Oops

The clock on your wall ticks past midnight, its soft rhythm in the back of your head. You've been pacing the living room for almost an hour, unable to settle after the reports running through the streets- another brutal night for the punisher: bodies found in places, blood on the streets. These few years of knowing Frank, you'd seen enough darkness in this city to know the moment when worry twisted into something that kept you from sleeping. Especially when it involved him. And it was happening now.

The first aid kit sat ready on the kitchen counter, stocked with everything he might need. You told yourself it was just habit. But deep down, you know it wasn't. It was months of attachment and building love that had you waiting like this.

Before you know it, he knocks three repeated bangs that rattle the door in its frame. Your heart beats against your ribs- you know that knock. You cross the room quickly, your bare feet slapping against the cool wood as you hurry towards the door, then throw it open without checking who it is. Of course, it’s frank who fills the doorway, rain dripping down his bleeding face and off his black jacket as he clutches his front in pain.

Blood streaks his temple, and his posture tells you that his pain is fresh. His shoulders are hunched, and it breaks you, seeing him in so much pain, but his fists are still clenched like he's ready for anything.

He doesn't wait doe you to invite him in, he just steps inside, tracking mud across your rug with his boots. The door slams shut behind him, sealing the two of you in the dim glow of your lamps. Your cozy apartment- with its mismatched couch and bookcases suddenly feels invaded, and it makes your chest tighten. This is your space-he's come here, bleeding and broken, like always, waiting for you to fix him. And the worst thing is you wouldn't want it any other way. You need him to need you like this.

"Frank," you say, as you hurriedly move toward the kit. "Shit- are you okay?” Your breath hitches, “Just- sit down before you bleed all over my floor.” You sigh as you look through the kit. “God, why do you do this shit to yourself?” you frown, hurt at seeing him in this state. Hurt is an understatement, his pain is your pain now.

He ignores your suggestion, and shrugs off his jacket with a grunt. You can tell he’s hurting. It hits the chair with a wet slap, revealing his dark shirt underneath, which is torn and stained dark red across his ribs. His deep eyes sweep the room once, then lock on you. You gasp softly at the state of his chest. For a split second, something vulnerable flickers in his eyes, buried fast under layers of anger and not caring. Only for a second though. "Didn't come here for a damn lecture. Or your pity." he sighs, looking away.

You frown in confusion, but grab the antiseptic and gauze anyway, anger already simmering low in your stomach. Months of this. Months of him showing up half fucking dead, letting you patch him up, then vanishing like you don’t mean shit. You'd fallen for him in these months- in the rare times his hand would brush yours for a beat too long, the way his voice softened when he spoke of the past. You’ve become hopelessly in love with a man who carries revenge like it’s armour. But tonight, something feels different. You aren't in the mood for his shit.

"Pity? That's funny" you say calmly, balancing the gauze along with other things in your arms. You step closer, about to reach for the hem of his shirt. "You show up at my door looking like this, and I'm meant to ignore it?" You sigh, closing your eyes before opening them and taking a deep breath to calm down. “Just let me help, Frank. Stop being stubborn and sit down."

“Whatever” he sighs, hovering above the chair, watching you ask you walk over. Something about you just makes him feel different. You make him want to be different. You reach your hand forward and whisper, “Just let me help.”

That seems to ignite something in him. He catches your wrist before you can touch his shirt, his grip firm but gentle. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your floor and god, is he is sight to see. "I can handle my own shit.” he begins, not even raising his voice, which throws you off. “Don't need you playing nurse like I'm some stray dog.”

Strangely, the words sting, but you pull your hand free. "I've been here for months helping you and sitting through your silences when you disappear. And you call it playing nurse?" Your voice rises, sharp with frustration that had been building too long. "Just let me look- you're bleeding through your shirt, for fuck's sake."

He doesn't move, towering over you in your own kitchen, watching your gentle face twisted into frustration, deep down he wants to be gentle with you, tell you it’s okay, and thank you darlin. But he can’t. Who will it be helping to get you more attached to eachother? Instead he stays silent, the air thick with the tang of blood and rain. Finally, he let you peel the fabric aside. The slice is deep enough to need stitches, and you aren’t sure you can do them without him flinching.

Your hands work quickly, cleaning the edges of his wound with the antiseptic that makes him hiss through his teeth. Your touch is meant to be clinical, but your fingers linger on the scarred skin around his wound, feeling the heat of him. God, you love him. Even like this. Especially like this.

But the sadness doesn't fade. It coils tighter as your hand shakes, holding the needle to his skin. You begin stitching him up, the once quiet room filled with groans and cursing. Frank tilts his head back in pain, with a groan of, “Ah fuck.”

You gently wrap a bandage around the stitched up wound, trying to be soft despite your frustration. "There. Now tell me why you came if you're just gonna push me away again."

Frank straightens up, wincing, and paces a little in the small space. The rain lashes harder against the windows, mirroring the tension between you. "That's what this is." he chuckles. "You wanna collect people who are broken. Fix them." His voice is flat, rough as concrete. Your eyes water instantly at the accusation, hot tears pricking unbidden. It hits like a slap, after all the nights you'd stayed, all the quiet ways you'd shown you cared.

He notices the glistening in your eyes, the way your lashes clump together with moisture. Internally, Frank curses himself to hell.

Christ frank, you piece of shit. She’s standing there heartbroken because of you.

The thing is, he loves you hopelessly, like a drowning man loves air, but he’s gutting you to save you. He needs to push harder. Make you see you deserve better than him. Than his suffering and pain. But his face stays the same, no crack in his armor. No softness.

"And they all leave eventually," he goes on, relentless. "Even the ones who don't die first." Your eyes are glistening, you're trying so hard not to cry- but his words are killing you. "Maria did what she could with what I was. You? You're young. Got years ahead of you, and they don't have to end in blood darlin’."

For fucks sake, why does his brain work like this?

"You gotta leave, or I drag you down with me. That's the truth. Being strong means cutting this off before it poisons you too." He shakes his head, looking down before dragging his palm down his face in frustration. He's still pacing back and forth.

Tears are spilling down your cheeks, but your anger is stronger. You swipe them away angrily, stepping infront of him to block his pacing. You wish he would just listen, just reason.

"You show up here bleeding and expect me to just fix you and send you off?" Your voice climbs and you're shouting now, echoing off the apartment walls. "I'm not collecting anyone- I'm here because I care- more than you fucking know. I see you under all this rage. I see you as the man who fights for innocent people, even when it costs you everything." You feel hysterical, flailing your hands around, trying to get something into that thick skull of his. "Let me help carry it, stop acting like being a man means suffering alone."

He looms closer, his dark eyes blazing. "You don't know the half of what I carry. Sweetheart, I push because I don't want to hurt you. Strong is handling my war alone. Not leaning on some kid who has a life ahead of her."

"Kid?" You shout louder, shoving at his chest with both hands. He doesn't budge, but the contact sends sparks through you- anger and that hopeless pull. "I'm not some fucking teenager. I've sat with you when you had nothing. Don't you fucking dare dismiss me like that." Your voice cracks with raw emotion, tears streaming freely now. The apartment suddenly feels smaller and you can't breathe. "If I'm such a burden, why the fuck do you keep coming back?"

The argument spirals back and forth. You pace after him, pouring out your heart. How his silence hurts more than words, how his rare touches leave your heart aching. Frank counters in that low, gravelly rumble talking about the blood on his hands, the enemies who’d target anyone close to him. "Darlin, I’m too old for this fantasy you're spinning. You'll wake up and see.”

“Fantasy?” You yelled, voice hoarse but fierce, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I’ve bled worry for you every time you’ve vanished! I’ve cleaned wounds that should’ve killed normal men! I know your pain, Frank, and I still choose to stand here and reason with you.”

He grabbed your wrists again, holding them steady against his bandaged ribs. His heartbeat thunders under your palms betraying the uncaring mask he’s put on. Inside, the love claws at him. You’re everything. Your fire, your stubbornness, the way you see him. He’s in love with you so deeply it terrifies him. But you’re young. He’ll ruin you.

Push her away you bastard. Save her.

“Why do you care so much?” he finally growls, the question shooting out of his mouth like a bullet. Your face drops. “Why the hell do you keep doing this to yourself- to me?”

The moment swells, emotions fill the room. Your chest heaves, tears burning down your cheeks. All the months of swallowed feelings explode suddenly. “What the fuck do you want me to say, Frank? That I’m in love with you? That seeing you like this kills me? That I would do anything for you, even stand here and shout because I can’t fucking walk away?”

His lips part as you shout, but nothing can leave his mouth. He watches you spit words out furiously as you cry, and all he can say softly is, “darlin’-” while he is still holding your soft hands against his chest.

“Don’t fucking call me that” you cry, face screwed up in anger and sadness as you try to get out of his clasp, but you can’t. “For months, every goddamn time you fucking showed up like this, every scar I’ve touched- it was love! And it hurts like hell because you won’t let it in! It makes me feel like a fucking idiot Frank. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Your words echo like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Silence fills the air right after. His grip tightens slightly on your wrists, his plain expression slipping for a heartbeat. His eyes widen with raw pain and his jaw clenches against the shoot of emotion that goes up his chest. That same agonising love roars inside him, matching the depth of yours. He loves you achingly, you’re a light in his shitty world. But that only makes him have to push you further. You’re too young, too good. He’d destroy that light.

He releases you slowly, stepping back like your confession burned him. “Look, you’re not thinking straight,” he says, his voice edged with frustration, as he forces the words out like it hurts. “What do you know about love? You’re young. This isn’t love- it’s just attachment. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you sweetheart, full of possibilities.” He looks at your tear stained face as you stand in front of him, and his heart breaks at your sweet face. “I know what love is- you don’t. Love breaks you. I’m pushing you away because I don’t wanna drag you into my hell.” A heavy sigh escapes him, and his shoulders slump, showing how defeated he is.

All the while, you shake your head, violent tears still running down your face. “You think this doesn’t break me Frank?” You swipe furiously at your eyes, not wanting to cry anymore. He already thinks you’re a kid and you can’t add on to that. “You pushing me away hurts, no matter why you do it. My heart aches because of you.”

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face again in frustration. He doesn’t know what to do in this shitty situation, he cares for you so much, but he just can’t risk it. “I can’t have this conversation.” he says calmly, turning around, a hand on the back of his neck.

“Of course.” you scoff bitterly. “Why am I even surprised.”

He shakes his head, broad back still to you as he scratches his neck and says defeatedly, “Just cut it out.” Your breath hitches in disbelief, you just can’t understand how someone can be so fucking stubborn. “You’re too young and that’s the end of that.” he says, but his words kill him too.

You feel your blood boiling again, and you don’t know whether to cry or shout or hit him. “Fuck you frank.” You finally say, fighting back the endless tears. “Fuck you for hiding behind that, using my age as an excuse.” You sniffle, moving your hair out of your face. Frank turns back to face you, his broad chest glistening ever so slightly, and it’s like he’s punched in the gut again when he sees your beautiful face crying. You see his expression falter, and his eyes sadden. “What are you so fucking afraid of?” you finally whisper demandingly, watching his broad figure move towards the glass table besides his chair and lean over it.

As he hovers over the table, he slouches forward, holding himself up with his muscular arms, his head lowered. “Just stop it” he sighs, defeated. He’s trying so hard to bottle it all in. He calls your name softly in protest, begging you to end this conversation.

But you won’t accept that shitty response. “No, answer me.” you demand.

“I said cut it out please.” he groans, and it’s like he’s holding himself back from something.

You shake your head, “No, why are you so fucking scared to let me in?” you shout.

And abruptly, you hear a shatter. Your eyes search for Frank and you forget everything. Once they find him, all you can see is red. The table beside him is in pieces, and his hand is in a fist, blood dripping onto the empty frame, and the floor. “Frank.” you gasp, your breath hitching.

“Because I care about you too much.” he roars, and you realise you’re terrified of him in the moment. “Everyone I love dies. ‘Cuz of me.” he shouts, wincing as he holds his bleeding hand in the air. “If anything happened to you I’d never fucking forgive myself for it.”

Your lips part, and you want to talk but you’re left with no words in your mouth. No air in your lungs. The only thing you can say is the cursed name that’s had a hold of you all these months. “Frank…” you gasp, walking towards him. He turns his head, eyes threatening to spill tears, but he doesn’t shout or dismiss you, or even walk away.

You move your hands to his bare chest, trying to be careful with his stitches, and his now bleeding hand. “Frank,” you say again softly, “look at me.”

And how could he ever deny that soft voice of yours? You’re the only light in his life at the moment, the only thing he thinks of besides pain and hurt and regret. You’re his only escape. He turns his face to you, looking down at your doe eyes and croaks out, “I can’t lose you too.” with a soft shake of his head.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath to gather yourself together. “You won’t Frank,” you say softly, taking hold of his forearm and guiding him to sit back down on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, almost to yourself more than him. He sits down, yearning for you as he watches you sit infront of him, pulling out more bandages and things of the sort.

He’s so tired. So tired of being himself, of pushing you away, of regretting his choices. You’re all he wants, and he’s selfish enough to know it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll take any action. No, you deserve better. You deserve someone young who can give you what you want. Someone who is capable of loving and caring.

He groans as you pulls the shards of glass out of his hand, putting them to the side with a clink. You work gently of course, but with the you-shaped wound in his heart, everything is too much to bear today. He nearly cries when you pour alcohol over his hand, throwing his head back with a low wail. “Shh, I’m sorry.” you whisper, hushing him gently.

He straightens himself up as you grab some bandages, watching your slender fingers work quickly to unravel it. Eventually, you put your hand out, asking for his in return. Slowly but surely, he gives you his wounded hand, grunting as you start wrapping it up. He stares at you carefully as you finish the task, and strangely, raises his hand to his head, with yours still holding his. His eyes flick to your face without you seeing, then with a tilt of his face, he presses the most gentle kiss to your hand. “Thank you.” he croaks, and a pang of emotion shoots through your heart.

“That’s not fair,” you say softly, not moving your eyes away from his. He lets go of your hand slowly, like he’s suddenly aware of what he’s done, and whispers, “I know.” You nod your head disappointedly, turning away and walking out the room, your footsteps growing more distant.

You don’t know what to do, or what you can do, but lock yourself in the bathroom to stop and breathe. Because God knows you haven’t been breathing properly with him here, like this. He curses quietly to himself as he hears you leave, wondering what the fuck is wrong with himself, why he’s doing this to you- to himself.

Once you’ve locked the bathroom door, you turn to the mirror and give yourself a shitty smile. You breathe slowly, feeling stupid for letting a man do this to you. Except he’s not just a man, he’s Frank and you care for him, maybe you even lo- yeah. But your emotions are stronger and before you know, you’re sniffling, gently dabbing at the mascara under your eyes. The past hour has been insanity. And you’ve witnessed scarier things of course, but this? Finally telling Frank how you feel?

You’d only just stopped crying too, but now you’re hovering over the sink, hot tears dribbling down your face again, silently this time.

Franks head perks up, and he can hear you shuffling around the bathroom. He doesn’t stand get up to check, but he can hear you sniffling. Not only is he angry at himself for being the reason for your tears again, but the worst thing is, you’re alone in the bathroom, trying to hide it. You’re in there trying to be silent. He doesn’t want you to feel like you have no one, because you have him. He would do anything for you. He’d die for you, live for you, even live for you.

He wishes he could tell you that. Tell you what he wants most in this world is to be yours and live with your beautiful heart everyday. But he can’t get close to you, closer than he already is, because he’ll hurt you. He can never protect the ones he loves, and if anything happens to you, he won’t see the point of living anymore.

Before he can realise what he’s doing, he’s stood up, and his feet have led him to the bathroom door. He lifts his hand to knock, before stopping himself and letting it fall to his side, too conscious of his own every move now. He squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, then calls your name, trying hard to sound softer. “You alright?”

You sniffle an unconvincing “Yeah,” and he furrows his eyebrows in frustration with himself. “You sure darlin’?” he calls back, and your heart clenches.

“I’ll be two secs,” you say, carefully pressing your finger to the corner of your eye, drying up rogue tears. You smile again at yourself in the mirror, tucking your hair behind your ears, and stepping towards the door. It clicks open, and Frank is greeted with your red raw face.

“I’m sorry.” he says, eyes flickering as he looks over you. He wants to talk, but his mouth is glued together. You shrug, wiping your eye again, acting like it’s no big deal. Like he isn’t breaking your heart by just standing there. “Frank, it’s whatever.”

He shakes his head, and he’s quickly filled with emotion too. “No, it’s not.” You look up at him, eyebrows furrowed a little, patiently waiting for him to talk. His mouth opens, and your heart patters in anticipation. But it just closes. You nod, feeling like a fucking idiot again, stepping to the side, and walking away. He freezes, standing in the empty door frame, eyes hovering over the spot you left.

Frank remains rooted to the spot long after you’ve brushed past his bare torso. The doorway feels too small for all the things neither of you can say. You make it halfway down the hall before you hear him move behind you. “Hey,” his voice is quiet, almost uncertain. You stop, but you don’t turn around. “Please,” he whispers, the word hitting harder than it should. You look back slowly, and Frank’s still standing there, shoulders tense, hands hanging uselessly by his sides.

“What?” you ask, and the exhaustion in your voice surprises even yourself. His jaw tightens. Then loosens. Then tightens again. You almost laugh at the repetitiveness of it. “That’s exactly what I mean.” you sigh, shaking your head, and his eyebrows pull together. “You keep looking at me like you wanna say something.” you shrug exasperatedly. “And then you just- dont?”

He glances away, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks genuinely stuck. Not awkward, scared. The realization only makes your chest hurt more. “Forget it,” you mumble, about to turn away.

“Wait” he says, the reply coming fast enough to stop you. You freeze as he takes a step forward and soon enough, you’re stood in front of eachother. He raises a hand and lets it rest on the side of your face. “Oh god,” he sighs, and you can’t help but nuzzle your cheek into his warm hand. He lets his hand slide lower, smoothing over the line of your jaw, then gently moving it higher, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip. “Darlin’,” he groans, as you look up at him with those pleading eyes.

He moves his hand to the back of your neck, fingers laced between your hair, the other hand creeping to the small of your back. Frank pulls you closer, and for a moment you’re relieved, this is all you’ve been thinking about for the past few months. But it’s not fair for you, when this isn’t even real.

His lips brush over your hairline, but he doesn’t kiss you. He just lets you feel him, loving you without having to say it. “I’m so sorry baby.” he sighs, softly tilting your head back to look at him, hand still in your hair. “I only push you away to keep you safe. I can’t live without you- I can’t risk losing you.”

“But you won’t lose me Frank,” you sniffle, “I already said, I’m not going anywhere.” He laughs bitterly, shaking his head as he looks away.

“You don’t know that sweetheart. The world fucks over everyone, even if they’re good.” He looks back down at you, eyes skimming over your soft lips, your glistening eyes.

“I know Frank, but you can’t live in fear.” You press yourself against his bare skin again, inhaling his comforting scent. “You have to try. Is your fear stronger than the love you have?” you ask him, desperation dripping off every word. He’s silent, reflecting on your words, before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says firmly, lowering his face, letting his lips meet yours. The kiss is desperate, like he’s been holding back forever. You groan into it, splitting your lips to let his tongue slide wetly over your bottom one. His hand is still on the back of your head, keeping it safe as he walks you both to the nearest wall, pressing your body against it. He devours you, need pouring out of his mouth, out of every part of his body.

Frank presses his calloused hands against the wall, trapping you between the cold surface and his muscular chest. His mouth trails to your jaw, peppering wet kisses along it, moving down to your neck. You moan as he kisses you passionately, his lips on your collarbone now. He’s exploding with desire, needing to love every part of you. His hand hooks beneath the hem of your sleep shirt carefully, and once you whine, “please” he slips it off, lifting your arms to get it over your head.

“My sweet girl,” he moans in awe, his mouth loving every bit of you now, jaw grazing over your chest, creeping lower over the fabric of your bra. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters. He presses a kiss to your breast over the lace, lowering himself to lick and nibble down your sides, over the flat of your stomach.

“You’re an angel baby,” he whispers, hands on your soft thighs as his mouth trails lower. He’s on his knees, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes as you slip your fingers through his short hair. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Please Frank,” you whimper, and he doesn’t waste any time.

“i know baby, I know,” he coos, hands moving up, caressing your skin beneath your sleep shorts. “I’m gonna take care a’ya okay?”

You nod desperately, brows knitting together as he starts to pull your little shorts down your legs. His eyes flick up to yours again as he hooks his thick finger into the side of your panties, making sure you’re okay with everything. He drags them down slowly, with excruciating care, then stuffs them in the back of his jeans as you look down at him.

He’s level with your core now, hands on the back of your plush thighs as he pushes his soft lips to your inner thighs. “Frank” you gasp, and he continues dragging his lips over your thighs. His stubble grazes the skin of your inner thigh, sending a wave of shock through you as you whine, needing him closer.

His breath is hot against your skin as he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Easy, baby. I got you.” Gently, he squeezes the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you steady as he finally moves his mouth higher. Slowly, his tongue drags a hot trail up your slit, savoring the your sweetness with a deep groan that makes your knees buckle. You cry out, fingers tightening in his short hair as he licks again, a little firmer this time, circling your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips.

“Oh god- Frank,” you moan, hips twitching toward his mouth. He doesn’t pull away. Instead he keeps lapping at you, tongue flicking and swirling to explore every fold while his calloused hands keep you pinned to the wall. His stubble scrapes deliciously against your inner thighs with every movement, making your back arch even more. He looks up at you through dark lashes, eyes heavy with adoration as he watches your lashes flutter and your chest heave.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your core, the words muffled as he slides a thick finger inside you, curling it till your face is screwed up. “Let me hear how good it feels.” he coaxes, adding second finger and pumping slowly, his tongue working at your clit in devastating strokes. Your thighs tremble around his face, pleasure hot in your belly as he worships you, completely lost in the taste and sound of your pleasure.

You haven’t came yet, but he moves back, pressing a kiss to your clit and pulling back. You whine, breathless and needing release, but he just stands back up on his feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You deserve better than a wooden floor baby” he says gently, tilting his head as he strokes your cheek. “Could you show me to your bedroom? Is that okay sweetheart?”

You nod bashfully, unsticking yourself from the wall as he watches your beautiful body. He presses a paw to your lower back, respecting your bare body, and follows you as you start walking towards your bedroom. He’s right behind you, his expression softening at the sight of your room. It’s sweet and warm, just like you. Your bedding is white and pure, a few stuffed animals scattered around it. Your bedside table has a book in it, with a cute little alarm clock, and a photo frame of your family. The walls are decorated with more pictures, and posters too. He can’t hurt you, not when you’re still young and pure and have a beautiful life to live.

“Thank you for letting me in your room darlin’, it’s beautiful” he smiles, rubbing your back. You shrug sheepishly, cheeks flushed as you mumble, “mhm.”

“C’mere,” he whispers, pulling you close again, but then hoisting you up, hands holding your thighs steadily. “Let me show you how sorry I am.” You wrap your legs around his waist, throwing your hands over his neck as you’re almost skin to skin, besides that damn scrap of fabric you have over your breasts. Before you know it, he’s loving on you again, lips all over your neck, under your ear. He’s whispering apologies into your neck, telling you how much he needs you, and how sorry he is. He forgets about his stitches, ignores the pain of you rubbing against them because his pleasure overpowers it.

He takes a few steps towards your bed, carefully leaning forward to place you on your back. “Oh babydoll,” he croaks, looking at you like you’re a gift for him splayed out on the bed, an angel of some sort. “You’re so beautiful.”

He places his hands on both sides of you again, leaning down to kiss you passionately, like he can’t live away from the taste of your mouth. His hand trails down your body, then skims back up, hovering over your chest. “Can I see you fully, baby?” he asks. Once you nod, he lifts your torso ever so slightly, so he can unclip your bra, and throws it off to the side. His lips part in awe as he sees the soft swell of your breasts, and he runs his hand across them both. “You gotta have the most perfect tits I’ever seen sweetheart.”

You can’t do much but blush again, and then moan when his mouth is leaving wet trails over your chest. “I think they need some lovin’ too” he coos, hand cupping a breast and beginning to knead, the other one tucking your hair behind your ear. “That okay sweet girl? That feel good?”

You whine “mhm” desperately, unable to form words with how overwhelmed you are with need. “I’ll make you feel so good doll, don’t you worry your little head,” he says, pulling away, hands trailing to his belt. You watch his muscles flex as he works at the clasp, then pulls it off, unbuttoning his jeans now. You don’t know how you managed to control yourself to not pounce at him till now, while he’s been walking around your house all night, shirtless.

He’s bare now besides his boxers, and those are only on in respect for you. You shift yourself up a little, head on your pillows and he climbs into your soft bed, his chest hovering over yours again. “Tell me what you want sweet girl. I’ll give you anything you ask.” he coos, brushing your cheek with his thumb again.

“I need to feel you,” you whimper, and he nods, lifting you up and sitting you onto his lap. He presses another gentle kiss to your hairline, cherishing you so softly.

“Are you sure doll?” he asks, making you know that you can take it slow. “You’re still young, we don’t have to rush.” You shake your head firmly.

“I’m sure Frank, I want you to make love to me- please.” you say, leaning further into him, your skin pressed warmly together. You’re careful not to press against his stitches, so as not to hurt him. He groans, hands resting over the swell of your soft ass cheeks while you straddle him.

“Alright, since you’re saying it so sweetly.” he smiles, tilting his head to look at your shy face. “Just like this?” he asks, looking down at the two of you, bodies pressed together.

“Yeah,” you agree, as he admires your beauty, “I wanna feel you while we do it.” He smiles softly at your words, nodding as he gives you another gentle kiss, this time on the side of your mouth. He lays you back, freeing himself to pull off his boxers, then moves back beside you, his back pressed against your headboard. His cock rests stiff and sore on his thigh, and he gently pulls you onto his lap. You can feel his need under you, but he doesn’t rush anything, only goes with what you want.

You gasp when your hot need finally meets his, and he lets out a low groan, feeling you wet against him. “Whenever you wanna start,” he whispers, like it hurts to speak, and places his manly hands on the sides of your waist. You nod, lifting your hips so he can free himself, and he takes his cock into his hand, breath stuttering as he groans. “Okay, now sweetheart?” he asks, affection on every word that leaves his mouth.

“Please Frank, I want you so badly,” you whine, and he nods, one hand beneath your ass, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

“Alright baby, shh shh sh” he whispers, sliding his sore tip back and forth against the slick of your pussy. His eyes meet yours again and he says lowly, “I’m gonna put it in now, okay?”, checking to make sure you’re ready. He knows realistically- it’ll hurt. He doesn’t have much of an ego, but it’s obvious he’s big, and he knows that without proper care, you’ll end up sore and gaping afterwards.

His mouth falls open with a low groan as he finally slips inside you, gently pushing you down onto his dick, inch by aching inch. “There’s my girl,” he croaks, caressing your sides as you finally sink into him fully, plush ass against his thighs. “Fuck- you feel amazing doll.”

You moan at the feeling of being overwhelmingly filled, needing something to be your anchor. All you can do is press your hands against his chest, careful not to move the bandages right below. You shudder in pleasure, and Frank tells you softly, “I’m gonna move now sweetheart.” He starts to buck his hips up into yours, and your eyes close in pleasure.

“Oh god,” you moan, feeling him deeper at every buck of his hips. Frank groans throughout it, whether because of the pain beneath his chest, or this pleasure- you don’t know. You lean forward, wanting to feel his body around yours, and he gets the memo. Carefully, he leans forward, off the headboard so that he can hold you. His big, bear arms wrap around your torso, and he ignores the shooting pain beneath the bandages. “I want my pretty girl in my arms,” he says quietly, only for you to hear, stroking your back as he keeps you covered with his arms.

You grind back and forth a little, trying to make it easier for him. The friction on your clit is driving you insane, and all you can think of is to keep moving to reach that pleasure. “You’re doing so well f’me,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “My best girl.”

His words go straight to your core. All you wanted was to be his girl, and now- you just might be. You keep grinding, chasing your high as he makes love to you, hands caressing your back. “I can’t lose you,” he croaks into your ear as you move, “you’re my whole life.”

“Frank.” You moan as you feel the pleasure building, your body loosening with contentment, knowing you’re safe here- with him. “I’ll always be here, I promise.” His manly arms squeeze around you even tighter, like he can’t risk letting go of you.

You moan helplessly, on the verge of release, and Frank can tell. “That’s it, we’ll get you there” he reassures, helping you grind on him. He leans further into you, holding you skin to skin as his cock drags up and down your walls, filling you completely. He leaves wet trails all along your neck with his mouth, your hair tangled around his face. Neither of you can think of anything, just the feeling of eachothers bodies.

“Frankie,” you moan crudely, your hips slacking, “mm- I’m so close.” He nods understandingly, pushing your bodies forward to rest you on your back, making sure not to pull out. He strokes your forehead with his thumb, softly dragging his lips along your jaw as he whispers, only for you to hear.

Frank keeps a thick arm braced beneath your back as he gently lowers you down, never once slipping from your heat. The shift changes the angle instantly- deeper and fuller. You gasp sharply, legs falling open around his hips. He follows you down, covering you with his broad body like a warm shield, careful of the bandages on his chest but refusing to let even an inch of space come between you.

“Easy, baby, that’s it,” he murmurs, voice low with adoration. His forehead rests against yours, eyes locked on your face like he’s memorizing every bit of you. One of his big hands slide down to grip the back of your thigh, spreading you wider for him. “Gonna take care of you now. Just let me make you feel good.”

He starts moving again, slow at first, but eventually building with purpose. He fucks you deeply, thrusts dragging his cock against that spot inside you over and over. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of your soaked pussy fills the room, but Frank doesn’t seem to notice anything except you. His free hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your bottom lip.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Wanna watch my pretty girl come apart for me.”

You try to keep your eyes open, but it’s hard when every thrust punches the breath out of you. He’s so thick and deep, hitting places that make your back arch off the mattress. Frank groans softly each time you flutter around him, praise dripping off his every word.

“Attagirl, you’re taking me so well.” He leans down to kiss you, his tongue slowly tongue sliding against yours in time with his hips. When he pulls back, his voice is wrecked. “That’s my baby. Let it build, okay? I gotcha.”

His pace quickens just enough, still loving and controlled, but relentless. He angles his hips to grind against your clit with every thrust, the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing perfectly against your sensitive bundle of nerves. The pressure inside you coils tighter faster than you expected. “Frank- frankie-” you whimper, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “Come on, angel. Come for me. You’re so close, I can feel it.” He reaches between your bodies, calloused thumb finding your clit and circling it with firm strokes. The sensation of his thick cock driving into you deep, and his thumb working at you shatters the little control you had left.

Your orgasm crashes over you hard. A broken cry tears from your throat as your body seizes up, thighs shaking around his waist. Waves of pleasure rip through you intensely, your pussy clenching desperately around his length. Frank keeps moving through it, fucking you through every pulse, his voice keeping you conscious.

“There she is, that’s my girl” he coos, stroking your cheek through it, “keep going, baby, let me feel it all.” His thrusts grow a little sharper, chasing the way you grip him, but his hands ate gentle, stroking your sides, cradling your face, whispering endless praise against your skin. “I’ve gotcha. I’ve always gotcha.”

Even as you break down around him, Frank doesn’t stop moving. He rides out every aftershock with you, slowly, kissing the tears of overwhelming pleasure that escape the corners of your eyes.

When you finally start to come down, body lump and exhausted, he stays buried inside you to the hilt and holds you close, murmuring loving words into your hair. “You did so good f’me.”

You whine like a desperate animal, brain mush from the pleasure. Softly, his thumb brushes beneath your eye again, collecting the stray tears. “I’m sorry for pushing you away baby.” Your breath hitches as you’re caught off guard by his words. “You’ve only been good to me sweetheart, you didn’t deserve any of it.”

“It’s okay Frank,” you say quietly, “you were just trying to keep me safe.” He nods as you speak, but you can tell he disagrees. He inhales deeply, clearly upset with himself.

“But I wasn’t, was I? I was only hurting you more.”

“Frank,” you start. You know he’s right, and that his actions weren’t logical at all, but you also know he’s sorry now, and that there’s no changing the past. You don’t want him to dwell on things that have already happened. You’re good now, you wanna keep it that way.

He cuts you off, shaking his head. “No baby, I was wrong.” He sighs, still holding himself above you, he’d crush you if he fell. “I’m gonna spend every day making it up to you, okay? I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay Frank, it’ll be okay,” you reassure him, moving the back of your hand across his cheek.

He leans down, kissing your mouth softly, before moving back. Gently, he starts to pull out, hushing you as you moan at the feeling of being empty. “Easy baby, easy.” He flops down onto your side, dick still hard, his tip blazing red.

“Frank,” you say, a little shocked, leaning onto your side, “you didn’t cum.” He shakes his head, dismissing the sentence.

“Wasn’t about me, s’bout you doll.” You frown, sitting up as you watch him, selflessly just laying on his back. “What baby?” he chuckles, looking at you pouting, “it’s not important.”

“Of course it’s important!” You protest, sitting there with your arms crossed. He just chuckles, sighing relievedly, knowing how much he loves his girl. He lies there on his back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, a thick arm draped over his eyes, cock still heavy and against his stomach, glistening from you. He looks completely content just having taken care of you. But that’s not fair.

You crawl to him slowly, thighs still weak. He lifts his arm just enough to peek at you when the mattress dips under your weight. “Baby?” he murmurs, voice rough. You don’t answer with words. Instead you lean down and press a soft, open mouthed kiss to the underside of his cock. Frank’s breath catches hard, and before he can say anything, you drag your tongue up the full length of him, them taking him into your mouth.

A deep groan rumbles out of his chest the second the wet heat of your mouth envelopes him. His hips twitch upward instinctively before he catches himself. “Fuck-”

You don’t let him protest. You want to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. One of your hands wrap around the thick base he barely fit inside you earlier, stroking with slow bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls around the tip as you suck gently, then firmer when his groan turns into curse words.

Frank’s hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there, fingers threading through your hair like he needs something to hold onto. “Jesus Christ, baby- you don’t have to-” You hum around him, taking him deeper and relaxing your throat as best as you can. The vibration makes his thighs tense and his other hand fists the sheets beside him.

You pull off just long enough to look up at him, your lips shiny with him. “I want to, Frank. I want you to cum.” His eyes are dark and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat when you sink back down, working him with eager strokes. You pour every bit of love and gratitude you feel for this man who just spent his time making sure you came apart first.

His breathing grows ragged, hips starting to rock up into your mouth despite his desperate effort to stay still. “Ohh- you’re so good, angel. So good to me.”

You moan around his length, the praise making heat bloom low in your belly again. His groans turn deeper, and mofe desperate, the hand in your hair tightening “Baby- I’m gonna-” he warns, voice wrecked. You pull away, taking him in your hand and working him until he’s shaking.

Frank comes undone with a groan that seems to rip out of his soul, his hips stuttering as thick pulses of cum spill across his stomach. You keep touching him through it til he’s trembling and panting beneath you, whispering your name between shaky breaths.

When he finally starts to soften, you pull away, pressing a gentle kiss to his abs before crawling up his body. Frank immediately hauls you against his side, arm wrapping around you like he never wants to let go. His heart is hammering under your cheek.

“Christ, doll,” he rasps, pressing kisses to the top of your head, your temple, anywhere he can reach really. You nuzzle your face in his side, wishing you could just melt into him. You breathe together, heartbeats synchronised as you lay on your soft bed. “Hey,” he whispers softly, “you okay?”

You nod a quiet “mhm”, opening your eyes and giving him a small smile before you nuzzle your head back into him. “Of course I am.” But despite the calmness of the moment, he can’t stop thinking about what just happened before.

“I’m sorry for everything” he says quietly, almost ashamed, “you didn’t deserve none’a the shit I put you through.” His words throw you off guard slightly, your brain still caught up in the softness of this moment.

“Frank, it’s okay-”

You got to protest, but he doesn’t let you. “I pushed you away when I shoulda been grateful you even wanted to help me." He runs a rough hand through your hair again, letting it rest on your back. "You deserved more than that. You deserve love and gentleness." He sighs softly, the next words hesitant to leave his mouth. "I know I'm not exactly the epitome of that, but I'm gonna try."

"Frank," you call softly, hand smoothing over his bandages carefully, down to his stomach. "Thank you." But he just sighs, like he's still disappointed with himselt.

"I hurt you, and I'm gonna make it up to you every single day, if you let me."

“I know Frankie," you whisper, kissing his side, "you're a good man, you're just stubborn. He chuckles softly, nodding at your words as he circles his thumb on your back.

"Yeah baby, I'm a stubborn bastard. And a stupid one, pushing your sweetness away like that." He sighs again, but the weight is lifted slightly off his shoulders. He feels like he can breathe again. A quiet moment passes as he watches your face, lashes fluttering in the moonlight shining through your window, the sheen of sweat on your forehead.

"You know I love you?" he says quietly, breaking the silence filling the room.

Your heart patters softly at his confession, not because you didn't know, but more because you're surprised he's admitted it to himself. "I love you too Frank" you breathe, closing your eyes against him. "I promise you won't lose me."

“I know I won’t baby. Not if I can help it.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, holding you a little closer. For a moment, neither of you says anything, content to listen to the quiet hum of the night. "Good,” you murmur, a small smile in your voice.

As you’re wrapped in each other's warmth, the weight of your old fears feels a little bit lighter, and before long, sleep finds you both. You drift off, Franks arm still steadily around you, keeping you close to him.

note: i am so hungry, and i hope this will also make you all full of peter. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Walking home alone with too much alcohol in your system makes the city streets feel a little less lonely at night. You stumble slightly over the curb while you check your phone for the time. Spiderman is out there swinging between the buildings somewhere above you. You know he exists without ever trying to follow where he goes. Seeing him on the news occasionally is enough for you. You keep walking down the sidewalk until footsteps drop from the rooftops above you. Tonight feels like an ordinary walk home before someone bumps right into you. Peter is fighting bad headaches that won’t go away no matter what he tries to do about it. His arachnid genes are acting abnormally lately and pushing past his human side in ways he can’t control. He spends his nights searching for a cure because the animal instincts keep taking over his thoughts. Stress makes the biological changes worse tonight since his mind is already exhausted, and seeing MJ kissing another man at her housewarming party earlier today makes it worse.

Watching her with someone else triggered something feral inside him, and it doesn’t help that no one remembers who Peter Parker is anymore. His arachnid instincts take over as he drops over the street before he bumps right into your path. Organic web shoots directly from his wrists instead of mechanical shooters before it wraps around your waist. He grabs you with him to swing around until both of you are up on a rooftop. You don’t know Spiderman personally for him to do that so you think you are in danger as he lands on the roof. The spinning motion, together with the drinks in your stomach, creates a terrible feeling by the time you reach the top of the building. You immediately bend over to throw up all the alcohol in your stomach right onto the roof. He watches you puke before he lets out a loud laugh. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand while he just looks at you and shakes his head.

