semi-feral. sleep-deprived. emotionally compromised over fictional characters. expect unhinged tags & late-night rambling.
📍mainly here to goon over sad men and sharp women.
I overanalyze everything & reblog like it’s a religious duty.
Come for the content, stay for the descent into madness.
🧠 tags are therapy, reblogs are spells
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Some people met theirs at six years old. Others died without ever learning their name. Plenty divorced them. Plenty married someone else entirely. There were support groups, government registries, psychologists who specialised in soulbonds, and entire supermarket aisles dedicated to products designed around them.
Soulmates weren’t fairy tales. They were biology. Or fate, depending on who you asked.
An overwhelming majority of the population shared pain. 75%, according to the latest census.
A scraped knee here became a scraped knee somewhere else. A headache echoed across cities. Broken bones were shared. Childbirth had become an odd source of sympathy from complete strangers who suddenly found themselves doubled over in agony while their soulmate was on the other side of the world.
The remaining 25% were… stranger.
Shared dreams. Shared senses. Shared emotions. Occasionally something so rare that medical journals spent decades trying to categorise it.
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.”
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
Bro, something about soundgasm is different, it’s a need like I have to listen to it before bed. If you catch me not listening to anything just know that I’m dead and you’re seeing a ghost likeeee😛
A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
Another requested fic that I was very excited to write! I'll admit, it took a bit of thinking (and some serious back-and-forth with myself) because I really wanted it to feel just right. Fingers crossed it lands the way I imagined x
Expect plenty of emotions, intrigue, a little spice, and lots of domestic Azris shenanigans because who doesn't love a little cosy chaos? :)
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your votes and comments mean the world to me <3
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A/N: Hello everyone! This is an Azriel x Archeron!half-sister reader series, featuring a slow-burn romance, angst, and possibly a sad ending. Don’t worry, they’ll eventually get together even if it doesn’t have a happy ending. I don’t know how many parts it’s going to have. It begins in ACOMAF chapter 24.
Chapters: 35/?
Summary: Y/n Archeron is a cold and sometimes cruel human who was turned fae against her will. As she navigates her life as a fae, she begins developing feelings for Azriel. Having never been in love makes her weary of these new found feelings. Whenever he gets closer than she anticipates, she pushes him away*.
*at least for first 30 chapters, the rest would be spoilers.
Chapter I: Summary: The eldest Archeron half-sister Y/n hates Fae kind, due to tragic past events. When she unexpectedly visits her sisters, she is met with the very race she hates.
II: Summary: To Y/n's dismay, the Illyrians keep coming to their home, and despite her initial reluctance to engage in war talks, she becomes entangled in the political world of the fae. This ends with her worst nightmare becoming a reality.
III: Summary: Y/n is adjusting to her new life in the Night Court, where she finds herself interacting with the Illyrians much longer than before, whether by chance or by force. An unexpected encounter with Azriel ignites something between them.
IV: Summary: Y/n is intrigued by a certain illyrian. They open up to one another one night, but she stops it from getting out of control. With Feyre’s return, things get more tense.
V: Summary: Tension rises as Y/n only makes things harder for everyone around her. After moving into the Town House, she is attacked by the King’s soldiers.
VI: Summary: Y/n decides to attend the meeting with the High Lords, where she is more open and relaxed than usual.
VII: Summary: Y/n chooses to remain at the Dawn Court, but Rhys allows her to stay for only three days, entrusting Azriel with her safety.
VIII: Summary: The Inner Circle prepares for war. Y/n and Azriel grow closer, and a shocking revelation unfolds on the battlefield.
IX: Summary: Y/n learns the truth about her powers. When Azriel is injured rescuing Elain, Y/n tends to his wounds.
X: Summary: Y/n struggles to hide her concern for Azriel while Cassian and Rhys tease her. As the final battle against Hybern approaches, Y/n and Azriel spend their last night together sharing a quiet moment before the fight.
XI: Summary: The day everyone dreaded has finally arrived. Facing impossible odds against Hybern, defeat seems inevitable- but nothing could have prepared Y/n for what's about to unfold.
XII: Summary: After the deaths of her fathers, Y/n past traumas resurface, leading her to do what she does best- push everyone away, including her sisters.
XIII: Summary: As Y/n spirals out of control, Feyre steps in, forcing a change that leaves the sisters at odds.
XIV: Summary: Cassian attempts to convince Y/n to train with him, but her stubbornness proves unshakable. However, when he leaves her with unexpected words, she finds herself grappling with an internal struggle over what to do next.
XV: Summary: Y/n slowly begins to recover, gradually warming up to Azriel and Cassian again. She agrees to train with Cassian but only under a few conditions.
XVI: Summary: An unexpected visit from Elain triggers Y/n, leading her to push everyone away again, but Azriel sees through her defenses. She begins to gain partial control over her powers after an emotional outburst and testing a new theory.
XVII: Summary: Y/n and Nesta’s presence is required at the River House, where two important announcements are made. This time, Y/n decides to not interfere with the dangerous choices her sisters are making. Later, a sparring session between Azriel and Cassian sparks an idea in Y/n.
XVIII: Summary: Azriel and Y/n engage in an intense sparring session. Later, she experiences her first period since turning, with Azriel and Cassian stepping in to help.
XIX: Summary: Azriel continues to care for Y/n as she recovers from her first cycle. Later, her second power manifests, revealing an ability she never knew she had.
XX: Summary: After a dangerous incident, Y/n and Nesta finally reconcile. Y/n is upset with Azriel for something he did.
XXI: Summary: Azriel takes Y/n out of the house, and the two share a few personal moments as he reveals parts of his past. The next day, Nesta, Y/n, Cassian and Azriel venture into the Bog of Oorid.
XXII: Summary: Y/n and Azriel fight Autumn Court soldiers, arguing through most of it. Later, Y/n sets foot in Hewn City for the first time.
XXIII: Summary: Azriel takes Y/n out to see Hewn City, where his jealousy flares. When something triggers Y/n’s emotions, he learns more about her past.
XXIV: Summary: Azriel gives Y/n an unexpected gift and glimpses a different side of her for the first time. Y/n is somewhat jealous during their next sparring, and by morning she joins the Valkyries’ training.
XXV: Summary: Y/n shares an almost normal breakfast with Azriel, Cassian and Nesta. In Hewn City, Helion teaches them how ward the mask. Y/n uncovers what’s really going on between Nesta and Cassian.
XXVI: Summary: Y/n learns new information that strains her relationship with Cassian and Azriel. While avoiding the others, she explores her powers further and slowly reconnects with Azriel.
I said "I love you". You say nothing back | John Logan
summary: the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don't catch feelings, don't ask for more than what's on the table. 338 days later, you're starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.
notes: hii, i'm back!! i was genuinely so overwhelmed by the response to my first one shot. you guys are so kind and it inspired me to keep writing. so here we are, back with more yearning, more angst, and more logan being an idiot about his feelings. my requests are open if you have any ideas or characters you want to see i'd love to hear from you. thank you so much for reading and enjoy ❤️❤️
warnings: swearing, alcohol, light angst, situationships, a puck bunny accusation and a confession in the rain.
word count: 8k
The thing with Logan had started exactly 338 days ago. Almost one year. One full lap around the sun. You knew because you had been counting, the days and the hours and even the minutes since this situationship from hell, as your dear friends had taken to calling it, had installed itself in your life like an antivirus app you hadn't downloaded and couldn't figure out how to delete.
It had started on Halloween, and at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. It was just past eleven and the house off campus that your friends had dragged you to smelled like dry ice and weed, and you were tired and ready to leave, which was an anomaly. You were usually the last one standing, your friends had given you the nickname ending antagonist for a reason. In hindsight, that probably should have been a warning sign. The one night you wanted to go home early was the night everything started.
Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.
And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.
A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.
What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"
So. So what? What were you supposed to say?
"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."
Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.
But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.
So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.
At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.
But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.
You and Logan became friends.
Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.
And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.
And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.
And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.
And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.
Every single time.
Which brings you to now.
You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.
You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.
"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.
You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.
The front door opened.
You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.
He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.
"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."
At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.
"Shoot," you said.
Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"
Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.
"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"
"What? No. I'm a man."
"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."
"I know that. It's not for me."
"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."
"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."
"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"
"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."
You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.
Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.
Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.
You knew that shift. You had felt it before.
The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.
It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.
You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.
The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.
You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.
The third time you stopped counting.
Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.
You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—
You glanced at Logan.
He wasn't laughing.
He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.
The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.
You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.
"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."
"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.
"You okay?" Garrett asked.
"Fine. Just air."
You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.
"I'll come with you," he said.
The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.
Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."
"Baby—"
"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"
He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.
Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.
"It's not—" he started.
"Logan."
He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.
"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"
"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."
"It's not a big deal—"
"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."
"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."
"Excuse me?"
"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."
The word landed like a slap.
Girlfriend.
"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."
"That's not what I—"
"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."
He said nothing, which you took as a yes.
"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."
