Avengers Assemble!

Your breath snapped in too fast, a hard, startled gasp that cut at the inside of your throat. The apartment blurred at the edges. The counter under your palm seemed to drop away even though you were still holding it, knuckles pale, fingers locked around the cool stone like it might keep you from being dragged under. You could hear your pulse everywhere: in your ears, in your teeth, in the soft meat behind your eyes. It was too big for your body. Too loud. A frantic animal throwing itself against the cage of your ribs.

You told yourself it was just a mug. You told yourself you were in Jason’s apartment, in the little kitchen with the crooked drawer he still hadn’t fixed because he claimed it had “character,” with the rain sliding silver down the windows, with the smell of old books and gun oil and the basil plant you had bullied him into keeping alive on the sill. You told yourself there was no blood, no smoke, no hands reaching for you, no voice telling you that you were too slow, too weak, too much. But your body did not care about logic. Your body had its own religion, and tonight, it worshipped fear.

The first wave hit like a fist closing around your lungs.

You tried to breathe around it and couldn’t. Air came in thin, useless ribbons. Your chest locked down harder the more you fought it, muscles turning to iron, throat narrowing until each inhale felt like it had to scrape through broken glass. You bent over the counter, one hand pressed to your sternum, the other still gripping stone, and the room lurched in a slow, nauseating spiral. Your vision splintered into details you could not hold together: ceramic shards, coffee spreading, rainlight on tile, your own foot too close to the mess, the edge of the fridge humming like an electrical wire inside your skull.

You did not hear Jason come in at first. The front door opened, rain whispered off his jacket, his boots crossed the living room, and all of it arrived through the panic as muffled, distant sound, like you were underwater and he was calling to you from the shore. Then his voice cut through—not loud, never loud, not when it mattered.

“Hey,” Jason said, careful and low. “Sweetheart?”

You flinched anyway.

He stopped instantly. You felt the pause more than saw it, a stillness blooming behind you. Jason Todd, who could move through gunfire like the world owed him room, went quiet as a shadow at the edge of the kitchen. No sudden motion. No grab for your shoulders. No demanding what happened. He took in the scene fast because Jason always took in a scene fast, eyes flicking over the shattered mug, your bare feet, the coffee, the angle of your body, the way you were gulping down air that didn’t seem to reach you.

“Okay,” he said, and the word was soft enough to be placed in your hands. “Okay, I see you. Don’t move, baby. There’s glass.”

Your brain caught on that: glass. Your feet. The floor. The danger that was real, small and sharp and ordinary, waiting under you. You looked down and immediately wished you hadn’t, because the pieces seemed too bright, too many, and your mind turned them into other things—bone, teeth, shrapnel, evidence. Your breath hitched, broke, collapsed in on itself.

Jason swore under his breath, not at you. Never at you. You knew the difference by now, knew the way his anger curved outward when the world touched you wrong. He moved slowly into your line of sight, hands visible, palms open. His hair was damp from the rain, the white streak at his temple plastered darker than usual, and his jacket dripped onto the floor behind him. He looked too big for the kitchen and too gentle for what he had been made into, all broad shoulders and careful eyes, a bruised saint with blood on his history and tenderness in his hands.

“I’m gonna get you off the glass,” he said. “I’m not touching you until you tell me I can. Can you look at me?”

You tried. You really did. Your gaze climbed from his boots to his knees to the wet leather of his jacket, but when you reached his face, everything slipped sideways. His features wouldn’t hold still. His eyes were green, then too bright, then far away. The room buzzed. Your fingers went numb.

“I can’t,” you choked, or thought you did. It came out small, torn into pieces by your breathing.

Jason’s expression tightened, but his voice stayed steady. “That’s all right. You don’t gotta do anything fancy. Just listen to me. I’m right here. You’re in my kitchen. You dropped a mug. Scared the hell outta your nervous system, dramatic little bastard that it is.” His mouth twitched like he was trying to give you something almost like a smile, something you could hold without having to smile back. “But we’re not in danger. You’re not in trouble. I’ve got you.”

Your chest cramped. The words I’ve got you should have helped. They did, somewhere deep down, but the panic was louder, a storm with teeth. Your lungs kept clawing for air. Tears blurred your vision before you realised you were crying, hot and humiliating on your face.

Jason lowered himself into a crouch a few feet away, putting himself below your eye level, making his body less like a wall and more like shelter. The sight of him kneeling in the coffee and rainwater without caring about his clothes did something terrible and tender inside you. He knew, you remembered suddenly. Maybe not this exact shape of fear, not this exact trigger or this exact night, but Jason knew what it was to have your body drag you back into a war that had already ended. He knew what it was to wake up with death in his mouth. He knew how memory could become a room and lock you inside it.

“Can I touch your hand?” he asked. “Just your hand. You can say no.”

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say please. Your tongue felt too large, your jaw too tight. All you managed was a frantic little nod.

Jason reached slowly. His fingers closed around your wrist first, warm and calloused, not restraining. Just there. Then his thumb found the inside of your palm and pressed into the soft centre of it, firm enough to give your body a fact. His touch was steady. Not a demand, not a cage. A landmark.

“There you are,” he murmured. “Good. Feel my hand? Focus on that for me. You don’t gotta breathe perfect yet. We’re just gonna make the air a little less of a jerk.”

A broken laugh tried to claw its way out of you and got lost halfway into a sob. Jason’s thumb kept moving in slow circles against your palm. He shifted closer, still mindful of the glass, and slipped his other hand under your elbow.

“I’m gonna lift you onto the counter,” he said. “Glass is all over the floor and I’m not letting you step in it. You with me?”

You weren’t, not fully. You were somewhere between the kitchen and the panic, between Jason’s voice and the thunder of your heartbeat. But you nodded again because you trusted him with the parts of you that couldn’t answer.

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, one arm braced around your waist and the other under your thighs, careful and smooth. The movement made the room swoop, and you grabbed at his shoulder with a strangled sound. Jason froze for half a breath, holding you against him as if the whole universe had narrowed to not scaring you worse. Then he settled you onto the counter away from the spill, keeping one hand at your hip until he was sure you were stable.

“There,” he said. “Feet off the floor. No glass. That problem’s handled.”

Handled. The word slid through the panic like a blade through rope. One problem handled. One danger named and removed. Your brain wanted to spiral into a thousand other dangers, most of them shapeless, but Jason had pinned one down and killed it clean.

He shrugged out of his wet jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, then came back to stand in front of you. Not too close. Close enough that you could see the rain caught in his lashes, the small scar near his jaw, the pulse beating in his throat. He was breathing deliberately now, slow and visible, chest rising and falling like a tide trying to teach yours the moon.

“In with me if you can,” he said. “Don’t force it. Just follow when it feels possible.”

You tried to match him and failed. Your inhale stuttered, shallow and ugly. Panic punched up again, furious at the failure, and you made a helpless noise that sounded too much like pain.

Jason’s eyes flashed, not with fear but recognition. “Nope. Hey. No beating yourself up. That’s panic talking, and panic is a lying asshole with bad manners.” His hand returned to yours, palm against palm. “You’re not failing. Your body thinks it’s saving you. It’s just got ancient software and no damn updates.”

If you hadn’t been drowning, you might have smiled. Jason and his stupid, perfect mouth. Jason, who could make jokes at the edge of hell because sometimes a joke was a handhold, because sometimes laughter was the first crack in the locked door.

He pressed your joined hands gently against his chest.

“Feel that?” he asked.

His heartbeat thudded under your palm, solid and slow. Not calm exactly—you knew him too well to mistake control for ease—but steady. A living drum. A proof. You stared at where your hand rested against him, at the black cotton stretched over scarred muscle, and tried to let your body understand that this was now. This was Jason. This was not whatever your blood kept mistaking it for.

“Count it,” he said. “Don’t count your breaths. Count mine.”

So you did. Or tried to. One beat. Two. Three. The numbers kept scattering, but Jason did not correct you. He just breathed and let you borrow the rhythm. His thumb brushed the back of your hand. The rain kept tapping at the window, softer now, less like a warning and more like the weather. The fridge hummed. Somewhere in the living room, a floorboard gave its familiar little complaint. The apartment began, piece by piece, to become itself again.

Your breathing changed without asking permission. It didn’t settle all at once. It came in ragged negotiations, the body bartering with terror. The tightness in your chest loosened by a cruel inch, then another. Air reached deeper. Your fingers tingled painfully as sensation returned, pins and needles waking under your skin.

Jason noticed because Jason noticed everything. “That part sucks,” he said. “The tingling. Feels like your hands are turning into TV static. It’ll pass.”

You looked up at him then, really looked, and found his face drawn with something so tender it almost hurt worse than the panic. His brows were low, mouth set, jaw tense with the effort of not showing too much. Protective Jason was a dangerous thing on patrol, all red helmet and loaded silence, but here, in the kitchen light, he was protective in quieter ways. He kept his voice soft. He kept the glass away from your feet. He made himself into something warm and patient and impossible to weaponise.

“I hate this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said.

“I hate that you have to see it.”

His expression cracked. Not breaking, exactly. Softening around an old bruise. “Baby, look at me.” You did. “I am not mad. I am not disappointed. I am not keeping score.” His voice went rough on the last word, and his hand tightened around yours. “You’ve seen me come back from nightmares swinging at ghosts. You’ve sat on the bathroom floor with me when the Pit crawled up my throat and made me feel like my skin didn’t fit. You think I’m gonna look at you having a panic attack and decide you’re too much?”

Your eyes burned again. “It feels like too much.”

“Yeah,” Jason said, honest enough not to argue with the feeling. “It does. That doesn’t mean it is.”

The words landed somewhere fragile. You closed your eyes, and the room tilted less violently this time. Jason stayed quiet for a while, only breathing, only holding your hand against his chest. He had never been good at empty comfort, never one for shiny lies or sugar-glass promises. He did not tell you there was nothing to be afraid of. He did not tell you to calm down. He simply stayed, and because he stayed, because he had survived his own impossible things and still come home to you with rain in his hair and gentleness in his palms, the panic began to run out of road.

When your breathing finally evened into something human, exhaustion rushed in behind it.

It was obscene how tired fear could make you. Your bones felt hollowed out. Your shoulders ached from clenching. Your mouth tasted metallic, and your cheeks were stiff with drying tears. You looked down at the floor again, at the broken mug and the puddle of coffee, and shame rose sharp and immediate.

“I made a mess,” you said.

Jason followed your gaze, then snorted softly. “Yeah, tragic. A mug died. Gotham mourns.”

“Jason.”

“I hated that mug.”

“You bought that mug.”

“I make mistakes.” He reached up and wiped your cheek with the backs of his fingers, so gentle it made your throat close for an entirely different reason. “Stay put. I’m cleaning it up.”

You wanted to argue, but the idea of putting your feet on the floor made your stomach twist. Jason saw the argument forming anyway and gave you a look that was pure Red Hood filtered through domestic concern.

“Don’t even start,” he said. “I’m wearing boots. You’re barefoot. This is not a democracy.”

That did pull a tiny laugh out of you, weak and watery. Jason looked absurdly pleased with himself, like he had just won a major battle instead of coaxing one broken sound from your chest. He got the dustpan and moved around the kitchen with efficient care, sweeping the large pieces first, then the smaller glittering shards that hid near the cabinet edges. He wiped up the coffee, checked under the counter, then checked again because his version of love had always been a little obsessive around the edges. Danger did not get to linger in rooms where you were trying to breathe.

When the floor was safe, he washed his hands and came back to you. “All clear.”

You stared at him, the massive shape of him in the warm kitchen light, the damp curls at his forehead, the old scars disappearing under his sleeves. “Can I have a hug now?”

His face changed so fast it almost hurt. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Hell yeah, you can.”

He helped you down from the counter, but before your feet fully touched the tile, he scooped you against him, arms wrapping around your back with that careful strength that always undid you. Jason hugged like he was building a barricade between you and the rest of the world. Not crushing, not trapping, just complete. His chin rested near your temple, and his body heat soaked through your clothes, grounding you more deeply than any counted breath.

You melted into him all at once, the last of your control giving way. Your hands fisted in his shirt. He smelled like rain, leather, soap, and the faint smoky bite of the city. He rocked you once, barely, more a shift of weight than a motion, and murmured into your hair.

“There we go,” he said. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You did so good.”

You made a small, embarrassed sound against his chest. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You survived your brain turning the lights off and setting off the fire alarm. That counts.” His hand moved slowly up and down your back, broad palm tracing the line of your spine. “Trust me. I’m an expert in brains doing haunted house nonsense.”

You breathed him in and let the warmth of him fill the spaces panic had emptied. It was strange, being held by someone who knew the monster by a different name. Jason’s fear came in green flashes and grave dirt, in crowbars and laughter and resurrection wrong enough to bruise the soul. Yours came in other shapes. Other sounds. But the body did not care about the exact story when it was drowning. It only knew the water. Jason knew the water, too.

After a while, he guided you toward the couch, one arm still around you as if he didn’t trust gravity not to get ideas. He sat first and pulled you down with him, arranging you against his side, tucking a blanket around your legs with a gruffness that would have fooled no one. The apartment had gone dimmer, gentler. Rain blurred the windows. The kitchen light reflected off the clean floor where the mug had been, no evidence left except the faint smell of coffee and the ache in your body.

Jason pressed a glass of water into your hands. “Small sips.”

“You sound like Alfred.”

“That is the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You huffed a laugh into the rim of the glass and took a sip because he was watching like the water was a sacred mission. He had disappeared for barely twenty seconds and somehow returned with water, a soft hoodie of his, and one of the emergency snacks he kept in the pantry because he had learned, somewhere between dying and coming back and loving you, that bodies needed practical kindness after emotional catastrophes. The hoodie settled over your lap, warm from where he had held it. The snack packet crinkled when he opened it for you without comment, sparing you the indignity of fighting plastic with trembling hands.

For a while, you ate because he asked you to, and he pretended not to notice when your fingers shook. The television stayed off. Jason knew better than to fill the room too quickly. Instead, he sat beside you and let the quiet grow soft around the edges.

“I’m sorry,” you said eventually.

His head turned toward you. “For what?”

“For scaring you.”

“You didn’t scare me.”

You gave him a look, tired but unconvinced.

Jason sighed, leaning back into the couch. “Okay. You scared me a little. But not because you did anything wrong. I get scared when people I love hurt and I can’t punch the hurt in the face. It’s very inconvenient for my brand.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Your brand?”

“Big scary crime lord. Excellent thighs. Emotionally constipated but in a charming, marketable way.”