That first night didn’t end up so terrible because Spiderman brought you home safely after you threw up on the roof. He even apologized for grabbing you off the sidewalk before he left you outside your building. Running into him once feels like a simple coincidence when you think about it the next morning. He knows he doesn’t mean to keep doing it, but he saw you walking home alone weeks later and decided to give you another ride across the city. Happening twice is already something unusual, yet a third or fifth time tells both of you that this is no longer an accident. He can’t control the urges yet since he hasn’t managed to suppress his arachnid genes. Everything that happened on that first night opened his eyes to the idea of trying again. He isn’t actively searching for another girlfriend, though he feels open to the possibility now. He doesn’t understand why his arachnid side feels so protective over you whenever you are out late at night.

He isn’t stalking you by any means, yet his senses alert him whenever someone gets too close to you on the street. He has no idea why his biological instincts react so strongly whenever you walk home alone after a night out. The urge to check on you keeps happening without any clear explanation. Maybe he even programmed your details into E.V so his tech tracks you whenever the cameras catch you walking by yourself. E.V notifies his mask display whenever you leave a building late at night so he can make sure the streets are clear. He tells himself it’s just a safety measure to keep you out of trouble. You never actually saw each other face to face during any of those times E.V watched over you from above. He waited up on the roofs while you walked down the pavement. You only knew he was around when he decided to drop down to pick you up for another ride home. Those repeated trips across the city happened several more times over the past few weeks.

Neither of you talks about why he keeps showing up whenever you are out late. His arachnid side feels satisfied whenever he drops you off safely at your front door. He never fails to bring you home after you finish drinks with your friends. Tonight tests his patience because the alcohol in your system makes you act way too clingy. You wrap your arms around his shoulders instead of holding onto him normally while he takes you above the street. You press your face into his neck right over his collar. He tries to ignore the way you rub your nose against him as he moves between the buildings. “Don’t move around so much up here,” he grunts while he checks the distance to the next roof. You ignore his warning before you inhale the scent of his suit right against his throat. Your mouth opens against the material as you leave small pecks along his neck. He tenses up when your teeth bite down on him through the fabric.

His senses are already too sensitive tonight, so your mouth against his neck distracts him. His web misses the next building after your teeth catch him by surprise. “F-fuck- what are you doing?” he curses as he brings you closer against his chest. Both of you almost fall before he shoots another web to find support and avoid touching the ground. “You smell good,” you mumble against his throat while your teeth nip at him again. He manages to get both of you across the rest of the blocks without falling again. He lands on the floor of your balcony before he sets you down. You refuse to let go of his shoulders even after your feet touch the ground. His arachnid side reacts badly because your mouth keeps trailing over his neck. “Stop biting me,” he warns you as his hands hold your waist. He backs you toward the wall of your apartment while his breathing turns ragged behind his mask. “Mmm- no,” you say before you tug him closer by his shoulders.

He looks down at you with his chest heaving while he tries to control his urges. He raises one arm while he keeps you against the wall of the balcony. A line of web shoots from his wrist toward the knob of your balcony door. It sticks to the handle before he pulls his arm back to slide the door open. He wants you inside because standing out here makes everything too complicated. You ignore the open door while you keep your arms around his shoulders. Your hands leave his shoulders before you reach up toward his mask. You try to pull the red fabric up over his chin so you can look at his face. His right hand leaves your waist before his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from lifting it higher. He pushes your hand away from his face while he looks down at you. “Don’t do that,” he warns you as he shoves your wrist back down between your bodies. You try to reach for the mask again with your other hand, but he blocks you easily.

“I can’t let you see me,” he tells you while he keeps your hands away from his head. The alcohol in your system makes you stubborn, so you push your hands against his chest in frustration. You hate that he stops you every time you try to see who hides behind the mask. “That’s not fair,” you complain while you try to wiggle your wrists away from his fingers. He keeps you against the wall while your feet kick slightly against the floor. “You always pick me up and bring me home, but you won’t even show me your face,” you whine as you bump your forehead against his shoulder. He watches you throw a tantrum before he finally lets go of your wrists to guide you through the open balcony door into your living room. He swats your hands away whenever you try to touch his chest again. He walks you backward across the floor while he watches your face. “You’re too drunk tonight,” he tells you as he tries to keep some space between your bodies.

You ignore his warning before you wrap your hands around his arms. “I’m very aware of what I’m doing,” you complain while your fingers caress the fabric of his sleeves. He tries to shake you off, but you refuse to let go of him. You look up at him while he keeps walking you backward across the room. “Don’t you want a reward for keeping me safe?” you ask him while your hands move up to his shoulders. He shakes his head immediately before he tries to remove your hands from his suit. “You need to sleep,” he answers while he pushes you toward your bedroom hallway. You hate that he keeps rejecting you after everything he did for you tonight. You stop walking backward so you can look up at his face. He pulls the bottom of his mask up just enough above his chin to leave his lips exposed so he can catch his breath. You stare at his mouth while he tries to get you to move again.

You lean forward quickly to try to kiss his lips. He catches your shoulders with his hands before your mouth can touch him. He pushes you back away from him while he turns his head to the side. “No,” he warns you as he holds you at arm’s length. You stumble backward into your bedroom while you look at him in disbelief. “Why won’t you let me thank you?” you whine before you try to step toward him again. He acts quickly by shooting a thick line of web around both of your forearms to bind your wrists together behind your back so you stop grabbing him. You stumble back a step until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and you sit down. His hands reach for your ankles before he starts taking your shoes off your feet. He tosses your shoes aside while he tries to ignore the way you keep staring down at him. You spread your legs wider apart on the edge of the mattress to get his attention.

He tries to ignore what you are doing while he drops your second shoe onto the floor. You lift your right leg before you place your foot right on his shoulder. You use your leg to pull his shoulder closer toward the bed. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your knees. “Why are you acting like you don’t want me?” you whine while you pout down at his mask. He lets out a loud sigh before he leans forward between your knees. He drops his forehead right against your thigh with his shoulders tensed up. The mask is rolled up above his chin so his mouth is uncovered. His exposed lips touch the fabric of your pants while he rests his head on your leg. “You’re making it really hard for me to behave tonight,” he warns you as his chest rises against your knees. You feel his breath through your pants while he keeps his forehead on your thigh. He tries to control his arachnid side before he does something he can’t take back.

You feel the web that binds your arms together behind your back. The alcohol makes you bold, so you lean your chest closer toward his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you tied the rest of me up with your web,” you tease him while you nudge his shoulder with your foot. He lifts his head from your thigh to look up at your face. His jaw tightens after he hears what you want him to do. “Jesus- don’t give me ideas like that,” he mutters before his hands reach up to hold your hips. He pulls you closer to the edge of the mattress until your thighs surround his chest. He refuses to back away from you now that you invited him closer. “I can’t do much with my arms tied up anyway,” you tease him while you look down at his exposed mouth. He looks at your face before his hand reaches up to grab your ankle. He removes your foot from his shoulder and sets your heel down onto the floor between his knees. “Are you really going to leave me here like this?” you ask him before you nudge his side with your leg. He shakes his head as he kneels on the floor in front of you.

“This is some freaky shit you’re doing tonight,” you joke while you watch his jaw tighten. He keeps looking at you like he is trying to figure out how far you are going to push this. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” he warns you while his jaw tightens behind his mask. He keeps his head down as he tries to ignore the way you lean toward him. “If you won’t untie me, then at least help me get my pants off,” you complain while you tilt your chin down at him. You don’t really care about changing your clothes tonight. You only want to make it look like you need help so you can see how far you can push his patience. He looks down at your lap before his thumbs touch the waistband of your pants. He knows you are trying to mess with him, but he refuses to back away from the bed. “Come on, do the belt first,” you chuckle while you wiggle your hips slightly on the mattress. He looks up at your face while he kneels on the floor between your knees.

You watch him hesitate before he reaches for the front of your waist. Both of his hands move to the belt around your pants so he can undo it for you. He removes the belt from your waist. He drags the strap free while you keep your attention on his exposed mouth. He drops the belt onto the floor before his hands return to the sides of your waist. “You took the belt off, but you aren’t going to unzip them?” you complain while you shake your head at him. You start pulling your wrists apart behind your back while he kneels in front of you. “What the fuck is that about?” you ask him while you try to push your hips forward on the mattress. You manage to tear through some of the web around your hands even though it doesn’t come off all the way. You keep pulling your wrists apart while you wait for him to answer you. He hears the web tearing behind your back while he kneels between your knees. He doesn’t try to stop your hands from moving because he is just letting you have your fun.

He ignores what you are doing behind your back while his thumbs move to the top of your pants. “Just stop moving for a second,” he tells you before his fingers pop the button open. He pulls the zipper down until your pants open wide at your waist. You spread your legs wider on the edge of the bed so he can take them off. You wait for him to lean closer, but he surprises you by moving away instead. He crawls backward on his knees two steps away from the edge of the mattress. He pushes your knees together with his hands before he grabs the waistband of your pants. He pulls the pants all the way down your legs in one motion until they slide off your ankles. You smirk down at him because he stripped them off you so easily. “You can look,” you tease him when you notice him turn his head to the side. Your smirk grows bigger as you watch him avoid looking at your red panties. “I’m trying really hard to be responsible here,” he mutters while he looks away from you.

He keeps his eyes away from your waist while he drops your pants onto the floor beside him. “You don’t always have to be the good guy,” you tease him while you wiggle your knees on the edge of the mattress. You pull your wrists apart harder behind your back while you wait for him to look at you. “They match your suit,” you point out as you lean your chest forward. He turns his head back toward you before his eyes drop down to your red panties. He doesn’t mean to stare, but your words make him look anyway. “I knew you wanted to see,” you laugh while you keep working your wrists apart behind your back. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your feet. “You’re not helping my case here,” he groans before he looks up at your face. You stretch the last strands of web behind you while you watch him hesitate. “Take them off,” you tell him as you tilt your chin down at him.

His jaw tightens while he tries to ignore what you want him to do. “It won’t hurt anyone if you do,” you add while your shoulders twist on the bed. His human side wants to back away so he doesn’t take advantage of you. His arachnid instincts fight harder against him because every second near you makes him want to stop holding back. He keeps his mouth shut while his hands hover over his knees. You force your wrists apart until the web snaps behind your back. You bring your arms forward so your hands sit in your lap. The web still covers your fingers and wrists, but your arms are finally free. You grin down at him while you show off what you did. He scoffs at your face because you look so proud of yourself. “You know I let you do that, right?” he asks you while his mouth almost forms a smirk. You ignore his excuse before you rest your hands against your thighs. “I’m stronger than you thought,” you boast while you look down at his exposed lips.

He shakes his head while he reaches forward to touch your knees. You lift your hands to grab his mask again, but he tilts his head back away from your reach. “Keep trying that, and I’m going to tie you to the bed,” he warns you while his hands move up from your knees to your waist. He looks up at your face before his thumbs hook over the waistband of your red panties. “Yeah? With your web?” you smirk down at him as you open your knees wider against his sides. You ignore what his hands are doing at your hips before you grab the bottom of your shirt. You pull the top over your head in one motion and toss it across the bedroom floor. Taking off your shirt leaves you sitting on the mattress in only your underwear and your bra while he kneels between your feet. “Jesus- I told you to stop making this worse,” he mutters while his jaw clenches below the rolled fabric of his mask. You reach your hands behind your back to undo the clasps of your bra so you can take it off too.

He raises his right hand before a line of web shoots from his wrist right onto the center of your bra. He yanks his arm backward so the web snaps the clasps open behind you and pulls the bra away from your chest. He catches the bra with his right hand and throws it into the corner of the room. “I told you not to be stubborn,” he warns you while he drops his right arm back to your waist. You cross your arms over your chest to cover yourself because you didn’t expect him to strip you like that. Your face heats up while you look down at his exposed mouth in surprise. You look up at his eyes through the mask and think they look like they are turning black. You blame the dark room and the bad lighting for making his eyes look so strange. He knows it isn’t the lighting because his arachnid genes are fighting harder to push past his human side. His animal instincts want to take over now that you are sitting unprotected in front of him.

Both of his hands return to your hips before his thumbs hook into the waistband of your red panties. You push his hands away from your waist before you crawl backward toward the middle of the mattress. He gets up from the floor while he watches you get to your feet on the bed. You hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties to push them down your legs. You kick the red fabric off your ankles before you throw it right at his chest. “I can take them off myself,” you tease him while you stand naked in front of him. He catches the underwear with one hand before he lets it drop onto the floor. He tries to avoid looking right between your legs, but his arachnid side takes over. He raises his wrist before a line of web hits your stomach. He yanks his arm backward to pull you off the mattress and into the middle of the bedroom. The web lifts you up so your feet leave the floor. “What the fuck- are you serious right now?” you laugh while you kick your legs in the air.

He ignores you before he lifts his other wrist to send another web around your right forearm. He attaches the other end to the ceiling so your right arm stretches above your head. He casts more web across your waist before he connects the ends to the walls to keep you in place. The web holds you high enough so your hips align with his waist. You yank your free left arm around to see what he will do about it. He releases another line of web around your left wrist before you can swing at him again. He pulls your left arm upward before he attaches the end to the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Both of your arms spread wide open above your head while the web wraps down to your elbows so you can’t pull your hands down. “Are you going to fuck me like this, spidey?” you tease him while you try to wiggle your hips against the web. He watches you test the hold before he shakes his head at your consistency in trying to get into his pants.

“You wanted me to tie you up,” he grunts before he sends more web across your chest and hips. He attaches the ends to the walls around you until you have nowhere else to go. Your legs dangle in the air while your feet hover above the floor. He aims his wrist at your right leg to put web around your thigh before he lifts your knee up to the side to connect the end to the wall. “Like what you see?” you tease him while you look down at where his eyes drop. He ignores your joke before he raises his left wrist to release more web around your left calf and ankle. He pulls your other knee upward and attaches that web to the opposite wall so your legs spread wide apart. The web bends your knees back until your feet hang high off the bedroom floor. Your entire body hangs in the center of the bedroom right at his hip level with your knees bent back. The web covers your forearms before it wraps around your waist to hold your body up in the air.

Your bent legs hang open so your chest and your cunt are exposed to his eyes. He steps right between your spread knees while he looks down at your waist. You can’t move your limbs away while he stands right in front of you with his mask rolled up above his mouth. “You’re not so talkative now,” he mutters while he looks at your face. You try to wiggle your hips against the web, but it holds you tight in the air. His suited hands reach toward your thigh where the web wraps around your leg. His hands trail slowly over the web while you watch his mouth open slightly. “What’s wrong, spidey? Are you going to leave me here like this?” You laugh as you push your hips forward. His hand leaves your thigh before his palm slaps hard against your exposed cunt. “Ah-! F-fuck-” you gasp while your thighs flex against the web. He watches you react to the slap while his head tilts to the side. “I told you to stop testing me,” he warns you before his hand rests against your inner thigh.

He lifts his left hand between your legs before he presses his covered palm right between your legs. He rubs his palm over you while you try to push your hips forward to meet his hand. The web around your waist holds you in place so you can’t grind against his palm. “Is this what you want?” he asks you while his fingers trace over your wetness. You nod at him while you pout down at his exposed mouth. “You can’t tie me up like this and not give me anything,” you complain as your knees pull against the web. He hums at your answer before he rubs his palm harder against your cunt. “Nnngh-” you gasp while you try to close your legs, but the web keeps your knees apart. He watches your mouth open while he keeps working his hand between your thighs. You try to move your hips again, but the web holds your waist in the air. “You’re really asking me to do this?” he asks you while his teeth clench below the red fabric.

He slows his hand down between your thighs while he waits for your answer. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do all night,” you answer while you look down at his face. He stops rubbing your cunt before he pulls his hand away from between your legs. He takes a step back from your feet before he turns around so his back faces your body. He reaches for the shoulders of his suit and starts pulling the fabric down his chest. You watch him peel the top half of the suit off his back while he stands in the middle of the room. “What about the mask?” you ask him as he pushes the suit past his waist. He keeps his back turned toward you while he steps out of the bottom half of the suit. “The mask isn’t coming off,” he tells you while he drops the suit onto the floor. He wears only his boxers and the red mask over his head before he turns around to face your spread knees. He brings his right hand back between your legs without the suit in his way anymore.

He brushes his middle finger down your folds while his thumb presses against your clit. You bite your lower lip and try to wiggle your knees, but the web around your hips stops you from moving closer. He raises his left wrist and shoots another band of web around your right thigh to stop you from moving around. “Ah-! Why did you do that?” you whine as the web wraps tight around your leg. He ignores your complaint before he slips two fingers inside your cunt. “You look adorable tied up in my web like this,” he tells you while he watches your mouth open. You try to push your hips forward to take more of his fingers, but the web holds you back. “Yeah? Adorable enough to actually fuck?” you tease him while you look down at his face. His lips curve up into a smile below his mask before he pushes his fingers deeper inside you. “Nngh-! F-fuck-” you gasp as his fingers move inside your wetness. He watches your chest rise and fall while he keeps his hand between your thighs.

“You’re so desperate tonight, you can’t even wait five seconds,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside your entrance. He pushes his hand deeper between your legs while you look down at his mask. “You’re still holding back on me,” you complain while you try to move your knees against the web. He steps closer between your spread legs and brings his face right next to your neck. His exposed lips press against your throat before he speaks against you. “I’m only doing this for your own good,” he whispers while his fingers work inside your cunt. It’s been years since the last time he touched someone like this or actually had sex with anyone. That’s the main reason he’s been holding back as much as he can all night. His arachnid side wants to swallow his human genes so his animal instincts can take control over his actions. He knows he’s on the edge of breaking if he keeps touching you like this.

He pushes his fingers deeper between your thighs while he listens to your breathing change. You squeeze your cunt tight around his fingers while you look at the top of his head. “So do you want me just to moan spidey all night since I don’t know your real name?” you taunt him as you try to move your hips. He pushes his thumb hard against your clit before he drags his tongue across your neck. “Haaah-! m-mfffh-” you gasp as his mouth leaves your throat before he lifts his head to look at you. He licks his own bottom lip while he thinks about whether he should tell you or keep quiet. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside your cunt while he stares at your face through the mask. You look up at his covered face where only his mouth shows below the red fabric. “Don’t you want to hear me moan your actual name?” you ask him before you squeeze your cunt around his fingers again.

You can’t push your hips forward to get his hand deeper because the web holds you in place. He sighs through his nose while his jaw moves under the mask. “Peter- you can call me Peter,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside you. There are thousands of guys named Peter in New York, so you wouldn’t know who he really is anyway. He knows that if he ever takes the mask off to show you his face, then he will just have to keep you by his side so you never tell anyone. You hum when you hear his name while he keeps moving his fingers between your thighs. Your clit starts to throb against his thumb, so you close your eyes and let your mouth fall open. “Mmn- ahhnn-” you breathe out while your head tilts back against the air. He lifts his left hand away from your side and brings it up to your chest. His palm cups your exposed breast while his fingers roll your nipple between them.

He squeezes your breast while his other hand works inside your wetness. “You really know what you’re doing with those hands, Peter,” you tell him while you open your eyes to look down at his mask. He scoffs under his breath because he knows you’re just trying to talk him into fucking you now. Hearing his name from your mouth sends a rush straight down to his cock, so his arachnid side reacts before he can stop it. An embarrassing but small amount of web shoots out from his wrists. “Looks like someone else can’t hold back anymore,” you tease him while you laugh at the white string on his wrist. He pinches your nipple hard before he drops his hand away from your chest. “Ah-! sh-shit-” you gasp while he reaches his hand down to the front of his boxers. He grabs his cock right through the fabric while he stares up at your mouth. “See? I told you that you were just as desperate as me,” you laugh while more slick coats his fingers inside your cunt.

He sighs through his nose before he slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers. He strokes his cock inside his shorts while he watches you try to close your legs. “Stop playing around and take those off,” you complain while you watch his hand move under the fabric. You try to wiggle your hips forward to reach him, but the web keeps you in place. “You want it so bad? Come over here and get it,” he teases you while he keeps his fingers working inside your wetness. You glare up at his masked face because your arms are stretched above your head. “Oh, that’s right... You can’t move because you’re tied up,” he mocks you while he curls his fingers inside your cunt. He watches you try to pull your knees together against the web. “Nngh-! p-please-” you whine out while your hips try to push against his hand. He never stops pumping his fingers between your thighs while his other hand strokes his hard cock inside his shorts.

You shake your head at him because he won’t do anything besides finger you. It frustrates you that you can’t even wiggle your knees away from his touch. “Poor baby... Are you getting impatient?” he laughs while he looks at your pout. He pushes his fingers deeper between your wet folds while he watches your mouth open. “I hate you so much,” you mutter while your cunt squeezes around his fingers. He smiles below his rolled-up mask before he slows down his hand between your legs. “Mhm, you’ve been good enough for me tonight,” he tells you before he pulls his hand out of your cunt. He lifts his wet hand up to his mouth to lick your slick off his fingers. He watches your cunt clench around emptiness while he uses both hands to push his boxers down his hips. He kicks the shorts off his feet away from him across the bedroom floor. You watch him stand naked in front of you with only the red mask covering the top of his head. “Never fucked someone like this before, Peter?” you taunt him while you look down at his cock.

You arch your back against the web while he steps closer to your spread thighs. “Never had someone tied up like a toy without their legs around you?” you ask him while your knees pull against the web. His exposed lips curve into a smirk because he knows you always have to be a smart-ass. He steps closer to your spread legs before he slips his right hand through the web to hold your leg. He uses his free left hand to guide his hard cock right between your thighs. He rubs the head of his cock up and down against your wet folds without pushing inside you yet. “Hah- wait- P-Peter-” you gasp out while he slides his length over your clit. He looks down at your face while you try to push your hips forward against the web. “Shh- quiet down for me,” he whispers before he starts to push his cock slowly between your lips. His left hand guides him inside until his length is deep enough to fill your cunt before he drops his hand and stops pushing forward.

He brings his hand up to your face while you tilt your head to rub your cheek against his palm. “Mmf-” you whine while you lean into his hand. He watches you through the white lenses of his mask while you close your eyes to bite your bottom lip. He looks at the way your face reacts to him opening you up, and he likes seeing you tied up for him. He pushes his hips forward again to slide the rest of his cock inside you. You breathe through your open mouth once he pushes all the way inside your cunt. You open your eyes to look at his covered face because you want to see what he looks like right now. Your eyebrows knit together while tears start to gather in the corners of your eyes. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan while you feel him push your cunt wide open. He squeezes your thigh before he leans forward to rest his forehead against your neck. He starts thrusting his hips back and forth while the web holds your body up.

“You take me so well,” he grunts against your throat while he picks up his pace. He brings his hips back so only the tip of his cock is inside you before he slams himself forward to bury himself deep again. You try to move your knees, but the web forces your legs wide open. “P-peter… please, let me see you-” you beg him while he thrusts fast and hard inside your cunt. He ignores what you asked before his teeth bite down onto the side of your neck. “I told you no- jesus-” he mutters against your throat while his hand squeezes your thigh tighter. He moves his other hand from your cheek to the back of your head so he can tangle his fingers in your hair. He forces your head back while he keeps pumping his cock in and out of your cunt. You cry out against his shoulder while his hips slap against your thighs with every thrust. His lips trail up from your throat to your jaw before he presses his mouth against yours. You close your eyes while he kisses you hard enough to force your teeth apart with his tongue.

He bites down on your bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth and lets it go to spit right onto your lips. “Mmmph- you’re so-” you moan after he does that, and his tongue licks your lips. He pulls his face back to look at you before his right hand reaches down to snap the web around your right thigh. He pulls your freed leg up against his side so your knee rests beside his hip. The new position lets him push his cock deeper inside your cunt while he holds you close against his body. He watches your face through his white lenses while he keeps moving his hips forward. His left hand rests tangled in your hair behind your head to keep you in place. Your cunt clenches tight around his cock, and his fingers pull back on your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn. His shaft throbs inside your wetness while he watches your mouth fall open. “Do you want your other leg wrapped around me too?” he asks you while his hips slam into your thighs.

You nod at him while you try to move your left knee against the web. He keeps holding your right thigh with his right hand while he raises his left wrist to shoot two fresh bands of web over your arms. It gives your arms more support in the air before his left hand snaps the web around your left calf. He guides your left leg over his waist so both of your thighs wrap around his hips. He grabs both of your hips with his hands while you float in the middle of the room. “You know how good you look right now?” he asks you before he thrusts deeper inside your cunt. His fingers dig so hard into your hip that it hurts your flesh like he wants to devour you. “Nngh-! o-ow- Peter that hurts-” you complain while your hips rock against his cock. He looks down at your face while he slows down for a second. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he tells you while his thumbs push harder into your waist. He leans in closer to your ear to bite it, but it’s just an excuse to be closer to you.

“You’re going to take it like a good girl,” he whispers before he lifts your legs off his waist and puts your ankles up onto his shoulders. He looks down between your bodies to watch his cock slide in and out of your wet cunt. His enhanced hearing picks up every single noise in the bedroom while he speeds up his thrusts. He listens to the wet squelching of your cunt and the loud slap of his hips against your thighs. Your ragged breaths are loud in his ears while he pushes his cock all the way to his pelvis. He holds your ankles on his shoulders while his hips work faster inside your wetness. His fingers caress up and down your calves while he thrusts deep inside you. You get closer to the edge every time he pushes all the way in. You don’t tell him you’re about to cum, but he feels the way you pulse around him. The wetness drips down his shaft while you squeeze him tight. You need to hold onto him while the pleasure builds, so you tug hard against the web around your arms.

“I need you- p-please let me hold you,” you whine while your toes curl against his shoulders. He turns his head to the side to bite down hard onto your calf. He pulls his cock back until only the tip is left inside you before he slams all the way deep again. He fucks you so hard that the web around your body starts to break. The broken pieces weigh you down, but the rest of the web holds you up in the air. He moves his hands away from your legs to tear right through the bands around your waist. His arms wrap tight around your body while he brings you against his chest. “I need you right here with me,” he grunts before he buries his face into your neck. He thrusts deep enough to reach that spot inside your cunt, and it makes you cum instantly. “Nngh-! o-oh god-” you moan while your wetness coats his cock. He feels you cumming around him and his arachnid instincts take over his head. His enhanced strength makes it effortless for him to walk forward and break right through the remaining webs to carry you.

You wrap your arms around his neck before he walks both of you toward the bed without ever pulling his cock out of you. He gets onto the bed so he can lay you down on the mattress and hover over you. Shredded web clings to your arms and your thighs. “You came around me so fast,” he mutters while he looks down at your face. You nod at him before he slowly starts to thrust inside your cunt again. Your hands leave his shoulders to grab the bottom edge of his mask. You push the fabric all the way up over his head to see his face finally. It scares you because his eyes are pitch black instead of human. You open your mouth to react, but he grabs both of your wrists with his hands. He pins your arms down hard onto the mattress beside your head. “Come on- you wanted to see me so bad,” he smirks while he stares down at you. You try to pull your hands out from under his palms, but he keeps smirking at you.

“You’re not even human- you’re a d-demon,” you gasp while you stare up into his black eyes. He ignores what you called him before he thrusts his cock deep into your cunt. “Ahhhnn- f-fuck-” you moan out loud even though you just tried to insult him. He watches your mouth fall open while he keeps his body pressed over you. “Shh- it’s just me,” he mocks you with fake sympathy while he holds your arms down on the bed. He raises his wrists to shoot web right over your forearms to bind them to the bed so your arms are spread wide open again. “You have such playful hands,” he tells you before he lets go of your wrists. He gets up onto his knees between your spread legs before his left hand grabs your waist and his right hand reaches up to grope your breast. “Are you scared of me now?” he asks you while his fingers squeeze your nipple. You shake your head quickly on the pillow, but he smirks down at you from his knees. “You really should be,” he tells you while his right hand squeezes your breast. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt, and his fingers play with your nipple.

His left hand slides down your side to reach between your legs. You try to twist your bound wrists against the mattress before his right hand leaves your chest. He raises his right wrist to shoot an extra layer of web right over your hands. “Stop fighting me, or I’ll shut your mouth for you,” he warns you while his left hand finds your wet clit. He pinches your clit hard enough to make you whine. “Ah-! nn- please-” you beg him while you shake your head on the pillow. You don’t want to piss him off because he keeps staring at you with those black eyes. You spread your thighs wider for him in response, and he takes a deep breath. “That’s a good girl,” he tells you while a smirk forms on his face. He slams his hips forward with more force, and his left thumb rubs back and forth over your clit. He doesn’t care that you just had an orgasm minutes ago because he keeps rubbing exactly where you are most sensitive.

“Mmf- hahh- it’s too much-” you cry out while your cunt clenches around his cock. His right hand goes right back up to your chest to grab your other breast. He squeezes the soft flesh while his hips slap against your thighs. “You look so fucking perfect like this,” he grunts while his thumb flicks over your tight nipple. You want to touch his body badly, but the webs keep your hands pinned to the bed. “Nngh- let me hold you- p-please, Peter,” you beg him while you twist against the web. He looks down at your wrists, and he keeps thrusting into your wetness. “If you want to touch me, then just break free,” he challenges you while he keeps his hands on your body. You stop struggling because you know exactly what he will do if you manage to escape. “Nn- you’d just tie me down again,” you complain while your hips rock up to meet his thrusts. He chuckles above you before he leans all the way down over your body.

He pushes his mouth right against yours for a quick kiss, and he trails his lips down your neck. He moves over to the breast that he neglected earlier to drag his tongue right across the tip. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan out loud while his wet tongue licks your nipple. He moves his face back a few inches to look at you again. “You can try to break free all you want because I don’t bite,” he whispers before he drops his head back down. He wraps his mouth all the way around your nipple, and he bites down hard on the sensitive peak. “F-fuck- ahhhnn-!” you scream out while your back arches off the mattress. The bite makes your cunt squeeze tight around his cock. You thrust your hips up against him while he sucks on your breast. He grunts out loud before he shoves his hips forward to push you deeper into the mattress. He thrusts his cock as deep as he can go while he keeps his teeth pressed into your nipple. His mouth works over your bud while his left hand rubs your wet clit.

His right hand squeezes your other breast before his cock slams deep into your cunt. Having all his attention on your sensitive body pushes you over the edge again. You tear your wrists right through the webs to free your hands from the mattress. You throw your arms around his shoulders so you can tangle your fingers into his hair. You drag your nails down his back while your hips thrust up to welcome every deep pound inside your cunt. “Fuck- yes- mmn- right there,” you moan out loud while you arch your back off the bed. He sucks hard on your breast to take whatever he can get from you. He slams his hips forward faster to match your needy movements. The thought of breeding you takes over his head. He wants to pump all of his cum as deep as he can reach inside your cunt. He feels his balls tighten because he gets closer to cumming with every hit. “I’m going to fill you up so much,” he grunts against your chest before he bites your nipple one more time.

He lifts his mouth from your breast to leave wet kisses up your neck until he reaches your shoulder. He sinks his teeth right into the curve of your shoulder before he pulls away to look at your face. He watches your eyes roll back while his left hand pinches your clit and his right hand pinches your nipple. He rubs his thumb faster over your wetness while he shoves his cock all the way to the base. “You feel so fucking good around me, don’t you?” he praises you before he leans all the way down. He pushes his mouth against yours to force his tongue past your lips. You open your mouth for him so he can taste you while his hips slap against your thighs. “Mmmph- ahhh-” you whine right against his mouth while you kiss him back. The urge to cum gets too close for him to think straight. He doesn’t even notice that his fingers slow down on your clit or how his thrusts become sloppy.

He can feel his cock throb deep inside your wetness. He knows he won’t last another minute before he cums inside you. He bites down hard on your bottom lip until he tastes blood on his tongue. He keeps his teeth there the exact moment his cum starts shooting deep inside your cunt. “Mmf- f-fuck-” he groans against your lips while he empties himself inside you. He leans his forehead against yours while his hips keep moving. He feels how close you are to another orgasm, so he slows his movements down to be gentler. You push his face away to tug on his hair until he opens his eyes. You look up at his face to see that his eyes are normal again. He realizes he is finally back to normal. He moves his hand away from your clit to rest his palm on the mattress beside your neck. He continues to roll his hips between your legs before he leans his forehead against yours again. “I- I’m sorry,” he whispers over your mouth.

You close your eyes to caress his back while you listen to his heavy breaths. “Why are you sorry?” you ask him while your hips move with his thrusts. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he answers you. “I was too rough earlier, and I wasn’t myself,” he mumbles right against your lips. Hearing that makes you bite your bottom lip before you grind your hips up against his cock. You breathe hard against his mouth to share his air before you lean up to kiss him. “I can handle you just fine,” you tell him between soft pants. He moves his face away from yours after he hears that. He wonders if someone can actually take that side of him without getting hurt. His left hand squeezes your chest gently while his cock pushes deeper inside your cunt. He closes his eyes as he feels the wetness coating his shaft. He wants to give you a second orgasm, so his hand balls up into a fist to twist the bedsheets beside your head.

He takes his time to slide all the way out before he pushes back in. “Haaah- oh god- yes,” you whine out loud while your cunt squeezes his cock. You cum hard around him, and he throbs inside you the exact second he feels it. He drops all his weight onto your chest to hide his face in your neck. “That was my first time letting that part of me out,” he whispers against your collarbone. You trace your nails over his shoulders to comfort him. “Let’s hope it was worth it,” you tease him while you wrap your arms around his back. He shivers against you, and his cock twitches deep inside you. He drags his teeth over your collarbone before a ragged exhale leaves his mouth. His body melts completely against your chest, and he refuses to pull out. You let your fingers wander down his sweaty spine while he nuzzles your neck. “More than worth it,” he mumbles back.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

You don’t budge, eyes purposely wide as saucers, hoping your pleading's visible enough to coerce his sleep-deprived brain cells to work on something that wasn't the large Bat-Computer, illuminating a spotlight on his eye-bags.

He sighs. “Fine. It shouldn’t be that hard to think of.”

“I guess..” He mutters distractedly, multitasking your strange request and his work and an indulgent sip of his over-steeped tea. “He hates clumsiness? One time, Dick knocked over his printed Bat-Cow mug and even though he caught it immediately, you should’ve seen the look on Damian’s face.”

Not off to an amazing start. You don't dare recall the amount of times he’s caught you from face-planting in your shared apartment—or the number of plates you’ve broken when they slipped from your hands while washing them.

“Right. Clumsiness.” Your laugh comes out forced. “Anything else?”

“Hoarders.” He mutters through another sip, even as his nose scrunches at the bitterness. “I keep a bunch of files in the Bat-Cave, because forbid a man for wanting physical archives in case the Bat-Computer’s compromised. He snapped at me on the amount of useless cases I had collecting dust in the corner.”

Your heart squeezes traitorously, already aligning yourself with the trait before you could even deny the semblance. You didn’t expect him to accurately describe someone like.. you?

Your collection of junk is still stored inside a designated cardboard box, keeping letters he’s given you throughout your relationship, receipts from closed-down restaurants, or even the bed that's littered with your worn plushies. You rarely threw away anything as long as it held a small amount of sentimental value.

“Uh-huh.” You mutter distractedly—thinking back on your shared apartment and the amount of drawers you took up.

“I suppose—people who can’t protect themselves?” Tim shrugs apathetically. “He’s already so strict on his own training regime, I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.”

You feel like you’re going to pass out. Tim finally stops, looking over to your distressed expression. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to you.” His mug’s 'Best Detective' claim flashes at you, sipping awkwardly at the realisation that he may have made a huge error with his words. “I just think he naturally has a lower tolerance for anyone that isn’t you.”

Tolerance, something that wears out in time. What if Damian was holding in all these things and it could potentially lead to resentment that you’re a combination of all the traits he finds annoying?

“Don’t take it to heart.” Tim says, his expression akin to one trying to disarm a bomb. “Seriously, hell will freeze over before that demon spawn ever hates something about you. You’re like—his only exception.”

You nod faintly, mind too preoccupied to truly listen. Your phone buzzes, lighting the lock screen and a notification for one of your packages has arrived. “Ah, I better get back! Nice seeing you, Tim. Thanks for the.. information.”

“No problem?” He answers, sounding unsure. “Don’t tell Damian I said anything!”

—

“Beloved?” Damian calls.

You barely hear his voice over the furious typing on your laptop, much less his trained footsteps that you could never detect. You raise your head, casting him an over-enthusiastic smile. “Hey, Dami!”

He tugs his coat off, placing it on the coat rack—gaze lingering on your laptop. “What are you doing?”

You feel as if you’re caught in the middle of a heinous act. “Um—” It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong. Maybe he might even be proud that you’re being proactive about improving your self-defence. “I’m signing up for a martial arts class.”

His brows furrow, his expression perplexed. “All of a sudden?”

“Just thought I’d try something new.” Your white lie slips out easily. “With how Gotham is, I realise I should probably learn some moves. Just in case.”

He frowns. “Is there something concerning you regarding safety?” Looking around the apartment, he analyses the astounding upgrades he’s done with a displeased frown. “I was thinking of thickening the window’s glass to have an increased bullet-proof rebound rate. Or installing motion cameras-”

“No! No.” You stop him, already detecting the pattern of his mind, unravelling into a never-ending state of over preparation. You’re sure that even if the Earth splits into two, your apartment would still be standing unscathed with what he’s already done to the structure. “It’s just a hobby, Dami. You did a great job already.”

The last thing you wanted was to add on more burdens for him. He’s been taking on more cases than usual, back on another silent war with Tim on a silly tally-off, not like either has been keeping a fair count, and him being away for more hours meant that you had time—the chance to show him this improved side to you.

He pauses in his fretting, blinking slowly like a feline before beckoning himself over to where you laid, chin tucked to your neck as you hoarded your favorite corner of the sofa.

Brushing your hair aside, he places a soft kiss on your forehead. “Alright. Anything you want.” He obliges. “You’ve already charged it to my card, yes? If you feel anything inadequate about the instructor, cancel it immediately. I’m more than willing to train you myself.”

From the way he’s looking at you, it’s almost like he wants you to say you prefer his suggestion. You almost do, tempted to let him teach you instead—because a hot trainer who is also your boyfriend sounds like a match-made in heaven, then you remember Tim’s words. I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.

If Damian saw you with his own eyes on how ill-equipped you were to protecting yourself, what if he sees you as even more inadequate? You shake your head, a perfect vision of Damian's disappointment swarming your thoughts. “I’ll see how the first class goes. Apparently, it’s super beginner-level so it should be perfect for me.”

He stares at you, and you can feel his mind racing in its analysis before he nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll join you.”

“What!” You splutter.

“I have to ensure the instructor is truly capable in teaching you.” He states casually.

“Damian. You’re probably more knowledgeable than he is.” You deadpan. “It’s going to feel like how advanced calculus was for you. Toddler’s work.”

His expression doesn’t so much as shift, but you spot tension in his shoulders. “He? Even more reasons to join then.”

Oh god, what did you just unleash?

—

“Welcome to ‘Gotham Martials-Beginner’s Class'!”

The instructor is in the tightest, most neon-green outfit you’ve ever seen and under the intrusive lights, it nearly blinds you with its reflective power. Damian doesn’t bother hiding his grimace at the sight.

“Don’t be intimidated, folks. I've only held a black belt in Taekwondo for the past fifteen years.” He boasts. “If there’s anyone who’s going to make you Nightwing-material, it’s yours truly!”

The mention of his brother sours Damian’s expression, visible in the tick of his jaw. Sibling rivalry was only ever intensified among him and his brothers. He schools it into perfect nonchalance when you look over at him, trying to contain your laugh.

“Now, who’s a willing volunteer to come up and let me show them the ropes?” The instructor calls out. “As I always say, learning from example is better than theory!”

