Where do broken hearts go...

Your skin glowed with a warmth radiating from within and you were smiling. You were happy. This bubbling warmth boiled over in your heart and hot tears spilled from the corners of your eyes. 

You hadn’t experienced true happiness in—had it been over ten years?

Looking back, your smiles were tense and fleeting after you arrived at Wayne manor in your last life. You tried to be friendly—you tried to put out the energy you wanted to attract!—but your futile attempts seemed to only make your life harder, and then soon it became too painful to smile. 

Your cheeks began to ache as if the muscles were ripping beneath your flesh and every forced attempt at a smile brought you to the brink of tears.

And so, you came to the conclusion that your smile was ugly. 

Maybe that’s why no one liked it when you smiled. Maybe it was just as painful for others to see as it was for you to do. A few years after your arrival, you stopped smiling completely. Alfred could spark a little happiness, a fleeting sense of belonging when you had nothing, but soon he just wasn’t enough. 

You needed a family and he had been stretched thin for people you had no place beside. Over time, you’d given up on him too and slowly ruled him out as a person to trust alongside them.

But when you came back, you knew your smile could be one of your greatest weapons so you’d practiced the smiles you’d long forgotten at the hospital. The smile your grandparents, aunts, cousins, and mother loved.

Your smiles for Jason and Duke were charming and sweet and your smile for Bruce was customer-service perfect. The only person who’d truly brought your genuine smile out that you hadn’t shown since before your life was ruined over a decade ago was Alfred. 

He was the only one.

You had cut him off nearing the end of your last life, but at the end of the day he still held a piece of your heart.

Now, you smiled at the woman you were meant to be. “I’ve missed you.”

The injuries on your throat had long since healed and the scars resembled rose vines. The scars on your hands and forearms were intricate patterns unique to you alone, and your body was toned and soft in ways that took your own breath away. 

You wore an outfit that was some parts sexy, other parts mystical, and it came together to tell a story and represent who you were and the power you possessed.

What power was that? You couldn’t wait to find out.

You brought your hands to your face and gently traced the contours and your crescent scar.

You’d never been vain—the exact opposite, actually—but you had to tear yourself from the mirror and clear your head. 

The walls still groaned around you, but gradually faded as the evil receded deeper into the manor and as far away from you as possible. The floorboards beneath your feet stopped shaking and the air was dusted with shimmering gold specks as it seemed to purify the space around you. 

You were seeing this old room that once was your prison cell in a new light—the veil was being lifted.

This space was lightly furnished with a thin, cherry wood vanity and chair, a matching wardrobe and full sized bed with the only personal touches being the duvet and sheet set that Alfred had replaced for you, and gauzy curtains that let the afternoon sun’s rays filter in and bathe you in its warmth. You inhaled deeply as you considered this could definitely be adequate accommodations for two years. 

Maybe some paint here and a rug there could make it feel a little more personal than a pine box, and you simply wouldn’t make the same mistake you did in the last life. You’d keep everything precious in the pocket dimension to prevent the little antichrist from getting his hands on them, and maybe you’d set some traps around your room just because. 

As a little treat.  

You could still hear the anguished shrieks of the entities that had thought you easy prey and listened.

“Damn it! The bitch woke up!”

“She should’ve just died.”

“How did she do that? She shouldn’t be able to.”

“Bitch! I’ll kill you!”

The hate made your ears ring, but then the softest trembling of voices nearly drowned out by the others, the quiet spirits daring to hope for a savior, called out to you.

“Can she see us?”

“Please, help me…”

“I’m so tired…”

“I wanna go home.”

The last line broke off into a wet sob, and your heart ached for it. How long had this been happening? Had it been like this in the past, and you just couldn’t hear it? The thousands of lives lost because Bruce couldn’t put aside his pride, and the hundreds more lost during the flood culminated into something that didn’t fit within the boundaries of life or death.

And now, here you were to bear the brunt of it and the burden of the victims who begged for justice.

And for once, you were sure of yourself. You’d do what needed to be done. Batman and the others weren’t “heroes” you could depend on. You’d be the one.

