Yaz

You roused from your sleep slowly, becoming aware of the silky duvet that weighed you down, the soft mattress beneath you and the rhythmic, steady breathing of the man laying next to you. The words spoken in his quiet, deep voice returning to you then. This must be the civic holiday he had been talking about that would give him the long weekend with you.

If your math was correct, that marked a full 3 months of you being here trapped in this house. You'd woken in this very bed with a very hazy memory of a chemical soaked silk rag being pressed to your face as you'd slept in your apartment. Your panicked screams being hushed by a gentle voice. Hazel eyes looking down at you from within a strikingly handsome face and large hands gently smoothing back your hair the last thing you felt before you'd succumbed to the darkness.

When you'd come to you had struggled to understand his words through the pounding headache and rising panic within your chest. He'd held you tight against his chest when you seemed to loose all sense of reason as his words registered and you realized you were trapped in this home in the middle of the woods with a man you didn't know. Asking calmly for you to mimic his breathing as he took in exaggeratedly deep breaths until you could do the same.

It was the last time he had held you against your will. Since then Nanami had kept to his word. He wouldn't touch you until you asked him to, until you came into his arms of your own free will. The certainty in those sharp hazel eyes of his that you would rendering you speechless. Not even able to utter a word in response to tell him that would never happen. You would have been lying anyway.

You turned carefully, huddling in close to the warm inviting planes of his body. Lined with toned muscle as he was, there was something oddly comfortable about him. Cold and lonely as you were in this house you caught your mind slipping thinking about how it had felt that first night when he'd gathered you up in his strong arms and held you close to his chest. So warm and firm in his hold even as you writhed and struggled to get away.

That had been the first sign. Your mind was beginning to break, succumbing to the one thing even the strongest couldn't withstand, loneliness. You'd devised this plan soon after but this was the first time you were making so bold a move.

You heard his breath catch as you allowed your body to relax against his, eyes opening slowly as though afraid that this was only a dream and he didn't wish to accidentally wake himself from it. You let your own fall shut, resting your cheek against his bare shoulder.

You forced yourself to keep still as he turned slightly and a large hand was laid down on the dip of your waist, nearly just hovering above as though he couldn't believe he really got to do this.

"Are you awake?" He asked, voice husky from sleep and you were reminded again of how unfairly attractive the man that held you captive was.

You didn't think yourself shallow enough to ignore his crimes against you simply due to how beautiful he was but were not ignorant enough to deny it was a factor that would weaken your defenses. A repellant, disgusting man would be easier to turn away.

"Not ready to be." You mumbled and you could practically feel the smile you know would be curving up the corners of his pale pink lips. Hazel eyes still lidded with sleep and warmed by the adoration they held within their depths.

It was a look you received from him every time you did something he found endearing which was all too often. Three months into being here and it still caught you off guard. You'd much prefer a repellant man.

"Sleep as long as you'd like my darling." He said, and you merely adjusted the position of your head on his shoulder to one more comfortable before allowing yourself to drift back to sleep.

Nanami could almost convince himself that was you nuzzling against him affectionately. If this was a dream he never wanted to wake from it. His beloved darling, who despite being so close had always seemed so distant, so maddeningly unreachable, was really willingly in his arms. His heart seemed to have swelled to three time its size. It didn't matter if this was genuine or not.

Madly in love though he may be, Kento Nanami was no fool. He had caught the calculating look in your eyes as you tentatively began asking him about his day when he returned from work. Offering to help with chores and intentionally coming to his study while he was in there to get a book.

It didn't matter what had brought on the changes, he was simply so happy you were no longer flinching away when he so much as neared you. Avoiding his gaze, not letting him look into those pretty eyes. Giving him one word answers as though afraid to risk angering him by ignoring him but clearly having no desire to speak to him. Laying still and stiff at the very edge of the bed. Breathing uneven as you refused to let yourself sleep even into the early hours of the morning lest the horrid man who had stolen you away take advantage of your vulnerability.

He had been patient through months of all that. Swallowing down the longing that felt like it was cloying its way up his throat and blocking his airways at having you so near yet so distant. His methods may have been unorthodox but Nanami loved you and he would never hurt you. He knew you would come to realize that, open up to him on your own. Come to love him even a fraction of how much he loved you if he was just patient.

Now that you had devised this plan to let his guard down, you had unknowingly let your own guard down at well. He had worked his way into your mind, he would find a way into your heart and soul as well. Own all of you the way you owned all of him.

When you woke again you were still tucked against Nanami's side. Eyes fluttering open and your breath catching when you saw those hazel eyes fixed on you. Cheeks pinkening in embarrassment at the thought that he had been watching you all this while as you slept. You glanced down, shifting slightly as you made to turn away but the hand on your waist tightened.

"Stay, please." He breathed and you glanced up at him. So heartbreakingly sweet all sleep rumpled and flushed pink that he couldn't help himself.

Something you saw in those eyes made you tentatively rest your head down on his shoulder again. He reached up with the hand that had been on your waist, smoothing your hair back from your face, cupping your cheek reverently.

Your heart clenched at the way he was looking at you. The way you'd always secretly wanted to be looked at even as you put on a false bravado and claimed you didn't care for things like romance and love.

Had he not done what he did, not kept you here against your will, he would have been the man you always wanted. So respectful and kind, never so much as raising his voice with you and always addressing you with honorifics. Handsome and strong but with a strength that promised protection and didn't dominate. Eyes only for you.

It was too bad somewhere within that mind of his something was broken and twisted. Allowing him to lock up another and hold them captive in the name of love.

He could see the change in you, feel the way your spine stiffened and gaze closed off. Your rational mind had won out again, the sleep induced haze that quietened those troublesome thoughts that kept you from giving in and allowing yourself to be loved had lifted.

"I need to go to the bathroom." You said and he forced himself to let you go, withdrawing his hands from your soft warm skin.

It was a tight rope he was walking. He couldn't push too much. You couldn't know he was onto you, he had to let you believe he was fooled by your charade so that you would stop letting those pesky thoughts get in the way. In the act of pretending you would allow yourself to grow close to him, to open up to him. It was a matter of time before this would stop being an act and would become the truth without you even realizing it.

Nanami sat up in the bed with a sigh as the bathroom door closed behind you. Bringing the hand that had touched you up to his face, inhaling the faint scent of you left on his skin. His eyes falling shut as his other hand trailed down to the tent in his pants. Slipping under the waistband and it took only a few pumps of his painfully hard cock with the scent of you filling his senses before he was cumming. Having to bite down into the palm of the hand still fragrant with your scent to muffle his groan.

Nanami licked over his own palm, wishing desperately it was your skin he was tasting but the traces of your warmth left etched into his hand were enough to have him half hard again. Overcome by need as he was, there was still a rational part of his brain that warned him you could exit that washroom at any moment and if you caught him in the act like this, it would ruin all of his progress.

He rose from the bed, heading down the hall to the other bathroom so he could shower and change out of these cum soaked pajama bottoms. The sound of the water running telling him you were also in the shower and he let his mind drift as it pleased throughout his morning routine.

He stood under the steady on-pour of the warm shower, tugging at his hard cock at the fantasies of you being there with him instead of showering on your own in the other bathroom. His cum being washed down the drain and he had to switch the water to ice cold to ensure he wouldn't get hard again as he thought of that morning.

He hadn't been anticipating you to get so close so soon. So close he could count each of your lashes that lay against the enticing apple of your cheek. The feel of your soft curves against him. The smell of you. The way you'd fallen asleep cuddled up to him as though you fully trusted him and the thought of you putting yourself at his mercy like that had him hardening again despite the cold water.

Nanami came a third and then a fourth time at the mere memory of you willingly being so close to him, biting into the crook of his arm with his forehead pressed against the shower wall. And it was a good thing he did too for when he returned to the room showered and dressed for the day, there you were. Sitting at the end of the bed with your wet hair making your shirt stick to your skin.

The smell of your shampoo and body wash filling the room with your sweet scent. If he hadn't just jerked his cock raw in the shower, he would have gotten hard again and you would have seen the tent in his pants. He didn't want to scare you off. Not when you had just started to let yourself near him.

Nanami grabbed your discarded hair towel and came to stand before you. It seemed he couldn’t resist pushing a little to see how much he could get out of you. Your nearness from just this morning stoking the fire and making him want more.

"May I?" He asked and you glanced down to the towel in his hands. He could practically feel your reluctance but you gave him a little nod in assent.

He stood behind you, carefully pulling all your hair back. Allowing his fingers to brush the sides of your delicate neck. Your skin still slightly damp from the shower and so soft he was glad he was standing behind you for no amount of jerking off could keep him from getting hard again at that.

He brushed the towel though the ends of your hair gently, retrieving your hairbrush from the dresser and working that carefully as he could through your hair to untangle it. Swallowing dryly as droplets of water from your hair turned the white shirt you wore nearly translucent, allowing him a peak at the skin he'd never seen before.

"Do you want me to blow dry your hair?" He asked, purposely bending down low to murmur the words right against your hair. Getting a deep inhale of your sweet smell before you jumped up off the bed. Eyes locked on your figure, the dormant beast within him awakened by your proximity ready to pounce at the skittish little thing you were.

"No, I'll just let it airdry. Thanks." You muttered, quickly making your way out of the room.

Nanami raised the damp towel to his face, taking in a deep inhale. His cock leaking in his pants as your scent filled his senses. His hand trailed down to the bulge in his pants as he opened his mouth and sucked the towel in. Sucking the damp material desperately for the drops of water that had soaked in from your hair as he worked his hand over the thick line of his cock through his pants.

Breathing growing heavy and chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. So turned on he barely needed any stimulation at all. Nearly tearing through the towel as he bit down into it when he came.

He used the wet towel to clean himself up before discarding it into the laundry basket along with his pants and changed into a new pair. He couldn't wait until you let him touch you. It would be worth every painstaking ounce of patience he had shown.

He washed his hands in the adjoined bathroom and splashed some water onto his face before he went to join your downstairs. The smell of coffee telling him you had set the pot to brew before he caught sight of you in the kitchen in front of the coffee machine.

The scene so achingly domestic it made him feel as though his heart was being squeezed. How he had longed for this simple domesticity with you. Seeing you putter about the house made it feel like home.

He knew what he had done was wrong but no one, not even you could bring him to regret it.

"Coffee?" You asked as you turned with the freshly brewed pot in one hand and the mug he usually used in the other.

"Please." He answered, wandering closer. Hands twitching at his sides, wishing he could grab you by the hips and pull you back into him. Hug you as you brewed coffee for both of you. Kiss your neck and smell your hair as you poured it out.

For now all he could do was watch and want. Akin to how it had been before he brought you home. This longing was familiar to him. It was having you, even little pieces of you like you'd given to him this morning that he didn't know how to react to.

You held out his mug carefully and he allowed his fingers to subtly trail over yours as he took it from you. It was these little stolen touches and the sight of you in his home that had sustained him all these months. He felt like a ravenous beast being given mere scraps but devouring you wasn't the goal. You were something meant to be savoured. The longer you let the hunger build, the harder it would be on you to satiate it. He'd take you on every surface in this house.

He smiled at you as he thanked you, wondering what sort of face you would make if you had any idea about the thoughts that ran through his head. What you would do if you knew about the beast that lurked just beneath the surface.

"What would you like to eat?" He asked as he lifted the mug to take a sip. It was the same brew he had been drinking for years but somehow it tasted infinitely sweeter when made by you.

"Not sure, anything." You answered, sitting down in the chair across from his. He hoped he had managed to keep the wistfulness off his face. This morning had gotten his hopes up. He wished that you had taken things a step further and sat down in his lap instead.

"Does an omelet sound good?" He asked and you nodded.

He rose fluidly from his seat, donning the apron he kept folded in the bottom kitchen drawer before starting on prepping your omelets. Skin at the nape of his neck prickling with the sensation of your eyes on him.

There was no doubt you found him attractive. He'd caught that look in your eyes at times before you averted them. You particularly seemed to like it when he rolled up the sleeves on his shirts to his forearms while he cooked or loosened his tie by crooking in his finger and tugging at the loop. Both actions he tried to do around you without making it obvious they were for your benefit. Loving the way your eyes would fix on him and the way your pupils would dilate if he was lucky enough to be close enough to see.

When your omelet was ready he set it down before you. Having to resist the urge to press a kiss to your cheek as an outlet of the affection that welled up in him when you sweetly expressed your gratitude for the breakfast.

He sat down across from you with his own breakfast. The sound of your chopsticks against the plate the only sound as you both had your breakfast. Your shared meals had always been silent but now the silence was peaceful instead of tense as it had been when you had first been brought home. Your fear near palpable in the air and then there was that horrid bit of time you had refused to eat at all.

Despite being driven mad at the sight of you withering away before him, he had kept his cool. Kneeling down before you one day after returning from work with his hands concealed beneath his back as he asked whether you had eaten that day. You had shaken your head and averted your gaze until he brought his hands forward to present what he held. Revealing the nasogastric tube he had picked up on his way home and calmly asking you to please not make him resort to such extreme measures.

You had started eating again that very night. That had been your last act of rebellion. Nanami had expected more fight. He always knew you were sweet, it was part of why he’d fallen for you but he’d been prepared for screaming and violence as you adjusted. Ready to standby and let you vent your anger and outrage at his more unorthodox methods of courting.

Perhaps because you’d been so level headed and withdrawn the adjustment process was taking longer. Some aggression would have gotten the fight out of your system, now that denial was manifesting in other ways. He would be as patient as you needed, he was quite enjoying your latest scheming anyhow. It was pushing you right into his arms, where you belonged.

You finished before him, surprising him by sitting there sipping on your coffee though you'd already finished your meal. He had gotten used to you eating quickly and escaping back to your room to avoid having to spend time with him. It warmed his chest to see you sit there keeping him company as he finished eating. It had been a very long time since someone had done that for him.

When he was done, he picked up his own half-filled cup of coffee. Not quite ready to end the moment of peace between you both. You rose from the table, collecting your own plate and his and taking them to the sink.

"Darling I'll do that, don't worry about it." Nanami said, wishing you would just come sit again.

"You cooked, I can clean." You answered.

Showing kindness had to to be seen as progress. Getting close to him was difficult, it filled you with nerves and made your heart pound as though you had just run a marathon. There had to be other ways to convince him you were coming around and make him trust you so you wouldn't have to rely on contact alone.

You didn't even hear him get up but suddenly he was behind you, the hard lines of his body pressed against your back as he leant down with both arms caging you against the sink. Taking the cup you held in your hands gently as you froze.

"Let me. You don't need to lift a finger as long as I'm around." He murmured, deep voice speaking quietly against your ear making your heart take off again. You had to squeeze your eyes shut and remind yourself it was just loneliness and you didn't actually want this man.

You shifted over to the side and he moved his arm immediately. Intimidation and force weren't his way. He wasn't that kind of monster and how could he ever even convince himself let alone you that he loved you if he hurt you.

He wanted you to feel safe with him, to feel safe in this house he wanted so badly for you to call your home. It had taken him a lot of effort and patience to get you to build the sort of trust where you could pull something like you did this morning without fearing his reaction.

He watched from the corner of his eye as you returned to the table and sat down again, fidgeting with your hands in your lap. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. You were going out of your way to spend time with him, this was shaping up to be the best day off he had in years, maybe ever.

When he was done washing the dishes and had wiped down the counters he turned towards you.

"Should we watch some TV?" He asked and you nodded, following after him into the living room. He grabbed the remote and sat down on the couch, waiting with baited breath to see where you would sit. The usual armchair so as to ensure he couldn't sit near you or would you be so bold as to come share the couch with him.

You were caught in indecision. On one hand it would show trust and progress to sit next to him but on the other hand you doubted your heart could take much more. He just made you so nervous. You wished it wasn't a holiday and that he was at work so you could be alone.