"It's complicated—"
"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."
"You knew what this was when we started—"
"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."
"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"
"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."
"I am being honest—"
"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."
The parking lot went completely silent.
Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.
"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.
"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."
Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.
"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.
"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."
Logan looked at you.
And said nothing.
The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.
"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."
You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.
"Don't follow me," you said.
He didn't.
You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.
Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.
Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.
It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.
Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.
Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.
You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.
Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.
The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.
The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.
I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.
The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.
"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.
You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.
"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.
"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."
"I didn't bring my ID."
Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"
"I forgot." You shrugged.
"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."
You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.
The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.
"You look like you're deciding something," he said.
"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."
He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.
"((Y/N))."
"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."
You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.
By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.
You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.
The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.
You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.
That was the point.
You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.
You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.
Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.
It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.
You were almost believing it.
The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.
Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.
You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.
After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.
Four seconds.
You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.
The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.
You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.
Logan.
He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.
"Hey," you said carefully.
"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.
"That's not really your business."
"You're spending a lot of time with him."
"Logan—"
"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.
"Make it somewhere else."
He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."
You went very still. "The type to?"
"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."
The lobby was very quiet.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.
"Say that again," you said softly.
"I didn't mean—"
"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"
Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.
"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."
"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."
"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"
"Why did you say it?"
He looked at you.
"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."
Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.
"Because I can't—" He stopped.
"Can't what?"
"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.
"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.
He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.
And then he looked away.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"Yeah," you said. "It was."
You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.
But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.
Good, you thought.
And hated that you thought it.
Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.
Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.
Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to have spent their teenage years watching anime and grown up to exclusively pursue Asian women, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.
But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.
You were not offended by the word.
You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.
That was what got to you.
Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.
You didn't tell anyone what he said.
That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.
You knew what it meant. That was the problem.
You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.
You were done trying to travel between them.
The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.
You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.
You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.
You were fine. You were getting finer.
You were also absolutely not fine.
Dean found you on a Wednesday.
Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.
He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.
"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.
You looked at your coffee. "Okay."
"He feels terrible."
"Good."
"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."
"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."
You were quiet for a moment.
"A little late," you repeated.
"Okay, very late."
"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."
"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."
"Then what are you here for?"
Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.
"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."
You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.
"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"
Dean was quiet for a moment.
"A while," he said carefully.
"How long is a while, Dean."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.
You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.
"Okay," you said.
"(Y/N)—"
"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."
Dean looked at you. "That's it?"
"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."
Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.
"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."
You didn't say anything.
"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."
He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.
Since pretty much the beginning.
338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.
You sat with that for a long time.
It had been raining since noon.
Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.
You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.
You had not been thinking about Logan.
You were almost at your building when you heard him.
"(Y/N)."
You stopped walking.
He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.
He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.
"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"It's raining."
"I know."
"You're soaked."
"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."
You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.
"You have two minutes," you said.
He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.
"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."
The rain was very loud suddenly.
"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."
You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.
"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."
The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.
"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.
"Yes."
"A year."
"Yes."
"And you said nothing."
"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."
You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.
"The Hannah thing," you said.
"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have, what you and I were and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."
The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."
The street was very quiet under the rain.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.
Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.
The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.
"You're an idiot," you said.
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.
"I know," he said.
"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."
"I know."
"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."
"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."
The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.
"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."
"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."
You looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly.
"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."
The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.
Then you closed the distance.
You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.
When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.
"I'm still mad at you," you said.
"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."
"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."
"I know. Whatever it takes."
"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."
"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."
You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.
Story Summary: You're out with your friends one night, celebrating finishing your finals, when suddenly you find yourself in a strange place, with no exit in sight. You wander the yellow hallways, feeling as though you're being followed at every turn. What happens when some of the inhabitants of this strange place take an interest in you?
Figured I’d better create a post compiling my latest fics as I didn’t expect to write more than one and ended up writing a lot more. This will be added to if/when there’s more to come!
All contain smut unless otherwise stated
Eris Vanserra:
The Chase
Being the newest addition to the Inner Circle, you find yourself at the Hewn City ball to celebrate the Winter Solstice. While initially there to prepare you for a potential role as courtier to the Night Court, a certain Autumn Court male captures your attention leading to quite the interesting night.
Tell Me Why | Animals | Natural | Stay With Me
Eris Vanserra never expected to find his mate. Navigating life with an inevitable tug towards a mate that’s none the wiser, he has to face a journey of healing—alone and with his mate—if he hopes to finally succumb to love and happiness.
For Autumn | The Beginning | Trust Me |
Fire Up The Night | Experiments | Surprises |
Let’s Play | Look At Me
Wanting to ensure the future bloodline of the Autumn Court nobility, Beron Vanserra chooses you for what seems to be an impossible and albeit, unusual arrangement: producing an heir for his son, Eris. What starts as something to aid your court quickly turns into a journey of exploration with none other than the Heir of Autumn, himself.
The Inevitable (no smut) | The Heir |
The Future (no smut) | For Willow (no smut)
In this sequel series to For Autumn, the inevitable has happened after a year of sexual encounters with the Heir of Autumn. Carrying his heir comes with a litany of challenges though, ones you and Eris have to face alone and together.
Wrath (no smut)
When you fail to hold your tongue around Beron, he doesn’t hesitate to show you the price you’ll pay if you’re not careful. But, he doesn’t punish you, he punishes your mate instead.
Secret’s Out
After a meeting that’s dragged on too long between the Night Court and Eris Vanserra, everyone is a little worse for wear. Eris, defenses down, accidentally ends up spilling a secret that you’ve kept from your family for an entire year and the Inner Circle falls into chaos in reaction.
Lessons In Fire (no smut)
Recruited by Nesta and Cassian to teach you how to flirt properly, Eris Vanserra eventually finds out he’s gotten much more than he bargained for.
Whose Side Are You On? (no smut)
During an argument with your mate, Eris’s hounds surprise you and also show just how sly they can be—just like their father.
The Favorite (no smut)
Set in the same universe as Whose Side Are You On? you and your mate have a discussion about you spoiling his smokehounds and who their favorite really is.
The Princeling & His Fire
In this sequel to Three Illyrians & A Princeling, Eris takes it upon himself to remind you just how much fun you had together, a year ago.
The Art of Distraction
Shadowing Cassian in a meeting in the mortal lands with Jurian, Vassa and Lucien, you find your mind wandering dangerously because of a certain surprise attendee—Eris Vanserra.
Dreams of You (no smut)
Eris Vanserra is haunted by mysterious dreams about a female, dating back to Under the Mountain. He finds answers to who she is and why he’s having these dreams in the most unexpected of ways.
Constellations (no smut)
You spend some time admiring your mate’s freckles, counting them and even naming them.
Bat Boys Book Club (no smut)
Eris is the newest project of the males only book club when he needs help in wooing the female he’s been dancing around for so long. Lucky for him, Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel and Lucien are more than happy to help.
Betrayal & Betrothal
Part of The Heartbreaker series, you find yourself having developed feelings for Eris who you’ve had a casual sexual relationship with for quite some time. When you finally find the nerve to confess your feelings, you find yourself in the midst of a betrayal that you’ll never forget.
First Touch
Eris is in uncharted territory the first time he takes his mate to bed. Not used to loving touch, his mate helps him grow, learn and feel loved all in one night.
Kisses
Eris discovers—and displays—just how much he loves kissing you.
Panic (no smut)
When you have a panic attack, Eris—along with the help of his fire power—helps you weather the storm.
A Princeling’s Solstice (no smut)
It’s Winter Solstice and a perfect time for unresolved feelings between you and the heir of Autumn to surface during the Solstice ball.
Terms of Seduction
You go a little off script from your High Lord’s original plan when seducing Eris at the Solstice ball—intending to have a little fun with your assignment.
Consequences of Desire
In this sequel to Terms of Seduction, Eris returns for another round of the game with you—banter and spice included.
Your Secret’s Safe With Me (no smut)
When your bunny goes missing in the Forest House, you find unexpected camaraderie in the Heir of Autumn.
Play With Fire (no smut)
Your first encounter with Eris Vanserra results in nothing but disaster and deliberate humiliation. In turn, you fight fire with fire, much to his absolute delight.
Deadly Distractions
Needing to blow off some steam after dealing with Beron and his messes, Eris finds distraction in his secret mate.
Deadly Deal
To survive Under the Mountain, you must make some hard decisions and even more complicated bargains, landing you—quite literally—in the lap of Eris Vanserra.
Deadly Devotion
In this sequel to Deadly Deal, you spend the years after Under the Mountain avoiding Eris. But he—and certain truths—won’t remain hidden forever.
I See You (no smut)
You find unexpected camaraderie in another lonely heart.
The Proposition | The Favor | The Dove
What begins as a dangerous proposition to the elusive heir of Autumn evolves into a journey of self exploration, growth and choice.
A Different Lens (no smut)
Insecurities plague you and Eris comforts you in a way you never saw coming.
Quiet
A rendezvous with the heir of Autumn leads to a few exciting adventures.