You could feel where the evil was concentrated throughout the property and your scars glowed an intense gold verging on white as you focused. There were several points where the evil was most concentrated and embedded into the fabric of space itself. This was an evil and despair that had been alive long before you were born.

The highest priority places of interest were Bruce’s office, Damian’s room, the Batcave, and most damning of all: your wing. The miasma had been feeding from you for so long and posted up closely to their primary food source—you.

Instinct—a feeling that had upgraded since your last life and made you feel like you were finally truly breathing for the first time—told you it had been like this in the past. 

From the moment you stepped foot on this soil, your vitality, hope, and life was siphoned away for 10 years and you had no idea the cause. 

Your scars glowed angrily as the blood coursed through your veins in white hot rage. You had been prey, but you wouldn’t lose yourself this time. You couldn’t lose this time.

Was this how it should’ve been? Were you meant to have these powers in the past or was this a deviation from being brought back? Were you so stifled in the past that the curse blocked your latent abilities? 

You realized you were biting your lips when you tasted blood on your tongue and licked the metallic droplets away. Now wasn’t the time to wonder what could’ve been. ‘All things in good time.’ You closed your eyes and breathed. As long as you did the best you could with this opportunity, all would fall into place. 

You rolled your shoulders and willed those hard hitting questions away so you could try focusing on some changes you could understand.

You thought back to your first meeting in this life, and you could see things in a whole new light, things you’d missed the first time. There was no darkness around Alfred, just a melancholy that wrapped around his heart that he’d carried with him long before you arrived. He had his own crosses to bear, and your heart ached in sympathy. Could you help carry some of his burden this time?

Jason and Duke also didn’t seem to be affected to be as vile and hateful as the others. The air around Duke had trembled with hesitation but then dispersed like a pile of leaves in an autumn breeze when you smiled at him. He had always been different from the others in the best way.

You never had a relationship with him and maybe you could attribute that to him hardly being around and also simply following the other’s lead. He was Tim’s, Stephanie’s, and Damian’s friend first. He never joined in the hazing, hell, sometimes he even distracted them and steered them away if he witnessed it. 

You could remember how he changed the subject when Stephanie would start to haze you in front of him. You recalled the displeased glances he leveled at Tim that the latter didn’t catch or blatantly ignored. You once saw the realization that his friends weren’t very kind people flash in his eyes before the nugget was rinsed away by something neither of you perceived at the time.

He had an inherent light in him that couldn’t be completely extinguished and you could work on that. Nurture the flame, protect it, create an ally—make him yours.

No doubt, he was already nurturing a small crush, a noted interest in Bruce’s new daughter who appeared at the manor banged up and bandaged, but defied expectations and walked in with her head held high. Maybe you and he were kindred spirits like that? You’d definitely let him think so.

You set aside further emotional plans as you clenched your fists a few times and bounced from one foot to the other, enjoying the flex of your muscles. You’d never felt so whole in all your life and wanted to get out there and face the night. 

You wanted to see what you were capable of and put it to good use. The cries of the damned called to you from the city and unfortunately, you knew you were the only one who heard and could answer. 

The windows swung open and the fresh summer air kissed your cheeks. The warmth reached your heart and you closed your eyes as you inhaled the sweet jasmine-scented air. There was nothing you wanted more than to throw yourself headfirst into adventure to answer those cries and lay to rest the souls that others couldn’t, but it’d have to wait.

When night fell, you could truly come to life and strike out on your own, free of these walls, mechanical eyes, and the poisonous air. Your eyes slid across the wall in the direction the haunting retreated and you hissed, “Tonight you’re mine.” 

And it wasn’t a threat, but a date.

However, turning back to gaze at your visage in the vanity, you were at a crossroads. ‘So, do I just go out like this or—’ lavender light shimmered around you as you gently regressed back to your 16 year old self seamlessly.

‘Damn it!’ 

You were reduced to your 16 year old self once again, but you wouldn’t say you were back where you started. 

The bandages that were wrapped snugly around your wrists, forearms, and neck no longer felt like leaden shackles. In fact, you felt like if you tried you could take off and fly at this moment. You looked across the garden and past the Waynes’s final resting place. 

You could shoot through it all and never look back. Your fate was finally in your hands.