The instructor eagerly scans the room, and his mark makes its target. “What about you, lady? You look excited to start your journey in becoming a Martial Arts expert!”

It must’ve been your nearly-dying expression over Damian’s scowl that caught you in the web of his gaze. Your smile drops, feeling nervous with the numerous eyes on you from the other trainees. “Well—”

”There’s no need.” Damian calls out, his hand brushing against yours in reassurance. “I volunteer.”

“Ah! An enthusiastic young man.” The instructor claps. “Very well, come on to the front.”

Damian casts you a grimace, before he strides to the front. It was almost a comical sight with how he towers over the instructor, his arms crossed in disinterest. His gaze flickers over to you, clearly unimpressed.

“Ah, the first rule is to never cast your eyes off your opponent—”

It happens in a flash. One moment, the instructor is charging at Damian, and the next, he was on the ground with a loud bang!, with Damian pinning him down.

“Agh!” The instructor chokes out, and a chorus of gasps echoes through the room.

Damian lifts himself off, brushing his hands against his shirt. “You were saying?” He says dryly.

Your own hand is clasped over your mouth, but unlike the others, you’re trying so hard not to laugh. Damian's clearly terrified the rest in the room, as the circle of trainees distance themselves from the spectacle.

The instructor lifts himself off the ground, gripping onto his lower back for dear life. “Ha-ha—Right! I was going easy on you. Good example, folks. This is exactly how you pin someone down.”

His eyes avert Damian’s raised brow, sweat pooling at his brows. “Now, let’s resume the class at its usual distance. I’ll be in the center, and all students will be behind the red circle.” He points down at the faded drawn line, suddenly not willing for an up-close demonstration.

The class continues on with a series of stretches followed by beginner poses. You doubt any moves you were taught would actually save you against an actual criminal on the streets, but seeing Damian being forced to do such minimal movement with a disgusted expression made it all worth it.

“I think I gained a six pack just by watching you.” Your core was still burning from the restraining laughter as he inserts the key to the door of your apartment. “Never seen you so—restrained.”

He casts you an unimpressed look. “The mystery of how this city has so many civilian kidnappings was all answered by that lacklustre session. If that’s the highest rated ‘self-defense’ class in Gotham, it’s no wonder this city’s crime rate hasn’t gone down.”

“It must’ve been a pain for you." You sympathise as best as you could with an Al Ghul prodigy. "Even if the session had been a hundred times better than Mr. Neon Tights, I doubt it would’ve been useful compared to your experience.”

His narrowed eyes soften, hand kept extended to hold the door open for you. When you enter, he swiftly closes the door, arm still hovering over you and cornering you in. “That wasn’t my intention.” He says. “If I had attended for self defence, that would’ve been highly unproductive. But—”

His free hand comes up to caress your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his eyes fully. “My intention was to spend time with you. And seeing you have a good time, regardless of the quality of the session, had always been the goal.”

Your cheeks warm, and he’s doing that weird thing again where he makes you feel special for doing absolutely nothing. “You’re cheesy.”

“Hm.” He hums. “Maybe I’ve been too affected by Mr. Neon Tights.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out, and his smile deepens—highlighting a soft dimple that you secretly obsess over. Falling into character, you clear your throat. “Aren’t you aware, Mr. Wayne? It’s not always about the result, it’s the journey.”

He huffs in amusement. “I wasn’t aware of such peculiar words of wisdom. From now on, you’ll be training with me. No more of that nonsense, even if it entertains you, beloved.”

“What?” You pretend to gasp. “Whatever shall I do without his neon tights to motivate me, Dami? You’re cruel.”

Leaning in, he murmurs. “I can think of other ways to motivate you.” Hands parting from the door, they wrap comfortably around your waist, gently pushing you back against the wood as he leans in. His lips press softly against yours, and it’s the soft moments of domesticity like this that you wish so desperately to stay longer.

By the time he parts from you, your lungs were screaming for more air than they’ve ever did in that class.

“How’s that?” He taunts lowly.

“Not bad. I feel pretty motivated to do a push-up right now.” You affirm, a little dazed.

Damian’s rare laugh is heavenly to the ears.

—

Damian’s away on another patrol, and in the midst of his absence, you’re uncovering your hoard of memories that look more kindled to trash now that it’s laid out on the floor. Damian’s letters, still too precious to ever even consider throwing away are stacked in a pile to your left, and your childhood stash is on the right.

You stare seriously at your pre-school drawing, a horrible attempt of drawing the Bat with fangs coming out under his mask. It's abstract, and you're much too biased to throw away a four year old's masterpiece. Maybe you could use it as a birthday card for Bruce?

“Beloved, what are you doing?”

You quickly hide the card, your body covering the junk as Damian enters the bedroom from the window. He’s covered in soot, but no blood is seen on his suit. Your immediate relief soothes your body, but his gaze set on the mess behind you seizes you to stand.

“Dami!” Your voice sounds way too chirpy to be anything but suspicious. “Nothing, I was just cleaning out some old stuff.”

“At 3 A.M.?” He asks incredulously.

“Cleaning jitters.” You shrug.

“Alright.” He says slowly. “I’ll take a quick bath, then I’ll assist in sorting it out with you.”

“No, it’s fine!” You quickly interject. “You must be tired after patrol. I’ll just quickly clean this up. So you can go to sleep, I know you don’t like mess.”

His hand lifts to detach his domino mask. Nothing stops his trained eye from sweeping the floor for this supposed ‘mess’ you’re talking about.

“My letters?” He asks, surprised.

“Oh, I just wanted to store them somewhere safely.” You explain. “If it hadn’t been for the letters, we.. wouldn’t be here now. I didn’t want dust mites to get to them.”

His lips quirk up faintly, softening at the memory. He looks over to the corner, where Mr. Paddington, one of your remaining childhood plushies was stuffed into a paper bag.

“Why is Mr. Paddington there?” He interrogates.

You swallow, averting your gaze. It's just a bear. A bear who's been through your ups and downs for the past decade. “I realised he’s—in really bad condition. And I keep hoarding things because of sentimental value, but it’s taking up space over the apartment. Like the bed is 55% my plushies and I don’t want you feeling like you’re running out of space because it’s your apartment too.”

He stares long enough that you start to feel it dig into your skull, before he turns fully and stops in front of you, lowering himself to your eye level.

“Is this an indirect method of asking me to expand our living quarters?” He asks, straight to the point as ever. “I can have us a new apartment by the end of the week.”

“No way.” You say flatly, his words stoking a flame of protectiveness over your shared home.

It’s an understatement to say you love this apartment. Call it being biased, but it was the first place you and Damian truly created into a home, and the memories stored within the brick walls (another addition you love), is something that will have to be pried, tooth and nail, from your cold hands.

“I just—I want to be more considerate, of the space and my junk. You may need more hanger space for your 10% shade differences in sweaters.”

He doesn’t so much as shift at your teasing, a blunt attempt at distraction to his skeptical eye. “Whatever is mine is yours.” He emphasises. “I got us this place because I wanted you to have a comfort space. I want you to use it.”

He bends, taking Mr. Paddington into his arms and patting away some dust that’s gotten on him. “You’re right, the stitching in his eyes has come loose. I’ll send it over to Alfred. He has been itching for something to do ever since most of us moved out, and he’s adequate in sewing.”

You don’t know why, but Damian being so considerate despite you having full evidence of your hoarding habit splattered over the bedroom floor tugs your heartstrings hard. You can’t resist hugging him, even when his suit is dirty. He holds you tight, Mr. Paddington squished between the two of you.

“Is there anything else you want?” He asks gently, his other hand gently rubbing your back. “You can always ask, beloved.”

You shake your head. “No, this is perfect.”

He hums. “Leave it be. We’ll sort it out tomorrow, together. I’ll run a quick bath, so why don’t you put Mr. Paddington back on the bed where he belongs, and I’ll accompany you to sleep as soon as I’m done?”

He’s perfect. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to lean into his arms and accept his help. You should take care of your mess, not give him another task to do when he’s already tired from patrol. Still, when he places a soft kiss over your forehead, you find it hard to disagree tonight.

When he sinks into the bed, the faint smell of his body wash envelopes your senses. His weight tips you towards him, but even gravity isn’t as quick as your boyfriend’s instincts, pulling you into his arms till his frame shields yours. His chest moves in synchronicity with your breathing against your back, and the thought hits again that you don't deserve him.

Somehow, against all odds of your bad luck where he’s discovered your flaws two times in a row now when you're only trying to improve them, the softness in his gaze has never shifted, annoyance never once making its way into his expression.

Was Tim really right? That Damian’s intolerance for the flaws he listed out fades when it comes to you? You want to ask, but hearing Damian’s slowed breathing, meaning he’s fallen asleep—you think not all hope is lost yet. There’s still one more flaw you could work on, to make his life a little easier for all the times he’s loved you despite your flaws.

—

If you’re not going to get better at self-defence or the habit to hoard, at least you’ll master tackling your clumsiness. You’ve managed in avoiding plate arson for the past week, and call it over-confidence, but when you spot the clock’s hand frozen over the kitchen, you think it’s finally time you get over your fear of ladders.

“Beloved? What are you doing?” Damian calls out, a hint of distress in his voice when he spots you, on the second highest level of the ladder, hands fumbling with the clock.

“Taking out the clock.” You answer, distracted with the hook that’s stuck onto the nail. “Its battery needs changing.”

“I can do it.” He offers, his hands coming up to stabilise the ladder. “You need not concern yourself with small matters like these.”

”Yeah, but I want to.” You answer, finally unlatching the clock. “Got it!”

When you feel your balance tilt, you realise your miscalculation. With both your hands on the clock, you’re no longer holding the wall, and your feet stumble as your back arches backward. You yelp, falling backwards—right into Damian’s arms.

The clock is still in your hands, covering your face halfway to hide your shame as Damian stares at you, and you see the waver of relief, worry, and amusement playing out in the flickers of his gaze.

“That’s so embarrassing.” You mutter to yourself, still using the clock to shield your face from his prying eyes. “Let me down. Oh—can we please pretend that never happened?”

He doesn’t respond, hands still firmly wrapped around your torso, leaving your feet dangling in the air as he pins you under his gaze. “No, I think I quite favour this position.”

“Don’t tease, Damian.” Calling him by his full name doesn’t do the trick. If anything, it makes his smugness triple in size. “I seriously thought I accomplished getting over my fear of ladders. Now it’s hyper-intensified and my fears have turned to actual trauma.”

He snorts softly, carrying you over to the sofa and settling down. You lay there in his arms, which is admittingly, very comfortable, making it difficult for you to climb out of his hold. Not like he’d let you, the only time his arms wasn’t wrapped around you was when he took one hand to tear the clock out of his hands, settling it at the coffee table.

“What is bothering you?” He finally asks.

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“First, the training classes, then Mr. Paddington, and now, the clock?” He lists out. Damn him and how observing he was. “Something’s bothering you.”

You hesitate. It’s irrational, but what if you list out the traits he hates, and he realises that you’re really all the things he despises? Your mind knows Damian loves you, but at moments, your heart wonders why.

”Well..” You swallow. “Promise not to get mad?”

“I could never be mad at you.” He answers immediately.

You don’t even know where to start. “You always take care of me. And you rarely complain. So I was starting to wonder if there was anything I did that could.. piss you off that you never mentioned.”

His brows pinch together. “Was there anything I did to make you reach that assumption? I know my communication of my feelings still needs.." He grimaces as he manages the word out. "Improvement. If I ever made you feel at unease, it was never my intention. I’ve never felt that way about you. Ever.”

“No—no.” It’s a relief to hear him say that, but it’s much harder to sound convincing when he’s looking down at you with his unbridled concern, his gaze softer than you’ve ever seen. “I just didn’t want to accidentally do something in habit that irritates you when you’ve been nothing but good to me.”

Averting eye contact, you focus on the jammed hands of the clock. “I asked for a list about what you hated and—it felt as if each description pierced right through me, so I panicked and over-compromised.”

His gaze sharpens. “What list?”

“Um—” You discreetly feel Tim’s lifespan shortening. “Just a couple of things. Hearing them made me realise that I could be a burden to you because of all the annoying things you have to deal with—so I tried to improve them. I don’t want you feeling like you have to take care of me because I’m not good in doing it.”

He shakes his head, mouth pursed and ready to argue but not quick enough to avoid the finger you place on his lips. “It’s not that I don’t want you taking care of me, because I love that you do. I appreciate it so, so much that I’m scared that I’m relying too much on you.” You admit, feeling a lump growing in your throat. “And I’m scared that taking care of me gets tiring.”

He gently caresses your wrist, pulling it aside so he can speak. “I want to take care of you.” He reassures you.

“But you hate clumsy people.” You croak out.

“I love your clumsiness.” He answers in a factual tone. "It's easier to get you into my arms."

“And you hate people who hoard.”

“I hoard things you gift me.” He bites back. “It’d be hypocritical of me to judge you for that when I partake in the same habit."

“You—“ Somehow, his easy way of dissuading your worries is working, and you can’t think of much else. “You hate people who can’t protect themselves.”

“Then what is my purpose, beloved?” He asks. “If not to protect you. If I could not fulfill even that duty, I would condone that hatred on myself. Never you.”

“Then what has this week been for?” You moan. “Felt like a humiliation ritual—Like I was horribly incapable as Damian Wayne’s partner.”

His lips quirk up. "Adorable." He whispers, as if he can't help himself. "You are capable. Of more things than you think.”

“You understand people better than I do, which is why you tried to be considerate of me by doing this.” He adds. “I appreciate your efforts, beloved, but you don’t need to be anything more or change yourself because I cherish you as you are. You’re already perfect for me.”

Damian’s love has always been shown through his actions, his unwavering patience he’s harnessed just for you, evident by his siblings’ complaint of unfair treatment. Yet, to hear him say it so directly—you can barely think of what to say back without sounding like an emotional mess.

“Where did you obtain such an unreliable list?” He asks after a moment.

You wince. He stares and stares, akin to a falcon, till it comes out of you. “…Tim?”

He scowls, gaze hardening with a familiar murderous intent. “I’m going to kill Drake.”

“Please don’t.” You plead. “It’s my fault, really. And if it hadn’t been for him, I would still be avoiding this conversation and I wouldn’t have gained the guts to say it out loud.”

His lips purse in a thin line, which is his best attempt at consideration. “I’m still not pleased that he indirectly made you feel unworthy when that’s never been the case. But you are right.” His free hand brushes over your cheek, growing serious. “Next time, if you ever feel this way, tell me first. I’ll listen, always.”

“And believe me when I say—you could never irritate me.” He declares. “You’re my gift in this world, and there’s no other person who brings me peace the way you do. You’re not meant to exist without flaws, and I love every single one of them. It makes you human, and more precious in my eyes. So don’t hide your worries from me. Bear them with me instead, and I’ll reassure you.”

Your eyes feel wet when you blink, your lashes clumping together, and your heart is thumping louder than it should. “Oh, man.” You mutter. “You just made me fall for you all over again. That’s not fair.”

His lips twitch into a soft smile, and presses a feather-light kiss over your forehead. “Then you’ve been unfair on me too. I suppose I'll have to be more unbearable in my affections to not let such silly worries get to you. I haven't been doing a good job in my duty if you could believe in a list like that."

“And for the record.” His gaze softens. “I didn’t see anything we did this past week as a burden. I enjoyed spending time with you, at the martial class, and the morning we spent organising your childhood memories, and even now—because that’s the reason I want to be with you. To be in your life, to be your support, your person.”

Your throat clogs together, and if he wants to succeed in making you a wreck, he's done it well.

“Cause..” He murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Isn’t that what we promised?”

“Then, do you also solemnly swear, Damian Wayne—” Lifting up your pinky finger to him, you muster your most serious expression. “That you’re truly in this even with my flaws, on the good and bad days?”

He links his pinky with yours, wrapping it close to his chest right above his heart. “I solemnly swear.”

Damian always keeps his promises. You could ask him to capture the Sun for you, and he'd somehow find a way to do it before Monday.

“What else did that lunatic say?” Damian interrogates.

Your mind scrambles for anything to save your future brother-in-law’s life. “Tim did say I was your only exception.”

He huffs. “I suppose there’s one thing Drake finally got right.”

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Sierra snorted, rolling her eyes with such dramatic incredulity that it would have been funny under different circumstances. "Come on. You're telling me you haven't noticed? There's a red hood symbol spray-painted right outside your building's front entrance. Big as shit. How long has that been there?"

Her stomach dropped. The coffee she'd been drinking suddenly tasted sour, threatening to come back up.

"I..." She frowned, trying to keep her expression puzzled rather than panicked. "I can't tell you the last time I actually studied my front door. Are you sure you're not thinking of the building next to mine?"

Sierra looked at her over the rim of her glasses like she'd just claimed the Earth was flat. She was a pretty girl—tall and willowy, with auburn hair that fell in waves past her shoulders and a constellation of freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose like someone had splattered paint across porcelain. 

Just a few years older than her, twenty-nine maybe, she'd grown up in the East End her whole life. Like everyone else who worked at the Gazette, Sierra was obsessed with the city's vigilantes. Had a whole theory board at home, apparently, tracking their movements like some people tracked sports teams or celebrity relationships.

Naturally, this kind of gossip was right up her alley. 

"Please, be for real right now." Sierra's voice dropped to an excited whisper-shout that somehow carried across half the office anyway, making heads turn. "Have you seen him around your block lately? Because aren't you technically outside his territory? Like, significantly outside it?"

Andrew had rolled his chair over by now much to her active displeasure. Because of course this needed an audience. She fought the urge to groan out loud when he spoke up, balancing a can of Coke on his knee like this was just casual water cooler talk and not a discussion that made her want to walk out and quit her job. 

"Red Hood's established territory is Park Row," Andrew said, taking a casual sip of his soda like they were discussing weather patterns. "Especially Crime Alley, that whole area. You're what, six blocks north of that?" He tilted his head thoughtfully, and she could practically see the gears turning. "Maybe he's just expanding his coverage. Extending his purview into new neighborhoods."

Sierra's eyes widened, practically sparkling with excitement, and she knew immediately it was game over.

She groaned. Actually groaned this time, couldn't help it. She knew exactly where this was going now, could see the gears turning in Sierra's head, could predict the next three conversational beats like she was reading from a script. "You know where she lives now, do you, Drew?"

The look of absolute terror that flashed across Andrew's face would have been satisfying if she hadn’t been so irritated. He paled visibly, his eyes going wide as he realized the trap he'd just walked directly into, the implications of what he just said.

"No! No, not like that, I didn't mean—" His words dissolved into stammering, tripping over themselves like they couldn't escape his lips fast enough. "I only know because I dropped her off after we all went to that bar a few weeks ago, remember? I was just making sure everyone got home safe, it was the responsible thing to do—"

"Oh my God." Sierra looked like Christmas had come early and brought her birthday along for the ride. She whipped around to face her fully, practically vibrating in her chair with barely contained excitement. "Andrew took you home?!"

She let her head fall back against her headrest with a thunk, closing her eyes and praying for divine intervention. Lightning strike, earthquake, alien invasion, spontaneous combustion…anything would be preferable to this conversation right now.

"Sierra—" she said tiredly, hoping to derail this before it gained momentum.

"Did he go inside?" Sierra whisper-shouted again. "Did you invite him up? Oh my God, did you—"

"He's sitting right here," she grumbled, eyes still closed, jabbing a finger blindly in Andrew's general direction. "Why don't you ask him yourself instead of speculating about my love life like I'm not even present?"

"Because it's way more fun to watch you get all flustered," Sierra said, completely unrepentant, grinning manically. Her attention snapped to Andrew with the focus of a laser sight. "So? Did you go inside?"

Andrew looked like he desperately wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He was shaking his head so fast she thought it might detach from his neck and roll away across the office floor. "No! No, absolutely not. I walked her to her door, said goodnight, and went home. That's it. End of story. Nothing else happened."

"Nothing else?" Sierra pounced on the phrasing like a cat on a mouse. "So something happened?"

"Nothing happened!" Andrew's voice had gone up at least half an octave, cracking slightly. "I was being a decent human being! That's literally all! Can we please drop this?"

"You're both horrible," she muttered, finally opening her eyes to glare at them with all the force she could muster. "And can we please get back to the actually concerning part of this conversation? The part where there's apparently a gang tag on my building?"

She didn't dare mention that she had seen the tag the morning after he had drunk her coffee at her kitchen table. That she'd stood on her doorstep staring at it, recognizing the symbol, understanding immediately what it meant. 

She knew exactly what he was doing. Whether it was a warning or just a joke or something else entirely, he was telling her something. Keep in line. Stay aware. I'm watching. 

She'd soured at the thought, pushed it down. Tried to pretend it didn't bother her.

Luckily, Sierra took the bait.

"Vigilante tag," Sierra corrected, but her expression had shifted slightly, an edge of genuine concern creeping in around the edges. "And yeah, that's... actually kind of weird, right? Like, why would he mark your building specifically?"

"Maybe it's not about the building," Andrew offered, seemingly grateful for the subject change. "Maybe it's about the block? Claiming new territory or warning other criminals away from the area?"

"Or maybe," Sierra said slowly, her eyes going comically wide as she looked between the two of them like she was piecing together a conspiracy, "he knows someone who lives there. Someone he's keeping an eye on. Someone who's been writing articles about him."

The blood drained from her face so quickly she felt lightheaded. There was no way her coworkers could know about her run-ins with Red Hood. She would never be able to write an article about anything else ever again. They'd pigeonhole her, make her the vigilante reporter, the one who only covered the capes and masks.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, but her voice came out sharper than she would have liked. "Why would the Red Hood care about some random journalist? I write about a lot of things. It's not like I'm specifically—"

"You literally just published a critique of his methods two weeks ago," Sierra interrupted, leaning forward conspiratorially. "It was the front page. Everyone read it. The mayor's office commented on it."

"Lots of people write about the Red Hood," she protested weakly, even though she knew it was a losing argument.

"Yeah, but you're the only one doing it thoughtfully. Actually engaging with the moral questions instead of just fear-mongering or hero worship." Andrew had that look on his face now too, the one that meant he was connecting dots she didn't want connected. "And you live right on the edge of his territory. And now there's his symbol on your building." He paused, letting that sink in. "That's...that's a lot of coincidences."

"It's literally that. Just a coincidence," she insisted, even though her mind was racing back to three nights ago. To Red Hood standing in her kitchen, helmet pushed up just enough to drink coffee, that jagged scarring visible in the warm light. To the way he'd talked about Robin like he'd known him personally, the way he seemed to ease up and let his guard down for a few moments. How he seemed almost normal before she'd pushed too hard and he'd fled.

He had, for a brief time, seemed almost vulnerable beneath all the armor and violence.

"Is it though?" Sierra pressed, not willing to let it go. "Because honestly, if I were the Red Hood and I read an article that actually made good points about my methodology instead of just calling me a monster, I'd probably want to know more about the person who wrote it. Maybe even keep tabs on them."

"That's creepy," she said flatly, though Sierra had a point. Maybe that's why he had been watching her building, lurking on rooftops, appearing at her window. She hadn't even tried asking him about it the night he had entered her apartment. She would have most likely gotten some sarcastic answer back, some deflection that raised more questions than it answered.

"That's vigilante logic," Sierra countered with a shrug. "They're all creepy. It's kind of their whole thing. The watching from shadows, the stalking, the showing up unannounced."

Andrew was watching her now with an expression she couldn't quite read. Concerned, maybe. Curious. Something that made her skin prickle with awareness. "Have you seen him? Around your neighborhood?"

"What? No. Of course not." The lie came out too quickly and she saw Andrew's eyes narrow fractionally like he'd caught it. "I mean, I've been doing research in Crime Alley, so I've heard stories, but I haven't actually—"

"You've been going to Crime Alley?" Sierra's voice went up again, sharp with alarm. "Alone? At night?"

"During the day," she lied again. She was just racking up stretches of dishonesty today, building a house of cards made of falsehoods. "For interviews. Research. It's my job."

"Your job is going to get you killed if you keep doing things your way," Sierra said bluntly, her excitement giving way to genuine worry. "Especially if you're writing things that piss off armed vigilantes who apparently know where you live."

"I'm not…he's not—" She stopped, took a breath, tried again with more control. "The Red Hood doesn't hurt civilians. That's not his M.O. He targets criminals, people actively hurting others. I'm not in danger."

"You don't know that," Andrew said quietly. There was genuine concern in his voice now. "Look, I know you're trying to do good work here, and I respect that. I really do. But Sierra's right. You're poking at something dangerous. These vigilantes, they don't play by normal rules. They operate outside the law, outside accountability. And if the Red Hood is marking your building, that means he knows who you are and where you live. That's not nothing."

She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell them they were overreacting, that it was fine, that she had it under control. But the truth was sitting heavy in her chest now. 

Red Hood did know who she was. Had been watching her apartment from rooftops. Had slipped through her window and drunk coffee in her kitchen and told her things that made her chest ache with questions she was too terrified to ask.

How did he know so much about Robin? Why did talking about him hurt him so badly?

"I'll be careful," she said finally, which wasn't a lie but also wasn't the reassurance they were looking for.

Sierra studied her for a long moment blearily, then let out a long sigh. "You're going to keep investigating him, aren't you?"

"It's my job."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I'm giving you."

Sierra and Andrew exchanged a look, the kind that made her want to throw something at both of them.

"Just..." Sierra started, then stopped. Tried again, choosing her words carefully. "Just promise you'll be smart about it? And if anything weird happens, and I mean anything, you'll tell someone? Grant, the police, us?"

"I promise," she said, and meant it. Mostly.

"Good." Sierra settled back in her chair, though she still had that crease of worry between her brows. "Because I've gotten used to having you around, and I'd rather not have to break in a new cubicle neighbor because you got yourself murdered by a vigilante with boundary issues."

"How touching."

"I'm a giver." Sierra grinned, but it was strained, not reaching her eyes. "Seriously though. Be careful. Gotham's already dangerous enough without actively poking at the guys who operate outside the law."

"Noted." She turned back to her computer, trying to signal the end of this conversation, hoping they'd take the hint. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do."

Sierra made a show of rolling her eyes but wheeled back to her own desk. Andrew lingered by her cubicle, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a way that made it clear he had something else to say.

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Can we—" He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, toward the meeting rooms. "Can I talk to you? Privately?"

Her stomach sank. "Andrew—"

"Just for a minute. Please?"

She sighed, saved her document with more force than necessary, and stood. She had a feeling she knew where this was going. "Fine. But just a minute.”

They walked in silence to one of the small meeting rooms near the back of the office, the kind with glass walls that technically gave them privacy but still let the entire newsroom see that they were having a conversation. She left the door slightly ajar on purpose, leaning against the table rather than sitting.

Andrew ignored her silent cues and closed the door behind them. He ran a hand through his hair—dirty blonde, perpetually a little too long, like he kept meaning to get it cut but never quite got around to it.

He was attractive in that conventional way that probably worked on most people: tall, decent build, clear blue eyes, the kind of smile that put people at ease. Nice face, strong features. Good job, steady income, no obvious red flags beyond the occasional too-many-beers situation.

Just...not her type.

She'd never been able to articulate exactly what her type was, but standing here looking at Andrew, she knew with certainty he wasn't it. Maybe it was the hair. She'd always dated brunettes, she realized distantly. Typically men that her parents would disapprove of. 

Andrew was too... light. Too safe. Too predictable. The kind of guy you brought home to meet your parents, not the kind that made your pulse race.

Which wasn't fair to him. She knew it wasn't fair. But knowing something logically and feeling it emotionally were two very different things.

"I wanted to apologize," Andrew started, not quite meeting her eyes, focusing instead on a spot somewhere over her left shoulder. "About Sierra. That whole thing out there. She gets excited about gossip and doesn't know when to quit, and I shouldn't have mentioned knowing where you live."

She waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. That's just Sierra being Sierra. I'm used to it."

"Still. It was awkward, and I didn't mean to make it more awkward by letting slip that I know where you live. That came out wrong, like I've been... I don't know, keeping track of you or something."

"Andrew, seriously. It's fine. You walked me home from a bar. That's not weird. That's actually nice." She softened her voice because he genuinely looked uncomfortable now. "I appreciated it, for what it's worth. Not a lot of guys would have bothered."

He smiled at that, small but earnest, and his posture relaxing fractionally. "Good. That's... good."

A pause. She waited, sensing there was more, that this wasn't the real reason he'd pulled her aside.

"About that night," he continued, and now he was definitely not meeting her eyes, focusing instead on a spot somewhere over her left shoulder. "I'm sorry if I drank too much. Or if I said anything inappropriate. I know I can get a little... overly friendly when I've had a few."

"You were fine," she assured him, meaning it. "A little flirty, maybe, but nothing I couldn't handle. And you were a perfect gentleman when we got to my building. So no harm done."

"Yeah?" He looked at her now, something hopeful flickering in his expression, vulnerable in a way that made her chest tighten with guilt. "Because I've been thinking about that night and..." He took a breath, seemed to gather courage, squaring his shoulders. "Would you want to grab a drink sometime? Like, just the two of us. Not the whole office group. An actual...you know. A date."

Oh.

She'd known this was coming. Had seen it building over the past few months in the way he found excuses to stop by her desk, the way he laughed a little too hard at things she said that weren't particularly funny, the way he'd offered to walk her home sometimes. But knowing it was coming didn't make it easier to figure out how to respond now that he'd actually asked.

She hesitated, her mind spinning through calculations she didn't entirely want to be making.

She didn't feel anything for Andrew. Not really. No spark, no flutter in her chest, no magnetic pull that made her want to lean closer when they talked. He was nice. Attractive enough. Had a good job, seemed stable, made her laugh occasionally. But there was no charge there, no electricity, none of that breathless feeling that made you want to know everything about someone, that kept you up at night thinking about them.

But.

That didn't mean something couldn't grow, right? People built relationships on less than lightning strikes all the time. Sometimes attraction developed slowly, built over time as you got to know someone, as familiarity bred affection. Maybe Andrew was one of those people, someone who got more interesting the longer you knew them. Maybe she just needed to give him a real chance, outside the office, without deadline stress or the constant background noise of the newsroom or coworkers watching.

Besides, she hadn't been on a date in...how long had it been? Over a year? Since before she'd moved to Gotham, definitely. Before the Gazette, before her whole life had become work and occasional drinks with coworkers. Her life had narrowed to this singular focus—the stories, the people who needed their stories told, the problems she was trying to expose—and somewhere along the way she'd stopped making space for anything else.

Sometimes, late at night between her four walls, she got lonely. Not lonely in the sense of wanting company. She liked her solitude, needed it even. But lonely in the deeper sense, the kind that sat deep in her chest and whispered that maybe there was supposed to be more to life than just work. That maybe having someone to share things with, someone to come home to, wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

And what was the harm in one date? In trying? Andrew was a decent guy. He clearly liked her. Maybe that was enough to start with.

"Okay," she heard herself say. "Yeah. We could do that."

Andrew's face lit up like she'd just told him he'd won the lottery. "Really? I mean…great! That's great." He was grinning now, wide and boyish in his enthusiasm, and she felt a small pang of guilt that his excitement so vastly outweighed her own tentativeness. "Are you free Friday? There's this new place in the Diamond District, Italian, supposed to be really good—"

"Friday works," she interrupted gently, before he could get too far ahead of himself. "But maybe somewhere a little more casual?"

Less formal would make it feel less like a date and more like a get-together, which would take some of the pressure off her going into it. 

God, she was such an asshole.

"Right, yeah, of course." He was nodding enthusiastically, already planning. "There's a good pub in Midtown. Real food, decent beer, not too loud. How's that sound?"

"That sounds perfect." She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile, even as a voice in the back of her head whispered that she was pathetic and she knew it.

"Okay. Great. I'll make a reservation, or do pubs not do reservations? I'll figure it out." He was talking faster now, nervous energy spilling out in a rush. "Seven? Or is that too early? Too late?"

She gave him the sweetest smile she could muster, the kind that felt like a mask. "Seven's fine, Andrew."

"Right. Seven. Friday." He was backing toward the door now, still grinning like he couldn't quite believe his luck. "This is…I'm really glad you said yes."

"Me too," she said, and tried to mean it. Tried to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest, the sense that she was making a mistake she couldn't quite articulate.

He left the meeting room practically bouncing, radiating joy, and she watched him go with a strange mixture of fondness and resignation. He was sweet. He was trying. Maybe that was enough. Maybe she was just being impossible, holding out for something that didn't exist, chasing a feeling she'd imagined.

She walked back to her desk slowly, ignoring Sierra's smug look from across the divider and sat down in front of her computer. The article she'd been working on stared back at her, cursor blinking accusingly. The Chen article. She wanted it finished before the weekend.

But her mind kept drifting to other things. To the red hood symbol spray-painted outside her building. To coffee in her kitchen with a man whose face she'd barely seen, who seemed like both an enigma and just a ball of trauma all at once, layers upon layers she couldn't quite penetrate. To the way he'd talked about Robin. Past tense and pained, like talking about someone he'd lost. A memory that haunted. 

She shook her head, forced herself to focus on the screen. She had a date on Friday. With Andrew. A nice, normal guy who worked a nice, normal job and who probably wouldn't show up at her window in the middle of the night with guns and a philosophy about justice that made her chest ache with complicated feelings she didn't want to examine.

That was good. That was healthy. That was what normal people did. They went on dates with colleagues who asked them out, not... whatever the alternative was. Not pining after vigilantes who beat people bloody in alleys.

She started typing, determined to get work done, determined not to think about whether the symbol would really be there when she got home.

Determined not to wonder why the thought of it made her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

—--

When she arrived back at her apartment, the sun had already set and the sounds of the evening rush had died down to a low murmur. There was nothing but the occasional passing car and the low, ever-present rumble of the city. Sirens in the distance, muffled voices from open windows, the rattle of the subway beneath the streets like the city's heartbeat.

She stood on her front step, staring up at the red hood symbol spray-painted above the entrance.

Staring was the wrong term. She glared at it furiously, letting her anger build with every second she spent looking at it.

It was exactly where Sierra had said it would be, impossible to miss once you were actually looking for it. Bold red paint, still relatively fresh based on how vibrant the color was, positioned directly above the door at eye level. Not large enough to be ostentatious, but prominent enough that anyone entering or leaving would see it. Would know.

A territorial marker. A warning. A message.

And the message, as far as she could tell, was clear as day: Watch yourself. I'm watching. You're mine.

She'd spent the entire subway ride home getting progressively angrier about it, letting the fury build with each stop, each passing minute. The audacity of it all. Showing up at her apartment, drinking her coffee, having what felt like an actual conversation, almost something like understanding between them — and then turning around and tagging her building like she was some kind of problem that needed monitoring. Like he had the right to mark her space, to make it clear he could show up whenever he wanted.

Was this about the article? Her critique of his methods? Was this his way of telling her to back off and to stop writing about him? To fall in line or face consequences?

Or was it simpler than that? Just pure intimidation. The kind of power play that men seemed to think worked on women. I know where you live. I'm watching. Be careful what you write about me. Step out of line and see what happens.

Well, fuck that.

She didn't bother going inside. Just turned on her heel, shoved her hands in her jacket pockets—knife on the right, pepper spray on the left—and started walking. Fast, purposeful strides that ate up the blocks between her building and Park Row with a barely contained sense of fury. 

She was going to find him. She was going to track him down in whatever dark corner of Crime Alley he was currently lurking in, and she was going to tell him exactly what she thought about his little territorial pissing contest. About thinking he could intimidate her into silence. About being a hypocritical asshole who preached about protecting people while simultaneously harassing the one journalist who was actually trying to understand his perspective, who'd given him a platform when everyone else just called him a monster.

The walk to Crime Alley took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of her anger building with every step, fueling her forward even as the streets got darker, more dangerous. The smart thing would have been to wait until daylight. To approach this rationally, professionally. To maybe not go looking for an armed vigilante while pissed off enough to do something stupid.

But she'd apparently left smart back at the office along with her common sense and any sense of self-preservation.

Crime Alley at night was a different beast than during the day. The shadows were deeper, more absolute, like they had weight and substance. The few working streetlights seemed to create more darkness than they dispelled, their sickly yellow glow making everything outside their radius impossible to see clearly, creating pockets of absolute black. She could hear things moving in that darkness. Footsteps, voices, the scuttle of rats or worse, sounds that made her skin prickle with awareness.

Her hand moved to her knife, fingers wrapping around the handle through the fabric of her pocket, finding comfort in its solid presence.

She walked deeper into the maze of streets and alleys, scanning rooftops, looking for any sign of him. The helmet would catch light, and would be visible even in the dark. She just had to—

"Well, well. What do we have here?"

She spun around, heart leaping into her throat.

A man stepped out from a recessed doorway, materializing from shadows like he'd been waiting for exactly this moment. Tall, rangy, wearing a casual posture that came from being comfortable with violence. Mid-thirties maybe, wearing a stained jacket and jeans that had seen better days, clothes that had absorbed the grime of the city.

His eyes tracked over her in a way that made her skin crawl. She met his leer head-on with a sharp glare regardless, refusing to show fear.

"You lost, sweetheart?" He took a step closer, and she saw the knife in his hand. Longer than hers and with a serrated edge that looked like it had been sharpened recently, gleaming dully in the weak light. "This ain't a good neighborhood for pretty girls to be wandering around alone."

Her hand tightened on her own knife, adjusting her grip. "I'm fine. Just passing through."

"Yeah?" He smiled, showing teeth that were yellowed and crooked. "Well, there's a toll for passing through. Call it a... safety tax." Another step, closing the distance between them. "Your purse should cover it. And that nice jacket. Maybe your phone too."

"I don't think so." She pulled out her knife, flicked it open in one smooth motion she'd practiced a hundred times in her apartment. Her heart was hammering but her hand was steady. The best thing to do was to avoid displaying any sense of hesitation. "Back off."

He laughed, a wet, phlegmy sound. "Oh, she's got a knife! That's cute. Really cute."

He moved fast, lunging forward with his own blade leading, going for her throat.

Training kicked in. The self-defense classes her father had insisted on, the practice she'd done in her apartment until the movements became muscle memory. She dodged left, felt his knife whistle past her shoulder close enough that she felt the breeze of its passage, and brought her own blade up in a tight arc.

It connected with his forearm. Not deep, but enough. Enough to draw blood, to make him curse and jerk back with a hiss of pain.

"You bitch—"

He came at her again, angrier now, sloppy with rage. She knew with sudden, terrifying clarity that she was outmatched. He was bigger, stronger with a longer reach and more experience with real violence. And she'd just pissed him off enough that he wasn't going to settle for her purse anymore. He was going to hurt her, going to make her pay for having the audacity to fight back.

She raised her knife again, heartbeat bleeding into her ears until it was all she could hear, preparing for the impact—

A blur of red and black dropped from above, landing between them with enough force to crack the pavement, sending up dust and small fragments of concrete.

The thug had maybe half a second to register what was happening before Red Hood's fist connected with his face. The sound was awful. Bone and cartilage crunched, the sound so visceral that it made her stomach turn. The thug went down hard, his knife clattering away across the concrete.

But Red Hood didn't stop.

He followed the man down, grabbed him by the collar, hauled him partially upright just to hit him again. And again. And again. Each blow landed with brutal precision. His jaw, his ribs, his face again — methodical violence delivered with terrifying efficiency. 