“Very marketable.”

“Exactly.” His smile faded into something quieter. “But you don’t apologise for having a nervous system. Not to me.”

You looked down at your hands. They had mostly stopped shaking. Mostly. Jason covered them with one of his, warm and scarred, knuckles rough from a lifetime of choosing fists when words failed him. He was still learning words. You could tell, sometimes, by the way he handled them like live wires.

“I know what it’s like,” he said. “Not exactly. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend my mess is your mess. But I know what it’s like when your body decides it’s back there. Wherever there is. I know what it’s like to be safe and still feel like you’re about to die.”

The honesty of it settled over you heavier than the blanket. You leaned closer, shoulder pressed to his ribs. “What helps you?”

Jason was quiet for a long moment. You wondered if you had asked too much, stepped too close to a locked door in him, but then his thumb moved against your knuckles.

“Depends on the night,” he said. “Sometimes space. Sometimes pressure. Sometimes I need the lights on and every exit clear. Sometimes I need someone to remind me what year it is, which is annoying as hell but works.” He swallowed, eyes fixed on the rain-streaked window. “Sometimes I just need somebody not to leave.”

Your chest ached. You turned your hand beneath his and held on.

“I’m not leaving,” you said.

He looked at you then, something raw and young flickering beneath all the armour he wore in daylight. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

Later, he coaxed you through brushing your teeth and changing into his hoodie, which swallowed you in warmth and the faint smell of him. He checked your feet again, even though you told him you hadn’t stepped on glass, because Jason’s love was a locked door, a second sweep, a hand at the small of your back when the world got crowded. He cleaned the kitchen one more time. He turned off the big light and left the smaller lamp on because darkness after panic felt like too much too soon.

In bed, he pulled you into the heavy curve of his body, your back against his chest, his arm draped over your waist with careful weight. Protective but not possessive. Present but not trapping. The shape of safe, you thought, was not a place after all. It was this: Jason’s breath warming the back of your neck, his heartbeat steady behind you, the rain softening the city outside, the knowledge that fear could come and still not take everything.

“Jay?” you whispered.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Thank you.”

His lips brushed your shoulder through the hoodie. “Anytime.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” His arm tightened just slightly, a promise made in pressure instead of words. “Me too.”

You lay there until your body stopped waiting for the next wave. Sleep did not come quickly, but peace did, small and cautious, padding into the room like a stray cat deciding whether to trust the offered hand. Jason stayed awake behind you longer than he needed to. You could tell by his breathing, by the way his thumb occasionally swept over your ribs as if checking you were still there, still breathing, still his to keep warm against the night.

Eventually, the rain thinned. The apartment settled. Your eyes drifted closed.

When you went into the grocery store, the sun was barely slipping past the horizon. As you stepped out of the sliding doors with your three bags, you sighed out. Being stuck in concrete walls with all those people, only for a few minutes, really killed you. People rarely talked about how exhausting grocery stores were. A small child in overalls chased after his mother pushing their cart. You felt a small grin pull at your lips. The kid’s foot caught on a rock and stumbled right into the pavement. You grimaced, quickly walking in the direction of your car so you wouldn’t hear the cries. The sun was completely down now. You missed it already. 

You finally reached the trunk of your car, popping it open. You should be getting home soon, Gotham was the worst place ever. Just as you set your third bag into your trunk, glass shattering startled you. The roof of your car was caved in, wrapping around a ball of red and black. Robin was splayed across the roof of your car, one of his boots hanging off the edge. You slowly started to realize it was entirely possible you had a dead Robin on your car. Batman was going to fucking kill you. Oh. Batman was going to fucking beat your ass. You stepped away from your car, pressing your hands to your mouth. A woman on the other side of the parking row paused in her packing up her groceries. 

“What the fuck?” She asked, more confused than startled. Which you admired. You were more shocked than anything else. Scared was also a prominent feeling. She took a careful step forward. 

“Is he dead? If he is you need to take pics you’ll get big bucks from newspapers.” She advised, widening her eyes at the mention of big. You shrugged. 

“I don’t know.” You muttered. How were you to get home? What are you supposed to do with Robin’s dead body? Do you take him to the batcave and lay him at Batman’s feet? Here’s your sidekick, I swear it wasn’t me. Maybe you need to bury him. Hide him, he’ll disappear. One call to your best friend and Robin is gone. 

A low groan floated from your broken car. 

“Oh stars.” You sighed, dropping your hands onto your knees. You hung your head, catching your breath. You didn’t have a dead Robin on your car, just a maimed one. Batman was not going to beat your ass. The woman behind you sighed disappointedly. 

“Damn shame, you could’ve paid your rent for months.” She grumbled as she went back to her groceries. You wanted to call her greedy and unempathetic, but you were aware of the third man syndrome so you were still uncertain she wasn’t your subconscious. You heard another groan, this time louder. You straighten up, staring at Robin. He slowly peeled himself off your car, groaning for every inch he moved. He sat forward, flopping his arms between his legs. He stared over the back of your car. He caught your eyes. Robin glanced around himself, assessing his situation. 

“Is this your car?” He asked, his voice scratchy like the crash broke his voice box too. You frowned.

“Yes.” You answered. Robin pressed a gloved hand to his eyebrow. He slowly stood up, straightening his back into a scarily straight posture. He stared down from the top of your car, making you crane your neck back to look at him. Robin hummed. 

“Apologies. I will replace it at a later date.” Robin declared. He turned his head from you. He started looking around the sky like he was plotting his way out. 

“Well, now wait a minute.” You scoffed. Robin turned his head. The top edge of his mask curved with his eyebrow. 

“You can’t just total my car and ditch me in a parking lot. How am I supposed to get home safely? You of all people should know how dangerous Gotham is.” You crossed your arms as you watched him. You obviously had a lot of respect for the vigilantes of Gotham. And many of  the ones in other cities. Robin here was practically throwing you to the wolves. 

“Of course. You make a good argument.” Robin said. He jumped down from the roof of your car, landing hard on the pavement next to you. He straightened up, staring into your eyes as he did it. What. A. Freak. 

“Are there any belongings within your car you wish to take with you?” He asked. You leaned over the trunk of your car, pulling the bags out again. 

“Do you always talk like a robot?” You joked, grinning at yourself. You slammed your trunk shut. You hoped your car was left alone. It was bad enough it was practically shattered. The windshield was busted and a giant could use your roof as a cereal bowl. Just give your poor baby some grace for one night. Robin gave you a small look of disapproval. 

“I prefer proper grammar.” Robin stated. You hummed. 

“Dork,” You mumbled. You looked back to him, squaring your shoulders. Time for the longest walk of your life. 

“Let’s get this hike going.” You chuckled, pointing your hand over his shoulder. Robin tilted his head to the side. 

“Hike?” He repeated. You nodded. 

“Well, yes. Did you plan to fly to my house? Where’s the BatJet?” You quipped, already giggling at your own joke. 

“We refer to it as Building Swinging but I suppose flying could be accurate.” Robin grumbled, pulling his grappling hook from his utility belt. You took a step back, shaking your head. 

“I am not jumping over rooftops with you. I thought you were walking me home.” You stared at the hook in his hand in shock. Robin groaned. 

“I beg of you not to make this difficult. This is a perfectly safe form of travel. You will not get hurt.” Robin insisted. You glared at him. 

“If it’s so safe, why are you falling onto my car?” You rebutted. Robin paused. He glanced up at the sky. 

“Unrelated.” He finished. You scoffed. 

“How so?” 

“Vigilante business unfit for citizen mind.” Your mouth parted at his brashness. He reached his hand out, motioning you forward. 

“You are wasting time.” He glared at you as he said it. You huffed at him. 

“You are incredibly blunt.” You complained. You stepped forward, entering back into his sphere. He pulled you closer by your waist, pressing your tightly against him. 

“Thank you.” Robin muttered. 

You screamed more than you would admit, as he swung you both through the city skyline. You held tightly onto your groceries and his shoulders. You squeezed your eyes shut for most the trip, which made you suddenly dropping through the air incredibly terrifying. Halfway through it, you finally caught the pattern of it. You swung through the air like the ocean waves. Up and down. Once you got the hang of it, you peeled open your eyes. You hooted in joy more than you would admit. 

Robin finally landed in front of your apartment, his arm slowly slipping away from your body. You were slightly wobbly on your legs as you finally reintroduced yourself to the ground again. He watched you carefully as you stepped away from him, almost like he was searching for injuries. He dragged his eyes up the length of your apartment building, craning his neck back to catch the roof. 

“What’s your apartment number?” He asked. You glanced back at him, raising a brow. 

“You know, I think Batman himself visited my elementary school telling us not to give our addresses to strangers.” You turned away from him, stepping towards the glass door of your apartment building. 

“You are incredibly irritating. I have to know where to send the money for your car.” Robin grumbled. You shook your head. You gave him a mocking frown. 

“Nope, if you want to make that wrong right you’ll have to wait out here to give it to me.” You declared before pulling open your apartment building door. 

Two days later a thick fucking envelope arrived in your mail. It was addressed with your full name in stunning cursive letters. The return address was blank except for an R. You furrowed your brows, tearing open the envelope. Your mouth dropped open at the number of crisp 100 dollar bills staring up at you. The only not green thing was a small folded piece of paper. You pulled it out, unfolding it. 

Found your address through the BatComputer. If you need more we have a private tipline online. 

-R

You had more than 800 dollars left over after all the repairs to your car. The Mechanics fixing it back up had a real giggle about your Robin story. You felt guilty for having the extra money. You loved money as much as the next guy but you felt you needed to return it. So you typed up a quick message to the tip line. 

This message is for Robin specifically. 

How do I get the leftover money back to you? This is far too much to keep. 

Tim had a bit of a conniption when he found said message deep into the tip line. He read it out to Damian, expecting some kind of embarrassment. Maybe even anger at being vulnerable. Instead Damian just hummed and turned away from Tim. 

A letter turned up pressed between two pieces of junk mail. The return address was just R again. There wasn't a letter inside, only a square piece of paper. 

Keep it. 

-R

From there a friendship sparked. You sent him messages through the tip line. He sent you letters, each one signed with only R. You grew used to it, looking forward to the swirly cursive showing up in your mail. You sent so many messages you started addressing it to just R not even bothering to write out Robin. 

Damian was scolded for using the professional tip line for personal business. So he sent you his personal phone number. From there, you grow even closer. 

He was a slow texter but you gave him grace seeing as he was Robin. Before you knew it you were spending hours on call with him. He was Robin for a very long time before he finally revealed his face to you. The pieces clicked together when he told you he was Damian Wayne. Of course he has no problem paying to fix your car. He was a friggin billionaire. 

He grew from Robin, to your friend, to Damian, and then to your partner. You couldn't be happier he crashed into your car. He started spending nights in your apartment. He even had his own toothbrush now. Typically he would wake up long before you even considered peeking an eye open. He would make himself breakfast and sit down at your table to eat it. He’d even shoot you a confused look when you grumbled about it. 

Damian appreciated your looks every part of his day. He liked when you grinned at him before you cracked a particularly bad joke. He liked when your eyes would widen when he peeled his shirt off. He liked when you jokingly frowned at him when he mumbled. But Damien had a very large soft spot for when you glared at him. Especially in the morning. 

You stumbled out of your bedroom. You rubbed at your closed eyes, swerving around each piece of furniture. Damian raised his eyes from your small table. He tracked every move. You were tightly wrapped in your robe, far too tired to pick out actual clothes. You finally peeled your eyes open. You slipped behind the kitchen counter. You kicked at the counter, pushing your slipper back up your foot. You raised a brow at Damian before pulling open one of the cabinets. You pulled down your coffee, pressing it into the machine. 

“Freak.” You muttered. Damian hummed in disapproval. You pulled your favorite mug from the cabinet. You finally pressed the brew button, letting the hot liquid drip into your cup. You left the coffee behind, approaching Damian. You slipped your hands around his shoulders. Damian pulled himself from his breakfast, wrapping his arms around you. He pressed his chin into your chest, staring up at you. You pet the top of his head. His hair stuck up in loud spikes. The sunlight peeking out from the curtains caught in your hair. You gave him a small smile, your eyes brightening. Damian wanted to frame this moment in his mind and let the smell of your robe and  the smile on your face be a permanent fixture. 

“Habibi.” He whispered to your chest. He hoped the word pressed through your skin and past your ribs. Damian hoped it swirled around your heart like it did to his. He wanted you to melt into him and whine about how sweet it was. Unlucky for him, it was early in the morning and you didn’t know Arabic. Your face twisted into confusion. You looked away from him, looking around the ceiling. 

“We have bees?” You asked. You looked back down at him. Now your eyes were jumping over his skin, searching for a bee sting. How did bees even get inside your apartment? Damian groaned. He pulled his arms from you, returning to his breakfast. 

“It’s Arabic.” He explained. His tone was flat like you not being trilingual was a personal failure. He really got quite cocky about his language talents. He’d make you sit and watch movies with him. The only problem was the actors would be speaking Arabic with Mandarin subtitles. You couldn’t catch a lick of it. You had a suspicion he did it on purpose so he could take on the role of translator. 

“Oh, sorry darling.” You mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck. When you first used the baby nickname he had taken incredible offense against it. You were trying to work him into comfort with it but he was rather hard headed. Darling was good choice, he liked it. That was plenty. 

“It’s a nickname.” Damian grumbled. You paused, your heart swelling. You had a million nicknames for him. He only ever referred to you by your name, like every date was a business meeting. You thought it’d be years before you got a nickname. 30 years at least for maybe a shorting of your name. You pressed your hands to your heart. 

“You gave me a nickname?” You cooed, pulling him back to your chest. Damian nodded against you. 

“What’s it mean?” You asked, tilting your head down. Damian paused, his eyes flickering away from you. He thought through his options. A, Tell you what it means and in the process tell you he loves you (scary). B, lie and end up lying to you which was heavily frowned on for whatever reason. C, make a distraction and hope you forget about it. B seemed good to him. 

“Pain in the ass.” Damian stated, looking back to you. You groaned, pushing him away. 

“I’ve told you to stop muttering.” You glared at him as you returned to your coffee. Damian felt his heart swarm. He pushed his grin down, looking back to his breakfast before you could spark a heart attack. Within a few minutes you were sitting down across the small table with your coffee. Just as you set it down, Damian picked it up. He brought it to his lips, taking a sip. You watched him knowingly as his face twisted up in disgust. You nodded as you took the mug from his hands. He coughed, patting his chest. 

“That is foul. Coffee is meant to be black.” Damian gagged. You rolled your eyes, bringing your coffee to your mouth. 