You strode the shadowed halls of the small wing you had once haunted—the closest to a home you ever had since you’d lost everything.

Once upon a time, you’d felt as if you were banished to a remote island so far removed from the others that you weren’t even a blip on their radar. You’d felt shelved, less of a person, and these walls amplified the loneliness and worthlessness you’d felt. You let these walls drive you crazy. 

Literally.

But now?

This was no longer your place of exile, but of solace and you’d make anything you ever wanted your own. 

You were crazy enough to do it.

The lights from within the dust-caked sconces shined brighter and the warmth burned through the smog and eroded the grit, illuminating your way as you passed with sure steps.

Ghostly whispers caressed the shell of your ears, but if you concentrated on something else you could silence them to a dull white noise. That was one of the reasons you ventured from your room and went on the search for a welcome distraction. 

Why should you be cooped up in your room? To stay out of the way? To make others comfortable? What about your comfort?

The wraiths retreated out of reach and the old air that once tasted of death and spoiled eggs on your tongue was now sweet and light. 

You didn’t know the extent of your new abilities but you could effect change in what once felt so painfully inevitable in your life and that sent waves of energy rattling through your bones and shooting through every nerve ending.

You couldn’t rest even if it meant visiting the pocket dimension and seeing if there were any changes there as well since the adrenaline coursing through you wouldn’t let you be still for even a second. 

You had the powerful urge to sink your teeth into something and let the juices dribble down your chin.

You needed a project, a distraction, maybe even a fight.

You’d only been here for a day in this life, but it already felt like eons. You were restless and sick of the heavy furnishings and curtains that snuffed out the natural light. 

The park and the siren’s song that called to you whispered of positive changes to come if only you started your journey soon, but your spirit told you that if you so much as touched the front door Alfred would be standing behind you in a nano second.

So, you let your legs carry you from your wing and to parts previously unexplored where you’d found yourself at the door to a den. 

Memories of avoiding this space flashed to mind. 

In the past, you crept past the doorways of any communal area like a shadow evading the first light of dawn for fear that if the glow from within the room touched you then they’d see you, and they’d hurt you either with their words, looks, or pointed disregard for it hurt even more to be intentionally ignored than just forgotten.

You could hear the raucous laughs from down the halls in your memory. The laughs growing louder as your silent steps padded closer only to drop awkwardly when you arrived with no one willing to explain the joke. You wouldn’t get it anyway. You had to be there, Y/n. 

The looks of ‘Why are you here?’ or the intentional glances away, silently urging you to retreat with indifference to save everyone else the discomfort of having an intruder in their peace. 

One thing you mastered during your decade in the manor was learning how to take a hint. You nearly flunked out of high school but that was a lesson you passed with flying colors.

Now you stood at the threshold of a room you hadn’t entered in years, and hesitation withheld your first step for only a second before you remembered that you belonged wherever you wanted to be.

The den was a sitting room that housed a grand, stone fireplace in its original glory. Family photos without you were placed proudly atop the mantel and were clear of the smallest dust mite. 

Perfectly preserved leather couches framed a low sitting mahogany coffee table that stood on an imported Persian rug that pulled the sitting space together. 

The room was attractive and housed many antiques such as lamps with painstakingly painted glass shades, but you only had eyes for the bookshelf that took up the entire east wall. 

The oak shelves were lined with tomes that you’d gazed at in the past but never had the courage to approach close enough to even read the spines. 

You’d have to enter the room and even cross it to get to this bookcase and that was an impossible feat in your last life. The floor might as well have been lava, but now, you’d get to peruse at your own leisure.

You walked to the bookshelf and traced a finger along the spines. Some tomes were old and first additions, and images of the hands they’d passed through over the years before coming to the manor flashed across your mind. 

You felt the feelings that went into every page, the reactions of the readers and what parts resonated with them the most, and the memories that bled into the books from the readers’ lives whilst reading. 

You were spoiled for the twists and turns of mysteries before you even turned a page, the impressions from the readers jumping out at you and playing in your mind like a film. 

Vibrant pictures of real life people who read these books and the memories of doing so and the written words from the pages painted your mind in watercolors for some, and deep, heavy oils in others.