You knew you'd been standing too long, this shouldn't be so hard. You slept in the same bed next to him every night for god's sake. Steeling your nerves, you walked over and sat down on the very end of the couch he was seated on.

You could see him look at you from the corner of your eye but kept your gaze fixed on the television where a news reporter was talking about the frustrating levels of traffic commuters were experiencing. Interviewing various professionals and hearing them complain about how much of their day was wasted simply sitting in traffic and how little time they had to themselves in the weekdays.

That had been you just a couple months ago. Working long days and getting home so late you had only enough time for a rushed dinner and some television before you were off to bed. Exhausted to the bone but somehow unable to sleep on time.

Wanting to extend those few hours of freedom to do as you wished just a little longer even if it was at the cost of not getting enough of that much needed sleep. Reading just another chapter or watching just one more episode until it was no longer possible to get a full 8 hours.

The vicious cycle continuing night after night until the weekend finally came along and you were so tired and overstimulated from your workweek, all you wanted to do was stay home and rest. Spending your precious days off sleeping in and lazing around in your pajamas. Weeks and months had passed you by just like that.

Tiring as it had been, it had been your life. You realized now when it was taken from you that you hadn't exercised that freedom to go where you wanted nearly enough. You wished you had made more of your free time, stopped by that coffee shop you always looked in on your way to work. Taken that class you never got around to signing up for. Gone out to read at a park and felt the wind and sun against your skin.

The longing for the freedom you had lost made you all the more determined to do what was necessary to gain it back. This time you wouldn't take it for granted.

You hadn't ever tried to run, it seemed futile while that anklet was on you. Nothing you had done could get it off. You'd even tried to cut it off once and ended up slashing a deep gash across your lower leg as the knife slipped in your desperation. You had tried to cover it up, staunch the blood flow with a towel you had tossed in the bathroom garbage, throwing some scrunched up tissues overtop to hide it from view. Finding some bandages and having to use multiple to cover the length of the cut.

You had tried to look inconspicuous when Nanami got home that night, trying to hide your wince as each step seemed to tug at the torn skin. But Nanami had seen the bloody towel in the garbage and confronted you. Those sharp eyes immediately noticing the way you seemed to favour one side over the other as you walked away from him and the glistening patch near the hem of your pants where the bandages had bled through.

He had blocked your path, asking where you had gotten hurt and to let him help. He may have phrased it as a question but the way he stood before you made it quite obvious refusing wasn't an option. You remembered the way his gaze had darkened and jaw had clenched when you finally relented and let him take a look at the cut.

A shiver running down your spine even now just at the memory though he had been gentle as he could possibly be while dressing your wound. In a quiet, restrained voice asking that you promise never to do something so dangerous again. The rage in those hazel eyes at seeing you hurt burned into your memory and keeping you from risking doing something like that again.

"Are you cold?" The deep voice of your captor knocked you out of your thoughts and you glanced over to see him looking at you. He must have seen you shiver and gotten the wrong idea.

"Uh- yes." You mumbled, not really wanting to have to explain what the real reason behind you shivering was.

Nanami took the throw draped over the back of the couch and carefully laid it across your lap. Smiling faintly as you thanked him and returning to his seat on the other side of the couch but your words stopped him before he sat down again.

"We can share if you'd like." You offered, holding up a corner of the throw. Clearly inviting him to sit next to you.

That longing propelling you to overcome your cowardice if doing so brought you any closer to your freedom. The freedom you couldn't ever allow yourself to stop chasing.

Nanami sat down next to you carefully, close enough that his shoulder just brushed yours and he could feel the heat emanating off your body. You draped some of the throw over him, your arm brushing against his chest and hair tickling his nose as you leant over him slightly to do so.

When you settled back again the line of your arm now pressed against his. Your hand that rested on your leg beneath the throw, mere inches from his own. He would have to move only slightly to grab onto your hand but he resisted the urge. Merely enjoying your proximity that he normally only got to experience during the few hours of night when you lay next to him. The need for sleep stealing into that little time he had you so close.

Those first few weeks when he had brought you home when you would lay at the edge of the bed unable to sleep he hadn't slept either. His reasons were very different than your own. While you lay tense and terrified of what he may do, he was relishing in how close you were. In finally having you in his bed and in his home as he had only fantasized about for so long. At that time you barely ever looked at him so you hadn't seen the dark circles forming beneath his eyes mirroring your own.

He'd only been able to keep that up so long before his body started forcing sleep on him. Little did you know though he still woke long before you and would simply watch you as you slept. Taking the chance to admire you from up close and to look his fill the way he couldn't when you were awake. You came before everything, even the base need for sleep.

To have you so close willingly was a rare treat he would savour every moment of. He had been unable to pay attention to a single thing that news reporter was droning on about from the moment you had sat down on the couch. Every sense of his completely focused on your being.

Bullets follow him everywhere, some have clipped him, some have missed him and some have punctured bone. Mysterious men in black trail you on those impromptu, isolated dates he takes you out on and no matter how often he’s been interrupted, it never fails to dampen the mood.

He’s been stabbed and shot and lied to. Betrayed by those he’s fostered under his organization, mouths that he’s been kind enough to feed.

When vermin step on his toes, Sylus becomes the worst thing to ever happen to them.

And the reality is that you’ve been blatantly dishonest to his face. As if the first couple times weren’t enough, he’s found you going around his back again, and God, kitten, you’re more like a rat than anything- scurrying underneath his feet, darting for the shadows. Looking for a place to hide. For a place to run.

Predictable. Very.

…But that doesn’t mean he’s entirely without pity.

So in lieu of a gun to the head, or badder yet, those red tendrils to envelope your limbs and snap, he takes a different road.

The higher one, he might call it. Spares you the brutality.

Doesn’t spare you the dignity though, because when his men trickle into the room and take their perches at the round table, Sylus’s hand doesn’t shift from your thigh to a more… appropriate location, no, and he doesn’t let up even when you nuzzle into his neck and whine softly, silently praying for a way out.

Nightwear drapes over your body in delicate frills, your babydoll hardly long or thick enough to cover the skin beneath: just how he likes it. You’re shivering, but not simply from the cold, or the nerves that come along with being seen while so scantily dressed.

In his pocket, you feel the lump of your panties, stashed there like gold.

Apparently, you do not deserve that thin barrier of protection, nor the soft, cottony feel as opposed to the scratchy tweed of his pants.

It’s a very raw, motionless form of panic that siphons through your veins now, silently scattering your pulse.

Despite it all, Sylus isn’t a complete, ruthless monster— to you, anyway— you know he won’t toss you to the metaphorical den of wolves you’re in (or would he?), but the imagined threat is still there, slowly warming your blood with fear, swarming your head with doubt.

If his goal is to make you feel as vulnerable as possible (and to be clear, it is) and force you into being more dependent on him, it’s working. Right now, there’s little choice but to place all your trust in him and hope he’ll forgive you by the end of this ordeal; still deem you worthy enough of his protection, his care, his loyalty.

Whether or not you ever asked for it to begin with is irrelevant.

A mouse of uncertainty races through your brain: Why is he letting them see you like this? How many times has it been now that he’s fucked you slow and deep on his marshmallow-soft mattress, grunting in your ear that you’re the only one for him, coaxing out more of the same vows from your own unwilling lips?

This undoes all of that.

The twins don’t have bad intentions, the fiend knows this. They can only linger around you for so long, though, and nobody else comes close to sharing that make-do permit.

Beneath you, your captor shifts, as if this is even half as uncomfortable for him as it is for you. That almost makes you scoff with anger, but you think better of it. The present is meant for you to change course and convince him of your reliable character, after all, and it’s a silent expectation of his that you will behave- especially after your little stunt earlier.

A thick swallow- yours.

A too-fresh memory dredges itself up. Dark, ominous eyes, and an effulgent shade of red glowing brighter with every solemn stride forward. Once he’d found you at the door, futilely picking at the lock with trembling hands- sabotaged by your own panic- he’d bridged the gap and snatched your wrist, little signage of his anger save for the flex of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils. But oh, you’d known your demise was spelled out right then and there.

It makes your breast flutter now, adrenaline surging for a second time.

At some point a low voice can be heard, muttering between conversation. “Stay still.”

With some unexpressed shock, you feel his long fingers adjust the lacy hem of your babydoll, tugging it further down your bare legs. Covering you up out of sheer selfishness. But the bulk of your unease lingers, as does the idea of fleeing.

He did this to you in the first place... What’s it matter if he tries to preserve some of your skin now, save you from the prying, hungry eyes of the wolf-like operatives in the room? He chose this punishment- honestly, it’s more infuriating than anything if he suddenly decides to switch gears.

The noise, the vapid chatter of the meeting that might as well be a foreign language to you, continues on, but for an odd moment, your heart falls silent.

A shooting star of regret blurs through, then, lighting your conscience.

For all your attempts to escape Sylus’s bedroom, the bougie, silken sheets he leaves you swaddled in every morning, you’re sure wishing you could go back to it now…

Mephisto’s company is a million- no, a gazillion times better even- than these disreputable, yet no less powerful men that burn paths over your spine to the nape of your neck, their eyes foraging your body for a sign of movement, of fear. A slip of smooth, supple flesh.

Do they know? That your captor has stripped you of your underwear, that beneath this pretty, dreamy blue article Sylus loathes to reveal you in that you’re perfectly naked? And as aware of it as Eve?

Don’t bleed in front of the sharks, a voice in your brain sagely whispers, and really, that fraying ribbon of resolve is all that stops you from crying as your bottom lip starts to wobble.

You hate him, God knows you do.

…Yet you hug him tighter, clinging to the very man who’s done this to you like a limpet. And perhaps what you despise more than him is the fact that it feels right, under all the unique layers of doubt and hurt, to lean into his warmth.

To give in.

And you don’t even care anymore if you’re a traitor to both him and yourself, if this means he’s won, if some sick, twisted part of him reaches its fulfillment when you anxiously fist at his tie, trying to bore yourself into his ribcage like a screw.

You just want this miniature humiliation ritual to be over.

Eventually, your quiet, somewhat intentional attempts at garnering sympathy must work, because something in his intention changes.

It doesn’t feel like he’s trying to discipline you anymore- like he’s trying to have some cruel, I told you so moment while he reclines in his chair and resembles the cat that got the canary.

On the contrary, if you didn’t know any better, you’d think it’s remorse that takes ahold of him, smoothing the agitated bunch in his brow.

Large hands slowly lift. One from your ass to loop around your lower back; the other slowly stretching around your shoulder to pull you even closer to him.

You breathe in his scent, up close and impossibly more personal, and as you shut your eyes and desperately envision yourself somewhere else, with the twins or arguing with Mephisto, a begrudging murmur stirs at your ear.

A concession: “Alright. That’s good enough.”

That much is meant for you and you alone, but his next words crescendo into a shout that addresses the whole room, “Everyone- out.”

There’s a collective pause to process their boss’ sudden dismissal, but no follow-up questions are asked, and nobody needs to be told a second time.

It’s only when they’re gone, the heavy door sealing behind them, that you let your shoulders finally slump.

It’s done.

Sylus draws back slightly just to prop his knuckles under your chin, guiding your wet gaze to his so he can regard you in that wordless, shrewd way he always does.

Ruby gemstones shine back at you, but not with all the smugness you’re expecting; they’re streaked with an unease that momentarily stuns you.

Devil, it must be the rational part of you that seethes in turn. But oh, it’s finally over, those tortuous minutes that felt like hours, flayed apart the longer you’d been forced to sit half naked on his lap, and the frightful piece of you says something different.

Tiny fingers dig into his suit, his gaze cataloguing every micro-expression, every sign of internal conflict that seeps into your appearance.

Savior.

He opens his mouth then pauses for a second, understanding what you are not saying, though you won’t pretend to understand it yourself, “I’ll admit that I need to find a more… suitable punishment for you, Kitten. I…”

A short, unhappy huff. Registering that his sentence has no destination, he starts anew.

“It felt just as unpleasant for me.”

An upward twitch of his lips- no doubt an attempt to match his typical, smug aura- but it fails to hold any true mirth, or even condescension, “So what sense would it make to drag it out?”

Long digits trail up your side, weighing something. Your heart hangs pendant in your chest, waiting for his word, albeit now that the outsiders- those invaders to your new home- have left, your peace of mind slowly reappears over the horizon.

Again, Sylus pauses, staring at you like you have the answer for his inward dilemma; knowing full well that you could not explain this phenomenon of passion to him even if you tried. You are just a girl. He’s forty something years old, twenty your senior— he should have this figured out already. He doesn’t.

Truth be told there is no accurate label other than love to detail this jealous, restless maelstrom he is experiencing, and fuck, hasn’t he known that for a while now? But maybe it’s pride that blocks his path, stretches his inevitable fall.

Plants these nasty seeds in his head, telling him he must cut to where it hurts you most in order for you to fucking see—

That you’re his. And he is yours.

A shallow breath of perfect realization. As he exhales, it blows against your lips and it’s not long before he leans in to sample the sweetness there. With great hesitance, and a feeling that scares you- maybe just autopilot at this point- you clumsily return his ardent, almost tender kiss.

Maybe not the best, nor most ethical measures were taken in the name of discipline, sure… he knows that now that he’s dwelling in this unneglectable morsel of guilt.

But Sylus does wonder if it worked any.

…

The conclusion:

You melt, coiling into his warmth and practically caterwauling into the underside of his scratchy jaw, nuzzling into the tendon of his neck where his flesh is most susceptible to damage, to the teeth you’ve fruitlessly tried to sink there before.

“I- I wanna go back to your bed, Sylus.”

A satisfied, if not slightly exasperated huff. The chair screeches underneath as he effortlessly lifts you up.

“Yeah?” His voice is gruff and hoarse, almost like he’s keeping a whimper tight in his throat. His leg bounces as fast as his heart pounds his chest. You’re so pretty, with your pretty parted lips, and how your saliva keeps it just wet enough to shine in the warm lamp light. So plump for him to kiss and bite—

“As I was saying,” You pull your hand away, not hearing the small whine that leaves him from the lack of contact. “We need to make sure you’re comfortable for the next few hours. You said you can get agitated when there’s full moons, right?”

“Mmh.” Better a grunt than a moan. You brush it off assuming the effects of the celestial event are starting to mess with him internally.

Of course, you’re well aware that he’s got an extra pair of fluffy scratchable ears on the top of his head, an even fluffier tail protruding from the base of his spine, and sharper canines. You’re not ignorant. 

What you don’t know is that he’s much more prone to getting heated in these hours. Especially in the presence of someone who his body, mind, and soul are attuned to completely. It’s you. You're that someone.

But he has to behave for your sake. He can’t be bad, he can’t be too rash and aggressive or he might scare you off. You might not like it. But he wants you so damn bad, he can’t even hide it anymore. 

You’re rattling about restraints, something to tie him to incase he goes berserk.

Restraints. Belts. Muzzle. Chair. Tie him to a chair. He wants you to tie him to a chair.

He wants you to restrain him. He wants you to sit on his lap and feel how hard his cock is for you, feel it throb just below your cunt, grind his hips up to you still so retrained and held back that he has to beg you to ride him. He might as well ask for it. 

“…unless that’s too extreme.” You mutter, expecting a response. Nothing. Did he zone out again? What’s going on with Valko to be so distracted? He wasn’t like this last month. “Look, I know the full moon can be a messy time for you, and now that it’s a supermoon it could be worse, but I’d prefer you to actually respond— oh.”

Valko is drooling. Valko’s eyes are glazed over. Valko is blushing beyond relief. And Valko is sporting a rock hard boner.

The silence that stretches between you would have been uncomfortable, it should have been. But you seem to enjoy the rough pants that escape his lips, how his hands are balled into fists to keep himself at bay. How the veins on his neck are far more prominent now. 

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, hoping you won’t say anything foolish. 

“Don’t laugh.” Valko grits, his fluffy ears drooping a little. 