“Then make your own coffee.” You rebutted. Damian scoffed before pulling your mug from your hands and taking another drink. 

“I have to make sure you don’t poison yourself.” Damian set your coffee down, returning to his plate. 

You grew comfortable with the Wayne family. There were a lot of names you had to memorize. At first, you couldn’t visit the manor without Damian or you’d get lost. Everytime you had to pee he had to walk you to the bathroom and wait outside the door to walk you back. He showed you to each of his pets, giving you every name. You had to take notes and when you got home you added pictures next to the names. 

Eventually you were perfectly fine spending nights in their theater room with Damian’s brothers. It was a routine to spend Friday nights with a movie and Damian’s family. Bruce typically sat in his armchair, with all four of his sons on the couch pressed next to it. Tim started spending the movie nights on the ground. He usually rolled around throught the movie, almost never finding a comfortable seat. You usually ended up between Dick and Damian. Dick held the popcorn so you were fine with it. 

“Habibi, I would appreciate a drink from the kitchen.” Damian called to you as he dug through the large pile of DVDs with Jason. Dick had flung himself across the couch, his arms resting along the back. You groaned, titling your head back in irritation. 

“Please.” Damian added as a second thought. You nodded, moving to stand. 

“Habibi?” Dick repeated, his brows furrowing. You hummed. 

“It’s a nickname.” You explained. Jason glanced up, looking between you and Damian. 

“Cute.” He mumbled, still burying his hands in the DVDs. 

“It means pain in the ass, so not as cute.” You revealed. Dick paused, tilting his head to the side. You stood from the couch, making your way out of the movie room. 

“I thought habib meant-” Dick started. 

“Shut up, Grayson. White man telling me what words mean in my own damn language.” Damian grumbled. Dick quickly sat up, pointing an accusatory finger at Damian. 

“Hey! We already had a conversation about me being Romani!” Dick barked. Damian kept his eyes on the movies as he scoffed. 

“Whatever, Richard.” Damian mocked. You minded your own business as you left for the kitchen. 

When you finally returned with a soda, Dick and Damian were still arguing. You stepped between the two of them, holding out his glass to him. Damian gently took it from your hands. He caught onto your fingers with his free hand. He tilted his head down, pressing a soft kiss to your hand. You patted his shoulder before you settled back onto the sofa next to Dick. 

“Jason, come on, back me up here.” Dick groaned. Jason shook his head. 

“I’m not crossing Damian. I have Saturday plans.” Jason mumbled. Damian nodded in approval. Dick’s mood shifted quickly, leaning forward onto his knees in interest. 

“Yeah? With who?” Dick asked. You raised a brow in question, just as intrigued. Jason grinned evily, looking up at Dick from the floor. 

“Your mom.” Jason joked. Dick groaned, fowning at him. 

“That shit’s not funny, Jason. My mom is dead and you know that’s a sensitive topic for me.” Dick grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. Jason scoffed. 

“I don’t think anyone’s parents aren’t a sore subject here.” Jason muttered. The whole house has daddy issues. Damian looked up, finally lifting his head from the pile of DVD’s. 

“Not me. My mother loves me.” Damian pointed out. Jason glared at him. 

“I love everyone here.” Bruce’s deep voice boomed behind you. You jumped, turning on the couch to see Bruce and Tim carrying multiple bowls of popcorn. 

Damian was incredibly grateful that you left the window to your apartment open. Though in the morning he was likely to scold you for it. He pulled at the mask off his face, dropping it onto the table. He stepped forward, pulling at the cape attached to his suit. He kept moving across the apartment to your bedroom as he pulled at his costume. He gently set his sword on your couch, before yanking his boots off. Damian sighed as he finally shed down to his underwear. He stepped past the open door of your bedroom, glancing back at the trail of his clothes he was leaving behind. 

You were wrapped in your blankets, your cheek pressed into your pillow. You left a space for him on the other side of the bed. Damian grinned, quickly joining you under the covers. You sucked in a deep breath, turning around in the blankets. Damian dug through the blankets as he searched for your body. He wrapped his arm around your torso. 

“I did not mean to wake you.” Damian whispered. You opened your eyes, shaking your head. 

“I wasn’t asleep.” You replied, sitting up on your elbow to stare down at him. Damian sighed as he traced your features. He hoped he had the time and memory to sketch this out later. You raised your hand, rubbing your thumb over his cheek. Damian closed his eyes. He tried to memorized the path of it. He felt his muscles finally relax through his entire body. He hadn’t realized how uptight he’d been all night until right now. 

“Damian.” You whispered. Your tone was too sad, like just saying his name was a confession of a horrific crime. He opened his eyes. He waited patiently as you stared at him. Your mouth parted before you gently closed it again. Damian wished he could read your mind, that would make it extremely easier for you. You wouldn’t have to worry about the words getting caught in your mouth. 

“I love you.” You breathed. Damian felt his stomach drop in fear. He could barely cough the words out to Dick. He couldn’t even start with his other brothers. Heaven forbid he wanted to tell Bruce. It was almost like his mouth was broken. He knew he felt love. He knew he loved and was loved. But saying it, felt like he was signing someone’s death wish. Like every moment after he says it had him waiting for the other shoe to drop. He felt his eyes fog over as he thought of all the ways you could be taken and abused by the plethora of villains waiting in the darkness of Gotham. You nodded. You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his. Your kiss was gentle, only meant as a way to soothe him. A quiet promise that you didn’t mind. 

“Don’t say anything. I just wanted you to know.” You smiled softly as you stared at him. Your thumb rubbing against his cheek to pull him back to the present. Damian closed his mouth, pressing his lips into a line. He pulled his head from his pillow, returning your kiss. You hummed in approval. You pulled from him, laying back down. Just as you settled against his chest, he felt his words return to him. 

“Habibi means ‘my love’.” He confessed, staring at the ceiling. You froze, your eyes shooting open. For months now you thought you were being called a pain in the ass. The whole time you were his love? Every time you grumbled about the nickname being mean he was grinning at you like that because of this. You didn’t think twice about it. 

“Oh.” You muttered. You should say something extravagant and ask why a million times. But you didn’t really care. You were his love. His one and only for months. He was telling you every day multiple times over how much he loved you and you had no idea. You whined. You sat up, grinning down at him. 

“Oo you love me.” You sang, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. You poked his chest. Damian’s face split into a massive grin. He groaned in fake annoyance. He turned his face away from you, pretending you were irritating him so bad he couldn’t stand to look at you. You knew he was embarrassed and pretending. His hand found the back of your head, pushing you back onto his chest. 

“Rest now.” Damian grumbled. You chuckled as you settled against him, squeezing him closer. Damian pressed his nose to your hair, his hand running over your arm. 

“Uhibbuk.” He whispered into the smell of your shampoo. You grinned into his chest. 

“What does that mean?” You asked. You knew. 

“Pain in the ass.” Damian answered. He knew you knew. 

“Or, wǒ fēicháng àinǐ. Pain in the ass in Mandarin.” Damian added. You felt your cheeks starting to burn with the wattage you were smiling. 

“Again.” You demanded. Damian huffed. 

“Ana maghrim bik jiddan lidarajat annani la astati' altafkir fi ay shay' akhar” He slowly dragged through his words, making sure you heard every syllable. You felt like the ocean was trying to tell you something, but you couldn’t hear the whispers over the crashing of the waves. 

“That’s not what you said before.” You pointed out. Damian hummed in agreement. 

“It means, you are the biggest pain in my ass. No one can compare-” His voice fell. Damian sucked in a breath, pressing his cheek to the top of your head. 

“No one else compares to how much you irritate me.” He sighed lovingly. You cooed, pressing your nose into his skin. 

“You’re being very sweet.” You mumbled. Damian huffed out a chuckle. 

“Yes, I am horrendously sweet.” Damian snarked. You sighed against him, happier than ever. And in the morning when he called you Habibi you grinned wider than he ever saw you. He decided that look eclipsed your glare.

“Take off your shirt.”

“What? No.”

“Jay—”

“Quit it,” he grumbled, gently taking your arm to keep you from grabbing at the tight fabric. And yet, he didn’t even realize he started stroking his thumb over your wrist.

“I’m fine. I don’t need you worrying about me.”

“I want to,” you decided, not loudly, just sure.

“It’s not a burden,” you continued, “It’s not an obligation to me. It’s just— I care. And I want to know you’re okay.”

He shifted a bit, leaning his weight more on his left hip, his shoulder resting against the doorframe.

Tilting his head like he was considering it, he decided to be stubborn a little longer.

“That’s sweet. I don’t need it though. You’d just be wasting your time.”

It wasn’t a mean statement. He didn’t say it like he was trying to shut you out, this time. Not like before, when you’d first gotten together and he couldn’t quite let himself open up.

This time, he was just saying it in hopes of not putting you out. As if anything about taking care of him ever put you out.

“I’m hardly even hurt, that’s what the padding is for.”

“Not the point,” you huffed, making him raise a brow at you.

Of course he was amused. Damn him.

“Getting to look at you is never a waste of time. Seriously though, how many times did you ask me yesterday if I’d eaten?”

You paused, but when he went to open his mouth, you held up your free hand to stop him. He was still holding your other wrist, thumb absentmindedly smoothing over the meat of your palm.

“How many times did you lean into my cheek so you could check my heartbeat? How many times did you fill up my water bottle for me when I wasn’t looking? How many times did you palm my hip, just so you could make sure yourself that it wasn’t aching; ignoring when I told you I felt fine,” you continued.

He seemed to realize you didn’t expect him to actually answer. And it didn’t seem like he was going to, if the pink tinge at the tips of his ears was any indication.

He wasn’t embarrassed. He’d never be embarrassed about worrying over you, it was practically his job. Having you say it out loud made him feel warm, though.

“I want to show you I care, the same way you do for me.”

You could watch his chest expand a bit before he let it out slowly through his nose.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Jason acquiesced.

Letting go of your hand, he sat himself at the table in the ‘dining area’ of the apartment. He tugged the compression shirt he was wearing to get the hem out of the waistband of his cargo pants, pulling it over his head.

You were on top of him soon after, settling in his lap and looking him over. And while he was so incredibly pleasing to touch and look at, it would have to wait.

He was bruised, yes. Very normal, unfortunately. However, the main concern was one gash along the curve of his rib under his pectoral muscle. Shallow enough not to be life threatening, but deep enough for a stitch or two. A practice you had clumsily learned in case this moment ever came.

Sitting up in his lap and leaning over the table, his hands found your waist to keep you steady. Instinctive. Protective. Unendingly endearing.

His eyes followed what you were reaching for, hands tightening on your waist, easily holding you up when your knee slipped from the chair beside his thigh.

“Easy, love bug,” he huffed.

Grabbing the medical kit from the other end of the table, you settled back into his lap.

He hummed, letting you sift through the materials inside. No, ‘what are you doing,’ or, ‘do you even know how to do this.’ Just confidence. Trust, that you wouldn’t attempt something like this without any knowledge. And even if you did… he loved you far too much to be too concerned.

So you continued.

Taking a curved needle from the kit, the nylon suturing material, needle driver, rat tooth forceps, and slipping on a pair of gloves, you got started. Threading the needle before holding it with the needle driver, you didn’t puncture him yet.

Instead, you took the rat tooth forceps, pinching the topside of the incision, closer to the end where the first stitch would go.

“Fucking christ—” he grunted, but he was still. “You’re fine, don’t stop. Ignore me.”

“I’m sorry,” you promised, focusing to get it done faster.

“I told you to ignore me, babe. Don’t apologize… you’re just doing what you need to.”

He squeezed his palms against your waist where they’d stayed after he’d steadied you.

You pierced the needle through the skin above the laceration, then moved the forceps to the skin along the bottom, using the needle driver to push the needle through before pulling it to gently make two knots. So it was sturdy.

“Two more.”

“You’re doing great. Really good,” he said, eyes a little heavy as he traced one of his palms up and down your waist.

Repeating the process was far easier for the second stitch, making another knot. And the third was done before he knew it.

With a sigh and a slight slump, he rested his chin over your shoulder.

“Good job, baby…” he hummed, drawn out through a breath as he wrapped his arms around you and squeezed.

“You’re welcome…” you chirped softly, setting the tools aside and pulling off the gloves. Your fingers threaded into his hair, making him grumble with something like content.

Jason’s hands tugged at your clothes, his palms sliding under the fabric. His warm, calloused palms smoothed along your back, your spine, your ribs. He still seemed pretty tired from patrol, soft hums leaving him with every deep breath out.

Eventually, he tucked his nose against you, idly chewing on the front of your trapezius muscle. Not hard. Barely enough to even leave a mark. Just enough that you felt the pressure.

And then he was pressing kisses all along your neck and jaw like he couldn’t stop himself before pulling away.

“When’d you learn to do that?” He finally asked.

“Thought I should learn in case it wasn’t just bruises you ever came home with,” you answered.

Saying it out loud was a bit more embarrassing than it should’ve been, but who gave a shit! It’s not a crime to take care of your boyfriend, goddamn it.

He was quiet for a moment, eventually leaning back to look at you. He looked tired. But comfortable.

“Every day. Every day you make me even more certain I don’t deserve you.”

Your immediate reaction to frown and pinch his nose was something you couldn’t help.

“Don’t say that. You deserve someone who cares just as much as you care. Because by god, there are some things you do for me that I never thought someone would even notice. I’m just returning the favor.”

He snorted, gently swatting your hand away from his face before smiling.

“Just… being your boyfriend. You have really low standards, apparently,” he teased.

“Not true,” you argued.

“I’d say I have decent standards. You’re just a lover boy who goes above and beyond for me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you, sweetheart…”

“I love you, too. You reckless bastard,” you grinned, kissing his cheek and earning a pinch in response.

But your body had other plans.

You didn’t even remember falling. One moment you were standing, checking your gear, your fingertips trembling from fatigue, and the next—

Blackness.

A quiet thump. The faint scuffle of feet on earth.

Then a voice, fraying at the edges with fear: “Wait—wait! No, no, no—gods, please—!”

You came to slowly, like rising through molasses, every sound muffled by a distant ringing. The smell of lavender and parchment hit your senses before anything else—then warmth. Gale. He was crouched beside you, cradling your head with trembling fingers, his brow furrowed with frantic concentration.

His face was pale beneath the firelight, lips pressed in a tight line, panic storming behind his eyes like thunderclouds.

“There you are,” he breathed, voice rough, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until you stirred. “You—by Mystra’s grace, you scared the life out of me.”