You lost yourself in the memories as you saw them all. A woman curled up with a book in her loft. She wasn’t meant to be reading so late but this romance was calling her name and for a little bit, she could dream of a man too good to be true and be free of the fears of picking the wrong one in this life.

A man was reading a pirate’s adventure of a life he’d never lived and never would but he could pursue his boyhood dreams in these pages when the day’s work was done and the children were tucked away in their beds. 

Your mouth parted in realization as you’d heard of this phenomena before: Psychometry—The ability to gain information of a person or object simply by touching it, gaining insights of its history and past events. 

A gasp fell from your lips as your mind raced with possibilities. There were so many secrets to unlock—so many tales never told! So many worlds were within your reach in this life and all you had to do was be brave enough to take the first step. Of course, there’d be setbacks but as someone who’d died once and survived death countless times, could you really be afraid of anything?

Your finger traced over the spine of a copy of Tom Sawyer and your entire body locked up as the memory overtook you. 

A young boy with hair as black as night and as glossy as spider silk frowned down at his copy of Tom Sawyer, his brows furrowing and lips puckering adorably as if he had just tasted a lemon. 

He flipped through the pages in frustration before tossing the book beside him with a huff. The velvet couch was a red wine color and the room was spacious yet tastefully filled with furniture and decor meant more to admire than to accommodate when it hit you how familiar this space was.

This was Wayne Manor in the past and you knew this boy. 

You saw his face every time you walked a certain hall because he was front and center in the family portrait with Martha and Thomas Wayne.

You were seeing one of Bruce’s childhood memories.

The boy ran a hand through his hair and ruffled as he grumbled. “Why do I have to read this stupid book…?” He had half a mind to just drop the story midway and make up for it the best he could in his book report, but those thoughts were immediately shut down when he thought of his parents finding out and being disappointed in him for not doing his best. 

He pouted and his blue eyes flashed with shame. He was still so young, no more than eight years old, but he knew that they only wished for him to do the best he could and they’d always be happy. He couldn’t let them down like that.

The boy begrudgingly scooted off of the couch, his legs unable to reach the floor yet, and walked off to find Alfred. Maybe Alfred could read it with him and make it more interesting.

The memory finally began to fade and you pulled back from the shelf. You stumbled back and almost lost your footing as feeling came back to your numb calves. You had been looking at the living room in a different time long before you were ever born and Bruce had lost his happiness. 

Could your psychometry work on other things? How far back could you see? You could feel the emotions and sensations of the people who’d touched these books and left emotional impressions, and see them in your mind’s eye as if they were memories of people you’d met before or as if you’d lived these lives yourself.

There was so much you wanted to discover, but you were brought out of your brainstorming when you heard a familiar clicking on the hardwood floors. 

You knew this sound.

The sound once made your stomach drop into a bottomless pit and memories of keen brown eyes that seemed to stare right through you came to mind. Unfounded fear tried to take hold of your heart but you calmed yourself before it could take over. 

He’d never hurt you and had even tried to save you once before. No matter how you and his master felt about each other, he was a good boy and that was an undeniable fact. 

A serene smile spread across your lips as you withdrew from the books and turned an affectionate gaze on the three year old pup who’d frozen midstep when he saw you. 

You hadn’t met him in this life, and you could detect confusion and alarm in his amber eyes and the expressive little tufts of fur above his eyes that resembled brows. 

You smiled warmly at his cuteness but a fierce protectiveness solidified inside; you wouldn’t let the miasma scare him in this life either. 

You could see what he saw now, and you could do something about it for the both of you. ‘You could see it all along, but couldn’t tell anyone, huh sweetie?’

You slowly knelt down and made your voice as soft and sweet as possible. 

“Come here, baby.” The first syllables were strangled but you fought through. Making kissy noses to the dog that made him tilt his head, “Come here, sweetheart. I’m a friend.”

You looked at the wispy haze above him. The plum colored clouds that tried to encircle him and blur his perception of you hovered near and you directed a glare at the apparition. 

“You can’t have him.” You rumbled low in your throat and the twitching mist quickly dissipated and retreated from view.

