knew that. Clark wasn’t expecting you to last long, but it was okay. He’d build your stamina up again. 

Your whole body tensed as you arched against him, moaning and gasping louder than you had before. The hand on your cheek came down to press gently on your stomach, holding you in place as he drew your pleasure out of you. Even if it had been a long time, no one had ever made you feel this good before. 

“Oh, my god.” You whined loudly, twitching and shaking as his pace never let up. “Clark!” 

Hearing you beg was one thing; hearing you cry his name out was something else. 

“Yeah, honey?” He cooed, finding your clit with his thumb. “Feels good, huh? Could make you feel this good whenever you want.” 

Clark pressed his forehead back to yours, forcing you to open your eyes and stare at him with an open mouth. He could look at you like this forever. Your beautiful face was pinched in pleasure as his name fell from your lips like a prayer. It was better than any dream he’s ever had of you. 

“You’re my good girl.” He whispered, pecking your lips gently. “So perfect and pretty. I love you.” His confessions were leaving you lightheaded and dizzy, making your approaching orgasm that much more intense. Tears sprang in your eyes as you felt it creeping in. Another promise you made to yourself was broken for this fleeting moment. Whatever he was about to make you feel, you were certain you weren’t prepared for it. 

Clark could tell you were close, even if you were losing yourself in your pleasure. His fingers kept their steady pace as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. He watched as a stray tear fell down your cheek, realizing you’d become an even bigger mess than he had imagined initially. The sounds of your moans and the squelching of his fingers consumed the kitchen as your arms came up to wrap around him, digging your fingernails into the meat of his shoulder blades. Your build-up was steady and torturous; he wouldn’t give you the dignity of having this over as hot and fast as you’d like. 

“You love it when I take care of you because you love me. Don’t you, honey?” Clark urged, speeding up the pace of his fingers as he watched carefully for your expression. 

“Huh?” You breathed out, feeling fuzzy and dazed as you struggled to keep your eyes on him. The pleasure was overriding your ability to think clearly, but you knew even now that this was the very last line he was begging you to cross. This was the mark of submission he was working so tirelessly for; you couldn’t give yourself up so easily. Tears started to flow freely now, wetting your cheeks at the thought he would pull away. “Please,” you pleaded. “Please don’t stop. ‘M so close, Clark.” 

“It’s okay, honey. You don’t have to hide from me.” Clark encouraged softly, working his thumb and fingers in tandem for your pleasure. You and he were so close to getting what you both wanted, what you both needed. Your gasps and moans were winding you as you felt yourself beginning to clench around him, teetering on the very cusp of your orgasm. You couldn’t let yourself go, not when you were so scared he wouldn’t follow through. A pitiful sob warbled out as you closed your eyes, crying freely in his arms as he shushed you gently. Clark could see it in your tears; he had successfully planted the seed of doubt in your mind. “You can let go, my love. It’s okay, I’m right here. It’ll feel so good to tell me the truth.”

His forehead was still pressed just as close as you looked up at him through your tears and listened to his commands. “I love you.” You sobbed, breath catching in your throat as you let yourself go entirely. “Fuck! I love you, Clark!” You cried out, shaking under his hands as your orgasm practically ripped through you. His fingers never slowed once as he worked you through it, letting you ride out your high as much as possible. 

“That’s it, good girl.” He cooed softly, watching as your eyes rolled back slightly. “It’s okay, just let it all out.” You shook almost violently in his arms as you came down from your blinding euphoria and back into the kitchen with him. You were still shaking from your full-body sobs as you cried loudly, clutching him tightly in your afterglow. His poor girl, so exhausted and so emotional in the wake of your confession. 

"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."

His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."

Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.

"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."

His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.

"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."

"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.

"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."

"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.

"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.

It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.

"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."

Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.

After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.

"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."

You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"

"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."

Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"

"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."

Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."

It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.

From: [email protected] Subject: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below. - I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this. - As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void. - Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person. As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.

Regards, Damian.

You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated. - I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate. - Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session. - As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday! Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!

Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.

This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.

Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.

"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.

You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."

His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."

You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."

He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."

"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"

He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."

"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"

"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."

"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."

He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."

"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."

He raises a brow. "Expired?"

Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."

He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"

Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."

His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”

Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”

His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.

Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”

“This movie is non-sensical.”

“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.

He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”

“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”

“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”

“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”

His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”

“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”

He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.

A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.

“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”

He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”

“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”

His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”

You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”

“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.

“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”

When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reminder on Friday Meetings

You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.

Regards, Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)

Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings

I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.

Regards, Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.) Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.

The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.

Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.

“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”

He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.

You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.

You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.

“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”

His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”

You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.

“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”

“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”

You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”

“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.

The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.

”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”

His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”

You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”

He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”

He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”

“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”

You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”

He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.

“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”

You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.

Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.

"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.

"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.

"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"

"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.

You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."

"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.

"But you don't." You remind him.

Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"

Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."

You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"

He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.

His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."

"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."

His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."

"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."

He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."

"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."

His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."

You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."

Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.

"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.

You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.

"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."

His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.

Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.

"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."

Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."

Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.

Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.

You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.

What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?

The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.

You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.

You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?

You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.

You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.

"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."

He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."

Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.

"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."

His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."

He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."

Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.

He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.

Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.

Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.

The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.

"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.

The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.

"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"

Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."

"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"

You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.

Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.

"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.

"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.

She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."

You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.

"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"

Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.

"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."

"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"

"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."

You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.

It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.

You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.

“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."

Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.

"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.

The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."

Your brows furrow. "On?"

"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."

You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."

“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."

A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.

“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”

The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.

Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”

She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”

“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."

"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."

We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.

“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”

She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”

Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”

Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”

Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”

“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”

That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all you’re taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."

She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.

"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”

Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”

She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.

The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.

“What did you say to her?”

“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.

His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"

You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.

“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“

A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.

Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.

"You stay away from her." Damian growls.

"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"

Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."

“Damian!” You shout.

That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.

His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.

Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.

His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.

Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.

“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.

“He was hurting you.”

“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”

His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”

Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.

“Not a real one.”

He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.

“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”

“Damian—”

“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”

“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”

His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.

“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”

His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.

“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”

His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”

“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."

"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”

“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."

“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”

“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”

“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."

"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."

He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.

"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."

"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."

The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.

It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.

He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.

“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."

Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

Okay so, there's a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and a very real possibility that your future involves forever-turned-on lights, communal toilets, and a prison guard with suspicious interests. School does not prepare you for situations like these.

You don't quite remember much of school, only that you passed enough classes to secure a nine-to-five and afford an apartment with electricity. Electricity keeps the freezer running. The freezer keeps the body cold. Until tonight, that has been enough to prevent situations like this.

The vigilante seems far more concerned about your well-being than whatever crimes might be waiting inside your apartment. He keeps trying to peer past you, tilting his pretty face toward the narrow gap you have left between the door and its rotting frame.

Your fingers blanch on the knob.

“Is anyone else home?” the vigilante asks. His tone is easy, almost careless, but his gaze keeps moving over your face. The way his eyes move makes you uneasy. Does he know? Is he going to take you to prison? Are you going to end up on death row?

“I was expecting somebody else.” He laughs softly, then adds on quickly, “Not that finding you instead is a bad thing. It’s just…” His eyes flick past your shoulder toward the apartment. “Could I come inside for a minute? I need to check something.”

The door is open exactly six inches. Any narrower is rude; any wider, he’ll see the kitchen. Then he might ask about the deep freezer.

You certainly don't care about a man dressed like a bum with a hero suit underneath: joggers, an unzipped jacket, and the dark blue bird stretched across his chest. He does seem familiar.

But everyone does when you lose your memory.

“It’s too late to let strangers in,” you say rather flatly. You wouldn’t want a bum like him in your apartment anyway. Dead body or not.

His brows pinch, disappointment sliding across that perfect face.

Wrong answer.

Adjust.

A practical thought clicks into place: if he sees the freezer, punishment follows. A pre-emptive correction would be simply killing him. But there is no physical room beside the meal prep. Shifting him to the fridge would evict five days of carefully portioned meals, and the power bill is already stripping your bank account. Spoiled food means no food. No food means starving.

You can’t afford to get stupid.

A gentle tap-tap on the doorframe pulls your eyes back up. He smiles, soft and warm, igniting an unwelcome heat in your cheeks. To your surprise, his cheeks are pink as well.

“I’ll just… call her,” he murmurs, fingers drifting toward his pocket.

“She’s on vacation,” you blurt, too loud and way too quick to be considered normal. Another wrong answer, if the brief, puzzled tilt of his brow means anything.

But then he smiles, thinner this time, as though he is masking a bruise of disappointment. Either he is already suspicious and plans to alert the authorities, or he will try again on some quieter night. For the moment, you survive the encounter.

Still, a problem remains: there’s no freezer space for a second corpse, not unless you ditch the meal prep.

You watch him retreat down the dim hallway, one hand lifted in a genial wave before he disappears into the rattling elevator cage at the far end. Only when the doors slide shut do you slam the deadbolt, shove the chain back in place, and glance at the freezer.

Preparations will have to begin tonight.

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The week passes without sirens, arrests, or freezer re-arrangements. You almost believe the vigilante was a fever dream - until a new voice slides through the paper-thin wall.

The building has been hollow for two years; anyone with sense either fled or wrapped themselves in the same caretaker-cocoon that once shielded you. Six months ago that cocoon tore, and routine became sedative: clock-in, clock-out, corpse check, reheated meal prep. The caregiver’s old tablet still pings PAID each month, money shrinking in an account you can’t access. Don’t think about investigations. Investigations ask questions.

The scrape-and-thud of furniture next door means fresh eyes. You crouch on cracked linoleum, snapping dry ramen into crooked shapes beside the chained freezer, and listen to a mid-twenties male voice on speaker: boxes, deliveries, parking permits - ordinary words that grate because ordinary people notice smells and knock on management’s door when your apartment is too loud. You swallow brittle noodles and run tonight’s checklist: finish the last stir-fry, rewrap the feet - frostburn is creeping, drain the drip tray, and smile if the newcomer says hello.

Caregiver’s Rule #12: smiles disarm.

Across the wall, you hear a door close. His front door. Footsteps echo down the hall, unless it’s only your heartbeat. It’s difficult to tell. The sound seems to move through the floorboards instead of over them, each step pressing closer, until the apartment feels too small to hold you, the freezer, and all the terrible inside it.

Is he going to introduce himself now?

You click the lock shut on the freezer. The faint sound of safekeeping does nothing to stop the dread that fills you with every step outside your door. Then comes a light tap against the wood, just like before.

You slowly ease yourself up, trying to seem neither too willing to open the door nor too afraid of what waits behind it.

Afraid people invite questions.

You force a smile onto your face. Do you look normal? Does the body smell, and have you simply gotten used to it?

The math is getting ugly: one freezer, one body, two possible problems.

Play smart.

Unlocking the door proves to be more difficult than it was a week ago. Your hands shake as they slide the lock out of place, and you do your best attempt at a cheerful smile. “You must be the new neighbor,” you force out.

Unease settles low in your stomach as you glance up at him. Same height as the vigilante who came by last week. Less of a bum, however. He wears a cardigan over a white shirt, with nice-looking pants that seem dry-cleaned, which is odd for a resident in this slum of a building. Same blue eyes that pin you in place and the same familiar dimpled smile that reminds you of your nightmares from the other night.

It would be easier if they were the same person. Then you would only have one body to worry about, but the chances of them being the same are awfully slim, and you are not one to take chances. Especially when there’s a cell waiting for you.

“I am,” he says, voice coated in honey. “Thin walls, huh?”

He’s friendlier than the vigilante from last week, though that does nothing to comfort you. His voice is nothing but warm, neighborly, and harmless. Suspicion builds in your stomach. Or maybe you’re just hungry. However, you don’t quite enjoy the caged-animal feeling that licks up your spine when his arm comes to rest against the wall, blocking your view of the hallway and any possible exits.

Nice guys - those are the ones you worry about.

“Dick Grayson,” he offers, extending a hand you refuse. Too risky to exchange DNA when there’s a felony cooling five feet away. “Blüdhaven PD. Anything you need…”

Shit. Sirens begin to scream inside your skull. The freezer rattles awake behind you. Your sins are already mocking you.

You manage that it must be “nice” - wrong adjective.

His smile slices: “Nice isn’t the word.”

You scramble for “safe,” tack on “for you” as if that helps. Since cops get wrist-slaps for killing, your brain mutters - you choke the thought down.

He softens, coaxing: “It’s not always safe.” Bait. Your gaze returns to his hands - broad, sure, the sort that could pry a freezer lid or close over a throat. Your stomach tightens. He keeps the patter light, claims he didn’t want to be rude, asks if you’re always like this.

“Yes,” you say, which somehow amuses him. You don’t really get the social cue behind it all. Then the real kicker, delivered with a wink: “Have a good night - and don’t forget your medication.”

Your smile turns to ice. You never mentioned the pills.

You should really kill him.

First plan: poison - too slow. Second: ceramic vase - probably shatters. Third: push him down the stairs - lobby cameras.

Should’ve checked the cameras.

Sirens howl in your head; even the freezer seems to vibrate with them. He knows you’re unmedicated. Worse - he knows you’re alone.

This is still normal, you insist, bolting the door a second time now. The padlock’s click echoes louder than his footsteps retreating down the hall.

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You’ve been hiding ever since Dick Grayson moved in two weeks ago. Since then, he has learned your schedule like the back of his own hand. He knows when you leave, hears the tardy shuffle in your step, counts the key fumbles when you chase the bus. He even indulges himself by stopping at the same coffee shop every morning, just to say hello before you scamper off to your pitiful nine-to-five. On Fridays, you return late with plastic bags full of discount groceries, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of marked-down items.

You used to leave the apartment more. Not much, but enough. A trip to the mailbox before work. A stop at the corner store after. Sometimes you would linger outside the laundromat with your tote bag pressed to your side, watching people through the glass like you were trying to remember how normal worked. But now that he has moved in beside you, your schedule has changed, and so have the dark circles under your eyes. You avoid him more often than not. You keep your curtains drawn shut, the cheap fabric pulled tight even in the middle of the afternoon. You only access the mailbox when he leaves for work, even if the morning paper you are so insistent on grabbing is already a day behind.

A sigh escapes him as he lies on his bed, shoulder pressed against the shared wall, listening for any sound from your apartment.

Nothing.

That bothers him more than noise would. The breaker tripped a few hours ago. He heard the electricity die through the wall, that low mechanical hum in your apartment cutting out all at once, leaving behind a flat, ugly quiet. It would be easy to climb onto your patio, pick the lock, and flip the switch back on for you. An easier option would be to check whether the caregiver he hired took the money and left you all alone.

His jaw tightens. You shouldn’t be working in your condition.

He groans into the hands resting over his face, dragging his palms down until the heels press against his eyes. Then he turns, burying his face into your old pillow. It barely smells like you anymore, but he still keeps it tucked beneath his head every night like a comfort plush.

How long have you been alone? It has to be at least six months. Maybe seven. You were fine when he left for Gotham. Or fine enough. The accident had left you different, sure. More numb. A little damaged in a way even the best doctors could not fully smooth over. But you had been alive and mostly manageable.

It has been two years now since the accident. Two years since the ring box sat heavy on the car’s center console, black velvet catching the passing streetlights every time the vehicle moved beneath them. He had asked you too soon. He knows that. You knew that. The two of you had been fighting more. He had been getting rougher with you, quicker to grab, to corner, to tell himself it was only because you scared him when you talked about leaving. You had threatened to leave. He had started acting too much like Bruce, all paranoia.

He has always been too hasty. Asking for your hand in marriage was never the mistake. Just the timing of it. You had stared at him with tears in your eyes as you tried to set boundaries, your face losing color as he promised he would keep you safe. No matter how badly you misunderstood him. Your fingers had curled around the seat belt, pressed hard against the buckle.

He had thought you were overwhelmed. Even tried the calming techniques first, using a low voice that typically worked with your outbursts. His hand open. Breathe with me, princess. You’re okay. But you kept shaking your head and reaching for the door, so he had started reaching for the tranquilizer dart in the back seat, just to get you quiet until he could bring you home and keep you safe until the wedding.

You were probably just afraid of happiness. Maybe that’s why you did it.

You were quick to unlock the car door. Quicker than his hand as he lunged across the console. Even faster than the desperate grip of his fingers against your sleeve before you slipped through them and threw yourself out of the vehicle.

Did you have to jump?

The question is as familiar as the guilt that ate him alive when he saw you in the hospital, your head wrapped in white, tubes taped to your skin and down your throat, machines clicking and breathing around you. Severe brain damage, they said. A long recovery. But money fixed enough of it. Bruce’s money. The best doctors the area could offer, even some who flew in. Bruce’s hand clamped heavy on his shoulder as the old man told him, “Don’t let it get to you. There are plenty of fish out there.”

But you were the only one he wanted to catch.

Did you have to throw yourself out of a moving car to get away from him? Was life with him that hellish?

He hates that word. Hellish. It doesn’t belong in his memories with you. Not in the kitchen, where he cooked meals and set bowls in front of you even when you glared at him as if he had poisoned them. Sure, you threw one at his face once. Called him a pervert. A fake hero. But you were simply cranky some days. Overwhelmed. Easy to brush off, the same way you brushed away the blankets he laid over your shoulders when you pretended not to be cold.

It doesn’t belong with the little doodles and notes he left on the fridge either, even if some of them came back shredded into death notes. Or with the scissors he had to pry from your hands while you threatened to slit your throat if he didn’t let you leave.

Of course, there were nights when you slow-danced with him in the living room to old love songs, your cheek resting against his chest as you finally got tired of fighting. Or even the mornings when you woke soft and quiet, blinking up at him like you forgot why you were angry. The afternoons when you asked so prettily for fresh air after he had kept you locked in the bedroom for too long, voice hoarse, fingers curled into his shirt.

Sure, spanking worked when you got too difficult, but so did a good timeout from time to time. You always melted against him after being alone long enough.

You could be sweet when you wanted to be. That was love. It had to be love.