“I wasn’t going to.” You say, trying to ignore the fact that your lips are twitching into a smile.

You glance down from his agitated golden eyes to his neck, to his large muscular chest covered by the black tank you always find so attractive on him, to the taper of his waist, to the pulsing print of his cock bulging against his pants.

Now that you think of it, you two haven’t shared the bed recently. You’ve both been so busy with work that neither of you have had time for each other. And you’ve been very wound up these last few days.

“I think we should figure out what restraints will be good for you.” A purr follows your words as you rest your hands on his chest. Muscular, warm, huge chest that you love to sleep on. You’re making this much, much worse and you know it. You can hear it in the groan that rumbles in his chest. 

“Oh, is it getting worse?” You play an aloof demeanour, reaching to caress the soft ears on his head, making sure to rub on that sensitive spot where his hair is its softest. A soft moan escapes Valko’s lips as his golden eyes flutter closed.

“Please…”

“What do you need me to do, my love?” Your lips ghost the shell of his fleshy ear, tongue peeking out to trace the shell. He shudders, head lowering to give you more access, hips rocking towards you so you can feel just what you need to do. 

You don’t want that, though. He has to say it.

“I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

A pained moan rushes right into your ear as he drops a part of his weight on you. Valko doesn’t want to say it but he also wants to say it. It doesn’t make sense. This heated state is driving him insane, and you’re giving him such a clear path to relief. But what he wants is different from what you usually do… will you agree?

With a shaky breath, Valko nuzzles the side of your neck, mustering the will to confess his desire. “You have to tell me no if you can’t do it.”

“I will.” You reassure him, stroking his soft hair. His arms wrap tight around you, grounding himself in your presence as the words unknot themselves to flow out.

“If you’re grossed out—“

“I won’t be grossed out, Val.” You softly say, rubbing circles into his lower back. “Nothing about you grosses me out. I trust you, so you need to trust that I’ll handle whatever you need and that I’ll tell you if I can’t. Outside of cannibalism, I'm not doing that.”

That makes him chuckle. “You’ll tell me the second you’re uncomfortable?”

“The millisecond.”

His next request comes out more sheepishly. “You’ll tell me I’m doing good?”

“I’ll put a poet to shame.”

“Pull my hair?”

“Put a collar on you too if you’re feeling feisty.”

A sigh of relief escapes Valko’s lips. Oh, he loves you. Finally, he pulls his face away from your neck to level your gaze with fresh determination on his face. “I want you to tie me to the chair, and ride the shit outta me.”

Ask and ye shall receive, as you hear them say.

It was easy to put Valko on a chair especially when he's drunk on your kisses, hungrily biting marks into your bare chest and stomach, gripping your hips so tight you’d think he’s terrified that you’ll run. It was easier to get soaked just from watching him strip for you— that, and having his fingers curl so good inside your cunt as he slurped and lapped at your clit.

The only ‘difficult’ part was restraining him to the chair, legs, arms, and torso roped tight, and that’s just because he’s antsy whenever the full moon happens. 

But something about this supermoon has got him more riled up than usual. Why, you ask?

You’ve been bouncing on the man’s cock for two hours. 

You’re not complaining, you love every second of this. Your walls are fluttering around him as he slides in and out of you so easily, caught by you keeping his fat tip inside leaking all that sticky, hot precum before you drop into his lap again and again and again. 

“Val— ooh, fuck!” Your praise has otherwise become mush, slurred moans of his name and whatever adulation could come to mind. Valko doesn’t mind since he isn't doing any better. If anything, he’s lost the need to think.

“S-So good,” His throat is torn from how loud he’s been, his hips jutting into you even with his thick, corded thighs roped down to the chair. His tail is slapping the floor, his fluffy ears are twitching. He can barely move, limbs strapped down and a collar wrapped around his neck at his own request. And he loves it.

He wants to cum so bad. But then he’d end up swelling so much that he’d be stuck for hours, just grinding and grinding and plugging his seed inside instead of feeling you slap down on him with each rise and fall of your full hips. He wouldn’t have your soft breasts bouncing in his face, or feel your hands scratch his undercut and pull his hair, or hear the hiccups in your voice or the ragged moans in his own.

Why make this pleasure so short-lived when he can prolong it? 

His cock is leaking like a faucet, keeping him smooth and wet for you to use him as you please, pulsing with the desire to just release. His sacks are drawn up tight, literally clenching with enough cum to repopulate a country, and yet he still won’t give in.

Valko drags his tongue up your jaw all the way to your cheekbone. “ ‘m I fuckin’ you good?”

“Hah— mhm. Such a good boy.” You ramble into his lips as you kiss him, slipping your tongue inside to taste him as if he isn’t all that you can sense. “So big and thick and hot… so— Valko— so full ‘f you, want you deeper, you’re so good!”

You’re on orgasm number five by now, gripping onto Valko’s strong shoulders for dear life, back arched, tugging his hair like you want to rip his red locks off. It’s the supermoon, you tell yourself, it must be shooting his stamina through the roof.

It fucking has to be if he’s been rutting into you like a bullet train without cumming even once. His girth twitches with every rock of your plush hips, it leaks and weeps inside you every time you squeeze him hard enough to cut off his blood flow. It has to hurt, prolonging his climax for this long.

Valko likes it that way. He likes the hurt. He likes the way his body just responds to you so well, like you’re made for each other. You have to be.

Your knees are starting to ache. Your thighs are burning from the constant bouncing up and down his thick length but the feeling of him dragging through your walls with each vein pressing against your walls is too good. The overwhelming bump of his cockhead kissing your cervix may just tip you over the edge again. The fucking curve of his cock and the angle just lets him reach the sensitive nerves of your g-spot so good every damn time!

You love these fucking supermoons.

“Valko,” You hum, licking his lips then his chin and jaw, your breath heavy as you maintain your pace. Just a few more and you’ll be in pure bliss. But you need him there with you. “I’m close. I’m so close. Hnn, need you— cum with me.”

“You— oh, you sure?” He whimpers, nuzzling you as you lick the tears off his cheeks. “I’ll—“

“Knot me, mhm.” You nod, rubbing your nose into his cheek, inhaling his scent. This man’s frenzied behaviour has been rubbing off on you too much, not that there’s reason to complain. “You’re gonna swell up so fuckin’ thick, yeah?”

He nods. “Gonna plug all that cum in me, keep it warm inside while you grind ’n rut into me?”

“Yeah,” He affirms, his arms pulling against the restraints. Is this what you want? You want him to bond with you to that much of an intimate extent? You must truly love him. “ ’m gonna stay in you the whole night, snug inside. But I like when you ride me.” You can feel him pouting as he pecks your skin. So cute.

“Then you’ll be a good boy, right?” You coo, your hands cupping his face as you press your thumbs on his lower lip. “Cum with me, and stay inside all night.” You fight every urge to give in to the pleasure when he bites your fingers.

You suck his upper lip, letting your moans vibrate into his. “Can you do that for me?”

Valko’s a simple man. You ask for something and he’ll give it to you with a smile. Like he is now, canines bared, tongue lapping at your fingers before he attacks your lips with a bruising, hot kiss. He pulls away just for a second to mutter against your mouth, “I love you.”

“I know, baby.” You huff, smiling into the kiss as you scratch his fluffy ears. Valko’s hips rut up faster and you can feel his cock swell at the base, almost ready to be plugged into you. Oh, he is so going to eat his cum out of you once he’s soft. “Now be good and cum with me.” 

Very simple edit with Mr Darcy's voice.:

I used these as inspiration for poses, her hair, the scene with the swans and the building in the back:

Yet, in a way, you know that this was exactly where you wanted to be.

Despite its rapidly deteriorating surroundings, Linkon University remained a place of prestige. Young children dreamed of acceptance into its ranks, babbling to their parents about how they, too, would one day make these halls their stomping grounds. Maybe it was naivety that brought you here. Or maybe it was the last remnants of a dream that hadn’t yet died on your tongue.

Or perhaps, it was the medical journalism program—a rare gem, dwindling into obscurity at every other university.

You were lucky to be accepted. But humbly speaking, luck had very little to do with it. Your stats spoke for themselves: a 1540 SAT, a 4.98 weighted GPA, more extracurriculars than you could count on both hands. A smart cookie, as written in the shining letters of recommendation that paved your way here.

And yet, imposter syndrome festered like a quiet disease, creeping into the spaces between your confidence. You have spent your entire life at the top. Always number one.

Here? You were number two.

Number two to whom? You did not know. Not yet, anyway.

𖢥

Caleb’s perfect life has unraveled in the span of a week and a half, but he positively swears it’s not his fault.

It’s yours.

Ten days ago, at precisely 12:57 PM, he endured the worst torment known to man: his seat in the lecture hall was stolen. A cruel move, truly. Class had been in session for four days, he’d claimed that seat twice—twice—and by the unspoken law of university students everywhere, that granted him full ownership. So why, then, were you sitting in his allotted property?

Looking back, Caleb sees only two possible explanations. The first: you had unknowingly taken the seat after enrolling just before the census date. The second: you were out to get him from the very start.

And personally, he’s convinced it’s the latter.

But alas, he hadn’t made a fuss about it then. It wasn’t like he’d just lost the single best seat in the entire hall—the one with perfect access to the exit, the projector, and the professor’s desk. But hey, he could be cool about this, right? Yeah… totally cool. So cool. The coolest.

Days passed, and everyone seemed to be settling into the spring semester just fine. The weather was getting warmer, flowers on the great lawn were blooming, and Caleb was thriving.

That was, until the unthinkable happened.

Time? 2:19 PM. Class? CHEM 001 AH. Location? The Grand Hall.

Caleb sat directly behind you, having resigned himself to the second best seat in the room, as the sound of pencils scratching against paper filled the otherwise quiet space.

Taking practice exams felt pointless. A waste of time, really. His efforts could be better spent elsewhere—like taking the real exam or absolutely demolishing his roommate Zayne in Apex Legends yet again. But instead, here he was, surrounded by classmates scribbling away as the session inched closer to its eventual end.

And when it did, Caleb would have simply packed up and gone on his merry way—if not for the single most bone-chilling sentence he had ever heard in his entire academic career.

You were chatting with the girl beside you, talking about things he had zero interest in. Your shared biology class at 3 PM, your dorm building, plans to meet up at the dining hall later… blah blah blah. But then, he heard an acronym. A single, horrific acronym triggered him like a sleeper agent.

“My GPA? Oh, it’s… 4.30. I think. To be honest, it’s been a while since I checked.”

His jaw went slack. His eyes widened. The color drained from his face.

A 4.30 GPA? No. No. That couldn’t be real. That could not be real.

But as his gaze flickered between the back of your head and your friend’s, he came to the most horrifying conclusion of all.

You weren’t lying. And if that were true… then that meant you had the same GPA he did.

Which meant that, depending on your course load and how well you performed, you could very well take his spot as number one in the class rank.

𖢥

Caleb burst into his dorm room, slinging his backpack onto his mattress before face-planting into it with a sound somewhere between a groan and a hmph. A grumph, scientifically speaking.

Across the room, Zayne didn’t even glance up from his desk, fingers tapping away at his mounted laptop. Click, clack. Click, clack. For a stretch of time, that was the only sound in the room until he finally exhaled.

“Rough day?”

Caleb didn’t even hesitate. “The worst day.”

Zayne closed his eyes for a moment, like he was mentally preparing himself, before pushing away from his desk and turning his chair just enough to look at his roommate. “What happened?”

Still face-down on the bed, Caleb let out a long, exaggerated sigh—nowhere near as silent as Zayne’s. “I think I have to take trig next semester. Honors.”

That made Zayne pause. Brow quirked, he leaned back in his seat. “Why? Your counselor quite literally said you’re already on track to graduate with honors and as one of the top-ranked students in our year.”

That was the problem, though. Caleb wasn’t satisfied with being one of the best. He wanted to be the best—and now, that source of pride was under attack.

“Well, that was before I found out I’m sharing a GPA with some girl in my chem lecture,” he said, rolling onto his back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Which means if I don’t get my shit together and pack on a few more honors courses, I’m cooked.”

Zayne laughed and shook his head. He turned back to his desk, plucked his glasses off the mousepad, and slid them on. “You should hear yourself right now.”

Caleb’s head snapped to the side, eyebrows pinching together easily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just amusing, is all.” his roommate smirked. “I find it endearing that you, Mr. ‘I can skip the final and still pass with a 94%,’ Mr. ‘I think I might take astronomy honors for fun this semester,’—”

“All riiight, I get it,” Caleb cut in. “What’s your point?”

Zayne was still clearly amused. “My point is that if you of all people feel threatened by a classmate you hardly know, maybe there’s a reason for that.”

Caleb hated that there was probably some truth to that. Not that he’d ever admit it. Being threatened by a classmate he barely knew? Please. (And yes, he had meticulously sifted through the entire roster of his chemistry class to stalk your Canvas profile. What? It’s… field research.)

“Y’know, you’re terrible at pep talks,” he muttered, folding his hands behind his head.

“I’m not trying to be,” Zayne replied easily. “But if you want my input—take the trig course next semester. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

Caleb rolled onto his side, fishing his laptop from his backpack as the weight of his evening workload settled in.

Maybe Zayne was right.

Maybe he would need all the help he could get.

𖢥

It wasn’t until six days later—today—that Caleb knew for certain fate was no longer on his side.

The professor’s voice cut through the shuffle of students packing up their belongings, all of which were currently praying that their first lab of the semester wouldn’t be a complete and utter disaster. It was a well known fact that Dr. Rappaccini was quite the harsh critic, and an even harsher grader. Her score on Rate My Professors was a whopping 2.8/5 for crying out loud.

“Alright, it’s time for you all to receive your lab partners for the semester. Before heading to the lab next door, please check the list of pairings at the front.”

Luckily, Caleb had committed the syllabus to memory and knew that each person was scored individually no matter how their partner performed, but it was recommended that the pair conduct their experiments together to save time and... okay, maybe he hadn’t memorized it as well as he thought, but at least he knew the core details, right?

Scanning the list, his blood ran cold. He squinted, hoping that the prescription of his glasses had failed him, but of course, it was unmistakable. Your name was printed next to his. Emboldened in a perfectly neutral 12 pt Times New Roman font.

The walk to the laboratory was a quiet one, and you were walking a few feet ahead of him without a care in the world. Reaching for the door handle, he twisted the metallic lever and gestured for you to enter ahead of him with a single nod of his head. It was a force of habit. He may not care for you as an academic peer, but you didn't directly wrong him in any way. Not knowingly, that is.

With a curt nod of your own and a sliver of a smile, you entered the class with a quiet 'thank you.'

And before he could follow in step behind you, the neverending line of your fellow classmates began to flood into the room, leaving him to stand idle while offering each of them a thin-lipped smile. It felt like an eternity before he was able to step inside of the laboratory too, and his first instinct was to map out the classroom to find the best possible seating arrangement. 

To his surprise… you’d already claimed the most optimal lab station, and as he approached, you made the first move to speak. 

“I hope you’re okay with sitting here,” you say, fishing out your sleek notebook and a bright blue pencil. “It’s the only lab station with equal access to the exit, the supplies cabinet, and the professor’s desk.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side as bewilderment etches into his features. Were you inside of his brain? He clears his throat, shaking away his confusion as he nods. “Yeah, I’m alright with this spot. Good choice.” 

Smiling, you nod too. “Cool.” 

A beat of silence passes, and you smooth your hands over the black resin of the table, a movement that his eyes instinctively follow. Then, your hand raises and extends out to him, forcing him to blink himself out of his state of daydreaming. 

You say your name while tilting your head with a smile—this time, a smile with teeth—as you wait for his hand to take yours. “And you’re… Xia?” 

Raising his eyebrows, he shakes his head while a chuckle slips through his carefully crafted exterior. “Caleb,” he corrects, his grasp enveloping your hand as he gives it a shake. “Caleb Xia.”