The air was immediately lighter and even Titus appeared to raise his head higher in relief. Even the nub of his tail that was once pointed to the floor raised slightly before exploding into excited wagging. 

Free of the mist that scared him, he happily pranced over to you with a pep in his step. Looks like you’d just scored another ally and he was the cutest one yet.

Damian had just seen Titus turn into the den and he'd followed with the intention to call his dog to go outside together for some exercise when he heard an unfamiliar voice. 

The voice was unmistakably a woman’s, and although strained, he could make out her words in crystal clarity. 

"Come here, baby." Damian inhaled sharply and almost choked on nothing. His lungs struggled to breathe and his steps faltered awkwardly. ‘It’s obviously for the dog!’ He chided himself as shame scorched the back of his neck.

Who the hell could be in his house, and why the hell was Titus so quiet and not doing his guard dog duties?

His steps halted before he stealthily reduced his presence to be nearly undetectable and crept nearer to the door. Then, he stopped just out of frame where he could hear each note in her melodic voice.

He’d never heard this woman’s voice and the rational part of him said that he should reveal himself to the potential intruder, but something in her voice lulled his instincts and made him want to hear as much as he could instead of chasing her away. 

A foreign nagging in the recesses of his mind told him that if he revealed himself he’d lose any chance to hear more of her voice and that he could lose this connection that he wouldn’t easily get again. And so, he stood pressed against the wall while cloaked in shadows to listen to an unknown woman talk to his dog while he hung on every word. 

Not pathetic at all.

“I knew you were a sweetie.” You slowly knelt to eye level and extended a bandaged hand for Titus to sniff if he chose to. He only needed to give a snort once before bowing his head under your hand and bumping it up, showing that he wanted head scratches.

Rare joy filled your heart as you lowered to the hardwood floor and crossed your legs. “Look at those pretty brown eyes!” You praised as you brought both hands up to frame his face and scratch behind his ears. He tilted his head and closed his eyes as his tongue rolled out of his goofily grinning mouth, and you snorted at his cuteness.

“You know,” You began, “I had a friend just like you.” You recounted the memories of the pet or pets you lost. A person wasn't the only one that slipped from your grip that day. 

“We lost each other during the storm.” Your eyes burned and Damian could note a slight change in your intonation, the strain of trying to maintain a natural cadence but your vocal chords were constricting with anguish as you fought back tears.

“I tried to hold on, but…” You sniffled, “A lot of good that did.” You gently ruffled his ears while trying to not catch his fur with your bandages, “They were my best friend,” You dropped your voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Even better than my human friends, but that’s a secret.” You giggled a watery thing, trying to force positivity through the cracks of what was. 

Damian’s chest suddenly felt tight and he lightly touched his breastbone as if he could locate the source of pain. It was you—the girl he’d rejected and was compelled to hurt every chance he got. The girl meant to be his blood, but who he saw as just a bastard. 

You were speaking and every word pierced him like a thousand arrows. His breath was stolen from him and he sagged against the wall, gripping with his fingers to keep from sliding down to the molding and giving himself away like an amateur.

He could relate to every word as he found solace in creatures who lived as nature intended and loved freely when offered kindness. Like you, his pet was his best friend, but you’d lost yours. He never considered having something in common with you, much less something so close to his chest. 

You’d been shaking him up since you entered the manor, but it was also like you were waking him up from a sleepwalking state. 

“You’re a good boy aren’t you? Well, dogs are a reflection of their owners.” You gently smooshed Titus’s squishy cheeks and he seemed to sigh in agreement. “You’re so sweet and gentle!”

His nubby tail could’ve dislocated with his happy wags, but your mouth pressed into a straight line as you gingerly felt the edges of his ears. 

“Poor baby.” You murmured, but Damian caught it and could detect your mood change once again. From doting to reminiscent, to positive, to sympathetic, you were a rollercoaster of emotion. 

“You’re docked...” You whispered as you barely touched the tips of his ears as if afraid that the mutilation was still tender. His nubby tail, too short to barely thump against the polished floor, only saddened you more. 

“It must’ve hurt so much…” Damian almost couldn’t bear it. “I’m so sorry that happened. You’re so brave.”