Azriel:
Shadowsinger, Interrupted
When you and your mate are caught during some late night activities, Azriel decides to be cheeky while receiving orders for his next mission.
The Tease
After hearing a bit of information that was meant for only your best friend Nesta’s ears alone, Azriel decides to have a little fun with it and see just how far he can push you.
The Mate
In this sequel to The Tease, you and Azriel deal with the aftermath of your night of passion and the surprise of a mating bond.
Two Idiots & A Baby (no smut)
When Azriel is tasked to babysit Nyx for the night, the baby bat unintentionally plays matchmaker between you and Az, bringing long denied feelings to the surface.
Loneliness & Longing
Part of The Heartbreaker series, Azriel finds comfort in you on Solstice night in an attempt to distract himself from his romantic woes. You soon realize that there’s a price to pay when consumed with loneliness.
Anxiety (no smut)
During a panic attack, Azriel—and his shadows—help calm you down.
A Shadowsinger’s Solstice (no smut)
You spend your first Winter Solstice with your mate.
Just Another Family Dinner (no smut)
When you show up to family dinner with bruises on your neck from your mate, the Inner Circle jumps on the opportunity to tease you and Azriel mercilessly.
Adored
After divulging about your less than stellar bedroom experiences, Azriel shows you just what you’ve been missing out on.
Angel
You find yourself trapped in a snowstorm with your worst enemy and a crucial decision to make: freeze or use Azriel for warmth—in far more ways than one.
Silk, Shadows & Submission
When he’s stuck in a meeting, you decide to have a little fun with your daemati abilities and your mate, leading to an extremely fun night.
Don’t Let Go (no smut)
When there’s an attack on Velaris and a threat to his mate, Azriel finds comfort in you in the only way he knows how.
Shadowsinger’s Mercy
Azriel wants to try something a little new in the bedroom—with the helping hand of a blindfold and so much more.
Modern (In)Conveniences
An unexpected trip to Midguard has you and your mate making some very intriguing discoveries—some much more fun than others.
You’re My Safe Space (no smut)
Your best friend, Azriel, makes a low day even brighter with a few sweet surprises that lead you to confront a truth you’d always known, deep down.
Scars
When Azriel deals with a bout of insecurity, you make it your mission to prove to him just how much you love him.
The Secret of You
After over a year of keeping the secret of his mate from his family, the Inner Circle is in for a surprise when they discover you’re Azriel’s mate.
Miscellaneous:
Three Illyrians & A Princeling (ft. bat boys & Eris)
Caught in a meeting, you reminisce on the times you had trysts with each of the four males.
All’s Fair in Love and Fucking
(Azriel x reader x Eris)
An argument between Azriel and Eris over you leads to an unusual solution to picking who you prefer best.
One High Lord Too Many (Rhys x reader x Eris)
A surprising set of circumstances leads to you having the opportunity to have a taste of both your favorite High Lords.
Flame, Shadow & Spice (Azriel x reader x Eris)
Adventures in baking takes a heated turn when an aphrodisiac accidentally gets included in a cookie recipe—resulting in unusual reactions in you, Eris and Azriel.
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Summary - Feyre was a High Lady. Nesta was a Valkyrie. Elain was a Seer.
And she was the sister the Cauldron ruined and forgot.
Invisible in a family of legends, haunted by nightmares no one noticed, she learned to stay quiet... to expect nothing.
Except Azriel noticed. The Shadowsinger who never spoke too much saw everything—her pain, her loneliness... and the bond between them she didn't even know existed.
When the world decides she is the easiest one to break—Azriel will make them suffer for it.
A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
This is my very first Archeron sister fic! For the sake of the story, I've had to make the sisters a little harsh at times but that's purely for plot reasons, not an invitation to throw shade at them x
Expect healing, found family vibes, and basically an overlooked girl x quiet boy kind of story. There will be heartbreak, angst and eventually fluff :)
Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3
─────── · · STATUS: ON-GOING. VARIOUS ONE SHOTS! ♡
Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Fem! Illyrian! Reader
Summary: Watching your best friend mate with someone else was devastating enough. But when a night of seeking solace with an-equally bitter Azriel results in an unplanned pregnancy, you're forced to figure out how to co-parent with a male you barely know. Yet as your unlikely partnership unfolds, you begin to discover that sometimes the most beautiful things grow from the most unexpected circumstances.
Overview: SMUT/ EXPLICIT CONTENT, one night stand to co-parents to friends to lovers, pregnancy, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining/unrequited love, slow burn, found family, healing trauma together, illyrian generational trauma, soft!Azriel, soft!Reader, bestie elain archeron, HEA! please check specific part warnings for more!
୨ৎ An Honest Mistake┃4.4k 18+
Lonely and bitter following Gwyn and Balthazar's mating ceremony, you and Azriel sleep together. As it turns out, one night is all it takes to change everything.
୨ৎ Sweet and Strange┃4.5k
Weeks after a one-night stand with Azriel left you pregnant, Elain Archeron becomes an unlikely friend. When Azriel discovers your secret, you both must confront an uncertain future.
୨ৎ Topics of Conversation┃6.6k
A dinner with the Inner Circle triggers unexpected resentment. Back at your apartment, you and Azriel have a heartfelt talk.
୨ৎ Something to Lose┃2.6k
Azriel struggles with the weight of impending fatherhood after a political meeting turns personal.
୨ৎ Brave New Beginnings┃8k
Azriel's reluctance to be honest about his protective surveillance clashes with your confusion over his mixed messages, finally forcing both of you toward genuine communication.
୨ৎ Out in the Open ┃4.6k
During a quiet morning with Azriel, the reality of your pregnancy meets the one person you've been avoiding.
୨ৎ Partners in Crime┃2.5k
Pregnancy hormones, unrequited feelings, and family dinners don't mix well. Luckily, Azriel understands the art of a strategic exit.
୨ৎ A Mother's Home┃4.1k FAV!
You take a trip to Rosehall to meet Azriel's mother. The visit unearths more than you expected.
୨ৎ Learning Curve┃3.8k
On his mother's porch, you and Azriel find yourselves talking about forgiveness
୨ৎ Soft Spots┃2.3k
Ice cream nights and sweet confessions.
୨ৎ Growing Pains┃7.9k
Azriel grapples with his possessive instincts when you find comfort with a new healer, forcing him to confront what friendship actually requires.
୨ৎ Measurements of Progress┃3.9k
A bad day prompts you to call Azriel over. The afternoon leads to conversations about your romantic histories.
Current Word Count: 55.2k
BONUS CONTENT
ONE SHOTS:
୨ৎ Sweet Treats┃1.7k HALLOWEEN AU
Six months pregnant, you and Azriel celebrate your first Halloween together.
CHAPTER MEMES:
The Plot of 'Growing Pains' Summarized Through Memes
Moments from 'Measurements of Progress' in Meme Format
ASKS, DISCUSSIONS, AND THOUGHTS:
#Honestverse tag or #baby daddy!az
RE: TAGLISTS: i no longer do taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! ♡
─────── · · STATUS: ON-GOING. VARIOUS ONE SHOTS! ♡
Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Fem! Illyrian! Reader
Summary: Watching your best friend mate with someone else was devastating enough. But when a night of seeking solace with an-equally bitter Azriel results in an unplanned pregnancy, you're forced to figure out how to co-parent with a male you barely know. Yet as your unlikely partnership unfolds, you begin to discover that sometimes the most beautiful things grow from the most unexpected circumstances.
Overview: SMUT/ EXPLICIT CONTENT, one night stand to co-parents to friends to lovers, pregnancy, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining/unrequited love, slow burn, found family, healing trauma together, illyrian generational trauma, soft!Azriel, soft!Reader, bestie elain archeron, HEA! please check specific part warnings for more!
୨ৎ An Honest Mistake┃4.4k 18+
Lonely and bitter following Gwyn and Balthazar's mating ceremony, you and Azriel sleep together. As it turns out, one night is all it takes to change everything.
୨ৎ Sweet and Strange┃4.5k
Weeks after a one-night stand with Azriel left you pregnant, Elain Archeron becomes an unlikely friend. When Azriel discovers your secret, you both must confront an uncertain future.
୨ৎ Topics of Conversation┃6.6k
A dinner with the Inner Circle triggers unexpected resentment. Back at your apartment, you and Azriel have a heartfelt talk.
୨ৎ Something to Lose┃2.6k
Azriel struggles with the weight of impending fatherhood after a political meeting turns personal.
୨ৎ Brave New Beginnings┃8k
Azriel's reluctance to be honest about his protective surveillance clashes with your confusion over his mixed messages, finally forcing both of you toward genuine communication.
୨ৎ Out in the Open ┃4.6k
During a quiet morning with Azriel, the reality of your pregnancy meets the one person you've been avoiding.
୨ৎ Partners in Crime┃2.5k
Pregnancy hormones, unrequited feelings, and family dinners don't mix well. Luckily, Azriel understands the art of a strategic exit.