He had loved you enough to try to move on with Barbara back in Gotham. It worked for a couple of weeks. Better than sitting at your bedside, loving you through recovery while you could barely remember who he was, watching your confused, frightened eyes fill with fear when he leaned too close. The times when he needed to remind you with a hand pinching your air tube that he was still the person you were supposed to kiss back.

His hand curls against the bedsheet where you would have slept.

If the Joker had not been loose for six months, Dick would have come back to you sooner. He would have continued his weekly checkups while you were drugged and less observant. Your caregiver was always good at giving you more than you needed to help with the nightmares she claimed were about him.

They’re just dreams. He’s not your monster.

You slept deeply enough then that he could sit beside your bed, brush the hair from your face, adjust your blanket, and pretend the quiet between you was peace instead of punishment. You never flinched in your sleep.

He cut things off with Barbara when he came back here. Watched her cry as he held her, her face tucked against his shoulder, her fingers twisting in the back of his shirt. He felt bad. Of course he felt bad. But her tears didn’t make him want to choke sense into her. They didn’t make him want to kiss her until she stopped making that awful, broken sound.

Yours did, however.

You’re not the same as before. He expected that. Certainly much healthier than you were in the hospital, at least. Your social skills are lacking, but that is expected when a lamb first learns how to walk again. If anything, it works out for the best. You’re more relaxed around him now. You don’t keep the lock in place like you used to when the two of you were first seeing each other. You don’t insult him. You stopped crying. The list could go on and on about how oddly perfect things would be between you two.

Finally, he hears your footsteps down the hall. Should he greet you? No. That would be too eager. He shouldn’t frighten such a delicate creature after work.

Your front door unlocks. He listens to the stumble of your shoes against the floor, the rustle of a plastic bag, the small irritated sound you make when something bumps into the wall. After a handful of minutes, the breaker clicks back on. The apartment gives a faint electric shudder through the wall, and the hum returns. You must have noticed by now that it has been off for a couple of hours. It’s a heatwave, after all. You probably have too many appliances plugged in.

Maybe he could offer to cook for you tonight. Something simple. Pasta, maybe. Open that fresh bottle of wine he got from a buddy. He can show up at your door with a friendly neighbor smile, pretend he hasn’t spent the last few hours listening for proof you are still breathing. You might let him in if he plays his cards right. He can pour you a glass, make you laugh, kiss you before walking you back to your door like the old days.

Then he hears it.

Your door opens again.

Are you leaving?

Dick pushes himself upright, head tilting toward the wall. Your footsteps are quick this time. Frantic. You mutter under your breath, the same word over and over.

Ice.

You must be going to the convenience store. All your food must have spoiled, or at least enough of it to scare you. That refrigerator was never the greatest. It was never his idea to keep you here for two years. You were supposed to move in with him after one, but work got busy. Gotham got loud. People kept needing him, and you had been safe enough. Or he thought you were.

He’s already moving before he finishes the thought, tugging his work uniform back into place, smoothing a hand over his glossy dark hair in the mirror by the door. The uniform helps. A good excuse for running into you at the convenience store down the road.

A friendly neighbor coming home after a long night of police work.

Not a man following you into the night.

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If Dick had known you could make such a horrified expression and still look so painfully cute, he might have pulled a stunt like this sooner. The convenience store is nearly empty at this hour. Outside, the heatwave fogs the beer-ad glass; inside, you stand in front of the ice chest with both arms full, eight plastic bags stacked awkwardly against your chest, as if you’re trying to carry a body instead of save one. He taps your shoulder; you nearly drop everything.

“Throwing a party?” he teases, bright and harmless, as though meeting here were a coincidence either of you should believe. His gaze flicks from the bags to your face - eight is a lot of ice for someone with no friends in any file he’s pulled, no emergency contacts who call more than once, no coworkers who walk you home. You’re usually alone.

That has always made things easier.

Your eyes jump to his uniform, then his badge, before Dick lifts a hand in an open-palm wave.

“Easy,” he says. “Just me.” Your grip only tightens; water runs from a corner of one bag and slides down your wrist. You don’t seem to notice. You're so much stranger and more calculated - so unlike the version of you who once snapped at him for thrills and shoved him away after too many kisses. Different isn’t ruined; it’s just leverage.

Your reply is lost to the freezer hum and the cashier’s squeaking stool.

“What was that?” he prompts. You glance at the bored clerk, then back at him, and repeat too loudly: “It’s for coffee meal prep.” He nearly laughs. Eight bags for morning coffee? Adorable. He props a shoulder against the glass, frost blooming behind him. “You need eight for one cup?” A beat. “Tired of seeing me in the mornings?”

You look away, try to brush past. “It’s melting - I won’t have any to practice with if it melts.”

Practice? Before you can retreat, he lifts six bags off your pile. You jerk for them, a small startled sound, but he’s always been stronger. For an instant he sees the old fury in your eyes, enough to make his heart kick before he reins in the teasing.

“How about I help?” he offers gently.

You huff and push toward the register while meltwater stipples the floor. Dick follows, shifts the bags against his hip, and - before you can fish out your wallet - taps his card: beep. You freeze mid-reach.

“I had it,” you mutter.

“I know,” he smiles. “And now you still have it.”

Tension moves between you, louder than the compressor rattle; the cashier pretends not to listen.

Why eight bags? Maybe the breaker scare sent you spiraling, food spoiling after the caregiver vanished. No reason for you to budget groceries or lug ice through Blüdhaven at night when he’s right here. He’ll audit the caregiver’s spending, see where the money went.

The bell jingles as you step into wet heat. Sidewalk puddles shine under streetlights; a distant siren wails and fades. You walk too fast - shoes slapping pavement in a nervous tempo - bags swinging hard against your legs. Each time you edge toward the curb, Dick glides between you and traffic. “Careful,” he says. You flinch. “I’m careful.” Twice you reach for the ice he’s carrying; twice he shifts it easily away.

“They’ll melt faster if we stop to argue,” he reminds you. That quiets you, though your eyes keep darting: his hands, the street, the apartment looming ahead. Plastic crackles whenever your grip flexes, leaving a thin trail of meltwater. When you veer to the curb again, he blocks you.

“Walking on the outside,” he explains - seat-belt muscle memory, sleeve slipping from his grasp.

“That’s not necessary,” you protest.

“Humor me,” he smiles, and you swallow the argument.

The lobby smells of old mail and cherry-lemon cleaner that never makes the place look clean. But it does take the smell of mold out. Elevator’s Under Construction - crooked sign over the button - so you climb the stairs. Halfway up, you freeze, alarmed to find him behind you.

“Go on. I’m not in a rush.” He motions ahead.

You don’t like his eyes on your back; good to know. He takes the next flight first, listening to your uneven breathing and the ice shifting in your arms.

Hallway air is thicker than outside, trapped under flickering bulbs. Your door waits - paint chipped, peephole cloudy, chain probably dangling because you left in a hurry. His door is beside it, close enough to hear everything. You whirl, blocking your knob.

“I can take them now.” Your smile appears a beat late - the wrong mask worn the wrong way. Dick’s chest warms.

“Should I help you get these inside?” he asks, voice honey-soft. Helping is love; love lets him in.

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You have gotten yourself into a spectacular pickle.

Bargaining at the threshold proves useless: your arms are full of melting ice, his arms are full of melting ice, and technically all of it belongs to you. You assure him - politely, firmly, repeatedly - that he doesn’t need to come inside, the bags aren’t heavy, it’s late, he must be tired, you’d hate to be a bother. Normal words for normal people. Dick Grayson only smiles and hoists the bags higher as they start to sink again.

Nice people are harder to shake; your caregiver warned you about that. They treat no like an invitation to try harder. Eight bags were a mistake. Four would have meant coffee prep or a broken fridge - anything ordinary. Eight screams emergency. Eight screams hidden freezer. Eight screams a smell you’re praying belongs to yesterday’s trash.

Behind the door, the apartment waits. So does the smell.

Sweet, damp, wrong - probably already leaking from the freezer seams after hours without power in a heatwave. Please be trash, please be trash. Maybe it isn’t bad yet. Maybe the chain kept the lid sealed. Maybe the trash under the sink reeks worse. You have never hoped for trash before, but there’s a first time for everything when a corpse is thawing in your kitchen.

Open the door and risk the odor. Refuse and risk the neighbor’s suspicions. Stand here and the ice keeps melting, the body keeps warming, the officer eventually calls someone. The officer is someone.

Slower disaster is better than fast. Keys slip in your wet fingers; metal clinks too loudly. Laugh. Harmless people laugh. You laugh like a woman you’ve seen in movies over misplaced keys, not like a woman calculating whether she can drop a policeman before he draws his gun. Dick doesn’t laugh back - he only watches.

Finally the lock turns. You step in first; he follows, gently shuts the door - then locks it. Fine, be creepy. Warm, stale air greets you, carrying a faint, rotting sweetness. Trash. Just trash. You clutch the ice, march past the chained chest freezer, swear you won’t look - then look anyway. Chain still tight. Good. Bad.

“Should I put these in the freezer?” he asks, kindness itself. For one absurd beat, you almost answer yes, right beside the dead woman. Then you see where he’s staring: not at you, but at the chain around the lid.

“Do you have a key?”

Words jam in your throat. A lock for sleep-eating? A safety latch? All terrible.

Your gaze darts to the ceramic vase by the door- heavy, blue-flowered, dusty. It has held receipts, dead pens, a spare button. It could hold blood. You edge one bag against your hip, freeing a hand. His head is turned. His hands are full. You might have a second. Handle’s chipped - won’t slip. Good.

Aim for his perfect face. If he falls, the entry rug is dark, good for soaking. Ice buys time. Boxes in his apartment for the body parts. One problem at a time.

He starts to turn.

You grip the vase and swing with all your might.

Sorry, officer.

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Dick should have expected it. Your fire never truly burned away - no amount of medication or brain damage could smother that stubborn spark. Of course you fought him: manic smile at the door, polite excuses stacking. Of course you lunged for the vase. You were a frightened animal that didn’t know what was good for you.

He whistles low as he crouches by the chest freezer, one knee sinking into damp flooring, bobby pin clamped between his teeth. Picking the padlock feels crude but easier than ripping off the chain or searching for a key. The apartment smells off - wrong, even by your standards. Beside him, the ice bags sweat into widening puddles. He glances over.

You glare from the floor - cheek pressed to the fake tile, hair pasted to your face, both wrists cuffed to the radiator pipe because you refused to sit, to stop kicking, practically refused every warning he gave you. Pride props your hips at an uncomfortable angle; muffled sobs stutter as you try to swallow them. Stubborn thing. Makes him nostalgic for every time you mistook courage for good odds.

“You’re in trouble!” you shout, yanking the cuff. Metal rattles; skin scrapes raw, a thin red line blooming toward your palm. His smile fades. “Careful,” he murmurs.

You ignore him. “There’s a vigilante around here.”

Bobby pin pauses. He meets your eyes, smiles. “I know, baby. If only he were here.” Fury and panic twist your features - here you are. Not healed, but flickering under fear: sharp mouth, wounded pride, fight that proves you need someone stronger.

Click. Chain slithers to the wet floor like a dropped leash. You go still. Breath hitches in tiny bursts; his palm rests on the lid, not lifting yet, enjoying the desperate set of your face. Beg me not to.

“What’s in here?” he asks, voice low. Your lips tremble. Silence. “Baby, what did you do?” Thumb stroking the lip, he waits.

“A body.” The words leak out - tiny, broken.

He studies your face first: eyes wet, cheek glued to tile, wrist bleeding. Embarrassed, not remorseful - cornered, not guilty. Pulse steadies.

“A body,” he repeats, then lifts the lid. Cold sighs out, followed by sweetness gone sour. Plastic-wrapped limbs, frost-blurred features - the caregiver, tucked in with practical care. His gaze traces corpse, chain, puddled ice, then you: still glaring, still calculating whether biting helps. Optimistic.

“Well,” he breathes. Lid stays open; smell dulls. A cop should radio this in. Nightwing should. Instead he thinks: six months alone, one corpse, no help until now.

“You’re going to need someone, aren’t you, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.” Sharp even now.

He smiles with a fond look in his eyes. “I can make this disappear - body, payments, reports.” You stop struggling to listen. Good. “But you’ll do something for me.” He crouches close. Hard not to kiss your tears away.

“You’ll stop hiding. Take meds when I say. Eat real food.” His thumb grazes your torn wrist, voice softening, while his other hand trails down your spine. “And you’ll quit hurting yourself trying to escape the only man trying to help.”

A strangled sound escapes as his palm settles over your heat, giving you two soft, almost patronizing pats. His smile widens as you look over at him, cheeks warmed and dewy. His fingers find their way between your legs and glide along your slit, earning such pretty sounds from your lips. You probably haven't been touched for months. Years, even. So loyal, aren't you? Willing to do anything to cover up your little mistake, huh?

“If you’re lucky,” he whispers, “maybe I’ll marry a cruel thing like you.” He kisses the tear-damp cheek, tasting salt, watching your lips purse back. Pulling his hand away just to watch the frustration on your face. Maybe he'll save such things for marriage. Shouldn't get too hasty. Especially not after last time.

Odd, how neatly things work out - for everyone.

.

.

.

“He does not want your pity,” Athanasius says.

Water splashes in the sink. You hear the snap of cabbage leaves being peeled from the core and then crunching beneath a knife, a softer sound than the hiss of diced onions and rice sauteeing in a pan. 

“Then what does he want?” you ask.

“Time, for now. Losing control in the presence of much younger nightbound brings a unique sort of shame. Allow him a moment away from prying eyes.”

Several nights after your trip to Council headquarters, Mihai has started keeping his distance again. He’s not avoiding you completely. If anything, he never seems far away. You feel eyes on your back all the time. None of your things have gone missing but they seem to move on their own. Jackets you forget in the library reappear neatly folded just outside your room. Books left strewn across the parlor coffee table are neatly stacked the next time you walk by. Conspicuous leaf piles appear throughout the halls as you go about your business, as if he planned to say something, to show himself, and lost his nerve before you arrived.

Athanasius’ touch makes you flinch. You didn’t hear him move but he’s right beside you, peering over your shoulder at the pan you’re stirring. His hand settles on your back. “That looks ready,” he says, approving. “Here. Add it to the bowl.” 

You work surprisingly well together in the kitchen. Athanasius is faster at everything, more practiced and precise, but he doesn’t seem to mind when you take a little longer mincing parsley. He rolls up his sleeves and churns a mound of soft, seasoned and herb-speckled ground pork with his hands.

“And this’ll help? He’ll like it?” you ask.

“Yes. It is his favorite. I contacted someone more knowledgeable to ensure the accuracy of the recipe.”

According to Athanasius, food is closely entwined with positive memory for the nightbound. Feeding means peace and comfort. Blood flavors remind them of previous donors. Their favorite dishes from their human lives can spark the faintest impressions of beloved people and places, even in those who’ve lost their earliest decades to PPA. It didn’t take much for him to talk you into helping prepare a surprise for the hatchlings, especially since this part of the surprise is for Mihai.

“Where is he right now?” you ask.

“In the forest that borders the estate. Out of earshot, if that is what you meant.”

You work side by side at the counter, rolling fragrant pink clumps into cabbage leaves. You notice Athanasius slowing his movements to match your pace, taking his time and turning the rolls over in his hands before moving onto the next one. Prolonging the process, you think. Ensuring there will be plenty left for you.

“Do you know the phrase, ‘birth by burial?’ It refers to the practice of burying hatchlings alive. At times…” Athanasius stops, glancing at you. You know he saw you stiffen. He probably feels your growing unease through the connection. “You have heard of it,” he says, audibly surprised. “I admit, this is unexpected. I would not consider it common knowledge for witches of the modern age.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” you say. You’re unnecessarily aggressive with the next cabbage roll and it oozes on one end. You don’t like thinking about this. You wish he hadn’t brought it up. “I know it happens. I don’t know why.”

Athanasius hums in acknowledgement. Gently, he plucks the lumpy cabbage roll from your grasp and deftly smushes it into a more even shape. “The process and the reasons for it are different between us. Those concerned with the building of dynasties did not consider turning a sufficient measure of one’s strength, and so thinned their already meager clutches further. Some encouraged their progeny to fight to the death. Others believed the test must come sooner. Newborn and starving, hatchlings would fight the earth itself to earn their first feeding.”

“Was Mihai…I mean, did his sire…?”

He steps closer, his hands folding around yours to guide your fingers for the last cabbage roll. There’s food all over both of your hands but his warmth against your back and the sudden intimacy make your pulse pick up. “You care for him. More than I realized.”

“He got a raw deal, that’s all. It doesn’t seem fair.” 

Athanasius produces a cast iron pot from one of the cupboards, a battered antique that would look right at home hung over an open fire. Together, you line the inside with all the leftover scraps of cabbage and neatly arrange the rolls on top. You lean over to check the recipe scrawled on notebook paper in Athanasius’ elegant handwriting. Ingredients on the left, numbered steps on the right, starred notes at the bottom. Cut up some bacon. Pour in tomato juice. Start the polenta in half an hour. 

“To answer your question, no. Not quite,” he says absently. “His sire would not have done it. They could not afford needless waste during the Century of Nightmares. His birth by burial was performed in the witch tradition by those he was sent to kill.” 

You lean against the counter, watching Athanasius gracefully move around the kitchen. Somehow, you aren’t surprised to hear this. Mihai’s circumstances have been weighing on your mind for days now. Part of you had already guessed his fear of you must come from firsthand experience with witches, though you hesitated to guess at the specifics. 

“Why go to all that trouble? Why not just kill him?” you ask.

“Because for witches, birth by burial is a form of absolution. Mihai must have surrendered in order to have been given the opportunity. And yet, a wolf cub is still a wolf. Would you let an animal into your home without first testing its instincts? You do not know how readily it will bite.” 

The pot goes into the oven. Athanasius finds you still lingering at the sink when he brushes past to rinse his hands, staring into the basin. You feel restless with nothing else to do. 

“Sacrament?” he asks gently.

“Has he ever told you what happened in the cloister? He has all those scars,” you say.