“Ah, got it,” you remark, an epiphany dawning on you as you slip your hand from his hold. “Well, I’m going to go get our safety goggles.” 

But before leaving, you straightened, eyes glued to him—or rather, his head.

Huffing out a laugh through his nose, Caleb’s lip tugs up in the corner. “What are you doing?”

Tapping your chin, you sigh. “I’m trying to see if you have a big head. If you do, I’ll have to go fight tooth and nail for one of the ones with adjustable straps.” 

Rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm, he rests his elbow on the edge of the table before leaning his cheek into his hand. “Well, lay it on me. What’s your diagnosis?”

Humming, you tilt your head back and forth before nodding your head a single time. “Big-head syndrome. I’m positive.”

Caleb’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “I should take that as a compliment. Big head means big brain, you know.”

“Or a big ego,” you retort with a shrug, giving him a once-over with raised brows before whisking away towards the horde of students currently going to war over the remaining pick of the litter. 

Yeah, that too, he thinks. 

In your absence, he takes the liberty of prepping the lab for the both of you. Beakers? Check. Random substance that the two of you were going to be experimenting on? Check. Hydrochloric acid? Check. Sodium bicarbonate? Check—

“Safety goggles,” you state, plopping down on your stool and handing his pair to him.

Without missing a beat, he speaks. “Check.”

Drawing back slightly, you turn to look at him with an arched eyebrow. “Uh… yeah. Check.”

Faltering, Caleb slides the item onto his face as he stammers through his words. “I was just… never mind, let’s start.”

The class had settled into a low hum—the murmur of newly paired partners, the scribbling of notes, the soft hiss of chemicals reacting. 

As the two of you began the experiment, an incredibly prominent conclusion dawned on him: Disliking you as a person wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. As a competitor? You were treacherous. As a lab partner? You were… tolerable.

It wasn’t the end result that he was hoping for, if he were to be entirely honest with himself. He wanted you to be difficult to be around, he wanted you to be stuck up, he wanted you to give him a genuine reason to dislike you apart from being the root of his newfound insecurity. But you weren’t, and that was a problem. 

“Pass me the baking soda?” you ask.

“The sodium bicarbonate?”

“Yeah. The baking soda.”

Caleb tilts his head with a smile. “Also known as sodium bicarbonate.”

You glance his way, and your eyes met. “Congrats, big guy. You know big words. Now pass it.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Biting back a smile, he hands it over, only to retract it at the last second. “Wait. What’s it called again?”

Your force smile was all teeth. “Sodium bicarbonate.”

Finally relenting, Caleb places the bowl in your orbit with a triumphant grin. 

He was smart enough to know that this was a bad idea. Despite how easily the two of you worked together, he knew that he couldn’t entertain this any further. You weren’t just his classmate, his peer—you were his competition. And while he’s heard the saying keep your friends close, but your enemies closer just as many times as the next person, he knows that mixing any ounce of developing friendship with his pursuit for greatness would be wrong.

It would work best that way. You can’t be friends, and that’s okay.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, fate seemed to agree with him.

“Hmm,” Caleb soon rumbles, squinting at the beaker. “This isn’t lookin’ too good. You said you added the sodium bicarbonate, yeah?”

You frown, glancing up from your notes. Your stomach twists at the sight of the clock—barely any time left before the lab ends. The professor would be making her rounds any second now.

“What? I didn’t add it. You said you added it.”

Caleb flits his gaze to the side of your face. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

Your head snaps toward him so fast he was surprised it didn’t snap right off. “No, I added hydrochloric acid.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You exhale sharply, frustration creeping up your neck. “How are you gonna tell me what I did or didn’t do?”

Your pulse ticks up a bit faster than it naturally should, and your eyes rose up from the glass cylinder. Around the room, students were already wrapping up their conclusions while the two of you hadn’t even finished the experiment. You suck in a breath and push up from your stool.

“Fine. Fine. Can you just pass me the baking soda?”

Caleb nods, handing over the pre-measured bowl of sodium bicarbonate. While you worked to fix the mess, he jotted down a few quick notes. You added just enough of the powder to neutralize the acid—but not smother it completely.

The two of you sat, watching and waiting. Praying for a reaction of any kind.

Then, miraculously, the beaker decided to behave and the fizzing subsided.

Like clockwork, you both exhaled, shoulders slumping as small, victorious smiles tugged at your mouths—

Until yours vanished entirely. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Caleb falters, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t say thank you.”

“Well, you should have.”

“Why? If I hadn’t pointed out the weird reaction, we’d have been screwed.”

“Oh? If I hadn’t realized neither of us added the sodium bicarbonate—which was your responsibility, by the way—we would’ve actually been screwed.”

Tension thickened between you like a drawn bowstring. You clench your jaw and look away, scribbling down your final observations. Stupid man, you thought to yourself. And here you were, actually believing that this semester wouldn’t be a total shitshow, that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten lucky.

Unfortunately not.

Then, your attention was caught by something out of the ordinary. Your gaze lands on his neck, and your breath hitched. Staring back at you was a small, multi-legged beady eyed monster. Sticking out your pointer finger, you still find yourself instinctively drawing back, as if it were out to get you next. “There’s a spider on—”

But before you could finish your sentence, Caleb winced, his veins tightening as he instinctively flicked the eight-legged menace off. You sucked your teeth, drumming your fingers on the table. So much for your timely warning.

Glancing his way, your brows elevate as you see the already forming bite mark on his neck. “Yikes. It got you good.”

“Did it?” he asks, raising a hand to rub over the mark with narrowed eyes. “Hm. Guess so, yeah.”

Reluctantly, you ask, “Are you okay?” 

With a nod, he picks up his pencil once more and works on finishing the last of his lab report. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Sighing airily, you can’t help the smile that tugs on your mouth. “Poor spider, being flicked through the air like that.”

Caleb shot a glare your way. “Funny.”

“Thanks.”

With that, you left for the washing station. Meanwhile, Dr. Rappaccini stood from her desk, making her rounds. It was in that moment that a shrill of panic shot up his spine.

He could feel his heart rate shooting through the roof, a sweat break on his forehead, and his fingertips flex at his sides—all things that he wasn’t even conscious of. And before he knew it, he was glancing in your direction, noting that you were distracted. Good.

With a quick ease, he snatched up your notepad and erased a few numbers, replacing them with subtle, logicless mistakes. 34 is now a 26. 32 to the power of 5? Not anymore.

It wasn’t his proudest moment. Sabotaging his own lab partner’s work? Definitely not.

Ten seconds. That’s all it took to ruin you just enough. He slid the notepad back into place, brushing away the eraser shavings. Like clockwork, you returned, none the wiser.

Exhaling softly, you turned to him. An apology burned on the tip of your tongue, whether it was for the sake of seeking genuine reconciliation or your forced proximity for the semester was unclear. “Look, I just wanted to say that—”

“Now, you two,” Dr. Rappaccini’s voice cut you off.

You both turned as she scanned and picked up Caleb’s report, making a few marks with her fine-pointed marker before sliding it back into place. You glanced over, making note of his grade. 94.

Then, she picked up yours. A moment later, she handed it back. Your professor held up a roll of stickers, tearing two off before setting them down on the table.

Despite the vibrant designs on the stickers, your stomach dropped. Your grade was big, bold, and unmistakable. 82.

“Wait—Dr. Rappaccini,” you call after her, staring at the page with widened eyes of shock. “I… I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

“Well, your experiment was solid—your observations were well-written, and your documentation was precise. But your math?” She sighs. “Completely off.” A beat of silence. “Don’t feel discouraged. You’re a good student as you are—no need to compare your scores to others.”

The implication was clear. She thought you were smart—just not as smart as Caleb.

Huffing, you toss your notebook onto the table, fingers curling against the edge of it.

“You got cut off earlier,” he says casually, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “What were you sayin’?”

Blinking, you tried to retrace your thoughts. “Oh, yeah… I was just saying that…”

Your voice trails, eyes drifting to your lab report. Caleb caught the flicker of realization dawning on you—and when you turned to him, his not-so-hidden grin said it all.

“I was just saying,” you snap, “that you’re an asshole whose handwriting looks like a drunk chicken clawed at my report.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says with a shrug, peeling off his sticker to plaster it onto your shoulder. “Good luck on the exam tomorrow morning.”

And with that, he walks out of the lab.

“Yeah, you too,” you murmur, though he was already gone before he could hear the hissed “bitch” that followed.

Irritation pricks at your skin as you stuff—more like shove—your belongings into your backpack. Prick. So much for not knowing the single person you were beneath in the class ranks.

Guilt stirred in his chest as he walked towards his dorm building… but only a little.

𖢥

By the time Caleb stumbled back to his dorm, he felt like he’d been hit by a freight train.

He barely managed to push the door open before kicking off his shoes, letting his backpack slump to the floor with a heavy thud. His head swam, his breath uneven as he widened his eyes in a feeble attempt to stay awake. Slapping himself on the cheek, he quickly realized it was no use. His neck stung worse than it had when the spider first bit him, the dull throb pulsing beneath his fingertips as he rubbed over the puncture point.

"Are you drunk?" Zayne’s voice drifts from across the room.

"No," Caleb mutters, face buried in his pillow. "Just… tired. Really tired."

He sank into the thin mattress like dead weight, the springs groaning beneath him. With sluggish hands, he pulled his glasses from his face and tossed them onto the bedside table, missing by an inch. His breathing grew heavier, his skin slick with cold sweat. His eyes—blown wide as saucers—fluttered shut as he barely mustered the strength to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside.

And within seconds, he was out like a light.

𖢥

The morning sun sliced through the blinds, painting golden stripes across Caleb’s bare back as he jolted awake.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, erratic breaths, but despite the abruptness of it all, he felt… alert. Fully awake in a way that didn’t exactly make sense.

Blinking rapidly, he reached for his glasses and slid them onto his face with a groggy groan.

His vision was still blurry.

Frowning, he pulled his glasses off, breathed onto the lenses, and wiped them against his bedsheet. When he slid them back on—blurry again. He pulled them down. Clear. Glasses up. Blurry. Glasses down. Clear.

He stares at them in his hands. “...Weird.”

Setting the frames down, he threw his legs over the bed and staggered toward his closet—only to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

Since when the hell did he have abs?

He flexed instinctively, stomach tensing under his own scrutiny. Then his gaze trailed up to his arms. His biceps. His shoulders.

Turning, twisting, he inspected every angle of himself like a stranger in his own skin. He’d been in shape before, sure, but this? This was different. He would’ve noticed this.

Knuckles rapped against the door, making him flinch.

“Caleb? Are you awake? I forgot my key.” A pause. “Are you feeling any better? You slept like a log last night—perhaps you’re catching a bug.”

"A bug?" Caleb echoes under his breath, flexing again just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Holy shit… Uh, yeah, man, I’m good. Just—gimme a sec.”

Turning back toward his desk, he reached for his chair, only meaning to push it aside—but the moment his palm touched the wood, it stuck.

His brows furrow.

He yanks once. Then again.

Nothing.

His heartbeat quickens as he curls his fingers, attempting to lift his hand—and instead, he lifts the entire chair clean off the ground.

“What the—” His stomach drops. He waved his hand. The chair waved with it. Up. Down. Side to side. Still stuck.

“Caleb?” Zayne calls from the other side of the door.

Caleb whips his head toward the sound, panic tightening in his throat. Shit. He bolted across the room—chair still attached to his palm—and somehow managed to unlock the door just as Zayne strode in.

Zayne, clearly in a rush, barely spared him a glance as he grabbed a stack of papers from his desk, clipped them together, and breezed back out with a nod.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Caleb exhaled sharply—only to realize his hand was still stuck to the doorknob.

Huffing, he gave it a firm tug, expecting it to pop free. Instead, the entire knob wrenched out of the door, hinges snapping with a loud crack.

“Shit.”

He barely had time to process before his body betrayed him once again—this time, with a sharp thwip.

A thick strand of silk shot from his wrist, attaching him to his bedpost.

His pulse stuttered. 

"What. The. Fuck."

Another sharp tug. Another web. More panic. Before he knew it, his dorm room looked like a crime scene from some horror movie—threads of silk stretching from walls to furniture to the ceiling.

His gaze snapped to the clock on his desk. 12:56 PM.

"Alright," he mutters, inhaling deeply. "Exam starts in four minutes. I’m sticking to everything I touch. I’m half-naked. Cool, cool, cool."

(It went without saying that nothing about this was cool.)

If anyone in the history of Linkon University could take an exam like this, it was going to be him.

series masterlist. ┆ next: chapter two.

a/n like & reblog if you enjoyed!! this was really fun to write :) also i should’ve mentioned it rly isnt specified how old reader is, just that she’s in college and just starting her second semester at linkon university :) she can be a transfer student (which is kinda what i had in mind), a first year, etc lol it doesn’t really matter bc i’m fine with that being a “plot hole”

i could not stop laughing while writing this at 4am bc i was just imagining caleb coming up with an elaborate ass internalized beef with reader and she’s just sitting in her chem lab like

taglist. (join it by commenting under this post)

@leonskenthusiast @universallysoulcreator @devonjs-blog @lacieohlacie @kisswithyoureyesclosed @lovesick-sylus @livonianmaia @hqnge @yuuuumii @mizzfizz @simpfortheseven @nyxthejinx-rantsaboutlads @mariojins @rcvcngers @yizhoupilled @irlsammy @gloomuri671 @risagichi @drinking2nite @seikamuzu @flowers-wilt-on-juniper-lane

The truth was you loved to sing. It was your everything. Nothing set your soul ablaze more than closing your eyes and letting your heart's song spill past your lips. You didn't do it to hunt or to lure anyone in. You simply did it because you enjoyed it.

You were always careful, of course. You never sang anywhere close to the mainland. Instead, you hid in coves surrounded by jagged reefs of rock and in the husks of wrecked ships.

The other sea creatures seemed to find these areas dangerous and scary, but that just meant that they were yours to keep! They were dark and gloomy but always provided the most hauntingly beautiful acoustics. It was all you could ever want.

You hummed as settled onto a flat rock on the shore, the blue waves glinting off the dark, wet walls of the cave in the early morning light. The tips of your blood-orange fins gently rocked with the waves, creating ripples against the calm surface, as you closed your eyes and parted your lips.

"Cruel and cold, like winds on the sea. Will you ever return to me? Hear my voice, and sing with the tide. My love will never-"

Spalsh!

Your eyes snapped open as you quickly whipped your head around at the sound — a strange glint caught your attention — two large orange eyes were watching you from below the waves.

In all your years of living in the seas, you had never seen such a creature, both in size and species. It looked like a serpent, and yet its magnitude and subtle fins told you otherwise. You held your breath as its eyes locked onto you, tongue flittering out of its mouth before it slithered closer.

The thing was huge. Its head alone was easily the length of your entire body, with teal scales that would allow it to vanish beneath the depths whenever it may wish.

And it stared at you — and you it — in a silent draw of horrifying stillness. Its glowing amber gaze was almost curious and amused as it tilted its head left and right.

Finally, the beast raised its head as it opened its gaping maw and revealed rows of deadly, knife-like teeth — white like porcelain, as though someone had been maintaining them.

You screamed as you flinched back, pulling your tail closer to yourself and waited for the inevitable pain of being ripped to shreds.

Hisssssssssssssssss

A cold snout butted against your tail.

You couldn't help but squeak as it butted against you once more. You didn't dare move — waiting for the pain that would lead to your demise, but it never came. With a trembling breath, you reluctantly cracked open an eye and glanced at the creature.

It tilted its head at you, nudging you once again, as another slow hiss filled the air.

You gulped as you ever so slowly-righted yourself. "Is ... I-Is there something you need?" You didn't even know if this thing could understand you, but what else were you supposed to do?