୨ৎ A Mother's Home┃4.1k FAV!
You take a trip to Rosehall to meet Azriel's mother. The visit unearths more than you expected.
୨ৎ Learning Curve┃3.8k
On his mother's porch, you and Azriel find yourselves talking about forgiveness
୨ৎ Soft Spots┃2.3k
Ice cream nights and sweet confessions.
୨ৎ Growing Pains┃7.9k
Azriel grapples with his possessive instincts when you find comfort with a new healer, forcing him to confront what friendship actually requires.
୨ৎ Measurements of Progress┃3.9k
A bad day prompts you to call Azriel over. The afternoon leads to conversations about your romantic histories.
Current Word Count: 55.2k
BONUS CONTENT
ONE SHOTS:
୨ৎ Sweet Treats┃1.7k HALLOWEEN AU
Six months pregnant, you and Azriel celebrate your first Halloween together.
CHAPTER MEMES:
The Plot of 'Growing Pains' Summarized Through Memes
Moments from 'Measurements of Progress' in Meme Format
ASKS, DISCUSSIONS, AND THOUGHTS:
#Honestverse tag or #baby daddy!az
RE: TAGLISTS: i no longer do taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! ♡
summary | your family realizes how much they’ve missed—too late. the problem is that you’re grown now, and whatever they didn’t notice in you as a kid has already turned into distance they can’t easily close
pairing | platonic Batfamily x neglected! batsis reader, Wally West x reader (not platonic lalalala)
warnings/tags || SH, please do not read if descriptions of self harm trigger you, panic attack(s), uhm bruce pmo, poor reader, everyone is highkey ooc, also i wanna make dick nicer but we just need him to be kinda stupid for the plot, female reader, trauma, family issues, angst, uhm comfort I think, it gets darker, oooh future Wally West x reader, this is highkey a Wally west fanfic disguised as a batfam one BUT THERES still a lot of batfam. Not a lot in this chapter, reader is not suicidal but isn’t not suicidal either, some kid has an stdi but no one talks too much about it, uhm swear words,
dicks is kinda a dick, some dude named Caden,
Wc: 3.5k
Author’s note: this is my first ever fic and I’m terrified BUTTT I got my first ever request— which is crazy 😭😭😭ig they just sensed that I would agree to write?!? Anyways yeah guys I hope u like it!!! Please feel FREE to give me any suggestions bc I’m aware this isn’t that good🥹. I wrote this as soon as I got the request cuz I was so honoured. since i have no school i already wrote part 3 too smh.
You make your way downstairs slowly, still rubbing leftover eye pencil from the corner of your eye as the sound of voices grows louder the closer you get to the dining room. The manor always felt strange this late at night, especially when family was over. Softer somehow. Less like a museum. The lights were dimmer, shadows stretching longer across the marble floors, the usual stiffness of the house worn down by exhaustion.
Dick is talking about something dramatically with his hands while Jason looks deeply unimpressed and annoyed. Tim is half-awake over a coffee, and Damian looks vaguely irritated at the volume level of the room in general.
Your father glances up briefly when you enter. “You made it.”
You pull your chair out and give him a cold stare, “Yes, unfortunately. It is a family dinner for a reason.”
That gets the smallest hint of amusement from Dick as you sit down. Alfred sets a plate in front of you almost immediately. “I assumed you had not eaten yet,” he calls you by your name, because he knows how much you hate when he calls you anything else.
“Actually, I have. Thanks, though,” you smile. You had always been very grateful for Alfred and his understanding. You glance toward the clock on the wall. 12:41 AM.
“…Why are we having dinner at midnight?”
“Because I said so,” Bruce says before taking a drink.
The words ring in your head. It should just be a phrase, but to you it wasn't. You've done everything to scrub away the ghost of that little kid who did anything because an adult said so. You hated the lack of control you had, especially around your father.
The conversation keeps moving naturally around the table after that. Nobody interrogates you about being out late, but they don’t ignore you either. It’s more like there’s an unspoken understanding that you can handle yourself. You’ve never given anyone a reason to think otherwise. And part of you hates it. It sounded stupid– but part of you wanted to be grounded, or in trouble. It was selfish, but sometimes you wanted them to be worried about you. Deep down, any ‘rebellion’ was a plea for acknowledgement, as if to say, “Please worry about my safety. FEEL something for me.”
Jason, however, glances toward you while stealing food directly off Damian’s plate. “You were out with friends?”
Damian grabs his spoon and roughly whacks Jason’s wrist with it.
“Yeah.”
“At midnight?” Jason winces clutching his wrist.
You should feel annoyed at this, but instead you feel happy. Jason might've treated you like a kid, even though you were only three years younger than him, but he made you feel cared about in a way no one else ever did. Not that he did that a lot, or spoke to you. He didn't say I love you, or good job, but he did show concern. One had to laugh at the stupidity-- for someone with such high standards, you immediately succumbed the moment you felt even the tiny bit cared about.
Jason looks at you briefly. “You’re still in school. Enjoy having a concept of weekdays while you can.”
“I’m in twelfth grade, not in prison.”
“You say that now.”
Dick leans back in his chair slightly, looking at you with mild disbelief again. “I still keep forgetting you’re in twelfth grade.”
“You literally brought it up upstairs,” you roll your eyes coldly. The shock at your achievements was getting old, "try to keep up."
“Yeah, but every time I remember it feels fake again.”
“It’s because she’s fifteen,” Tim says.
“You skipped grades?” Bruce asks like this information has only just fully processed. Dick and Jason nod as well.
You blink-- then roll your eyes. Of course they didn’t know that. “Yeah– no big deal.”
You said that, because it wasn’t. At least not to your family. Because no matter how hard you tried, you would never be a big deal. You would always be average. You always felt like a glass of water around them. You were there, you were acknowledged-- but you weren't special. Not when there was wine, and juice, and soda.
“I knew you were smart, I didn’t know you were ‘finish high school before you can legally drive’ smart,” Jason mutters.
Damian looks up from his food. “Her academic record is publicly accessible.”
“Okay, stalker.”
Ur father finally speaks again before the argument can properly start. “There’s a gala Sunday evening.”
Dick mutters, “You couldn’t have warned us before?”
You start to speak before your phone lights up beside your plate.
Nova: bro im gonna GENUINELY end it. my mom just said im “academically unserious” she says im grounded till i get my grade up to a fucking b💔
You: because you ARE academically unserious
Nova: am not… IM JUST NOT A NERD UNLIKE u
Nova: NERD NERD NERD
She continues to spam you with random stickers.
You: okay then im not tutoring you.
Nova: fine fine fine mb im sorry twin
Across from you, Jason is still complaining about the gala while your father calmly ignores him, Alfred moving around the room collecting dishes with practiced ease. The conversation keeps flowing around you naturally, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. Your family truly was sickening.
“I can’t go Sunday,” you say. It’s quiet for half a second, like the room is just registering it.
Your father looks up. “Why not?”
“I have a performance,” you add, then, “city theatre. Opening night. I can’t miss it. I’m the lead and uhm, my understudy is sick.”
Jason glances up a little. “Sick with what?”
There’s a half-second pause where it feels like the question shouldn’t have been asked out loud. You hesitate, then shrug slightly like it’s nothing. “Just sick.”
“Yeah–” Tim says, “we got that. Sick with what...?
“Fine. She has an STD? You gonna ask me how she got that too or–”
Dick stops mid movement. “I—what? At 15? That’s insane.”
You roll your eyes, “of course not. She’s 16!”
Tim looks up properly now. “That’s not—”
Your father doesn’t react much, just glances up briefly. “That is… not relevant.”
You shrug again, a little tighter this time. “What I mean is, she can’t perform. Meaning I have to be there. And it’s not just because I’m the lead. I’m also stage manager.”
Your father sets his glass down. “you are attending the gala. I don’t want to hear any thing else.”
“Well… too bad. You don’t get to choose what I do for me.”
“It is a required event.”
“And this is a required performance.”
“That is not equivalent.”
“It is to me,” you say immediately.
You ignore the sudden sting behind your eyes. Of course it’s not equivalent. When would your accomplishments ever be equivalent to anything?
And just like that all you remember is the night you stopped calling Bruce "dad." You were six, and overly excited about the talent show at your school, you were going to play the piano, and sing a song you wrote. And all you wanted was for your dad to come see you. "Just this once." You had begged, over dinner. But there was no use, not only would he not see you, he refused to let you perform your song because there was some event, and you had to be there. You had cried that night, for hours. At first at the table, and when Bruce showed no remorse, into Alfred's arms, and then in bed. And you still couldn't go, all because Bruce 'said so'. You wouldn't have reacted like that if it was the first time this happened, or if it was just some song. You were used to being disappointed. You were used to constantly being exceptional just so you could be treated like you were average. That night instilled something in you. Bruce was your father-- not your dad. He was your father because you had the same blood as him, but he wasn't your dad. Dads love their kids. Bruce never told he loved you. Dads felt proud of their kids. Bruce felt disappointed in you. He might've not seen further into it, but you did. It left an unhealed scar, and moments like these made it sear again. You push your emotions down and direct your attention to the argument.