“What he remembers, yes. Some of it has thankfully faded with time.” He pauses. You feel him staring but you don’t look at him. “What pains you? The thought that his wounds may have been inflicted by witches?” His hand drifts into your periphery. He reaches for you, his palm slipping under yours and lacing your fingers together. “Ah, yes. Understandably. But there is also something else weighing on your heart,” he murmurs.

You pull away from him but you don’t get far. He doesn’t let go. You’re so used to him indulging you, extending your cat-and-mouse chases for his own amusement, that his unyielding grip frightens you. Athanasius cages you against the kitchen counter with his own body, one hand splayed beside you, the other keeping your fingers connected. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you say, looking anywhere but his eyes. It’s probably too late with your minds joined the way they are, all of your thoughts and feelings laid bare beneath his scrutiny. He must see the fire in your memory, that open pit in the ground and plumes of black smoke rising towards the sun. He must hear the screaming.

If he does, he pretends he doesn’t; a mercy for you both. “Very well,” he says gently. “Shall I distract you from these worries?” He lifts your hand to his lips. He brushes his mouth against your fingers along the knuckles, then your wrist. He doesn’t bite. He breathes in the scent of your skin and sighs softly against your quickening pulse.

“What are you doing?” you ask. Your voice is hushed in a nervous whisper, like you’re both doing something you shouldn’t.

“Do you dislike this?” he asks.

You want to lie but he’d know before the words left your mouth. Your face feels hot and your skin is tingling. He’s not really doing anything. He’s close enough that he could but everything is chaste, not tongue or teeth. You’re reminded of your encounter with Renaud at Cassowary Tattoo, the discovery of erogenous zones you didn’t know you had and the intimacy of a nightbound pressed close before the bite. They’re ruining you. You’re starting to associate the places they feed with pleasure. Warm breath fans over your veins and you clench in anticipation, waiting for what surely comes next.

Your eyes are drawn to Athanasius’ mouth; the plumpness of his lips and the curl of a teasing smile. What does his bite feel like? you wonder, and then feel a jolt of embarrassment at your wondering. 

“Yes, sacrament?” he says, his voice dipping to a low, pleased purr. “Is there something you would like to ask me?” He’s even closer. He relinquishes his grip on your hand so he can stroke your cheek instead, his fingers tracing along your jaw to the tense line of muscle in your throat. His lashes flutter along his cheek, his gaze half-lidded and hungry.

It’s mesmerism. It must be, you think. But mesmerism doesn’t usually let you tremble like this. Athanasius traces your lower lip with his thumb and leans in closer until he’s all that you see and all you can think of. He’s undeniably beautiful, luscious black hair and long-lashed, eyes a blend of dark oak and umber, golden-brown in the glow of the mansion’s dulled lamps. 

Maybe it’s the light you’re using in the kitchen, foregoing lamps for candles, but somehow, they seem closer to mahogany than they should be. Brighter. Redder. 

And then he draws back. Pulls away, lets you go. Your hands come away slick with sweat and your heart is racing. “I seem to recall a reluctance to be observed in moments of intimacy,” he says simply and rummages through the refrigerator as though nothing happened. The sound of footsteps and the voices of the hatchlings drift down the hallway, close enough that you should’ve heard them sooner, and you’re torn between gratitude and indignation. 

“Fuck you. Don’t act like you care,” you mutter. You’re overheated, flushed with shame and residual tinglings of arousal. You don’t need to rinse your hands again but you do, splashing cold water on your face in desperation. Athanasius acts busy and keeps his distance, rummaging leisurely through the cabinets as if he doesn’t know where everything is, and the whiplash of this nonchalant act fans the flames of your anger to new unreasonable heights. “Maybe I’m into that. You wouldn’t know. You have no idea what I like.”

“Oh? My apologies, sacrament. I should not make assumptions,” he says mildly. He turns just enough to glance at you in his periphery, but even that brief moment of attention feels like a brand on your skin. “Next time,” he murmurs, “I will not stop.”

Orion and Renaud find you staring resolutely into the refrigerator. “Ohhhh, I knew it! I knew there was a surprise. You had us buy each other’s homesickness meals,” Orion says smugly. He pulls one of the kitchen stools out of the corner to sit down and sets the paper bag he’s carrying on the counter. “Is that Mihai’s? What’re you making? It smells good.” 

“Sarmale,” Athanasius says. He brushes past you and you’re absolutely certain that the lingering graze of his shoulder against yours is on purpose. “An hour from now, I would like the two of you to make the polenta. I will explain the steps.”

“Oh, polenta’s easy,” Renaud says. He saunters over to the counter and leans against it. He has a takeout bag, too, larger than Orion’s with a grease stain along the bottom. 

You watch them swap bags across the counter, grinning like they already know what’s inside. The unveiling happens with deliberate, emotional slowness. Orion lifts a burger out of his bag and holds it in its white brand-stamped wrapper like a priceless family heirloom. Renaud opens a takeout box and you swear there are tears in his eyes at the sight of a decadent brioche stack dusted with powdered sugar and topped with blackberries.

“Eat slowly,” Athanasius says, his tone suggesting this warning often goes unheeded. “And save room. Mihai will want to share.”

The food puts everyone in high spirits. Even a dispute over whose leftovers go where in the refrigerator is settled amicably, and Orion and Renaud tackle the polenta with surprising enthusiasm. 

“Does it surprise you that we are so enamored with the culinary arts?” you hear echoing through the connection. 

Athanasius joins you at the far end of the kitchen, keeping an eye on the maelstrom of movement and chaos at the stove; spilled flour, dirty whisks, two and a half cups of water in a puddle on the floor. The hatchlings can’t seem to cook without making a mess. Athanasius chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. 

“It is an anchor. A joyous remnant of the life that came before. For hatchlings, it is even more important that they practice so that one day, they may prepare food for their partners.”

You can feel him watching you. Expecting some sort of quip, probably, a bitter remark about how everything always comes back around to keeping witches against their will somehow, but you just nod and stare straight ahead. Not at the hatchlings. Past them; before them, and this place. 

You want to leave. You don’t want to be alone. Athanasius knows before you say anything. His hand settles on your back, between your shoulders. He doesn’t have to push for you to walk with him to the parlor. He helps you settle against the arm of the sofa, draping the blanket over you like a child home sick from school. Suddenly, you’re so tired you can barely keep your eyes open. You’re certain it’s his mesmerism. The fog of exhaustion grows thicker when he bends down to kiss your forehead.

For once, you don’t mind and you don’t fight. The fire and the fear retreat into old, faded memory. You let go, headfirst into the dark.

*

You dream about the forest. Moonlight and night wind. Moss and petrichor. A beast nuzzles its bloodsoaked maw against your hand, begging for warmth, affection, and forgiveness. Butterflies drift languidly on the breeze. You both wish you could stay forever, but—

The knocking isn’t all that loud but a gentle nudge in the back of your mind helps wake you. Athanasius would’ve come in, would probably be at your bedside already. The hatchlings would say something. That leaves Mihai. You blink the bleariness from your eyes and get up to find him right outside your door. He’s still hiding behind his bangs but his hair’s neater than you’re used to seeing it, smoothed down and combed through, and that makes the jagged, uneven cut even more obvious. The ends fall past one shoulder but taper just short along the other. 

“You helped,” he mutters. “Athanasius told me.”

It takes your mind a minute to catch up. He must mean the food. “Oh, yeah. Did it turn out alright?” you ask.

He nods. He’s staring intently at the floor. “There’s a place I like downtown.”

“Uh-huh?” you say. 

He shifts nervously. Seconds pass in silence. “Do you want to see it?” he asks.

He’s inviting you out again. You’re surprised and a little worried. “Sure. Is that…?” 

“Allowed?” he finishes the thought for you with a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, it’s fine. I made sure to exert myself and haven’t fed since last time. Not enough strength to maintain my hunting form right now.” That doesn’t put your mind at ease. Is he starving himself? Is he expected to? You feel the familiar caress of mesmerism like fingers sliding up your spine and settling at your nape. “Hm. You’re worried.” It sounds like this troubles him. “Follow?” he says. You’re used to that sounding curt, like an order, but it’s softer this time. He takes a step down the hall and stops, watching you over his shoulder. 

You always end up thinking about dogs when you’re around Mihai. Dogs with pricked ears and sad eyes, that press into corners with their tail between their legs and bite anything that comes close. Dogs that always look back to make sure you’re still there.

“Yeah. Lead the way,” you say. The weight of centuries lifts from his shoulders all at once and he stands a little taller. If he had a tail, you think, it’d be wagging.

Athanasius sees you off again but he keeps you at the door a moment longer. He telepathically deliberates with Mihai for a moment and the conversation looks tense. There’s a disagreement of some sort, an indignant huff from Mihai and the exasperated sigh of a parent from Athanasius. You don’t know what exactly they fought about or what they decided, but Athanasius produces a thin strip of leather. It’s plain on the outside but there are small symbols engraved along the soft black inner edge and a silver clasp at the end. He drapes it across his palms and holds it out to Mihai. 

You grimace. You were starting to hope you’d never see that collar again.

“You should,” Mihai pleads.

Athanasius presses the collar into his hands. “No. You will. If there is no need, all the better, but I will not leave you both defenseless.”

“I’m undeserving. And they shouldn’t be defenseless, you should’ve taught them something simple, at least—”

“Mihai,” Athanasius says sharply.

Mihai clenches his jaw and ducks his head. It takes a while, an uncomfortably long silence and an exchange you don’t hear, for his shoulders to loosen and droop again. He shares a meaningful look with Athanasius and nods sheepishly, then glances at you with apprehension. “Sorry about this,” he mutters, moving behind you. His hands are shaking. He keeps bumping his fingertips, his knuckles, the back of his hand against the nape of your neck and every accidental brush makes his breath hitch. When you turn your head, trying to make it easier for him, he goes completely still for a moment. You hear a shaky exhale before he gets himself together and successfully secures the clasp.

The trip into town is awkward as usual. You have to win over the same scared, feral dog all over again, letting him sniff your hand and proving you mean no harm. Mihai stays close but not too close, steals glances but can’t quite work up the nerve to speak. This time, he leads you to a quiet part of town you haven’t been to before. It looks old but not as imposing as the Council buildings, the street bumpy cobblestone and the buildings made of faded, weatherstained brick. 

Almost everything is closed. The businesses out here, sweets shops and antique stores with apartments up above, have dark storefronts and shuttered windows. It’s unusual but not unheard of for a town with so many nightbound. Some places can’t afford to staff an overnight shift, and some places prefer not to, leery of the nightbound or the noise that comes with late night foot traffic.

A soft glow emanates from an eatery on the corner. They don’t look open. The string lights stretched around the outdoor seating area are off. But Mihai goes right up to the door and knocks a couple times, then leads you to one of the wicker tables beneath the awning. The text on the window says “Komorebi Cafe.” You see a forest of potted plants inside. A dark-haired woman in a pastel flower-print sweater comes out a moment later.

“You brought a friend,” she says, sounding pleased.

Mihai’s rumbling, “hm,” is more of a purr than a growl. “Not a friend, exactly.” 

“Oh, hush.” No eye shine. She’s human. You’re surprised she’s so comfortable around him. She sets a tray on the table between you with two ceramic mugs exuding curls of steam. “Come by sometime in the daylight. I’ll make you something on the house,” she tells you. You nod meekly, unsure of what to make of her, but she just smiles good-naturedly and walks away.

“Her name is Kano,” Mihai says. “She's the first human who ever spoke to me in Skelveross. I think we’re friends.” He lifts the mug to his face and shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath of the sweet, earthy aroma. A strangely familiar aroma, you think. It reminds you of nectar. “It is,” Mihai says. He averts his gaze when you look at him sharply. “Ah. It’s habit. I prefer the connection. I know what you think and feel without asking.”

“Is it hard to ask?” you say.

“Yes.” He slides the tray closer to you. “The other one’s for you.” 

Intrigued, you pick up the mug. The scent of nectar is somewhat diluted but unmistakable up close. It’s some sort of tea, lightly floral with hints of berry and citrus. You take a testing sip and hum in satisfaction. “It’s good,” you say, impressed. You were sure Athanasius’ concoctions had ruined you for anyone else’s recipes. “And Kano seems nice. How’d you meet?” 

“In a waiting room. We both had appointments at the Dusk Council headquarters.” He glances at the cafe windows. Kano sits in a corner booth with a book open in front of her and a notebook off to the side, pencil hand. Her brows are furrowed in focus. “She’s latent,” Mihai says.

That makes you look at her again, more carefully and with a pang of sympathy in your heart. She slides her pencil along a line of text and then scribbles something. “That must be hard,” you say quietly. 

Mihai looks at you curiously. “Weren’t you latent once?” 

“No.” 

Mihai must sense your discomfort because he doesn’t press you for details, but you do feel him in your head again, tiptoeing and cautious. You’re thinking that it’s easy to hide if you know how, but only if you start young. Magical potentiality evaluations for children can be either interviews or written questionnaires, and most families opt for the latter. There’s no face-to-face meeting, no verifying background checks, and no magical-medical scans, just a piece of paper with some boxes to check and some space to scribble answers.

You drink your nectar tea and watch Kano study. You don’t meet Mihai’s probing gaze. He’s searching again, carding through your memories in search of whatever it was that shattered your confidence and left you vulnerable. You squeeze your eyes shut and envision barriers. Walls, hedges, metal bars—doors. That’s what your mind settles on. An endless corridor with a thousand locks. The books in the library said this is easy magic if you can stay focused and hold the image in your mind.

You know it worked when you hear a grunt across the table, a little noise of shock and indignation. A sense of mounting pressure begins building behind your eyes like the start of a migraine and you swallow nervously. You’re not confident you can keep him. “Please don’t,” you say. The pressure eases but never fully dissipates. You know he’s still in there, leaning against one last flimsy door. “Please,” you repeat, your voice wavering in desperation. 

Mihai frowns. He stares down into his tea, considering. “I’ll trade you,” he says after a long silence. “One of my secrets for yours.”

“Why?” you ask. You don’t want that. You don’t want to talk about this, or even think about it.

“Don’t have to talk. Just show me.” 

“Why do you want to know so badly?”

He tilts his head. “Because I’m trying to understand you. I want to know everything. I’ll tell you everything, too, in exchange. It’s the only way we’ll ever really trust each other. That, or…you could perform a birth by burial. I would let you—”

“No,” you say.

He hesitates, taken aback by your vehemence and the stricken look on your face. “It would be faster. I could prove myself in a single night. You'd see everything I have to offer. I know I’m an elder, but I’ve made myself weak tonight. You can test me properly.”

“I said no.” 

Mihai growls at you, and for once, the dog companion is not endearing. He sounds like he’s going to lunge across the table and go for your throat. He looks ashamed for all of a few seconds before he’s glowering again. “Then what do you want?” he snaps. “How do I make you stop pitying me?”

“I don’t—”

“You do! I'm a useless wretch in your eyes, too broken to be of any value.”

“I don’t think that,” you insist, but he doesn’t believe you.

“I was wary of you at first. I know what witches can do. But the more I watch you, the more I realize you’re still young. Painfully young, and fragile. You can’t even defend yourself. So I have to protect you. I…” Mihai stops. He takes another whiff and a long drink of his tea, and it helps him steady his breathing. “I will never lose another witch as long as I live,” he says, his voice lowered to its usual low rasp again. “If you won’t bury me, let me prove it some other way.”

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I do. You need to know. How can you trust me otherwise?”

Silence settles over you both and the sounds of the city rush in, footsteps and rumbling engines and the squeal of a car alarm a few streets down. The moon is lopsided and waning. Your tea cools in your hands. You can feel it when the anger seeps out of Mihai. The pressure fades. There’s nothing clawing at the hinges of the door in your mind.

“I don’t…” You swallow the lump in your throat. Mihai watches you intently but he’s patient this time. He sips his tea gingerly. 

To your surprise, you don’t think of a dog—he does. The image slips into your mind vivid but hazy at the edges, the colors runny and the textures rippling like water. A dog. A large dog. A guard dog that pads around in a circle right outside your door and then settles down with a loud thump, wanting you to know he’s there. 

I’m listening, he says wordlessly. You take a deep breath and try again.

“I’ve seen a birth by burial before,” you admit. “And it wasn’t…Mihai, listen, it really scared me. I think it must mean something different to you, but to me, it’s…I could never do that to someone. So please don’t ask me to.”

He doesn’t say anything. You don’t even get a nod. Then another vision comes and fills your senses, the table and the cafe and Harrow Creek fading into a different night scene. The ground is firm underfoot but softer than concrete. You smell earth and decay. Moonlight strains through a net of leaves and branches. And there are people here, humans—

Witches. You know somehow. A dozen, maybe more, young and old, gathered around you in a fearless huddle as they whisper amongst themselves. An old woman stands in front of you, barefoot beneath a long, embroidered skirt. Her face is a churning cloud but her voice is clear and strong. You can’t understand her, and yet somehow you know she asks, “You will not fight?” 

You will not fight. You groan and lower your head. It is too large and heavy for your starved frame. You are a beast and you can’t remember how you came this way and you don’t know how to unbecome it. You hear their heartbeats and you smell the tang of their sweat and exhaustion, but fear is a thin quiver and only from the youngest, the littlest things clinging to their elders. 

You do not see death but you know you would if you walked far enough. Piles of it. Gruesome mounds of skewed limbs and blackening flesh left for the animals and for anyone who might come looking. The reek stings your nose and eyes. In that pile rests your entire world, clutch-siblings and strangers and superiors and blood-bonded lovers who you knew for mere months that felt like lifetimes. Most fell in the fighting but they kept some of you, bound you in ropes you could not break. One by one, they poked and prodded and asked their questions.

Who was your sire? Who was his sire? Who did he answer to, and who had sent you, and who else was coming? How many and when? Listening to the others, you began to understand that this forest was the only home the witches had left, and that there had been many more of them once before all the fighting and running and death in the night.