It, apparently, could understand you however, as it hissed once more and swiveled its head from side to side. You narrowed your eyes in confusion, mimicking the movement.

The creature's head drooped, as it bared its fangs in annoyance.

There was another small splash as the serpent's tail rose from the waves and it, with surprisingly gentle movements, gestured to your throat.

You gulped, clutching a hand to your voice box. "Y-You want me to sing for you?" A pleased hisss came in return. You shakily nodded — trying not to give too much thought to the fact that you were talking with a snake.

You let out a trembling breath, catching the serpant's eager eyes once more before you parted your lips. "Over waves and deep in the blue. I will give up my heart for you. Ten long years, I'll wait to go by. My love will never die."

As you sang, the strangest thing happened. The serpent seemed to relax and settle against the sandy cavern floor beside you. You couldn't help but smile as you sang — though the beast appeared frightening, it was actually quite sweet. An audience, you supposed, wouldn't be bad this once.

Only it wasn't just this once.

From then on, whenever you went to the cavern, regardless of the time of day, within minutes of beginning to sing the serpent would appear — ever eager and happy to hear your song.

You didn't mind. It wasn't doing any harm, and over time you had actually become quite fond of the creature. In a way, you supposed you were both lonely misunderstood creatures labeled monsters. It was nice to have a friend, even if it was one whom you couldn't understand.

Months passed of your peaceful concerts with the serpent, and you had grown to anticipate his presence.

You smiled as you settled onto your normal rock, eyes earnestly searching the depth for your friend. This wasn't new — the serpent only came when called.

"Far beneath the rolling tides. Where the sunbeams cannot go. Gilled and scaled with sightless eyes," You giggled as familiar orange eyes peaked up at you. "Monsters down below."

"So this is where you've been taking off to, Lotan," Your yelp and the serpent's hiss echoed off the walls as you both turned towards the new voice.

A pale land walker with indigo hair and eyes that matched the serpent's smirked over at the pair of you from where he stood, leaning against the cave walls. He was dressed strangely — not like any of the other land dwellers you had seen before. There was something that screamed status in the medals that decorated his chest like scales.

"To think," he stated as he began to walk closer, "you've been keeping this UR-Rank prize all too yourself. Naughty Lotan. I raised you better than that."

Your fight-or-flight instincts finally kicked in as you made a dive towards the depths. You beat your tail twice against the currents — desperately trying to create distance from you and the walker.

Suddenly, a strong tail wrapped around your middle and a scream ripped from your lungs as you were hauled back above the waves. You thrashed in the serpent's grip as the person grew closer and closer.

There was a scowl on his face as he looked you in the eyes. "You were so friendly with Lotan, why are you trying to run from me?" You whimpered, squirming in the snake's hold as his coils tightened around you.

The person snapped, and a smile came onto his face. "I know! I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Leviathan, Avatar of Envy and Grand Admiral of the Devildom's Navy, and you," his smile grew into something almost manic as his eyes scanned you up and down. You couldn't help but shiver. "Are a siren," a breathy laugh of disbelief escaped his lips. "A majestic one at that."

Your heart pounded in your chest with each echoing step that he took closer to you. You banged your fists against the beast's scales — but he only let out a high hiss in complaint.

"Let me go!" you shouted. "I don't care who you are, you can't do this!"

Painted nails dug into your cheeks as Leviathan turned your face to his.

"I don't like it when people try to tell me what I can and can't do," he snarled as carefully took in your features. An expression of pure wonder came across his face. "I thought your kind had gone extinct," he mumbled. "At least that's what everyone else says. Legend has it you were all too murder-prone for your own good and attacked anything that moved. But look at you. You're no more threatening than a guppy!" His eyes became a glow as he glanced down at your dazzling, orange tail. "You even came in my colour. This is fate. I was meant to find you! I'll be the only demon in all of the Devildom to have a live siren!" he cackled as your eyes widened. "Mammon will be so jealous!"

This land-dweller was insane. You shouldn't be nearly as surprised as you are, and yet as you watched him laugh to himself you couldn't stop the sinking feeling in your stomach.

There was no time for thinking — no time for doubt. You needed to act fast.

You had never actually used your vocal abilities for harm before. You had never even witnessed it. But you didn't have a choice. You needed to him to stop — to sleep.

"Hear my voice beneath the sea," you sang with your eyes squeezed shut. You focused on your desire for freedom, on your need to escape. "Sleeping now so peacefully," Lotan let out a strange hum and shook his head. You shakily caressed his scales. "At the bottom of the sea," you felt his grip on you begin to loosen — your breath hitched. "Sleep for all eterni-"

A hand slammed over your mouth as Lotan's grip quickly tightened around you once more. The land-dweller peered down at you with curious eyes, "That's a pretty little song you sang," he cooed. "You nearly had Lotan taking a nap. He's just an NPC though," you winced as you felt his nails dig crescent moons into your tender flesh. "I'm the Grand Admiral. I have power over all the oceans, and that includes you."

He hummed as he finally released your mouth. "You'll learn that though, in time."

Tears welled in your eyes as you shook your head, "P-Please," you pleaded.

He scoffed and snapped his fingers as both he and Lotan began to exit the cave towards a smaller boat sitting near the entrance. "You act as though I'm going to torture you. Please. I'm a demon, but I'm not like my brothers. I take care of my belongings."

You snarled at his words, thrashing your tail against Lotan. "I am not a belonging!"

He clicked his tongue in consideration as he got into the boat. "Wrong. I own these waters, remember?" He snorted as he shook his head. "I shouldn't be surprised that you forgot, already. Goldfish memory and all that," you let out your own hiss at the man. "Don't worry though. I got a nice setup for you at home already. I'm sure Henry won't mind moving a smaller tank until you get settled."

Your eyes widened as he shifted into a different form, one speckled with scales and sporting a strong tail of his own. He roughly pulled you from Lotan's binds and into his own. You were forced down into the boat beside him.

Laying below him, the sun barely cresting his horns as his shadowed face grinned down at you, your fate began to sink in.

Your curled into a ball around your tail and shivered as the boat began to move, taking you away from the life you had once loved and closer to the prison that you'd be forced to endure.

***It's like the opposite of fluff, but it's spooky season, so I hope you still enjoyed it! Thank you all so much for the love and support while my schedule is a little out of whack! Love you guys 🥰 -B***

Taglist:

You were not Gotham’s lesson. You were its contradiction.

You walked into the lives of heroes with no cape, no crest, no ancestral oath or alien sun burning beneath your skin. You arrived with steady hands, tired eyes, and a reputation that made even gods go quiet.

You could heal anything. That was what everyone said.

The Justice League said it with reverence. The Titans said it with relief. The Outlaws said it with reckless gratitude. Young Justice said it like they had discovered a cheat code and decided not to read the terms of service.

Jon said you were “basically a miracle.”

Damian said miracles were unreliable.

You had smiled at him when he said it. Amused.

“Good thing I’m not a miracle, then,” you had replied.

He had disliked you immediately.

Not because you were wrong.

Because he wanted you to be.

The first time Damian let you heal him, he was twenty-one and old enough to know better.

It was not a serious injury. That was what he told himself. A fractured wrist after a fight with a metahuman trafficking cell near the docks. He had taken the hit redirecting a collapsing beam away from a child. The child survived. His wrist did not.

A favourable exchange.

You found him on a rooftop afterwards, attempting to secure a splint one-handed with the grim concentration of a man personally offended by gauze. You stood in front of him for five seconds before saying, “That wrap is a hate crime.”

Damian did not look up. “It is functional.”

“It is shaped like unresolved childhood trauma.”

His eyes lifted. You smiled mildly.

He stared. “You are bold for someone within throwing distance.”

“You’re injured.”

“You believe that protects you?”

“No. I believe your wrist is broken and your left-handed aim with medical tape is probably worse than you think.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. The worst part was that you were correct.

You stepped closer but did not reach for him.

That was unusual. Most people reached. Medics, especially. Even kind ones often forgot that kindness could still become an invasion if delivered without permission.

You held your hands at your sides.

“I can heal it,” you said.

“No.”

“Okay.”

He paused.

You did not argue. No persuasive speech. No moral lecture. No “you don’t have to be tough with me,” which was a phrase Damian loathed almost as much as “calm down.”

You simply accepted his answer and leaned against the roof access door.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“To make sure you don’t pass out from pain while continuing your one-man war against compression bandages.”

“I will not pass out.”

“Great. Then this will be boring.”

The silence that followed should have annoyed him.

It did. But not only.

You watched the skyline instead of watching him. You gave him privacy without leaving him alone. It was a surprisingly difficult balance, and Damian hated that you managed it.

Eventually, his splint slipped. You did not comment.

His wrist throbbed hard enough that his vision flashed white at the edges. You still did not comment.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Fine,” he said. You looked over. “I will permit your assistance.”

“Assistance with the splint or healing?”

He paused. You waited.

Damian looked at your hands. They were steady. Scarred in small places, though no injuries lingered long on you. He knew that much. Everyone knew that. You healed quickly. You healed others faster.

A miracle, Jon had called you. A risk, Damian thought.

“To heal,” he said finally.

You stepped toward him. Slowly. “May I touch your wrist?”

“Yes.”

Your fingers settled around the fracture. Warmth bloomed beneath your palm.

Damian prepared for pain. There was none.

The ache vanished. The bone slid back into place with a painless shift that should have been impossible. Swelling disappeared. Torn tissue knitted itself whole. His fingers, stiff seconds before, flexed freely.

He stared at his hand. There should have been consequences. There were always consequences.

You released him and took half a step back. Your own fingers curled briefly against your palm.

A twitch. Almost nothing.

Damian saw it. “What was that?”

You blinked. “What was what?”

“Your hand.”

“My hand exists. Very observant.”

He frowned.

You smiled. It was a practised smile.

He would understand that later.

At the time, he only knew that he disliked it.

Trust came slowly.

Damian preferred it that way. Trust that arrived too quickly was either foolishness or manipulation. Real trust was built like a fortress: stone by stone, inspected from every angle, reinforced after every storm.

You never rushed him. That was the first stone.

You respected every no. That was the second.

You remembered details he did not expect anyone to notice: that he preferred tea without sugar, that he hated being touched from behind, that Titus became restless during thunderstorms, that Damian’s right shoulder tightened before he admitted exhaustion.

You learned the names of his animals before you learned the gossip about his family. That was several stones at once.

“You brought treats,” Damian said the first time you visited the Manor, and Titus abandoned dignity to shove his massive head into your hands.

“For Titus.”

“I can see that.”

“You sound offended.”

“You have bribed my dog.”

“I have respected his interests.”

Titus wagged his tail with shameless enthusiasm.

Damian crossed his arms. “He has betrayed me.”

“You love him anyway.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled down at Titus. “Good boy.”

Damian watched the way your hands scratched behind the dog’s ears. Gentle, sure, absent of fear. Titus leaned against you like a creature who knew exactly where kindness lived.

Damian did not realise he was staring until you glanced up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Your smile became suspicious. “Was that almost fondness?”

“No.”

“It looked like almost fondness.”

“You are mistaken.”

“I’m choosing to believe otherwise.”

“Your delusions are your own burden.”

You laughed. Damian looked away too late.

After that, you became a regular presence.

Not constant. Damian would not have tolerated constant.

Familiar.

You appeared in the Cave after League missions, carrying medical supplies and the quiet authority of someone who had seen heroes at their worst and remained unimpressed by theatrics. You patched Grayson while he told a story with too many hand gestures and not enough respect for his own cracked ribs. You argued with Todd about antibiotics until he took them out of spite. You confiscated Drake’s coffee once and survived.

Damian had been impressed. Not that he said so.

Jon noticed, because Jon noticed everything Damian wished he would not.

“You like them,” Jon said one evening on a rooftop patrol.

Damian did not stumble. Barely.

“I tolerate them.”

Jon floated beside him, cape moving in the wind. “You gave them one of your sketches.”

“It was a medical diagram.”

“It was a drawing of their hands.”

“Hands are medically relevant.”

“You wrote ‘rest’ under it.”

“They do not rest.”

Jon’s grin widened. “You are so down bad.” Damian turned slowly. Jon backed up in the air. “I say that with love.”

“I will remove you from the sky.”

“You can’t fly.”

“I will improvise.”

Jon laughed.

Damian resumed walking. His ears were warm.

Jon landed beside him, quieter now. “They look at you differently, too.”

Damian’s step faltered. “They do not.”

“They do.”

“Kryptonian hearing does not make you an expert on human emotion.”

“No, but hearing their heartbeat change when you walk in is pretty compelling evidence.” Damian stopped. Jon also stopped, expression immediately apologetic. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You listen to their heart?”

“Not intentionally! It’s just loud when they see you.”

Damian’s own heart became deeply undisciplined.

Jon smiled softly. “You should tell them.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Damian glanced at him, suspicious. “You concede too easily.”

“No, I just know you’ll do it eventually and pretend it was your idea.”

Damian glared. Jon grinned.

Two nights later, you found another drawing tucked into your medical bag. This one was of Titus asleep with his head on your knee. Beneath it, in Damian’s precise handwriting, was one sentence: He trusts you. This reflects well on your character.

You found Damian in the garden.

It was raining, because Gotham apparently believed subtlety was for lesser cities. He stood beneath a stone archway, pretending not to wait.

You approached with the sketch held carefully against your chest.

“This is beautiful,” you said.

“It is accurate.”

“It’s kind.”

“That is debatable.”

“No.” You smiled. “It isn’t.”

Damian looked away.

You stepped under the arch beside him. Rain whispered over ivy. The Manor glowed behind you both, all old stone and golden windows.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded stiffly.

There was a silence.

Not uncomfortable. That had become dangerous.

You looked at him, and Damian could feel the moment opening like a door.

“You’re allowed to want things,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. It was not fair, how gently you said it. As if the words were not a blade sliding between armour plates. “I am aware.”

“You know it intellectually.”

He looked at you sharply. Your smile was sad.

“What do you want, Damian?”

Many answers came to him.

Peace. Purpose. His father’s approval, though he had outgrown needing it and somehow not outgrown wanting it. A world where children were not trained into weapons. A self that did not sometimes still hear his grandfather’s voice and mistake it for his own.

But those truths were too large for the rain. So he chose the smaller one. The braver one.

“You,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Damian did not look away. Your face changed in a way he did not have language for. Softened, yes, but not with pity. With wonder. With wanting so open, it made his chest hurt.

“You have me,” you whispered.

He should have asked if you were certain. He should have warned you that he did not love gently by instinct, that his devotion had teeth, that he was still learning how to hold without gripping too tightly.

Instead, he leaned in.

You met him halfway.

The first kiss was rain-cold and mouth-warm, hesitant for only the first breath. Then your hand rose to his cheek, and Damian let himself lean into it.

Let himself want. Let himself be wanted.

Later, Jon would claim he heard Damian’s heartbeat “attempt to achieve escape velocity.”

Damian would threaten him. Several times.

But in the rain, beneath ivy, you kissed him like there was nothing in him that needed to be earned back from violence.

And Damian, foolishly perhaps, believed you.

He should have known the past would come for him with a blade. 

The League of Assassins rarely wasted poetry.

When the case began, it looked like a string of metahuman disappearances. Three teenagers taken from Metropolis. Two from Gotham. One from Blüdhaven. All newly powered. All young enough to be frightened by what their bodies had become and old enough for someone cruel to turn that fear into compliance.

Oracle connected the disappearances to an abandoned hospital outside Gotham registered under six false companies, two shell organisations, and one name Damian had not heard spoken aloud in years.

A minor League sect. Old blood. New methods.

His father stood at the Cave computer, grim and silent. Grayson’s usual warmth had sharpened into focus. Drake’s fingers flew across keys. Todd checked and rechecked his weapons with quiet, murderous care. Jon stood beside Damian, tension radiating off him like sunlight behind storm clouds.

You stood near the medbay entrance. Damian saw you before anyone spoke.