Jason leans back. “This is just going in circles again.”
“It is not optional,” your father says, voice still controlled but firmer now.
You shake your head once. “Neither is opening night.”
Dick exhales quietly. “Okay, this is literally just a scheduling conflict—”
“It is a priority issue,” your father cuts in, his eyes stay on you. “You will attend the gala.”
Your jaw tightens slightly, but your voice stays level. “I’m not missing opening night.”
You close your eyes slowly and think for a second. There was no doubt that in the end, you would have to attend the gala. Whether you liked it or not. This was the sad truth about your life. Everyone always expects you to cooperate, and move yourself to make more room for them. Because it's you. And you always figure it out. You’re never difficult or pushy.
“Okay,” you swallow, remembering that you were supposed to have everything under control. you stand up. “I will attend the gala, and the play. I will manage it myself. I’’ll just move some things around, and tell Caden I cant go out with him on Saturday.” you continue mumbling to yourself before clearing your throat, and collecting yourself. “Yeah, okay. I’ll come to the gala. sorry for being difficult. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to sleep. I have volleyball tomorrow morning.”
And then you just turn, like it’s settled, like it’s fixed, like everything can be reorganized the same way it always is, and leave the room before anyone can say anything else. The moment you leave, you let the tears stream out of your eyes. You didn’t know why you were crying. Was it exhaustion? Was it a lack of acknowledgment? Was it the fact that no matter what you did it wasn’t good enough? Was it because no matter what you did, it didn’t get recognition from the people you craved approval from?
The door clicks shut behind you, and an awkward second passes before Jason turns in his chair. “Who the fuck is Caden?”
Tim looks up confused. “Who?”
Jason leans forward slightly. “Caden. The guy she mentioned. Who is he?”
Dick pauses. “I don’t know, man.”
Jason stares at him. “That’s not an answer.”
Dick exhales. “Maybe he’s just a friend.”
“Right,” Jason says, leaning back a little. “And if he was the friend she was out till midnight with? Doesn’t seem like just friends to me.”
Tim shrugs slightly. “We don’t really know that part.”
Jason frowns. “So she’s just out with a guy ‘friend’ till midnight? Bruce, why haven't you-- you guys just--?”
Tim rolls his eyes, “Well, when you put it like that you make it sound like she’s—”
“Exactly," Jason replies.
Damian looks between the two of them for a second before saying, “Caden is a boy from her school who has been using Taylor Swift as a means to get close to her. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve suffered enough from your idiocy for the night.”
Up in your room, you already know what’s happening, even before you fully sit down. It starts small, almost easy to ignore, like you’re just tired or overwhelmed, but then it builds too fast to pretend it’s anything else. Your chest tightens first, breath catching in uneven pieces, and your heartbeat gets louder and louder until it’s all you can hear, like it’s filling your ears and pushing everything else out. Your hands shake when you try to steady them, fingers curling and unclenching without permission, and the room feels wrong in a way you can’t explain, too big and too close at the same time, like it’s shifting around you.
Breathe in.
You’re fine.
You’re not fine.
It’s okay.
You’re okay.
Don’t be stupid.
You move without really deciding to, ending up behind your door and you slide down it slowly until you’re sitting on the floor, knees pulled in. Your back presses against the wood and you try to breathe the way you’re supposed to, like if you just force it into rhythm it will stop, but it doesn’t listen. It never fully listens when it gets like this. Your head tips back slightly, eyes unfocused, and everything feels distant, like you’re not fully in your body anymore, just stuck somewhere behind it watching it fall apart.
And there’s this part of it that makes it worse, the part you can’t really stop thinking about even while everything else is spiraling: no one is coming. No footsteps outside your door, no knock, no voice asking if you’re okay, because there never is. You’ve learned that already. You handle it, you always handle it, so there’s nothing for anyone to notice, nothing urgent enough for someone to come check. The thought sits there heavier than anything else, sharper than the panic itself sometimes, because it confirms what your brain already knows in the worst moments—you’re alone in this, and you have to get through it the same way you always do, even when it feels impossible.
Your fingers press into your sleeve, trying to anchor yourself to something real, something physical, because everything else feels unstable and far away. You swallow hard, try to slow your breathing again, try to force it into something normal, but it keeps breaking apart anyway in uneven waves. And you just sit there behind the door, trying to pull yourself back together in silence, even as it keeps rising and falling inside you, because there’s no one else to notice it happening.
Then your eyes catch on the eyebrow blade sitting on the edge of your vanity.
You push yourself up slowly, shaky, still not fully steady, and it feels like everything takes more effort than it should just to move a few steps forward. The room tilts slightly when you stand, but you keep going anyway, because stopping feels worse.
Your hand reaches out and wraps around it. And then you pull your sleeve up. Just this once. You tell yourself. Just once. To numb the pain. To calm you down. You convince yourself this is helping you. The cold sharp metal cools your skin as you bring it up to your wrist.
Then you press. Lightly, at first, but still hard enough to expose a few beads of blood. Then slowly, you drag it across the same cut again, deeper this time. Then you move the blade to the left of the cut and drag it again and again until you don’t feel any pain anymore. Your head feels light now and your arm feels hot and sticky against the fabric of your shirt as you put the blade back down. You analyze your face in the mirror. Your tears had dried up, and you looked more normal again; just tired.
“Water. I need water,” you think.
You exhale, your breath still shaky. Your water bottle was empty. You pause. You really don’t want to see any of your family, but you tell yourself they’ve all gone home.
Dick is already in the kitchen when you come down.
He’s leaning against the counter like he’s just lingering after dinner. The lights are low, the manor settling into that late-night silence where everything feels stretched out and still.
He looks up as soon as he hears you. “Hey.”
You pause at the bottom of the stairs for half a second too long before answering.
“Hey,” you say, and your voice comes out shaky immediately. You clear your throat right after, “I just… wanted water.”
You move toward the sink before he can respond, but your hands don’t fully cooperate the way you want them to. You notice it immediately—how they’re not steady when you reach for the glass, how small movements feel louder than they should. You adjust your grip anyway, pretending it’s normal, like nothing about you is off.
The water runs while you fill the glass, and you keep your focus on it like it’s the only thing that exists in the room. You make sure not to let your sleeve drop and reveal the fresh wounds you had just bandaged. When you finally speak again, it comes out too light, like you’re trying to smooth over something that already gave you away.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, and then you let out a small, awkward laugh that doesn’t really match anything. “Just—late night brain stuff. You know.”
Dick doesn’t say anything. That’s almost worse. And you laugh in your head, your concern that someone would worry about you was once again all in your brain.
Your hand tightens slightly around the glass when you lift it, still not steady, and you force yourself not to correct it, not to react to it, because reacting would make it real in a way you don’t want it to be right now.
Dick watches you for a second longer than normal.
“Alright,” he shrugs, like he accepts it at face value.
You nod once, quick, like that settles it.
The silence goes back to normal after that—just the fridge hum, the soft sound of water settling in the glass. It feels easier now, like whatever little spike of attention there was has passed, and you can slip back into something that looks like normal.
You lift the glass and take a sip, slower this time, and it actually helps a bit just having something simple to focus on. Your shoulders drop slightly without you meaning them to.
“I’m just gonna take something for my head,” you say casually, already moving toward the cabinet like it’s nothing worth noting.
Dick glances over. “Yeah?”
“Mm,” you hum in confirmation, opening the cabinet and scanning for a second before grabbing the bottle. “Probably just tired or something.”
You don’t mention that these headaches are recurring.
“Yeah, makes sense,” he says, turning slightly back toward the counter.
You twist it open, take it with water, and lean against the counter for a second while you swallow it down.
Dick doesn’t comment again.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click, too early for the manor to feel fully awake. It’s 6:30’re on a Saturday morning and you’re already exhausted.
Everything inside is still in that half-asleep state—dim light, quiet movement somewhere deeper in the house, the soft hum of morning that hasn’t fully turned into anything yet. Your bag hangs off your shoulder a little heavy, and you step inside automatically.
“Hey,” Dick calls from the kitchen.
“Hey,” you answer back, normal, a little tired but steady.
Tim is already at the table with a mug in front of him, hair slightly messy, looking like he’s been awake just long enough to function.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” you reply, slipping your shoes off by the door.
Dick is at the counter with coffee in hand, still a little worn down from the night before.
Dick opens your mouth, as if to ask you something, when Bruce walks in.
Your phone buzzes.
You glance down. “One sec,” you say automatically, not really asking, just slipping out of the conversation as you answer it.
Aliyah.
“Aliyah— it’s 6:30 in the morning. Why are you awake? Is everything okay?”
There’s a beat, then Aliyah’s voice comes through “I can’t— it’s too much. I don’t know how to—”
You immediately tense. “Okay. Listen to me. Listen to my voice okay?”