And when they had their answers, they left you in the sun to wilt then tossed those charred bones upon the pile. And now, at last, it was your turn.

“How long have you been bound to the night?” the old woman asked.

Not long. You try to tell her but all you can do is rumble and whimper like an animal, and even that you cannot do well with the rope tying your mouth shut. Not a year yet. Not even a whole season. You were the youngest of your clutch and your flock and the followers of your maker. You try to say that. You try and you try and the only noise that comes out is pitiful keening, so you count the moons you have seen. “One,” you try to say, and grunt instead. You think of the crescent. The sliver. The moonless night. You keep counting until you have told her all of them. You know she is wise. She will know what you are trying to tell her. 

When you finish counting, she sighs sadly. The witches chatter all around you. 

“He is an infant!”

“Were the others?”

“It does not matter.”

“We must not share their bloodlust.”

“No. They could not have been.”

“Not all of them, surely.”

“They do not turn them alone.”

“A clutch. Maybe five. Maybe six.” 

“They would not have spared a chrysalis.”

“And we did not spare them. Does that make it right?” 

“There is no making this right. He will want vengeance.” 

“Give him to the sun.” 

“We cannot give him to the sun.”

“Make him sleep. Then give him to the sun.”

“Mumă, what have we done?”

The old woman raised her hand and the forest fell silent. Even the leaves ceased rustling and the wind died. She stepped forward and you shrunk back, head bowed, whimpering. You waited for something that hurt but it never came. She stroked your beast-maw, sliding her palm up and down the strange expanse of flesh that smelled and felt and tasted too much. Your legs gave out beneath you. You had forgotten how weak and tired you felt until this moment. When she scratched beneath your chin, your chest rumbled and your throat vibrated with a low noise you did not know you could make. When she looked at you, you felt that she saw through skin, blood and bone and knew who you truly were.

You spoke without words. You felt that she was very sad, and very sorry, and very angry but not at you. She felt guilty for what had happened and what would happen next. She must have felt all that you felt and known that you were afraid. All you wanted was to be warm and swaddled in someone’s wings.

“Dig a grave,” the old woman said. The witches left the clearing in all directions, some more reluctant than others. She gathered her skirt and sank to her knees beside you, and she let you set your head in her lap, whispering, “You are strong, yes? You are very strong to survive all that you have. Be strong one more time. When you are born again from the earth, the past will be the past and all will welcome you. You will not be cold, or hungry, or alone ever again. This I swear beneath the moon.”

The vision flickers. The forest fades. You’re in Harrow Creek again, sitting at a cafe table across from Mihai. Tears stream down his cheeks and yours, you realize, wiping your face self-consciously. You don’t know what to do with this. You don’t know what to say, what to think or feel about what he’s just shown you, but there’s warmth unfurling in your chest; a spreading sense of peace. You don’t have to say anything. He’s glad that you saw it. He needed you to know. 

After you finish your tea, Mihai takes your mug and sets it beside his on the tray. You follow him into the Komorebi Cafe where Kano hasn’t moved, still hunched in the corner with books and papers spread across the table. The bells jingling over the door make her mutter and sit up, rubbing her eyes. 

“Mihai! You didn’t have to, I could’ve gotten it,” she says.

“Hm,” Mihai says, setting the tray into an alcove on the wall for used dishes. “Didn’t mean to keep you so late.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad you came.” She slides out of the booth and stretches with a yawn, then ambles over to you both at the door with her hands in her pockets. “So? How was it? I’m still tinkering with that recipe. Ah! I’m Kano, by the way.” She holds out her hand to shake. The moment your fingers touch, a pleasantly cool sensation sweeps up your arm like a spray of mist. Kano feels it, too. Her eyes widen slightly but she’s quick to cover her surprise with a laugh and starts rambling, “I’m calling it ‘Sugar Water!’ It’s actually based on a family recipe. Grandma would kill me if she knew how much sweetener I’m putting in, but the first customers I gave it to said it was kind of bland…”

She’s not just latent. She’s a witch. Her grip on your hand lingers a moment too long, squeezing firmly before she lets go. Her eyes dart down to the collar on your neck, seeing it for the first time in the light, and then she makes herself look away. You wait for something more; another meaningful glance, a smile, telepathy, even just her lips shaping secret, silent words. Nothing happens. The reunion you’ve dreamed of never comes. 

“So what did you think?” Kano says, something nervous edging into her tone. She glances up again but stops short of your face, looking warily at your collar. 

“I liked it,” you tell her. “The steam is really nice and fragrant.”

She beams and clasps her hands together. “Oh, I’m so glad! So you’ll definitely come in again sometime, right? Wait, hold on, I’ll give you a card! I have a hole-punch reward program and everything.” 

Maybe there’s a message hidden in the blocky text printed on the cardstock, or an enchantment concealing something. You hope there is and you know there won’t be. It wouldn’t be safe. Your fingers brush as she passes it to you and the sensation of chilled sparks from your magic greeting hers is weaker this time, deliberately smothered. You shut this secret behind door after door after door, quarantining it in the back of your mind under lock and key. You swallow all the questions you want to ask and stifle the urge to wrap your arms around her and never let go. 

Kano looks at you like she wants to say something, but she never does.

Mihai is standing in the doorway when you come back to his side, green and pink Komorebi Cafe loyalty card safely ensconced in your pocket. “We can come back another time,” he says. Your dismissive shrug makes him laugh. “You don’t want to go yet. It’s all over your face…” 

He trails off, staring into the distance. Then he shoves you back, hard enough that you stumble and have to catch yourself against a table. “Stay. And lock it behind me,” he says. Then he slips out the door and he’s gone. You’re still standing there in confusion when Kano moves around you, touching your shoulder as she goes, and fiddles with her keys. 

“It’s safer in the kitchen,” she tells you. 

The question doesn’t quite make it off your tongue when you’re struck with an awful feeling. You’re nervous without knowing why, your pulse racing, cold sweat and goosebumps prickling all over your body. You feel watched. Trapped. You back away from the door and the windows. You know what this is. You felt something like this every night at your last job. The whole building exuded this same nauseating aura of dread. 

“That’s…” You don’t finish the thought. Your throat constricts with terror and you can barely breathe. 

Kano just nods and you follow her without hesitation. The door to the kitchen is flimsier than you’d like, a lightweight faux-wood panel that even a hatchling could rip off its hinges, but it’s all you have. The back door, at least, is a proper metal slab, so that’s one less point of entry. Kano hands you a roll of sticky, transparent material stamped with protective enchantments and she takes another, and you paste them all over the vents, the drains in the sink basins, all the little gaps in the door frames, anywhere that something might try to squeeze through.

“Don’t be stingy with it,” she says, plastering over your work with even more clingy sheets. “The Council hands these out for free. I’ve got a pretty big stockpile.” 

“Do you get a lot of lemures around here?” you ask nervously.

“Not usually. But they come in seasons, you know. Sometimes you won’t have any for a while, then they all come at once.” She checks her phone, then texts someone who texts back almost immediately. “The CTF’s on it. Looks like there’s been a couple sightings tonight.” 

The lights flicker. You cram yourselves into the safest spot you can find, crouched between industrial refrigerators and storage cabinets.

“Come on,” Kano whispers. “Come here.” She holds her arm open. 

You’re trembling. You want to be there, squeezed in beside her, but…

“Just for a little bit,” she says softly.

So you go. This is how it’s meant to be; tucked against each other, leaning into your shared body heat and feeling your hearts beating together. You can breathe again. Your magic twines together, ebbing and flowing, pulled between you in playful tugs before it settles into perfect equilibrium. You nuzzle like cats, cheek to cheek, nose to nose, buried in the crook of her neck as she hums in quiet contentment. You can’t remember the last time you had the chance to do this. It’s hard to pull away. Kano manages it first but she gives you one last affectionate rub, nosing against the side of your head and letting out a breath. Her magic leaves with her and yours lurches, wanting to follow. 

You want to know who she is. Where she came from. What she likes and where she lives and all of her favorite things. If there are others, if she knows. You want to know how and why the Council thinks she’s latent. You want to know if she plans to leave, and where she’ll go. And if she’d take you with her.

You don’t say anything. The words build up in your throat, behind your teeth, and you have to swallow them back down because the moment has passed and anyone could be listening.

The lights flicker again, dimming longer this time. That’s when the skittering starts. You exchange nervous looks with Kano. No, you didn’t imagine it. She heard it, too. You can hear something in the walls. Scraping sounds. Breathing. 

It tries the vent first, clanging around above one of the industrial ovens. You hold your breath watching the warding enchantments bulge from the other side. Nothing should be able to squeeze itself between the metal slots on the cover, and yet a thin, sharp appendage like an oversized proboscis pokes and prods through the narrow openings. The enchantments hold. The thing retreats from the vents and starts circling again, searching for openings. It sounds like a tangled mass of rats all running in different directions; a spider the size of a car. Leg after leg after leg crawling up into the ceiling and down beneath the floor tiles, tapping against the other side of the wall.

It hisses, long and shrill. Then the hiss warbles, pitch zigzagging, and other rumbling noises join in. It keeps trying, adjusting, softer than firmer, higher then lower, until it settles on something convincing.

“Hhhhhhh. Hhhe. He. Lo. Hhhhhellooo. Hhh. Hha. Hello. Hello. Kano.” 

Kano grabs your arm and squeezes so tightly it hurts. The thing’s hiss becomes a sigh, and then quiet laughter. You hear an unpleasant, wet sound like a dog noisily drinking something. Tasting the air, the walls, the memories left behind in the Komorebi Cafe, Kano’s thoughts and fears settled into the foundations. Its voice strengthens the more it speaks. It sounds like a man, settling into an airy tone and playful cadence. It must be imitating someone she knows. Someone she doesn’t want to see.

“Kano. Hi, Kano. Can I come in?” It paces around you again, circling behind you, on your left, nudging through the pipes in the sink before it hits the enchantments stuffed in the drain and then slinks back down. “Hey, don’t be like that. You know I’m here to help. Kano. Don’t keep me out like this.”

Kano can’t go any further into the corner but she tries anyway, curled up as small as she can make herself. You get in front of her so you’re all she can see, hands on her shoulders, resting your forehead against hers. “Stay calm,” you tell her, hoping you sound even a little bit calm or certain. “Look at me or close your eyes. We have to stay calm.”

Being scared makes it stronger. You can both hear it under your feet, in tunnels or pipes or, impossibly, just on the other side of the tiles, prowling inverted mere inches away. It sounds big and it’s solid enough to touch things, to make noise and have weight. You’ve never seen a fully matured lemure like that before, only the destruction they leave behind.

Kano’s hands shake around her phone. She calls someone but it never goes through. Little red exclamation points appear beside every text she tries to send. 

Mihai! you think desperately. You squeeze your eyes shut and throw your thoughts as far as you can, shouting into the dark. You don’t know if he’s close enough to hear you but you keep calling for him, searching for the snapped threads of connection.

The skittering stops for a moment. You hear the lemure scraping at the other side of an outlet. When it starts to pace, it’s slow and meandering. It tastes the air again. It makes a hoarse barking sound like it’s clearing its throat. Its voice changes, thinner and raspy.

“I’ve made myself weak tonight,” it murmurs, and your heart drops into your stomach. It sounds just like Mihai. “You can test me properly.”

It tries the vent again. The sink again. The outlets, wriggling more of itself against the wards. It pushes against everything at once and you hear things shattering above and below, wood snapping, steel groaning. A bulb bursts, raining glass on your shoulders. Kano sobs into your chest. Something violent happens in the next room and you know it’s gotten into the building, its skittering louder and sharper than before. The handle on the kitchen door rattles but doesn’t budge, slathered in paper wards. 

“Someone should clip your wings,” it whispers, and then something slams against the door. And again, harder. And again, making the wards peel back and rip down the middle. Kano wails and you cling to each other as the door cracks and splinters further, and tendrils of shadow pour through every space in greedy eagerness.

Something else comes barreling through the cafe with a bestial roar, its heavy sprint smashing tile with every step. The lemure rips away from the door, shrieking. There’s a thunderous collision; furniture snapping like twigs. Two behemoths smash into each other and all you hear is carnage, the squelch and bodily splatters of something being butchered alive. You don’t think you’ll ever forget the noise. Chunks of meat hit the floor and gore sprays the walls. They rip and tear and pulverize until only one remains, panting like an animal in the awful silence. Something lands heavily on the ground.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. Kano doesn’t move. You don’t want to but in the quiet, there’s this soft wheeze and the strained start of a whimper. Like a dog, you think with dawning horror. A dog who’s hurt, who can’t get up. Kano grabs at your sleeve when you start to stand and follows you to her feet. You inch towards the door, the wards now a cloudy, sun-baked yellow speckled with mold-like splotches to show their damage. It opens easily. Chunks of wood fall off when you push through. 

All that’s left of the lemure is a giant stain, black and faintly iridescent like an oil slick. It bubbles and gives off heat. Collapsed in the boiling ink spill is a nightbound with a hunting form unlike anything you’ve seen before. It’s wolf-like, its strangely bent legs and elongated paws distinctly canid. There are so many scars on its body that its fur only grows in thin tufts and patches, most of it gathered along its shoulders and back in a thick black mane. The head is its strangest feature, disproportionately large and unwieldy. Its snout protrudes far beyond a wolf’s maw, the flesh teeth-lined and gnarled stiff. 

A borzoi and an alligator, you’d thought before. You had no idea how right you were. It’s Mihai, just as he was in the Council headquarters. This is what he looks like in hunting form. He’s curled up defensively, the sharp angles of his shoulders straining beneath the skin of his back.

He doesn’t have wings. There are no nubs or growths where something might have been cut, no scars suggestive of anything more than general injuries. You stare at the ridge of his spine and his blood-slicked mane in dim confusion. He’s supposed to have wings, isn’t he? Don’t they all have wings?

Screeching brakes and whistling wind alerts you to someone’s presence outside. The CTF, probably. You’re in shock, only faintly aware of noise and movement around you. Nightbound fill the cafe, speaking solemnly to one another. One inspects the lemure’s remains. Several start hauling boxes full of equipment for a cleansing. You’re herded out the door with Kano and surrounded by glinting eyes and worried faces. 

“I want to go home,” Kano insists over and over, her voice quivering, but they keep asking her if her head hurts, or her throat, or if her eyes are burning, or her nose is running. “I’m fine. Can I please go home? I don’t want to be here anymore.” 

Someone volunteers to give her a ride. You don’t say goodbye but you look at each other one more time before she’s gently eased into the passenger seat of a CTF vehicle. You try to go back inside but someone stops you.

“Is he okay?” you ask. The frown you get in response makes you even more frantic. “Is he hurt? Let me see him.” 

“It’s alright. Everything’s going to be fine,” the nightbound says with patronizing softness. His gaze flits down to your collar. “Who’s your partner? We should really get you home.”

“He’s part of my convenire. Please let me see him,” you say desperately.

The nightbound looks startled. He steps aside reluctantly and starts to say something about how it’s all very delicate and you need to be careful, but you’re pushing past him before he’s done. Mihai is out of his hunting form. Not enough strength to maintain it, isn’t that what he said? This could’ve gone badly, you realize, horribly if he’d fallen out of it any sooner. Several CTF agents huddle around him, their voices low and pleading, but he keeps shaking his head and mumbling weakly. 

“Mihai!” 

The sound of your voice makes him twitch, muscles flexing like he’s trying to get up. He looks up at you with a tired smile. It’s easier to tell he’s hurt without all the fur. It was a close fight. Blood pours from somewhere beneath his bangs and slicks his shoulder, forcing one eye shut.

“Okay?” he rasps. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. “Not hurt?” 

“No,” you say hoarsely. You kneel beside him, pushing his hair out of his face. His skin is clammy with sweat. He trembles and leans into your touch, whining softly.

“He’s not taking blood,” one of the nightbound tells you. He holds up a plastic pouch with fine print all over the label pasted across the front, a butterfly stamped in the corner. 

“What? Why?” 

Mihai shakes his head again and groans, burying his face against your knee. He feels feverish. You squeeze his hand and he barely squeezes back.

He speaks through the connection so only you can hear. Even there, his voice comes through strained and quieter than usual. “All emergency medicinal blood is witch blood,” he whispers. “It comes from captives and strangers. I won’t take it. I haven’t earned it.”

“Then take mine.”

He makes a pained sound. When you stroke his hair, he turns to kiss your fingers. “I haven’t earned yours, either.”

“You can have it! I’m offering it!” 

“You shouldn’t,” he chides you. “You don’t trust me yet.”

You don’t know what else to do, so you resort to the language you know he prefers. You clutch his hand to your heart and close your eyes, and you imagine crisp, night wind, rustling leaves and the scent of moss. 

In the forest, you find him staring back at you in surprise. You are both bare, the moonlight shining upon your shoulders. There is a fire burning behind you; heat on your back, a halo of scarlet. Mihai sees the flames but not the thing that’s burning. You’re not ready to tell him about it. You’re not sure you’ll ever be ready. You might take that with you to your grave. But you’re here with him. You’re not going to leave him alone.

His brows furrow. He thinks you pity him. 

You smile and shrug. Maybe you do. Maybe you feel a lot of things for him and it’s hard to separate or name them. But there’s a sense of kinship, too. You feel it more than you’d like to admit for all of the hatchlings, but it’s strongest for him. You reach for his hand, lifting it, threading your fingers together. You won’t bury him. Your trust won’t come all at once. It’ll have to be a slow thing; more quiet nights, more glimpses, more drinks shared over the same table.

He has some of it already. Just a little bit. Just enough that you’re willing to lift your head and bare your throat to him in offering. You feel him tense; see him swallow. His hand shakes when he brings it to the side of your neck, stroking your pulse. Asks, wordlessly, if you’re sure.

You think of the lemure; your fear and your relief hearing him tear it to pieces; his smile, lying on the floor bleeding out. You shut your eyes. You’re sure.

The forest recedes in a rushing blur, overtaken by the wreckage of the Komorebi Cafe. You’re on the floor, staring at shattered tiles, and can’t remember how you got there. 