You tried to sit up. “I’m fine—”

“No, you are not,” Gale snapped. The edge in his voice shocked you—it was so rare, so unlike his usual soft-spoken warmth. But it cracked with strain, with the sharp weight of helplessness. “You collapsed. Not tripped. Not stumbled. Collapsed. You’ve been running yourself ragged, and you think I wouldn’t notice?”

You blinked at him, throat dry. “I just—there was a lot to do. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to?” he echoed, his eyes going wide, almost wounded. “That somehow makes it better?”

His hands trembled as he brushed dirt from your cheek, then stilled when he cupped your jaw gently. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You don’t have to carry it all.”

You looked away, ashamed—because you had been trying to carry it all. Because you didn’t want to be a burden. Because you thought if you didn’t slow down, maybe everything else wouldn’t catch up.

But Gale wasn’t done.

“You think I wouldn’t burn the very weave itself if it meant keeping you safe?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft again, but still fierce. “You think your worth is measured by how much pain you can ignore?”

Your lip trembled, just a little. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh, eyes glistening. “Then you’ve failed spectacularly.”

You smiled despite yourself, and Gale immediately folded forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just let me help. You don’t have to prove your strength by hiding your exhaustion. Not from me.”

He helped you sit up, guiding you gently like you were made of glass—his hands constantly checking for bruises or signs of injury, his eyes flicking across your face like he might lose you again if he looked away too long.

“I’ll rest,” you murmured finally.

“You’ll rest now,” Gale corrected, brushing your hair back. “And you’ll let me stay, even if all I can do is hold you while you sleep. Agreed?”

“…Agreed.”

And so he settled in beside you, holding you close beneath the stars, heart still racing, fingers still trembling—but never letting go.

Astarion:

The campfire crackled gently in the distance, its glow barely brushing the edges of the clearing as the evening slipped into deeper shades of indigo. The world beyond was all hush and shadow, quieted by the oppressive weight of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Everyone had started winding down, preparing for rest. Everyone except you.

You had been pacing—relentlessly. Repacking your gear. Polishing a blade you’d already sharpened twice. Pretending that the tremble in your limbs wasn’t there. That the weight behind your eyes didn’t burn. That you hadn’t been pushing yourself beyond the brink for days.

And then, quite simply—your body gave out.

Your knees folded. The world tilted. And the last thing you heard was a very undignified shout:

“Oh for—you dramatic idiot!”

You woke with a sharp inhale, but the moment you stirred, cold hands were already gripping your shoulders, a familiar voice hissing through clenched teeth:

“Don’t you dare try to sit up.”

Astarion loomed over you, silver hair in slight disarray, cravat askew, red eyes wild with something that looked like fury—but was far too sharp-edged to be anger alone. He was kneeling at your side, holding you like you were made of glass and pure trouble at once.

“You absolute menace,” he growled, inspecting you as if he might hex your exhaustion into submission. “I knew you were overdoing it. I told you. And what do you do? You drop like a sack of poorly stitched laundry!”

You blinked slowly, confused. “Astarion—”

“And not gracefully, mind you,” he continued, indignant. “You just crumpled. I had to catch you like some harlequin in a second-rate opera. I nearly broke a nail.”

Despite the scolding, his hands were maddeningly gentle, checking your pulse, brushing back damp hair from your forehead. He was so close you could smell the faint hint of bergamot and aged leather. You could feel the tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into your sleeve as if grounding himself.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice hoarse.

He froze.

And then something shifted.

Astarion’s eyes softened—not much, but enough to crack the veneer of aristocratic outrage. He sighed, exasperated and... undeniably worried.

“Gods, darling, what were you thinking?” he said, this time quieter. “You looked like death warmed over hours ago. Why didn’t you say something? Or sit? Or, Mystra forbid, actually rest?”

You tried to offer a weak smile. “Didn’t want to trouble anyone.”

His face twisted like you’d just said the most offensive thing imaginable.

“Trouble—? Oh, how dare you,” he snapped, but now it sounded almost... wounded. “You think I waste my charms on just anyone? You think I go around catching unconscious fools for fun? You are my trouble, you idiot.”

He pulled you upright against his chest with surprising tenderness, wrapping his arms around you as he shifted you into his lap, cradling you like something precious and exasperating all at once. You could feel the way his thumb traced circles along your spine, even as he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll—well, I’ll write a very strongly worded sonnet about your irresponsibility.”

You laughed softly against his shoulder. “A poem? That’s my punishment?”

“I am an artist of many talents, thank you very much,” he said primly. “But don’t tempt me. I’ll make it rhymed and awful.”

You looked up at him through tired eyes, heart aching with affection. “You were worried about me.”

“Oh, perish the thought,” he sniffed dramatically. “I was worried about me. What would I do if my favorite pillow went and died from pure stubbornness?”

And yet he pulled the blanket tighter around you. And his hand never left yours. And he didn’t stop holding you—not for the rest of the night.

Furious, indeed.

Wyll:

The world drifted back in slow fragments—light, sound, breath. You stirred, faintly aware of something heavy draped across you, of warmth pressed along your side, of a steady rhythm pulsing through fabric and skin: a heartbeat, far too quick to be your own.

“Wyll?” your voice came out as a rasp, thick and uncertain.

He did not move.

Your eyes blinked open to find him kneeling at your side, bent low, his forehead resting just over your heart like he was listening for something—proof you were still there, still beating beneath his hands. His fingers gripped your shirt, knuckles white, the rest of him utterly still save for the occasional tremble that betrayed just how close he was to coming undone.

“…You’re awake,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like speaking louder might break whatever fragile reality he’d constructed around himself while you were unconscious.

“I’m fine,” you croaked, trying to push yourself up.

Instantly, Wyll surged upward, pressing a firm hand to your shoulder and another to your hip, holding you flat against the bedroll with all the strength of someone who had just seen the person they love go limp and collapse in front of them. His dark eyes were wide, frantic, and furious—not at you, but at the helplessness clawing at him from the inside.

“Don’t you dare try to move,” he growled. “Not after that stunt.”

“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, wriggling against his grip. “I just overdid it a little—”

“You collapsed,” he snapped. “Like a marionette with its strings cut. One minute you were walking, talking, and the next—” He choked, fingers tightening for a split second. “You hit the ground and I—I thought you were dead.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss him again, to soothe, but Wyll leaned in, his voice low and sharp like flint striking steel.

“You don’t get to tell me this is nothing,” he hissed. “Because if you keep running yourself into the ground like this, someday it won’t just be a collapse. It’ll be you not waking up. And I—” He shook his head, his expression crumpling. “I can’t go through that.”

“Wyll—”

“I need you to understand what it does to me,” he interrupted, suddenly, dangerously close. “To see you fall and not know if I’ll ever hear your voice again. So if I seem dramatic, if I seem over-the-top, it’s because I’m trying to teach you something.”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls. His tail flicked with restless tension behind him.

“Because when the real thing happens—when I do lose you—I’ll be ruined. You are the flame I measure all warmth by. And if that flame ever goes out…”

He swallowed hard. “Then I’m nothing but ash.”

Your heart twisted at the way his voice faltered, how the last word was barely more than a breath.

You tried to sit up again, to offer some comfort—but he lunged, practically threw himself down, sprawling across your torso like an overgrown, armored cat with an overdeveloped sense of righteous vengeance.

“You are resting.” His voice was muffled against your chest, but the weight of his body was firm, final, and very much unmoving.

You blinked. “…Are you pinning me down?”

“Yes.”

“You weigh a thousand pounds.”

“I will increase it if I have to.”

You sighed, flopping back with a groan of surrender. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being reckless,” he retorted, not budging. “So now we’re even.”

There was a long silence. Then a quiet chuckle slipped out of you, reluctant but real. You carded your fingers through his hair, letting the tension bleed from your limbs.

“Fine. I’ll rest.”

Wyll tilted his head just enough to press a kiss to your sternum, his voice a low murmur. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Halsin:

The moment your eyes cracked open, you knew you were in trouble.

The air inside Halsin’s tent was thick with the scent of dried herbs and pine resin, heavy with the warmth of the furs layered beneath you. It was dim—his tent flap drawn shut—but soft light filtered in, revealing the familiar shape of his travel gear stacked in its usual meticulous order. The cot creaked softly beneath you as you shifted, muscles aching, limbs leaden. There was a wet cloth resting on your brow, cool and fragrant with some kind of forest mint.

You had absolutely, unequivocally passed out from exhaustion.

And Halsin had clearly been the one to find you.

A groan built low in your throat, and with it came your brilliant idea: sneak out. Maybe—just maybe—you could slink off before he returned. You didn’t relish the idea of a lecture from a near seven-foot-tall druid whose entire body seemed to be carved from oak and thunderclouds.

You swung your legs over the cot, wincing as the rush of dizziness hit you. But you were determined. Quiet. Graceful. Almost at the—

“Where,” came a low, thunderous voice from behind, “do you think you’re going?”

You froze mid-step. Slowly, guiltily, you turned.

And there he was—Halsin—massive, bare-chested, his thick arms crossed over his chest, golden eyes narrowed and jaw clenched with a sternness that belonged more to a storm than a man.

“Ah,” you said. “I was just—stretching.”

Before you could retreat or formulate another weak excuse, he closed the space between you with startling speed, scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all, and slung you over his shoulder.

“Halsin!” you protested, smacking at his back as he turned and carried you—without effort, without ceremony—right back to bed. “Put me down!”

“You’re lucky I’m not tying you to the cot,” he rumbled, voice edged with exasperated affection. “You collapsed in the middle of the clearing. In front of everyone. I had to carry you back here—twice, apparently.”

He set you down with far more care than his grumbling suggested, adjusting the furs around you, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they brushed a damp curl from your temple. Then, without another word, he reached behind him and produced a small bundle of cloth.

He opened it to reveal a collection of deep red and violet berries nestled in soft moss. “I foraged these. You need to eat.”

You blinked. “Halsin, I—”

“Eat,” he said simply, with that patient, immovable tone he used when dealing with stubborn animals and, apparently, stubborn lovers.

You gave him a sheepish look, but obeyed, popping a few of the berries into your mouth. They were sweet, tart, and immediately grounding. Halsin watched you the entire time, gaze softening only after he saw you swallow a second mouthful.

Once satisfied, he slid in beside you, the cot creaking in protest beneath his weight. You barely had time to blink before his arms wrapped around you, strong and encompassing, pulling you into the heat of his chest. One leg tangled with yours as he pulled the furs up around both of you.

“You frightened me,” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear, breath warm against your hair. “I have seen wounds. Disease. Poison. But watching you crumble from something so preventable? It... it undid me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice already thick and slipping into sleep again. “Didn’t mean to—”

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “No apologies. Just rest.”

You tried to protest, but your words slurred, consciousness unraveling like smoke. You barely registered his arms tightening around you protectively, his deep voice rumbling softly as he murmured something soothing in Druidic, something meant to lull, to calm.

“I’ll watch over you,” he promised into your hair. “You are safe now. Just sleep.”

And this time, you listened.

IM BACK WITH THE BOYS ugh I love it, also I'm on a dark bg3 brain rot so that will be the next post. Hope you guys enjoyed this and thank you all for your contiued support!- Seluney xox

⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓑RUCE 𝓦AYNE ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ

bruce never planned to date someone so sensitive. he genuinely thought he’d end up with someone stoic, emotionally airtight, someone who never flinched at anything, mostly because he didn’t want to deal with feelings he didn’t understand. of course the universe gave him you. the universe looked at him, said “you need softness,” and then handed him the softest person alive.

he never gets annoyed that you cry. he gets annoyed at the world for making you cry. he blames external factors even when it’s something internal. the weather, the people around you, the noise level, some text message, the lighting — he will find a culprit and mentally file them under “needs surveillance.”

he DOES get frustrated with himself when he can’t immediately fix it. he hates feeling helpless, and nothing makes him feel more helpless than your voice wobbling while you say “i’m fine” when you’re very clearly not.

at first, he’s stiff about comforting you. he’ll stand there, jaw clenched, hands uselessly half-raised as if he’s trying to remember the steps of human caregiving. emotional comfort is the one thing he has no muscle memory for. and you can see the internal dialogue like: touch shoulder? no. too strong. do i hand them a tissue? what if that’s insulting. oh god are they crying harder? what do i do—

if someone else caused it? bruce turns into a cold front. he doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t make a scene. he just stares at the person with that unreadable billionaire expression — the one that makes full-grown adults forget their own names — until they’re apologizing just to get him to look away.

you cry a lot during arguments, which scares him more than he’ll admit. he’s terrified he might push too hard without realizing. bruce was raised around intensity, not gentleness. he doesn’t want to become something you fear.

when you cry in the manor, the entire FAMILY reacts like it’s a fire drill. alfred appears with tissues and water. dick asks softly if you want fresh air. tim freezes like someone unplugged him. damian mutters that emotional instability is inefficient but still awkwardly puts a blanket near you. bruce hates that this embarrasses you. he’ll wave everyone away: “i’ve got them.”

very big on privacy when you cry. he doesn’t want you to feel watched, scrutinized, or pitied. he’ll take your hand and gently lead you to your room, his study, or the quiet balcony.

if someone makes fun of you for crying bruce blacklists them from every social circle he has influence over (which is pretty much.. all of them). instantly. they will never receive another gala invitation, another business partnership, another “wayne foundation” handshake.

at first he thinks your sensitivity is something he needs to fix, like a problem that has a solution he hasn’t found yet. eventually he realizes it’s just the way you are, and once he accepts that, he shifts from “how do i stop this” to “how do i protect them while they feel this.”

you cry for reasons bruce never anticipates, like a sad commercial, or a compliment you weren’t expecting, or because you dropped something in the kitchen and it made a loud noise that startled you. and every time, bruce has this internal moment of sheer panic like he’s reviewing a crime scene in real time. what caused this? where is the threat?

he hovers. constantly. he insists he’s “just standing nearby,” but he’s absolutely hovering. he’ll stand behind you silently while you’re shopping, emotionally buffering you from the world. he’ll sit next to you at social events, shoulder angled protectively, scanning everyone like they’re potential threats to your feelings.

his glare is insane. if someone even accidentally speaks too sharply and you flinch slightly, bruce’s head snaps toward them with that “i know seventeen ways to ruin your life and i’m considering all of them” expression. the person always apologizes instantly, even if they don’t know why.

bruce doesn’t do long comforting speeches. he does solutions. immediate, often unnecessary solutions. you start crying because you can’t find something you misplaced, bruce: “i’ll order five replacements.” you insist, “no— it’s fine, i just need a second—” but bruce is already on it. “express shipping. it’ll be here tonight.”

honestly, he over solves. he’ll buy you things you didn’t even hint at wanting. he’ll send flowers just because you looked tired that morning. he’ll see you frown at a cracked mug and the next day you have an entire set of handcrafted ceramic ones from an artisan in italy.

alfred has tried to talk to him about restraint. it didn’t work.

when you cry into his chest, gripping his shirt, he holds you tighter, closes his eyes for a second, and thinks — if this is what it takes to keep them close, i’ll learn how to handle every tear.

⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓑ARBARA 𝓖ORDON ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀

hyper-observant by nature; she picks up patterns quick. the first time she sees your eyes go shiny over something small, a misunderstanding, a tone shift, a stray comment, she doesn’t judge it. she just files it away like it’s data. okay. they feel things fast.

barbara is not scared of emotion, but she doesn’t dramatize it either. she grew up in a house with a cop father and a lifetime of secrets; she learned to talk through problems cleanly. so when you cry easily, she doesn’t panic like bruce, she just shifts. she adapts.

she moves toward you without making you feel exposed. she’ll step into your space at an angle so you’re not forced to look at her until you’re ready. she’ll lower her voice automatically. she’ll sit down next to you instead of across from you, because side-by-side feels less overwhelming when you’re emotional.

barbara’s comfort style is practical + grounding. she won’t say “don’t cry” or “it’s fine.” instead she goes, “hey, pause. breathe. what happened?” the kind of calm that makes your tears slow on their own, because she gives you structure when your emotions are spiraling.

but she’s not gentle in a coddling way. she’s gentle in a steady way. you could be full-on shaking and her voice wouldn’t waver. it’s one of the reasons you feel safe crying around her, she doesn’t make you feel like a problem or a burden. she just takes it in, processes it, and helps you sort through it.

if someone upsets you, even unintentionally, barbara clocks it immediately. she doesn’t explode, she doesn’t glare death beams across the room, she uses strategy. she’ll guide the conversation away from you, redirecting attention, moving you subtly behind her. she’s so good at social manipulation when it’s to protect someone.

afterwards when she gets you alone —- “okay. be honest, was that too much for you?” she always asks instead of assuming. she respects your emotional boundaries more than you do.

keeps tissues everywhere. in her bag, by the couch, inside her wheelchair pouch, in the glove compartment. she never points it out, she just hands you one casually like it’s no big deal.

never tells you you’re “too sensitive.” ever. she knows what it’s like to have emotional responses people misunderstand. she knows what it’s like to have a body that doesn’t cooperate with you, a past you can’t erase, a reaction you can’t fully control. she gets it.

gets protective when you apologize for crying. “stop apologizing for having emotions. i don’t date robots.”

comfortingly blunt. if you’re crying because you think you “messed up,” she’ll tell you clearly: “no. that wasn’t your fault. here’s why.” and she’ll break it down analytically until you actually believe her.

teaches you emotional self-defense. “when someone says something rude, don’t rush to apologize.”

“it’s okay to take your time before responding.”

“you’re allowed to remove yourself from conversations that hurt you.”

she’s the rare person who can teach you boundaries without shaming you for not having them. she loves that you feel deeply. she loves that you’re open in ways she had to train herself to be.

knows grounding techniques better than anyone. she’s been through panic, trauma, recovery — she knows the blueprint.

starts keeping water bottles everywhere too, because you dehydrate fast when crying, and the one time you cracked in the middle of a crowded event and she didn’t have any water on hand, she felt like an unprepared idiot for the first time in ten years. now? she’s armed to the teeth.

always asks before touching you. “can i hold you?” “do you want my hand?” “need space?”

she brags about you to the batfamily. not about your crying, but about your softness. “they’re emotionally intelligent,” she’ll snap if someone jokes. “something this family is severely lacking.”

⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓒ASSANDRA 𝓒AIN ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀

the first time you cry in front of her, cass freezes. your body language shifts too fast and too intensely for her to categorize. your breath stutters, your throat tightens, your shoulders pull inward, and her eyes widen like she’s watching someone get wounded right in front of her.

she panics. her hands flex at her sides like she’s preparing to catch you if you collapse. she keeps circling you with her gaze, reading every twitch, every tremble, trying to map it to something she understands. pain? fear? injury? why shaking?

respects boundaries instinctively. instead of touching she crouches to your eye level, head tilted in that bird-like way she has, trying to figure out how to help. she studies your face like it’s a code she needs to crack.

after that first time, she becomes hyper-attentive. she can read your emotions before you consciously register them. the micro-flinch in your jaw? the way your shoulders tighten half an inch? the change in how you breathe through your nose? she knows. she’s already sliding closer.

cass sits near you when you cry. not touching, just sitting. she’ll fold herself down beside you, knees pulled up, hands loose in her lap, waiting. she doesn’t force conversation. she doesn’t push. she just stays.

glares at anyone who tries to approach you. not a standard glare, a full, silent threat. people stop mid-step. even the bravest shut their mouths and back off. the batfam learned quickly that crying + you + cass = nobody else intervenes.

becomes your shadow during emotional moments. if something upset you at a party or event, she materializes behind you like a ghost. protective, alert, assessing everyone who looks your direction, especially the ones who linger.

uses distraction as comfort without fully realizing she’s doing it. she’ll hand you something random: a leaf she found interesting, a pen, your phone, her glove, her snack. she doesn’t explain, she just presses it into your hand and hopes it helps.

studies how others comfort each other. she watches movies, observes strangers, reads articles, trying to understand what people do when someone cries. she won’t copy everything, but she’ll pick up little things: handing you a warm drink, covering you with a blanket, brushing your hair behind your ear with careful fingers.

physically guides you away from stressful spaces. she’ll open a door, gently tug your sleeve, nudge your elbow with the back of her hand. subtle cues.

her protectiveness skyrockets. she becomes suspicious of anyone who makes you nervous. she watches your interactions like a hawk. the moment she sees a scent of discomfort on you, she’s stepping between you and the source.

drops whatever she was doing. sparring? gone. reading? closed. mid-conversation with dick? she just walks away. she doesn’t announce it, she doesn’t explain, she just senses you’re about to break and goes to you because nothing else outranks that.

half the time she doesn’t even acknowledge you’re crying. not in a dismissive way, it’s more that she’s not afraid of it. she doesn’t treat it as a crisis. she doesn’t treat you as fragile. she treats it like breathing, like changing weather. something that just…happens.

her version of comfort is presence. she’ll sit next to you, legs tucked under her or stretched out, leaning just close enough that you feel the warmth of her shoulder. she doesn’t ask what’s wrong. she doesn’t ask if you need anything. she just exists beside you.

if someone ignores her glare and tries to comfort you, cass just…looks at them. that unreadable stare that makes people rethink every decision they’ve ever made. they always back away.

when you’re overwhelmed, she becomes immovable. a wall at your back. a barrier between you and the world. she won’t say “i’ll protect you,” but her body language does, loudly.

when you’re finally done — when the tears dry — cass gives you one slow nod. approval. understanding. acceptance. like she’s saying, without words: i knew you’d get through it. i was always going to stay.

⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓓AMIAN 𝓦AYNE ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀

absolutely does not understand why you cry so easily. like logically, emotionally, biologically — none of it clicks for him. someone raises their voice a little? tears. someone gives you attitude? tears. you drop something? tears. he just stares like you’ve malfunctioned.

the first few times he genuinely thinks you’re injured. like bleeding. dying. something serious. he rushes over ready to carry you to the medbay and you’re like “i’m just overwhelmed” and he stops moving entirely, staring at you with the most blank, unimpressed expression known to man.

“you are crying because… you had a long day?”

he genuinely cannot compute. his brain just bluescreens.

damian’s default reaction is frustration disguised as logic. “just stop crying.”

“there is no reason for this reaction.”

“this is not an efficient use of your energy.”

he thinks he’s helping. he is not helping.

but the moment someone else makes you cry? oh. whole different damian. suddenly he is militant, homicidal, ready to end bloodlines. he goes still and dangerous, the version of him that scares fully grown assassins.

he will escort you out of the room without a word, hand at your waist or between your shoulder blades, firmly guiding you away from whoever caused the tears.

then he circles back to handle the offender with… diplomacy (legally speaking). which is code for: he insults them in five languages and destroys their self-esteem with terrifying precision.

he tries to comfort you in ways that make sense to him. which results in things like bringing you a blanket and placing it over you like he’s covering a birdcage, putting your favorite snack on the table and then walking away because he thinks you need space, silently sitting beside you like a guard dog, and brushing his thumb under your eye with this irritated tenderness like “stop leaking.”

hates seeing you cry, but also gets weirdly protective-smug about the fact that you always come to him when you’re overwhelmed. he won’t show it, but he definitely feels it. they trust me. of course. :heh:

when you cry in public, he steps in front of you. full-body shield. nobody gets to look at you, nobody gets to witness you vulnerable. he’ll guide you somewhere quiet with his hand at your lower back.

when you’re overwhelmed and crying from stress, he’ll bring you your comfort items with the stiffest, most awkward gentleness. “drink this.” / “sit here.” / “breathe.”

he becomes very command-oriented, but softer in tone.

sometimes he gets frustrated and snaps a little, then immediately quiet, like he regrets it but can’t say so.

damian thinks your sensitivity is a flaw, yes, but it’s yours, so he defends it with a ferocity that scares people. “they are emotional,” he’ll say, deadpan. “it is none of your concern.” and then he’ll step threateningly closer.

damian cannot soften his tone. impossible. the problem is not even that he’s angry. it’s that his voice was designed in a lab to sound disappointed at all times. he could be asking what you want for dinner and it still sounds like he’s interrogating you.

“chicken or rice?”

“why are you yelling at me?”

“…i wasn’t.”

you start tearing up and he just stands there like: not again. dear god…

he hates when you cry during arguments, but not because he feels bad. he literally shuts down. he’ll be talking and the second your voice trembles he feels trapped. “…you’re crying.” said like you’ve personally betrayed him.

he doesn’t immediately feel bad. he immediately feels inconvenienced. now he has to stop arguing (he was winning) and deal with this (he doesn’t know how).

he tries logic first, always. “there is no reason for tears. the situation has not changed.” this does not help. you cry harder. he stares at the ceiling like he wants to ascend.

later — like hours later, after you’ve calmed down — he finally feels guilty in a very stiff way. “i did not intend to upset you.” which is his version of “sorry.

sometimes he snaps out of confusion, not cruelty. “why are you crying? i’m asking a simple question.” and you’re sobbing because his tone is the simple question.

so protective it’s honestly comedic. you cry because someone said something rude? he’s already standing, already pulling on his jacket, already muttering, “point them out.”

absolutely thinks you’re dramatic, but only he gets to think that. if anyone else even implies it, he’s ready to ruin their family tree.

gets frustrated when he’s the reason you cry. not he genuinely doesn’t know how to stop causing it. like he’s thinking: i didn’t even raise my voice this time??? what is happening???

for someone who claims crying is pointless, he spends an awful lot of time making sure you never cry alone.

⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓓ICK 𝓖RAYSON ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀

alarmingly good at handling your tears. like he doesn’t even blink. he sees your eyes start to glass over and he’s already shifting into that soft-voiced, slow-moving caretaker mode that he uses on terrified civilians and small animals.

dick is very firmly anti–shutting-down-emotions.“its okay! you’re allowed to feel that.” in this painfully gentle tone that makes you cry harder because god why is he so nice.

tries to make you laugh or giggle instead. he knows you respond to distraction.

world-class hugger. you get pulled into his chest and wrapped up like you’re being handled by the coziest weighted blanket known to man. he tucks your head under his chin and rubs your back in slow circles like he has all the time in the world.

dick is so patient it’s stupid. you apologize for crying and he’s already shaking his head saying, “you don’t need to apologize to me for being human. i cry too, you know.” no you don’t, dick. you tear up at hallmark commercials, that’s not the same. but it’s endearing.

never makes fun of you for being sensitive. he actually finds it kind of endearing, not in a condescending way, just in the “wow you feel things so deeply and i admire that” way. genuinely thinks it’s a strength.

never rushes you. you’ll be mid-cry, trying to get words out between shaky breaths, and he nods like you’re speaking at a perfectly normal pace.

if you start crying while you’re talking, dick does that thing where he puts a hand behind your head and brings your forehead to his chest like you’re a phone he needs better signal on. no warning, just come here. chest now.

he is not above bribery. you start tearing up and suddenly there’s a bar of your favorite chocolate in his hand like he conjured it out of thin air.

when you cry in the middle of an argument, he shuts down instantly, resetting the situation to safety. he’ll drop whatever point he was trying to make, lower his voice, and go, “hey, we’re okay. i’m not mad. come here.” he holds you first. talks later.

if you cry from physical pain, he goes into overprotective olympics mode. stub your toe and he’s immediately like, “who put that there?” “baby it’s the dresser.” “okay but who designed it?”

has the softest “are you alright?” voice in the world.

the opposite of judgmental. you break down over something small and he’ll still treat it like it matters.

gives genuinely good advice but always softens it with humor so it doesn’t feel like he’s lecturing you. it makes you laugh, but it also makes you think.

he wholeheartedly believes there is nothing wrong with being sensitive. he knows how much strength it takes to feel things openly. he will sit with you through every shaky inhale, nodding along, letting you finish even if you’re stopping every few words.

and if anyone — anyone — tries to make you feel ashamed for crying, dick shuts it down instantly with a moral clarity that feels almost brutal. he’ll step between you and whoever upset you without looking away from them and say, “hey. no. we don’t talk to them like that.” not “i don’t let people talk to my partner like that” — no, he frames it like a universal rule: we don’t talk to people like that. he elevates you, puts you on the side of what’s right, and makes the other person feel like they’ve crossed a line with humanity itself.

never lets you think your crying makes you difficult. he tells you, genuinely, that your emotions help him understand you better. that he’d rather you cry than shut him out. that it takes courage to feel things in a world that teaches people to bury everything.

doesn’t just comfort you, he advocates for you. defends you, normalizes it. he takes your emotions seriously because he takes you seriously, and he’d rather wipe a million tears than let you feel alone in even one of them.

⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓓UKE 𝓣HOMAS ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀

duke is… patient. mostly. he’s the most emotionally literate wayne by a landslide, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to being overwhelmed when you start crying over something he doesn’t understand. he’ll stand there, shoulders tense, blinking at you like he’s mentally flipping through every coping strategy he learned in therapy trying to pick the right one. the first thing he does is ask“what’s wrong?” like it’s the most obvious first step in the world.

but duke also has zero tolerance for people who make you cry on purpose. like, you can practically see him turn into a different person. not angry in the explosive damian sense or cold like bruce, duke gets sharp. his voice drops, his body language closes off, and suddenly the entire room knows you’re not someone to mess with. the type to speak in a measured tone that somehow feels scarier than shouting. “cut it out. you don’t get to talk to someone like that.” it hits harder because he rarely raises his voice, so when he does shut someone down it lands with a finality that makes people rethink their entire personality. afterwards he will not let you apologize for crying.

he’s good at reading you, too. sometimes too good. he has this habit of catching the moment your eyes even think about watering. he’ll slide closer with this look like, seriously? who hurt you already? we just got here. he doesn’t mock you, but he definitely gives you a resigned expression he gets when he knows he’s about to spend the next fifteen minutes talking you through something.

redirects you before you even realize you’re slipping. “hey, let’s get some air,” or “come on, we’re going this way.” he frames it like he wants to leave, or he’s craving one-on-one time, or he finds the room boring. he spares your feelings every chance he gets.

handles your tears with a mix of humor and competence. if you start crying because you dropped something or messed up a small task, he’ll very gently tease you . “baby… c’mon now.” he’s wiping your cheeks while he says it though, so you know he’s not dismissing your feelings.

steady. annoyingly steady. the type who holds the same expression while you’re sobbing into his hoodie, eyes flicking down at you like he’s trying to figure out how you got from “i’m fine” to “my life is over” in the span of thirty seconds. he’ll rub your back, but he also sighs through his nose sometimes, not irritated, just bracing, like okay. i can do this. i love them. i can handle tears. he handles them better than anyone else, even when he’s confused as hell.

also deeply, deeply amused by how often you cry over tiny things. he definitely has this little smile he tries to hide sometimes. like when you start tearing up because your snack broke in half or the zipper on your jacket snagged, he goes: “really? that’s all it took today?”

⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓙ASON 𝓣ODD ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀

… 😵

my gosh

he’s protective and loyal and soft underneath, sure, but the man’s knee-jerk reaction to emotions, especially yours, is irritation. he doesn’t mean to be cruel, he’s just built wrong for tenderness. if you start crying in the middle of an argument his first instinct is to bristle. shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes rolling upward like, you have got to be kidding me. he’s not proud of it, but he’s honest about it.

when jason’s angry, he’s insensitive. he doesn’t do the “lower the volume, be gentle” thing. he does the opposite. he gets blunt, harsh, dismissive in a way that can be genuinely hurtful. “quit being a baby.” “c’mon, really? cry about it later.” “i’m not dealing with this right now.” it slips out before he can stop it.

early on, before you were together, he absolutely made fun of you for being sensitive. that stuck. you carry that insecurity now; whenever your eyes well up, you tense, waiting for him to ridicule you.

post-relationship jason tries, but it’s like fighting muscle memory. he’ll see you cry and there’s this flicker of panic in his expression before the frustration comes back. he doesn’t know how to handle the sound of someone crying without feeling like he’s being accused of something. “i’m not the bad guy here,” is something he says a lot. even when he is.

jason’s comfort style is inconsistent at best. sometimes he’s gentle out of nowhere, other times he’s stiff, awkward, patting your shoulder like he’s dealing with a wounded dying animal. if he’s uncomfortable, he will default to humor that doesn’t land. “hey, at least you look good when you cry.” he thinks he’s being sweet. he is not.

he doesn’t understand crying as a release. to him, crying means something is wrong wrong. danger wrong. life-or-death wrong. so the moment you start crying over something small, a mistake, a miscommunication, dropping something, he gets visibly overwhelmed. “babe, seriously? it’s fine. it’s fine. stop. stop crying, i’ve got it.” he tries to fix the problem with this frantic urgency that only makes you cry harder.

has a double standard the size of gotham when it comes to your tears. if he makes you cry he’s frustrated, irritated, muttering, “jesus christ, i didn’t even yell that much,” like the point is to defend himself. he’ll rub his eyes, sigh hard, look everywhere except at you because eye contact means acknowledging he hurt you. he’s annoyed because he feels guilty, and guilt makes him mean. but if anyone else makes you cry? suddenly the world has ended.

the second someone’s tone shifts toward you, jason is already watching them with this heavy turn of his head like a predator bothered during a meal. “the fuck did you just say?” said like he’s giving them one final chance to re-evaluate their life choices.

you tug his sleeve. you whisper, “jay, it’s okay.” he ignores you. fully ignores you. like he didn’t hear a word. the person stammers something like, “i wasn’t trying to be rude—” and he steps closer, chest out, chin raised. “then why were you?” the atmosphere changes, people go quiet, someone shifts uncomfortably behind you. jason doesn’t care. he’s watching this person like he’s measuring whether they’re worth the jail time.

you practically have to drag him away, fingers curled in the leather of his jacket. he lets himself be moved, but he keeps looking over his shoulder like he’d happily go back and finish the conversation with his fists.

jason won’t magically become good with emotions. he’ll always be a little too rough. but the difference is that now, he tries for you.

⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓢TEPHANIE 𝓑ROWN ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ

steph gets very serious about your feelings in a way people never expect from her because she’s usually the easygoing, snarky, roll-with-it one. the second your eyes start getting shiny her entire vibe shifts from haha goofy girl to mother wolf defending her pup.

she’s sooo protective. the type to glare at anyone who even looks at you funny, whispering, “you good? you need me to trip them? i will. i’ll do it so naturally they’ll apologize to me for falling.”

she loves you so much for being sensitive. she actually tells you this. “gotham needs more people like you. i need more people like you.” then she boops your nose.

when someone mocks you, even lightly, even a joke that wasn’t meant to land wrong, she’s instantly there, stepping in with this incredulous tone like she can’t believe they’d actually say something that stupid out loud. she’s not cruel, and she’s not trying to start a fight, but she has this way of calling people out that feels like being hit with a brick wrapped in bright pink paper. afterward, when the person walks off, she turns to you with that little frown and mutters about how some people genuinely have no empathy.

has this habit, this gift, really, of immediately deciding she’s on your team before she even knows what the game is. the second your face crumples, “okay. who. are. we. upset. at.”

she says “we” like she fully intends to co-own your crisis.

dramatizes your sadness worse than you do. you’re crying because something small spiraled your emotions? she’s clutching her chest like she’s in a soap opera. “they said WHAT to you? jail. let’s jump them.”

you try to explain it wasn’t that serious, it just felt serious, and she waves her hand like she’s batting the concept away.

she always asks after you stop crying, in a much softer voice, “are you okay? do we need to be mad at someone or do we just need ice cream?”

protectiveness that kicks in the second she senses you’re uncomfortable. it’s not subtle—steph’s never been subtle—but it’s effective. she’ll tilt her chin up, stare someone down, and suddenly they’re backing off because stephanie brown has that particular kind of energy that says don’t test me, i’ve had a long week and i will escalate. she genuinely thinks you shouldn’t have to defend yourself when you’re already overwhelmed. she’ll take that hit for you, socially or emotionally, without even thinking about it.

steph’s not great at advice. she knows it, you know it, everyone knows it. half of her “solutions” are impractical or just… not solutions. but she’s an incredible listener. she sits with you and gives you her entire attention, even when she doesn’t know what to say.

she lets you ramble, lets you cry, lets you talk in circles if that’s what you need. she’ll nod along, ask real questions, try to understand what you’re feeling even if emotions aren’t always her strong suit.

one of the most comforting things about steph is that she makes you feel like you’re not facing anything alone. she’s not trying to fix your life, she’s just trying to make the worst parts feel less lonely. she’s the kind of person who promises she’ll be there for you and then actually follows through, every single time.

⠀ ㅤ۫ㅤ ͜ 𓈒 ⠀ 𝓣IM 𝓓RAKE ⠀ ︵˖⠀ ᩙᩙ ⠀

constantly bracing for impact because he knows he’s bad at handling it. he’ll be sitting there, sipping coffee, pretending to read something, and in the back of his mind he’s running simulations like a doomsday computer: okay, what are today’s potential triggers? it’s not condescending, it’s anxious. he wants to be ready, wants to help, but he’s always worried he’ll freeze or say the wrong thing and somehow make it worse.

he’ll psych himself out so much that sometimes he’s already stressed before anything happens, side-eyeing every situation like it’s a bomb with a timer only you can see.

overthinks his tone constantly. if he says, “can you hand me that?” too quickly, he’ll look up and examine your face like he’s checking for damage. he’ll backpedal instantly: “i didn’t mean that in a harsh way— sorry— i’m not upset— are you okay?” and you’re just standing there like… tim. it was fine. but he’s already spiraling.

gets flustered really easily when you start crying unexpectedly, especially if it’s over something small. if you drop a glass or spill something and your eyes well up, he does that little panic-freeze, hands hovering in the air like he’s defusing a bomb. “oh— it’s okay, it’s okay— it’s just a cup— it’s really okay—” he sounds like he’s negotiating with a hostage situation.

tim is also deeply practical. he’ll try to solve small problems by handing you a tissue, guiding you to a quieter spot, and giving you water, things that are tangible and can shift your focus.

when he’s overwhelmed or tired your crying fries his brain even more. he’ll rub his face and mutter under his breath like he’s genuinely pleading with the universe. “please don’t cry… please… i’m working with half a functional neuron right now…” but he still pulls you in, still wipes your tears, even if he looks like he might cry with you out of sheer stress.

tim also gets defensive in a very understated, pointed way when someone makes you cry. his whole expression drops into this deadpan stare that makes people uncomfortable. “uh— yeah— let’s… go somewhere else.” he mumbles to you, tugging your sleeve.

has a habit of preemptively trying to make things easier for you. he’ll word emails for you, order your food so nothing gets miscommunicated, carry anything heavy or annoying, explain things to strangers for you — not in a patronizing way, but in a “i’m trying to remove any trigger from your path before it hits you” way. he thinks he’s being subtle.

when your tears overlap with his exhaustion, he gets flustered, snapping internally at himself, thinking, why is this happening now? i can’t handle this on top of everything else.

constantly feels like he has to monitor you, like he’s balancing a dozen other responsibilities and also trying not to let you spiral.

sometimes compartmentalizes, thinking, i have to deal with this now, then everything else later, which makes him hyper-focused on you when you’re upset but scattered at everything else.

PUBLISHED 11/20/2025.

  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

❛　　DAMIAN WAYNE —

GAZES gently at you. His eyes and his facial features overall soften whenever he listens to you. He fears that his sharp gaze will cut you and his resting frown will hurt you. Even lowers his voice to a mere whisper as if he's afraid he might be too loud.

PLACES kisses against your forehead as if it's a silent vow. They are rare and filled with meaning. Probably told you that his lips against your forehead means utmost devotion and his promise to never fail you.

STARES from across the room when you aren't looking. Those aren't subtle glances, they're straight up stares. It doesn't even matter who's standing in front of him, if the room is crowded with people because his eyes will always find your figure between the shadows.

❛　　TIM DRAKE —

EXPLAINS things you don't understand, tries to adjust his explanations to a degree so you can follow and won't feel stupid. Be it something he likes to talk about or an academic problem you're struggling with. After you understood everything, he'll even praise you softly.

REMEMBERS almost everything you say or do. His mind subconsciously takes note of what you like, dislike or what you need or what easily bothers you. And then reminds you if you forgot. You even have a shared calendar for him to note down your dates.

INTERTWINES your fingers so easily to let you know he's there. Your hand brushes against his and within the next moments, he'll take yours into his. Usually accompanied by featherlight kisses against your knuckles.

❛　　BRUCE WAYNE —

PICKS up every call despite being probably the busiest person on earth. It only rings three time at best before he picks up your call, no matter the reason. May it be the silliest matter or not.

GRASPS your left hand tightly as if you're the only good in the world, his fingers usually finding your ring finger and circulating around that. Likes to rub and turn the ring adorning your finger, admiring how it fits so perfectly.

BUYS you the most random things. While the two of you barely have time for each other, he makes sure to come back and let you know that he thought about you the entire time. Whatever he buys isn't as expensive as his usual other gifts but it's the thought behind it, anything that reminded him of you.

❛　　CASSANDRA CAIN —

PUTS up more effort than anyone else into your relationship. She keeps learning new things with you, things she'll forever cherish and take with her in her lifetime. Even tries her hardest to express her feelings in words for you. While I love you's are not usual, it's her effort behind those rare words.

NOTICES whenever you're slightly off. She reads your movements the easiest, which is especially helpful during emotional distress. She knows you like the back of her hand and doesn't hesitate to try and soothe you.

PICKS you up no matter where you are and no matter how long it takes. Give her one call and she'll drop anything and everything to pick you up. Hell, she'd even come if you want company or miss her.

❛　　WALLY WEST —

BRINGS you closer in crowded spaces automatically, as if he couldn't stand the thought of letting you get buried underneath bodies that aren't his. His hand move to your hip or his fingers delicately wrap around your wrist to guide you away from the crowd, quick and steady.

MAKES it clear that he doesn't even dare to think about a world without you. The moments where he's most desperate for you are vivid, he isn't shy of hiding them at all. You'll know when he yearns for your affection and touch.

PUTS your head on top of his shoulder if he notices that your head is dropping from time to time due to lack of sleep. He leans impossibly closer, not in an uncomfortable way but in a familiar one, just to lend you his shoulder to sleep on.

❛　　BARRY ALLEN —

LEANS closer to listen. Whenever you talk about something, he feels his body moving on its own and lean closer to you. Likes the way your breath fans against his skin, it tickles him in a loving way. Overall, this carries a mysterious and cute vibe to it.

COOKS the most delicious food while telling you the most random facts. Keeps his eyes fixated on the food in front of him, adjusts the heat to the right temperature, rambles about random fun facts with a lighthearted smile, all while keeping you entertained.

DEFENDS you in public even if you're wrong, always takes your side because he doesn't like the thought of someone else putting you in place. But at home, he'll respectfully and lovingly discuss about it without getting mad, staying all patient for you to learn out of your own mistakes and wrongdoings.

❛　　ROY HARPER —

KISSES every inch of your body as if you are something sacred, as if you're godsend. Whispers praises in a tender voice while adorning your skin with his kisses, often lingers in places you're most sensitive to arouse a reaction.

TOUCHES you subtly in public. Everyone thinks he's big on PDA, which no one doubts. But during slow and quiet moments in public with your friends, he lets his finger ghost over your skin. It's there only if you put your attention properly on it.