The thug tried to raise his hands, tried to protect himself, but Red Hood batted them aside like they were nothing.

"Red Hood—" she started, her voice weak with shock.

Another punch. Blood was spraying, painting the concrete in dark spatters she could see even in the dim light, creating abstract patterns like grotesque art.

"Red Hood!"

The thug was barely moving now, just making small, hurt noises that might have been pleas. His face was a mess. Nose clearly broken, bent at an unnatural angle. One eye already swelling shut, the other rolling back. Blood pouring from his mouth, teeth visible through split lips.

There was so much blood. Too much. It was everywhere—on Red Hood's gloves, on the ground, splattered across the thug's clothes, pooling beneath his head.

She moved without thinking, grabbed Red Hood's arm mid-swing and pulled with all her strength.

"Stop! You're going to kill him!"

For a second, a second that felt like a minute dragging by in slow motion, she thought he might turn that violence on her. His whole body was wound tight, vibrating with barely contained rage, coiled like a spring compressed past its breaking point. Through the helmet's lenses she could sense nothing but white light and fury, something primal and uncontrolled.

A beat passed. He stared at her for a moment that stretched impossibly long, chest heaving, his breath mechanical and harsh through the modulator.

He dropped the thug.

The man crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, unconscious or close to it, chest rising and falling in shallow with pained breaths.

Red Hood stood, taking a step back, creating distance. His gloves were covered in blood, dark and slick. He flexed them at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach for the man again, to finish what he'd started.

The adrenaline washed away from her slowly, draining from her system and leaving behind cold reality. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, her hands shaking. The taste of bile coated the back of her throat.

"What the fuck," she breathed, staring at the unconscious body. At the pool of blood surrounding the wheezing man, dark against the dirt and concrete. "What the fuck was that? You could have...he wasn't a threat anymore, you could have killed him—"

"He pulled a knife on you." Red Hood's voice was distorted by the helmet but she could hear the anger underneath, hot and barely controlled. "He pulled a fucking knife on you."

"So you beat him half to death?!"

"So I made sure he'd never pull a knife on you again!" He rounded on her, and even though he was several feet away she took an instinctive step back, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. "What the hell are you doing here? In Crime Alley? At night? Alone?"

"I was looking for you!"

"Well congratulations, you fucking found me!" He gestured sharply at the unconscious thug, the motion violent and jerky. "Along with every other piece of shit who sees a woman walking alone and thinks she's easy prey! What part of 'this is dangerous' do you not understand?!"

"I can take care of myself—"

"Oh really, princess?" He moved closer, and she could feel the fury radiating off him like heat, like something physical pressing against her skin. "Is that why you were about to get robbed? Stabbed? Worse? Because you were handling it so well? You’re fucking insane!"

She gawked at him, frazzled by his tangible fury. Still reeling from what had just happened, from how close she'd come to real harm. "I stabbed him first!"

"With a pocket knife!" He was right in front of her now, close enough that she could smell the blood on his gloves. "Against a guy twice your size with a serrated blade and zero conscience! Do you have any idea how badly that could have gone? What he would have done to you?"

"I was fine—"

"You were lucky!" His voice had gone ragged, breaking around the edges. "You were lucky I happened to be close enough to hear. Lucky I got here before he—" He cut himself off, turned away sharply, one hand coming up to his helmet like his head hurt. "Jesus Christ. What the fuck were you thinking?"

"I was thinking," she said, her own anger pushing past the shock and fear, "that I wanted to give you a piece of my mind about tagging my goddamn building!"

He went very still. Turned back slowly, deliberately. "What?"

"The red hood symbol. Above my front door." She crossed her arms, partly defensive, partly to stop her hands from shaking, to hide the way she was trembling. The adrenaline crash was hitting her hard and fast, and she didn't want Red Hood to notice. Didn't need to give him any more ammunition. "Real subtle. Really sending a clear message there."

"A message." He repeated it flatly, like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"Don't play dumb. I write one article critiquing your methods and suddenly my building's marked?" Her voice was rising now, weeks of frustration and fear and confusion spilling over like a dam breaking. "What is that, a warning? Intimidation? Your way of telling me to back off, to fall in line or else?"

"Intimidate you?" He sounded genuinely shocked. "Are you…did you walk into Crime Alley, looking for me, at night, alone, because you thought I tagged your building to threaten you?"

"What else am I supposed to think?! You mark my building like it's territory, like you're claiming it or—or warning me off or—"

"I did it to protect you!"

She stopped mid-sentence, mouth still open, brain struggling to process the shift, the raw honesty in his voice.

"You... what?"

"I marked your building, you idiot," he hissed with quiet rage. "To let every criminal in a ten-block radius know that the place is under my protection. That anyone who touches that building, anyone who goes near the people inside, answers to me." His hands clenched into fists at his sides, blood still dripping from his gloves. "That they'd have to go through me first."

She stared at him, speechless, her anger evaporating like smoke.

"You published an article calling me a symptom of systemic failure," he continued, taking a step toward her, his voice gaining intensity. "You made yourself a target for every gang member, every dealer, every piece of shit who thinks journalists are enemies. You painted a bullseye on your back and then kept walking around the Narrows like nothing had changed. With your head held high like a goddamn moron who doesn't understand that some people don't give a fuck about press credentials."

"Excuse me, I don't need—"

"You do need." Another step, closing the distance between them. "Because you're smart and brave and stubborn and you don't know when to stop pushing. You can’t win these kinds of fights with a notebook and your goddamn good intentions." His voice had gone rough again, scraped raw. "You're fucking naive. You think you're invincible because you have principles."

He was close now. Very close. Close enough that she could see the blood splattered on his armor, could hear the slight mechanical distortion of his breathing through the helmet, faster than it should be. Could smell the cigarette smoke clinging to the seams of his jacket, see the muck from the alley on his gloves, dark and viscous.

"You think I'm harassing you?" His voice had gone quieter, more intense. "I'm trying to keep you alive, sweetheart. Because apparently you're determined to get yourself killed proving a point on your little crusade to save the world through words."

"I don't need you to protect me," she said, but it came out weaker than she intended, less certain, Her back had hit something solid. The alley wall, she realized distantly. When had she backed up that far? When had he gotten so close?

"Yes, you do," he said, moving into her space, close enough that she could feel the heat of him radiating through his armor. "I don't care what you think about me. I don't care if you think I'm a monster or a symptom or whatever the fuck your next article calls me." His voice dropped lower, more intense. "I care that you're still alive to think at all. I care that you're still breathing, still writing, still being an idiotic girl who thinks she can change the world."

Her heart was hammering. From the adrenaline, she told herself desperately. From the fight, from standing in a dark alley with an unconscious body ten feet away, from the violence she'd just witnessed. Not from the way he was looking at her, or seemed to be looking at her. It was impossible to tell through the helmet but she could feel his gaze like a physical weight. 

Not from the way he'd said everything like it mattered to him personally, like the thought of her dying was something he couldn't tolerate.

"You're insane," she said, but there was no heat in it. Her brain was racing, trying to understand what was happening here. Something felt familiar about his words, about the way he was standing, about the cadence of his speech.

"You strolled into Crime Alley looking for me because you were pissed about graffiti," he countered, and she could hear something almost like amusement beneath the anger now. "Who's the insane one here, princess?"

"Still you. Definitely you." There was no bite to her voice now. She sounded breathless and she knew it, could hear the way her voice had gotten softer and more uncertain. But her heart was hammering through her chest, her pulse so loud she could hear it in her ears.

"Yeah?" He leaned in slightly, one hand coming up to brace against the wall beside her head. Not touching her or trapping her, she could duck under his arm easily if she wanted. But she didn't move. Couldn't move. Was caught in whatever this moment was. "You came looking for me."

She shivered despite herself. "To yell at you."

"You came looking." His voice had dropped lower, intimate despite the distortion. "You could have called the police. Could have written another exposé about territorial vigilantes. Could have even ignored it. But you came looking for me. In person. At night. In the most dangerous part of the city."

"I was angry—"

"You were worried." He said it with certainty, like he could see straight through her carefully constructed walls. He leaned in even closer. "You thought I was threatening you and it pissed you off, but underneath all that you were worried. About what it meant. About why I'd do it."

She glared up at him but her breathing had gone shallow, too rapid. "Don't tell me what I was feeling."

"Then tell me I'm wrong." If his mask was off, she was certain his lips would be grazing her ear, his breath ghosting across her skin in a way that would make her knees weak.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Couldn't find words that weren't lies, couldn't force out denials that would crumble the moment they hit the air between them.

They were chest to chest now, or would be if he moved another inch forward. She could feel the warmth radiating off him through his armor, through her jacket—heat that shouldn't be this palpable. Could smell leather and gunpowder and something underneath that was becoming dangerously familiar now. Her pulse hammered against her throat, a frantic drumbeat in her own ears.

And she didn't know if she wanted to shove him away or pull him closer. Didn't know which impulse was winning.

"You can't keep doing this," she said, but her voice still came out weaker than she intended. "Showing up. Marking my building. You don't even know me."

"Now who's telling me what I'm feeling, hm?" His other hand came up, not touching her but close, fingers curling near her shoulder like he wanted to but was physically restraining himself. Like touching her would shock him. "I know you're trying to change things. That you actually give a damn about the people everyone else ignores. I know you're brave enough. or stupid enough, to walk into Crime Alley looking for trouble." A pause, weighted with something heavier. "I know you desperately want to know what happened to Robin. Is that why you came here, really? Is that why you’re still hunting me down?"

Her breath hitched. "Don't—"

"He would've liked you," Red Hood continued, and there was something raw in his voice now, something bitter. "Would've told you to keep fighting. Keep writing. Keep being reckless and stubborn. Not enough of that, in this city."

She froze. Blinked up at him, her thoughts scattering. He was so damn close. Close enough that she could see her own reflection distorted in those white lenses. "How do you know that?"

"Because—" He stopped, and for a moment she could have sworn he caught himself, swallowed back words that threatened to expose too much. The hand beside her head curled into a fist against the brick, his knuckles going white even through the gloves. "Because he cared about the same things you do. Believed in the same things. And he would've wanted someone to keep fighting for them after he—" His voice cracked, splintered at the edges. "After he couldn't anymore."

She was barely breathing. Her mind was racing, puzzle pieces clicking together with devastating clarity, scraps she'd been collecting from their interactions. Her focus was hazy with how close he was to her, how tense and electric the air felt between them, but something inside her brain was clicking. 

I care that you're still alive to think at all.

She felt like her knees were about to give out beneath her.

"Red Hood—"

"Don't." He pushed off the wall abruptly, creating distance between them so fast she actually swayed forward before catching herself. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."

She took a step forward. Another. Her voice came out as a plea, more desperate than she realized. "What if I do want the answers?"

He laughed, but it was hollow, empty. "No, you don't. Trust me." He turned away, toward the mouth of the alley, still clearly tense. "C'mon. I'll take you home."

The dismay that radiated off her was palpable, thick enough to choke on. "I can get myself—"

"You can’t take the subway from here and you're not walking." His voice brooked no argument, iron wrapped in distortion. "I'm taking you home. End of discussion."

She wanted to protest, to insist she didn't need an escort, and didn't need protection. But the adrenaline was draining out of her system now and her legs felt more shaky than reliable. The thug was groaning softly behind them now and she didn't want to be here when he woke up. Didn't want to explain any of this to the cops who would eventually show up. Didn't want to give Red Hood another reason to finish what he'd started, to add another body to his count.

"Fine," she muttered, looking down at her shoes.

He led her out of the alley, down a side street to where she stopped short, her breath catching.

A motorcycle was parked in the shadows between two buildings. Not just any motorcycle—this thing was a beast. All black with red accents that matched his helmet, sleek and predatory-looking, the kind of bike that was built for speed and violence in equal measure. 

Custom, she realized immediately. Had to be. The armor plating on the sides, the reinforced frame, modifications she couldn't even name but could tell were there — none of it was something you could buy on the commercial market.

"You've got to be kidding me," she gaped, whipping around to stare at him with wide eyes.

The helmet tilted toward her with what she imagined was curiosity. "What?"

She snorted, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline as she gestured pointedly at the bike. "I'm not getting on that thing."

"Yes, you are." He was already moving toward it with easy familiarity, pulling something from a compartment on the side. "Unless you'd prefer I call you a cab and wait around until it shows up? Which, given that we're in Crime Alley and you just pulled a knife on someone, seems like a spectacularly bad idea."

She stared at the motorcycle with deep suspicion, arms crossed defensively. She'd never been on one before. Never had any desire to be on one. They seemed like death traps on two wheels, the kind of thing people rode right before they became statistics.

"It's perfectly safe," he said, probably reading the incredulity in her expression. 

She gave him a flat, deadpan look. "Given your current career choice, forgive me if your definition of 'safe' is probably wildly different from mine."

"Fair point." He pulled out a helmet from the bike— sleek, with full-face coverage that looked far too high-quality for the average Gothamite. Held it out to her like an offering, or a challenge. "But I've been riding for years and I've never crashed. Well." He paused, tilting his head in consideration. "Never crashed on accident."

She wanted to throw something at him. "That's incredibly reassuring, thank you for that."

"Would you prefer I lie?"

"I'd prefer you let me walk home."

"Yeah, because you've proven to be full of good ideas lately. Helmet. Now."

She took it from him with a scowl, turning it over in her hands. It was heavier than she expected, solid and well-made, probably worth as much as a more than a few months of her rent. The visor was tinted dark enough that she wouldn't be able to see much through it at night. "How do I even—"

She tried to put it on, but her hands were still shaking. The adrenaline crash was in full effect now and she couldn't figure out how to get it to sit right on her head. It kept sliding, sitting too far forward and blocking her vision entirely.

"Here." Red Hood's voice was softer now, gentler. Completely different from the pure fury he'd shown minutes ago. He took the helmet from her fumbling hands with unexpected care. "Let me."

He stepped closer, back in her space, towering over her. He lifted the helmet and positioned it properly on her head with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything else about him, pushing it down carefully.

She froze, not expecting the tenderness. Not expecting him to touch her like she was something fragile.

She hoped desperately then that she didn't smell from the day, that he couldn't feel how fast her heart was beating, couldn't sense the way her pulse jumped at every point of contact.

His fingers brushed against her jaw as he adjusted the fit, large hands surprisingly deft as they tucked stray strands of hair out of the way delicately. 

"Okay?" His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. Her chest felt too tight, too constricted, like her ribs had shrunk.

She swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting her own voice to respond.

He fastened the chin strap, taking time not to pinch her skin, fingers grazing her throat. When he was done, he tapped the top of the helmet twice, two solid knocks that rang throughout the enclosed space.

"There. Now you won't crack your skull open if I have to brake hard."

Even with the helmet on, she still managed to shoot him a frown. "Still not reassuring."

"I'm not trying to reassure you. I'm trying to keep you alive. Don't you listen?" He pushed her visor down with one gloved finger, and then swung his leg over the bike with practiced ease, settling into the seat lazily. The engine roared to life, loud and aggressive, all barely contained power. "Get on."

She stared at the small space behind him, at the way she'd have to press against his back, wrap her arms around him to hold on. The intimacy of it made her hesitate. She was hyperaware of every point of contact that was about to happen, of how close they'd be.

"I don't bite," he said, and she could hear the amusement threading through his voice even over the roar of the engine. "Usually."

"Not helping," she grumbled, but her traitorous body was already moving.

"Wasn't trying to help," he patted the seat behind him. "I was trying to get you to hurry up before someone sees us and I have to explain why I'm giving a civilian a ride."

She took a shaky breath, gave a silent prayer to any god that might be listening, and climbed on behind him.

Immediately the problem she'd dreaded became glaringly apparent. There was nowhere to put her hands that wasn't on him. The bike was designed for this, for a passenger to wrap themselves around the driver like a second skin, but knowing that didn't make it less awkward.

"You're going to have to hold on," he said with thinly veiled amusement. "I'm not going slow, and if you fall off, I'm not stopping to pick you up."

She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper and dug her nails into her palms, resisting the urge to elbow him between the shoulder blades. "You're a terrible person."

"Tell me something I don’t know. You’re stalling, princess."

She was. She wrapped her arms around his waist, tentatively at first, trying desperately to maintain some kind of space between them. But the moment he revved the engine, the bike thrumming beneath them, she pressed closer involuntarily, arms tightening around his midsection.

Even through his armor, through her jacket and layers of tactical gear, she could feel the heat of him. The solid muscle underneath all that protection, the way his breathing shifted and deepened as she held on. 

The proximity was overwhelming, more intense than when they'd been chest to chest in the alley. This felt inescapable. Her thighs were pressed against his, her chest against his back, her arms encircling his torso like she was trying to merge with him.

The realization hit her like a freight train. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this close to a man and enjoyed it even half as much.

"Good?" His voice came through distorted but she could feel it rumble through his chest through her arms. She fought the urge to shiver. 

"Define good," she managed, trying desperately to focus on anything other than the heat and hardness of him.

"Still on the bike. Not actively panicking."

"What's the opposite of 'actively'?"

"Don’t be a smartass." And then he kicked off.

The acceleration was immediate and terrifying, stealing the breath from her lungs. She gasped, arms tightening instinctively, pressing herself even closer into his back as the world blurred into streaks of light and shadow around them. 

He navigated through the narrow streets with reckless precision, taking corners that made her stomach drop, weaving between potholes and debris like it was second nature. Like the bike was an extension of his body.

She should have been terrified. Should have been screaming at him to slow down, to be careful, to drive like a normal person instead of someone with a death wish and no regard for traffic laws.

But there was something exhilarating about it. Something that made her blood sing. The wind whipping past them, cold and sharp against any exposed skin. The power of the engine between her legs, thrumming with barely leashed violence. The way he moved with the bike like they were one entity. 

She could see why he liked this. It matched everything about him. The recklessness, the attachment to danger, the need for control and speed. An adrenaline rush that probably rivaled the high of hunting criminals.

It took less than ten minutes to reach her building, a trip that would have taken twenty on the subway with two transfers and too many stops. He didn't stop out front where anyone could see them, instead turning down the alley beside her building with expert precision, killing the engine in the shadows where no one would see them from the street.

The sudden silence was deafening, almost painful. She could hear her own breathing, harsh and quick inside the helmet, echoing back at her. Could feel his own pulse through the points where their bodies were still pressed together, where she was still holding on like he might disappear if she let go.

She should let go. Should climb off the bike, thank him for the ride, go inside, and pretend this whole night hadn't happened. Pretend her body wasn't still singing with adrenaline and something far more dangerous.

She didn't move. Couldn't make herself.

"You can let go now," he said quietly. Was that breathlessness in his voice? "Unless you're planning on holding on all night."

She was suddenly glad she was wearing the helmet so he couldn't see the flush burning across her cheeks.

She shook herself out of whatever stupor had taken hold of her and released him slowly, her arms feeling strangely empty as she pulled back. She climbed off the bike on shaky legs, partly from the ride, and partly from everything else crashing down on her at once.

She fumbled with the helmet strap, her fingers trembling too much to manage the clasp. Red Hood reached out without hesitation and unclasped it for her with the same gentle efficiency he'd used to put it on. He lifted it off her head, careful not to pull her hair or jostle her head too much.

"There," he said, and she swore she could hear something soft in his voice again. "Safe and sound."

She stared at the helmet in his hands, her eyes trailing down to the blood still staining his gloves. They were dry now, just dark red splotches against the black leather that looked almost black themselves. "Can I ask you something?"

He paused. "You can ask. Doesn't mean I'll answer."

She fought the urge to glare at him again, opting instead for a deep inhale. 

"Why do you care?" The question came out smaller than she intended, vulnerable in a way she hated. "About whether I'm safe. About tagging my building. Why does it matter to you?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that she thought he might not answer, might just leave her hanging with this question like he'd left so many others unanswered. She didn't miss how he shifted, how his fingers flexed in his gloves against his thighs like he was fighting the urge to reach for something. He turned away slightly, like he couldn't let her look at him. "You gonna overthink this one too? C'mon, sweetheart. Use that big brain of yours and figure it out."

Her throat felt too tight, like someone was squeezing it. "Red Hood—"

"Stay out of trouble," he said, cutting her off before she could finish the thought, before she could push for the answer they both knew she wanted. "Go inside. Lock your door. And for fuck’s sake, don't go wandering into Crime Alley looking for me again."

"What if I need to find you?"

"You won't."

"Oh, you just know everything now?"

He didn't answer. Just reached for the helmet she'd been wearing, placed it back in the compartment with deliberate care. His hand moved to the ignition, fingers curling around the key. He was preparing to leave, ready to disappear into the night like he'd never been there at all. Like none of this had happened.

She hated it.

She hated the way he could just do this. Show up when he wanted, leave when it suited him, dodge every question that mattered while demanding answers from her. Hated that he could pin her against walls and mark her building and beat men half to death to protect her, but couldn't give her the one thing she actually needed: the truth.

And she knew why. Of course she knew why. They both knew why he was dodging, dancing around it, refusing to confirm what was sitting right there between them like a third presence, like a ghost. Neither of them wanted to be the first to say it out loud. To make it real. To cross that line that, once crossed, couldn't be uncrossed.

But she was tired. Bone-deep exhausted. Tired of games, tired of half-truths, tired of feeling like she was constantly two steps behind while he held all the cards and controlled every interaction. She'd walked into Crime Alley tonight looking for answers, and she'd be damned if she left with nothing but more questions.

"You looked a lot better with the cape."

The words hung in the air like a gunshot, echoing in the enclosed space of the alley.

He froze. His entire body went rigid in a way that was answer enough even before the silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. His hand was still on the ignition but he wasn't moving. She wasn’t even sure if he was breathing.

She watched him, watched the way his shoulders had locked up like someone had replaced his spine with steel, the way every muscle had gone tense. Watched him process what she'd just said, what she'd pieced together, what she knew.

He had always seemed familiar. All it had taken was the right words, the right cadence, and she had known. 

"You—" Her voice cracked, breaking on the word. She swallowed hard and tried again, softer this time. "I never thanked you. For letting me use your quotes. For trusting me with your words." 

Her throat was tight, burning with emotion she couldn't quite name. "I just... thank you. You changed my life."

He said nothing. Didn't move. Didn't deny it. Didn't confirm it either, but the lack of denial was confirmation enough, wasn't it? The silence was its own answer.

The seconds ticked by. Five. Ten. Fifteen. She counted them in her head, counted her own heartbeats thundering against her ribs like they were trying to escape, counted the ways this could go wrong, all the ways he could react badly to this.

Then, slowly, achingly slow, he finally turned his head. Looked back over his shoulder at her.

And everything about him was different.

The measured cockiness was gone. The dangerous swagger, the aggressive confidence, the barely contained violence that usually defined his movements and his presence. All of it had vanished like smoke, leaving behind something she'd never seen from him before.

What was left was something rawer. Younger. More vulnerable than she'd imagined he could be.

He moved hesitantly, turning on the bike to face her fully but not getting off, not coming closer. She could  tell he was afraid. He didn't know what to do with this moment, with what she knew. With the fact that his secret was out and exposed.

He looked like a kid again. Like the fifteen-year-old boy who'd walked her home years ago and teased her about her article, before whatever had broken him and remade him into this.

She didn't move. She could only stand there and watch him wrestle with something she couldn't see, some internal war playing out behind that helmet that hid everything.

He didn't say anything. A long, heavy breath escaped through the helmet's filters, shaky and uncertain.

And just like that, like flipping a switch, the edge was back. He straightened up, turned away from her, and put his hands back on the bike. The Red Hood persona snapped into place like armor over whatever vulnerability she'd glimpsed for those few precious seconds.

His hand twisted the ignition.

"Wait—"

But he didn't wait. The engine roared to life, one heavy rev that shattered the fragile quiet of the moment, and he was gone. Peeling out of the alley in a spray of gravel and exhaust that made her stumble back, the bike's growl fading into a distant rumble and then nothing at all. Just a disappearing shadow swallowed by Gotham's endless dark.

She stood there, arm still half-raised like she could somehow call him back through force of will alone. She stared at the empty space where he'd been, where the warmth of him still seemed to linger in the cold air.

The silence that followed felt deafening. Oppressive.

She sank down onto her front steps heavily, hands coming up to cradle her head like she could hold herself together through pressure alone. Her elbows were braced on her knees, her breaths sharp. 

Above her, the red hood symbol glared down in the harsh streetlight, watching. 

—--

The bar Andrew had chosen was nice. Exposed brick walls worn smooth by decades of weather, warm Edison bulbs casting everyone in a flattering amber glow instead of the harsh fluorescents that made most people look washed out. A decent beer selection was scrawled in chalk behind the bar, the handwriting almost artistic. Not too loud, not too quiet. Where actual conversation could happen without shouting, where you could hear yourself think.

She should have been enjoying herself.

Andrew sat across from her in their booth, animated and smiling, halfway through some story about a mishap at the office that she knew she should be tracking but couldn't quite focus on. The words washed over her like white noise, pleasant but meaningless.

 He looked good tonight, he always did. Made an effort every single time, never showed up looking like he'd just rolled out of bed. Tonight it was a dark blue button-down, hair styled just enough to look intentional without seeming overly concerned, clean-shaven and smelling like some kind of expensive cologne. He'd brought her flowers again, like he had on their first date. Tulips this time, red and yellow, cheerful and bright.

The irony of the color choice wasn't lost on her. Red for the vigilante who'd been haunting her thoughts. Yellow for Robin’s cape she still had buried somewhere in her apartment. 

This was their third date. Third in the month since he'd first asked her out over coffee in the break room, since she'd said yes because it seemed like the reasonable thing to do. The safe thing. 

The first had been casual, just drinks at a bar, getting to know each other outside the office dynamics and workplace politics. The second had been dinner at an Italian place in Midtown, slightly more formal, Andrew clearly trying to impress her with his knowledge of wine pairings and his ability to pronounce "osso buco" correctly.

He was being perfect. Attentive without being overbearing, funny without trying too hard, asking questions about her and actually listening to the answers instead of waiting for his turn to talk. He remembered things she mentioned in passing. Her favorite coffee order (oat milk latte, extra shot), the fact that she hated seafood, and that she was allergic to cats. Small details that showed he was paying attention, building a mental file of who she was. That he clearly, genuinely cared.

And she felt absolutely nothing.

No spark. No flutter in her chest. No magnetic pull that made her want to lean closer when he talked, to close the distance between them. Just a neutral, almost clinical observation that Andrew was a good man—objectively attractive, emotionally available, professionally stable—who deserved someone who could reciprocate what he was offering with the same wholehearted enthusiasm.

That someone wasn't her.

That someone would never be her, and the guilt of that realization sat in her stomach like a deadweight. 

"The Chen article was incredible, by the way," Andrew was saying now, leaning forward with genuine enthusiasm that made his eyes light up. "I mean it. The way you tied together the money laundering and the drug trafficking networks, and that quote from the woman who worked there, that was powerful stuff. Everyone in the office has been talking about it for weeks. Jenkins even printed it out and pinned it on the bulletin board."

"Thanks," she said, managing a smile that felt like it was carved from stone, heavy and unnatural on her face. "I'm glad it resonated. That it…meant something."

"Resonated? It's been everywhere." He gestured expansively, nearly knocking over his beer. "I saw it pop up on three different news aggregators last week, and someone from the Times shared it online with like, a whole thread about Crime Alley. You're making waves." 

He reached across the table, his hand landing on hers where it rested beside her water glass, condensation pooling on the wood beneath. His thumb brushed absently against her knuckles in what was probably meant to be an intimate gesture. She fought the urge to pull back, forced herself to stay still. 

"You should be really proud. You're doing incredible work. Work that actually matters."

His hand was warm. Solid. Steady.

She looked down at it and felt just the crushing weight of her own guilt. Guilt that she was here, on a third date with a man who clearly liked her when her mind was somewhere else entirely. Someone else entirely.

"Yeah," she said, her voice sounding distant even to her own ears, like she was listening to herself from underwater. "Thanks. That means a lot."

It had been a month.

A full month since that night in the alley. Since she'd figured out that Red Hood used to be Robin, that the boy who'd saved her years ago and the man who'd marked her building were the same person, separated only whatever hell he'd been through in between. Since she'd thanked him for letting her use his words, for changing her life. Since he'd looked at her with something as close to vulnerability as she'd ever get with the mask on before shutting down completely and disappearing like she'd imagined the whole thing.

Thirty-two days of absolute silence.

No more rooftop sightings outside her window, no familiar silhouette perched on the fire escape across the street. No surprise visits through her window that she definitely needed to start locking. No appearances at all. She'd checked, pathetically, in a way that was embarrassing even to her. Scanning rooftops on her walk home from work like some lovesick teenager, lingering by her window longer than she should with her lights off so she could see out into the dark, lying awake at night listening for the sound of boots on metal that never came.

Nothing. Just the ordinary sounds of Gotham at night. Sirens and car alarms and the occasional scream that no one ever investigated.

He was still operating, though. She knew because she tracked the news religiously now, searching for any reports of his activities. He was out there, still doing his brutal work with methodical precision. A pimp found dead in Park Row with three bullets in his chest arranged in a triangle, execution style. A drug dealer who'd been selling fentanyl-laced pills to high schoolers discovered in a dumpster with his neck broken. The work continued, merciless and utterly uncompromising.

But he wasn't coming to see her. He was avoiding her deliberately, which somehow felt worse than if he'd just disappeared entirely.

She told herself it was for the best. That he was being smart, keeping distance now that she knew part of his truth. That he was protecting himself, protecting them both from whatever had been building between them in dark alleys and her kitchen at midnight.

She told herself she was relieved. That this was what she wanted, the ability to focus on her work and her life without the distraction of a vigilante who killed people. If she was never going to get an interview, if he was never going to give her the story, it was probably for the best that he stayed away.

She told herself a lot of things.

None of them felt true. All of them felt like lies she was telling herself to make the hollow ache in her chest feel like something other than what it was.

Because the truth that she didn't want to examine too closely, was that she missed him. 

She missed the excitement of his visits, the way he challenged her, the charged feeling in the air when they were in the same space. That electric tension he gave her that made her feel more alive than she had in years. She missed the complexity of him, the contradiction between brutality and gentleness, between the violence of Red Hood and whatever innocence he'd had as Robin.

She didn't even know his real name. Didn't know his story beyond the fragments he'd given her like scattered puzzle pieces, the scraps she'd assembled from things left unsaid and implications in the silence.

And she couldn't stop thinking about him.

It was pathological at this point. Unhealthy in a way she recognized but couldn't seem to fix. She knew that. She was fixating on someone she barely knew, someone dangerous and complicated who'd made it abundantly clear he had chosen to stay away. Meanwhile, Andrew was right here in front of her, offering something real and tangible. Something that made sense. Something her mother would approve of and her father would respect.

She should want that. Should want the man who brought her flowers and remembered her coffee order and didn't carry guns or leave bodies in alleys.

So why did her chest feel hollow every time he touched her? Why did his kiss feel like nothing?

"—don't you think?"

She blinked, focusing back on Andrew and dragging herself back to the present moment. "Sorry, what?"

He smiled, patient as always. He'd been patient with her distraction all night, with her obvious mental absence. Too patient, maybe. A better man than she deserved. "I asked if you thought Grant would give you the crime beat permanently. After the Chen story and all your other work on the Park Row, it seems like you've really carved out a niche for yourself. You’ve made yourself indispensable."

"Oh. Maybe. I don't know." She picked up her beer, took a sip she didn't taste, the carbonation feeling flat and lifeless on her tongue. "I'm still technically splitting time between crime coverage and other assignments. Puff pieces about restaurant openings. Human interest stories about local artists."

"Well, you should push for it." His hand moved from hers to her knee under the table. Testing the waters, she knew. His palm was warm through the denim of her jeans. "You're doing work that actually matters. Work that changes things. And it suits you, the investigative stuff on people everyone else ignores. You're really good at making people feel seen.”

His hand on her knee should have felt nice. Should have made her want to lean in, to close the distance between them, to let this progress naturally into something more.

Instead, her traitorous brain supplied a different memory. Arms wrapped around a leather-clad waist, her thighs pressed against muscular legs, the rumble of an engine around her. The way her body had fit against his so easily. 

She took another sip of her drink, using it to cover whatever expression was on her face.

"You okay?" Andrew's brow furrowed, genuine concern in his eyes. "You've been really distracted tonight. More than usual, I mean. You're not really... here."

"I'm fine," she lied automatically. "Just tired. It's been a long week. Lots of stuff at work lately.”

"Long month, sounds like." He squeezed her knee gently, reassuringly. "Between the articles and everything else, you're probably burning out. We can call it early if you want. Rain check on dessert. I don't want to keep you out if you're exhausted."

"No, it's fine. Really." She forced herself to engage, to be present in this moment instead of lost in thoughts of someone who shouldn’t matter. Andrew deserved better than this. Better than her divided attention, her hollow responses. "Tell me more about that thing with Sierra and the printer malfunction. I zoned out for a second but it sounded funny."

He launched back into the story with renewed enthusiasm, something about Sierra getting into a fight with the office printer that had somehow resulted in toner exploding all over the break room like a cartoon disaster. She tried to listen. Tried to laugh at the right moments, to make the appropriate sympathetic noises.

But her mind kept drifting like smoke, slipping away despite her best efforts. Back to rooftops and alleys and the red hood symbol above her door that she saw every time she came home. Back to a distorted voice that had somehow become familiar, almost comforting. Back to white lenses catching the light and the way he'd put the motorcycle helmet on her head with such unexpected tenderness, like she was something precious.

"—which is why I think she would rather just email instead of dealing with printing anything ever again—"

I care that you're still alive to think at all.

The voices overlapped in her head, present and memory bleeding together until she didn't know which was which. She blinked hard, trying to ground herself in the now.

"Sorry," she said again, shaking her head like she could physically dislodge the thoughts and reset her brain. "I'm really off tonight. I don't know what's wrong with me."

Liar, she spat at herself internally. 

"Hey." Andrew's voice was understanding in a way that made her feel worse. He reached across the table again, both hands finding hers now, enveloping them completely. "Seriously, we can go. No pressure. Maybe you're coming down with something, or just burned out from work. You've been working yourself to the bone lately. I've noticed."

"Maybe," she agreed, even though she knew exactly what was wrong with her and it had nothing to do with being sick or overworked or any other convenient excuse.

It had everything to do with some stupid, naive fascination she had with a man whose name she didn’t know, story she wasn’t privy to, and who certainly didn’t care about hers. 

They finished their drinks in a silence that Andrew probably thought was comfortable but felt suffocating to her. He paid the check, waving off her attempt to split it with an easy smile. "Next time," he said, and she wondered if she should let there be. "My treat tonight. To celebrate your success."

The drive back to her apartment was quiet. She spent it staring out the window at Gotham's nightscape sliding past, the city transforming as daylight died. The city looked different at night, she'd noticed. Sharper. More honest. Like it stopped pretending to be something it wasn't and just embraced the darkness, the rot that pulsed underneath its skin.

She wondered if he was out there somewhere. Watching from some rooftop like a gargoyle. Tracking criminals through the shadows. Thinking about her at all, or if she'd been compartmentalized and filed away as a closed chapter, a civilian who knew too much and needed to be kept at arm's length.

Andrew parked on her street, insisted on walking her to her door despite her protests that it was barely twenty feet. "It's Gotham," he'd said with a laugh. "I'm not letting you walk alone even twenty feet. What kind of date would I be?"

They climbed her front steps, stopping under the red hood symbol that glared down at them in the streetlight's harsh glow like a beacon. Andrew didn't seem to notice it, or if he did, he didn't comment. Just turned to face her, hands in his pockets, that same kind smile on his face. Open, honest, uncomplicated.

"I had a really good time tonight," he said, and she believed he meant it. "Even if you were a little in your head. That's okay. We all have those nights. I get it."

"I had a good time too," she said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. The bar had been nice. The food good. The company...pleasant. 

Perfectly pleasant. That should have been enough. For normal people, that would be enough.

"So..." Andrew took a half-step closer, reading something in the space she left open between them. "Same time next week? There's this new Thai place that opened in the Diamond District that's supposed to be incredible."

"Yeah. That sounds good."

He moved closer still, and she realized with a jolt what was about to happen. She could see it in the way he angled his body, the way his gaze flicked down to her mouth and back up to her eyes, asking silent permission. He was going to kiss her.

She should want this. Should be excited, nervous, feeling something other than resigned acceptance. Something other than complacent.

He leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull back if she wanted, to turn her head or step away. She didn't. Just stood there and let him close the distance, let his lips meet hers in a kiss that was soft and careful. Safe.

He kept it chaste, just a press of mouths, nothing too aggressive or presumptuous. The kind of first-kiss-on-a-third-date that was appropriate and respectful and perfectly, perfectly nice.

Perfectly, absolutely, devastatingly nice.

And she felt nothing. No spark, no heat, no desire to deepen it or pull him closer or lose herself in the moment like people did in movies. Just the clinical, detached observation that Andrew was kissing her and that his technique was perfectly fine. That objectively this should be pleasant, should make her feel something warm and promising.

It felt like an obligation. Like checking a box on a form. Third date: kiss. Fourth date: invitation upstairs.

He pulled back after a few seconds, smiling, his eyes hopeful and so genuinely happy it made her want to cry. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Andrew," she echoed, her voice steady despite the hollow feeling expanding in her chest.

She watched him walk back to his car, waited until he'd driven away and his taillights had disappeared around the corner before turning to head inside. 

Her legs felt heavy, each step an effort. Inside her apartment, she kicked off her shoes, and went straight for the kitchen, pulling down the bottle of whiskey she kept for nights when beer wasn't enough.

She poured two fingers into a glass, then added a third, because why the hell not, and downed half of it in one burning swallow that settled like fire in her empty stomach.

The apartment felt too quiet. Too still. Like a mausoleum.

She moved to the window, shoved it open with more force than necessary to let in the cold winter air. The chill felt good, grounding, cutting through the fog in her head and the numbness in her chest. She leaned against the sill for a moment, breathing in the smell of Gotham at night. Exhaust and rain and something indefinably urban. Sewage, smoke, and violence waiting to happen.

She carried her glass to the kitchen table, slumped into the chair, and tried to think about anything other than the fact that she'd just kissed Andrew and felt absolutely nothing. Tried to think about work, about her next story, about anything that would distract her from the pathetic reality of her situation.

She should end it. She had to end it. Should tell him next week that this wasn't working, that it wasn't him but her, all the clichés that were nonetheless true and had become clichés because they were universal experiences. It wasn't fair to keep seeing him when her mind and heart were elsewhere, when she was using him as a distraction from feelings she didn't want to have for someone she barely knew. Someone who was probably wrong for her in every conceivable way.

But ending it meant admitting those feelings. Meant acknowledging out loud that she'd somehow become far too invested in a vigilante who killed people without trial or mercy. A man whose name she didn't even know.

Was she just curious? Professional interest in a story? Or was it more than that, something dangerous and consuming that she couldn't name?

God, she was a mess. A complete disaster masquerading as a functional adult.

She took another sip of whiskey, let it burn down her throat, and tried to think about work instead. About what story she should chase next. The Chen article had been good but she couldn't rest on that. She needed to keep pushing, keep exposing the rot underneath Gotham's surface. Keep doing work that mattered.

Maybe something about the GCPD's corruption. Or the housing crisis in the East End that was displacing hundreds. Or—

"You should really lock that window," a familiar, distorted voice said from behind her, cutting through her thoughts like a knife. "Anyone could climb in."