“Easy now,” someone says warily. The CTF are still here but they’ve backed off, keeping to the edges of the room. “No one’s going to take your witch.”

Mihai growls. He’s on top of you, you realize, his voice directly beside your ear. “No need to use that tone. I’m not a hatchling. I’m lucid, but my instincts are aggravated. Keep your distance. Wait outside, preferably.” Nobody moves. Mihai sighs heavily and grumbles something you don’t catch, his hand sliding up and down your spine reassuringly.

When you try to lift your head, his grip turns harsh. Mihai grasps the back of your neck and keeps you down, the growl returning softer than before.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs.

“Are you okay?” you ask. You can’t help but try and turn, wanting to look around, see the room, the CTF—

“Still,” Mihai orders. A rush of mesmerism forces your muscles to unclench and your limbs to drop. The floor tiles are cool against your cheek. “Sorry,” he says, sounding strained. “I’m not—this isn’t how I’m used to feeding. Doing it so rushed, on the floor like this, makes it feel like play. Like…”

He shifts his weight on top of you and you feel the unmistakable twitch of his cock, half-hard against your ass. Embarrassed heat fills your veins. He’s naked and arched over your back, panting quietly against your ear. 

You raise your voice to address the CTF agents who you never heard leave. “Do you really have to be here for this?” 

“Yes,” one says bluntly.

“Nothing we haven’t seen before,” says another.

A third adds, a bit too cheerfully, “Arousal is a perfectly natural reaction to feeding, it’s really nothing to be embarrassed about. I’d be surprised if either of you last long—”

“Please shut up,” you beg. 

Mihai works the collar’s clasp apart. It takes him a while with his hands shaking as badly as they are. Once it’s loose, he tosses it somewhere beyond your line of sight. His lips are on your nape in an instant. The bite is a quick, shallow pinch and it hurts more than they usually do. Mihai doesn’t drink from the puncture. He kisses it instead, lavishing the small, oozing mark with long, sensual drags of his tongue. His hands start to roam, slipping under your shirt and palming your chest, mapping out your skin as he keeps you close to him. His hips move in languid drags like he’s teasing you. You feel his cock fill gradually, hardening a little more with every small sound he drags out of you.

“Relax,” he whispers. 

One of his hands trails lower, working at your clothes until you feel the cold air on your backside. He doesn’t undress you completely and that makes you feel even more exposed somehow, your shirt bunched up and your legs trapped together as he slots his hips against yours and pushes his cock between your bare thighs. He keeps stroking your spine with one hand as he squeezes your hip with the other, thrusting in a slow grind that smears precum along your inner thighs. 

“Arch your back. A little more. Lift your hips.” 

Mihai arranges you into an even more compromising situation, raising your lower half while keeping your head on the floor. You get it wrong the first time, trying to sit up again. He corrects you with a nip beneath your ear, pinning you by the nape again and squeezing. Your skin tingles beneath his palm. When you stay put, you’re rewarded by his hips moving again, his cock pushing between your thighs and grinding against your sex. Arching into the friction and moving back against him earns you a soft moan.

“I wanted to prepare you more, but there’s no time,” he says, his voice strained. “It’s going to hurt. I couldn’t get enough venom out to put you into heat.” 

You’re not sure you heard him right and you don’t get the chance to ask before Mihai sinks his fangs into your neck. He wasn’t lying. It really hurts. The pinch you felt before is nothing compared to the deep, penetrating sting of a proper bite. It aches worse every time he draws blood from the wound and you can’t help but squirm instinctively, trying to wriggle away. 

Mihai’s grip tightens. Wordless animal ferocity surges through the connection between you. You feel his hunger and indignation. He caught you, pinned you, made you surrender, and won’t deny him his prize. But beneath the red hot flashes of this showy anger like a wolf baring its teeth, you also sense the bubbly excitement of a wagging tail. It’s all a game; a play-hunt. The pain won’t last and he will lick your wounds when it’s over.

He tries to help. He explores your skin, searching for weak spots where you’re most sensitive. His hips move faster and his thrusts grow harsher, every frantic back and forth motion rubbing against your sex. Bent over on the floor with your legs caught in your clothes and his weight holding you down makes it feel dirtier, more primal, and the tingling all around his bite starts to warm into pleasant shivers.

“Are you starting to feel it?” he whispers into your mind. He’s louder than you thought he’d be. He moans into the bite and breathes in harsh pants through his nose. “I had to teach myself how to administer venom so neither the technique nor the results are typical. You’ll experience it properly next time. This is just a taste.”

It’s nothing like Orion’s or Renaud’s. Their venom hit you all at once and drowns you in sharp, unrelenting pleasure, heightening every sensation and turning the pain of the bite to ecstasy. Mihai’s takes longer, its influence gradually creeping up your spine like the lick of flames growing larger and hotter. You feel feverish, lightheaded and achingly empty. You try to spread your legs without thinking about it and whine when you can’t get them far enough apart. Mihai’s hand curls around your neck and cups your chin, gently guiding your head to a slightly different angle so he can drink more deeply. The sensation is maddening, still painful yet deeply satisfying.

Inside. That’s all you can think about. Mihai, inside you, however you can have him. His fangs hurt but they belong there and you feel yourself arching your back, begging him to penetrate you more, again, deeper. Mihai groans against your neck and his hips buck wildly, the head of his cock catching and slipping past your entrance. His hand leaves your hip to grasp himself by the base and you feel him shift on top of you, his stance changing, widening, his weight settling differently. 

Dimly, you recall he said something about heat. Like an animal. That must’ve been what he meant, because he’s mounting you like a beast about to rut its mate. The noises he makes are feral, grunting and growling with his teeth in your neck as he folds himself against your back with his hips molded to yours. He moves completely on instinct, humping mindlessly. Every quick jolt drives him closer to your entrance until you feel the thick head of his cock stretching you open. 

The forest flashes through your mind. Mihai’s mesmerism drags you there again and somehow you are both places at once, surrounded by beige walls and evergreens, the scent of coffee beans mingling with moss. Mihai takes you on the floor of the Komorebi Cafe and in this strange wilderness, his claws scraping broken tiles and tangling in the grass. He drags his fangs out of your flesh and pants against the slow ooze of blood trickling down your neck, but his hips never stop moving. If anything, he ruts even harder now that it’s all he has to focus on.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice in your mind gone breathless. “Thank you for this gift. For your blood and your trust. Next time will be different. I’ll show you how it’s meant to be.”

You couldn’t answer him if you wanted to. His relentless, animalistic fucking drives the air from your lungs and the pleasure echoes, the warmth of satiation and burning lust blooming in the connection between you. You lose grip on everything but the sensations of being claimed.

Mihai doesn’t tell you he’s close but his body warns you. There’s a growl rumbling beneath every sound he makes and he starts shifting restlessly, subconsciously searching for the right angle to press even deeper into your tight heat. His stance widens and his nonstop pounding rhythm falters, his thrusts getting slower, more rolling and grinding, refusing to pull all the way out of your body. He drags you to the edge with him with wave after wave of smothering mesmerism, emptying your mind of everything but your shared pleasure.

You cum when he does. He doesn’t give you any other choice. You cry out and tremble uncontrollably, consciousness wavering at the onslaught of his ecstasy cresting alongside yours. You feel warm; heavy; truly sated. Full to the brim and sheathed in squeezing, pleasant heat. Mihai pumps his hips in several last, frantic thrusts. He stays buried inside you until he’s fully spent and soft. When he pulls out, his cum spurts out around him and trickles slowly down your thighs. He collapses onto his side and drags you with him, still catching his breath. 

“Need something for mending,” he says raggedly, holding out his hand. There’s footsteps; shadows moving over you both. Mihai holds you, murmuring indistinctly and rubbing your back when a sudden cold, wet sensation on your neck makes you whimper. Feeding often leaves you a little groggy but this is worse than you’re used to. Everything sounds muffled and you can barely keep your eyes open. Mihai strokes your cheek. “You’re alright. It’s a side effect of my venom. I’ve got you.”

You don’t want to fall asleep here but exhaustion tugs your mind deeper into the dark. You cling to Mihai and he keeps you curled against his chest, stroking your spine reassuringly. “Wanna go home,” you mutter.

“I know. I’ll get us there,” Mihai says. He nuzzles into your neck and hums softly, sounding perfectly content. 

“I didn’t…I meant…” 

“Hush. I know,” he says gently. Connected and nested in your conscious mind, he knows you’re lying. You didn’t think of your old apartment when you said “home.” You thought of ornate wrought iron gates, a long, steep driveway, and the parlor where you spend most of your time. 

Writing was common enough to earn its own chapter in school textbooks.

Anything written directly onto one soulmate’s skin would appear on the other’s moments later. Ink. Paint. Marker. Charcoal. Anything that bonded to skin.

The world adapted.

The first time a corporate lackey woke up with eyeliner because their soulmate had gone clubbing the night before, an industry had been born.

Make-up companies sold soulmate-safe eyeliner, lipstick, sports chalk, and any makeup that used synthetic compounds specifically designed not to transfer across writing bonds.

But it cost a shit tone more than the ordinary stuff, so most people didn’t bother.

It was just another part of life.

Damian Wayne had never considered himself lucky. He simply acknowledged facts.

His soulbond was uncommon, but it suited him.

Charcoal had always stained his fingertips. From the time he was old enough to hold it properly, he’d sketched anatomy, architecture, animals, weapons, portraits.

His mother insisted observation was as important as combat. His grandfather insisted beauty existed to be conquered.

Damian decided beauty should simply be understood.

As his sketchbooks multiplied, so did the messages.

A doodle across his wrist. A rough smiley face. Practice strokes. Sometimes things he assumes to be his soulmates friend’s crude humor. Occasionally an absent-minded note written during lessons somewhere across the globe.

He never replied.

Not because he lacked curiosity. He was plenty curious.

But curiosity was a weakness.

That lesson had been taught long before he could remember learning it. The League did not celebrate soulmates. They acknowledged them.

A soulmate was another variable. Another vulnerability. Another weapon waiting to be used.

Children raised within the League were instructed never to trust the bond. Never to assume affection. Never to reveal themselves first.

If your soulmate became known to your enemies, they ceased being a blessing and became a target.

His grandfather called them leverage. His mother called them responsibility. Neither called them love.

By the time Damian was ten, he’d already concluded that the outside world was naïve.

Children giggled over mysterious wounds appearing on their arms. Teenagers filled notebooks trying to guess who was on the other side. Adults got tattooed to find the other before they’d ever exchanged names.

Ridiculous. Your soulmate was simply another person. Potentially useful. Potentially dangerous. Nothing more.

Then Father took him to Gotham. The city believed in soulmates just as readily as it believed in monsters.

Robin learnt pretty quickly that civilians asked too many unnecessary questions.

“Have you met your soulmate?”

“What bond do you have?”

“Is it true you bats don’t have soulmates?”

He ignored every one.

His bond remained hidden beneath gloves, sleeves and armour. His teammates knew he possessed one, none knew which.

Which was intentional.

Dick guessed shared pain, trying to bond with him. Drake theorised dreams. Todd insisted it had to be shared aggression.

Damian allowed the misunderstanding to continue. Knowledge was power, there was no reason to surrender it.

Besides, his soulmate had never written anything worth answering.

Not yet.

You’d spent most of your childhood convinced you were defective.

Not in the way children sometimes decided they were adopted because their parents said no to dessert, no. You thought that something inside of you had been assembled incorrectly.

That fate hadn’t seen your file cause the page accidentally got stuck to another’s.

Everyone had a soulmate.

It was one of the first things children learnt in school, somewhere between tying shoelaces and basic maths. Teachers would explain the different soulbonds with colourful diagrams while students excitedly compared scraped knees and odd dreams.

“I saw them by the ocean last night!”

“My soulmate likes spicy food.”

“I broke my arm when I was five because my soulmate fell out of a tree.”

Children always had stories. You never did.

No mysterious bruises. No shared dreams. No sudden cravings. No inexplicable emotions. Nothing.

At first your parents smiled. “They’re probably just a late bloomer.” “Some bonds take longer to show.” “Just wait.”

So you waited.

You turned seven. Nothing.

Eight. Nothing.

Ten. Still nothing.

Eventually your parents stopped saying, “Just wait.” And started booking appointments instead.

Doctors asked endless questions. Had you ever blacked out unexpectedly? Experienced vivid dreams? Random pain? Hearing voices? Objects appearing? Writing?

You answered no so many times it became automatic.

Test after test came back blank. There wasn’t anything medically wrong with you.

“Symptoms usually present in early childhood,” one specialist explained gently while flicking through your file. “It’s… unusual.”

Unusual.

That was the word everyone preferred. Not broken. Not defective. Just unusual.

Children weren’t nearly as polite.

“What do you mean you don’t have one?”

“Everyone has one.”

“You must be lying.”

Some looked at you with pity. Others with suspicion. One kid had actually asked if soulmates could reject people before they were born.

You laughed along.

Then cried in the bathroom afterwards.

By fifteen, you’d stopped expecting anything to happen. You’d accepted it. Maybe fate had really skipped you. Maybe whatever invisible force connected billions of people had simply… forgotten.

Life moved on. It had to.

School still expected assignments. Friends still invited you out. The world didn’t stop just because yours felt slightly emptier than everyone else’s.

There was only one strange thing.

Your fingers.

Every now and then they’d end up stained a dusty grey-black. Not all of them. Usually just the pads of your fingers. Sometimes the side of your palm.

Like charcoal.

You’d notice it halfway through class or while eating dinner.

“…Huh.”

You’d scrub at it absent-mindedly. Soap didn’t work. Water didn’t work. Hand sanitiser didn’t work.

It never smudged onto anything else either. It simply existed. Then it’d disappear by the next morning as though it’d never been there at all.

You blamed whatever you’d touched that day.

Cheap pencils, old books, dust, maybe the graphite from your mechanical pencil had somehow stained your skin.

It wasn’t worth thinking about. There were bigger things to worry about than mysteriously dirty fingers.

After all, if you actually had a soulmate..

Surely something would’ve happened by now?

↑↓←→

The questions never really stopped. They just became less frequent. Less innocent.

Children asked because they were curious. Adults asked because they couldn’t imagine another answer.

“So..” a co-worker leaned against the break room counter, stirring too much sugar into their coffee. “Have you met your soulmate yet?”

You smiled automatically. “No.”

“They overseas or something?”

“Maybe.”

“Long-distance must suck.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

They laughed.

You laughed too. It was easier. People preferred believing your soulmate was somewhere out there rather than accepting you might not have one at all.

The truth made them uncomfortable.

Eventually the conversation drifted elsewhere. It always did. You’d become good at redirecting it. Years of practice had a way of doing that.

Nowadays, the mention of soulmates barely stung. It was more like pressing on an old bruise. Tender, but manageable. Something you’d learnt to live around.

Your phone buzzed. A message from a mate.

Movie tonight?

You smiled.

Only if you’re buying popcorn.

Hell no.

Then no deal.

A few more messages followed before the conversation inevitably dissolved into memes and poorly edited reaction images.

Normal.

Wonderfully, painfully, normal.

You slipped your phone into your pocket and reached for your bag.

Halfway there, you paused.

“…Seriously?”

Grey-black dust coated the tips of your fingers again.

You rubbed your thumb over your index finger. Nothing came off.

“Must’ve touched something.” You couldn’t even remember saying it aloud anymore. It had become a habit.

See charcoal → Blame the environment → Move on.

You grabbed your bag anyway. By tomorrow morning it’d be gone. It always was.

Outside, the city carried on around you. People hurried between work and home. Couples argued over dinner plans. Parents held children’s hands as they crossed busy streets.

A teenager absent-mindedly scribbled something across their forearm while waiting at the lights, grinning when fresh handwriting appeared beside it a heartbeat later.

Their soulmate had replied.

Lucky them.

You looked away before they noticed you staring. There was no point wondering what it felt like. You’d made peace with the fact that you’d probably never know.

Or at least, you’d gotten very good at pretending you had.

Jason had made every news station in Gotham before breakfast.

Damian hadn’t intended to watch it. He’d walked into the kitchen cause Alfred had insisted everyone eat together while they were all in Gotham, only to find the tv already running quietly in the corner. A familiar image occupied nearly every channel. Red Hood disappearing across a rooftop. The freeze-frame paused just as the damaged plating along his hip shifted enough to expose black ink beneath.

A soulmark.

The reporters seemed incapable of discussing anything else.

“The identity of Red Hood’s soulmate remains unknown…

…social media has already begun comparing the mark to historical soulmate registries…

…raising renewed questions about whether Gotham’s vigilantes are adequately protecting those connected to them…”

Damian looked away before the segment finished.

People had always been intrusive where soulmates were concerned. They asked strangers questions they’d never dream of asking otherwise. When were you meeting them? Were you together? Were you trying? Had you rejected them? Did they reject you? Had they wanted you when they saw you?

It was strange what the existence of a bond entitled complete strangers to know.

Todd hadn’t commented on it once. Neither had Father.

Though, neither needed to.

The manor simply carried on as though nothing had happened, despite the fact every member of the family had undoubtedly seen the footage already.

Alfred served breakfast. Dick complained about the coffee. Tim answered emails between bites without looking up from his phone.

Only the occasional glance toward Jason betrayed that anyone had noticed at all.

Damian appreciated that.

If the mark had belonged to him, he would have expected the same courtesy.

←↓→↑

He found himself wondering whether his soulmate had seen the broadcast.

Statistically, they probably had. Everyone watched the news after a vigilante was involved.

Would they have recognised the mark for what it was? Would they have wondered what sort of person belonged to Red Hood? Would they have imagined someone dangerous?

The thought irritated him more than it should have.

His soulmate had no reason to concern themselves with another person’s bond. Their attention belonged elsewhere.

His gaze dropped, almost unconsciously, to the inside of his own wrist.

Nothing.

No fresh handwriting wound around his skin. No absent-minded doodles.

Nothing had appeared there in years.

When he was young, the messages had arrived often enough that he eventually began expecting them.