TEACHES you things he's passionate about with the utmost patience and care. Especially archery. It's the intimate moment where his hands are wrapped around yours so he can guide you to aim at the target perfectly while keeping you motivated for more.

© 2026 kumasakka — do not plagiarize , copy , modify , translate our work ⸝⸝

divider source — @cursed-carmine ⸝⸝

He'd stand with his arms crossed when you coo at Lucy: “She isn't an infant, Beloved."  While she squeaks and chirps in something akin to laughter.  

Worst of all was when you'd mumble sleepily to Alfred as he dozed off next to you. Damian found this so shameful that he'd huff and roll over so he wouldn't have to witness it.

Of course, you noticed the conflict on his face, the tell-tale dark red tips of his ears and the way he’d hide his face from you.  

But you didn’t really realise what it all meant until he came home late one night after finishing a grueling shift at the hospital.  

You heard the door click open and closed again, and waited for him to find you on the couch instead of greeting him at the door. He likes to completely shed the day off, shower and change before he can properly relax, especially after such a long shift. 

But this time, he came right into the living room to stand at the edge of the couch. He'd only slipped his shoes and coat off, tired eyes gazing down at you. You wordlessly rolled onto your back and patted your chest.  

He easily fell into your arms, body going limp on the couch he was just a little too big for, sock clad feet hanging off the armrest.  

You rubbed a hand down his back as he let out a long breath that feels like he’d been waiting a while to let go. It warmed you that he could find comfort in you, especially since you couldn’t always find the right words to say.   

Alfred trotted over, climbing up on the couch, and looking irritated that his owner had taken his favourite spot, he curled up in the crook of your neck instead. It was perfect; your two stoic boys trusting you to soothe them to sleep.  

You lifted a hand from where your boyfriend’s head laid on your chest to gently stroke the cat’s head.  

"Awww, sleepy baby~"  

Alfred's eyes fell closed, nudging slightly into the touch. You didn't register how Damian's arms tightened around you or how his face grew hotter against your skin, your fingers mindlessly combing through his hair 

"Is my pretty boy tired?"  

You take your eyes off Alfred when your boyfriend nods his head. Just a little, enough that you pause your movements, only starting again when he grumbles. 

You think you must’ve imagined it. He's just nuzzling into you for warmth and it looks like he's answering or maybe he’s so tired he doesn’t even realise what you're saying. You bring your nails up from his nape to behind his ear and back down, a weak spot of his.  

"Aw, sweet baby~ Are you gonna have a nap?"  

He nods again, undeniable this time and you crack a wide smile that you're sure he would just hate to see if he could take his face out of your chest. You turn your head to Alfred as if you could share this glorious moment with him. He remains uninterested.  

You keep your tone very soft, just like you'd talk to Alfred.

"You don't wanna change first? Shower and eat something?"  

He shakes his head, legs shifting to lock yours in place more firmly.  

"Stay." 

The word was just barely a whisper, muffled against your skin. You pat his back reassuringly.  

"Alright, big guy. My strong, handsome, heavy man."  

You feel him huff and shake his head just barely, like he doesn’t want to reward you with a reaction. You place a kiss on his head.  

"Precious, hard working, smart, sexy, pretty baby- ” 

His hand slides up from your side to cover your mouth and you laugh and pinch his hot ears in retaliation, making him swipe your hand away. You both softly laugh and settle down again, matching the other's slow breaths.

His hair tickles when you lay another kiss on his head, arms surrounding him.

"I love you very much."  

"I luv y'too, m'luv." 

His muffled words are barely audible against your skin and you rest your head back on the plush pillow under you, thinking of all the fun things you can do with this new discovery when he wakes up.  

But Pebble only scoffed at your refusal, the thin patience the crow held for you wound tighter with each transient second. “Orders are from Ubuyashiki — you cannot refuse!”

Fuck.

You were stuck. Thrust into a sick and twisted proposal with no real exit, forced to walk alongside the crow who was beginning to grate on every last nerve you possessed. You tried to ignore each of Pebble’s shouts, but the more you learned of the missing villagers, the harder that became. 

It sounded almost surreal: Members of the surrounding villages reported strange glows near grave sites. Faint lights flickering between the headstones and whispers in the dark that resembled the voices of lost loved ones. 

It was no wonder the lower-ranking slayers continued to follow the same path as the vanished villagers. Each description of the demon’s ability hinted at something far stronger than the average threat — something nearing the level of an Upper Rank. The kind of monster only a Hashira could realistically handle.

And Shinazugawa was a safe bet. His Wind Breathing technique was volatile and erratic, destructive in ways most slayers couldn’t hope to match. If anyone could dive headfirst into a situation like this, it was him. Which, frankly, pissed you off even more. Not only were you stuck with the one coworker who seemed perpetually irritated by your presence, but now you had to watch him work; forced to witness firsthand just how terrifyingly skilled he actually was.

Not that you would ever admit that to him. You’d rather drop dead.

The village was quieter than it should have been. Sure, it was small, but even the coziest places carried a rhythm: Voices echoing between houses, shop owners waving in customers under the crowded paths. Yet here, there was nothing. Only a few sparse flowers tucked in a dirty vase near the vegetable stand. 

Even the graveled walkways were scarcely disturbed. Each crunch of your feet a new indent into the pristine streets. It was depressing, really. Witnessing the fear and despondency of the residing citizens. The bouts of futility that lingered from the lack of rescue by the Imperial Army. All that remained was the stench of dread for the future. And unanswered pleas. 

But what was worse? Sanemi. 

There he stood, palms clasped to his sides as he perked his brow at the young boy standing in front of the medicinal herbs. His hair was unruly, probably from the constant drag of his fingers, and his sword was tucked tightly against his hip. The clasps of his top were unlatched, allowing any human (or demon) he encountered to see the years of scars he’d obtained from the monsters. 

“Huh?” His lids narrowed, lips thinned into a tight line. “What do you mean a group of people investigated last night? Are you all that dumb?” His tone was the usual; condescending. As if Shinazugawa was the only one in a thirty-mile radius that obtained solid logic. 

The boy almost looked shaken at the outlandish declaration, his eyes jumping from wall to wall to ignore the lingering gaze of pale purple. And as selfish as it was, all you could hope for was the notion that you’d become invisible. That the young kid would skip over the unknown entity coward in the corner. 

But you never had good luck. 

Sanemi followed his goggled expression, intrigued brows now knitted together in a crease as the realization sank in. He was to be accompanied on this mission. And, of course, it had to be you. 

“Why the fuck are you here?” The kid took the well-timed opportunity to bolt. The wind Hashira paid no mind, though. His focus was glued exclusively on you. “Tell me this is an accident.” 

“It’s not,” you stepped forward, arms crossed over your chest as you fought back the trembles that threatened to slip from your legs. Fuck he was intimidating. “Ubuyashiki requested me… and you.” 

Shinazugawa looked as though he was going to burst into a fit of rage. But he held back, the logical side of his brain etched on public appearance towards the Demon Slayer Corp. Because if he were to make one wrong move, one wrong sign of destruction — his paycheck was bound to eat it. 

Besides, last time Sanemi was placed under disciplinary review, he almost went insane. 

He mumbled a string of profanities, hand pressed to the hilt of his sword as he scoured the surroundings again. Something he always did when you were near. It didn’t take a genius to detect such displease to your presence; knuckles white from death gripping his weapon, eyes shooting towards something tangible and less... you. 

What was it about you that irked him so much? 

“Well,” you took your cue. “I’m going to go see if I can track anyone down. And next time Sanemi, please don’t let a witness get away.” 

He hated when you used his first name. You knew that. Which is exactly why you did it, watching as his ears turned a shade of red that matched Rengoku’s haori. If he was going to be a dick (like usual) the least you could do in return was poke fun at the bear. It made it all the more entertaining. And easier — you weren’t afraid to admit you were fearful of the wind Hashira. So playing a little game always eased your nerves. 

“Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.” 

That was the intention at least; getting this all over with. But somehow, someway, Sanemi had managed to scare the very last witness off again. 

It all started when you continued forward, knees bending slightly as you placed your hand above the gravel. Initially, you were there to inspect the spill of oil — a clear sign that someone had dropped a lantern in the midst of an escape. But then you felt it: a small pulse underneath the soil. 

Huh… weird.

“Um, excuse me,” a wavering voice pulled you from your investigation, causing you to peer above, head tilted slightly to view the tall man who hovered close by. “Do you need help?” He flinched at your innate narrowed stare, clutching a small knife in his hand. His cotton vest bore a single kanji in white: ‘Watcher.’ Perhaps he was the village’s makeshift guard until someone more capable arrived.

“Actually, yes.” You heaved yourself off the ground, palms pressing against your sides to scrape off the few loose rocks that indented themselves in your skin. “Do you know anything about the missing residents?”

“Oh,” the man straightened instantly at that. His previous scared demeanor quickly overshadowed with relief as his eyes scanned your sheathed Nichirin sword. He knew. “Are you with the white-haired man?” You almost gagged. But you nodded anyway. “Some of my neighbors noted that he had shown up a bit earlier today! I’m so glad you came too.”

Great, so he got here a whole hour before you — just one more thing he can irk about later on. 

“Your vest, it says you’re a watcher?” He nodded at your query. “Does that mean you know what’s been happening?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek; his pointer directed to the edge of the town. “There’s been witness accounts of small bouts of light coming from over there,” he shifted slightly, leaning closer to your ear, his voice hushed — as if to keep the two children pressed against the cracked door nearby from hearing. “There’ve been… voices too. From dead loved ones.” 

Your brow furrowed, thumb rubbing small circles against the hilt of your sword in puzzlement. Voices? Lights? Pebble had mentioned it in the debriefing. But if there were witnesses, people stood nearby to notice each trademark… Well, it sounded more like a serial killer than a demon. Not once had you seen blood demon art that could harbor such purity with such foul intentions. Not to mention leave bystanders alive.

“Has anyone investigated?” 

He swallowed, eyes darting nervously. “Yeah… and they never come back.”

You had planned to pry more, your eyes widened up at the man who was now leaned in closer. Each breath he dragged swayed the strands of your hair; and, honestly, he was kind of cute. His brown hair, ruffled and layered, laid just above his lashes. The shade of pink that coated his cheeks only exacerbated the adorable freckles that coated his nose. 

Was he single? No, this is probably the wrong time to ask that. “How long has this been happening?” 

“A week ago; it only happens every other night, oddly enough.” His distance stayed the same, nose brushed against yours with each swift word. And you had to wonder now — was he doing that on purpose? “Sorry if this is… weird, but can I ask something?”

You nodded. But the poor man was never able to finish his inquisitive wonder. Because Sanemi rounded the corner, eyes wild and swirled with a twinge of darkness that only happened in the midst of battles. “I’m sorry,” his voice was low; sharper than it was before. “Did we lose the goal of this mission?” You didn’t even have time to respond. “If it wasn't apparent,” he continued, gaze flicking briefly between you and the man. “This isn’t a ‘find a husband’ search.” 

The villager stiffened instantly. “My apologies!” He stammered, bowing quickly toward Shinazugawa before retreating without another word. You watched him go, irritation flaring: First of all, there was no reason for him to apologize to Sanemi. Second — you had been gathering information.

Crucial information. The one piece of information, actually, that was the cause for the shared room at the inn. 

Don’t get it twisted, you did try to plead with the innkeeper; bribe him into splitting you both up. Yet with travelers too afraid to leave, and even fewer willing to pass through, every room but one had been occupied. So, here you were, stretched out atop the shikibuton, staring up at the ceiling as the white-haired man beside you made a very deliberate effort to drag the kakebuton further away from your side.

Which was pointless. The room was far too small. 

“Can you move your makura?” you asked, voice edged with vexation. “Preferably… away from mine?” 

Sanemi just scoffed. “There’s nowhere else to put it.” He dropped back against his own futon, forearm sliding beneath his head as he shoved the pillow slightly to the side, as if that alone created distance. It didn’t. “Trust me,” he muttered, eyes fixed above. “If I could, I wouldn’t be here.” 

“This is so stupid.” You whined. Shinazugawa was quick to grunt in agreement. “What the fuck does the demon even do every other night?” 

“How the fuck would I know?” 

You shot him a glare. “It was a rhetorical question,” you paused, eyes scanning over his obviously irked demeanor. “If you don’t know what that is, it’s—”

“I know what that is!” There was a moment of silence after his outburst. A quietude that you felt grateful for. Until Sanemi decided to make it a one man show — once again. “Shit, you’re a distraction.” Your fingers stilled against the fabric of the kakebuton. And slowly, your head turned, observing as the scarred Hashira kept his gaze on the plafond. “No fucking clue why you’re here.” 

“A distraction?” You repeated. 

You couldn’t believe it. There was no way in hell you were a distraction. If anything, he was. All Sanemi did was scare off every witness. Not to mention consistently groan in protest to your arrival. Which, from what Mitsuri told you, was completely out of character for him. But maybe Obanai wasn’t the most trustworthy informant when it came to the love Hashira. He was probably too distracted by her presence to actually delve into the hell he faced with his co-worker. 

“Yeah.”

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, brows raised in utter astonishment. “That’s funny,” you mumbled. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

“Didn’t realize I needed permission to point out the obvious.” He retorted.

Oh, you wanted to punch him. No, worse — you wanted to leave him for dead. There was absolutely zero evidence to support his claim. “What are you even talking about?” 

“Seriously?” His head flit to the side, the corner of his right iris peering at you over the scrunched makura. “I had to keep you from kissing a total stranger.” 

That’s what this was about? His entire exasperation in this very moment had to do with the notion that the villager… stood too close? “Excuse me?” You leaned forward, strands of hair cascading over your cheek as you eyed the Hashira mere inches beneath you and to the right. “I was gathering information. Like we planned.”

“Information on something, I bet.” 

That was the final straw. You could deal with his ignorance in Hashira meetings, deal with the fact that every time you stepped in a room he left. For fuck’s sake, you could deal with the fact that everyone knew just how much he despised you — no matter how humiliating it was. But this? This was beyond that. Because now, he was insulting your morals. 

Well, sure… You did think he was attractive. And yes, the thought of asking if he was single had crossed your mind. But you didn’t. That counts for something. “Even if he was attractive,” you said. “I wasn’t going to jeopardize the mission. Every slayer knows work comes before anything else.”

“The fuck did you just say?” Shinazugawa propped up on his arms, the swirls in his pale purple eyes turning closer to a shade of a ripe plum. “Attractive?” 

Of course he completely glazed over the rest of the sentence. 

“Yes.”