She didn't turn around. Didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just sat there with her whiskey glass cradled in both hands, fingers white-knuckled around the crystal like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"A month," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the fury building in her chest like a storm. She closed her eyes. "You disappeared for a month."

Silence behind her, thick and heavy. Then, the sound of him moving, boots hitting her floor with soft thuds as he climbed through the window with practiced ease. She heard it close, heard the lock clicking into place. And then his voice again. 

"I've been busy," he said bluntly, and the casual dismissiveness in his tone made something snap inside her like a wire pulled too taut.

She took in a long breath before standing to face him, and the anger that had been simmering for thirty-two days boiled over all at once in a rush of heat and fury.

"Busy." She repeated it flatly, letting the word hang there like an accusation. "You've been busy."

"Yeah. You know, stopping crime. Killing bad guys. The usual." He leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, posture radiating that infuriating cockiness that meant he was hiding behind bravado again. Same red helmet, same leather jacket worn and scuffed from use, same boots, the dual pistols at his sides like extensions of his body. She didn't know why she'd expected anything to be different. "Did you miss me?"

"Don't." She set her glass down harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Don't do that. Don't show up after a month and act like it's nothing. Like you can just waltz in here whenever you feel like it."

He tilted his head, his tone dry. "I didn't realize I was on a schedule. Should I be checking in? Sending you a daily update?”

"You marked my building! You—" She stopped, took a breath, tried to rein in the emotion threatening to crack her voice. "No word, no sign, nothing. I had no idea if you were dead or just avoiding me or—"

"I told you," he snapped, though his voice didn't carry as much bite as she was used to hearing from him. "I was busy. Don't think I haven't been watching your building either, princess. In case you were worried about your own hide here."

"Bullshit." The word came out sharp as a slap, cutting through his deflection. "You weren't too busy to keep operating in Crime Alley. I've been tracking the reports. Bodies keep showing up with your calling card all over them. So you were busy with that, you just weren't busy with—" She gestured between them, frustrated at his obtuseness. "With whatever this is."

"There is no 'this,'" he barked out with a laugh that sounded forced, like she had made an intentional joke. But something in his posture had changed. He was tenser now, his shoulders drawn closer and his back a bit straighter. 

"Really? So you mark my building, take me home on your bike, and show up at my window for no reason in general then? You do that to everyone you save? Is this standard operating procedure for vigilantes?"

He growled low in his throat, running a hand over his helmet in frustration. "I told you why I marked your building. Protection. That's it. Stop reading into it, princess. Stop looking for meaning that isn't there."

"For a month? You've been protecting me for a month while avoiding me?"

"Are you looking for an expiration date on the protection?"

"Well, apparently you have one!" She was almost shouting now. She was past caring about volume, about neighbors hearing through thin walls, about anything except the fact that he was here and she was furious with him. She'd been angry for a month, carrying it around like a weight, and now that he was here, she had an opportunity to let it spill over. 

To make him understand that she was hurt. 

"You can't just...you can't do this to people, Hood. You can't make them care and then disappear. When you were Robin, you would have never—"

She froze mid-sentence. They both froze, the words hanging between them like a grenade with the pin pulled. She closed her eyes, wincing at what would come next, at the explosion she'd just triggered.

"Don't call me that," he said dangerously quiet, his tone dropping to something that made her skin prickle.

"Why not?" Might as well own it now. Might as well push him, anything to get under his skin. To crack that armor. "It was you. Still is, if I had to bet. You can pretend all you want but—"

"It's a dead boy's title." The words came out harsh, final.

"You're not dead! You're standing right here! Annoyingly alive!"

"I might as well be." His voice had gone cold in a way that hurt to hear. He balled his hands into fists, looking away from her. "He died years ago. What came back—"

 He gestured at himself with something like disgust. "This isn't him. This isn't Robin."

"That's bullshit too and you know it." She took a step closer, refusing to back down even though every instinct screamed that pushing this was dangerous for the both of them. She didn't care anymore about caution, though. Not after a month of him avoiding her like they had a lover’s spat. "You're him. You're Robin. The boy who walked me home and told me to keep fighting. You're still—"

"I'm not Robin." The words came out final, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her. "Robin died. I'm what's left after that. Let it the fuck go.”

"Then why are you here?" She demanded, throwing up her hands. "Why show up at all if you're so different, so removed from who you were? Why come back tonight after avoiding me for a month?"

He didn't answer. Just stood there, tension radiating off him in waves she could almost see, and she could feel the war happening behind that helmet—the part of him that wanted to leave and the part that had climbed through her window anyway.

Two warring sides within him constantly, never at peace. His old life and the one he was trying to live now. Whoever Robin had been, and whoever Red Hood was pretending to be.

"You've been watching," she said, softer now, trying a different approach. "Haven't you? For the whole month. You've been watching to make sure I was safe."

He hesitated, clearly caught off guard by the change in tactic. Maybe even a bit bashful, if she was reading his body language right. "Look at you, finally figuring out what a tag on your building means. Real detective work there."

She wanted to throw something at him. Maybe it would knock some sense into him, knock the obstinacy out of his thick skull. "Stop deflecting. You're always fucking doing that. I hate it. You've been watching my building while simultaneously avoiding me. Do you see how that's a bit contradictive?"

His arms tensed, frustration boiling into his own voice now, matching her heat. "For your own good."

"My own good?" She scoffed. "You don't get to decide what's good for me. You don't get to make that call."

"Someone should, since you clearly can't." There was an edge to his voice now, sharp and terse. "Going on dates with office boys who drive Hondas and bring you flowers like it's some fucking Hallmark movie. Real safe choice there, princess."

She stopped short, her breath catching. "What?"

"Your date," he said, and even through the modulator she could hear how the words tasted sour in his mouth, like he was swallowing a lemon. "Nice guy. Works with you, right? Andrew. It's good that he walks you to the front door like a gentleman, but he should be walking up to your apartment when he drops you off. Tell him that next time, would ya? It’s been driving me nuts."

She blinked, her mouth falling open in shock. "Have you been stalking me?"

"I've been keeping you safe," he countered hotly, taking a step toward her. "There's a difference."

"Watching me on dates is stalking!" Her voice rose, incredulous.

"I wasn't watching your dates," he retorted, like she'd accused him of something obscene. "I was watching you. Making sure you got home safe. That's different."

"That's literally the same thing!"

"It's not—" He stopped, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to hit something or reach for her, she couldn't tell which. "He kissed you tonight."

She froze, her anger momentarily forgotten. Confusion crept in instead, seeping through the cracks. The way he spoke was strange. Flat, dead — more empty than angry. 

"That's none of your business," she said carefully, her brain spinning a million miles an hour. 

"I know." He sounded almost drained. Exhausted with something she didn't understand. "That's why I stayed away. Because you're just a civilian, and you know things you shouldn't—" 

He stopped again, looking down at his hands as he fiddled with something on his holsters. "He's good for you. Even if his pants are a bit too tight. And his credit score isn’t all that impressive. Car’s a bit of a junker too, really."

"What the fuck, did you run a background check on this guy or something?" She almost laughed at the absurdity.

“Well, I didn’t personally run the check but —”

She stared at him in horror. 

"That guy," he stated quickly, changing the subject. "He's better for you. Normal job, normal life, normal everything." 

There was something bitter underneath the words, something that sounded almost like a wound splitting open. "That's what you should have. Someone who isn't—" He hesitated, and she could see his fingers drumming against the side of his leg. "Can we just shut the fuck up about this now?"

She stared at him. At the rigid line of his shoulders, the way he wouldn't look at her, how he was shifting around ever so slightly from side to side. Like he was uncomfortable, uncertain. Nervous.

 Understanding clicked into place with such sudden, painful clarity she was surprised a lightbulb didn’t appear above her head. 

"Why did you really stay away?" she asked, her voice quiet now.

He stilled, glancing up at her now that her voice had changed. 

"I stayed away because I have work to do," the lie was painfully obvious, transparent as glass.

"You stayed away because you're scared," she corrected, calling his bluff.

"I'm not scared of anything." But it came out too quick, too defensive. A contrast to his usual cocky swagger. She knew she'd hit the mark.

"Liar." She moved closer, close enough to see the bloodstains on his jacket sleeves. Fresh, still wet in places, probably from tonight's patrol. "You're terrified. That's why you ran on the bike when I figured out who you were. Why you disappeared for a month. Why you're telling me Andrew is better for me. You're scared of whatever this is between us. Whatever you’re feeling."

He balked, tensing up immediately like she'd struck him. His tone was biting now, defensive walls slamming into place. "There's nothing between us."

"Then why are you here?" She asked again, refusing to let him deflect. "Really. Why did you come tonight? Why have you been watching me for so long? How long has it been exactly?"

He was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer, that he might just leave through the window and disappear for another month. "Because I needed to see—" he stopped, the words catching. Started again. "I wanted to check in. That's all. Make sure you were...okay."

"I'm fine," she bit out, perhaps a bit too forcefully. She was never going to get him to answer her questions honestly. Any question, really. And it was exhausting to even keep trying, to keep hoping that he would break down his walls one day and let her in.

"You're drinking alone at your kitchen table at eleven at night," he nodded at her glass, at the whiskey bottle still sitting out. "That's not fine."

"I'm drinking alone because I went on a third date with a man I feel nothing for and I'm trying to figure out why I can't just be normal about it." The words came out before she could stop them, raw and honest. "I’m pissed because I can’t just want the stable guy at work who probably doesn't even know how to use a gun, who's never killed anyone or maybe even been in a damn fight. Why I'm on a date with him, thinking about you. And don’t you dare stand here and tell me you’re so interested in ‘protecting me’ out of general curiosity. Bullshit. You think I was born yesterday?”

Silence. Heavy, terse silence that pressed down on them like a physical weight.

"You should want the stable guy," he said finally. Gruffly, like he was forcing the words out through broken glass. "You should want someone who won't get you killed just by association. Someone who can give you a normal life."

She shook her head in frustration, running a hand through her hair hastily, making it stand up in places. "Stop telling me what I should want. Stop deciding for me."

Red Hood took a step closer to her, looking down at her with those unreadable white lenses. She wished he would take that damn helmet off and she could look him in the eye. "Someone has to, since you’re consistently good at making shitty decisions."

"Like what? Like figuring out who you are? Like keeping your secret when I could have made my career off it? Like—" She gestured at him, frustrated beyond measure. "Like caring whether you show up here or not?”

"Yes." The word came out almost anguished, ripped from somewhere deep. "All of those. You should have published the story. Exposed me. Protected yourself and your career. Instead you're, what? Protecting me? Why? What do you get out of this?"

"Because—" She stopped, the truth lodged in her throat. Because he'd saved her. Because he'd trusted her once when he was Robin, given her something precious. Because underneath the violence and the brutality, she could still see glimpses of the boy who'd cared so fiercely about protecting people that he'd put on a mask and fought in the dark. 

Because somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being able to separate her professional interest from something far more personal and dangerous, something that kept her up at night.

"Because it would be wrong," she said instead, taking the coward's way out. "Publishing your identity. It would get you killed, or arrested. And I don't—" She took a breath. "I don't agree with your methods, but I understand why you think they're necessary. That should be enough of an answer."

He moved then, crossed the small distance between them in a single stride. She thought for a wild, breathless second he might touch her. That he might finally close that gap, might reach for her the way she wanted him to. But he stopped just short, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact with those white lenses, feeling the body heat radiating off of him.

"You should be afraid of me," he said quietly. There was something almost pleading in it. Like he was begging her to be afraid. 

She met his gaze head-on, hoping there was still the same fire from earlier in her eyes. "I'm not."

"I've killed people," he hissed, leaning closer. "A lot of people. Dozens. And I'm going to kill more. I'll probably kill someone tomorrow."

"I know." She didn't flinch, didn't back down.

He laughed, but it was a cruel, mocking sound. "And you're just, what? Okay with that? You can live with that?"

"I didn't say I was okay with it." She held his gaze, or where she thought his gaze was behind those lenses. "I said I understand why you do it. That's different. Understanding isn't approval."

"How is it different?" He demanded.

"Because—" She searched for the right words, for a way to make him understand. "Because I've seen what this city does to people. Seen how the system fails, over and over again. Seen criminals walk free because they have the right connections or enough money to buy their way out. I've interviewed their victims—the women, the children, the families left behind. The people who live in fear every day because the courts let monsters go free to hunt again."

 She paused, her voice dropping. "So I understand it. The rage. The desire to make sure they can never hurt anyone again. I understand wanting permanent solutions to prevent the cycle from continuing."

"But?" He prompted, because there was always a but.

"But I also think there has to be a line. Has to be something that separates justice from vengeance, protection from murder. Something that makes us different from them." She paused. 

"And I worry—" Her voice caught slightly. "I worry that you've lost sight of that line. Or maybe just stopped caring about it. Stopped caring where it is."

“The line is bullshit," he said harshly. "It's just something people tell themselves so they can sleep at night while monsters keep hunting, keep hurting people. There’s good and there’s bad. Root out the bad, solve the problem. Over and done with."

"Or maybe it's the only thing that keeps us from becoming monsters ourselves," she countered.

They stared at each other. Everything was still tense, still charged with energy. He said nothing, just stared down at her with an expression she wished she could see, his breathing shallow. 

"You want a drink?" She asked finally, needing to break the moment before it shattered completely, before one of them said something they couldn't take back. "I'm not drinking alone if you're here."

He seemed surprised by the offer, caught off guard by the olive branch. His body was still tense, still in that constant state of fight or flight. Ready to bolt. But after a moment of hesitation, after some internal debate she couldn't see, he relaxed and gave her a short nod. 

She moved to the counter and pulled down another glass. Poured two fingers of whiskey with hands that shook slightly and handed it to him. Ignored the wave of anger, of hurt, still flowing through her.

He took it from her gently, carefully, like he was afraid of breaking it. He turned away slightly, and reached up to his helmet.

She heard the soft hiss of seals releasing and watched as he pushed it up. Not off, just enough to expose his jaw and mouth. The scar caught the kitchen light, that jagged line crossing from his cheek to his lip like someone had tried to carve him open, and she found herself staring again despite trying not to.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. "Still fascinated by it?"

His voice without the modulator was still as beautiful as she remembered. Rough, clipped, and husky in a way that did things to her she didn't want to examine. "Still wish it hadn't happened to you."

Something in the set of his mouth shifted, softened fractionally like ice beginning to thaw. He raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply, draining half of it in one go. "Christ, that's good. What is this?"

"Something far too expensive for me," she said, leaning against the counter with her own glass. "My father sent it when I published an article exposing some politicians in the city taking bribes to shift money away from soup kitchens and shelters in the Narrows. His way of saying he was proud without actually having to say it."

He looked at the amber liquid in his glass, his lips turning up into a small smirk. "Sounds like a dick."

"He is," she agreed easily. "But he has good taste in whiskey. I'll give him that much."

She leaned against the counter, cradling her own glass. "Can I ask you something?"

"You're going to anyways," he said with a sigh. She watched his lips part, the breath escaping pushing past. 

"When you were Robin—" She saw him tense but continued anyway. "When you saved me that night. You told me you did it because nobody had saved you when you needed it. What did you mean by that?"

He was quiet for a long moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass like it held answers. "I grew up in Crime Alley. Few blocks from where I found you, actually. Same shitty streets, same shitty circumstances." 

"My mom was—" He stopped, the words catching. Started again. "She was an addict. Heroin, mostly. My dad was in and out of prison for petty shit. I was twelve when she died. Overdose. Thirteen when I ended up on the streets, fending for myself."

She paused, taken aback. "I'm… I’m so sorry." 

The words felt inadequate.

"Don't be. Lots of kids have it worse. Lots of kids don't make it at all." He took another drink, using it as punctuation. "But yeah. I know what it's like when nobody's coming to help. When you're just... alone. Trying to survive in a city that doesn't give a shit if you live or die.”

"And then Batman found you."

His jaw tightened, like the memory was painful. "I sorta found him, but yeah, that's about right. Tried to jack the tires off the Batmobile."

"You what?" She blinked, almost laughing at the absurdity.

"I was desperate and stupid. Thought I could sell them." A pause. "He could have broken my arm. Could have turned me over to the cops. Instead he—" He stopped.

"He took you in."

"He gave me a purpose." There was something complicated in his voice, affection and resentment tangled together like barbed wire. "Trained me. Made me Robin. Gave me a home, a mission, a reason to be better. For a while it was—" He paused, and she could hear the pain in it. "For a while it was good. I got to help people. Got to make sure other kids didn't end up like me. Got to matter."

"What happened?" She asked quietly, even though she knew this part would hurt.

"I died." He said it flatly, matter-of-fact, like he was reporting the weather. The words came out of his mouth so fast, so bluntly, that she had to steel herself, had to physically stop herself from reacting. "Almost six years ago. Got in over my head, made a fucking stupid decision, and paid for it. End of story.”

She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. She stared at him in disbelief, gripping the glass in her hand so tight she thought it might shatter. He had mentioned Robin dying, but the way he said it now sounded so...literal. So final. How could someone die and come back to life?

"When you say die," she paused, not quite sure how to articulate her thoughts without sounding insane. "Do you mean..."

"Yes, sweetheart, I mean died." His voice had gone hard again, defensive walls slamming back up. "Quite literally. Was dead for a bit before I got pulled out of my grave by forces I still don't entirely understand. Woke up different. Angrier. Less—" 

He gestured vaguely. "Less willing to play by the Bat's rules. Less willing to let people walk away."

She processed that, the impossible reality of it. Death and resurrection. No wonder he seemed like two different people warring for control. He was the boy she’d met and the man he'd become, the before and after. She wanted to apologize, to offer sympathy, to do something other than just stand and stare at him, but she knew him by now. Anything too emotional would set him off and would send him running all over again. "What happened after? After you...came back?"

"After I woke up in my coffin and clawed my way out?" The bitter laugh was back, sharp and humorless. She felt sick hearing the words, imagining it. "I spent some time figuring out who I was. What I wanted. Who I wanted to be. And I realized—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I realized Batman's way doesn't work. Catching criminals and sending them to Arkham so they can escape six months later and kill again. Stopping dealers just to have them back on the streets a week later with new product. It's a cycle. A fucking endless, pointless cycle. So I decided to break it."

"By killing them."

"By making sure they can't hurt anyone ever again. Yes." He met her eyes, mouth set in a thin line. "You want to judge me for it, go right ahead. I've heard it all before from you. I sleep fine at night knowing the people I've killed deserved it. Knowing I've saved lives by taking theirs.”

"I'm not judging you." She said quietly, meaning it with everything she had. "I'm trying to understand. Trying to figure out how someone who cared so much about justice, about protecting people, ended up becoming—"

"An executioner?" He supplied the word she'd been avoiding.

"I was going to say someone who's lost faith in humanity. In redemption."

That stopped him cold. He looked at her sharply, his mouth twisting into something ugly. "What?"

"That's what it sounds like," she said carefully, like she was handling something fragile. "Like you've decided people are beyond redemption. That they can't change, can't be rehabilitated. Can only be eliminated. That some people are just evil and that's all they'll ever be. And I get it—I get why you'd think that after what you've seen, after what you've been through. But—"

 She took a breath. "But I also think that's a really dark place to live. Believing that some people are just irredeemable. That killing them is the only solution."

"It's realistic," he said flatly.

"It's nihilistic."

"Same thing in Gotham.”

"No," she said firmly, refusing to let him hide behind cynicism. "It's not. Gotham's broken but it's not dead. There are still people fighting for it. Still people who believe it can be better, that change is possible. You used to be one of those people. Robin believed that."

"Yeah, and look where that got me." He gestured at himself again, at the guns and armor. "Dead in the ground at fifteen. Real inspiring story."

"But you came back," she pressed. "You're still fighting, still trying to protect people."

"I'm fighting smarter. More effectively. With permanent solutions."

"You're fighting angrier." She moved closer, closing the distance he'd created between them. "And I understand the anger. I do. I understand the rage and the betrayal and the hurt. But Hood—" She used his moniker deliberately this time, emphasizing it. "You can't let it consume you. You can't let it turn you into the thing you're fighting against.”

He looked down at her with his mouth set in a scowl, but she could see his throat working, see the tension in his jaw. "I'm nothing like them."

"Aren't you?" She kept her voice gentle, not accusatory. "You kill without trial. Without giving people a chance to defend themselves or change or prove they're more than their worst moment. Don’t you believe in second chances?”

"They don't deserve chances!" His voice rose, sharp with old rage that had never healed. "You think that pimp in Park Row deserved a chance? He was trafficking thirteen-year-olds, selling children. Or that dealer selling fentanyl-laced pills to high schoolers, to kids who didn't know what they were taking? How many chances should he get before we admit he's just going to keep killing kids? How many more victims?"

"I don't know," she admitted honestly. "I don't have an answer for that. I wish I did. Maybe you're right. Maybe some people are beyond saving, beyond redemption. But—" 

She reached out, stopped just short of touching his arm, her hand hovering. "But if you believe everyone you kill is beyond saving, if you've lost the ability to see any hope for redemption in anyone, then you're losing yourself. You're becoming exactly what broke you in the first place. Someone who sees the world in black and white, who's forgotten there's gray too.”

"There is no fucking gray," his lips were pulled back now in a half-snarl, defensive and angry. "Don't talk about me like you know me. You don't know what I've seen."

"There's always gray. That's what being human means. That's what separates us from animals." She pulled her hand back, wrapped it around her glass instead, needing something to hold to ground herself. "You talked to me once about protecting people who couldn't protect themselves. About making sure kids like you had someone fighting for them. Do you remember that conversation?"

"Of course I remember." His voice was rough.

"That person you were…Robin…he had hope. He believed people were worth fighting for, worth saving. Even when everything was stacked against him, he kept going because he believed in something better. He had faith." Her throat was tight, burning. "I don't want you to lose that. I don't want you to become so consumed by anger and vengeance that you forget what you were fighting for in the first place. That you forget why Robin mattered."

"Oh, so you met me once, write an article, and suddenly you know me now?" he sneered, but it lacked real heat. The scar on his jaw shifted into something uglier when he grimaced. "Get off your fucking high horse, princess."

"I researched you for years," she shot back, not backing down. "I know you better than you think. Better than you want to admit. Are you fighting because you're angry? Why? Because nobody saved you when you needed it most? Because you feel betrayed by Batman, by someone else? Because you're hurt and you don't know how else to process it except through violence?"

His jaw clenched so hard she could see a muscle jump. "Don't fucking psychoanalyze me."

"I'm not. I'm—" She stopped, choosing her next words carefully. "I'm worried about you. Because I think you're drowning and you don't even realize it. I think you're so deep underwater you can't see the surface anymore. I think—" Her voice cracked slightly, betraying her emotion. "I think eventually you're going to go so far down that path that you won't be able to find your way back. And the person who was Robin will be truly, permanently dead."

Red Hood chuckled darkly, the sound wrong. He leaned forward suddenly, his lips grazing the side of her face, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath. 

She didn't shiver, but she did jump at the unexpected contact, at the feel of his breath on her skin for the first time. His words were no louder than a whisper. "Maybe I don't want to come back."

She swallowed hard, biting down her rising adrenaline, her heart hammering. "I don't believe that."

"Why not?" He was still close, too close, not moving away.

"Because you're here." She gestured at her apartment with her free hand, at the minimal space between them. "Because you came back tonight even though you've been avoiding me for a month. Because you marked my building to protect me, because for some reason, you still care enough to make sure I get home safe even when you're trying to push me away.” 

She paused, her voice dropping. "Because the boy who was Robin is still in there somewhere. And he's the reason you can't fully commit to becoming the monster you think you need to be."

The silence that followed was deafening. He stood there, whiskey glass forgotten in his hand, staring at her with an expression she couldn't read through the helmet but could feel—raw and exposed. Vulnerable. 

"You don't know anything about me," he said, but his voice was hollow. Empty of conviction.

"I know enough." She finished her own whiskey and set the glass down with finality, her resolve absolute. "I know you saved my life when you were Robin. I know you gave me words that changed everything for me. I know something made you decide killing was justice. I know you disappeared for a month because you were scared of whatever this is between us. And I know—" She took a breath, steadying herself. "I know you're still in there. The boy who cared. Who had hope. You're just buried under so much pain and rage that you can't see it anymore.”

He flinched like she had physically struck him. "You're fucking wrong."

"Am I?" She challenged, taking a step closer. They were nearly pressed chest-to-chest. "Then prove it. Tell me you feel nothing when you kill. Tell me it doesn't keep you up at night. Tell me you're perfectly fine with the line you've crossed and you have zero doubts about what you're becoming. Tell me you don’t think about any of that."

He said nothing. Didn't move an inch. His body was rigid and uncompromising, every muscle locked. His mouth was set in a thin line, the scar pale against flushed skin in the artificial light.

She had him.

"That's what I thought," she said softly. 

He set his glass down roughly, nearly slamming it onto her kitchen table hard enough that she was surprised it didn't shatter. "Fuck you. You think you can save me? Is that it? Fix me with the power of compassion like some kind of fucking savior?" He snorted, shaking his head almost manically. "Grow up, princess. It's time to face the music and get your nose out of your own idealism before it gets you killed."

"I think you can save yourself," she corrected him, ignoring the jabs, the attempts to push her away. "I think you're capable of finding a middle ground between Batman's unwillingness to cross the line and your complete erasure of it. I think you're smart enough and strong enough to figure out a way to protect people without losing yourself to the darkness completely. But—" She held his gaze steadily. "But you have to want to. You have to believe there's something worth coming back for. Someone worth being better for."

"Shut up," he bit out, though she wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to his own thoughts at this point, to the voice in his head that maybe agreed with her.

"Eventually you'll go too far," she pushed, refusing to let him hide. "You'll kill someone who maybe didn't deserve it, or cross a line even you can't justify to yourself, and you won't be able to come back from it. You won't be able to live with yourself. And the person who was Robin, the old you, will be truly dead. And I don't—" Her voice broke. "I don't want you to lose him. I don't want to lose you."

The words stretched out between them. Heavy and honest.

"Why do you care?" He asked. There was genuine confusion in his voice now, she could hear it in the way his voice shook. His face was turned away from her but his chest was heaving, his harsh breaths filling her ears. "Why do you give a damn what happens to me? I'm nobody to you."

"I don't know," she said softly, the lie bitter on her tongue. 

She did know. She had known for a month now, maybe longer.

 "I should be reporting you. Should be exposing what you're doing, writing articles about the danger of vigilante justice taken too far. That's my job. That's what a good journalist would do. That's how I build my career."

She paused, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't. Because when I look at you, I don't just see Red Hood. I see Robin. I see the boy who saved me. And I think—" Her voice wavered, broke. "I think maybe if someone had cared enough to pull him back from the edge, to refuse to give up on him, he wouldn't have become this. So maybe if I care enough, if I refuse to give up on you, maybe—"

"Maybe I won't become a complete monster?" He finished for her bitterly. "That's not how this works. I'm not your fucking passion project. I'm not some broken thing for you to fix."

"Then how does it work?" She demanded, frustrated. "Tell me."

"I keep doing what I'm doing. You keep writing your articles. And we both pretend this—" He gestured between them violently. "—doesn't exist. Because it can't exist. I'm not someone you can fix or save or redeem with some nice, prissy speech. I'm just someone trying to make Gotham a little less hellish, one bullet at a time. That's it."

"And Batman?" She asked quietly, changing tactics. "Where does he fit into this?"

His whole body tensed like she'd hit a nerve, touched something raw. "He doesn't."

"Red Hood—"

"He doesn't." He spat the words out like a curse. "We have an understanding. He stays out of my territory, I stay out of his way. That's it. That's the whole relationship."

"But he was your—"

"My what? Father figure? Mentor?" He laughed, sharp and pained and angry. "He was someone who used me. Who turned a kid from Crime Alley into a weapon and then couldn't handle what that weapon became when it started thinking for itself. When it proved to always be a pitiful disappointment."

"That's not fair," she said quietly.

"Isn't it?" His voice was rising again, the anger bleeding through. "He trained me to fight. Taught me to be brutal, efficient, ruthless. Then acted surprised when I decided efficiency meant permanent solutions. When I took the lessons he taught me to their logical conclusion." His voice was climbing higher, more heated. "He wants to play by rules that don't exist, wants to believe that people can be saved when this city proves every single day that they can't. That some people are just monsters. And when I pointed that out, when I started doing what he was too cowardly to do himself, he—" He stopped abruptly, cutting himself off.

"He what?" She pressed gently.

"He gave up on me." The words came out broken, small. Like a child's. "Same as everyone else. He chose his code over me. Chose his precious rules over his son."

And there it was. The wound that had never healed, that was still bleeding beneath the hood, the tough persona. A son who longed for his father’s acceptance. For his approval. 

Her chest ached, a physical pain blooming behind her ribs. She blinked hard, fighting back tears she didn't even know she had building up. "I don't think that's true."

"You don't know him." His voice was flat, dead.

"No. But I know that grief makes people do stupid things. Losing someone once means you can't survive losing them again." She moved closer, close enough to see her own reflection distorted in his lenses, two versions of herself staring back. "Maybe he didn't give up on you. Maybe he just doesn't know how to reach you anymore. Or he's scared to fuck up again."

"I don't want to be reached." But the words came out hollow, unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Liar."

"You don't know what you're talking about." He turned his head away, the scar on his mouth twisted against his frown. 

"Don't I?" She held his gaze, or where she imagined his gaze was. "You came back tonight. After a month of avoiding me, after swearing you'd stay away, you climbed through my window anyway. If you really didn't want to be reached, if you really wanted to be alone, you'd have stayed away. You would have kept avoiding me."

He didn’t look back at her, but she saw a slight tick in his jaw. The sound of a hard swallow. She could feel the war happening inside him, the two sides of him dueling yet again. 

His new side won out. With a sharp exhale, he ran a hand over his jaw, turning back to the window. "I should go."

She fought back the urge to scream. To grab him and physically restrain him. Frustration rolled through her in waves, hot and furious. "You always run when things get too real. Every damn time."

She could see the glare in the set of his jaw, in the rigidness of his posture. "I'm not running."

"Then what do you call showing up just to tell me to forget about you? To move on? To be with someone else?" Her voice was rising despite her best efforts. "What do you call disappearing for a month and then coming back just to leave again?"

"It's protection!" His voice rose, cracking under the pressure. The armor finally began to fracture "From me, from this life, from everything that comes with being anywhere near someone like me! I'm trying to keep you safe!"

"I don't need your protection from you!"

"Yes, you do!" He moved closer, aggressive now, anger finally breaking through all his defenses like a dam bursting. "You have no clue what you're asking for. What being involved with me means. You think it wouldn’t cost you? I'm not—I'm not some project you can fix! I'm not Robin anymore, I'm not that stupid kid, I'm—"

"You are him!" She shouted back, stepping into his space rather than away from it. Resuming their usual dance, this constant fight. "You're still him, you're just too stubborn and too damaged to admit it! You think putting on a red helmet and killing people erases who you were? You think violence and anger can burn away everything you used to be?"

"There is no person underneath!" His hands came up, not touching her but close, gesturing wildly like he could make her understand through sheer force of movement. "There's just—there's just this fucking need to make sure no one else ends up like me, like those kids in Crime Alley, like—"

He stopped, breathing hard, gasping for air like he was drowning, like the words had physically hurt him. His chest was heaving.

"You want to know why I stayed away, sweetheart?" The question came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "Because being near you makes me fucking want things I can't have. Because you look at me like I'm still worth saving when I'm anything but. I'm so far gone there's nothing left to save. And you keep thinking I’m some bleeding heart, some moronic dunce —”

"That's not your call to make!"

"It is my — fucking Christ, I'm trying to keep you safe!" His voice cracked on the last word.

She took another step closer, eliminating what little space remained between them. "From what?"

"From me! From caring about someone who's going to get himself killed doing this! From—" His voice cracked completely, splintered into pieces. His mouth was trembling. "From ending up like everyone else who gets close to me. Dead or broken or wishing they'd never met me in the first place. I can't—I can't be the reason you get hurt. I won't."

"You don't get to decide that for me." Her heart was hammering, adrenaline and anger and something else flooding her system, making her reckless. "You don't get to push me away 'for my own good' and expect me to just accept it. You don't get to make my choices. Admit it. You're just scared."

"Of course I'm scared!" The admission burst out of him like it had been trapped, locked away for months. Buried behind weeks of denial and deflection. "I'm fucking terrified! Because you're…because you make me feel like maybe I'm not completely lost, like maybe there's still something worth, like maybe I could be—" He stopped abruptly with a gasp like he had been hit, his lips pulled tight as he seemed to realize what he'd been about to say. What he'd been about to admit.

The silence that followed was deafening. She stared at him silently with a hammering heart, realization washing over her instantly. 

"Say that again," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"No." He growled, mouth trembling slightly.

"Hood—"

"Don't." His voice was rough, stripped of all pretense. "Don't push this. Just...just drop it. Please."

"Drop it?" She couldn't believe the back-and-forth within him, the constant war. Did it tire him constantly, the endless dance in his own head? The push and pull? "You can't just say something like that and then—"

"Yes!" He grabbed her arms then, Not aggressive, but desperate, his gloved hands wrapping around her biceps with a pressure that was more grounding rather than threatening. She forced herself not to jump in surprise. "You're not going to get what you want out of me. If I say it, if I admit—" 

He stopped, his breathing ragged even without being filtered through the helmet, harsh and quick. "You should be with that other idiot. Someone who won't get you killed. Someone good. Someone who deserves you."

"I don't want good!" The words tore out of her like a scream, frustration bleeding out. "I want—"

She didn't get to finish.

He moved so fast she didn't see it coming.

The kiss was nothing like Andrew's. Nothing sweet or gentle, careful or respectful. It was desperate, almost violent in its intensity, like he was drowning and she was air. Like he was dying and she was life itself. 

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling roughly in her hair, angling her head so he could kiss her deeper, harder. Like he was trying to consume her. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him with enough force to steal her breath.

She gasped against his mouth and he took advantage immediately, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her knees weak. She clutched at his jacket for support, needing him closer even though they were already pressed together with no space between them, something to hold onto.

He tasted like whiskey and something darker, something indefinably him. The scar on his cheek was rough against her skin, a texture that just made everything feel more real, more visceral. 

She kissed him back just as fiercely, weeks of frustration and confusion pouring out in a rush. Her hands moved from his jacket to his chest, feeling the armor plating beneath, the solid muscle underneath that. She wanted to touch his skin but there were too many layers, too much between them.

He made a sound low in his throat, something like a growl, and suddenly they were moving. He walked her backward, his mouth never leaving hers, even as her back hit the wall beside the window with a thud. The impact should have hurt but she barely felt it, too consumed by the feeling of him against her, his body pinned against hers, his hands everywhere at once. Possessive and yearning to touch every part of her, to hold whatever he could grab onto.

One hand stayed tangled in her hair, holding her head in place while he kissed her like he was trying to memorize her. The other slid down her side, over her ribs, settling on her hip with a grip that was almost bruising. His thumb brushed under the hem of her shirt, finding bare skin, and the touch sent electricity racing through her veins. 

She arched into him with a soft moan, one leg hooking around his hip to pull him closer. He groaned against her mouth, his breath passing through her own lips. He pressed harder against her, letting her feel exactly what this was doing to him physically. How much he wanted this, wanted her.

His mouth left hers to trail down her jaw, finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, and sucked hard. She gasped, her head falling back against the wall to give him better access, surrendering instantly. He took full advantage, lips and teeth working against her neck in a way that was definitely going to leave a few marks. It was messy and juvenile in a way, but she didn’t care. All she could focus on was the feel of him against her, the heat pooling in her core as he ravaged her skin. 

"Hood—" The only name she had for him came out breathless, pleading. Barely recognizable to her own ears.

He growled something against her throat — maybe agreement or protest, she couldn't tell — and came back to her mouth. This kiss was somehow even more intense now, more consuming, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn't say into the contact. His hand on her hip tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to draw blood, but she didn't care. 

She wanted the marks. Wanted proof that this was real, that he was here, that after all this time dancing around each other he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

She could feel his heartbeat through the armor, through all the layers between them. It was racing, hammering out a staccato rhythm that matched her own. Could feel the tremor in his hands that meant he was barely holding on, barely keeping himself together. 

Her hands moved upward, one sliding around to the back of his neck where his helmet had been pushed up, finding warm skin and loose hair that was softer than she'd expected. The other moved to his face, wanting to touch, to feel, to map the features she'd only glimpsed—

Her fingers brushed the scar on his jaw.

He froze.

It was instantaneous, how fast the moment broke apart. One second he was kissing her like he was starving, the next he'd completely frozen up. She felt it the moment he shut down, felt him pull back internally even before he pulled back physically, the walls slamming up between them without any words being spoken.

She sucked in a sharp breath, reorienting herself to the world around her, to the sudden absence of him. She tried to reach for him but he was already moving.

He stepped back, putting distance between them so quickly she nearly stumbled without his weight holding her against the wall. His hand came up to yank the helmet back down fully, covering his face completely again. Rebuilding the armor, the distance. The anonymity. 

"That was—" He stopped, breathing hard, the sound harsh and mechanical through the modulator once more. The barrier was rebuilt. The intimacy was destroyed. "That shouldn't have happened."

"Hood—" Her voice came out wrecked, far too desperate and weak.

"I need to go." He was already moving toward the window, putting more space between them with every step.

"Don't you dare." She pushed off the wall, legs shaky, but the remaining adrenaline left giving her strength. "Don't you dare do that and then run away. You can’t…”

He stopped in front of the window, his back to her. She could see the war happening all over again. The part of him that wanted to stay and the part that was terrified of what staying meant. The two sides fighting their constant, hopeless battle.

"I'll ruin you," he finally said. Quiet, ragged — certain yet broken. "Everyone I care about ends up gone. Broken. It's not—I can't do that to you. I won't be responsible for that. Not you."

She swallowed hard, her lips still tingling from his touch. "You don't get to make that choice for me."

"Yes, I do. Because I'm the one who'll have to live with it when you get hurt because of me. When —" He stopped, his voice failed him. He looked down at his feet, his words a murmur now. "I'm sorry. Just... just forget it. Forget this happened.”

"Hood, wait—"

But he was gone, disappearing through the window into the night like he'd never been there at all. Leaving her alone in her apartment with swollen lips and the phantom feeling of his hands on her body, the ghost of his touch burning into her skin.

She moved to the window slowly, as if in a dream. Closed it, locked it like he'd told her to so many times. Leaned her forehead against the cool glass and tried to catch her breath, tried to process what had just happened.

The game had reached its end. She wouldn't keep chasing a man who wanted to pretend to be a ghost, who kissed her like she was everything and then ran like she was nothing. What was the point, if he wanted to keep resisting? If he was going to keep pushing her away?

She took a step away from the window and let out a quiet, shaky exhale that fogged the glass. She gathered the whiskey glasses from the table and tossed them in the sink with more force than necessary, listening to them clink loudly against the metal. 

She just wished she had never started to care. Wished she could go back to that night in the alley and walk away, call the police, do anything other than what she'd done.

But she couldn't. And she did care. And that was the problem.

—-

"—and apparently Batman took out three of Penguin's enforcers in one night," Jaime was saying, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, looking entirely too pleased about the violence. "Just left them tied up in front of the Iceberg Lounge like a present. Like a cat leaving dead birds on the doorstep. Penguin's furious."