Never on a schedule or enough to establish a pattern. Just, frequently enough that every few weeks he would wake to find unfamiliar handwriting stretching across his arm.

Are you there?

Sometimes that was all. Other times there was more.

Today’s been really bad.

I don’t want to be by myself right now.

The handwriting had always been clumsy.

Large letters that struggled to stay in straight lines, becoming neater with every passing year as childish motor skills gradually matured into something steadier. Occasionally there would be little smudges where the side of a hand had dragged through still-wet ink.

He had read every message.

Yet he had never answered one.

At the time, the decision had been obvious.

The League did not encourage soulmates. They acknowledged their existence because denying reality served no purpose, but sentiment had never held any value there. Your soulmate represented another avenue through which enemies might reach you. Another weakness to be managed.

Replying achieved nothing.

Years later, Father had reached the same conclusion for entirely different reasons.

Bruce had never instructed him not to respond, but he had agreed that anonymity offered protection. A soulmate nobody could identify was a soulmate nobody could target.

Objectively, Damian knew he had done the correct thing. Which only made one question increasingly difficult to dismiss.

Why had they stopped?

They had simply… disappeared. The last message had appeared years ago. Nothing after that.

No questions. No frustrated scribbles written during boring classes. No childish attempts to reach whoever existed on the opposite end of the bond. Just silence.

He had assumed, at first, that they were waiting. Perhaps they expected an answer. When none came, they would eventually try again. They always had before.

Except this time they hadn’t.

It should not have occupied his thoughts as often as it did.

People moved on. Children abandoned imaginary friends. Adults stopped believing in impossible things. Perhaps they had simply reached an age where writing to someone who refused to acknowledge them became embarrassing.

A reasonable conclusion.

One he found himself disliking more every time it occurred to him.

Because that implied they had given up.

On him.

Damian closed the sketchbook resting on his desk with more force than intended. The sound echoed briefly through his room before the manor settled back into its usual quiet.

He remained staring at the cover for several long moments.

He had done exactly what he was taught.

Exactly what logic dictated.

Exactly what would keep both of them safest.

So why did it feel strangely.. wrong that they had finally listened?

Your parents used to joke that they had never really known privacy.

If your father stubbed his toe in the kitchen, your mother would wince from the garden. If your mother caught the flu, your father would spend the week curled beneath blankets beside her, feverish despite never catching the virus himself.

Broken bones, headaches, paper cuts, childbirth. Nothing belonged to just one of them. The pain had always been shared.

But in a way, so was relief.

You grew up watching them laugh over bruises that appeared in matching places, your father kissing your mother’s scraped knuckles that had never touched the pavement because he had been the one to fall.

They carried each other’s suffering so naturally that neither of them seemed to remember there had ever been a time when they hadn’t.

“That’s what soulmates do,” your mother would say whenever you asked.

“No one hurts alone.”

It was spoken like a promise. A fact as certain as gravity. As ordinary as breathing.

You believed it. Everyone did. Then, slowly, your parents stopped talking about your soulmate.

First, they stopped asking whether anything new had appeared. Then the appointments became routine instead of hopeful. Then they stopped mentioning them altogether.

Your father buried himself in research.

Your mother lingered outside your bedroom more often than she used to.

One night, you woke to voices drifting through the hallway.

“…there has to be something they missed.”

“They didn’t.”

“They’re wrong.”

“They’ve repeated every test.”

“They’re still wrong.”

Silence.

Then your mother’s voice, barely louder than a whisper. “What if…”

Another silence, longer this time.

“What if there isn’t anyone?”

You had never heard your father shout before. “There has to be!”

“There doesn’t.”

His voice cracked. “Don’t.”

“You know it’s possible.”

“No.”

“If they’re right..” she whispered. “…then one day they’ll get hurt, and no one will feel it with them.”

The house fell silent.

You stared at the ceiling until morning.

After that, something changed. Your parents still loved each other. They still loved you. But grief settled into the spaces between them.

Your father refused to accept the diagnosis. He found specialists halfway across the country, obscure researchers overseas, experimental studies no one had ever heard of. Every answer that came back the same only convinced him the question hadn’t been asked correctly.

Your mother went with him every time. But eventually even she had stopped believing that there would be a different answer.

When she stopped asking for another opinion, your father never forgave her for it.

Years later, they divorced.

Two people who loved each other deeply enough to share every wound, discovering there was one pain they couldn’t carry together.

You.

Neither of them blamed you.

They looked at you with the same expression people reserved for tragedies no one had caused.

You grew older. Doctors wrote papers about you. Researchers asked for blood samples. Every form returned with the same impossible conclusion.

Inconclusive.

You tried telling yourself it didn’t matter. People survived without parents. Without friends. Without homes. You could survive without a soulmate.

Except no one else ever had. Not once. There hadn’t been a single case of someone born without a soulmate ever.

You weren’t unlucky. You were impossible. And impossibilities weren’t supposed to exist.

Sometimes you’d catch your parents looking at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention.

You couldn’t tell if it was disappointment, resentment, or grief.

You stopped wondering why fate had forgotten you.

It followed you through school. Through birthdays. Through every doctor who couldn’t explain you. Through every pitying glance. Until, one day, it stopped sounding like fear.

It simply sounded true.

You should have never been born.

The food on the plate in front of you had gone cold a long time ago.

You’d bought it mostly to justify occupying the table, pushing fries around the paper tray more than actually eating them.

Around you, the food court buzzed with the usual afternoon crowd. Children tugged exhausted parents toward the dessert stands. Teenagers laughed too loudly over shared drinks. Somewhere nearby, someone dropped a tray, followed immediately by the chorus of sympathetic groans from strangers.

You were halfway through convincing yourself to leave when a shadow fell across your table.

“Mind if I sit here?”

You glanced up.

Whoever this person is was about your age, maybe a little older. Attractive enough that a few nearby heads had already turned in their direction before looking away again.

“There are plenty of empty tables.”

“There are.” They smiled easily. “But you are sitting at this one.”

You stared for another second before giving a small shrug. “If you want.”

They slid into the seat opposite you without hesitation.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You expected the silence to become awkward. Instead, they stole one of your fries.

“You weren’t eating them.”

“I was considering it.”

“Well, now you have to. Can’t let me win.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. It surprised both of you.

Then they were grinning. “I knew you could smile.”

You rolled your eyes, though there wasn’t much annoyance behind it.

This person was.. easy. Felt like the sort of person who filled silences without suffocating them.

Conversation came pretty naturally after that. Nothing particularly important. Complaints about the shopping centre. The impossibility of finding decent coffee. A movie neither of you had actually finished despite insisting you’d eventually get around to it.

It was pleasant. Dangerously so. You caught yourself relaxing.

Then your phone buzzed and you caught the time.

“I should get going.”

“So soon?”

“I’ve got things to do.”

“Fair enough.” They stood as you gathered your things, rocking back on their heels for a moment before patting their pockets.

“Damn.”

“What?”

“I don’t have any paper.”

“…Congratulations?”

They laughed. “I was trying to ask for your number.”

“Oh.”

You hadn’t expected that.

“I mean…” They rubbed the back of their neck sheepishly. “You’re hot. So I thought I’d at least give it a shot.”

You hesitated just long enough for them to snap their fingers.

“I’ve got an idea.”

Before you could ask what they meant, they reached for your wrist, uncapping a pen they’d pulled from their pocket.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

Without really waiting for an answer, they turned your arm over and, with surprisingly neat handwriting, scribbled a phone number across the inside of your forearm.

The pen tickled against your skin.

“There,” they said, clicking the cap back on. “Now you don’t have an excuse.” They winked, gathering their things.

You looked down automatically to the black ink stretching across your forearm.

Their name: Ash. Their number: 0401 863. ‘Call me’ written smaller underneath.

It should have been nothing. Just ink. Just another stranger taking a chance.

Instead, it made your chest tighten. For a fleeting, impossible second, your mind brought up a memory your body hadn’t forgotten.

Small hands. Crayon pressed too hard against skin.

Are you there?

Another message.

Please answer.

Another.

I think something’s wrong with me.

You blinked hard.

The memory vanished as quickly as it had come.

“…You okay?”

You looked back up, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Yeah.”

Your fingers unconsciously drifted over the fresh ink. “I just…”

You couldn’t explain why seeing words on your arm suddenly made your chest ache.

“…haven’t written on myself in a very long time.”

The afternoon was loud. Far too loud for Damian’s liking.

He sat at the edge of the group, his posture perfect, expression a mask of practiced indifference. Public outings required a level of restraint that felt unnatural to him.

Dick was laughing at something Jason had said, and even Bruce seemed slightly less tense than usual.

Damian didn't care about the noise. Or about the conversation. He was mostly preoccupied with the sensation of the sunlight hitting his forearms. For the first time in years, he wasn't wearing the long sleeves or the tactical gloves he used to shroud his skin.

He had decided, with a cold sort of logic, that the bond was dead.

The silence from his skin had lasted so long years of nothingness that he had finally accepted the most likely reality: his soulmate had stopped looking for him. You had given up.

He was fine with that. It was efficient.

Then, the sting began.

It wasn't a sharp pain, but a slow, itching warmth, as if a heated needle were dragging across the underside of his left forearm. Damian stiffened. He kept his hands resting on the table, but his heart gave a singular, heavy thud against his ribs.

No, he thought. Not now.

He watched the skin. It started as a faint, dark smudge, then the lines began to bleed through the surface of his flesh, as if an invisible hand were pressing a pen into his muscle.

Dick was the first to notice the change in his posture. "Dami? You okay?"

Damian didn't answer. He couldn't. He was too busy staring at his own arm.

The writing was appearing in elegant, sweeping loops. Cursive. It was beautiful, flowing, and utterly offensive.

Ash

0401 863

Call me ;)

Damian’s breath hitched. His eyes scanned the script, his brain overworking with the mechanical speed of a detective.

He knew your handwriting. He had spent a decade studying the messy, jagged print of the messages he had received as a child.

His soulmate’s handwriting had always been blunt. Childish, hurried, and unrefined. You’d written in print, scrawled in desperation.

This wasn't it. This was polished. This was intentional. This was the handwriting of a stranger.

Someone had held your arm. Someone had pressed a pen to your skin. Someone had dared to claim a space on a body that belonged, by divine right, to him.

"Whoa," Jason leaned in, his eyes widening as he spotted the dark lines on Damian's arm. "Is that... is that a soulmark? Since when do you have a writing bond?"

The table went silent as the family stared. For the first time in his life, the secret was out. The quiet, private connection he had guarded like a weapon was visible for everyone to see.

"Damian?" Bruce asked, his voice low, laced with a rare note of surprise. "You never said-"

"Be quiet," Damian snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

He wasn't looking at them. He was staring at the name. It felt like a slur.

Ash

He could feel the phantom sensation of the stranger’s hand on his skin, a greasy, intrusive warmth that made him want to scrub his arm until it bled.

It had been years. He had waited in the silence, convinced you had forgotten him, convinced you had moved on to a life where he didn't exist. And then, finally, the silence broke. The bond had screamed back to life after years of dormancy.

But it wasn't a "hello." It wasn't an "are you there?" It wasn't a cry for help.

It was a phone number. It was an invitation. It was a stranger's attempt to steal the only thing Damian was supposed to truly call his own.

His hands curled into fists on the table, his knuckles turning white. The rage was quiet, but it was absolute. Someone was touching you. Someone was talking to you. Someone was trying to take the person who had spent a lifetime writing into the void, waiting for a response that wasn’t coming.

And the response was a stranger's name.

"Damian, you're shaking," Dick said softly, reaching out a hand.

Damian pulled his arm back, tucking it close to his body, hiding the elegant, loathsome cursive from their eyes.

His gaze was dark, focused, and predatory.

The sound of the city became nothing more than a dull roar in the background. Damian didn't hear Bruce's worried voice or Jason’s insensitive joke. He didn’t see Tim and Dick’s shared glances. The only thing that existed was the black ink on his skin.

He slid out of the booth, his movements jerky and frantic.

"Damian, where are you going?" Bruce asked, his voice sharp and commanding.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. If he spoke, he was afraid of what might come out.

He stormed away from the table, ignoring the confused looks from his family, and practically ran toward the restroom.

The moment he locked the door behind him, he collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold tile. He yanked his sleeve up, his fingers digging into the skin around the words.

Call me ;)

He hated it. He hated the person who had written it. He hated the precision of the cursive, how confident and sure it looked. This was a person who had no idea who they were dealing with. They had no idea that by writing on his soulmate, they had essentially written a death sentence for themselves if he could ever find them.

But as he stared at the ink, the rage began to ebb, replaced by something far worse.

He felt sick.

He felt small.

He hadn't answered his soulmate.

For years, he had read your heartbreaks, your fears, your lonely pleas, and he had met you with sterile, echoing silence. He had waited. He had played a game of patience, convinced that if he just waited long enough, you would eventually find him on your own.

And now you had. You had found someone else.

"You should have kept writing," he whispered, his voice cracking. He pressed his forehead against his knees, his eyes burning. "You should have waited for me."

He felt pathetic. The great Damian Wayne, the heir to the League of Assassins, was currently huddled in a public restroom tearing up over a phone number.

He felt like a child again, the one who would read the messages on his arm and then uselessly try to rub them away with a damp cloth, pretending they never existed, even as he felt his heart break every single time.

He reached for the paper towels on the dispenser and grabbed a handful, soaking them in water. He held his arm out, his hand shaking, and began to scrub at the ink.

At the name.

He rubbed harder. The skin turned red, the water and rough paper scratching at the surface of his flesh. He wanted it gone. He wanted the name to vanish, to disappear as if it had never been written. He wanted the stranger to be erased from existence.

But the ink wouldn't budge.

"I'll find you," he whispered, his voice ragged. "I'll find you and I'll make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He didn't have a plan. He didn't know who the person was or where you were. But as he sat there in the dim light of the restroom, his chest heaving and his arm raw and red, there was a new, sharper purpose in his eyes.

He had ignored you long enough. Now, he would be the one doing the hunting.

The evening had passed in a blur of crowds, train announcements, and familiar exhaustion that settled over Gotham once the workday ended.

By the time you unlocked your apartment door, your attention was fixed on the familia routine. Keys in the bowl beside the entrance. Bag on the chair. Shoes kicked off near the wall.

You were halfway through rubbing at your eyes when something on your arm had caught your attention.

For a moment, your brain failed to make sense of what you were seeing.

The writing was gone.

You stared down at your forearm.

The name that had been written near your wrist had disappeared beneath a thick streak of black ink. The number stretched somewhere underneath it, hidden beneath layer after layer of aggressive, uneven marker.

Whoever had done it had covered the writing completely, obscuring every letter beneath a blown-out dark smear.

A hundred explanations flashed through your head, each more ridiculous than the last. None of them made sense.

Slowly, you turned your arm beneath the light.

The ink stayed where it was. Fresh enough that it still looked almost glossy beneath the overhead lamp.

Your fingers brushed across it. Dry.

You frowned.

The stranger's number should have still been there. You'd checked it at least three times on the train ride home.

Twice because you were considering calling, then again because you couldn't quite believe someone had actually flirted with you so outright.

Now it looked as though someone had taken a marker and buried every trace of it.

Your stomach tightened. Your mind going back years ago.

To one of many small examination rooms. Familiar bright white walls. The smell of disinfectant.

You were eight years old, legs dangling from a chair too tall for you.

"Have you ever tried writing on yourself?" the doctor had asked gently.

You remembered laughing.

Of course you had.

Every kid who hadn’t gotten hurt by another yet did.

You'd covered your arms with marker for years. Names. Questions. Drawings. Entire conversations directed at a person who never answered.

Nothing had ever happened.

The specialists called it unusual. Some forums called it heartbreaking. Or fake.

Your gaze dropped back to the black ink covering your arm. Something had written over that number. Something had responded.

You didn’t feel any excitement. Or hope. If anything, what you felt seemed closer to dread.

Hope was dangerous.

Hope was what had kept your parents scheduling appointment after appointment, convinced the next specialist would finally have an answer. Hope was what left your mother crying behind closed bathroom doors after another inconclusive test. Hope was what taught you, over and over again, that wanting something badly enough didn't make it real.

You'd spent years trying not to care. Years learning how to ignore the empty space where everyone else seemed to carry certainty. One strange mark wasn't enough to undo that.

You pulled your sleeve down over your arm. The black streak vanished beneath the fabric. Better. Safer.

"Means nothing," you muttered.

You didn't believe your own words.

The rest of the evening passed normally enough. Dinner. Dishes. Television playing quietly in the background. The ordinary rhythm of a life that had long since moved on from childhood fantasies.

Yet every so often, your hand drifted toward your covered forearm.

Every time it did, the same feeling returned. An uncomfortable awareness that something had changed. After years of silence, something had finally answered.

And you had no idea whether or not that was a good thing.

→↓←↑

You shuffled into the bathroom still half asleep, already thinking about getting an energy drink more than anything else.

The mirror was fogged around the edges from the shower running in the neighbouring apartment, and the cold tiles beneath your feet made you wish you’d bothered finding your slippers.

You rolled your sleeve up almost absent-mindedly. The black streak was still there.

You reached automatically for the sink, wetting a corner of the hand towel before rubbing experimentally at the edge of the ink.

Nothing.

“Figures.” The muttered complaint barely left your mouth before something caught your eye.

You frowned. The towel paused against your skin.

You leaned closer to the mirror.

Yesterday, the marker had been solid. Messy, thick, almost violent in the way it covered the stranger’s handwriting. Now there was a gap big enough for your skin to show through.

You were certain it hadn’t been there before.

For a ridiculous moment, you wondered whether you’d accidentally rubbed some of the ink away on your sleeve.

Then you noticed the line beneath it. Fresh ink.

Your stomach sank. The handwriting wasn’t yours. It wasn’t the stranger’s either. The stranger had written in looping cursive, every letter rounded and practiced. This was precise. Almost painfully neat. Each stroke looked deliberate, measured before it had ever touched skin.

Three words.

Don’t call them.

You read them once. Then again. Your eyes drifted over the sentence a third time, as though repetition alone might make it mean something different.