He surged forward, the futon shifting beneath him as he leaned in, closing the distance in an instant. But it was too fast, too close — your breath caught, a flicker of defensive instinct tightening in your chest as his presence loomed over you. And for half a second, you thought he might actually hit you. “That’s your type?”

Okay, this steered completely off topic. “Again, what are you talking about?”

“Your type is ugly dark-haired men.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going. “I’ve seen the way you hang with Tomioka. He’s ugly. And has dark hair.” 

And you couldn’t help it. You laughed. You doubled-over, hand clasped to the Hashira’s shoulder as your head swiveled down, your shoulder bouncing with each drag of breath. “Tomioka is the only one that will train with me when asked.” But Shinazugawa didn’t laugh with you. And he sure as hell didn’t crack a smile. His gaze stayed locked on you — and, against his will, dipped just slightly as your chin lifted again. The quick flick of your tongue across your lower lip definitely didn’t help either. “How do you even know this? You leave every room I walk into unless you’re forced.” 

“Obanai.”

Huh, it seems Obanai was everyone’s messenger when it came to things they had no business in knowing.

And, really, that should’ve been your first sign. The first inclination that Sanemi’s reason for distance was not due to your ‘lack’ of skills. But you were too caught up in the moment — too distracted by the humor of it all. Too focused by the absurdity in the way the whites of his eyes began to web with faint vessels, twitching with every flicker of irritation.

“Laugh it up,” His voice turned rougher, like something was sitting wrong in his throat. Or, more accurately, as if one flawed tone, one wrong slip up, and his secret would spill. “Didn’t realize that was your standard.”

You should’ve pulled away after your laughter subsided. Created some sort of distance between the two of you. Hell, that’s exactly what you would’ve done two days ago. But if you were being realistic, this wouldn’t have even been a predicament — because Sanemi would’ve never let you get this close. And he sure wouldn’t have allowed you to brace your palm over the broad part of his shoulder. “Why does it matter?” 

“It doesn’t.” He kept still, eyes lasering through the thick of your orbits. “Hashira operate under different rules when it comes to being with commoners."

“Not when it comes to sex.” 

Sanemi’s lid convulsed, something volatile flickering beneath the surface as he leaned impossibly closer — close enough that the ridges of his scars brushed faintly against the fabric of your yukata. His hand pressed into the futon beside you, bracing his weight, caging you in with full oblivion. Because if he had half a mind, he’d maintain any sliver of distance. “You can’t just—” His voice faltered, the words catching unexpectedly as his jaw tightened. “sleep with strangers?”

“I never said I wanted to,” you corrected, steady despite the way your pulse had begun to climb. “I was just stating that the rules around sex aren’t the same as marriage.”

Sanemi stared at you. Really stared. Like he was trying to pick apart every word you’d just said — and getting more irritated the longer he thought about it. “You think that makes it better?”

Your brows knitted together slightly. Honestly, you didn’t even understand why he was so upset about the logical part of your solution. Sure, sex with strangers wasn't the most ideal; diseases and unwarranted pregnancies could always arise. But it seemed way better than marriage. Besides, men usually lacked emotional maturity needed for such a long-term commitment. “I’m just being realistic.” 

“Realistic?” His fingers clutched the fabric beneath him, knuckles whitening as the tendons in his hand pulled tight. “Is that what your mind thinks of?”

Truthfully, that was a very personal query. Of course you thought about it. Every Hashira probably has. Especially Tengen with his three wives. But no one really… discussed it. “Well, um,” you were stammering. And each delay of the answer only solidified his initial notion. Which, somehow, shifted his expression. As if he was filling in the blanks himself, and none of the conclusions were helping his mood. So you pivoted. “Do you?”

“What?” His eyes narrowed, the ends of his lips downturned at the sudden transfer in discussion. 

Good, you managed to deflect. “Do you think about sex?”

Sanemi blinked. Once. Then twice before the tips of his ears twinged into a shade of deep red. It was obvious he wasn’t prepared for the switch of his inquiry. A flicker of satisfaction sparked in your chest. And maybe you would’ve pushed it further, pressed the advantage, watched him unravel under the pressure of it. But his gaze dropped; lower than you anticipated. 

Your lips. He was staring directly at your lips. 

And it wasn’t the casual glance, the one you do when you’re displaying listening intent. It was more. His jaw pulled, brows tugged together like something in his mind had gone haywire —  and he was irritated with himself, with you, with whatever had him frozen there instead of pulling away like he should have.

“... Sanemi?”

His teeth ground together, the tension in his body coiling tighter as his fists pressed deeper into the blanket beneath you, fabric bunching beneath the strain. You could tell he looked to be in agony; like he was desperately trying to ground himself, hold himself back from… Well, you weren’t exactly sure.  

“Don’t say my name again.” Even his sentence came out pained. And suddenly — you were aware of everything: Your hand on his shoulder, the heat between you, the way his face had drifted closer without you noticing.

An inch. That was all it would take.

And that didn’t make any sense: This was Shinazugawa. The Hashira who avoided you. Who left rooms just to escape your presence. Who met you with insults and indifference at every turn. He never wanted you around. So why wasn’t he moving away?

“Why?” You weren’t even sure what you were asking anymore; Why wasn’t he moving? Why didn’t he want you to say his name?

Either way, it didn’t matter. He ignored it entirely. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” Your breath hitched. The admission sat heavy between you, honest in a way nothing else he’d said had been. But surely he wasn’t saying what you thought he was saying… “And it’s a distraction,” he continued, jaw shifting. “That’s why I avoid it.” Your chest tightened, because he didn’t need to spell it outright. Didn’t need to clarify. You understood. 

By it — He meant you.

And you’d be lying if you said you hadn't thought about it too. The way his hands would clasp around your neck, his movements drilling into you with such force that your eyes would innately roll back. It would be volatile; rough. There would be no care for your wellbeing — just Sanemi chasing his own high as he watched you unravel beneath him. 

But it was a fantasy. A fleeting moment of imagery while you touched yourself in your own estate. Because there was no world in which Sanemi would lay a finger on you. For fuck’s sake, he hardly even looked at you. 

You opened your mouth to retort something sarcastic. Say anything that could shift the conversation back to his usual irritation with you. Yet all you could do was gawk. Irises traveling down his lips and to his exposed chest; the diabolical images now displayed proudly in your mind. 

No — no, this wasn’t okay. How dare you feel the warmth pool between your thighs. Shinazugawa warranted nothing more than a slap to his face… his beautiful, sculpted and scarred face. 

Oh my gosh you were losing it. There was no reason for this excitement. You hated Sanemi; loathed him with every ounce of your being. Sure, you imagined him naked on the rare occasion. And sure, you had noted that he was attractive the first time you met. But you had learned to push those feelings down; learned the notion that Shinazugawa saw you as nothing but a burden. Yet, here you were; legs shifted beneath the blanket, hoping that whatever dampened your undergarments was nothing more than the start of your period. 

But who were you kidding, you weren’t due for two more weeks. 

“Something bothering you?” Your eyes trailed back up to his face, observing as he adorned a rare smirk. It was the same expression you had only noted once; the single moment in passing as you heard him tease Obanai for gifting Mitsuri new socks after she ruined the first pair. 

He knew. 

Sanemi fucking knew. 

And he was reveling in it, finding absolute pleasure in the way your knees brushed together to obtain some sort of friction to distract yourself from the fluttered heartbeat between your legs. But the more you tried to conceal the explicit anticipation, the more Shinazugawa pressed forward. His nose touched yours; the plump of his lips brushed slightly against your skin.

It was wrong. All of this was irrevocably inapt. And Sanemi understood that. He knew the consequences of Hashira romance, the constant turmoil that followed due to death and lack of time. Even his brain was shouting at a high octave, attempting to halt the insanity that was about to ensue: The amygdala displayed a horrid future — you dead, strewn on your back as blood seeped from your lungs. And the only thing Shinazugawa could do was watch. Witness the last moment he’d ever lay eyes on you again. 

But that image wasn’t a fact. It was fear; fear of the unknown. And Sanemi hated that. He prided himself on his ability to dive head first with no terror. So, if ripping your clothes to shreds meant he’d conquer trepidation? All well. 

Besides, it was a bonus that he’d make you forget about the commoner who stood too close to you. 

He’d just reap the repercussions later. 

His palm released the scrunched cloth, finger dragging over the kakebuton as it neared the dip in your borrowed yukuta. It was a silly thing — your initial idea of wearing pajamas was a sigh of relief due to its comfort. But now? Now all you wished for was a pound of fabric shielding the way your chest trickled with goosebumps. The telltale sign that, whatever Sanemi was doing, had some sort of impact on your body. 

“Someone nervous?” Of course you were nervous. Not once did this idea flash inside your mind. The only thing you anticipated was snarky remarks and ignorance. You didn’t prep for… this. But it seemed Sanemi had thought about this moment a bit too much. His mouth watered in excitement; eyes darting at every inch of exposed skin. “Odd. I thought casual sex was… what did you say? Realistic.”

Ugh, curse your loud mouth. 

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, knees still pressed together to keep the rapid heartbeat from quickening further. Still, the wind Hashira wasn’t oblivious. And besides, your lack of refusal as he unfastened your yukuta was all the agreement he needed to move forward. So, before you knew it, he had mounted on top of your bare body, scarred chest pressed to yours as his digit dragged along your folds. 

“Tsk,” his pointer dipped just slightly, pressing your slick inwards. “Already this wet? Don’t tell me you’re this easy.” Even in the heat of the moment he was being condescending; which warranted a punch. But you’d be lying if that didn’t hasten the throb between your legs. And you’d be even more of a prevaricator if you didn’t admit that Sanemi could feel it. “If you’re going to be such a distraction,” his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, breath soft against the lobe of your ear. “The least you could do is relieve the pressure you fucking curse other people with.” 

Without warning his thumb dipped in the confines of your walls, an agonizing stretch that forced a whine out of your throat. It was cruel, really. The way Shinazugawa had seemed to completely dismiss the notion of benignity in intercourse. Yet, once again, your body betrayed you — hips bucked in the air, palms pressed flat against his haori. “You like the pain?” Your head nodded innately. “That idiot definitely wouldn’t have known that.”

Idiot?

“Huh, w—” Your query was cut short as he replaced his thumb with his middle finger, curling it ever so slightly until it pressed against the pattern of your gummy tissue — the very spot that made stars speckle across your vision. “Nemi’ hold — nghhh — on.”

You didn’t mean to give him a nickname. But you could hardly form a coherent sentence; a shortened version of his title seemed reasonable enough to get your point across. Yet Sanemi stilled. His once rhythmic pace overshadowed with a faint twitch. “What… What did you just call me?” 

“... Nemi’?”

Sanemi groaned in pleasure at the sound of your voice; forehead pressed to your collarbone as he continued to thrust his fingers with intense precision. And if it wasn’t clear before; this was why he created distance. The exact reason why he avoided you. Because he couldn’t contain himself; too aware that a slight change of your tone would have you trapped beneath him as he pummeled himself to ecstasy. But here you were — served on a platter for him in the shared room. 

Plus, how could he let your crude imaginations be entwined with the man who happened to stumble upon you this afternoon? 

The very commoner who almost asked you out on a date. Pathetic.

Shinazugawa’s eyes blurred with hatred; the idea of another person fueling your pleasure was a complete disgrace to him. So what if he ignored you? So what if he wasn’t your boyfriend? You still belonged to him. And any inclination of another man’s touch vindicated rage. 

Which was why you practically shouted as something much… bigger unexpectedly slipped deep within you. A frustrated blow to your walls that bordered pain more than pleasure. Oh how oblivious you were to the unclasping of his belt, the way he fumbled with his pants while his right hand continued to create some sort of relief for the tightening knot deep within your abdomen. “Such… a fucking — aghhh,” Sanemi’s breath became ragged the more he moved his hips. “Distraction.” 

Moans spilled from your throat, the occasional cry of agony etched in between the sounds of rapture as his nails dug into your hips, keeping you stationed to withstand the increasing brutalized pace he began to set. “Who do you think about?” 

His words were almost lost. Your muddled brain too focused on the near snap of the knot. Not to mention the squelches of wetness and slaps of skin that reverberated off the cramped corridor. “W-what?”

“Alone,” his right hand made its way to your throat, tightening ever so slightly as his thumb and pointer cupped your jaw, tilting your head to look up at him. “Fuck — who do you think about… alone at night?” 

You shouldn’t have answered. Shouldn’t have admitted the occasional late night pleasure that came from him. But you were too drunk on bliss to think of reason. “You.” 

And that was all it took. The single word that made him snap his hips in an agonizing way until he got to observe a stream of tears spill from your eyes; cheeks painted in a rosy shade of pink. But still, Sanemi needed more. He needed to hear your sniffles, observe as your eyes rolled back with each shaky sob.

He needed to witness the effect he bestowed on you. Something no one else could ever dream of achieving.

He shifted his right hand down to your thigh, hoisting it over his shoulder to deepen his momentum. Your irises bulged, the feeling of his length deep in your stomach prevalent. It was plain from the get-go that Sanemi was showing zero mercy for you, your eyes consistently brimming with salty tears that leaked with every thrust. “Shit, you’re so…” he grunted, tongue dragging his lower lip and brows creased in concentration. “Tight.”

“Nemi’.” You whined, nails clawed deep within the kakebuton beneath you. There was no way in hell you were going to last another thirty seconds — not with the way his tip pummeled against your g-spot. “You’re gonna make me… nghhh.”

But what came next was a surprise. Or, more accurately, a slip-up of Sanemi's true intentions. “Maybe I should get you pregnant, hm?” A moan caught in your throat, your breath jagged while you stared wide-eyed at the Hashira. And normally, you would’ve screeched in horror at his erratic statement. The absurdity of the comment so outlandish it warranted nothing more than a scolding. Yet right now? The idea of him stuffing you full was more important than anything else — the ache in your abdomen something that could only be fulfilled with his warmth. “Then… oh fuck — no one will look at you.”

It was wrong. The way his declaration took you over the edge, fingers grasping at the fabric beneath you while your sclera took over for your rolled back irises. And the flutter against his dick? The string of thoughts that allowed everyone to know you were his? Yeah, that fucked him

He cursed under his breath, doubling-over and tightening his grasp around your neck as his rhythm stuttered, his hips carelessly hitting your ass as he spilled inside. His groan was gruff, teeth clenched together to bite back the overwhelming wash of ecstasy that overcame the months of pent-up tension. 

“If one more person looks at you. I’m seriously going to get you pregnant. Got it?”