"Good," Sierra said, not looking up from her screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Maybe he'll think twice before expanding. Maybe he'll learn his territory doesn’t encompass half of the city.”

"Or maybe he'll escalate and we'll have a gang war on our hands." Jaime shrugged, his eyes wide. "Either way, it's a story. Probably a front-page story."

She took a sip of her coffee, staying quiet, letting the conversation wash over her. She'd been tracking every report about Red Hood for the past week in a way that made her feel like a stalker looking for patterns, for signs of...what? That he was okay? That he was thinking about her? That the kiss had meant something to him beyond a moment of weakness?

She hadn't seen him in a week. Hadn't heard from him. The window stayed locked every night. Every morning she checked it anyway, hoping for something. A note, a sign, anything. Some indication that he didn’t regret what had happened. 

Nothing. Just silence and the red symbol on her building that might as well have been mocking her now.

Sierra glanced up at her, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. "So. Speaking of things we're not talking about..." She jerked her head toward Andrew's desk across the room. He was on a call, turned away from them, but Sierra kept her voice barely above a whisper anyway. "What happened with that?"

She followed Sierra's gaze to Andrew and felt the familiar pang of guilt that hadn't quite faded yet that sat in her stomach like something rotten. "I ended it. Last week."

"Oh shit." Sierra sat up straighter, her eyes going wide. "Really? I thought you guys were... I mean, he seemed really into you. Like, potentially serious."

"He was. Is." She corrected herself, watching Andrew through the glass partition. "But I couldn't—it wasn't fair to him. I wasn't..." She searched for the right words, for something that wouldn't reveal too much. "I wasn't focused on him. My head was somewhere else.”

"Somewhere or someone?" Sierra asked knowingly, eyebrows raised in speculation, reading between the lines.

She rolled her eyes, taking another sip of coffee to avoid answering. "Does it matter?"

"I mean, yeah? Kind of?" Sierra gestured vaguely. "You went on like three dates with Andrew. He's a good guy, a really good guy. Nice, respectful, clearly into you. And you just—" She made a cutting gesture. "What happened? Did he do something?"

"Nothing happened. That was the problem." She took another sip of coffee, using it as a shield, as something to do with her hands. "I just realized I couldn't make myself feel something that wasn't there. And it wasn't fair to keep trying, to keep stringing him along hoping it would develop into something."

Jaime whistled low, eyes wide behind his glasses. "Damn. How'd he take it?"

"Decently. Well enough, anyway." She'd met Andrew for coffee, been as honest as she could be without mentioning the part where she'd developed complicated feelings for a vigilante who killed people and whose face she had never seen. Andrew had been hurt, she'd seen it in his eyes, but he'd been kind about it. Gracious, even. Told her he understood, that he appreciated her honesty, that he'd rather know now than months down the line. They'd agreed to keep things professional at work, to try to move past the awkwardness.

It still felt awful. Like she'd kicked a puppy.

"He's been pretty quiet this week," Sierra observed, looking over at him with concern. "Not his usual self. Usually he's cracking jokes, making everyone laugh."

"I know." The guilt twisted harder, a knife between her ribs. "I feel terrible about it."

"Hey, you did the right thing." Sierra's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "Better to end it than lead him on. String him along for months before finally admitting you weren't feeling it. He'll be fine. It just takes time."

"Yeah," she agreed, but the word felt hollow, meaningless. She stared into her coffee cup, watching the liquid swirl as she tilted it slightly, seeing her distorted reflection in the dark surface.

Time. That's what everyone said, wasn't it? Give it time. Things would get better with time. Hearts healed with time.

But how much time was she supposed to give this ridiculous notion of her own disappointment? How long was she supposed to wait for him to show up again, to explain why he'd kissed her like that and then vanished? How long before she accepted that maybe it had been a mistake to him, that maybe he regretted it, that maybe—

"Excuse me?"

She looked up sharply. Kelly, one of the junior assistants, was standing beside Sierra's desk, wringing her hands nervously, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"Sorry to interrupt," Kelly continued, glancing between the three of them apologetically with wide, dark eyes. "But there's someone at the front desk asking to speak with you." It took her a second to realize that Kelly was looking directly at her expectantly. 

She frowned, setting her coffee down. "Me? I'm not expecting anyone. Did they say what it was about?"

"He said it's important. Asked for you by name." Kelly bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable. "Should I tell him you're busy? I can take a message if you want."

"No, it's fine." She set her coffee down, already standing, her journalist instincts kicking in. A walk-in source, maybe. "Did he say what it was about?"

"No, just that he needed to speak with you. He seemed..." Kelly hesitated, searching for the right word, her face scrunching up. "Intense. Kind of... I don't know. Intimidating?"

Sierra and Jaime exchanged glances. "Want backup?" Sierra offered, already half-standing. "Just in case?"

"No, I'm fine." Though something in her chest had tightened with an emotion she couldn't name, couldn't identify. Dread? Worry? "I'll be right back."

She followed Kelly through the newsroom toward the front reception area, her mind spinning with possibilities, running through scenarios. An irritated Gothamite, come to argue about something she wrote? Someone with information about a potential story? She had no idea — she hadn’t put out an article since the Chen article. 

She rounded the corner and stopped dead, her feet forgetting how to move.

A young man stood by the reception desk, hands shoved in the pockets of a worn denim jacket, dark jeans and scuffed boots that had seen better days. He was tall, easily six feet, and built like he'd been carved from marble by an artist who understood human anatomy on an intimate level. Broad shoulders, a muscular frame that the jacket did nothing to hide, all lean strength and controlled power.

But it was his face that made her breath catch in her throat.

He was absurdly handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair, almost cruel. A sharp jawline dusted with stubble that was a few days past needing a shave, high cheekbones that could cut glass, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than a few times and not set quite right. It had a slight crook to it that somehow made him more attractive rather than less. And his eyes were a bright, vivid blue. The kind that seemed to cut right through you when he looked at you. 

He was so striking, so beautiful in that dangerous, sharp-edged way, that she almost didn't notice the scars at first. Some were a pale and silvery white that shone in the light, some darker and more raised. He had one that cut down from the edge of his left cheekbone down his jaw that stood out more than the rest, jagged and crude. Like someone had tried to carve him open. 

Most of the scarring was scattered across his face—his cheeks, his nose, the underside of his jaw—but it didn't detract from his appeal. If anything, it heightened his features. Made him look dangerous and beautiful in equal measure. Like someone with a story. 

And there, cutting through the black hair that fell across his forehead, was a distinctive white streak. Stark and unusual against the dark locks, impossible to miss.

Her heart stopped. Completely stopped, then lurched back into motion too fast, painful against her ribs.

He turned as she approached, and those blue eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. There was something deep in those eyes. And something else, something that looked a lot like regret. 

"Hi," she managed to say, forcing her voice to stay professional despite the sudden certainty blooming in her chest. "I'm told you asked for me?"

"Yeah." His voice was gruff, lower than she'd expected but painfully, devastatingly familiar beneath the rough edges. That Gotham accent she'd heard a thousand times, had memorized without meaning to. He extended a hand, and she noticed the calluses, the scars on his knuckles. "Thanks for seeing me."

She shook it, and the contact sent a jolt through her system like touching a live wire. His grip was firm, strong—exactly like she remembered from last week when those hands had been in her on her waist, leaving bruises that had just faded. 

She felt dizzy, faint. Her eyes latched onto the scar on his jaw, forcing herself to remain steady despite the surprise of this. What was he doing here? Unmasked? 

"And you are?" She asked, even though she already knew, even though every cell in her body was screaming the answer.

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, something flickering across his face. He was looking at her like he was nervous. Like meeting her without the mask was terrifying. And he looked so young — even with his height and build, there was no way he could be any older than his early twenties. "Someone with information you'll want to hear."

She narrowed her eyes at him. Was this a game? "About?"

His jaw tightened, muscle jumping. "Red Hood."

Her professional mask nearly cracked. She glanced around the reception area. Too public, too many ears, too many potential witnesses. "Conference room. Follow me.”

She led him down the hallway to one of the smaller meeting rooms, acutely aware of him behind her, of his presence like a physical weight. He moved just as he did with the mask on — silent and deliberate, like someone who was constantly aware of his surroundings. She could feel his eyes on her as they moved down the hall. 

She closed the door behind them, locked it with hands that trembled slightly. Gestured to the chairs around the table. He sat, but his posture was tense, coiled, ready to move. Ready to run.

The professional mask she'd been barely holding onto finally cracked, shattered completely. She whirled around, glaring at him furiously. "What the actual fuck are you doing right now?"

Red Hood — whoever the hell he was—shrugged with infuriating casualness, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk that made her want to either slap him or kiss him, she couldn't decide which. His eyes, impossibly blue, traveled over her from head to toe with an appreciation that was anything but subtle, seemingly more relaxed now that it was just the two of them, now that they were alone. "Nice to see you too, sweetheart. Mind penciling me in for a meeting? I can throw in coffee if that sweetens the deal."

She gaped at him, completely taken aback by his smugness, by the sheer audacity of him standing in front of her without a mask like this was normal, like he hadn't just turned her entire world upside down. This is what he had looked like the whole time. Young, unfairly handsome, devastatingly masculine in a way that made her mouth go dry. She silently counted her lucky stars there, even through her anger. "Cut the shit, Hood. You can't just be strolling into the Gotham Gazette without a mask! What if somebody sees you, recognizes you, or figures out—"

"What would they figure out?" He cut her off with a grin that was all teeth and confidence, taking one deliberate step closer to her, invading her space like he had every right to. "Pretty easy to walk around town without the mask. That's kinda the point of the mask, ya know. To hide my real face so when I don't want to wear it, I can just be—"

"Alright, alright," she waved him off with a heavy sigh, slumping down into the nearest chair before her legs gave out. She pressed her fingers into her temples, trying to stave off the headache blooming behind her eyes. "I don't need you being a smartass right now. Can you just tell me what the hell you're doing here? Why you're here at all?"

He frowned, the smugness evaporating instantly, replaced by something that looked like genuine hurt. His brow furrowed, and seeing it on his actual face, seeing the way it changed his features, made her chest ache. "Thought you'd be a little bit more enthusiastic about finally meeting me face to face. Thought you'd want this."

She snorted, the sound sharp and humorless, leaning back in the chair with her arms crossed defensively. His look of surprise only deepened, confusion and hesitation warring on his features. "I'm sorry, did you expect me to jump for joy after you told me you wanted nothing to do with me a week ago? After you kissed me like I was everything and then ran like I was nothing?"

He blinked, those blue eyes widening slightly even as his scowl remained firmly in place, and she had a brief moment of vicious satisfaction at seeing genuine surprise flicker across his face for the first time. "Those words literally never came out of my mouth—"

"You told me to forget it ever happened." Her voice was flat, emotionless, even though inside she was anything but. "You told me to move on. That it was a mistake."

"Okay, can we just—" He moved closer with an exasperated sigh that sounded almost pained, taking the seat right next to her and leaning forward, bracing his arms on his knees. She froze, startled by the sudden proximity, by having him this close without the helmet between them, without any barrier. She could see every detail of his face now, every scar, every flicker of emotion he usually kept hidden. "This is not going at all how I wanted this to go. Not even close."

She tore her focus away from the mesmerizing blue of his eyes and shifted back into her defensive anger, using it as a shield. "Did you have a plan or something? Did you actually think this through?"

Red Hood shifted in his chair uneasily, his eyes locked on hers like he couldn't look away even if he wanted to. A flush crept up the back of his neck, visible above his jacket collar, spreading to his ears. He rubbed at it nervously, like he could force the blood back down through sheer will. "I... yeah, I did. What's so wrong about that, huh? Thought you'd appreciate seeing me, the real me, without the mask. Without all the barriers." His voice dropped, went quieter. "Not like I go around taking the mask off for just anyone. You're the only one who knows. The only civilian."

"I'm sorry, so your plan was..." She gestured at him, at all of him, trying to wrap her head around this. "To come into my place of work all mysterious and cryptic, thinking I wouldn't immediately know it was you? You thought you'd surprise me with who you are like some grand fucking reveal? Like this was a movie?"

"I—Jesus Christ, you're fucking mean today, aren't you?" He snapped at her, his eyes narrowing, jaw clenching. And yet, underneath the defensiveness, he still sounded nervous. Uncertain. "That wasn't my whole plan, okay? I just..." 

He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the dark strands, that white streak falling across his forehead. "I feel bad about how things went down last week. The way I left, what I said…it wasn't how I wanted things to go. Wasn't what I meant."

She stared at him, her anger warring with confusion. "Yeah, I know. You told me to essentially get lost, remember? To forget you even kissed me. To pretend it never happened."

"For fuck's sake, sweetheart, can you just let me talk?" He cut her off, his entire face flushing red now. Not with anger, she realized with a jolt, but with nerves. His leg was bouncing against the floor, and he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, the scar there stretching white. "I'm not good with this sort of shit. With people, much less…much less girls. Women. Whatever." He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "Never had a chance to... date or anything. Normal teenage stuff. I died before I could figure any of that out, and after I came back, I was too fucked up, too angry, too—"

He stopped, took a breath, forced himself to continue. "I'm an idiot, I know. A complete fucking disaster. But I just...wanted to say I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I don't want to forget about what happened." His voice dropped, went rough with emotion. "I don't regret it. I've wanted to do that for so long now, wanted to kiss you, wanted—" He swallowed hard. "And you were just standing there looking at me with those eyes and saying all that stuff about not giving up on me, and I just..."

He cut himself off with a soft groan that sounded like it was being ripped from somewhere deep, like being this vulnerable was physically painful. Like it was shredding him apart from the inside out. She imagined it was, in every sense that mattered. "I'm sorry, alright? And you do deserve fucking better than me. Someone who isn't broken and damaged and fucked up in ways I can't even begin to explain. So you should forget about me, if you know what's good for you. If you have any sense of self-preservation." 

He paused, his hands flexing into fists on his knees. "But... I do care about you. More than I should. More than is probably safe for either of us. And I don't wanna just keep avoiding you, keep running every time things get real. I can't keep doing that."

He looked up at her again finally, and the vulnerability in those bright blue eyes made her breath catch. "So I wanted to apologize and tell you all that. Tell you that I'm an idiot and I'm sorry and I don't want to stay away." He paused, and something that might have been hope flickered across his face. "And I wanted to give you your damn interview. The real story, everything you've been trying to get out of me for months. Figure that's a good trade for me being a complete jackass. You get your story, your career-making exclusive, and I get to... I don't know. Try to make this right."

She stared at him, at this man who was Red Hood and Robin, who'd died and come back wrong, who killed people and wore bloodstains on his clothes like badges of honor. Who'd kissed her like he was drowning and then run like he was saving her.

"I'll take the interview," she said finally, her voice quiet but steady.

Relief flooded his features, his shoulders dropping. "Yeah? Okay, good. I can…I'll tell you everything you want to know for your article—"

"No." She cut him off, shaking her head. "I'll take the interview, but not for an article. Not for publication."

He blinked, confusion replacing the relief. "What?"

"I want the interview for me." She leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. "To learn more about you. Who you really are under the mask. Not Red Hood the vigilante, but you. The person."

He stared at her like she'd spoken a different language, his mouth opening and closing without sound. "I—you—" He stopped, started again. "You realize what you're turning down, right? An exclusive interview with a vigilante. First journalist to ever get one. It would make your career. You'd have every major publication in the country trying to poach you. You could write your own ticket."

"I know." Her voice was steady, certain.

"Then why—" He looked genuinely baffled, like he couldn't comprehend what she was saying. "Why would you give that up?"

"Because I don't care about any of that." The words came out simple, honest. "Not right now. Not compared to this." She gestured between them. "I care about you. About knowing who you are, really knowing you. Not as a source, not as a story, but as... as whatever this is. As someone who matters to me."

Something in his expression cracked, walls crumbling. His eyes went bright with emotion he was clearly struggling to contain. "You're serious."

"I'm serious." She held his gaze. "No more running. No more hiding. I want to know you…whoever you are."

He flinched slightly, looking down briefly at his boots. "You don't even know my full name. My real name."

"Then tell me." It wasn't a demand, but an invitation. An offering.

He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing on the words, his blue eyes dark. Finally, he muttered. "Jason. Jason Todd."

The name hit her like a freight train, recognition slamming into her with devastating force. Her breath caught, eyes going wide. "Jason Todd. You're—" She stopped, her mind racing back through years of memories. "I wrote your obituary."

He nodded slowly, watching her carefully. "Yeah. Six years ago. Bruce — he asked you to do it specifically. Paid the Gazette to make sure you were the one who wrote it."

"I remember." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Wouldn't say why he wanted me specifically, just that it was important. That you were important." 

"You did good." His voice was rough, thick with emotion. "I read it. After I came back, after I got my head straight enough to look myself up. You made me sound...human. Like my life meant something. I was happy he picked you."

"But why did Bruce ask me specifically?" She was still putting pieces together, still trying to understand. She didn’t touch on the realization that if Bruce Wayne was Red Hood — Jason’s — adoptive father, that must mean he was also…

She stopped herself, pushing the thought down and locking it away for now. She would revisit that later, when her mind wasn’t already spinning from what was going on right in front of her now.

Jason's throat worked, like swallowing was difficult. "After I died, Bruce found stuff in my room. Personal things. Including a newspaper clipping I'd kept." He paused, his eyes meeting hers. "Your article. The one about Park Row, about Crime Alley. The one where you used my quotes, from that night I saved you.”

Her heart stopped. "You kept it?"

"Yeah." A slight, sad smile tugged at his lips. "Read it probably a hundred times. Every word. You took what I said and made it mean something. It was…it was great." He looked down at his hands, at the scars on his knuckles. "Bruce found it after. Put two and two together. Figured if I'd kept your article, if your words had mattered that much to me, then maybe you should be the one to write about my death too."

"Jason..." She didn't know what to say, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. All she knew was that the sound of his name on her lips was both thrilling and terrifying all at once. 

"I liked the article," he continued, his voice going softer, more vulnerable than she'd ever heard it. "But I also... I had a bit of a crush on you. After that night." He laughed, but it was self-deprecating, almost embarrassed. The flush on his neck reappeared, spread to his face. "Stupid, right? I was fifteen, you were this college student who'd actually listened to me, treated me like I mattered. Like my words had value. I thought you were—" 

He stopped, swallowed hard. "I wanted to find you again. After I got a bit older, when I wasn't just some kid. I thought maybe I could…I don't know. Talk to you again. Without the mask."

His voice was getting tighter now, emotions clearly overwhelming him. "But then I died. And when I came back, I was so fucked up, so angry and broken that I thought…I thought it didn't matter anymore. That I'd ruined any chance of—"

 He stopped, his breath hitching slightly. "And then I ran into you again, years later, and you were everything I remembered and more, and I didn’t think I was enough—"

His voice cracked completely. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and let out a ragged breath, trying to hold it together, trying not to fall apart in front of her.

She didn't hesitate. Didn't think. Just moved, closing the distance between them and pulled him into her arms. 

He went rigid for a moment, surprised. But then he was clinging to her, his face pressed against her shoulder, his breathing harsh and uneven against her neck.

"It's okay," she murmured, one hand coming up to stroke through his hair. The smell of him was familiar, comforting. Cigarette smoke, sweat, and some cologne she couldn’t place. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm right here."

"I'm sorry," he choked out, the words muffled. "I'm sorry, I'm a fucking mess, I—"

"You're allowed to be," she said firmly. "You died, Jason. You died and came back and went through hell, and you're allowed to feel that. You're allowed to be human."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears, his face raw and open in a way she'd never seen. Beautiful and broken and so painfully human it made her chest ache.

She leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft, gentle, different from their desperate kiss before. This was comfort and acceptance and promise all wrapped together. This was choosing him, choosing this, choosing to see all of him— the killer and the boy who had never really gotten a chance to live.

He made a soft sound against her mouth, something that might have been a sob, and kissed her back with a tenderness that stole her breath. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone, and she could feel him trembling.

When they pulled back, he looked dazed, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening. Like he was afraid if he blinked, she might disappear.

She smiled at him gently, and moved back to her chair, pulling out her notebook and pen. "Okay. I'm going to start the interview now."

He blinked at her, clearly trying to process the shift, still looking wrecked and vulnerable. "You…right now?"

"Right now." She clicked her pen, looked up at him with warmth in her eyes. "No more running, remember? So let's start at the beginning. Tell me about growing up in Crime Alley. Tell me about the boy you were before the cape. Before everything."

He blinked, and slowly, a smile spread across his face. Genuine and so full of emotion it transformed his features completely. He looked young suddenly, boyish despite the scars and the hard edges. He looked at her like she was something precious, something miraculous.

Like he was already half in love with her, or maybe had been all along.

"Yeah," he said softly, his voice rough with an emotion she could finally name. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

________________________________________________________________

They walked into the library, and the first thing Soldier Boy noticed was that it was warm and cool all at once. Like stepping into a building made of springtime. Sunlight poured in, but there was a soft hum in the background from the fans. The furniture was cozy, but everything was perfectly clean. Butcher called out a name, lazily bouncing on his feet, and an angelic voice called back.

“Be right there!”

Butcher smirked. Hughie shifted nervously, shooting Soldier Boy looks like he’d explode in this little fairy book house. He wouldn’t. Place wasn’t worth wasting his bomb on anyways.

Then you floated into view, and Soldier Boy felt the ground under his feet shift. You weren’t a molding, self-important, four-eyed bitch. If this was a fairy book house, you were a fairy. If you had the voice of an angel, it was because you were an angle, and the world twisted itself to give you everything you needed. The sunlight bended, hitting you like some scene from those romance movies he’d always refused to shoot. You floated more than walked. You smiled like you knew everything, and it didn’t even piss him off. 

Soldier Boy hadn’t been a teenager in almost a hundred years, but suddenly he remembered. How it felt for his face to heat and his cock to twitch and his heart to race under his palms. He kicked himself silently, gritting his jaw and standing a little taller. He was a grown fucking man. An American icon. A hero. He wasn’t going to tip over his fucking feet like some kid, especially not for some pretty girl that probably looked down on him. On everyone. The smart ones always did.

They were also the most fun to get in bed. They got bratty, then stupid when he fucked them nice and slow. All the mocking and sass draining out of their pussy, onto Soldier Boy’s hands and cock. Sharp eyes go dazed and sneers fall into open, shocked lips.  

You’ve got those sharp eyes, as you take their little group in. They’re like a hawk, picking them apart with a single look. A hawk in a doll’s body. A sexy, smart little doll.

But there’s no sneer. Even as you glare at Butcher, you’re more pouting than anything else. Solider Boy wonders if you’d pout while begging for him, or just get defiant and bitchy. He’d love to find out.

“You’re getting blood on the carpet,” you tell Butcher, and he shrugs.

“Ain’t you worried about where I’m leakin’ the blood from, love-“

“No.” You cross your arms, lifting you chin. “You’re going to clean it up.”

Butcher’s shoulders curve slightly. Like a scolded fucking child. “C’mon, I got other shit to be workin’ on-“

“Then you shouldn’t have dragged blood on my carpet.”

“But- I got work I needed ya for-“

“Hughie can tell me about it.” You offer Hughie a small smile, and he waves in return.

Soldier Boy stands a little taller. Maybe you just haven’t noticed him yet.

“Clean,” you snap at Butcher, turning on your heels and marching back between the shelves.

Butcher looks at Hughie and Soldier Boy, like they’re supposed to save him from this shit. Hughie gives him an apologetic smile, and follows you into the back. Soldier Boy grins, clapping Butcher on the shoulder before following.

“You didn’t tell me she was a firecracker-“

“She ain’t a firecracker,” Butcher muttered, rolling up his sleeves and glaring around the entryway for whatever people use to clean things. “She’s a fuckin’ problem.”

Soldier Boy smirked, looking back to where you disappeared. “Even fuckin’ better.”

Butcher snorted, giving Soldier Boy a strange, half-amused look. “Good luck with that one, Gov. Don’t blow the fuckin’ job.”

Soldier Boy flipped him off. He’d never blown the job over a woman before—not even an ethereal, enchanting one—and he’s not about to start now. He stood in the corner of your little office, while Hughie asked you questions about books and chemicals and other, smartass shit that Soldier Boy’s never bothered with. He always had people like you on payroll, to give him those answers when he needed them, but usually he didn’t. You punch anything hard enough, it breaks. And he was pretty fucking good at punching.

He said that, at one point. Hughie sighed like he was in physical pain—kid was fucking dramatic—and you just gave him a curious tilt of your head.

“You’re good at punching?”

“I’ m the fuckin’ best.” Soldier Boy pushed off the wall, crossing over to the desk. “Could show you sometimes. Teach you how to defend yourself.”

“Hm.”

You looked him up and down, and Soldier Boy found himself puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. He’d dealt with hard to get girls before. They always cave, when he chases long enough. When he gives them a bit of a show, and promises them it’ll be worth their time.

“What would I be defending myself against?” You asked, soft and sweet. Your voice was like honey. Soldier Boy wanted to get trapped in it, like a fly.

“There are evil people out there,” he drawled, leaning over the desk.

You didn’t lean away, but you blink, and Soldier Boy hears your heartbeat skip. Any reaction is a good one. Meant he was doing something to your body, and that was the first step in getting his foot through the door.

“But I’m here to protect you,” Soldier Boy winked, and stuck out a hand. That was his favorite line. It always fucking worked. “Soldier Boy, doll. Pleasure to meet you.”

Usually, that line made women of all ages and makes swoon. They’d bat their lashes and giggle if they were easy, roll their eyes and flush if they were hard, get starry-eyed if they were innocent, or twirl their hair of they were just as sinful as Soldier Boy himself. But you looked him up and down, and your heartbeat was at a steady baseline. You watched him like you were trying to read him. Like he had thoughts written over his face, and you were  skimming through them. Through him.

“I know,” you said, taking his hand and shaking once. Your fingers weren’t trembling. Your smile was kind, but controlled. “Nice to meet you.”

Soldier Boy blinked, hand still hanging in the air as you turned back to your computer. He’d felt an unsteady heartbeat under his fingers, when you’d touched. But it wasn’t yours. It was his. He wasn’t fucking nervous. His mouth was oddly dry. He cleared his throat and stood back up, trying to strangle some fucking dignity into his body. He wasn’t about to fold in half like some fucking pussy. He just hadn’t gotten properly laid in too fucking long. You were pretty. That was fucking it.

You helped Butcher and Hughie with the job, tracking down books and flipping through them with nimble fingers. Soldier Boy imagined them wrapped around his cock, and forced himself not to rub himself through his pants. He wasn’t about to be that fucking pathetic, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how he couldn’t look away from you for a single second, in case you just turned into mist and turned out to be some kind of fucked up hallucination.

Soldier Boy watched you, as you read and spoke to Butcher. You were polite. Please and thank you and tiny fucking giggles that made his balls heavy. It would be fun to fuck all that out of you. All those sweet words pouring out of your lips, as you’d cry and sing for him.

Butcher seemed to respect you, which said something Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to hear. Nothing and everything good. When Hughie told you what supes they were going after, you didn’t blink or crow uselessly about murder not being right. You’d just rolled up your sleeves and gotten to fucking work. Soldier Boy could appreciate that. No use in crying about shit that had to be done.

“How’d Butcher find someone like you,” Soldier Boy asked when it was just the two of you. You looked up with raised brows, he almost fucking balked.

 Pretty fucking doe-eyes that ripped right through him. Fucking dangerous.

“Someone like me?” You echoed, and he grunted.

“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be tangled up in this shit-“

“Am I?” Your lips twitched. “I wish someone would’ve told me that. I would’ve kicked you out.”

Soldier Boy opened his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lips. You kept fucking smiling and talking, and he was asking you to smile and talk, but it did something drug-like to his brain and he didn’t fucking like it.

“You know, I used to watch your movies as a kid,” you said casually.

Soldier Boy smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He could fucking work with that. “Yeah? You a groupie?”

That got another, breathy little laugh from your lips. Christ, the sound was addicting. “Not quite. I’m not- That’s not really something I do.”

“Somethin’ you do? The fuck does that mean.”

You shrugged. “Hero worship.”

Soldier Boy frowned. The fuck were heroes for, if not to be worshipped. “You think you’re too good for that shit? For getting wet from seein’ someone you want on a screen?”

That got a flush. It’s the best fucking color he’d seen, on your face. He wanted to kiss over it, make it bloom down your neck and over your tits.

“I bet you were a dirty fuckin’ girl, weren’t you,” he leaned further forward, and dared to reach over the desk. To brush his fingers against your arm, and revel in the way you shivered from his touch. “Had posters of me in your room, didn’t you. Used to touch yourself, thinkin’ about me breaking through the fucking wall and taking you right there.”

You blinked at him, with those pretty fucking eyes. They were glossy, now. Another step. He was closer, to what he wanted, and it was the best damn feeling in the world.

“Well, I’m here to make dreams come true, doll,” he traced down your arm, and your breath caught. “Just tell me how you want it, I’ll fuck you ‘till you’re too cross-eyed to read this shit.”

He jerked his head to the books, and waited. This was the part where you told him to bend you over the desk, to pin you to the wall, to pull you into his lap and let you ride him until you passed out.

But instead, you fucking laughed. You pulled your arm back and giggled, shaking your head like he’d said something funny. Soldier Boy’s mouth fell open, and he felt like a fucking idiot. You flipped through your little book, ignoring his dumbfounded expression. He opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

“My favorite was Ghosts of Hanai,” you told him, offering another one of those mind-numbing smiles. “Did you know it was a book first?”

Soldier Boy did not know that. He couldn’t remember how to speak, to tell you that.

“It’s a really good book. Obviously you’re not the main character- In the book- But I kind of liked the adaptation anyway. It wasn’t as- You know- Good. But it was more fun.”

“I’ll show you fun,” he muttered before he could stop himself, and you just giggled again.

If you did that shit one more time, he was going to have to go into the bathroom to beat himself off. Soldier Boy knew why Butcher called you a problem, now. You were perfect, and infuriating, and he should’ve wanted to put your head through a wall for fucking laughing at him, but he didn’t. He wanted to hear that songbird sound again. He wanted to fucking get under your skin, the way you’d seeped under his.

“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you waved to him like a sweet siren, when they were ready to go. He grunted, and waved back.

“You sure she ain’t some kind of supe,” he asked Butcher in the van, and Butcher snorted.

“I’ve wondered, but nah. Just a fuckin’ human.”

Butcher gave Hughie some kind of secret look that Soldier Boy didn’t concern himself with. He was too busy thinking about you. He’d have to go back to you see you. He’d make up a reason why. But he wasn’t used to not getting things he wanted, and he was worried he might want you so much his annoying fucking heart was going to give out about it. He couldn’t allow that.

You’d remember him. You’d laugh for him more. He’d figure out what made you like him, and he’d do it, and then this annoying buzz in his bloodstream could fuck off.

This annoying fucking feeling better fuck off.

It wouldn’t fuck off.

Soldier Boy found himself back at your library after a week. If anyone asked, he’d say he tried to stay away. It would be to preserve dignity. To pretend he hadn’t been hoping they’d need more stupid books so he could go back and see you.

You were clinging to the edge of his every thought. That laugh, that smile, the magnetic way you’d spoken and sat and been. Gentle but not weak. Kind but not stupid. A rare kind of thing to be, when you knew the dark kind of shit that grew in the corners of the world. Part of Soldier Boy prayed it was just an act. That he’d talk to you a little more, and you’d be no better than the rest of them. Then he could fuck you and forget after, like he’d done with almost every other person on his long, stained list of bodies.

But you were just fucking like that. And it was insufferable and enchanting and fucking amazing.

“Soldier Boy,” you said when he returned, blinking in surprise, and something else he couldn’t read. “You’re… back?”

He grunted. “Obviously.”

“Do you need help with another-“

“No.”

You frowned at him. Did that little head tilt, and Christ, what he wouldn’t give to just bury his fucking face in your neck and breathe you in. 

“I just here to get a book,” he heard himself say, and Jesus, you were doing something to him. He didn’t give a fuck about books. He certainly didn’t want one.

But you were here. And Soldier Boy had a feeling you wouldn’t be open to him just being here to see you.

And you lit up, when he said he wanted a book. Great. Now he was going to have to fucking read, just to get some pussy.

“What book?”

“A- Big one.” That had to be impressive. “Biggest you’ve got, doll.”

He winked, looping his thumbs through his belt. You made that face again, brow raising slightly. “Big as in long, or complicated?”

Soldier Boy shrugged. “Both.”

“Fiction or Nonfiction?”

Why were there so many kinds of fucking books. “Whichever one you like better. I trust you won’t give me something shit.”

That made your lips twitch, and it hit Soldier Boy like a rush of coke. His head got lighter and the world got sharper, and you smiled at him, and that heartbeat was his again. He really was worse than a fucking teenager.

“Wait here,” you told him, and he did. Like a fucking dog.

You came back with a massive heap of a book. There couldn’t be that many words in the world, let alone enough sentances to make something that long. Anything worth saying shouldn’t take more than a fucking page.

“Infinite Jest.” You passed him the book, and he stared at you. “Long and complicated.”

Soldier Boy grunted, not bothering to spare the book a glance. You were what he was here for, and if you just fucking walked away, he felt like he might explode.

“You like this thing?” He almost barked, and you paused, already a half-step back.

“It’s okay,” you said slowly. Actually fucking thinking about your answer. “I like his essays better.”

“Essays?” Soldier Boy frowned. “You like his fuckin’ book reports?”

You gave him one of those coy, honeyed half-smiles again. He was worried he was going to fucking drool. “Creative essays. Like- Book reports about your life.”

Soldier Boy nodded, glancing down to the book, then back to you. He didn’t want to read this shit. Book reports had, as far as he remembered, always been short. And he wanted to see what kind of shit you liked to read. What you considered good. “I want one of those. Instead of this.”

He’d meant it to be an order, but it came out without the usual edge he put in his tone. That edge was his best weapon. It had won him countless battles before they even fucking started.

But you just gave him that fucking look. The one where he felt flimsy and stupid and weak, his body all excited from your attention and his fingers itching to dig into your soft looking skin. You smiled, and he swallowed, drawing himself a little taller. He wouldn’t just fall into you. He refused to be that fucking weak.

“Read that first,” you told him. “Then we’ll talk about the essays.”

You turned and walked away. Soldier Boy let you go, because if he touched you, he was worried he was going to turn into more of a weak fucking lapdog than he already was. He wished he could read you—read that smile, those looks, the lacey tone you took with him and seemingly no one else—as well as you seemed to be able to peel him right apart. He looked back at the book, roughly flipping it to the first page. He tried to read the first sentence, but the words floated off the fucking page and didn’t even brush through his brain. He couldn’t read this shit.

Then we’ll talk, you’d said.

You’d talk to him, if he read this.

Christ on a Cross. He was going to try and read a book.

It took him a month. A month of staring at words in the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep and no one was around to see. If Butcher caught him trying this shit, he’d never hear the end of it. Hell, he wasn’t hearing the end of it now, and no one even knew he was reading.

“Where you goin’, Gov?” Butcher barked as Soldier Boy moved to the door, and he scowled at the air.

“None of your fucking business.”

Then Butcher said your name, smiling knowingly, and Soldier Boy wanted to punch his teeth in. “You’re goin’ to see her again, ain’t you-“

“Said it was none of your fucking business,” Soldier Boy spat, raising a firm finger. “Not another word, or I punch your teeth into your asshole, you got that?”

Butcher just laughed to himself, and Soldier Boy ground his teeth. It wasn’t anything like your laugh, but then again, nothing was.

“Hi, Soldier Boy,” you greeted him without looking now. He wanted to think that meant something. That you were getting as obsessed with his presence as he was with yours. “Did the dictionary help?”

“Mhm,” he glanced at the sitting area, where a few old folks—younger than him, but wrinkled in a way he’d never be—were poking through the newspapers and chatting. There were some kids in the book section. Few teens giggling, somewhere deeper between the shelves.

No one paying him any mind. No one to look at him and wonder what the fuck Soldier Boy was doing in a library, why he’d needed a dictionary, like he was some dumbass who couldn’t speak or read or-

“I needed a dictionary,” you said, and Soldier Boy blinked. You were looking at him. Right at him. He felt it, in his heartbeat, and he never wanted it to fucking stop.

“What,” he said, stupid and drunk, and you smiled.

“I needed a dictionary. To get through Infinite Jest. The first time,” you amended, your eyes getting strangely softer the longer you watched him. “But- I still needed it.”

Soldier Boy’s hands curled into fists. “You read it multiple times?” This one time was feeling like it was going to fucking kill him.

“I read most things multiple times.”

He snorted. “Jesus.”

That made you blink. A faint flush creeped onto your face, and you looked back to your computer. Soldier Boy froze. Your heart was doing a little fucking stumble.

Interesting.

“You’re real fuckin’ smart, huh?” He tried, just to see what would happen.

Your heart did the little stumble again.

Jackpot.

“Maybe,” you mumbled, glaring at your screen. “I just- Like books.”

Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah. Think I figured that one out myself.”

You hummed, not meeting his gaze anymore. You were getting quiet. He didn’t like it. Not like this. You’d be allowed to get quiet and shy when he was balls deep inside of you. Right now, he wanted to hear that pretty fucking voice, teasing and sassing and helping him, all at once.

“What kind of books do you like,” he asked, and it sounded lame to his own ears.

But you looked at him. And screw him up the ass and sideways, it was fucking worth it.

“What kind of books do I like?”

“That’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?”

You stared at him. He stared back, because there was one thing he wasn’t going to let himself do, and it was back off of this.

“Why?”

And Soldier Boy leaned back. Because you said it like that was a real question. Like he wouldn’t, obviously, naturally, want to know every fucking thing about you. Women liked it when someone listened, he’d learned over the years. He’d listen to whatever the fuck you wanted to say, if it got you closer to being in his arms.

“Because,” he said, and your lips tugged down into that pretty pout.

“Because why?”

“Can’t I just fuckin’ want know?” He snapped, and you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms.

“No one ever just wants to know.”

Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re looking at someone, doll. So get that through your pretty head.”

You blinked. Flushed. Wrapped your arms around yourself, like you were trying to stop that loud heartbeat from jumping right out of your chest.

“I like everything,” you said stiffly, and Soldier Boy smirked.

“Everything, huh.”

You shrugged, and he leaned over the desk. Your breath hitched, and he knew his features were turning wolfish, but he didn’t fucking care. You seemed into it anyways.

“Everything,” he breathed, and your lips pressed in a nervous little line. “Show me what everything is, then.”

And I’ll show you everything, gorgeous. He thought about saying it. Thought about how you’d melt and get nervous and he’d have his in.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t figure out why—what the fuck was wrong with him, what the fuck you were doing—but the words got caught, and he didn’t say them. He had you where he wanted you anyway, he rationalized. Talking to him. Smiling at him. Breaking you right now would be too fucking easy.

Since when had he not wanted easy.

Maybe since you pulled him through the bookshelves with light, delicate fingers on his wrist. Like you were afraid of breaking him. Since you talked and talked and talked, and he realized how fucked he was.

He wasn’t listening to you talk to fuck you. He just wanted to hear you talk, about books and ships and history and romance and any other fucking thing you wanted. He went home with a book he hadn’t gone there for, because you said it would help him keep trudging through Infinite Jest, and it did. He finished it that week, and marched back into your library with a prideful grin, slamming the monster of a book down on your desk.