It didn’t. It remained exactly what it had been the first time. An instruction.

Not a greeting. Not a question. Not even an explanation. Just…

Don’t call them.

You found yourself looking around the apartment before you could stop yourself. The living room. The kitchen. The locked front door. Empty.

“…Okay.” You laughed under your breath.

Nothing about this was funny, but the alternative felt insane.

You’d spent most of your life wishing something - anything would happen. That one day there’d be a mistake. A delayed bond. An explanation.

Now, standing alone in your bathroom with unfamiliar handwriting on your arm, you wanted a perfectly rational answer more than anything.

Your fingers hovered over the words. Careful not to smudge them. The ink was dry. As though it had been there for hours.

You swallowed.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you walked back into the kitchen, dug through the junk drawer until you found an old biro, and returned to the bathroom.

The tip hovered over your forearm.

You stared at the empty patch of skin beneath the unfamiliar message for nearly a minute.

This was stupid.

You knew exactly how soulmate writing worked.

Or rather, you knew how it was supposed to work.

Children discovered it by accident. Teenagers filled each other’s arms with jokes. Adults stopped because texting was easier. Nobody your age stood in their bathroom writing into empty space. Not unless they’d completely lost it.

“Whatever.”

The pen touched your skin. Your handwriting hadn’t changed much since childhood.

Still print. Still slightly untidy. Still pressed a little too hard.

Who are you?

You capped the pen almost immediately afterwards.

Nothing happened.

You’d expected as much.

You were already turning away when warmth spread beneath your skin. It wasn’t painful, just unexpected.

You looked down instinctively.

The place beneath your question tingled, the sensation travelling slowly enough that you could follow it with your eyes.

And then Ink.

Not appearing all at once. Growing. One careful letter after another.

The ink surface beneath your skin one deliberate stroke at a time, each line settling into place before the next began. There was no rush to it. Whoever was writing wasn’t hesitating, but they weren’t hurrying either.

Like they knew you would wait.

By the time the sentence finished, your pulse had climbed into your throat.

Don’t accept things from strangers.

You frowned.

That wasn’t an answer.

Your eyes flicked up to the question still sitting above it.

Who are you?

They’d ignored it completely.

Another line began to appear. The warmth returned beneath your skin, travelling just ahead of the fresh ink.

Don’t let anyone else touch you like that again.

Your eyebrows slowly pulled together. “…That’s what you’re worried about?”

After everything. After years of nothing. After every specialist, every appointment, every unanswered question.. Whoever was on the other end had apparently decided that the pressing issue was a phone number.

You looked down at the biro still resting in your hand.

It felt strangely inadequate now.

Slowly, you uncapped it again. Your handwriting looked clumsy beside the careful precision of theirs.

You didn’t answer my question.

You hesitated, then added another beneath it.

Who are you?

The reply came quicker this time. Almost immediately.

The familiar warmth spread beneath your skin, and before you’d even finished reading your own words, fresh ink had begun to weave itself between them.

That doesn’t matter yet.

The sentence continued without pause.

Tell me whether you called them.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

The absurdity of it almost made you laugh. That was it? No introduction. No explanation. Not even an acknowledgement that this was impossible. Just another question about someone you’d shared fries with for twenty minutes.

Your fingers rubbed absent-mindedly at the bridge of your nose. “This is unbelievable.”

You looked back down at your arm. The neat handwriting stared back at you.

You sighed through your nose before writing again.

No.

The ink had barely dried before another reply began. Only two words this time.

Good. Don’t.

You stared at them. The corners of your mouth twitched despite yourself.

“You’re bossy.” There was no irritation behind the words. Mostly disbelief.

You’d finally found the person who was supposedly meant to answer every question you’d spent half your life asking, and apparently they preferred giving orders instead.

Damian hadn't realised how completely his priorities had shifted until he found himself standing in front of the Batcomputer, staring at an unfinished mission report he'd been pretending to read for nearly ten minutes.

He couldn't remember a single word.

His eyes kept returning to the faded writing winding around the inside of his forearm.

Nine messages. That was all.

It should have been insignificant.

He had exchanged more words with criminals before incapacitating them.

Yet somehow those nine short sentences had managed to uproot routines that had taken years to build.

He read them again.

Who are you?

Don't accept things from strangers.

Don't let anyone else touch you like that again.

You didn't answer my question.

Who are you?

That doesn't matter yet.

Tell me whether you called them.

No.

Good. Don't.

His thumb brushed unconsciously across one of the final words. Good.

It shouldn't have brought him relief.

But it did. An almost embarrassing amount.

The stranger had failed. You hadn't called them. Whatever smile you'd given that person, whatever polite conversation you'd entertained, whatever curiosity they’d mistaken for interest had ended there.

You had chosen not to continue it.

Damian hadn't realised how tightly he'd been holding himself together until that single word had loosened something inside his chest.

Not enough. Never enough. But enough that he could breathe again. For the first time since your messages appeared.

Then the relief faded. Because relief left room for thought. And thought was infinitely crueler.

Someone else had reached you first. Someone else had stood close enough to touch your wrist. Someone else had looked directly into your face. Someone else knew what colour your eyes were.

Damian didn't.

Someone else knew how tall you were. How your voice sounded. Whether you smiled with your mouth closed or laughed loudly enough to turn heads.

Someone else had information Damian should have had years ago.

The irrationality of the thought didn't make it disappear. He understood perfectly well that you hadn't betrayed him.

How could you? You didn't know him.

As far as you were concerned, your soulmate had ignored every message you'd ever written.

Every birthday. Every question. Every lonely evening. Every desperate attempt to find the person destined to answer.

He had been silent.

Not by choice. But silence looked the same from the other side.

He knew that.

If the positions had been reversed… If he had written for years.. If every answer had been met with nothing.. Would he have waited forever?

…

He wanted to say yes.

But he couldn’t.

His hand curled into a fist.

You'd lived an entire life while he wasn't there. Years of mornings. Of birthdays. Of scraped knees, illnesses, graduations, celebrations, disappointments.

Had someone hugged you when things became too much? Who comforted you when you cried? Who celebrated your successes? Who remembered your favourite food? Who knew your drink order? Who made you laugh after terrible days?

Questions multiplied faster than he could suppress them.

Did you live alone? Did you have roommates? Did you lock your doors? Did you own any means of defending yourself? Were you careful walking home at night? Had anyone ever hurt you?

Yesterday had already answered one of those questions.

Yes. Someone had.

Maybe not physically. But someone had ignored your discomfort long enough for you to write to a stranger instead.

To him.

You had reached for someone you couldn't even identify because the people around you hadn't been enough.

That thought settled somewhere deep beneath his ribs. Heavy and permanent.

He looked again at the sentence he'd written. Don't let anyone else touch you like that again.

He hadn't thought before writing it. There hadn't been time. Logic had come afterward. The wording had been possessive. Demanding. Unlike him.

No. Exactly like him. Just... stripped bare.

He closed his eyes. You must have thought he was insane. Some anonymous soulmate who vanished for decades only to return issuing orders. He would have been irritated too.

No.

He would have blocked himself.

Yet...

You hadn't.

You'd argued. Questioned him. Demanded answers. But you hadn't stopped writing.

Why?

Curiosity? Hope? Loneliness? Or had something inside you recognised the same impossible pull clawing through him?

He hated not knowing. He hated uncertainty. He hated relying on something as intangible as fate.

His entire life had been built on eliminating uncertainty. Gather information. Observe.Investigate. Prepare. Control what could be controlled. The League had taught him that. His father had refined it.

The soulbond ignored every single one of those principles.

It had expected him to wait. To trust. To believe.

He had. For years.

Where had it gotten either of you?

You alone in a shopping centre. Him halfway across the city learning about it after the fact.

No. Enough.

He opened his eyes.

The Batcomputer came alive beneath his fingertips. Monitors illuminated one after another, blue light reflecting across his face. Access permissions unfolded without resistance.

Traffic cameras. Retail security networks. Public transport footage. Cell tower data. Facial recognition databases. Search parameters. Time. Location. Shopping centre.

He could hear his father's voice in the back of his mind.

"People deserve privacy, Damian."

Normally, he would have agreed. He would have waited until you chose to reveal yourself. Normally.

Yesterday someone had approached you.

Tomorrow someone else might.

He had spent years believing fate would keep you safe until it brought you together. Yesterday had demonstrated exactly how fragile that assumption was.

For most of his life, Damian Wayne had believed his greatest weakness would be failing his mission.

He understood now that he'd been wrong.

His greatest weakness had a heartbeat.

That somewhere out there, someone was completely unaware that the heir to Batman was already searching every camera in Gotham just to catch a single glimpse of the face he'd imagined since childhood.

His finger pressed the key.

The search began.

↑←↓→

Finding you hadn’t been particularly difficult. Not once Damian started looking.

The shopping centre gave him a face. The face gave him transport records. Transport records became a place of work. A place of work became an address.

Within four days, he knew more about your routine than you did.

You bought the same energy drink from the convenience store three mornings out of five, apologised to inanimate objects whenever you bumped into them, and forgot to eat lunch often enough that the café downstairs had begun recognising the pattern.

You had a habit of reading while waiting for pedestrian lights to change. You wore headphones without turning any music on whenever you didn’t want strangers talking to you. You checked your pockets twice before locking your front door.

You laughed with your whole face. You rubbed your eyes whenever you became overwhelmed.

You were, Damian decided, catastrophically easy to lose.

And even easier to protect.

The first time he introduced himself, it was as Damian Wayne. Not your soulmate. Just the youngest Wayne.

Professionally interested in one of Wayne Enterprises’ newest projects.

Your company had recently entered into a partnership with Wayne Enterprises.

You’d smiled.

Held out your hand.

Introduced yourself with the same easy politeness you seemed to offer everyone.

He’d looked at your outstretched hand for the briefest moment before taking it.

His fingers closed around yours carefully. Almost reverently.

“So,” you’d said with an awkward laugh, “I guess we’ll be seeing each other a lot.”

“Yes.”

You’d mistaken the certainty in his voice for confidence.

It wasn’t. It was a statement of fact.

After that, he simply… remained.

Meetings that didn’t strictly require his attendance somehow did. Business lunches became routine. Coffee would already be waiting on your desk before you arrived.

When your workload became unreasonable, departments quietly shifted resources without anyone quite understanding why. When your apartment building’s security contract came up for renewal, Wayne Security acquired it. When your favourite café struggled financially, it received an anonymous investment.

You never knew.

You only noticed that life had become a little easier.

Financial inconveniences disappeared before they had the chance to reach you.

You thanked luck. Damian thanked himself.

The rest happened so gradually that even you struggled to pinpoint when it had changed.

His hand settled against the small of your back whenever crowds became too dense.

He began walking you to your car after evening meetings.

Your favourite snacks appeared in his office because “you always steal mine.”

He started calling you when you worked late.

Then expecting you to answer.

Then asking where you were if you didn’t.

“You don’t have to keep looking after me,” you’d laughed one afternoon as he wordlessly took the heavier stack of folders from your arms.

“I know.”

“You do realise I’m an adult?”

“I am aware.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

Damian looked at you for a long moment.

No. He thought quietly. I’m simply making up for lost time.

You never noticed the way his eyes lingered on your forearm whenever your sleeves rode up. Or how his expression softened whenever your handwriting appeared there.

The conversations continued. Always through ink. Never in person.

You still didn’t know.

You still believed your soulmate was someone else. Someone you hadn’t met.

Damian intended to keep it that way.

Not forever.

Just until he’d repaired everything the years of silence had broken. Until you trusted him without hesitation. Until you looked for him first. Until your apartment felt less like home than Wayne Manor. Until every decision you made instinctively accounted for him. Until loving him became as natural as breathing.

Then, and only then, would he tell you the truth.

By that point, Damian no longer believed it would matter.

Because by then, there would be nowhere else in the world you would ever want to be except exactly where he’d spent the years wishing you had always been.

Beside him.

You had skipped breakfast after oversleeping, rushed through the front doors of Wayne Enterprises with your hair still damp, and spent the next four hours buried beneath spreadsheets.

Around noon, someone knocked once on your office door.

You looked up. Damian stepped inside carrying a paper bag from the café downstairs. "I noticed you didn't eat."

You smiled despite yourself. "You came all the way down here for that?"

"You become irritable when your blood sugar drops." He set the bag on your desk with the same care he used when placing files in front of Bruce during board meetings.

"I thought you would appreciate the reminder."

It was thoughtful. You thanked him.

By the second week, he stopped asking if you'd eaten. He already knew.

"I brought lunch."

"I'm actually going out with the accounting department."

"You aren't."

You frowned. "We already planned it."

Damian removed a small container from the paper bag before speaking.

"They rescheduled."

"What?"

"They've been called into an emergency budget meeting."

Your phone buzzed. Every person in the group chat was apologising.

Sorry! Something came up.

Rain check?

You stared at the messages. "...That's weird."

"It happens." Damian placed a pair of chopsticks beside your lunch. "Eat before it gets cold."

You hesitated. Then opened the container.

It kept happening.

Whenever coworkers invited you somewhere, plans somehow dissolved before they happened.

A canceled reservation. An urgent meeting. Someone suddenly calling in sick.

After a while, people simply stopped asking.

It wasn't deliberate. It was just easier to assume you were busy. So lunch became something you shared with Damian.

Every day.

Without either of you ever discussing it.

↑←↓→

It was raining when you left the office.

Not super hard, just enough to make the pavement shine beneath the streetlights. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your coat and hurried toward the subway entrance, already thinking about the leftovers waiting in your apartment.

"You'll catch a cold."

You didn't have to turn around. "I'll survive."

Damian fell into step beside you, holding a black umbrella over both of you despite the fact that he'd appeared from nowhere. You hadn't seen him leave the building.

"You've said that before."

"I've also survived before."

"That isn't the point."

You sighed. "Then what is?"

"The point is that your zipper is broken."

Instinctively, you glanced down at your coat. The zipper caught halfway, as it always did. You gave it another tug before giving up. "I know. I'll replace it eventually."

Damian's eyes lingered on the torn seam near your wrist. "No."

You frowned. "No?"

"You won't."

"I literally just said I would."

"You said 'eventually.'" His tone remained perfectly even. "That generally means you have no intention of doing it until circumstances force you to."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

Something about the certainty in his voice irritated you.

"You don't get to decide whether I'm going to buy a coat."

"I already have."

You stopped walking. "So that's it?" You laughed once, short and incredulous. "You've decided for me?"

"You require one."

"I require money more."

"You have sufficient savings for the amount you have worked."

"How would you know what my savings look like?"

For the first time since the conversation began, Damian hesitated. Only for a fraction of a second. "It isn't relevant."

"It becomes relevant when you somehow know how much money I have."

"I know enough."

The answer settled uncomfortably in your stomach. You wanted to ask another question. Instead, you started walking again.

Neither of you spoke for the rest of the trip.

←↑↓→

Three days later, the receptionist downstairs smiled as you entered your apartment building.

"A package came for you this morning."

"I wasn't expecting one."

"It didn't have a return address."

The box was surprisingly heavy.

Inside was a winter coat. Not just any coat. The exact one you'd stopped to look at in a shop window two weeks earlier.

You remembered standing outside the display for maybe thirty seconds before deciding it was too expensive.

You'd never mentioned it to anyone. Not even Damian.

There was no gift receipt.

Nothing except a small envelope tucked beneath the tissue paper.

Inside was a single card.

Your previous coat no longer provided adequate protection. Dispose of it.

No signature. There didn't need to be one.

The coat fit perfectly.

→←↑↓

"You bought me a coat."

Damian didn't look up from the documents spread across his desk. "I replaced one."

"I never asked you to."

"No."

"I told you not to spend money on me."

"I didn't." He finally looked up. "I spent money on an item."

"...Which you then gave to me."

"Correct."

"So you spent money on me."

"No." His expression remained completely serious. "I spent money maintaining an asset under my care."

You stared at him. "An asset?"

He frowned slightly, as if that wasn't the word he'd intended. "A responsibility."

"I'm not your responsibility."

"You are."

"No, Damian. I'm not."

"You arrived at work soaked twice last week because you refused to replace damaged clothing. You developed a cough yesterday."

"I would've bought one eventually."

"You were cold."

"I said I would've bought one."

"But you didn't." He spoke with the same patient tone someone might use while explaining something obvious to a child. "Intent is meaningless if the outcome remains the same."

You opened your mouth to argue but he continued before you could.

"When Titus refuses to come inside during winter, I don't leave him outside because he wishes to stay there."

"...Did you just compare me to your dog?"

"I compared your behavior."

"No. You compared me."

"I compared two living beings who consistently underestimate environmental hazards."

"One of those living beings is a German Shepherd."

"Yes."

"And the other is me."

"Yes."

He didn't understand why that distinction mattered. You could see it in his face. To Damian, the comparison wasn't insulting. It was practical.

Titus couldn't accurately judge the risk of prolonged exposure to the cold.

Neither, apparently, could you.

The fact that you could speak, hold a job, pay taxes, and argue with him didn't alter the underlying equation in his mind.

Capability wasn't measured by adulthood. It was measured by whether you could reliably keep yourself safe.

He'd already reached his conclusion months ago.

You simply hadn't realised he'd been treating you accordingly.

↑←→↓

It started with coffee.

You'd been ordering the same thing from the café in the lobby since your second week at Wayne Enterprises. Large latte. Whole milk. Two pumps of caramel. It was practically muscle memory. Every morning you'd mumble, "The usual, thanks." Tap your card against the terminal, and collect your cup without thinking.

One Tuesday, you took a sip on the way to the elevator and frowned.

Less sweet.

You glanced back toward the café, wondering if the barista had simply forgotten the syrup. It wasn't worth walking back over, so you drank it anyway.

The next morning it tasted the same.

And the morning after that.

By Friday, you assumed they'd changed the recipe.

A few weeks later, you found yourself standing in line behind two coworkers from accounting. They were chatting idly while the baristas rushed through the morning crowd.

"The usual?" the girl behind the register asked as soon as she saw you.