“No,” he said.

Your eyes moved to him. “Excuse me?”

“You are not coming.”

Todd muttered, “Smooth, brat.”

Damian ignored him.

You stepped closer. “They’ll have injured kids inside.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want a healer there?”

“I do not want you there.”

The room went still.

Your face did not change, but Damian saw the hurt land. He regretted the phrasing instantly.

Not the meaning. The wound.

You folded your arms. “Because it’s dangerous?”

“Because it is League.”

Your expression softened, which was worse than anger. “Dami.”

“No.”

“You can’t keep me away from every shadow in your past.”

“I can keep you away from this one.”

“That isn’t your choice.”

“It is if I refuse to allow you through the Zeta-tube.”

Drake winced.

Grayson said, “Dami.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, he thought you would argue. Part of him wanted you to. Part of him wanted you angry enough that the fear in his chest had somewhere to go.

Instead, you nodded once. “Fine.”

Damian hated the word.

You looked at Bruce. “I’ll coordinate med support from here.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted between you and Damian.

Then he nodded. “Accepted.”

You did not look at Damian again.

Good, he told himself. He had protected you.

It felt like losing.

The facility beneath the hospital was exactly what Damian expected. That made it worse.

Stone corridors beneath sterile tile. Modern restraints bolted into old walls. Hidden sigils carved under steel plates. The League had always understood the value of layering cruelty beneath cleanliness.

The team split. Batman and Nightwing cleared the upper labs. Red Hood secured the escape route with a level of aggression that suggested several assassins would later require reconstructive dentistry. Red Robin disabled surveillance from the Cave with you beside him on medical coordination. Damian and Jon moved through the lower chambers.

They found the first two teenagers in a containment room.

Bruised. Dehydrated. Alive. One had burns from power-dampening cuffs. The other had a dislocated shoulder and a split lip. Damian’s jaw tightened as Jon broke the cuffs with careful rage.

Your voice came through comms. “Status?”

“Two recovered,” Damian replied. “Nonfatal injuries. Burns, dislocation, dehydration.”

A short pause. “Can they move?”

“Yes.”

“Get them to extraction. I’ll have medics ready.”

Damian heard it in your voice. The restraint.

You wanted to be there. You wanted to put your hands over the burns and make them vanish.

Instead, you gave orders.

He was proud. He was afraid. Both feelings sat together in him like badly behaved animals.

They moved deeper.

The final chamber was beneath the old surgical wing. It had once been an operating theatre. The League had turned it into something worse. Six teenagers were strapped to tilted metal tables arranged in a circle around a machine pulsing with stolen metahuman energy. Their powers fed into the device through cables bright with unstable light.

In the centre stood a man in black armour with a white sash marked in old League script.

Damian knew the title.

Not the man. That hardly mattered. The League was full of replaceable monsters wearing inherited arrogance.

“Blood heir,” the man said.

Jon’s eyes burned red. “I hate when they call you that.”

“As do I,” Damian said.

Then the fight began. Assassins dropped from the rafters. Red solar emitters ignited in the walls, flooding the room in pulses designed to weaken Jon without fully stripping him. Power-dampening fields snapped on around the captives. Blades flashed.

Damian moved.

He had been raised in rooms like this. He knew their rhythm. Strike before the second attacker lands. Never follow the obvious opening. The left wall hides a second blade. The floor sigil is not decorative. The man with the shorter sword is the true threat.

He fought like memory given teeth. Jon fought beside him, weakened but furious, each hit controlled enough to avoid collapsing the chamber on the children.

“Red Robin,” Damian snapped over comms. “Disable the solar emitters.”

“Working,” Tim replied. “They’re layered into the medical grid.”

Todd’s voice cut in, breathless and violent. “I can blow the grid.”

“Do not blow the grid,” Tim and Bruce said at once.

Todd scoffed. “No one appreciates vision.”

Your voice came through, tight. “Damian, behind you.”

He turned before the blade reached his spine.

An assassin fell.

Damian’s pulse sharpened. You were watching through hacked security feeds.

Good. Bad. You were seeing too much.

The lead assassin smiled.

“Still guided by softer hands,” he said.

Damian lunged.

Mistake.

Not fatal. Almost.

The floor beneath him flared with old script. Chains of black light erupted around his right arm and shoulder, locking him mid-strike. Jon shouted and tried to reach him, but two assassins drove him back beneath red solar pulses.

Damian twisted. The chains tightened.

The lead assassin drew a curved blade.

Not toward Damian’s heart. Toward his arm.

Damian understood at once. Maiming, not killing. A message. A punishment. A ritual humiliation. The blood heir made less whole.

He fought the chains with everything he had.

Not enough.

The blade came down. Pain went white.

For one suspended heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then sound returned.

Jon screaming his name. The teenagers crying out. The wet sound of blood hitting tile.

Damian looked down. His right arm was nearly severed below the elbow. Attached by ruined flesh, fractured bone, and a stubbornness his body had apparently inherited from him.

The sight was clinical in its horror.

He knew what losing the arm would mean.

Not death. Worse, in some ways.

Relearning everything. Sword forms. Drawing. Writing. Touch. Balance. The language of his body rewritten by another person’s blade.

Pain struck next, vast and blinding.

Damian dropped to his knees. His left hand clamped above the wound. Blood surged between his fingers.

“Robin!” Bruce’s voice cracked over comms.

That, more than the injury, frightened him. His father sounded afraid.

Jon hit the lead assassin so hard that the man flew into the far wall.

The solar emitters died.

Tim’s voice, “Grid down.”

Todd, “I still think explosions would’ve been faster.”

Your voice came next. Not steady. Not anymore.

“Damian?”

He clenched his teeth. Could not answer.

Jon dropped beside him, face white. He pressed both hands over Damian’s arm, trying to stem the bleeding without making it worse.

“Oh God,” Jon breathed. “Dami, stay with me.”

“I am… here,” Damian forced out.

“You’re losing too much blood.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop being sarcastic while actively bleeding out!”

Your voice came again. “Jon. Status.”

Jon looked at the comm on Damian’s collar, horrified.

“It’s his arm,” Jon said. “It’s—it’s almost gone.”

Silence. The kind that took all air with it.

Then the sound Damian dreaded most. The Zeta-tube activating in the chamber beyond.

“No,” Damian rasped.

Jon looked at him. “Damian—”

“No.”

He tried to push himself upright. Failed.

The chamber doors opened. Batman entered first, cape like a storm, medkit in hand.

You came behind him.

Your eyes found Damian. Everything in your face stopped.

No. That was his first thought.

Not relief. Not love.

No.

Because he knew you. He knew what you were seeing. Not only the blood. Not only the limb hanging by torn flesh. Not only the future unravelling in one brutal line.

You were seeing something you could fix.

“Do not,” he said.

Your face crumpled. You crossed the room anyway.

Bruce knelt at Damian’s other side, taking over pressure from Jon with controlled, terrible efficiency.

“Tourniquet,” Bruce said.

Jon was already moving.

You knelt in front of Damian.

“Hi,” you whispered.

Absurd. He loved you so fiercely in that moment that it frightened him more than the blood loss.

“No,” he said again.

Your hands hovered over his arm. Shaking now. The tremor was visible. He hated that.

“I can save it,” you said.

His vision blurred. “No.”

“You could lose your hand.”

“I know.”

“Your arm.”

“I know.”

“Damian.”

He looked at you. Your eyes were full of tears, but beneath the fear was something harder.

Resolve. The same resolve he had seen in you a hundred times when someone was hurt. When pain became a problem and your body became the answer.

“No,” he whispered.

You touched his face with one blood-slick hand.

He should have turned away. He did not.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

His heart stopped. “No.”

“I can’t let them take this from you.”

“No.”

“You draw with this hand.” His throat closed. “You hold your sword with it,” you continued, voice breaking. “You hold Titus. You hold me.”

“Beloved—”

“I can help.”

“You will take the wound.”

“Not all of it.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know my body.” A desperate, broken smile flickered across your mouth. “It changes things. It softens the transfer sometimes. I probably won’t get it as bad.”

“Probably,” Damian spat.

You flinched. Good.

No. Not good. Nothing was good.

Bruce’s gaze snapped to you. “What does that mean?”

No one answered him. The entire chamber seemed to narrow around you and Damian.

Your hand was still on his face. His blood streaked your fingers.

“I can’t watch you lose part of yourself,” you whispered.

Rage and terror rose together in Damian’s chest. “You think my hand is myself?”

“No,” you said immediately. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

“That is what you said.”

“I mean they took enough from you. The League took enough. Your childhood, your choices, your body, your pain, your name before you even knew what names meant.” Your voice cracked. “I cannot sit here with the power to stop them from taking one more thing and choose not to.”

His breath hitched.

There it was. The blade under the kindness.

Not pity. Fury. You were angry for him. You were choosing him. You were choosing him over yourself.

He wanted to weep. He wanted to shout. He wanted to beg.

“Ask me,” he said.

Your face broke. “Damian—”

“Ask me.”

The words cost him more than blood.

You stared at him. “I can’t.”

Pain lanced through him.

Not from the arm. From you.

“You can,” he said. “You must.”

“If I ask, you’ll say no.”

“Yes.”

“And then I’ll have to let it happen.”

“You will have to honour my choice.”

Your tears spilled over. “I’m not strong enough for that.”

Damian’s heart shattered.

Bruce went very still beside him. Jon made a small, broken sound.

You leaned closer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.

And then your hands closed around Damian’s ruined arm.

The transfer hit like lightning.

Damian screamed. So did you. For one second, pain filled everything. Not leaving him gently, not fading like mercy. It ripped out of him, dragging fire and nerve and blood with it.

Then his arm healed. Bone snapped into alignment. Flesh knitted. Tendons reconnected. Skin sealed beneath your palms. Feeling surged down to his fingertips in a brutal rush.

His hand flexed. Whole. His.

Then you collapsed.

Your right arm buckled beneath you.

Not severed. Not as bad. You had been right. Somehow, impossibly, terribly right.

But the damage still tore through you. A jagged wound split from your forearm toward your wrist, deep enough to expose blood and white flashes of bone beneath muscle. Your fingers curled uselessly. Blood poured down your hand, splattering onto the tile. Your shoulder hit the floor, and your breath broke on a sound Damian would hear forever.

For half a second, he stared at his healed hand. Then at yours.

No.

No.

No.

He lunged toward you. His body, newly healed but blood-weakened, nearly failed him. Jon caught his shoulder. Damian shoved him away and dragged himself to you with both hands, both whole hands, which made it worse.

“Beloved,” he choked.

You were curled around your injured arm, face white with agony.

Bruce moved quickly, already applying pressure to your wound. You cried out. Damian flinched as if the sound had opened him.

“Do not touch them,” he snapped at Bruce.

Bruce’s eyes flashed. “They’re bleeding.”

Damian knew he was being irrational. He did not care.

“Damian,” you gasped.

His attention snapped to you.

You were looking at him. Not your arm.

Him.

Relief trembled through your expression.

Relief.

Because his arm was whole. Because you had succeeded.

Damian felt something inside him go cold and wild.

“How dare you,” he whispered.

Your eyes filled. “I’m sorry.”

“How dare you.”

“I couldn’t—”

“You could,” he said, voice shaking. “You chose not to.”

Your face crumpled.

He wanted to take the words back. He wanted to sharpen them. He wanted to kiss you until your pain disappeared. He wanted your blood off the floor. He wanted his wound back.

“You chose me,” he said.

Your lips trembled. “Yes.”

“Over yourself.”

“Yes.”

The honesty was a killing blow.

Damian’s breath left him.

Bruce tightened the pressure bandage around your arm. You whimpered, trying to stay still. Jon knelt nearby, crying openly now. Damian barely saw him.

“You were right,” you whispered. His heart stopped. “It’s not as bad.”

Damian stared at you.

Then laughed once. A terrible sound.

“You think that matters?” Your eyes searched his, confused through pain and shock. “You think because the wound is smaller, the violation is smaller?”

You flinched.

Bruce’s expression tightened.

Jon whispered, “Dami…”

“No,” Damian snapped. “Do not.”

Your breathing hitched.

Damian’s hands shook. His right hand, whole and healed, shook.

That made him angrier. That made him love you more. That made him hate everything.

“You did not save my arm,” he said, voice breaking. “You made it yours.”

Your face went slack.

There. Good.

No. Not good.

Truth. Necessary and brutal.

You looked at your wounded arm as if seeing it for the first time. Blood soaked the bandage beneath Bruce’s hands.

Your mouth opened. No sound came out.

Then the pain took you. Your eyes rolled back.

Damian caught you before your head hit the floor. “Beloved?”

No response.

“Beloved.”

Bruce pressed two fingers to your throat. “Pulse is weak. We need extraction now.”

Damian held you against him, his healed hand cradling your head.

His arm worked perfectly. He had never hated his own body more.

The Watchtower medbay smelled like antiseptic and fear. Damian sat outside the surgical suite with blood on his clothes.

Yours. His. Both.

He had refused to change.

Todd had said nothing, which was how Damian knew the situation had reached an unnatural level of horror. Jon sat on the floor across from him, knees drawn up, cape wrapped around his shoulders. He had cried himself quiet twenty minutes earlier. Bruce stood near the observation window like a statue carved by grief. Grayson paced. Drake typed furiously on one tablet, then another, then stopped as if realising no amount of data would make time move faster.

Todd leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, helmet off, face pale and furious.

“This is bullshit,” Jason said finally. No one answered. “This whole damn thing is bullshit.”

“Jason,” Dick said softly.

“No. They should’ve told us.”

Damian’s eyes lifted.

Todd looked at him.

Not accusing. Not pitying.

Understanding.

It was unbearable.

“They should’ve told us what healing cost,” Jason said. “Before any of us let them touch us.”

Damian looked down at his right hand.

He flexed his fingers. Whole. Obedient. Yours now, some treacherous part of him thought.

No.

No.

He dug his nails into his palm. Pain answered.

His pain. At least that remained.

“They knew I would refuse,” Damian said.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Everyone looked at him.

“They knew,” he repeated. “So they did not ask.”

Jon’s face crumpled again.

Bruce said, quietly, “They thought they were saving you.”

Damian’s gaze snapped to his father. “They were.”

Silence.

Damian stood. His body swayed.

Jon scrambled up, but Damian lifted a hand. Jon stopped.

Damian looked at Bruce. “That is the problem.”

Bruce’s face tightened.

“I know,” he said.

Of course he did. Bruce Wayne understood being saved against his will. Understood surviving at a cost someone else paid. Understood the rage that followed gratitude so closely they became nearly impossible to separate.

Damian hated that he understood.

The surgical doors opened. Dr Mid-Nite emerged, expression grave but not hopeless. Damian was in front of him immediately.

“They’re alive,” the doctor said.

Damian nearly collapsed.

He did not. But Jon did, a little, against the wall.

“The transferred injury was severe,” Dr Mid-Nite continued. “Less catastrophic than yours would have been, but still serious. The arm is salvageable. There’s nerve trauma, tendon damage, blood loss. Their accelerated healing is responding, but slowly.”

“Will they regain function?” Damian asked.

“Likely, with treatment and time.”

Likely. Damian hated likely. Likely was probably wearing a white coat.

He wanted certainty. He got none.

“Can I see them?”

The doctor hesitated. Damian’s eyes narrowed.

Bruce stepped closer. “He won’t interfere.”

Dr Mid-Nite looked at Damian. Damian lifted his chin.

“I will not interfere,” he said.

He did not know if it was true. But he meant to make it so.

The doctor nodded.

You looked too small in the bed. Damian hated that thought. You were not small. You were not fragile. You were not a wounded bird cupped in his hands.

You were the person who had looked at the League’s attempt to maim him and said, No more. You were the person who had made yourself the answer.

You were terrible. You were brave. You were unconscious beneath white sheets, right arm wrapped from shoulder to wrist and elevated in a brace.