“Done,” he declared, and you smiled at him like you were fucking happy, and it did something to his chest he didn’t want to name. Something fucking gooey and light. Something dangerous and strange.

“Did you like it?” You asked him, like it fucking mattered. 

Soldier Boy nodded, and you beamed.

“I have something for you, next.”

Of course you fucking did. You were just perfect like that. And the next thing was a damn picture book, but when he glared at you, you just giggled and pushed it further into his hands.

“Trust me,” you said, and fuck him, he did.

He took the damn book, because you were the one handing it to him, and he’d read it, because that smile was the best thing he’d ever damn seen.

“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you said when he walked away, and he paused.

Soldier Boy. The character, in the movie you hadn’t liked as much as the book. “Ben.”

You blinked, and he sighed.

“My name is Ben.”

“Oh- Okay,” you flushed, and there it was again. That little skip in your heart. “My name is-“

“I know your name, doll,” he drawled, and you bowed your head. Shy and adorable and he was so fucked.

“Right. I- I knew that.”

He chuckled, grinning down at you, and that hawk sharpness in your eyes was gone. You looked like a fucking bunny, and screw him, he wanted to bend you over right there. He brushed his fingers with yours, and you made the tiniest fucking sound.

“Bye, pretty girl,” he said, and you mumbled another bye of your own.

Soldier Boy took a deep breath through his nose, and smelled it. Heady and thick and purely fucking you.

You were turned on. It made his own cock twitch in response, throbbing and begging him to coat itself in that sweet slick between your legs. To feel the way it would stick and slide against him, to cover himself in you and make you his and-

He took a deep breath. He’d be back tomorrow. He’d keep testing it, until you snapped. You made him chase, he’d keep fucking chasing. He didn’t want to just take you anymore. He wanted to make you admit it. That you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

He was worried that wasn’t fucking possible. That no one had ever wanted anyone, as much as he wanted you.

Feelings were so fucking annoying. He still refused to name them. You’d do that for him, with all your smart words and pretty eyes. 

Soldier Boy looked over his shoulder before he walked out the door. You were watching him. He smirked, waving a hand in goodbye. You flushed and looked frantically back to your computer. 

He’d get you where he wanted you. Didn’t matter what he’d need to do. He looked at the book in his hands. Comic, you’d called it. He’d give it a shot. For you.

He was starting to worry, about the type of shit he’d do for you.  

“What’s your thing,” Ben grunted at you one day, and you frowned.

“My thing?”

“Everyone’s got something that gets them in this shitty game,” he said. “They kill someone you love? Help someone you hated. One of those soft little fuckin’ pussies try and do something to you?”

A small, angry part of him flared at that. Anything that had touched you would burn.

“I mean- It’s just the right thing to do,” you mumbled, looking back to your book, and Ben snorted.

Of course you’d do the right fucking thing. He knew you better now. He shouldn’t have bothered to be surprised.

You liked things too much. You were too soft and too hard in all the strangest places. You never looked at him like you were afraid, and you praised him for finishing comic book after comic book—you’d been right, he liked those things, more than he’d say aloud, but you knew—and then you’d flush when he gave you a little too much attention and get sassy when he tested you.

He knew about your past now. There were darker parts that made him angry. Happier shit that made you smile, and made him want you to smile about him one day.

You knew about his past. More than he’d ever told the tabloids. He’d found it slipping out of him, the longer he was around you. But you had that effect on him. Flowing over his like the fucking ocean and catching him in your tide. He didn’t fight it. Anything that made you look at him, that let him tease you, and made you all fucking soft and sugary.

Ben brought you dinner now, like some kind of delivery boy. But you always smiled at him, and asked him how his day had been, and damn him that kept making it worth it. You kept making it worth it. He was allowed in your place now, and he didn’t question why. He’d just been there, and you’d been going home, and he’d been allowed to walk you there. It wasn’t too far from the library, and pretty fucking small, but it smelled like you. Felt like you. So he liked it, and he found a reason to be there almost every fucking day, and that reason was food or your safety or another comic book. You’d talk and he’d listen, then he’d talk and you’d listen, and fuck him, he felt better than he had in longer than he wanted to admit. In maybe forever. And it was all fucking you.

“Wow.” Hughie had said to him, about a week ago. “You really don’t just want to like- You know. Bang her.”

Ben had grunted, not bothering to respond. All the shit he said just made them bigger asses. Butcher had taken to asking him to read every single piece of paper they came across. Frenchie had been making kissy faces behind his back, and asked him to make out with a book. The only reason Ben hadn’t crushed his skull with a single hand was that he’d be kicked out, and you’d probably frown upon that upon that.

“Heard you been reading,” MM had grunted to him. “Didn’t know you knew how.”

Ben had ignored that too, mostly because he hadn’t know he could read either. But he was getting better at it. Helpful to have a good motivator.

You.

He didn’t want to just fuck you anymore. He wasn’t sure what the fuck he wanted. You smiled and the world felt in order. You said his name and it sounded like being called home. Fucking you would be a benefit—you’d only gotten hotter, the longer he’d looked, and his shower and pillowcases knew your name as well as his dreams did by now—but he also liked just… sitting here. Talking. Like some cucked, pathetic little housewife-

“Why do you do it?” You asked, and Ben paused.

“Do what? Fight?”

You nodded, watching him with that judgement free curiosity. He frowned at his burrito, hoping it would give him the answer. He didn’t fucking know. He never thought about that kind of shit, unless you asked him to.

“Couldn’t you just… leave?” You asked softly, and he glanced up at you under heavier eyes.

“You want me to leave, doll?”

“No.”

You’d answered so quickly. It made him feel a million feet tall, and decide that maybe flying wasn’t that fucking bad, if this was what it felt like.

“But- Do you really want to do this forever?” Your voice was so quiet, Ben was worried you were trying to tread lightly around him. He never wanted you to do that. Not with him. If he was getting raw and weak, you had to fucking come down with him.

“Nah,” he took a large bite of his burrito, speaking through the mouthful. “Sick of it. All of it. Been lookin’ for something better-“

“Ben,” you chastise, holding out a napkin. “Chew.”

He rolled his eyes, but chewed. You smiled, waiting patiently for him to finish. He never fucking knew how you did that. Put up with him, when all the members of Butcher’s team looked like they wanted to throttle him every damn second. He used to like it like that. To be satisfied, with the way people would glare at him and not be able to do a fucking thing about it.

But you just… liked him. And that felt better than anything else.

“Looking for something better,” he said after he swallowed. “Y’know. Not this shit.”

“What does better look like?”

You asked it gently, and he doesn’t need to think about it.

Better looked like you.

“Still figuring that out, doll,” he muttered, and something taut flashed over your features. Ben frowned. Times like this, he really fucking wished he could read you.

“I hope you figure it out soon,” you mumbled, and Ben swallowed.

He did too.

You’re getting confused, but Ben is a confusing man.

Everything you’d heard about him—from Butcher, Annie, and the TV—said that he’d be a monster. An impossible, murderous asshole who’d snap you in half to get what he wanted. Over sexual and disrespectful. Arrogant and cold.

And he was arrogant. He was impossible, and a bit of an asshole. He’d flirted with you like he couldn’t help himself, and looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.

But then he actually read the book. He smiled at you, and got soft around edges you hadn’t even noticed were so sharp. It had been like watching barbed wire unravel. Concerning and strange and… endearing.

Ben was surprisingly endearing.

It was like he’d never just had a friend before. He wandered after you in the library like a puppy, and leaned over your desk with squared shoulders like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing himself.

“What’s that,” he’d ask you every day, about almost every thing, and you’d shove down a laugh. Under all the gruffness and anger, he mostly just seemed confused. About the world. About you.

So at least it was mutual. The uncertainty.

Because for everything you understood about Ben—his loneliness, his age, his strange puppy like demeanor—you didn’t get this. What he meant to you. What you meant to him.

You’re afraid you’re in love with him. That somewhere between take-out dinners and telling him you read romance books, he stopped being just Ben and became yours.

Not yours.

No one else’s. He says he hasn’t gotten laid in forever. Between visiting you and working, you’re sure he hasn’t had time to mess around in a bar or alleyway. That makes you smug, in a way that sits too brightly in your chest. You don’t want him to find that kind of feeling anywhere. You wish he’d ask for it from you.

He makes moves. He flirts and teases and smirks when it pools between your legs, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Like he fucking knows. But he never does anything about it, and you’re going insane.

You mean something to him. You had to. He’s not the kind of man who would’ve stuck around this long, if he didn’t. But he’s also not the kind of man to deprive himself of things. If he wanted you, he should’ve fucking taken you by now.

Hughie turned red, and mumbled something about this not being his business, when you brought it up.

“Just- Talk to him,” he’d pleaded. “Not me. Never me- I- I like life.”

You’d frowned, but Hughie had frantically changed the subject. He seemed to know something you didn’t. They all did.

“He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you,” Butcher had drawled, when you’d asked him. “That’s what we know.”

Your face had burned. “It’s- No he’s- I mean- I know he- He likes women, and- I’m one- But- Just sex-“

“Love, he could find sex on the street or gutter if his dick needed a tug,” Butcher had rolled his eyes like you—pacing and wringing your hands—were the insane one. “He read for you. I’m real bloody sure he didn’t even know what the fuck a book was, ‘fore he laid eyes on your pretty fuckin’ face.”

You’d smacked Butcher. He’d laughed, and started asking more mission-related questions.

You’d obsessed over it all day. Obsessed with you. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. You were you and Ben was Ben. He was Soldier Boy. The handsome face you’d grown up fawning over, the big man on the TV screen that seemed untouchable. You’d almost fainted when you saw him, something like a survival instinct locking over you and stopping you from becoming a downright pathetic schoolgirl. You tried to divorce him in your head, from the idealization of a childhood crush.

But you couldn’t. He was meaner and kinder and smarter and cruder than anything you’d managed to dream of. His praise made you dizzy and his mocking tone sent a pool of desire between your thighs, and then he did the dishes when he thought you weren’t looking—you think he might be under the impression you’ll believe they’re just doing themselves—and asked about your interests and didn’t fuck around.

He was supposed to fuck around. To make it easy on you, to get over the infatuation.

He hadn’t. And now you’re so far gone you spend every day gorging yourself on his attention.

Obsessed.

Pretty girl, he calls you. You’d like to be his pretty girl, if he’d just put a claim on you. You wish you could drink enough to be brave. You wish he’d be selfish again, and just fucking take you.

But you’re going to have to do this the hard way. The way that cleaves you in half, if there’s a single wrong serration. If he just carves your chest open, takes your heart, and doesn’t offer his in return.

You have to try. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be here forever.

He brings you your favorite food, tonight. He sits with his knee bumping yours, and it makes your head so clouded you almost forget your plan.

“Do you have… anything?” You ask, your voice barely more than a nervous breath. “That you want to do?”

Ben gives you a sideways, almost confused look. “The fuck does that mean?”

“I mean, just- What are you planning to do?”

“When.”

“In the future.”

“Ah,” he shrugs, raising his burger back to his mouth. “This.”

You swallow. That’s not helpful. “This?” You prompt weakly, and he nods. “You mean- This?” You wave a hand around the room, and Ben’s lips twitch. “Me?”

“You?”

He says it like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and your heart shrinks.

That’s what you thought. You never should’ve listened to Butcher and Hughie, you knew that wasn’t what he meant, you fucking knew it and- God, you were so fucking stupid, to think he’d want you back.

“Nevermind,” you mumble, and Ben stiffens.

“Doll-“

“I’m getting a new shipment of books tomorrow.” You don’t want to talk about this anymore. “So- I might be too busy to eat lunch-“

Ben snaps your name, and you stare at your hands.

“I- Um- I don’t know how long it will take, so you don’t have to come over-“

Ben grabs your wrist, his touch almost searing into your skin, and when you look up, he’s staring at you. He’d moved to kneel over you. Your noses would brush if you twitched. His breath fans over your face, and you’re embarrassingly slack under his hand.

“Ben…” You whisper, because you don’t want to do this. You don’t want whatever fragile thing you had—even if it was just friendship—to break.

But he doesn’t move back. He never really has.

“You’re sulking,” he mutters, and you try to bow your head, but he catches your chin with two fingers. Tilts it slowly back up, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Why.”

Your voice is tiny. “Doesn’t matter-“

“The fuck it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong with you.”

“Nothing,” you try to avert your gaze. It’s impossible. “I just- You’re- I’m-“

You cut yourself off lamely. Ben leans in closer, jaw ticking as he scans over your features.

“You want it to be you?”

Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”

“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”

“Do you?”

Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”

“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”

“Do you?”

You expect him to laugh, but the lines on his face just deepen. He lets out a sharp breath through his lips, then smirks.

“Maybe I do,” he almost purrs, tipping your chin a little futher back. “What then, doll?”

You gape at him. So close. Saying words he won’t be able to take back, but not enough to make you melt. You’re still guarded. Still careful.

“Say it,” you whisper, because you have to be sure. “The- The whole thing.”

Ben frowns. “Doll-“

“Say it,” you almost plead. “If you mean it-“ Please fucking mean it. “If this isn’t just- If I’m not just some fixation, Ben, please say it-“

He crashes his mouth over yours, and your words turn into a long, hungry whimper. His lips are chapped and warm. Soft but firm, the kiss demanding but controlled. His hand slides into your hair, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, and you melt into his strong body. His tongue traces over your lower lip, and you whine softly.

You get breathless embaressingly fast. Your thighs press together, but he’s not making it easy on you. His hand on your neck drags down your spine and splays possessively on your back. He pulls you closer, humming in satisfaction when you brace your fingers on his thighs. His knee pushes between your legs, and you grind down against it without a thought.

“Christ,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, smirking as you pant and cling to his jeans. “Needy little thing, ain’t you?”

“Ben,” you whimper, and he hums.

“’S alright. I’m gonna take care of you.” He hooks his arm under your knees, the other sliding under your arms. “C’mon.”

You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into the air, pressing your face into his neck. He carries you steadily to the bedroom, setting you down with suprising gentleness on the bed. You blink hopelessly at him, as he draws back up. He still hasn’t said it.

And like he can read your mind, Ben smirks and flicks your nose with his thumb.

“Not a fixation,” he says. “Just my pretty fuckin’ girl.”

You flush, but refuse to cave that fast. “That’s not saying it.”

Ben snorts. “Jesus, woman-“

“Say it.” You snap, before—under the burn of his gaze—adding a mumbled, “Please.”

Ben chuckles. He peels off his shirt, and you almost forget to be stubborn. His big. Even bigged than he looks with his shirt on. His skin is tanned and soft, his boobs might be bigger than yours, and you can see the flex of thick, well built muscle with every breath. Your tongue flicks over your lips, and he smirks.

“You’re real fuckin’ demanding, you know that?”

“You- You’re supposed to- Ben-“ Your protests fall flat, as he trails a light touch up the underside of your leg. “Ben- That’s- You’re- Not playing fair-“

“I’m not tryin’ to play fair, doll,” he teases. “I’m tryin’ to get you ready.”

“Ready?” you squeak, and he hums, squeezing under your knee.

“Want you to be nice and relaxed for me,” he murmurs. “Gonna use this pretty fuckin’ body right. Make you wet, make you fuckin’ stupid.”

He pushes his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and your breathing is staggered and shallow. You lean back and push into his touch all at once, and Ben’s grin widens.

“Look at that. Already playin’ nice.”

You try to glare at him, but he lean back down, pressing you back into the mattress with a deep kiss. Your fingers shoot into his hair, as his weight settles between your legs. It forces them open, his budge pressing right against you clothed, aching pussy. You hadn’t even let yourself fully feel it—the vastness of your desire—because you’d been worried it would’ve just consumed you entirely. That you’d turn into some sex-crazed lunatic, imagining Ben above you and touching you and kissing you. You would’ve turned into a puddle that spent her days in bed with a vibrator, dreaming of what she couldn’t have.

But now you have it. You have him. Kissing you like he’s trying to let you consume him. He groans, with every whimper he draws from your lips. His hips roll against your core, and your breath catches. Your cunt feels like it’s almost in pain, from the neglect of intention. You scratch at Ben’s shoulders and belt, trying to drag him closer and tear every barrier between you apart with only your nails.

Ben catches your wrist, and pins it over your head. You thrash and strain, and he just chuckles, dragging his thumb over soft skin.

“Look at you,” he rolls his hips down again, and your back arches off the bed. “How the fuck could you think I wouldn’t want this?”

You blink at him, breathing through your mouth, and Ben leans down. His kiss brushes the very tip of your nose. You mewl, wired and desperate, and Ben laughs. The mockery of it only makes the heat between your legs stronger.

“You make me fuckin’ crazy,” he says, jaw clenched tight. “Make me… Feel things.”

“You make me feel things too,” you breathe out, and Ben stills.

“Yeah?”

You almost giggle at the slack, worshipful look on his face. Guarded but leaking with a hope you’re sure his old, old heart doesn’t know how to recognize. You don’t strain against his pull on you. You just lean up and brush a kiss over his jawline.

His whole body shudders. You sink back into the cushions, beaming as his wrecked expression. A low growl rolls through his chest, and his eyes go so dark it’s almost predatory.

“You,” his voice has dropped, so impossibly deep. “You…”

Words seem to fail him. You don’t mind. You don’t love Ben because he’s a man of words. You have enough of them as it is. You surround yourself with them, and there are only so many in the world that can express this. The electric, new and fragile and hungry thing between you. 

You love Ben because he’s a man of action. And you know he’s not going to be able to say he loves you.

So he crashes back down, and shows you instead.

It starts with open mouth kisses, over your collarbone and throat. You head tips back, your mouth going slack, and Ben moans against your skin.

“So fuckin’ responsive.” He snakes a hand under your body, giving you ass a firm squeeze. “Knew you would be. Sensitive fuckin’ doll, probably getting fuckin’ soaked from just a little touching.”

Humiliations burn with arousal in your gut, deep and hot and intoxicating. You are soaked. You can feel it every time you shift against him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ben coos, kissing a particularly soft part of your neck. “I know how bad you want this. I can fuckin’ smell it.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “You- You what?”

“You heard me,” he pushes your shirt slowly up, thick fingers brushing over the soft skin of your stomach. “Every time you got needy, doll. I could almost taste it.”

“And you- You never-“

“You’re the one who said to be sure.”

His tone is mocking, but his touch is hot and his expression is shockingly soft. You flush under the attention, unsure what to do yourself. Just splayed on the bed for him to play with, dazed and confused. Ben grins like a wolf, and tears off your shirt without a warning. You almost protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“No bra,” he takes on perked nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a dangerous smile. “Fuckin’ slut.”

You swallow, watching with wide eyes as he lean over your chest. Electricy shoots through your body, as he wraps his mouth around your neglected nipple, sucking lightly as he plays with the other one between those infernal fingers. You stare at the ceiling with fluttering lashes, lost in the warmth of his mouth. His tongue flicks, and you whimper. Ben’s teeth graze against you, and a weak noise of his name falls from your lips.

He smirks, dragging more kisses over the curve of your breast. He gives your nipple one last flick, then kisses over the hurt.

“Already bein’ so quiet,” he teases, toying with the band of your shorts. “Think I might need to make you scream, doll. Make you prove how bad you want this cock.”

“I- I want it-“ You stammer, pushing up on your elbows. “Don’t- I want it-“  

“Shh.” Ben presses his finger against your mouth, and your jaw snaps shut.

He blinks. You swallow, trying to drag up the strength to resist him again, but it’s too late. He’s seen it. How fucking desperate you are to please him.

“Jesus,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You’re- Chirst.”

Your cheeks burn. You try to roll onto your stomach, but Ben catches you and rolls you back. You pout at him, silently pleading with him not to make this a fucking thing, but he just keeps examining you. His gaze burns over your skin. You think you’re going to fucking explode.

Slowly—almost carefully—Ben pushes his thumb into your mouth. You take it, batting your lashes and loosening your jaw. The pad of his fingers tickles the back of your throat, and you suck lightly, eyes fluttering shut. Ben massages your thigh, and your legs fall further open.

“This what you really fuckin’ wanted, huh,” Ben mutters, and you hum, swirling your tongue around him. “You’ll do anything I fuckin’ tell you.”

You hum, sucking harder. You eyes burn, and you squeeze them shut.

Ben taps your cheek with his free forefinger. “Open.”

You obey, blinking through the shame, not letting yourself slack on his thumb. You flick against it, the same way he’d played with your nipple, and his throat bobs.

“Fuckin’ dangerous,” he says, and you don’t understand why he thinks that. You’re the pathetic one here.

But Ben pulls his thumb back, and with a softness you didn’t know he had, he leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a restrained, teasing kiss. You think you’re going to cry, but then he pushes his knee back against your core, and you can only gasp against his mouth.

“That’s it, doll,” he mutters. “Relax for me.”

“Be- Ben-“ You blubber, already fucking ruined. “Touch me, please-“

He deepens the kiss, his tongue pressing into your mouth with such demand you almost sob. He knee grinds itself against you, moving back only so he can rip your shorts and panties away. Your breath hitches, as two massive fingers drag their way through your cunt.

“What a fuckin’ mess,” Ben growls. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I. Not fuckin’ my pretty girl like she needs.”

You whine, nodding like a bobblehead. Ben pulls slightly back, kissing a stray tear on your cheek.

“Fucking crybaby,” he hisses. “Barely even done anything yet, you’re going to be a fucking wreck when I’m done.”

God, you are. There’s no way around it. Those two fingers are curling right against your weeping pussy, and if he doesn’t do something soon, you’re going to fucking scream.

“I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Ben slams a quick, harsh kiss back on your lips before pulling away. “No cumming, ‘till I say. You got that?”

You stare at him, and the softness is gone. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp, and his voice a rough command. Usually, you’d laugh at his attempts to boss you around, but right now you’re barely more than putty in his arms. You nod, and Ben huffs in satisfaction.

“Good girl.”

Your cunt squeezes around nothing. Ben must smell the gush, because his nostrils flare and his fingers dig into your hips.

“Been waitin’ too fucking long for this,” he says, kissing his way down your body. “Going to take my fuckin’ time, doll. Think I’ve earned that much, keeping my cock in my pants long as I did.”

You mewl an agreement, and Ben laughs.

“Anything I say,” he mutters to himself, pulling your legs over his shoulders. “Too fuckin’ good to be true.”

You’d argue this wasn’t good, if it wasn’t the best feeling you’ve ever experienced. You’re completely at Ben’s mercy, one massive hand massaging your ass as the opposite parts your pussy folds, giving him a good look at the evidence of your desperation.

Ben hums in approval, and your pussy clenches again. He laughs, kissing the inside of your thigh, and blows a puff of cool air against your clit. Your hips fly off the bed as you cry out, and Ben slams them down with a single hand.

“Stay still.” He orders, and you whimper in acknowledgement.

You’re going to try. You’re really going to fucking try, to listen. To be good for him.

But he does’t make it fucking easy.

Ben dives headfirst into your pussy, and you almost fucking scream. You knew he was experienced, but this feels like someone’s mouth fucking you with a sex machine. A hot, messy sex machine that has rough lips and a thick tongue, plunging in and out of your gaping cunt. His nose drags against your clit, rubbing into it over and over like he’s trying to set you off, and you grab at the sheets to try and achnor yourself.

“Be- Ben- Fuck-“ He makes out with your clit, and your eyes roll back in your head. “Oh- Oh my god-“

He pulls back, smacks your pussy, and pushes his face back into your core. Your body doesn’t even seem to know how to process it, every nerve so lit up that it’s scrambled and dazed. You’re almost, literally, overloaded with pleasure.

Ben keeps eating you out with the fervor of a starved man. He uses his whole face, tonguing you like he’s trying to memorize the way you squeeze around him. Whenever you cry out for him, he spanks your pussy, and you can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward. Maybe both, if the way your cunt pulses with every hit is an indication.

He hits your pussy again, right when you’re so close to the edge you can taste it, and you almost cum. The only thing that stops you it is physically yanking yourself back, trying to escape the intensity of his touch.

Ben grabs you and drags you back. You whine, looking up at him with glossy, tear stained eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb, glaring down at your open, wrecked expression.

“The fuck did I say about moving?”

“I- I didn’t-“

“You did.”

He plants one hand on your lower abdomen, spanking your pussy with the other. Once. Twice. Your eyes roll back and the tears roll down your cheeks, but Ben just sneers.

“You wanna cum, doll?”

“Yes- Yes, please-“

“Then be fuckin’ good.”

He spanks your pussy again, and pushes his face back in. Your cunt is so abused and raw it only takes a few seconds to work you back up to where you were before. You try not to move, but then Ben—like he wants you not to listen—flicks his clit back and forth over your clit, so fast it feels like a vibrator. Your thighs lock around his head, and your back arches off the mattress.

This time, Ben doesn’t pull back and spank you. This time is worse. He just… Keeps going. He’s strong enough to keep your hips steady against his face. He grabs your ankles, and forces them to stay around his head. You can’t get away from him, as he works your pussy. You thrash in the sheets, crying out and shoving his head as it becomes borderline impossible to hold your orgasm in, but he doesn’t fucking stop.

You’re crying, loud and pathetic, and Ben just moans against your cunt. You roll onto your stomach, trying to crawl away as your traitorous pussy grinds against his face, and Ben slaps your ass. One arm leaves your body—though it doesn’t help you at all—and you hear skin slapping behind you. You manage to twist over your shoulder, and almost cum just from the sight.

Ben, jerking himself off as he keeps you pinned to his face. His cock is thick and big, bigger than anything you’ve ever see. It’s almost pretty, and that’s not something a cock should be. He’s leaking with pre-cum. You want to lap it off of him.

He slams you further onto his face, and you mewl, collapsing back into the matteress. You might pass out, with the effort to keep your orgasm in. You can barely think, barely speak. You’re just sobbing into the sheets and lost in the pleasure.

Then it stops.

Ben pulls away, and the loss is worse than the torture. You cry out, babbling something like his name, and Ben’s lips slot gently over yours.

“Doin’ so fucking well, babydoll,” he mutters. “Just a little longer. It’ll feel good.”

You nod, trying to chase his lips when he pulls away. He hums in amusement, pressing a kiss to your neck, and drags your ass up into the air. Your knees are already wobbly. You wouldn’t be able to stay up, if Ben didn’t wrap an arm around your stomach and force you up.

“Never seen someone so fuckin’ gorgous when they cry,” he mutters, rubbing that thick cock between the lips of your pussy. “Think I just like you wet, honey. Wet and fuckin’ sweet.”

He gathers some arousal with his fingers, then reaches over to press them against your lips.

“Taste,” he orders, and you obey thoughtlessly.

You don’t taste bad. Just… Strange. You moan, but mostly because you like Ben’s fingers being back in your mouth.

“That’s it,” Ben coos, lining himself up against your entrance. “Keep suckin’, pretty girl. Know it helps.”

You hum, and you’re too gone to actually think about what he said. It helps.

Then Ben starts to push inside you, and it becomes obvious what he meant. You squeak around his fingers, and Ben shushes you, slowly. Pushing every inch in so slowly, letting you adjust before giving a little more. You’ve never been strenched this wide, had such deep an angle. You keep sucking on his thumb, trying to find something to do with your body but seize up and wiggle. Ben thumbs slowly at your clit, helping it get further and further in.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, his balls pressed against the curve of your ass. “Fit me like a fuckin’ glove, doll- Christ-“

Ben leans fully over you, his body blanketing yours and his hand splaying back over your stomach. His face presses into the crook of your neck, his thumb pulling out of your mouth so his hand can wrap around your throat. He grinds his hips down, and you mewl, fresh tears falling from your eyes.

Ben kisses them away, rolling his hips again. His cock hits so deep inside you, you think you see stars. Just having him in you is cruel. You’re so full, with so little friction, it’s a wonder you’re not sobbing.

But Ben takes mercy, squeezing your neck gently before whispering, “Sing for me, babydoll.”

He pulls almost fully out, slams back in, and you scream. It’s a broken, delighted sound of pleasure, and Ben groans against your skin. He lets go of your throat, letting your cheek press into the mattress, and grabs your hand. Your fingers tangle together, as you pant. There’s nothing you can really do but take it. The size of him along, it knocks the air clean from your lungs. Ben presses demanding kisses, over your face and neck. You try to kiss him back, but you mostly just writhe and cry out his name.

He’s like an animal, with all his grunts and growls of your name. Every thrust drags his cock over your g-spot, splitting you open over and over until you’re just a ball of tears and nerves in Ben’s arms. His thumb wanders back down to your clit, rubbing tight, harsh circles, and you scream. The Zpressure in your body feels seconds from exploding, and you really don’t think you can take much more.

“Be- Ben-“ Your eyes cross, as he keeps pounding into your gushing cunt. “Ooooh- Bennn-“

“I know,” he kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, his hips snapping down like a drill. “Soak my cock, pretty girl. You can do it, come on-“

The permission is all you needed. Ben’s hips snap forward, the head of his cock angled to drive into that gooey spot, and you come undone. Your orgasm is blinding and powerful, sweeping through every inch of your body. It lasts, as Ben fucks and fingers you through it, unraveling you so completely you think you black out for a moment. All you remember is a heavenly, strangely pure kind of floating feeling, and Ben’s growled praise in your ear.

“Good girl,” he hisses, and you coo, pussy fluttering and weeping. “Fuckin’- Gonna fill you up, doll, fill you up real fuckin’ good- I’ll be leakin’ out of this pussy when I’m done, let everyone know who the fuck you belong to- My girl, my fuckin’ girl-“

Ben’s thrusts grow jagged, his hand moving back to your throat, and you make a blubbering sound of agreement. He chuckles, choked and rough.

“You’d fuckin’ love that. Bein’ full of me, bein’ mine, bein’- Fuck-“

Ben cums, thick ropes of cum spurting into your cunt. There’s so much of it, so much of him, you can almost feel it in your throat. Almost fucking taste it. He tries to fuck you through it, but soon his release is dripping down your thighs and spraying back to your calves, and he pulls out. A stream of it hits your back as he moans, and you only squeak when Ben rolls you over and paints your stomach and tits white as well.

It’s a glorious fucking sight. Ben in all his glory, his cock wrapped in his fist and coated in your juices, his chest heaving as he moans your name and cums all over your body. When he’s done he doubles over, crashing his lips against yours and kissing you with so much fervor, you could almost think no sex had happened at all.

He pulls back, and you giggle. You don’t know why. It just feels like the right fucking thing to do, with how softly he’s looking at you. How unbelievably fucking lucky you are. Ben raises his brows, rolls his eyes, and presses a softer kiss to your lips.

“You think this is funny?” He mutters, but there’s no venom in his voice.

You nod, smiling up at him, and he sighs.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, and he has no idea.

You press a kiss to his lips, and they twitch up. His eyes soften again, as he takes you in. So fucked out you can’t even speak.

“Good?” He mutters, and you nod like a bobblehead.

So good. So fucking worth it, for the months of mind games of questions, with how fucking good it was.

Ben smiles. And you can read it all over his face.

How he really does feel the exact same way.

“Told you I’d take care of you,” he grunts. “My fuckin’ girl.”

And you are. And he really, really fucking does. He cleans you up and feeds you. Gets you water and crawls into bed, lighting up a joint but keeping you tucked tight into his chest. You look up at him with a dazed smile, and he looks down at like some adoring, devout follower of a secret religion.

“We should get married,” he says suddenly, and you laugh, finding enough of a voice to respond.

“Date me first, smart guy.”

He grunts, pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head. You both know there isn’t much dating that will need to be done, to get you on board. But Ben’s going to try anyway. And you love him for it. How willing he is, just for you, to really, always fucking try.  

✦End note: eric kripke WISHES he had my vision of soldier boy ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

“It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my to-”

The shake of your doorknob sobers you completely. No longer immersed in the book, but staring doom in the face. You weren’t expecting anyone. No one was supposed to be here, not at this time anyway. It was a little after one in the morning, which only meant one thing in Gotham.

Trouble.

The handle on your front door kept jangling, and you could hear the lot of them outside messing with the lock. Practically shooting off the sage couch, you dart toward your bedroom. The door shuts behind you as quickly and quietly as possible. Flipping the silver notch to lock you inside, adrenaline starts pumping through your veins. Your eyes are frantically examining all your furniture to fins the most feasible piece to block the door. In a desperate attempt at survival, you muster all the strength you can manage at 1 a.m. to push your dresser.

The dresser was ancient and colored with a faded spruce stain. Your brother had gifted it to you as one of his legendary Facebook marketplace finds.

He loved to play this game to see how much he could lowball the sellers and get away with it. After each buy, he would call you to tell you how much he managed to get discounted off. You could always hear the smirk in his voice, proud of himself and his bargaining skills. As you reminisce on the memory while pathetically shoving the dresser, you think of him.

This is exactly why he didn’t want you to get your masters at GothamU.

There was a whispering voice in your head that wanted to put off telling him about this as long as you could. You knew exactly what the phone call would sound like. The first thing he would do would be to tell you “I told you so” and the next would be him packing your bags to move you back to Central City.

The ricochet of your front door off the wall halts you in your tracks. The vibrations of the insane  force are felt through the foundations of your shitty apartment. You say a silent prayer to any deity listening when you finally manage to get your dresser to block some of the door. Your lamp next to the couch was still on and you hope their stupid enough to think that you didn’t really acre about your electric bill.

It’s only a matter of time until they realize that someone was in fact home.

Your phone lights up from your nightstand with a notification from your brother highlighting the lockscreen. That development springs you into action, finally making an attempt to ask for help. From what you could hear, there were about three of them out there. The drawers in your kitchen were being pulled off the rails, cabinets were being thrown open, books were being fanned out for extra cash.

It was a lost cause really, you were a broke master’s student who worked at the campus bookstore. They weren’t going to find much except frozen meals and too many annotations in between pages.

Tip-toeing to your phone, you hear them outside talking to themselves. What saves you is that you have a million little containers and trinkets that they’ll busy themselves with. It’ll take them at least ten minutes to rifle through and guess how valuable each of them are.

“Of course” you can’t help but mumble with shaking hands when you see the notification from him. Only Wally West would be up at 12:14 a.m. (Central City time) sending you an Instagram reel of Zuko in the leaked Avatar movie with a message that says “I can take him.”

I’ll take him in between the legs, you think to yourself as the edit plays.

Your guardian angel must have been tired of working overtime because something shatters in your kitchen, which catalyzes your self-preservation to kick in again. In spite of the fact you’re about to drop the phone with how much you’re shaking, your fingers manage to type out a message.

As much as I’d love to discuss how you cannot in fact “take him” I need your help

I totally can thank you very much But what’s up?

Someone broke into my apartment and I’m hiding out in my room

WHAT!?!?!?!

He instantly starts calling you. In any other circumstance an Instagram call would make you laugh, but right now you hit the decline button as fast as you can. The second it ends, another call comes through and you decline that one too.

Pick up the phone right now.

I can’t They’ll hear me talking Can you call 911 for me?

I mean I would love too but they’re not going to do anything You’re in GOTHAM. They’re probably dealing with a psychotic lion or something.

Your head falls back after reading the text. He’s not exactly wrong, but a very small part of you is trying to overpower the stressed one and stay calm. Tears are threatening your water line from terror, you’re positive that your heart is about to beat out of your chest. One of them keeps walking past the door as they tear apart your bookshelf and entertainment center, each footstep feels like a countdown.

You stare at your door with your heart in your throat when another text form Wally comes through.

I just texted Dick, someone’s going to be there soon For now go to your bathroom and barricade yourself inside This time when I call, you ARE going to PICK UP and sit with me in silence until someone gets there okay?

You barely finish reading the text when the green and red buttons appear on the screen again.

Instantly, your fingers go to the side of the phone to lower the volume. The only sound coming from either of you are heavy anxious breaths.

If it wasn’t for the no meta rule, you know he would already be halfway here. He’d threatened to break it multiple times on the grounds of you just having a bad day. You knew him not being here right now with this absolute disaster happening was killing him.

The quiet padding of your feet on the way to your bathroom sounded like bombs dropping to your ears.

Realistically, you knew they couldn’t hear it, but all your senses were at 110%. Every noise that came from outside of your bedroom felt like a crescendo to the climax of your worst nightmare. In a really strange and fucked up way, you were lucky. You’d been living in Gotham for a year and a half without having any real problems. It was about time to pay the piper.

Entering the bathroom, you delicately place your phone on the counter and shut the door behind you. The lights remain off while you slide down the wall. The timer of your call with Wally was the only source of light in the claustrophobic wash room. When it hits 2:07, they start trying your bedroom door. Wally hears it, the hitch in his breath obvious even on the lowest volume setting.

It’s going to be okay, I promise. They’ll be there soon.

His text only causes the tears to fall faster on your face. You just wanted tonight to be over.

Then you hear it.

The shatter of your living room window. It’s followed by a heavy set of footsteps that land on the floor. A few punches are thrown, some gunshots, and then you count three bodies falling to the floor.

The ringing in your ear is louder than you’re comfortable with and Wally speaks for the first time.

“Are you okay?”

It’s a miracle that you heard or even understood him. The broken speaker of your phone paired with his small whisper was almost impossible to make out.

“I think.” Is all you can say back.

Then there are three knock on your bedroom door that sends you flying to your feet. Phone in one hand and white-knuckling the counter with the other, every limb is shaking and your breathing hadn’t been coming out evenly for minutes. The room is spinning, and the aftershock is starting to sink in.

“Hey it’s me,” the voice comes out slightly awkward and you freeze. Recognition travels with a chill down your spine. “I took care of the them, you uh- you can come out now.”

There was like a million of the bats and bat-adjacent vigilantes in Gotham, and they sent him. Deep down when you heard the gunshots, you knew who it was. There was only one vigilante in that family that dared to go against the Batman’s gun ban. You were hoping that fate was going to give you a break, but that didn’t seem like it was in the cards tonight.

Once upon a time, this would’ve had relief washing over your body.

Wally used to bring you to some of the get togethers that the Titans held when you were younger. Then, thinking like a true older brother, Dick used to drag Jason along with him.

Safe to say, you both became fast friends.

You would talk about everything that came to your mind. Books, games, shoes, stuff going on in your lives, anything you could think of. Sometimes when you both got bored, you would sneak away to play video games in Wally’s room at the tower. Jason would always help you beat the levels you were stuck on in your latest save.

But, nothing perfect lasts forever.

Everything dampened when he died. It was awful to put it plainly. When he came back, it was almost worse. He changed so drastically, you almost didn’t believe that this was the same boy who gave you a forty five minute rant on why Jo was never meant for Laurie.

You couldn’t blame him for what he became, the experience was horrifyingly unique. Yet, you don’t think you’ll ever forget the last time you spoke.

It was a stupid argument in hindsight.

Dick had come to you one night, begging for you to try to get through to him. Apparently they all had given their best efforts into attempting to talk to him, and you were the last line of offense.

That was a year and a half ago.

A hesitant call of your name through the door takes you out of the memory flashing behind your eyes.

“Yeah,” your voice squeaks out with a cringe following. You didn’t realize how small it was going to sound. “I-I’ll be out, just give me a sec.”

Turning back to your phone, your throat bobs with a heavy swallow. “I’m all good Wall,” there’s a sound of relief coming through the speakers. It was almost as if he had been holding his breath for the entire three minutes of the phone call.