"Yeah, thanks."

She nodded before you'd said another word. "Oat milk latte. One pump vanilla."

You blinked.

"...Sorry?"

"Oat milk latte?" she repeated, already reaching for a cup. "One pump vanilla."

"No, I usually get caramel."

She looked genuinely confused. "You used to."

"I.." You laughed awkwardly. "No, I still do."

She glanced toward another employee behind the espresso machine. "Didn't they change it?"

"They?"

"The gentleman who usually orders for you."

Your smile faltered. "What gentleman?"

"The one who's in here all the time." She frowned, trying to remember. "Dark hair. Gorgeous. Kind of intimidating."

Your stomach sank. "...Damian?"

"That's his name!" She smiled, relieved.

"He said you'd been trying to cut back on sugar. We've been making it that way ever since."

You stared at her. "I never said that."

"Oh."

Her smile dimmed. "I just assumed.." She looked embarrassed. "I thought he was your assistant."

You didn't answer.

You took the coffee she'd already made, murmured a thank you, and walked away before she could apologise.

Halfway across the lobby, you took another sip. It wasn't even bad. In fact.. It tasted exactly the way you expected your coffee to taste.

You couldn't remember when your own preference had changed.

Or whether it ever had.

That Saturday you decided to stop at woolies on the way home.

Your fridge was nearly empty, and for once you had no plans. No meetings. No dinner at Wayne Manor. No texts from Damian reminding you that you'd skipped lunch.

You grabbed a trolley and headed toward the produce section.

Before you'd made it ten feet, someone in the green Woolworths uniform looked up from unpacking a crate of avocados.

"Oh! You're here yourself today."

You smiled politely. "I usually am."

He laughed. "No, your assistant normally collects everything."

The trolley came to a stop. "My assistant?"

"The bloke."

He pointed vaguely toward the online pickup counter.

"Tall. Black hair. Doesn't smile much."

Your grip tightened around the handle. "I... don't have an assistant."

The employee looked between you and the pickup shelves, clearly thinking he'd made some sort of mistake.

"Oh."

A pause.

"I just figured.." He rubbed the back of his neck. "He knows your order off by heart."

"My order?"

"Yeah."

He gestured toward the refrigerated section. "Every Tuesday. Same online pickup. Chicken breast, brown rice, spinach, Greek yoghurt, blueberries, eggs, almonds..."

He kept listing items one after another. Healthy. Measured. Predictable. Almost identical to what Damian packed for lunch whenever he insisted on bringing you food. Nothing like what you usually got.

"You've got one of the easiest orders to pack in the system," he continued with an easy laugh. "Never changes."

You looked down into your empty trolley. "I don't remember ordering any of that."

He blinked. "...Really?"

"I haven't done online groceries in months."

"Oh." His smile returned, uncertain now. "I guess whoever orders for you just has your account."

You wandered the aisles in a daze after that.

You picked up a box of sugary cereal, then hesitated.

Hadn't you loved this?

Or had you only bought it once?

You reached for the frozen buffalo chicken protein pizza.

No. You preferred the greasy cheesy ones.. Didn't you?

By the time you reached the checkout, your trolley contained almost nothing.

A loaf of bread. Milk. Pasta.

You couldn't remember what else belonged in your kitchen. Everything you reached for came with a second thought.

Damian doesn't buy this.

Not I don't like this. Damian doesn't buy this.

Somewhere, without noticing, you'd stopped shopping for yourself and you'd started shopping according to habits that weren't yours.

When you unlocked your apartment later that evening, you opened the pantry and simply stood there.

Brown rice. Herbal teas. Wholegrain crackers. Natural peanut butter. Every shelf was neat. Organised. Restocked.

You tried to remember buying any of it.

You couldn't.

The only thing you were certain of was that Damian liked all of it.

For the first time since you'd met him, a thought occurred to you that made your skin crawl.

You couldn't remember the last decision you'd made that had remained entirely your own.

↑→↓←

Which doors you were expected to use. Which routes you naturally took through Wayne Enterprises without thinking. Which elevators always seemed to arrive when you were alone, and which ones never did.

It wasn’t obvious enough to call it anything. That was the problem.

If someone had asked you directly whether you were being controlled, you would have said no. You still had your job. Your own apartment. Your own name on the lease. You could leave the building whenever you wanted.

Except you didn’t, not without telling Damian first.

And somehow it had become normal.

It had started as courtesy. You told him when you were heading home so he didn’t “worry about your commute.” Then it became easier to mention where you were going so he wouldn’t text. Then it became automatic, like checking the weather before leaving the house.

Now, when you didn’t say anything, things got complicated.

A car would be waiting when you stepped outside anyway. A message would arrive asking if you’d changed plans.

Once, when you’d tried to leave without telling him at all, security had stopped you at the ground floor.

“Mr Wayne requested confirmation,” the guard had said, checking a list he clearly thought you belonged on. “Just routine.”

You remembered standing there, keycard in your hand, realising you didn’t know when your movements had become something that required confirmation.

You hadn’t argued. There was nothing to argue against that didn’t make you sound paranoid.

So you went back upstairs, and sent Damian a message saying you’d “forgotten something.”

He replied almost immediately.

Good. You’re learning to check in properly.

You stared at the screen for a long time after that.

The worst part wasn’t the obvious things. It was the gaps.

Like how your phone stopped suggesting certain places because you “never went there anymore.” Or how your usual café no longer even appeared in your saved locations. Or how friends stopped inviting you out because every time they tried, schedules collapsed in ways no one could quite explain.

You told yourself it was coincidence until coincidence became too consistent to ignore.

When you asked Maya, your coworker from accounting, the one person who still occasionally tried to include you in plans, she hesitated.

“I mean… it’s always something,” she said carefully one afternoon over coffee. “You’re either busy or something comes up right after you say yes. It’s like… bad timing, constantly.”

“I don’t cancel things,” you said automatically.

She gave you a look you couldn’t quite read. “I know. That’s why it’s weird.”

She didn’t say Damian’s name. No one ever did directly when it felt like it might matter.

But it hung there anyway. Unspoken.

The moment you started to properly feel it, really feel it, was the night you tried to stay out late.

It wasn’t even rebellion. It was exhaustion. You’d been at work too long, your head aching, your phone already buzzing with reminders you hadn’t asked for. So when Maya suggested grabbing dinner nearby, you said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.

For once, nothing immediately fell apart.

No cancelled booking. No sudden emergency. No interrupted plan.

You almost relaxed.

Then your phone rang.

Damian.

You stared at the screen for a few seconds before answering.

“You’re not home,” he said without greeting.

“I’m out.”

A pause. Not surprised. Measured.

“With Maya.”

“Yes.”

Another pause, shorter this time.

“I see.”

Something in his tone made you feel sick. “I didn’t tell you because I thought it didn’t matter,” you added quickly. “It’s just dinner.”

“It matters,” he said simply.

Then, after a beat: “You’re deviating from routine again.”

“I’m allowed to have dinner with a friend.”

“You are allowed to leave the environment I’ve structured for your stability, yes.”

You closed your eyes. “There is no environment you’ve structured for me.”

Silence on the line.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “You’re tired. Your judgement will be impaired tonight.”

“That’s not your call.”

“It is when you don’t recognise your own limits.”

Something cold settled behind your ribs. Across the table, Maya was watching you now, pretending not to.

“I’m fine,” you said, quieter.

“You’re not,” Damian replied.

And then, almost gently, “I’ll send a car.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You do.”

You stood up so abruptly your chair scraped the floor.

“I said no.”

The line went cold.

“I hear you,” Damian said.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, he added: “But you’re still not staying out late.”

You stood there holding your phone, realising slowly that he hadn’t threatened you. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t even argued. He had simply stated the outcome as something already decided.

Maya said your name, cautiously, and you barely heard her..

You weren’t being managed. You were being kept track of. And you were just now realising how much of your life now required permission you didn’t remember giving.

↓↑→←

The sleek, black sedan pulled up to the curb of the restaurant with a silent, predatory grace. The driver was a man who looked like he had been trained to move without making a sound.

He simply stood by the door, waiting. He didn't look at Maya. He didn't look at the other patrons. He looked only at you, with the expectant, neutral gaze of a handler waiting for a well trained pet to finish its meal.

You felt Maya’s eyes on you, heavy with a mixture of pity and confusion. "Are you.. is everything okay?" she whispered.

"It's fine," you lied, the words tasting like ash. "Just... a long day."

As you slid into the back of the car, the scent of the interior, expensive leather, rain, and that faint, sharp undertone of mint that always seemed to cling to Damian’s presence hit you.

The seat was heated, perfectly adjusted to a temperature you hadn't chosen but always found comfortable. The door closed with a heavy, pressurized thud, sealing you into a private, silent world.

You didn't have to check your phone to know he was watching. You could feel the weight of his attention even from miles away.

When you finally reached the penthouse, the lights were dimmed to a soft, amber glow. The apartment was silent, save for the low hum of the climate control. You kicked off your shoes, feeling the sudden, overwhelming urge to just crawl into bed and disappear, but the routine wouldn't allow it.

Damian was waiting in the living area. He wasn't sitting on the sofa like you expected. He was standing by the floor to ceiling windows, a glass of dark liquid in his hand.

He didn't turn when you entered. He didn't need to. He knew the cadence of your footsteps. He knew the exact moment you crossed the threshold.

"You're late," he said. It didn’t sound like a scolding.

"The dinner ran long," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. You walked past him toward the kitchen, but he moved with a sudden, fluid grace, intercepting your path.

His tall, lean frame cast a long shadow over you. He reached out, his hand moving to your chin, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with gentle pressure.

His touch was reminiscent of how he handled the high bred hounds at the manor. Firm, possessive, and entirely devoid of the hesitation one might show a peer.

"You look disheveled," he murmured, his eyes scanning your face, searching for any sign of distress, any sign of 'damage' caused by the outside world. "The city is loud, chaotic. It's too much for you. You shouldn't be out there so late, where things are unpredictable."

"I'm not a child, Damian," you said, though the words felt weak even to your own ears.

"No," he agreed, his thumb moving to brush against your lower lip. "You are much more precious than a child. You are.. delicate. You require a specific kind of stewardship."

He leaned in closer, his scent that cool, sharp mint enveloping you. "When you wander without a leash, you get lost. You get tired. You let people like Maya fill your time with trivialities that serve no purpose for your well being."

A shiver ran down your spine. He spoke of your life as if it were a garden he had planted. He didn't see your independence as a virtue, he saw it as a vulnerability.

"I have dinner planned for you tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping to that smooth, harmonic register that usually calmed you, but now made your heart race with a strange, trapped sensation. "Something light. Something that will help you recover from today's.. exertion."

He stepped back, finally releasing you, but the space he left behind felt cold. He turned his gaze toward the window again, the conversation effectively over.

"Go wash up," he commanded softly. "I've already laid out your clothes. The silk ones. They're softer on your skin."

As you walked toward the bedroom, you realised with a sinking heart that he hadn't even asked how your night was. He hadn't asked if you enjoyed the food or if Maya had said anything interesting. He only cared that you had returned to the enclosure. He only cared that his most cherished thing was back where it belonged: within his reach, under his eyes, and entirely under his care.

You felt like a bird in a gilded cage, and the most terrifying part was how much you had started to rely on the bars to keep you upright.

You had found it tucked away in a drawer of a desk in the library at the manor. A drawer you were never supposed to touch, a space meant for his private ledgers.

It was a small, leather bound sketchbook. Looked to be as old if not older than Damian himself.

You had opened it, expecting business notes or tactical maps.

Instead, you found your own soul.

Every "Are you there?" you had scrawled on your skin as a lonely child was there, preserved in his precise, elegant ink. Every "Please answer" was captured in his beautiful, sweeping script. He hadn't ignored you. He had collected you. He had been reading your heart for years, documenting your loneliness as if it were a sacred text.

The notebook slipped from your hands, hitting the thick rug with a dull thud.

Page after page of your own handwriting stared back at you. Preserved.

Every childish question. Every lonely afternoon. Every desperate, humiliating attempt to convince yourself someone might be listening.

You remembered writing most of them.

You remembered crying after some of them.

You remembered eventually stopping.

Your entire life reduced to paper.

"You were always a curious one," a smooth, deep voice drifted from the doorway.

You bolted upright, your heart hammering hard against your ribs. Damian stood there, silhouetted by the warm light of the hallway. He didn't look angry. He didn't look caught. He looked... satisfied.

"You-you’re.." you breathed, the words trembling. "My soulmate..?"

Damian crossed the room, his movements silent and predatory. He didn't stop until he was hovering over you.

He sank to his knees in front of you, reaching out. His fingers tangled in your hair, petting you with that same, terrifyingly gentle devotion he gave to his most prized pets.

"I was observing," he corrected softly, his deep emerald eyes locked onto yours. "I was waiting until you were ready. Until the world had finished bruising you so that I could be the one to mend you."

"You've been mending me?" You let out a breathless, hysterical laugh. "Damian, you've been curating me! The cars, the security, the 'routines'.. you weren't helping me live. You were making sure I didn't wander off!"

"And why shouldn't you be kept close?" He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.

His scent that cool, intoxicating mint filled your senses, making your head swim. "The world is a jagged, cruel place. It doesn't know how to handle someone as precious as you. They see a person, they see a worker, a friend, a stranger. They don't see the miracle that you are."

"I'm not a miracle," you protested, trying to push his chest away, but your hands felt weak against his lean muscle. "I am a person. I have a life. I have choices."

"You have my choices," he whispered, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a rhythmic, soothing motion. "And they are all designed for your happiness. Is it so wrong to want to ensure your comfort? To ensure you are fed, rested, and loved without the interference of the mundane?"

He leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. It burned. Felt nothing like the passion you’d always hoped for.

"You're sick.." you whispered, the word feeling absurd in the face of his overwhelming tenderness.

Damian pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a small, boyish grin the one that usually looked charming but now looked devastating touching his lips. "A harsh term. I prefer... devoted."

He stood up, reaching down to take your hand. He didn't pull you, he simply offered his palm, waiting for you to take it. It was an invitation, but you knew it was also a command.

"Come," he said, his voice a warm, melodic hum. "You've had a shock. You're trembling. Let's get you settled. I've had Alfred prepare that tea you like, and the new linens are ready." His voice was calm.

If anything, faintly disappointed when you didn’t move. Like bat-cow had wandered somewhere she wasn’t meant to and now required collecting.

You looked at him. Really looked. For the first time since meeting him, pieces that had never seemed connected began slotting together with nauseating precision.

The lunches. The phone calls. The coat. Your coffee. The security downstairs who somehow always recognised you. The reception staff who smiled before you’d spoken. The meetings that always happened to include Damian, regardless of whether they had anything to do with Wayne Enterprises. The quiet, invisible way your life had bent around him until his presence no longer felt unusual.

You couldn’t remember when that had happened. Perhaps that was the point.

“…It was you.”

It came out barely above a whisper. “The whole time.”

Damian crossed the room without hurry.

He stopped close enough that you could smell the familiar scent of mint clinging to his clothes. “I had intended to tell you.”

“When?”

“When it no longer frightened you.”

You laughed. A small, broken sound that didn’t resemble amusement.

“You’ve been lying to me since the day we met.”

“I omitted information.”

“You watched me tell you about my soulmate.”

“Yes.”

“You listened while I told you I wished I’d been born normal.”

His expression changed then. Something softened around his eyes. “I know.”

“I know,” he repeated quietly. “I read every one of those thoughts long before you said them aloud.”

He reached past you, lifting the notebook from the floor with surprising care before setting it back on the desk.

“I remember every message.” His fingertips rested against the worn leather cover.

“‘Are you there?’”

Your breathing caught.

“‘Please answer.’”

You couldn’t move.

“‘I think something’s wrong with me.’”

He recited them without looking.

He already knew them. Every single one.

“I was eight,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I thought…” Your voice failed.

“I know.”

You stared at him. “You don’t understand.”

“No.”

He looked back at you with complete certainty. “I understand perfectly.” There was no hesitation. No apology. No shame. “I know what you believed.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward your forearm before returning to your face.

“I know how often you blamed yourself.”

He lifted a hand, brushing an invisible crease from your sleeve with the same absent care he’d shown a hundred times before.

“I know you stopped buying caramel because I preferred vanilla. I know you only pretend to like herbal tea. I know you sleep better if the room is colder. I know you become overwhelmed when supermarkets are crowded. I know you forget to eat whenever work becomes stressful.”

“You don’t..” Your throat felt painfully tight. “You don’t know me.”

A flicker of genuine confusion crossed his face. “I know you better than anyone.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“Of course I have.” The answer came so naturally that, for a second, it almost sounded ridiculous that you’d asked.

“I lost so many years.” His voice remained even. “I have been correcting that.”

He looked around the room. At the books on the shelves. The chair by the window. The cup of tea growing cold beside the sofa. Your home.

Then he looked back at you. “I have spent every day since finding you making your life easier.” He smiled softly. “You call it manipulation because you insist on imagining the life you had before I arrived.” He stepped closer. “So do I.”

There was no triumph in his expression. Only something devastatingly gentle. “I remember the person who apologised for taking up space. The person who believed fate had simply… forgotten them.”

His hand settled lightly against your cheek. “I remember because I was the one reading it.”

“You keep looking at everything I’ve done and asking yourself how I could justify it.” His forehead rested lightly against yours. “You’ve misunderstood.”

His voice dropped into something almost unbearably soft. “I’ve never had to.”

There wasn’t the slightest doubt in him. Not after the notebook. Not after the messages. Not after so many years. In Damian’s mind, he’d already spent a lifetime loving you.

The only difference now was that you finally knew his name.

Please comment and reblog :)

13K+ words, 77K+ characters, 1K+ sentences, 1K+ paragraphs, 47 minute average reading time, 1 hour 11 minute average speaking time.

I lowkey really rushed this one to get it out before the end of the month, so I apologise if it’s obvious

Read Tim Drake’s part here.

Read Jason Todd’s part here.

Read Bruce Wayne’s part here.