You sense Aliyah is trying to speak, but can’t let it out. You know the feeling all too well.
“Okay, Aliyah, I’m gonna need you to turn your camera on okay,” you speak softly,”I’ll turn mine on too. I just need to make sure you’re not hurting yourself.”
It was hypocritical sure, but that was because you had no one. Aliyah had you.
“I know it’s hard. I know how you’re feeling. Focus on me. Are you at home?’
Aliyah nods. You remember her parents work on Saturdays and suddenly feel a jolt of panic course through you.
“I’m coming over,” you say into the phone, already moving as you speak. “Just stay where you are, okay? Stay on the line with me.”
You step toward the door without fully looking back at the kitchen. Your bag gets pulled onto your shoulder in one motion, shoes half-on, half-forgotten until you fix them properly at the last second.
“Your library shift– and the tu-the tutoring.” Aliyah speaks
“I’ll manage,” you add, quieter but firm, convincing yourself more than her. “Don’t worry about me."
Sunday morning came, and you were all over the place, not at all the collected person everyone knew.
After spending two hours at Aliyah’s house calming her down, you still somehow managed to finish your extra homework, teach your piano students, reschedule your library shift, and stay an extra hour there to make up for the inconvenience. You got home around eleven, exhausted enough that your body hurt, but sleep still didn’t come easily. Your brain kept moving long after everything else stopped. Every responsibility replayed itself over and over again until it all blurred together into one giant thing sitting on your chest.
You finally fell asleep sometime around four in the morning.
It wasn’t that you had been working until four. That would’ve almost made more sense. It was just your own head refusing to shut up.
Still, by the time Sunday properly started, you already had a plan.
A very good one, actually.
Complicated, definitely insane, but manageable. It was also something only you would’ve come up with.
The gala started at five. The play started at six-thirty. You’d spend the day at the theatre helping prepare everything, reviewing lines, running through cues, making sure the younger kids didn’t accidentally destroy props or themselves. Then you’d go to the gala, stay exactly long enough to be seen, leave at 6, and get to the theatre by six-fifteen. Ten minutes to change. Five minutes to become somebody else before stepping onstage.
The show itself was two hours long with one intermission at 7:10. It was exactly long enough for you to change in the car, return to the gala, do whatever Bruce needed you to do for appearances, and leave again before anyone noticed you were gone.
Then at eight-forty, after curtain call, you’d stay at the gala properly and finish the night there.
Simple.
Exhausting, but simple.
You could handle it. You always handled it. Everything had been fine so far. You had been there for everyone else and pushed your own issues aside. It feels like your climbing the worlds steepest mountain, but you continue to tell yourself to pull yourself together and keep pushing through.
That was the problem, really. Everyone knew you handled things. So nobody thought too hard about how much you were actually carrying at once.
Unfortunately for you, plans only work when nothing goes wrong.
And things started going wrong very quickly.
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Summary: You’re no Lady Death, nor are you a seer, nor are you the High Lady of the Night Court. While the Cauldron had blessed your sisters with powers beyond your comprehension, it had left you a fat load of nothing. Your ears are pointed now, and your periods are killer, but that’s about it. Frustrated at your lack of talents and struggling to fit in amongst the Night Court’s specialized Inner Circle, you start to wonder if Velaris will ever feel like home. After an unfortunate incident during which Rhysand lets slip that he thinks you’re just as useless as you believe yourself to be, he tries making amends by inviting you on official Night Court business. It means a trip to the Autumn Court, but you’re refused from the meeting room by the cruel Lord Beron. He tasks his eldest son Eris with babysitting you, and an unfortunately timed mating bond snap leaves you drifting between worlds like a falling leaf caught in an autumn breeze.
A/N: I LOVE ERIS I LOVE ERIS I LOVE ERIS RAAAAAAH i'm that skeleton banging on the shield screaming I LOVE ERIS I LOVE ERIS I LOVE ERIS <33333
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
Waking up feels like a hangover. You’re glad you’ve risen before Azriel’s 8AM wakeup call, though you’re not sure he’ll really follow through with it. You have time to smush your face into your pillow, your eyes tight and achy from the exhaustion sleep can’t fix, and try to keep your breathing calm and steady where it had raged last night.
You’re not sure if there’s a word for the grief you’re feeling. It’s a loss, even if you hadn’t had powers to begin with, because they’d integrated you into their family like you had. They’d turned promising smiles and expectant eyes on you, waiting for you to shoot fire from your fingertips or command light to heal the sick. One by one your sisters had revealed themselves as something special, and each time another one became great you’d felt a chisel chipping away at the structure of your soul.
You’re happy for them, but so, so envious. The kind of envy that you’re ashamed of, the kind that makes you stay buried beneath your covers instead of dining with Feyre, or asking Elain if she’d like your help in the gardens. You’d rather be alone than in the company of people simply better than you, and you hate yourself for it.
At 7:55 a series of knocks lands against your door, and you grumble as you turn over in your tangled sheets. They’re such a mess that they constrict your body movement, and you call to Azriel to come in instead of trying to get the door yourself.
“You’re still dozing by eight.” He stands dressed in a suit, something like Rhysand would wear but with an undershirt beneath it instead of showing off the tanned planes of his abdomen. His siphons are still there, though, mounted on his chest as a warning. Despite the jewels, the ensemble is still classier than fighting leathers, and you wonder if it has something to do with Autumn’s infamously cruel High Lord.
“It’s not eight.” You argue, but your limbs are suddenly itchy with the need to get up, to do something, to make yourself presentable so that you at least look like you have something to offer the world.
“In the camps anyone who gets to training within fifteen minutes of it starting has to double their workouts.” Azriel’s shadows swarm towards your bed to rouse you from the covers with pinpricks of cold that you can’t bury yourself away from, “Get showered, and we’ll have breakfast before we go.”
After being thoroughly scolded you dash to the bathroom, making sure that none of Azriel’s shadows poke beneath the doorframe in their infinite attempts to ruffle your feathers. When you’re in the clear you hop into the steaming water, glad that Azriel had attributed your puffy face to sleep and not to the way you’d cried into the wee hours of the morning. You take the quickest shower of your life, smearing floral body wash into every inch of your skin in hopes that the scent will carry on the Autumn breeze and make you smell pretty, make you seem graceful, give everyone something to think about you besides what you lack.
Azriel’s shut your door behind him, but once you wrestle on a dress with a zipper you almost can’t fasten and slip into your flats to head towards the table you find him still waiting outside, his eyes shut as his head leans against the wall.
You stop in your doorway, bewildered eyes blinking at him, “Have you been standing there this whole time?”
“You took a quick shower,” He shrugs, eyes weary as they open and fall over the dress draped down your body, “And Cassian would have gotten syrup on my suit if I’d gone down there with him.”
“It looks nice,” You clutch the small bag you’d groggily packed last night after crying yourself silly, a book inside, water and some snacks that the House had decided you’d need in case you’re not permitted any refreshments at the Autumn Court. Beron’s disposition is infamous, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d attempt to starve you to death for the duration of the meeting he’s meant to engage in with Rhysand.
You’re not even sure what the meeting is about, really. Just that it’s important, court stuff, and you’ll be reading in another room.
Oh well.
Azriel’s scarred hand comes up to brace against your back, guiding you down the staircase towards the dining room. “So do you,” He eyes your dress sideways, a deep red with leaves stitched in gold thread around the skirt, “You’ll certainly blend in with Autumn.”
Breakfast is a calm affair now that Cassian’s had his fill, and Azriel scoops a handful of berries onto your plate that you hadn’t even realized you’d wanted until they were already there, a shadow licking against the rim of your plate.
“Thank you,” You hum quietly, trying to tamp down your nerves at the thought of visiting Autumn. You’re excited to see the sights, perhaps take a wander through the woods or tour a nearby village. But your anxieties lie with the Vanserra family- Lucien has proven himself kind but the rest of his family seems complicated at best. Hopefully your unimportance will work to your advantage this time, and you won’t even come face to face with Beron or the pack of wild dogs that make up the heirs to the throne.
Once your stomach is sated and your shoes are on, Azriel leads you to the foyer where the rest of the Autumn Court visitors stand ready. You straighten your shoulders, like you’re important- like you’re not scared, like you’re not pathetic, like you’re not dying inside a little bit each day that you don’t wake up as someone special.
“Everybody ready?” Rhysand asks, “We’ll be winnowing directly into the manor. I don’t know who will be asked to meet- who will be allowed to meet,” He casts quick glances at everyone in the room, “You know he likes to pick and choose who to bully.”
“Well he’s got all his favorites today,” Cassian drawls, glancing at Morrigan, Azriel, Feyre, “Maybe he’ll be so overwhelmed with bloodlust he’ll just drop dead.”
“Don’t make those jokes when we get there,” Rhys warns, though his face forms a dry grin, “Eris might sic his hounds on you.”