Damian approached slowly. Machines hummed. Your face was pale with pain even in sleep.

He stopped beside the bed. For a long time, he did nothing.

Then he reached out with his right hand. The healed one.

His fingers hovered over your bandaged arm.

He did not touch. He could not.

It felt obscene.

“Why?” he whispered.

You did not answer. The monitors did.

Steady beep. Alive.

Damian sat. He folded his hands in his lap. His right hand looked unchanged. Same calluses. Same scars. Same fine ink stain near his thumb from sketching two days earlier. Same knuckles bruised from training. Same fingers that had held yours in the garden.

It should have been a relief.

It was. That was the cruelty.

He was relieved.

He loved his hand. He loved what it allowed him to do. Draw. Fight. touch. Feed Titus scraps when Alfred was not looking. Hold his sword. Hold you.

He had not wanted to lose it. He had been prepared to.

You had seen the part of him that feared the loss, the part he would have hidden beneath pride, and you had chosen that frightened part over your own safety.

Damian hated you for it. Damian loved you for it. Both truths wrapped around his throat until breathing became difficult.

“You should have asked,” he said. His voice shook. “You should have asked me and allowed me to refuse. You should have trusted me to survive less than wholeness.” His eyes burned. “You should not have loved me like the League.”

The words entered the room and stayed. He regretted them immediately.

No. He did not.

Yes. Both. Always both with you now.

You stirred. Damian sat forward sharply. Your eyelids fluttered.

“Beloved?”

Your eyes opened slowly. Unfocused.

Then they found him.

Relief. Again.

Damian closed his eyes. When he opened them, you were trying to smile.

“Arm?” you rasped.

His jaw tightened. “Yours or mine?”

Your smile vanished.

Good. No. He was tired of good. Tired of bad. Tired of feeling everything.

“Damian,” you whispered.

He took the cup from beside the bed and held the straw to your lips. His right hand did not tremble this time.

You drank. Only a little. He set the cup down.

“My arm is whole,” he said.

Your eyes closed. “Good.”

The word struck him like a slap. He stood so quickly the chair scraped back.

Your eyes opened, startled.

“No,” he said.

Your face twisted with pain and confusion. “No?”

“No. You do not get to say good.”

Your throat bobbed. “I saved it.”

“You took it.”

“I saved it.”

“At the cost of your own.”

“It isn’t as bad.”

He stared at you. You seemed to hear yourself then. Your face faltered.

“It isn’t,” you said, quieter. “I knew it wouldn’t be as bad.”

“You did not know.”

“I was pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure,” he repeated.

Your eyes filled.

His hands curled into fists. Both hands. “You gambled with your body.”

“I gambled to keep yours.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“I know.”

“You did not let me refuse.”

“I know.”

“You did not trust me.”

That hurt you. Your mouth trembled. “I did trust you.”

“No.” Damian shook his head once. “You trusted that I would survive. You did not trust that I had the right to choose what survival looked like.”

Tears slipped down your temples.

“I couldn’t bear it,” you whispered.

“What?”

“The thought of you losing it.” Your gaze flicked to his right hand. “Your hand. Your arm. Your art. Your sword. The way you touch everything like you’re still learning you’re allowed to be gentle.”

Damian went still.

Your voice broke. “I couldn’t bear knowing I could help and choosing not to. I couldn’t bear seeing another piece of you taken by them.”

He looked away. The room blurred.

Damn you. Damn you for knowing that. Damn you for seeing the child beneath the blade, the boy raised by people who called ownership love, the man still trying to make his body his own. Damn you for choosing him. Damn you for being right that part of him was glad.

“I would have learned,” he said. You sobbed once. “I would have adapted.”

“I know.”

“I am more than my sword hand.”

“I know,” you said, crying harder now. “I know, Damian. I swear I know. I didn’t do it because I thought you’d be less. I did it because I love all of you, and I couldn’t watch you be forced to lose something when I had a chance to stop it.”

His anger fractured. Love rushed in through the crack.

Unwelcome. Unstoppable.

He sat down again, slower this time. “You chose me over yourself.”

Your eyes held his. “Yes.”

The honesty hurt worse than any lie could have.

Damian lowered his head. For a moment, he was back in the chamber. Your hand on his face. Your eyes full of tears. Your voice saying sorry because you already knew you were about to betray him for love.

He hated that he understood. He hated that if it had been you on the floor with your arm nearly severed, he did not know if he would have done better.

That thought humbled him. Humiliation would have been easier. This was grief.

“I love you,” he said.

Your breath caught. He looked at you.

“I love you for choosing me,” he continued, voice rough. “For looking at the worst thing the League tried to make me and refusing to let them take more. I love you for your fury. For your tenderness. For wanting me whole even when I was prepared not to be.”

Your face crumpled.

“And I hate you for choosing me over yourself.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“No,” he said. “Listen.”

Your eyes opened again.

“I hate that you decided my wholeness was worth your damage. I hate that I am relieved. I hate that part of me wants to thank you while another part wants to never let you touch me again.”

A tear slid down your cheek. Damian reached for it.

Stopped.

“May I?” he asked.

Your face broke all over again. “Yes.”

He wiped the tear away with his right thumb. His healed thumb.

You leaned into the touch. He nearly broke.

“I am angry,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I will be angry for some time.”

“I know.”

“I may not forgive you quickly.”

Your lips trembled. “Okay.”

“But I am staying.”

A sob caught in your throat. Damian leaned closer.

“I am staying,” he repeated. “Because love is not leaving when one has been wounded. Even by the beloved.”

You cried then.

Not quietly. Not beautifully. You cried like something in you had finally stopped bracing for abandonment.

Damian rested his forehead against yours, careful of the tubes, the bandages, the injured arm held between you like a third presence.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

His eyes closed. “I know.”

A faint, watery laugh escaped you. “Arrogant.”

“Yes.”

“Say it back anyway?”

His mouth softened. “I love you.”

Your breath shuddered.

“I love you,” he said again, because the words seemed to hurt you in a healing way, and Damian was beginning to understand that not all pain was harm. “I love you, and you were wrong.”

You laughed and sobbed at the same time. “That is very you.”

“I am consistent.”

“You are.”

His hand remained on your face. Your uninjured hand lifted slowly and covered his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The monitor kept counting proof of your survival. Damian listened like it was scripture.

Recovery was not gentle. Yours rarely was.

The wound had not taken your arm, but it had changed it. Nerves misfired beneath the skin. Your fingers trembled. Grip strength came and went like a moody ghost. Some days, your hand curled stiffly and refused to open without coaxing. Some nights, the pain climbed from wrist to shoulder and left you pale, sweating, biting back sounds Damian wished he could tear from the world.

He did not offer to have you heal yourself. He had learned enough by then. You could accelerate your recovery only in fragments, carefully, at the cost of exhaustion that frightened everyone.

So you healed slowly. Humanly.

Damian stayed. Angrily. Devotedly.

He brought tea and corrected your posture with surgical precision. He read aloud when the pain made focusing difficult. He chose poetry at first because he thought it might soothe you. Then he chose murder mysteries because you criticised everyone’s investigative technique so fiercely that even Drake listened from the doorway with reluctant approval.

He brushed your hair when your arm hurt too much.

The first time, you cried. He pretended not to notice until you said, “You can notice.”

So he did.

“You are crying,” Damian said.

You laughed wetly. “Thanks.”

“I am uncertain what response is appropriate.”

“Just keep going.”

He did. His fingers moved through your hair with grave concentration.

Todd walked in, saw the scene, and immediately walked back out muttering, “Nope, too intimate, I’m emotionally allergic.”

You laughed so hard that Damian threatened him through the door.

Some days, Damian’s anger sharpened unexpectedly.

A dropped cup. Your wince while trying to flex your fingers. The sight of you struggling to button a shirt. Each small reminder of what you had taken from him and made yours.

One afternoon, you caught him staring at your hand as you failed to hold a pen.

“Say it,” you said.

Damian looked up. “What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I am thinking many things.”

“The angry one.”

His jaw tightened.

You waited. Always waiting, even now.

He exhaled. “I am thinking that I should be the one unable to hold a pen.”

Your face softened with pain.

“I am thinking that you stole a consequence from me.”

“Yes.”

“I am thinking that I am grateful.”

Your eyes filled.

His voice hardened. “And that gratitude disgusts me.”

You set the pen down. “Damian.”

“No. You asked.”

“I did.”

He stood, restless, anger moving through him like a blade seeking a target. “I look at my hand and I am relieved. I draw and I am relieved. I hold my sword and I am relieved. I touch you and I am relieved.”

Your mouth trembled.

He looked at you, furious and wrecked. “Then I look at your hand.”

You said nothing.

“I do not know where to put the relief,” he confessed.

Your expression crumpled.

Oh. There it was. The truth under the anger.

He did not know how to be grateful for something that had hurt you. He did not know how to love the saved part of himself without feeling like he was betraying the wounded part of you.

You rose carefully from the chair. He stiffened. You came close but did not touch.

“I don’t need you to be only grateful,” you said softly. His throat tightened. “I don’t even need you to be grateful at all.”

“I am.”

“I know.”

“I despise it.”

“I know.”

Your injured hand hung between you, bandaged, trembling slightly.

Damian looked at it. Then, slowly, he held out his right hand. His healed hand.

You stared.

“May I?” he asked.

Your eyes filled. “Yes.”

He took your injured hand with unbearable care. The bandages were soft beneath his fingers.

Your hand trembled in his. He lifted it and pressed his mouth to your knuckles. You inhaled sharply.

“I am angry,” he said against your skin. “I am grateful.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Your eyes closed. “I know,” you whispered.

He looked up.

“And I hate,” he said, voice rough, “that those truths do not cancel each other out.”

You opened your eyes. “They don’t have to.”

“No.” He held your hand between both of his. “No,” he repeated. “They do not.”

It was not forgiveness. Not yet.

But it was contact. It was honest. It was enough for that moment.

Jon came often. He was terrible at pretending he was not checking on both of you. He brought snacks, flowers, terrible jokes, and one stuffed cow wearing a tiny Robin cape.

Damian stared at it. You stared at it.

Jon held it out with both hands. “For emotional support.”

Damian said, “Leave.”

You laughed immediately.

Jon brightened. “See? It helped.”

“It offended me.”

“That’s your love language.”

“I will make you eat the cow.”

“It has a name.”

“No.”

“Moo-bin.”

Damian closed his eyes. You laughed so hard you had to clutch your injured arm, which made Damian glare at Jon with genuine threat.

Jon winced. “Sorry. Sorry. Medium laughter only.”

You wheezed, “Moo-bin.”

Damian looked at you.

Betrayal. Absolute betrayal.

Jon smiled, then sobered. “Can I talk to Damian for a sec?”

You looked between them.

Damian stiffened. “If this is another emotional intervention—”

“It is.”

“No.”

“Dami.”

You touched Damian’s wrist gently. “Go,” you said.

He frowned. “I’m fine.”

“That word is banned.”

“I am stable, medicated, and entertained by Moo-bin.”

Jon looked delighted. Damian looked betrayed again. Still, he followed Jon into the hallway.

For several seconds, Jon said nothing.

Damian crossed his arms. “Speak.”

Jon looked toward the medbay door. Then back at Damian. “You’re allowed to be glad.”

Damian went still.

Jon’s face was open and earnest and far too difficult to dismiss.

“That your arm is okay,” Jon said. “You’re allowed to be glad.”

Damian looked away. 

“They would want you to be.”

“That is part of the problem.”

“I know.”

“You do not.”

Jon’s jaw tightened.

“I watched them do it,” he said.

Damian looked back.

Jon’s eyes shone. “I watched you say no. I watched them do it anyway. I watched you heal and them drop. I’m angry too.”

Damian’s throat closed.

Jon stepped closer. “But I also heard your heartbeat when you saw your hand move again.”

Damian flinched.

“Sorry,” Jon said quickly. “I know. Accidental perceiving. Bad habit.”

Damian did not respond.

Jon continued anyway. “It sounded like hope.”

The words struck too deep. Damian turned away.

Jon’s voice softened. “I don’t think that makes you bad.”

Damian’s jaw clenched.

“The League made you think every gift is a debt,” Jon said. “But this isn’t that.”

“It feels like that.”

“I know.”

“They paid in blood.”

“Yeah.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

“How is that not debt?”

Jon was quiet. Then he said, “Because they’re not asking you to repay it.” Damian shut his eyes. “They’re asking you to stay.”

Damian hated how simple Jon made things. How gentle. How impossible to refute.

“I do not know if staying is enough,” Damian said.

Jon stepped beside him. “Maybe not every day. But it’s a start.”

The hallway remained silent.

Then Damian said, “Moo-bin is a terrible name.”

Jon laughed, startled. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You keeping him?”

Damian looked toward the medbay door.

Through the small window, he could see you holding the cow in your lap, smiling faintly at its ridiculous cape.

“Yes,” Damian said.

Jon wisely did not comment.

The first time you returned to the garden, your hand was still bandaged. The rain had stopped earlier, leaving the paths dark and shining beneath the evening lights. Titus wandered ahead, sniffing at wet leaves. The Manor windows glowed gold behind you.

Damian walked beside you. Close enough that your sleeves brushed.

You stopped beneath the same ivy arch where he had first told you he wanted you. The memory sat between you.

Soft. Cruel. Yours.

You looked at him. “I’m scared you’ll never look at me the same.”

Damian’s chest tightened.

He considered lying.

No. No more soft lies.

“I do not look at you the same.”

Your face fell.

He turned toward you fully. “I know more now.”

You swallowed. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is honest.”

Your mouth trembled.

He reached for your injured hand. Paused. You nodded.

He took it carefully. “I know you are capable of betraying my choice to preserve my body.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know you are reckless when afraid.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“I know you love me with a ferocity that does not always ask permission.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’ll keep saying it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to make it right.”

Damian looked down at your joined hands.

His whole one. Your wounded one.

“There is no undoing it.”

Your breath caught.

He looked back at you.

“There is only what comes next.”

You opened your eyes. “What comes next?”

He brushed his thumb lightly over the edge of your bandage. “You tell me when you are in pain.” You nodded. “You do not minimise it because it is less than what I would have suffered.” Another tear fell. “You let me be angry without deciding I no longer love you.” Your face crumpled. “And I,” he continued, voice roughening, “will learn to feel relief without turning it into shame.”

You stared at him.

The rain began again, soft at first. Gotham had timing. Terrible, dramatic timing.

You laughed through tears.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re negotiating emotional terms in the rain.”

“It is a serious matter.”

“It’s very romantic.”

“It is practical.”

“It can be both.”

He considered this. Then nodded once. “Fine.”

Your smile was small. “Fine?”

“It can be both.”

You stepped closer. “Can I kiss you?”

Damian’s heart moved painfully.

Even after everything. Especially after everything. You asked.

“Yes,” he said.

You kissed him gently. Too gently. As if afraid he would break beneath the weight of what you had done.

Damian’s left hand rose to your face. His right rested against your waist, whole and steady and unbearable.

He deepened the kiss. You made a soft sound against his mouth. He held you there beneath the ivy while rain gathered in your hair.

When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.

“You are not forgiven yet,” he whispered.

Your eyes opened. “I know.”

“But you are loved.”

Your face broke open with relief so bright it nearly hurt to see. 

He continued before the words could fail him. “You are loved while I am angry. You are loved while I am grateful. You are loved while I do not understand how to carry either.”

Your injured hand rose slowly and touched his chest. Over his heart.

“I can live with that,” you whispered.

“You must.”

A faint smile. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

His throat tightened. “I know.”

You gave him a look.

He let the smallest smile touch his mouth. “I love you too.”

Titus barked from somewhere near the fountain, apparently offended that no one was paying attention to him.

You laughed.