“Who’s with you?” The question was immediate. He heard the gunshots, he knew as well as you did who was here.

“Um,” your eyes dart up from his horrific contact photo to the door and then back down to the picture again, “Jason’s here.”

The silence from the other end of the phone was palpable. Wally knew how bad the last argument you and Jason had stung. He was the one who sat on the phone with you after. Blinking back the emotions, you steel yourself for what’s awaiting in your apartment.

You’re a big girl, you can handle this. You’ve handled worse than a shitty ex-best friend.

“I’m going to hang up now, okay?” Your hands are starting to shake again. “I gotta figure out how bad the damage is, I’ll text you with the updates.”

He could hear the words rushing to leave your mouth, a pathetic attempt at convincing yourself this was fine.

“Do you want me to come? I will, give me like ten minutes- fifteen tops, and I’ll be there. All you have to do is ask.”

You knew he would do it too, the reassurance was unnecessary. The gravity in his tone almost made you fall into the temptation. There was nothing you wanted more right now than for your brother to be here. He would know how to handle this. He would know how to wrangle Gotham vigilante’s and tell them to go to Hell.

Your strive for independence was going to be the death of you one day.

“I think I’m okay for now, but I’ll call if I need backup.”

“Okay,” a hint of defeat is mixed in with the sigh. “Well I doubt I’ll be sleeping much after this, so please just text me with what ends up happening.”

“I promise,” and because you know he’ll lose his mind all night you ask him for a different type of help. “If you want to make yourself useful, go back to scrolling on reels and send me some that I can watch later.”

“Aye Aye boss,” You can almost hear his smug grin when he gets a snort out of you. “I love you, I’ll talk to you later.”

“I love you too Wally.” When the line goes dead you hold the phone to your chest for a moment. Even with the levels of annoying you’re sure only Wally could reach, you truly could not have asked for a better brother. He always dropped whatever he was doing if you needed him.

Savoring the last moment of peace you had from the rest of the world, you lean against the counter and try to catch your breath. You were going to have to confront the disaster that was your apartment. The devil on your shoulder was contemplating to just leave it for tomorrow, but the angel reminded you that your book was out there.

Mustering up the final ounces of courage left in your stomach, you unlock the door to the bathroom. Thankfully the sanctuary that was your bedroom remained untouched, except for the dresser propped against your door.

The dresser was heavier than you remember it being a few minutes ago. Adrenaline strength truly unlocks a version of potential you didn’t know you had. The effort it takes to give you a clearing, leaves red imprints of the design on your palms. Your hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitation plain on your fingers. You were going to have to see him, you were going to have to confront him after seventeen months of no contact.

Left hand at your side, you crack each knuckle with your thumb before opening the door. Not letting yourself think too hard, it swings wide open. And there he is.

He was on one knee flipping the coffee table back over. His hands were filled with a bunch of the trinkets that made their home on it. When he hears the door open, his head whips in your direction. The air in the room depletes when the white slits of the mask meet your eyes. Both of you frozen, staring at each other with a decade of history lingering in a glance.

Uncomfortable with the silence, you start cracking the knuckles of your right hand.

You might as well have activated a sleeper agent with the movement. He suddenly remembers where he is, and shoots to his feet. Carefully cupping his hands, he moves to drop your belongings back on the table.

Peeling your eyes off his devastatingly gorgeous frame, you find the three robbers tied together hanging off your fire escape.

“I’m waiting on Dick.” His voice is gravelly and a bit panicked. In the back of your mind, you note that he turned off the modulator. “He’s on his way to pick them up and take them to the station.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you hum in reply.

Examining your apartment, it wasn’t as bad as you expected. Despite the few broken pieces of decor, the glass littered all over your living room from where Jason made his dramatically grand entrance, and your stuff being thrown everywhere, you were pretty lucky.

Noticing the way your eyes caught on the glimmering pieces of glass off the floor, he starts anxiously adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

“I’m sorry about the window.” He’s rolled and unrolled the cuff of his left sleeve three times by the time he manages to speal. “I was in a rush and it seemed the fastest way in, I’ll pay for someone to fix it tomorrow.”

“I would hope so.” The answer came out like a reflex. You bite back the grimace fighting your features. You hadn’t even thanked him for the help before pouring gasoline on the fire.

He doesn’t say anything, yet his shoulders tense. Somewhere deep in places his pride won’t let him admit, he knew he deserved it, and that was enough of a punishment for you. He had to live with himself at the end of the day, what more could you ask for?

A clang on your fire escape steals your attention. Next thing you know, you’re being tackled in a bone crushing hug. If the blur of blue and black spandex didn’t’ give it away, the hints of Tom Ford cologne certainly did.

The hug is merely a second long before he pulls back and holds you at your shoulders.

“Good to see that you’re doing alright kid.” A grin is pulling at his face, but you can see the tension in his build. Wally had trusted Dick with this- with his family. That wasn’t an easy thing for anyone to do. He wouldn’t have forgiven himself if something happened.

“Yeah I’m fine,” You try to laugh but it comes out weak. “I was overdue on my Gotham initiation anyway.”

 The dominos mask hides it, but by the subtle shake of his head you can tell there was an eyeroll that went along with it.

He lets go of your shoulders and you look back at the dump that was now your apartment. Jason and Dick hold each other’s gazes silently. They were speaking in the silence with movements you pretended to ignore.

You’re scratching your eyebrow when Dick starts, “Hey um, where are you staying tonight?”

Hand falling from your face, you turn to him. “What do you mean?”

Confused, he looks from you to Jason, then back to you.

“You know you can’t stay here for a few days right?” His head cocks to the side. “The cops have to come, investigate, tape it off, and we need to get someone to fix your window.”

Your eyelids blink slowly. You weren’t tired by any means, but tonight just got a hell of a lot longer. None of your friends were going to be awake and you would rather sleep under the bridge than try a hotel in Gotham you could afford.

“Fuck.” The curse barely audible when it leaves falls off your tongue.

“I mean,” Dick starts with a shrug of the shoulders. “You’re more than welcome to stay at the manor. Bruce won’t mind”

Jason’s neck snaps to Dick, the white slits of the hood widen a bit before narrowing again.

“I mean this with the upmost respect.” Your hand lays flat against your heart. “I would rather chew rocks.”

You weren’t sure how long you would need to try and find somewhere to stay, but you wanted to avoid the manor at all costs. You’d had the luxury of visiting a few times, but it always felt awkward. It was too big for you, and you really didn’t want to feel like an imposition.

Dick and Jason both snort at your reply. Both of them knew how you felt about the manor. It was breath taking, but it wasn’t somewhere you wanted to sleep in, especially for multiple nights.

“I’ll figure something out,” you sound unsure even to yourself. “I’ll just find some couches to surf for a while.”

“Yeah no, try again West.” Jason finally decides to speak for the first time since his brother’s arrival.

Your neck snaps in his direction and a fire lights behind your eyes, daring him to repeat himself. He had no right to tell you what you could, and couldn’t do. His opinions meant jack shit to you.

“Sorry kiddo,” Dick’s domino mask expands a miniscule amount, but still enough to notice. He looks like he’s been tasked to negotiate the terms of a peace treaty before World War 3 breaks out. “Wally entrusted us with your safety, which means we have to know that where you’re staying is at least somewhat protected.”

Understanding dawns on you in a cruel shiver up your spine. The second option about to be presented to you was dangling like a rotten carrot on a stick.

“It’s the manor or Jason’s place.”

Your jaw drops and you meet the latter’s gaze. The damn mask betraying no emotion, you however, don’t miss the little fidget of his foot. Your eyes narrow in between the boys.

“So what? My choices are the fourth or fifth circle of Hell?”

“C’mon the manor’s not that bad.” Dick tries to reason with you.

“Jason’s place is.”

He doesn’t deny it. No one does.

You should’ve chosen the manor, every nerve in your body was telling you that was the reasonable choice. Dick would be there for a few days, there was other life there. Yet, It was just too much and it was too far. Your commute to class would double and you liked your alone time too much to give it up.

Swallowing your pride, you turn to the boy you longer knew with a deadpan. “When do we leave?”

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

Jason’s apartment was surprisingly clean.

His apartment was embracing the minimalist aesthetic. He had never been one for many material goods because of how he was raised. That never changed, even after all the years he lived with Bruce.

The living room, where you were currently sitting, had barely anything inhabiting the space. The couch was dark and worn with some cracks in the leather, the entertainment center was a simple stand made of oak with a glass cabinet on the bottom, the TV was rested on top of it, a floor lamp next to the couch, and the last piece was by far the liveliest- his bookshelf.

It took up about half the wall. Every shelf littered with different genres. It was almost too personal to examine. Some books you recognized and some you didn’t. An odd wave of sadness washes over you when you see some books you’d never heard him talk about. It was still strange to you on some days that you were no longer in each other’s lives.

You knew he was out and about in Gotham, but your paths never crossed. Whether that was by design or some level of mercy, you never knew.

He was on the news at least once a week. It felt like cheating no contact, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was the one indulgence you allowed yourself, to know that he was still alive and working with the bats. This way you didn’t feel guilty about holding the grudge for as long as you did.

You’d been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes. The first line of the chapter was permanently engraved in your mind because of how many times you’d read it.

“Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed?”

For your Women in Literature class, you chose Frankenstein as the novel you were going to be analyzing in your paper. The assignment was to find a topic from a book and write fifteen pages about it in MLA format. It was an interesting class, but fifteen pages felt like overkill, it was double-spaced at the very least.

This was your third reread of the book this semester.

The first read was to familiarize yourself with the novel, the second was to piece together the paper, and this one was to find the evidence after you’d started the rough draft. It felt fitting that you were using a green highlighter for the evidence.

Sleep never came easy to you, and you had tried essentially everything. All the medicines, the teas, a warm glass of milk, counting sheep, all of it. At one point your doctors and family members suggested reading, which was probably the worst thing they could’ve said.

The last suggestion ended up with you staying awake all night with a book in hand.

Which is exactly what you were doing now. It was around four in the morning, Jason had brought you back to his apartment and then went back on patrol. He still hadn’t returned, but you weren’t complaining.

The less you had to interact with him the better.

In a pathetic attempt to finally turn the page, you start to read again. Making it to the third sentence on the page, you start to finally get immersed in the story again when-

The window slides open.

Your hands drop the book in shock and it clatters on the floor. Alarmed, Jason turns to you already prepared for a fight, forgetting that you were staying with him.

“What’re you doing awake?” He sounds truly baffled that you hadn’t managed to fall asleep. His hands move to the back of his mask and there’s a quiet hissing sound before it unlatches. He examines it for a second, checking for damage. Then his fingers slowly uncurl from the edge and it falls to the floor.

“I couldn’t sleep.” You answer with a bite that didn’t fit your current state. You had stolen one of his mugs and warmed up some milk, bundled in a blanket on the couch, and had been reading under the lamp. “What the hell is it with you and the damn window?”

“It’s my place, I can use whatever entrance I want.” He turns to you with an annoyed look now. Your attitude seemed to finally start pricking at him. “I also didn’t think you’d be waiting up on me.”

“I wasn’t waiting up on you.” The answer comes out way too defensive for your liking.

“Whatever you wanna tell yourself sweetheart,” he mumbles and you scoff at him. You were starting to miss the quiet Jason that found you in your apartment.

He bends down to pick up your copy of Frankenstein and flips it around in his hands a few times. Looking back up at you, he raises a brow and you cross your arms.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs and tosses the book back in your lap.

“You obviously got something you wanna say Todd.” Rolling your eyes, you flick your left hand at him. “Go on, spit it out.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes at you and you want to pluck them out of their eye sockets. “It’s nothing, I’m just surprised you’re reading Frankenstein.”

“Why? Because I’m ordinary, because I’m not one of you?”

The words land right where you wanted them too, right in the center of his chest. His lips thin and you can see the flex of his jaw as it tightens. It was a terrible echo of the fight you’d had all those months ago. It was petty, but you’d been waiting to throw it back in his face one day.

“No,” his voice comes out softer than you were expecting, and his throat bobs while he tries to swallow his guilt. “I was just surprised because you didn’t read classics before. You used to ask me about them because you didn’t like the writing style.”

“Yeah, well things change Jason.” Your gaze doesn’t waver from his, even when he momentarily breaks away to look at his boots in shame. “People change.”

He knew that better than anyone.

With that, he glances back up to you. All the tension, all the anger, it was bleeding into the few feet between you.

“I’m going to go shower.” The sentence sounds distant from his body, as if he was just speaking into a void instead of ending the conversation.

You nod and purse your lips before picking up your phone. He stays there for a moment watching you as you attempt to look busy with swiping through the weather and notes app.

When he finally steps away into his room to head to the bathroom, you throw your head back on the armrest of the couch.

This was going to be a long week.

Dread takes over you, when the shower shuts off. You’d been trying to watch the five million Instagram reels that Wally sent you, but there was no hope in being able to focus enough to really watch them. Your brain was hyper focused on where Jason was in the apartment. He left the door to his bedroom open, so you see him pass from the bathroom to his dresser in nothing but a towel.

Your eyes may have been on your phone, but your concentration was on him.

There’s some shuffling in his room, movement of blankets you think, before he appears in the doorframe. You refused to look up until he cleared his throat awkwardly.

By some miracle you were able to hide the way your breath caught in your throat. It was unfair how he could be such an asshole and still look like that. His hair was damp, curling at the ends in a beautiful frame of his face. He had thin rimmed glasses that hung on the bridge of his nose, highlighting the piercing green of his eyes. He was in plaid pajama pants that were a smidge too tight around his thighs and ass. There was a cotton white t-shirt on that left little room for imagination as it clung to his arms and torso from where he hadn’t dried himself off completely.

The crush you had on him at fourteen was slowly becoming more valid in this light, but you would rather die than admit that out loud.

The most damning part about the whole scene was what he was holding. Tucked under his left arm was a pillow and a blanket under the right one.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other before finally admitting. “The bed’s been made.”

Your eyebrows furrow together. What the hell was he on about? Did he think you were going to sleep in the bed with him.

“Um- okay? Do you want me to congratulate you for making your bed at the ripe age of- what 22? 23?” Your phone drops face down onto the blanket you were covering yourself with. “I mean I know Alfred used to make it for you. I’m not sure how big of a feat this is.”

“I’m 23.” His expression falls to an unimpressed expression. He licks his lips slowly for a moment as if he’s using it to ground himself, and you hate that you catch it. You were learning things you didn’t want to know about yourself tonight. When his eyes shut in that annoyed manner and his tongue swept across his lower lip, the way your stomach coiled terrified you.

“I’ve made my bed before West,” The heat in your stomach only intensified at him calling you by your last name, leading your heart to sink a second later. “I was telling you, so you could get in it.”

“And why would I do that?”

His eyebrow is mirroring yours now, raised with confusion at a lack of communication. “Because I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You blink once, twice, then, “this is your place, you remember that right?”

Frustrated with the fact you would do anything just to fight him, he tosses the blanket and pillow to the unoccupied side of the couch.

“Oh my god-” He runs a hand through his hair and your eyes linger on every line of every muscle in his bicep. Thankfully, you manage to break away from the distraction before he realizes. “I’m trying to be nice and give you the bed. Did you think I was going to offer you a place to stay and make you sleep on this shitty couch?”

“The couch isn’t shitty.”

His hand drops from his hair, and while he doesn’t say it, you can hear the deadpanned “really?” that he was defiantly thinking.

The couch was old and thoroughly used. You could feel every spring in it on the bone of your ass, the cushion was flat, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the type of sofa that would be at your grandparent house because they refused to throw it out. You’d been subjected to worse sleeping arrangements than Jason’s thrift find.

“It’s not that bad Jason.”

“I wouldn’t even subject Tim to sleeping on this couch.”

That earns him a snort. He seems to celebrate the small win as something like a bridge between you two. Noticing the crease disappearing in his eyebrows and his shoulder relaxing, you catch yourself. It was always too easy for Jason to undo you, he knew the exact weak points to hit in order to break down your walls.

It flipped a switch in you, immediately tensing up again, and he noticed. He always did. He gives up trying to fight you on getting to the bed and takes his place on the other end of the couch.

“What’re you doing…?” The sentence is dragged out of you, exhaustion from the day slowly overtaking the anxiety that was keeping you up.

“Putting on the TV.” He said it so simply while picking up the remote from the coffee table, it was as if this was normal for the both of you.

“Why?” The question escapes you before you can swallow it. A flush creeps over your face, suddenly self-aware of all the questions you’d been asking.

He doesn’t seem to notice the pink now dusting the tips of your ears- well, if he does he doesn’t comment on it. He only shrugs and logs into Dick’s streaming services that he has a profile on. “It helps me unwind after the night. Having something on in the background distracts me enough that it makes it easier to fall asleep.”

He starts scrolling through his account while you nod at his response.

“Jason?”

“Mhm.”

“Why is Sex and the City in your recently watched?”

His cheeks deepen to a color dangerously similar to the hood he dons every night, his freckles disappearing under the blush. He coughs to hide the fluster and pushes his glasses back up his nose.

“It was part of a deal I made with Steph,” he mumbles, skipping right over it. “When I started talking to them all again, she made me start watching it with her. Every Friday night I would come over after patrol and watch two episodes together. It was nicknamed as my “anger management” work for me to try and survive two episodes without getting frustrated with one of them.”

“Uh huh,” every thing you learned about his new life was more shocking than the last. “And how’d that go?”

“About as well as you’d expect.”

Who was this and what did they do with Jason Todd.

“That doesn’t explain why it’s still in your recently watched, though. You said you watched this with Steph, why are you on season three on your profile?”

He grumbles something unintelligible while looking through the other show options he has.

“Objectively… it’s an okay show.”

It takes all your strength not to break out in a laugh. “Just okay?”

He hears you smothering the giggle and meets your gaze. Despite his face drowning in pink, he still puts on a brave face. “I put it on after patrol sometimes. Is that what you wanted to hear? It doesn’t matter what fucked shit is happening to me, Carrie somehow always manages to take the cake in the shit show competition.”

“Well then, don’t let me stop you from your routine.”

His lips press together when the words leave your mouth. “I’ll pass thanks.”

“Why?” Your response came out more lighthearted than you’d planned on. This situation felt like an old normal you were no longer familiar with.

“You’re laughing at me that’s why.”

“I’m going to laugh either way.” You tease. “Might as well commit to the bit now.”

He stares at you for a few seconds. You don’t think anything of it, but he’s drinking in this version of you. A version that he thought no longer existed anymore. The version of you that trusted him.

He knows it’s not completely there, but this brought him hope. He didn’t think you were going to be doing much speaking through the week. Just this interaction was more than he could’ve dreamed for. He knew now that there was something he could work toward, that maybe there could be a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe the sun would shine on you both again.

So, not taking advantage of the smile pulling at your lips, he turns on the show. He’d turn himself into the biggest idiot if it meant you would look at him like that again. He would embarrass himself in every lifetime, every universe, every dimension if it meant he got to witness your smile one more time.

And with Carrie talking about how Big is leaving his wife, your eye lids begin to flutter. Jason, acting as a protective presence opposite of you, allows you the comfort you’d been looking for. Finally, you’re able to drift into a world that wasn’t so haunted.

Once your breathing evened out, Jason acted quickly. He picked you up bridal style and carried you to the bed you seemed determined to not sleep in. He tucks you in with the blankets cascading around you. Standing up to his full height, he takes one last look at you and makes a promise.

A promise that he’ll work every day to become someone worth trusting again.

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

Most nights were like the first one.

You would come home from class or work and then make a home on the squeaky couch. Jason would be out and about running on errands or at the auto shop he picked shifts up at. Neither of you spoke much through the day, he left you to have your much needed alone time.

Then at night, after patrol he’d crawl in through the window and you would sit on the couch together. Some nights it was awkward with not much talking, other nights it was a weird in-between of what normal used to mean for you two.

You hadn’t forgotten the fight, it still stung most days.

You knew it wasn’t easy for him to come back. You weren’t so naïve. He had crawled out of his grave, was dunked in the Lazarus pit, fought in the league of assassins, and was still trying to find a place in the world.

It didn’t erase all the hurt however.

On the fourth night he looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

“How’d you like it?”

Glancing up from your laptop, your eyebrows threaded together.

“How’d I like what?”

“Frankenstein,” he closes the book he was reading, Six of Crows- a recommendation from you. “You finished it the other day right?”

“Oh,” It sounded dumb but you hadn’t realized he was paying that much attention. “Yeah, I did. That’s not the first time I’ve read it though.”

“Oh,” he repeats. The vowel comes out in a breath from his mouth. “What’d ya think of it?”

“I liked it, I always liked the story. I’m reading it for a paper I’m writing for my Women in Literature class.”

He nods, accepting the answer. Still wanting specifics on your opinion, he continues to press. “What’s the paper on?”

“Basically,” you start out ready to summarize the topic in the same way you did for everyone. “It’s about how Frankenstein can be interpreted as autobiographical for Mary Shelley, and an expression of her experience as a child bleeding into the challenges she faced with motherhood.”

Your voice was robotic as you explained it to him. Countless of your classmates had asked you about your paper trying to get an idea for their own, and they all dismissed it. Despite it being a Women in Literature’s class it was a required elective, and unfortunately, you got stuck with one too many men who pitied the unreliable narrator.

Jason, however, surprised you.

He cocked his head to the side, barely shifting it to a thirty degree angle. “I… I hadn’t thought about it that way.” His face contorted together, the small dimple on his chin making an appearance as he actually thought about your analysis. “I’ll admit I don’t know much about Mary Shelley, despite that her husband seemed to be somewhat decent since he let her publish the novel, which is more than you can say for most men those days.”

“Somewhat decent is pushing it,” your tone was laced with disgust. “He was a cheater. He cheated on his first wife with Mary, and then cheated on her with her cousin.”

Jason’s eyes were wide and he shut his mouth as fast as he could. Biting his cheeks, he’s making his best effort to avoid saying something that would inadvertently piss you off. he had just managed to get civil with you and he didn’t want to waste it.

“What parts of the book are you using for the paper?” He was giving it his best effort to redirect the conversation so you would be in a good mood again.

“It’s a lot of the inner monologue for both the Creature and Victor.” You shrugged, going back to typing the outline. “In spite of there not being a lot of notable female characters, with the exception of Elizabeth, it had a lot of underlying feminine issues. Victor essentially goes through postpartum depression and rejects the creature. A lot of people also believe that the Creature remains nameless because she had a miscarriage at the time and didn’t name the baby. So the creature can be seen kind of like the child she lost, but also as herself. Since Victor went through life with a rejected creator, essentially on his own, it can be loosely interpreted as a mirror of her childhood. Her mother died when she was young and she was generally depressed like the Creature.”  

You hadn’t realized how long you had been rambling for until you finished. Your lips pressed together, almost biting them in the wake of your words running from you. Jason’s face remained a carefully crafted neutral expression, but he wasn’t as successful as he wanted to be. You didn’t miss the subtle twitches in his jaw, the way the last part cut deeper into him than anyone you knew.

Jason Todd who had an addict as a mother.

Jason Todd who gave his everything into being Robin.

Jason Todd who was failed by the world.

And in spite of it all, came back.

He could relate to this monster of a being more than anyone knew. So, when he listens to you talk about it as an innocent thing, as something who was a victim of the world that created him, something broke in him. Because now, there was hope you would look past all his wrongs, to see him as a man trying his best, instead of the monster fate was determined to make him to be.

He nods and by some miracle, makes more conversation with you about the paper and then you shift into a comfortable silence. A couple hours later when he’s transitioning to the nighttime routine, he takes you in.

He knew the week would be over soon. You would go back to your apartment and probably never look in his direction again. He wouldn’t take advantage of this- of you looking at him like the past few years hadn’t happened. That he hadn’t destroyed the only good thing in his life.

Eventually, Sex and the City comes on. It’s as if the universe finally took pity on him and gave him another miracle, letting you got comfortable in his presence. You started talking through the show, shitting on something- he wasn’t sure what.

His heart stopped when he heard the same scoff you used to do when you both watched Mission Impossible. He could practically hear the mumble, ingrained in his memory.

“There’s no way they would get away with this in real life.”

He didn’t move a muscle as you spoke, save for the few encouraging grunts or hums of agreement.

Jason Todd hated when people spoke through movies. He liked to sit, digest it, then talk about after, but he never minded it when it was you.

That’s actually how Dick discovered his crush on you when you were teenagers. He walked by his room and peaked in through the door frame. You were watching some romcom and you had spoken more dialogue through the scene then the film had in general. He was expecting Jason to blow a fuse, but it never came.

Dick teased him relentlessly for days.

He couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed, or care though. He would listen to you talk about anything and everything. Jason Todd would spend every night bleeding dry on the Gotham streets if it meant he got to come home and listen to the harmony of your voice. In those dying seconds he had left in that warehouse, his last thought was of every voicemail he’d never receive.

So now, here on this couch, he absorbs every word, carving it into stone. Every syllable from your mouth was like a recitation of the Bible to him, you were holy.

He didn’t think he’d ever be granted this luxury again. For now, he’ll take what he can get and maybe one day this could be his normal again.

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

As if the past three nights were on replay, you fell asleep before him. He sighs in relief when he notices your eyes close and breath even out. Like every other night, he takes you back to the bed even if you’re determined to take the couch.

The next few nights are also the same. Small domestic moments highlighted by his flickering light bulb and uncharacteristic pleasure of 90s chick flicks.

It had become habit to wait for him to come through the window. You usually were up until this time anyway. Whether it was nightmares, small anxieties that kept you up, or just your general inability to fall asleep, you were up at all hours of the night.

It was weird. You weren’t expecting to feel any comfort in this apartment, you were prepared for the exact opposite actually. Yet, in his stupidly charming Jason way, he managed to make you smile. He got you to laugh. He cooked enough for two even when you said you weren’t hungry.

It was surprisingly peaceful.

Until the last night.

All the butterflies dropped to the pit of your stomach in seconds when he barreled in through the window.

Covered in blood.

His breath was coming out heavy and jagged. He was flat on his ass, arms and legs spread out as if he was cosplaying a starfish who had just gone to war.

“Jason-”

You’re not exactly sure how the words leave your mouth. Laptop forgotten, shoved off your lap onto the couch. Your legs carry you just far enough until you can drop to your knees next to him.

“I-” he coughs. “I’m alright.” His arm wraps around his midsection trying to press on the giant wound that went straight down from his left pectoral to waistline.

“Alright?” He winces at your incredulous tone. “Jason please, you can barely hold your head up.”

The clock had barely struck two, which was never a good sign. If he ever came home early, it was due to some catastrophic injury.

“You shouldn’t be up at this time anyway.” He somehow manages to get out in one breath, wincing again when his hand presses on his torso.

Pointedly ignoring the comment, you help him to his feet. Silence overtakes you two when you help him to the bathroom. He sits on the lid of the toilet. His head leaning against the wall behind it.

Deep, slow breaths are coming from his nose and mouth. A part of you hopes that it’s to calm himself and that he’s not fighting for his consciousness.

That is not a phone call you want to be making tonight.

He sheds the jacket, then the shirt. You’re left with a bloody bruised Jason whose red in the face. He’s staring at you with no hope, ready for you to walk away, to decide that it’s too much.

It’s quiet when you step out the bathroom to the little half closet. It’s quiet when you grab a hand towel and walk back in. The only sound now echoing through the apartment being the water pouring from the faucet onto the grey towel when you wet it.

You finally break the silence, when you sit on the edge of the bathtub. The wound getting uglier by the second, your hand hovers it, right before contact.

“This is going to hurt.” It’s barely a whisper, yet in this room, it could’ve been a scream.

He chuckles and it’s half concerning, half reassuring. “Do your worst darlin’”

The nickname does something to you, and your face flushes.

The towel makes contact with his skin and he hisses. Your hand doesn’t move, letting him adjust to the sting. Then with a small nod, you continue the first cleaning. Once all the grime is scrubbed away, you find the first aid kit in the cabinet under the sink. The antiseptic is next, then the gauze, then the tape.

It took a little longer than thirty minutes to get him patched up. He’d have to see someone to get it properly looked at tomorrow, but this would be okay for now.

You couldn’t ignore the way he was looking at you the whole time. His eyes were swimming with guilt, pain, and something else you weren’t sure you wanted to name.

When you’re finally done, you stand to your full height. He’s looking up at you now from where he’s sitting. Both of you don’t pay mind to the biohazard on the floor next to you, just simply getting lost in each other again.

So much more was said in the quiet of the bathroom than in the past week you’ve been here. It feels like you’re seeing each other again for the first time in the fluorescent bathroom light. It was as if something clicked for you two.

“You’re not fourteen anymore you know that right?” You’re still looking in between his emerald green irises when you start to mumble. “You can’t jump straight into a fight and crash through my window expecting me to patch you up.”

His eyes are half lidded, squinting in disbelief, like he isn’t sure if this is real. That you’re here and teasing him.

“But you patch me up so well.” His voice is a low rumble, words meshing together out of delirium and exhaustion. “It’s also technically my window.”

A snort comes out of your nose along with a roll of your eyes.

“Let’s get you to bed big guy.” You start to hook his arm over your shoulder and he breaks into a sly smile.

“You think I’m big?”

“Yes.”

A small pout appears on his face when you won’t play this game with him. As much as you loved a good round of teasing, you were far too stressed to try and keep up with it right now. Your goal for the evening was to get him to the bed alive and make sure he doesn’t die.

Again.

After he lies down, you sit next to him on the bed with your legs crossed. He’s bound to fall asleep any moment now, but you want to keep his eyes open a little longer. It was part in worry and part selfishness. This way you could make sure he was actually okay by the time he drifted off while also getting to stare into the eyes that you used to feel like home.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology snaps you out of your daze. It’s the first coherent sentence he’s managed since busting through the window.

“It’s alright.” Your hands shake while you try to wave it off. “This is hardly the first time you’ve shown up beaten and bruised needing a cleanup.”

He came to you as much as he could to patch him up when you were younger. You’d had enough practice patching Wally up that he trusted you.

“No, I’m sorry about what I said to you that night.” Your veins turn to ice. “I was an asshole. You were trying to be nice and I pushed you away. That wasn’t fair to you.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I was a mess when I crawled out of my grave, the pit wasn’t a big help either. I was so angry with the world, upset that it brought me back.” His eyes lay on the popcorned roof now. “I was even more pissed that the world hadn’t changed while I was gone, it was still the same shit. I was horrible to everything and everyone. I… I lost my way.”

“You were the only good thing left here.” His eyes are back on you now. “When you came to see me, it scared me. It was like you saw right through me and everything I didn’t want to deal with was rising in my chest. I couldn’t handle it. So, I said some nasty shit to get you to go away. It was disgusting of me and it’s my biggest regret in this and every life I’ll ever live. I’ll never forgive myself for it. In a way, it felt easier to stay in that angry hole than to grow.”

You weren’t sure how you kept your breath even, it was like every time you managed some oxygen, it was robbed from you.

“Eventually though, I finally started getting help and wanted to get better. I’ve been trying every day to be better than who I was. To be someone who could be something. I don’t want you to think that these are excuses, they’re not.” His eyes are so conflicted, he can’t read your reaction and it’s terrifying him. “I just wanted you to know, I guess. If you never want to talk to me again, I completely understand. I’ll never bother you and I’ll leave you to your life.”

There’s a pause and your heart sinks.

“But if there’s a chance you’d be willing to try again, I had to give it a shot. I’ll spend every day making sure you know I’m serious about this. I’ll do it all this time. I’ll take you to dinner, I’ll give you your space, I’ll bake you cookies every Sunday night just like you always wanted.” His breathing pattern is broken and it shudders when he tries to breathe in.

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak. Your hands begun tracing the web of scars on his chest. A fingernail along the constellation he had over his heart. He shuddered, the intimacy of seeing him like this was almost as difficult as the vulnerability in the apology.

Eventually your hand lays flat on his chest, feeling the warmth. Your palm was right over his heart, it was beating a little quicker than normal but it was your favorite rhythm. His thumb and pointer finger wrap around your wrist. It was a loose grip, you could break out whenever and he kept it that way, but it was still strong enough that you could feel the hope behind it when he says,

“Stay.”

Your head whips back to him and desperation is written across his forehead.

There was still so much you had to talk about, so much you needed to get through. But right now, when he’s looking at you like you’re the most important person on the planet, you can’t stop yourself from indulging.

He watches you walk to the other side of the bed. His breath catches in his throat when you pull back the covers. He starts to believe in love again when you scoot closer to him.  

His eyes are on yours when you make eye contact again, mere centimeters apart.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats again. And this time, you know it.

You know he’ll spend the rest of his life making up for seventeen months.

Your hand rests on his cheek and he leans into it. His eyes close and he breathes in the feeling. You’re not entirely shocked when his arms are pulling you into him. The rest of the night passes with him whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

And for the first time all week, you both fall asleep together.

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

Bonus:

Once he’s finished his own patrol, Dick Grayson appears at his little brother’s window.

Jason had disappeared after the fight in the middle of patrol. They knew he had gotten hurt but he said he would patch himself up at home. Bruce was fighting an aneurysm, trying to keep him safe but not push him out of his comfort zone. When Jason cut his comms, Bruce almost tore the apartment door from its hinges, but Dick convinced him that he would drop by and check on him.

What he finds however, renders him speechless.

Jason was in bed with the one person he thought was going to buy him a one way ticket to his grave again. His arm was wrapped protectively around your waist, almost in fear of letting you go. Even in a state of crippling pain, you were always his priority.

At the heartwarming scene, Dick has one thought that turns his body to ice.

Wally is going to kill him.

•───────•°•𓄧•°•───────•

A/N: Sorry guys I got kind of lazy with the ending but I hope you like it anyway! I’m really tired and wanted to finally get this out lol

you get the first aid kit without being asked. pull up a chair in front of him and start with his face, cleaning the cut above his brow with steady hands while he watches you. he doesn’t flinch. just sits there and lets you work, jaw tight, eyes tracking your expression.

“stop looking at me like that,” he says.

“like what.”

“like you’re mad.”

“i’m not mad.” you press the butterfly strip down carefully. “i’m not mad at you.”

he doesn’t say anything to that.

you move down. his lip, split at the corner. his jaw, bruised deep and purple. you touch each thing gently and he takes it quietly, which is its own kind of alarming.

you get to his chest next, working the catches of his suit until it falls open. he shrugs it off his shoulders without being asked, leaving him in just his boxers, and you keep your face neutral. you do. but your hands still for just a second at the mess of him. bruises blooming across his ribs, a cut low on his side that’s dried but angry looking, the old scars underneath all of it.

you clean the cut without a word. he watches you frown at it.

his hand comes up and cups your face.

“hey,” he says quietly.

you look up.

“m’okay,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “i’m right here.”

when you’re done you cap the antiseptic and sit back. he catches your wrist before you can move away.

he tugs you forward into his lap without asking, arms winding around your waist, and tucks his face into your chest. just. stays there. breathing you in.

you let your fingers move into his hair.

he’s heavy against you. the tension in him slowly, slowly starting to unwind. you can feel it in the way his shoulders drop by degrees, the grip around your waist loosening just slightly.

you card through his hair and say nothing.

after a while he turns his face up.

he kisses you soft at first. careful, like he’s relearning you, mouth moving gentle against yours. but then his hands tighten at your waist and he kisses you again, needier this time, a quiet urgency underneath it like he just needs to feel you. feel that you’re real. that you’re his.

you kiss him back.

his arms pull you closer.

“m’sorry,” he says. kisses you again. “i know i worry you so much.”

his hands slide down to your hips. he shifts you slightly on his lap, repositioning you until you’re sitting across his thigh, the thin fabric of your sleep shorts the only thing between you and his bare skin. you feel the muscle flex deliberately underneath you.

“jason—”

“please,” he murmurs against your mouth. “let me.”

quiet and earnest in a way he rarely lets himself be.

“you’re hurt,” you say.

“i know.” his hands squeeze your hips. “please, baby.”

you look at him. the cut above his brow, the bruised jaw, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s going to settle him tonight.

“you don’t have to do that,” you say softly. “i’m not mad at you.”

“i know.” his forehead drops to yours. “please.”

so you give in.

you start to move and his thigh flexes under you, firm and deliberate, pressing up right where you need it through the thin cotton of your shorts. your breath catches.

his hands guide your hips into a slow rhythm, jaw tight, watching your face with dark eyes. every time you roll forward his thigh meets you and the friction pulls a soft sound out of you that he swallows with his mouth.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “just like that.”

his ribs expand with a sharp breath when you shift your weight and he winces, barely, but you catch it.

“jason—”

“don’t stop,” he grits out. “please don’t stop.”

you don’t stop.

his hands keep guiding you, unhurried, and he just watches. eyes dark and focused entirely on your face, the way your mouth falls open, the way your fingers curl into his bare shoulders careful of the bruises. this is one of his favourite things, you know. watching you come undone. he’s told you before, low and honest in the dark, that he could do this for hours. just watch you. just this.

his expression right now confirms it. something reverent underneath all that heat.

you reach down between you and palm him through his boxers and he exhales sharp, hips stuttering up.

“hey—” his voice comes out rough.

“let me,” you say, echoing him back at himself.

his jaw works. he nods.

you slip your hand past the waistband and wrap around him properly and the sound he makes is low and punched out, head dropping forward onto your shoulder.

“fuck,” he exhales against your skin.

you keep moving on his thigh. keep stroking him. the dual rhythm finding itself naturally, your hips rolling forward while your hand works, and jason is coming apart underneath you in the quietest, most desperate way. no performance. just him, stripped back, hands gripping your hips like an anchor.

“feel good?” you murmur.

“yeah,” he says, barely voice at all. “yeah, so good.”

his thigh flexes deliberately under you and you gasp and his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, pressing open kisses wherever he can reach, sloppy and uncoordinated and so unlike his usual careful self.

“close,” you breathe.

“i know.” his hand slides from your hip, down, pressing over yours where you’re working him. not taking over. just feeling. “me too. come on.”

his thigh flexes one more time, firm and precise, and you tip over with a soft broken sound, forehead dropping to his shoulder. you feel him follow seconds later, shuddering, a low groan muffled into your hair, hands gripping you through it like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

the room goes quiet.

he holds you there for a long time after. face buried in your neck, breathing slowing degree by degree.

“thank you,” he says sincerely.

Contents -

༄ One | Recognition | 2k words

༄ Two | Tangled Together | 2.6k words

༄ Three | Sugary Sweet | 2.4k words

༄ Four | A Place to Fall | 2.3k words

༄ Five | Echoes in the Dark | 2.2k words

༄ Six | Devotion | 2.9k words

༄ Seven | The Beauty of Choice | 2.9k words

༄ Eight | Threads of You | 2.9k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

This story was actually sparked by a fun little comment on "Eclipsed" about how cool the idea of another Shadowsinger was... and well, my brain ran with it. So here we are—second Shadowsinger but for Azriel!

I've had so much fun imagining what it would be like if there was someone else like Azriel and what would happen when their shadows met for the first time. I mean... fate, right?

I hope you enjoy the chaos, fluff, tension, and shadowy nonsense as much as I do :)

More money than you know what to do with, what with Rhysand having thrown funds at you from the moment he became High Lord. 

The room is…nice, you suppose. Comfortable. Paintings line the walls; ones that Feyre has given you and ones you did yourself during a drunk and dip painting party.