You’ve heard stories of the Autumn Court hounds. They sound terrifying- they’re born and bred hunters that would have ripped Morrigan into literal shreds if they’d caught her. Even Cassian grimaces, envisioning them outnumbering him, and shuts his mouth.
Once everyone gives Rhysand a reluctant nod, he sighs and takes Feyre’s arm. Morrigan claims Cassian, and you’re left to shadowwalk with Azriel, only slightly more comfortable than the tilting, squeezing feeling of winnowing.
You land in the Autumn Court, three pairs popping into existence one after the next, and you lean heavily into Azriel as you gain your bearings. The shadows that had guided you from place to place dissipate, but some of them linger around you and their singer, wisps of darkness that assess the room for threats before curling protectively around your shoulders and Azriel’s arms. He wears them like tattoos, like part of his skin. But you wear them like a shawl, drapery meant to protect and conceal.
As soon as you settle in your places, before anyone can murmur anything about the large mahogany manor you’re standing in- beautiful despite its imposing size, thundering footsteps, dozens of them, begin from your left side somewhere unseen. Sudden wisps of smoke- similar to Azriel’s shadows but far more corporeal phase through the wall, landing heavy on the carpeted floor as soon as they’re in the room you and your family had winnowed into. They’re dogs- hounds, smokehounds made of muscle and darkness that kick your heart rate into overdrive as they bound towards you with their massive paws.
They’re waist-height to Cassian. They’re enormous, and you duck behind Azriel in terror before you realize it means they’ll get him first. You wonder if that makes you a backstabber- a weak, useless coward - but his hands are already grabbing for you, arms behind his back as he stations himself before you as a shield. Rhysand throws his hands out, ready to use his power to do whatever he needs to in order to maintain your safety, but your heart still pounds in your chest.
The hounds stop five paces away from you, assessing, at attention in formation like an army. Clearly impeccably trained, their eyes blaze with energy, raw power coiling off of them in wisps of smoke that seem to rise and dissipate endlessly off of them. You don’t have time to consider the mechanics of their bodies- physical, spiritual, solid, gas, before shoes scrape against the ground behind you, and you spin behind Azriel’s back to find Eris Vanserra straightening himself where he’d been leaning against a pillar of the foyer in wait for you, hand outstretched in a silent command to his hounds: wait.
His face is sharp, cheekbones and jawline slanted and angled like weapons. His skin stretches taut over them, smooth but taut like he eats for necessity and not enjoyment. His pointed ears jut upwards into a head of impeccably-styled flaming red hair, gel slicking the strands sideways and back around the part against the left side of his scalp. It’s closely shaved to the nape of his neck, gradually lengthening until the strands at the front of his hairline that look long enough to dip into his vision if it weren’t so thickly coated with product. It looks rock-solid, like it might break off if it’s moved from its careful placement.
He’s dressed sharply, and you admire the Autumn Court fashion- a white tunic, sleeves elegantly cuffed that contrasts deeply with the emerald green vest he’s buttoned over it. There’s gold stitching at the breast pocket, and his slacks are tight against his thighs as he slips his hands behind his back primly. You notice another presence- another redheaded presence behind Eris, and your tension eases only slightly as you recognize Lucien’s long hair woven into an intricate braid, sections of it twisted this way and that in a style you couldn’t even imagine attempting. He’s leaning against the same wall Eris had, and you wonder if they were having some sort of brotherly conversation before your arrival, or if they’d simply stared at the floor in silent wait. Either way, his eyes are kinder than Eris’s when they rake over you, but it’s the eldest Vanserra who speaks.
“You’ve brought a party,” He observes, his eyes raking over Cassian, Morrigan, Rhys and your sister, Azriel, and catching on the embroidery on your dress before his eyes flit to your face. His gaze burns like his fire and your stomach curls- you feel bare in front of his powerful stare, vulnerable despite Azriel’s hand wrapping around your stomach to pull you tighter into him, protecting you from the threats surrounding you from all sides. Eris’s eyes don’t miss the gesture, and his lips quirk in a sneer where they had been set in an uninterested curve.
“You are aware,” Eris begins, his voice a grating drawl that splays Azriel’s fingers out wider against your stomach, “That not all of you will be permitted into the meeting room?” He casts a scathing glance over Cassian’s broad frame, one that makes your face flood with a rush of indignance, “The dogs typically stay outside.”
“Cassian has information from the front lines of his army.” Rhysand states simply, calm and composed next to Eris’s flickering flame, “And he will deliver it as is his right due to his station.”
“Yes, his station, the-” Eris’s lips tug up at the corners, though he stifles it for dramatic effect, “Lord of Bloodshed.”
You wonder if perhaps Eris is the Lord of Condescension.
As if on cue, his eyes flicker to you, lashes fluttering as he blinks once, twice, thrice, almost bewildered if not for his regal composure, “And you? Who are you?”
You hadn’t expected to be addressed directly. You falter- you know your name quite well, but you find yourself incapable of speaking it for a few brief seconds as you regain your composure. Eris’s eyes burn, their flames licking at your skin and heating your face with embarrassment. Before you can introduce yourself Azriel speaks from over your shoulder, “She is the sister of my High Lady. She is here to be shown around by Lucien. She will not be placed within sneering range of Beron.”
There’s a very conflicting set of emotions warring inside of you. You appreciate Azriel’s protectiveness- he’s a good male, he’s always willing to throw himself into harm’s way to keep his family safe. But Rhysand had offered you a spot at the table; as much of one as he was able to promise, not knowing whether Beron was in a particularly aggressive mood or not. But still, it had been a last-ditch attempt to make you feel like you were good for something, and Azriel had simply decided you weren’t going. Is it protectiveness, or is it his true feelings- the ones he swore he didn’t possess - shining through?
Did you even want to go? Did you want to sign yourself up for gruelling debate, hours and hours of sitting tensely and watching politics play out before you, waiting for someone to go for another man’s jugular?
You did not. Your book and the richly-colored forests of autumn are calling your name, but it feels like an especially useless thing to do. Opting out of the big-kid job to go play in the woods- that seems precisely like something someone would do if they had no dog in the fight. And you don’t, but you wish to so desperately that you’d be willing to sit at their table, stiff-backed and straight-faced until someone thought you belonged there.
Despite not wanting any part in the meeting, you find yourself unreasonably irritated that Azriel is going to shut the door on you.
Perhaps he senses it- that thoughtful, caring bastard - because the hand on your stomach twitches, thumb stroking briefly back and forth over your skin, only once so no one catches the movement. But it’s meant to soothe, and you sink back into helpless despair as the room decides your fate for you. As it always does.
“Lucien will be meeting with us.” Eris grimaces, and for once he looks sincere as his brother shifts restlessly beside him, his face twisted in a scowl, “My father- the High Lord is particularly fixated on speaking to him at the moment.”
You wonder if they’ve spoken at all since Lucien began working for Rhysand. If they’ve written, if they’ve fought, if they’d burned down whatever meeting place they’d chosen for a conversation. Lucien casts you an apologetic glance, but you can’t manage a smile back at him.
“Then I will keep her company,” Azriel defers, but Rhysand shakes his head once, seeming just as pained as Eris.
“Azriel.” He calls warily, resignedly, knowingly, “You’re needed in the meeting room.”
“I can join you,” You try, your voice feeble as you address both your family and your adversary, Azriel’s fingers curling tightly around you in protest, “I can sit and-”
“And what?” Comes a raspy voice as the double doors behind Eris and Lucien creak open, wood scraping against wood to create a sound just as chilling as the voice of the man behind them, “Gather dust?”
Beron Vanserra is a man as withered and callous on the outside as he is on the inside. His hair is thinning and greying, his face gnarled and twisted with age and hatred alike. It writhes into a scowl, an audible scoff leaving his thin lips as he takes note of Lucien’s presence before him, and the fire in his eyes jumps to your companions, hungry for more fuel. They scald your skin as they rake over you and Azriel, then the rest of your party, his lips curling up in a withering sneer that reveals too-thin, yellowed, crooked teeth protruding from his pale gums, “Is this a joke, Rhysand? You come here for a formal discussion, three Illyrian bastards and your whores. You really believe that is appropriate for official court business? This is not a vacation spot.”
He speaks the word court like it’s the thing that matters most to him, sharp and intentional. And as he shoulders roughly past Eris in the doorway to stride towards you, nearly knocking his son off-balance, his gaze flicking over the smokehounds behind you with the same disdain he’d aimed at you, you wonder if Beron Vanserra cares about anything at all besides his throne.
One of the smokehounds snarls- no, the growl comes from Azriel, deep and guttural within his throat, so animalistic that you’d assumed it was a dog’s. Cassian bristles and Morrigan straightens her posture, shoulders back, chin held high. Rhysand and Feyre though- they look used to it. They keep their faces in sync, cool, unbothered smirks that don’t falter under the heat of Beron’s gaze.
“Lord Beron,” Feyre greets smoothly, her lead surely boiling Beron’s blood further, “Do you mean to tell me your manor is not large enough for six guests?”