Damian’s right hand flexed at your waist. He felt the motion. Felt every tendon obey. Felt relief. Felt guilt. Felt your warmth beneath his palm.

This time, he did not push any of it away. He held it. All of it. The anger. The gratitude. The love. The wound. The choice stolen and the life preserved. The hand he kept and the hand you injured to keep it for him.

Pain had gone somewhere. So had love.

Not cleanly. Not without consequence. But here, in the rain, with your hand over his heart and his over your bandages, Damian understood something he had never been taught in the League.

A gift paid in blood could still be wrong. A wrong thing could still come from love. Love could wound and remain love. And healing, real healing, was not the absence of scars. It was the choice to stay and learn the shape of them.

Damian pressed his forehead to yours.

“I will draw again,” he said quietly. Your breath caught. “And when I do, you will sit for me.”

You smiled through fresh tears. “What will you draw?”

He looked at your face. Your wet hair. Your tired eyes. Your stubborn, devastating tenderness. Then your bandaged hand. Then his own.

“Hands,” he said.

You laughed softly. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Damian lifted your injured hand and kissed the bandages. “Because they tell the truth.”

You looked at him like he had given you something fragile.

Maybe he had. Maybe he was learning. Maybe both of you were.

The rain fell harder, silvering the garden.

Inside the Manor, his family waited with tea, lectures, jokes, and the unbearable relief of people who had almost lost too much and were now determined to hover about it.

Out here, there was only you. Only him. Only the wound between you, no longer hidden.

Damian held your hand. You held his. Neither of you were whole in the way you had been before.

But you were here.

Loved. Angry. Alive.

There was only one downside: the inherent paranoia that seemed to always accompany these topics. Knowing that horrendous crimes were committed every day. Realizing, that you could be next.

Shaking your head, you place a well-loved bookmark between the pages, only a few left now, and get up with a groan. Your kitchen is dark when you enter it, so you blindly grope around for a glass of water. Instead, you knock into the pan that you had used for dinner a couple of hours before, and it comes crashing down to the floor.

You let out a startled yelp at the sudden noise, forget to breathe for a moment as the clanging seems to reverberate around you. 

"Fucking shit," you curse, one hand in your sweatpants, already fishing out your phone to assess the mess on the floor. Bending over the copious amounts of red sauce splatters that have found their way onto the cabinet doors and tiles, you grab some tissues to scoop it all up, mourning the waste of food and energy you had put into making it when-

What was that? Your head swivels back up at the same time as your flashlight, pointing towards the door that leads into your bedroom. 

You could have sworn there was a soft creaking sound, like wood groaning under the weight of heavy footsteps, but your apartment is quiet. Another howl of the wind outside makes you shiver, and you hastily get back to cleaning the kitchen.

What a silly thought, you chastise yourself, shaking your head. All that reading has got me messed up.

But it still doesn't stop you from locking your front door. Or from imagining what it would be like if that possessed man from the book called out to you on the street, how you'd probably be too kind to ignore him, like the nuns that ultimately refused to take him in. How he had spread disease and fear in their hearts, before violently-

Okay, enough of that.

Shaking a little, and feeling very stupid about it, you decided to call it a night, to brush your teeth and comb your hair before going to bed. Right. No more horror stories right before sleeping.

Turning on the bathroom light, you can see the haunted look in your eyes, the self-inflicted fear. It's what you loved most about good fiction, how it was able to make you feel so strongly. Just- not when you were alone.

Somewhere, in a world far away but incredibly close to our own, a group of people stood still as statues, watching as rapid images of men, women, children, elders flashed by. 

Now, any casual observer might be forgiven for thinking that these were ordinary humans, watching a strange compilation of horrified faces and reactions that came without context and left just as quickly.

If one lingered for just a heartbeat longer however, one might find the scene and people most unusal. They came in the strangest shapes and sizes, most cloaked in long robes that concealed hooves, furry arms, forked tongues and spiky tails. Some hid slitted eyes and gills with a heavy hood, skin and scales gleaming in the wildest assortment of colors one could imagine.

And all of them wore the same hungry expression. Hunger for fear, hunger for the sustenance and flavour that terror left in their mouths. Dark eyes, glowing eyes, hollow spaces. All of them directed towards the ever changing faces, living rooms, bed rooms, abandoned train stations.

"That one," a grating voice interrupted the flow suddenly, and the person kneeling in front of the churning water tilted their head questioningly. 

Rodolfo flicked his hands in a reversed motion, and the face of a young man appeared again, clearly drunk and stumbling along a dark street, looking over his shoulder every few seconds.

"Step forward then," he said, voice bored. The cloaked figure came closer, took one big step into the water that was no water at all, and then disappeared. 

The group of observers watched him appear behind the man for a moment, saw the human take a double glance before running. They all tasted the sweetness of his fear, the adrenaline as it pumped through his veins, when the cloaked man inhaled it deeply from the other side of the veil.

"Next," Rodolfo sighed, content. More images flashed as his hands moved in complicated patterns again, and Ghost kept seeing the same pretty face over and over again for the next few minutes.

Reading a book, standing in a dark kitchen, flashlight shining through the darkness, big haunted eyes staring into a mirror. 

She looked sweet, way too innocent to be clumped together with the criminals that showed up most often on this side. The ones that were scared to get caught, the ones about to be murdered. 

Usually, normal, kind people only showed for a fraction of a second at best: When they had a little jumpscare in the movie theater, when a car narrowly missed them, when walking through a dark tunnel at night.

But this girl? Her imagination must have been running wild, her heartbeat spiking every few minutes, drawing their attention over and over. 

Come on, sweet thing, Ghost thought, watching the moving images, another glimpse of her clutching onto her blanket as she stared at the open doors of her wardrobe in the dark. Shut your eyes, turn around. Don't look. 

Naturally, she couldn't hear him. Didn't listen to him as her mind kept going over scary scenarios, almost tangible to the assembled figures. 

Graves shifted next to him, head lowered until only the twin flames burning beneath his hood were visible. He licked over his sharp teeth, greedy delight hidden behind the otherwise handsome face, and something inside of Ghost snapped.

He knew that Graves preffered to scare women, that he enjoyed toying with them. Even amongst the worst and most successful monsters, he had a reputation. More than once, these women had suffered beyond simple fear. He'd scarred them for life, some never able to sleep without the lights on or the company of a trusted person. But as the lap dog of Shepherd, there wasn't much they could do to stop him - not yet, anyway.

"I'll take her," Ghost said, voice barely above a rumble as he saw Graves open his mouth to call out. 

Several others whirled around towards him, gaping in disbelief. He hadn't crossed over to the other side in... well. Long enough that some of them hadn't even been born yet.

Rodolfo shrugged his shoulder, only interested in finishing his shift as he reversed his motions and landed on the pretty face again, now half hidden behind her blanket. Her eyes were drooping shut, but they could all feel the jackhammering of her heart.

"What do you want for her?" Graves hissed, holding Ghost back with one skeletal hand. 

The shadows that usually curled around Ghost like snakes on a hot stone shot out towards the other man, who was wise enough to withdraw before they could wrap themselves around his worthless skull and crush it to pieces. 

"She's mine," he said simply, not acknowledging anyone except for Soap as he stepped forward. 

His friend was lounging in a pool full of water so dark that it looked like tar. Sharp teeth and white eyes gleamed up at Ghost as he raked long talons over the smooth stone floor.

"Got yerself a wee lass?" He called out to him, cackling and unimpressed when Ghost's shadows started crawling towards him in irritation. 

Ghost just jerked his head at the spot where Graves was quietly fuming, and Soap followed his gaze. "Ah. Understood, boss."

Stepping into the swirling mass was easy, and Ghost didn't glance back towards the stunned faces as he left their world and entered the wardrobe of his unsuspecting victim.

There is nothing there, you told yourself over and over again. No noises. No axe murderer. 

Your eyelids were growing heavier and heavier, and you'd nodded off for a few minutes before but had jerked back awake from the flashing images of the horror show you had watched yesterday. It mingled with the storyline from your book, with the fright you had earlier when knocking down that stupid pan. 

Rubbing your cold feet against one another underneath the blanket, you slung an arm over your eyes, feeling silly and childish. What grown woman managed to talk herself into such a-

A soft sound rang out in the quiet of your bedroom.

You were used to the way that your apartment tended to creak sometimes, or the sounds of your neighbours walking downstairs. This was different. Like an inhale, like lungs expanding greedily.

You froze for a moment, and it was enough. Something soft curled around your ankle, and the scream never left your mouth as you were yanked across the bed, the air knocked straight out of you. 

It was dark, only the trusty candle flickered weakly, and so it took you a moment to orient yourself, to take in the massive figure looming over you. The man, no thing, kept dragging you towards himself, but he wasn't moving and were those-

Shadows crept along your legs and hips as you finally found your voice, a short, shrill scream in the night. You hoped that someone would hear, that the granny from downstairs hadn't taken out her hearing aid, and who the fuck was thinking about that just as they were about to get murdered?

The light of the candle illuminated a mask made of bone, a dark coat that seemed to be filled entirely by shadows. You wanted to scream again, tried to thrash and wriggle free, but more shadowy tendrils wrapped themselves around your face and cheeks, one delicately resting against your throat. 

It was bizarre, terrible. The black appendages were soft, yet firm, slid over your skin as though wet but left no trace. Like a caress, instead of ropes cutting into your flesh.

"Little one," a dark voice cooed, and the face of bones leaned closer. Terrified, you bit into the shadows holding your mouth shut, hoping to inflict pain, but no reaction came. The man, thing, monster inhaled again. "I am not here to hurt you."

You felt tears of hysteria and terror crawl up your throat, and if you'd been able, you would have laughed. Or sobbed. Perhaps a mixture of both. 

Bottomless, black eyes stared at you from the holes of the mask. The monster cocked its head to one side in such a curious, human gesture, that you stopped your wild attempts to free yourself for a moment. 

The tears did come spilling out then, hot and salty as they ran down your cheeks and temple, and into your hair.

You were going to die. You were sure of it. Killed by a monster that had snuck out of your closet and-

The bones came closer still, until you pressed your eyes together in fear, unable to watch as it surely got ready to devour you. 

Instead, something warm and soft followed the trail of tears. Like a mouth.

The monster purred. It reverberated through your entire body, the tendrils seemingly buzzing with delight.

"That's enough of that now," the dark voice spoke directly into your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, and the cold air of the room suddenly seemed twice as chilling. 

Gently, you were lifted into strong arms, your mouth released. The candle on the windowsill stuttered out, plunging your room in complete darkness as the monster pulled you into him. He lowered himself onto your bed, and you wondered how the massive frame would fit, before all the pent-up fear burst out of you again.

A tiny hiss, then choked-off wail escaped you, high-pitched. You clawed at the cloak and shadows, tried to punch the bone mask, anything, anything at all.

But he pressed you down into the mattress with ease, like a cat might chastise her kitten with the swipe of a paw and pulled your face into his chest, curled around your trembling body.

"I said," he repeated, unimpressed. "It is enough."

"Fuck you," you wheezed out, still struggling, but he only huffed out an amused breath. 

"So fiery, who would have thought? Were you not scared over a book only an hour ago, sweetling?"

You went completely still, not even daring to breathe.

"I- I beg your pardon?"

"Your fear, it called to me," he explained, like that was the most obvious thing on Earth. "And I answered."

Right. Right. You had, without a doubt, lost your mind. 

"This isn't real," you stated, voice hoarse. "I'm dreaming."

"No, you're not," the voice said, as smooth and dark as the night that had wrapped itself around you.

"You're not real," you said more firmly, muscles stiff and throat working against the tears and screams that were still lodged somewhere right behind your gritted teeth. "I am dreaming. And when I wake up in the morning, you will be gone."

A huff of amusement ghosted along your cheek, warm. Long fingers carded through your hair and the monster curled itself more firmly into every available space that wasn't occupied by your body.

"If that is what you wish to believe, then go ahead."

The two of you remained quiet for long, drawn out minutes. It was torture, your logical brain and instincts screaming at each other. Your stomach was cramping painfully and you took big, heaving gulps of air in order not to throw up.

"If I stop being scared, will you leave, then?"

That gave the monster pause, and he hummed in consideration. 

"It depends. If your contentment and happiness taste as sweet as your fear, I might want to stay."

Ghost watched, amused, as the young woman groped around under her pillow and pulled out her phone. If she thought to take a picture of him, she'd be disappointed. Their kind never showed up on the little screens humans were so attached to. 

But she didn't. Instead, she typed something in, and Ghost observed her face, fascinated. The blue light made her features look washed out, but still lovely. He could feel her body warming up beneath him, chilly skin regaining some of the heat that she would need to sleep well. Humans were so fragile, so needy.

He found that he didn't mind that so much this time.

Her eyes found his, scared but determined. The mood shifts that this woman was going through were impressive, and Ghost purred in delight over his good choice. 

The fear that had oozed out of her had been enough to feed even his greedy soul, long starved from only getting the little scraps others sent back through the portal. 

He'd practically feasted on it, and now bathed in the heady cocktail of confusion, determination, more fear and exhaustion.

"What are you doing, little one?" He asked her, gentle, to not startle her again. Raising one shaky finger, she brushed along the bone fragments of his mask. Their faces had been drifting closer and closer, a monster ready to swallow the innocent princess. 

Her touch sent electricity through his entire being, and his eyes widened, shadows curling and undulating around her bed.

"You are not real," she whispered back, despite all the evidence that he was. "So I will watch some calming YouTube videos, and then go to bed."

Stunned, Ghost watched as she snuggled deeper into her pillow and his hold and then pressed play. It took a few minutes, and she had clicked on the next one already, scent sleepy and on edge - but then he readjusted his grip, until she fell back into him, face pressed against his chest once more and he could see the random woman on her phone screen, planting seeds into pots.

Ghost rested his chin on her head, gulping down the lungfuls of anxiety and fear that poured out of her, eating away all her worries. 

"What's your name?" She asked, voice high.

He considered her question for a while.

"I have been called many names," he answered eventually. "But my friends just call me Ghost."

"What a silly name," she snorted. "You look nothing like a ghost."

He bristled at that. None had ever dared to laugh at him before.

"But since you are my monster, and don't really exist, I will give you a proper name," she continued, rambling a little as she clicked on the next video of the same gardener woman. 

Ghost went very still, mouth opening already to keep her from saying anything more. To give one of them a name, to claim a monster for yourself and-

"Don't-" he started, trying to save what had been doomed the moment he tasted her tears on his tongue.

"Simon!" She said, tapping his bone mask again, eyes half-lidded. A tiny chuckle escaped her. "A kind name. Simon wouldn't come out of the wardrobe to eat my corpse, Simon would bring me chocolate and rub my back after a long day. Wouldn't you, Simon?" 

He stared back at her as she chuckled once more, then hugged him. She still clearly thought that this was some elaborate, strange, creepy dream. That she'd open her eyes in the morning and watch autumn leaves drift by her window, before getting ready to go to work - soon, she would forget all about him and this night. 

Simon. The way she'd said the name, so carelessly and sure at the same time. Simon.

Oh, little human, he thought in despair as he felt his entire being shift, focusing on her tiny frame. What have you done?

Part:    1 - Ghost - you just read 'A Proper Name'! 2 - Price - read 'A Sea Of Gold And Green' here! 3 - Soap - read 'A Debt Repaid' here! 4 - ?

Okay, I'm not gonna lie, I absolutely loved writing this. It was so much fun, especially the supernatural elements. Hopefully everybody is as excited for the rest of the Halloween Special as I am! Now that October is finally here, and all of you voted with such a resounding yes for this little series, I can't wait to explore more monsters and their personalities 🖤

We still have König, Price, Soap and Gaz - all of them need their own little human to adore and protect. Sigh.

My general COD writing masterlist with all my longer stories, a COD headcanons masterlist + the COD Halloween Monster Special. It‘s all linked separately in my pinned blog post for easy navigation as well!