“Besides,” Rhysand speaks after her, and Feyre tilts her head, her hair spilling down her shoulders and back in elegant waves, “I seem to remember your entire brood of heirs joining us the last time we spoke. Is this any different?”
“Of course it’s different,” Beron scoffs, “My sons are members of my court. They contribute, they will rule someday, and you’ve brought along your gaggle of misfits and as many humans as the King of Hybern was able to scoop up and toss into the Cauldron.”
“Actually, there’s two more at home,” Cassian smirks, teeth sharp and bared, “But they didn’t feel like wasting their time listening to you.”
You’re sure if Beron were younger or less soulless his cheeks would have flushed in anger. But it’s his permanent state, and he doesn’t tear his gaze away from Rhysand as he speaks.
“No guests in the meeting room.”
“Feyre and I reign.” Rhysand stands tall, his wings spread behind him in an intimidating display, “Cassian leads my armies and Azriel knows my court inside and out. Morrigan is my second-in-command and-”
Rhys’s voice barely begins to falter over your name before Beron’s own cuts him off, “Don’t bother giving the girl a make-believe title. You may have managed to sequester all of the human girls that invaded our lands, Rhysand, but they are legend across Prythian. This one is the one without powers.”
Azriel’s harsh, gruff voice barks from behind you, “Don’t-”, but Beron pays him no mind,
“This one is not of any use to you, or to me. This one will not be permitted to join.”
Your stomach aches.
Azriel’s shadows writhe. His grip on your waist is starting to pain you now, and you shift beneath his fingers that are clenched in the soft skin of your stomach like an anchor in waterlogged silt. He loosens his grip apologetically, but doesn’t let you go, and Eris steps in before Azriel’s shadows block his father’s airways.
“Father,” He dips his head respectfully towards Beron, “I’ll take the girl to the servant’s quarters. She can stay there while we meet, and-”
“And run off to spread the spymaster’s shadows throughout our court? Use your brain, Eris,” Beron grits, and you wonder if he’s ever let anyone finish a sentence around him without trampling all over it, “She cannot be left unattended. You will watch her.”
Eris’s eyes don’t widen, but they do twitch slightly. He bristles, his shoulders shifting as he moves his weight from one foot to the other. He stares at you, gaze wary like you’re trying to hold him back from his princely duties. Like you’re begging to have him breathe down your neck for the day, like you’d enjoy his company instead of fear it. He glances back at Beron- you can tell he’s surprised by the order, as are you, as is Azriel whose hand presses your back impossibly closer to his chest. The cobalt siphon on his chest digs painfully into your spine, and you shift your shoulders to push yourself away from it. You straighten them like you matter, like you’re a diplomat instead of a daydreamer, and try ignoring the way your stomach has deflated so tragically that it seems to have fallen to your feet.
“But… My Lord,” He bows his head respectfully, layering his adoration on thicker than grease, “The meeting- I am needed.”
“And I don’t need a babysitter.” Your voice is strong but not loud, though your tone nearly falters when Beron’s gaze singes your nerve, “I’ll be happy to walk through the forest while you’re talking.”
“Yes,” Beron grins, his teeth covered in spit that shines in the faelight of the foyer, “Peruse the forests. Walk alone, unarmed, weak and new to the territory. My sons and I will draw up a bet for how soon your remains are scattered throughout the woods. I’d say twenty minutes.”
“The serving quarters,” Eris attempts again, but Beron snarls this time, jerking his arms about in such hot anger you’re surprised his fire magic doesn’t lick up the mahogany crown molding bracketing every ceiling and floor.
“Enough! I did not permit you a seat at the table to argue with me.” Beron growls, “Seeing the disrespect you show me now makes me glad Rhysand brought his human bore for you to entertain- it would have been disastrous to allow this sort of behavior in my court. Go, take her and go,” Beron waves a hand at both of you like he might not care whether you lived or died, “And while you are out, be sure you locate your manners because it seems as though you lost them- probably on your last hunt with those mongrels. Get these bitches out of my manor,” Beron’s hand sweeps over you and the dogs as one, his voice vicious and biting as he storms back into his meeting room, “And do not return until we are finished.”
Azriel is breathing so heavily with restraint that it’s audible in your ear. He’s seething, burning like autumn court fire with the urge to fill Beron’s lungs up with his shadows and watch the man die a slow, painful death. But Rhysand turns towards you, levelling him with a warning stare before his eyes slide down to your own, calm and collected to keep you the same.
“I believe he’s done throwing his temper tantrum now, and I’ll make sure it’s the last you see of him. Eris,” He calls the eldest son of autumn, and you watch as Eris fights very hard not to step forwards like he would for his father, the habit nearly degrading him in front of your family, “Do not let any harm come to her.”
“She will be safe.” He mutters begrudgingly, “You think I can’t handle babysitting a human girl? Or- do you think I’ll hurt her,” He scoffs, wary of his father’s listening ear as he murmurs lowly, “Has my brother’s alliance and my cooperation not been enough to convince you that I am not the enemy under this roof?”
“She is fae.” Azriel snarls, “And you left the last woman you were trusted with half-dead on the border of Spring. So yes, Eris, I think you will hurt her.”
Eris’s hands flicker with flame. A visible fire that coats his fists, licking up his arms until it’s touching but not burning his sharply-cuffed sleeves. You’re still aware of the tension between Eris and Azriel, but you briefly stare in awe at his power- magic is still so new to you that even something as rudimentary for Eris as simple flames puts stars in your eyes.
“I will not hurt her.” Eris spits, “We’re wasting time. If my father has to call for you he will simply refuse to meet at all. Come.” He turns his gaze towards you, sharp and irritated from the Illyrians’ needling, “We’re leaving.”
You have to peel Azriel’s hand off of your stomach. You feel his resistance, you see the two shadows that separate from his arsenal to circle around your ankles, one for each. One to stay with you at all times, and one to race back to Azriel and report any danger.
The shadows catch one of the smokehound’s eyes, and you let out an unsteady, garbled sound of fear as it darts for your stumbling feet, but all it does is sniff curiously at your ankle and the wispy smoke curling around it.
“Those cannot come with us,” Eris points at the shadows, “Don’t be stupid, Azriel.”
Azriel’s fist clenches at his side as he calls the shadows back, their gray, formless bodies seeming to resist the order as well. They delight in making the curious smokehound at your feet sneeze on their way back to Azriel, but even at its now-relaxed, puppyish behavior you shy a few steps to your left to get away from it. Eris tracks the motion, one hand beckoning for the other dogs to follow behind him as he takes your arm in his grip and heads for the door.
“Come outside,” He mutters, his voice now too low for even your family to hear as they reluctantly file into the meeting room, “And fight me.”
“What-” You whimper as he squeezes your arm, “Ow, I-” Then you register his words, twisting in his hold, before the large windows that look into the room where your friends are taking their seats, and Beron is watching sharply as you struggle, “You pig, get your hands off of me! Stop,” You beg, thrashing about as Eris beelines you both towards a smaller building against the side of the manor, at the very edge of the forest, “You’re hurting me! I can walk on my own, where are you taking me?”
“For the record,” He yanks you through a doorway into a concrete hallway, doors lining the walls to make up what you realize is a kennel for his enormous hunting hounds that swarm inside after you, twining around your legs and brushing against your sides in the confined space, “I never said you had to speak. But it was a nice touch, if not a bit underplayed. If someone ever grabs you like that again, I’d suggest calling them worse things than a pig.”
You stagger backwards as soon as he lets you go, grappling with all of the different attitudes and personas he’d worn in such a short time. You can't keep them straight- you don't know which to trust. Is he Mor’s vicious abuser? Is he a genius, carefully planting her where she could be saved and escorting his father the opposite way? Is he Beron’s mini-me, his father’s obedient little pet? Is he the Night Court’s begrudging ally, resistant to betray his court but eager to betray its ruler? Is he the smart-mouthed man now standing before you, shoulders loosened from where they’d been held proudly squared until the door shut behind him?
“I’m Eris,” He offers you his hand and you freeze, glancing warily down at his skin, unmarred by the flame it had just held moments prior, “Please don’t back away any further, darling, you’ll step on a smokehound.”
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Summary - Feyre was a High Lady. Nesta was a Valkyrie. Elain was a Seer.
And she was the sister the Cauldron ruined and forgot.
Invisible in a family of legends, haunted by nightmares no one noticed, she learned to stay quiet... to expect nothing.
Except Azriel noticed. The Shadowsinger who never spoke too much saw everything—her pain, her loneliness... and the bond between them she didn't even know existed.
When the world decides she is the easiest one to break—Azriel will make them suffer for it.
A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
This is my very first Archeron sister fic! For the sake of the story, I've had to make the sisters a little harsh at times but that's purely for plot reasons, not an invitation to throw shade at them x
Expect healing, found family vibes, and basically an overlooked girl x quiet boy kind of story. There will be heartbreak, angst and eventually fluff :)
Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3
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