‘Those words are for the dog, not for me.’ Damian chanted to himself as he stepped out of the shadows and let the light from the open window above you wash over him.

Thick lashes framed almond shaped eyes of lush forest green. His dark and naturally arched brows were unfurrowed for a change, and his mouth wasn’t fixed in disdain but simply to explain. 

At his current height, you could tell you were still a good few inches taller than him but he was starting to fill out more with his father’s brand of training and nutrition. His eyes dropped down to your cross-legged form and he folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe to feign nonchalance when really, he was trying to hide the fact that his breath hitched when he met your gaze.

The dozen transparent specters that loomed behind him earlier were out of sight and his shoulders even looked broader and more sure in their absence. The Damian you’d met for the first time in the last life was slightly hunched over and wound tighter than a bow ready to let loose a kill shot. This Damian was more tranquil.

He raised the corner of his mouth in a forced attempt at a sneer—his arrogance was his shield— but it had none of its usual bite. He gripped his biceps just to keep his hands from trembling as you gazed up at him with an imperceptible expression that made him feel like you saw far too much.

“It wasn’t my choice to dock his ears. He was like that when father brought him.” He didn’t know why he was defending himself. 

No, he didn’t see it as defending; he simply didn’t want you to misunderstand, but why would he care if you misunderstood him? He shook away the intrusive thoughts, deciding they were something he could ruminate over later. Ignore the fact that you misunderstanding him was something he refused to even think about.

You looked up at him with a simple, sad smile that gradually warmed as your eyes crinkled, “I had a feeling you wouldn’t.” 

He was taken aback, “And what would give you that feeling?”

You tilted your head at him as if he was asking a silly question and Titus whined in your lap as if to ask what the heck did you think you were doing not devoting all of your attention to him.

“Maybe animal mutilation for the aesthetic is beneath you.” You offered and turned your attention back to Titus.

“Well, of course. Anyone who’d do such a thing shouldn’t be allowed to even have pets. It’s needlessly cruel and—” He stopped himself as he watched how Titus basked in your presence. The affectionate smile that enhanced all of your natural features, and the warmth in your eyes that threatened to engulf him if he so much as drew your gaze. 

For once, Damian silenced himself. 

“So…You had a pet too?” He doesn’t know why he asked. It’s not like he’d be low enough to rip open old wounds like this, but for some reason he struggled for a line of conversation—something to bridge the gap between you two—and he’d heard it earlier so he cast the line and wondered if you’d bite.

You watched Titus curl up and try to squeeze himself into your lap like it was a new bed that was too small for him. “I did.”

For the first time in months, he could see clearly. Every second in your presence was clearing the film from before his eyes, and he could look back at the boy he was just hours ago and wonder what the hell came over him all this time.

“What was it?”

You looked up at him, and he had to maintain a lax posture against the doorframe where he leaned with one leg loosely crossed over the other for added measure, endlessly grateful for his natural poise that kept him from slipping off when your inquisitive eyes landed on him. 

You were unguarded, your smile was light yet receptive and he felt a small thrill in his belly when he realized that he had a chance. A chance at what? He didn’t know, but he was just so glad that he could see and think for himself in what felt like far too long.

You parted your lips to answer and his ears perked up just to be interrupted by a “We’re home!” and what sounded like a small stampede coming from the foyer to your direction.

Tim, Stephanie, Duke, and Cassandra appeared at Damian’s side in seconds and the corners of his mouth tightened as his brows drew downward into a severe frown. You watched his transformation and let your lips curl into a sarcastic grin only for him.

His brows flew up at the shared look as if the two of you were hapless victims surrounded by idiots and he quickly found he enjoyed being in on something with just the two of you.

“Who are you talking to?” Tim asked before turning to face the room where his eyes dropped to your cross-legged figure. Titus was flopped on his back in your lap—as much of him that could fit—with a happy smile on his goofy face, and the late afternoon sunlight spilled into the room and backlit you angelically. 

You overlooked Tim, Stephanie, and Cassandra, your attention being drawn to Duke.

Duke Thomas.

The hard edges that formed around you when you were interrupted visibly softened as you gazed at him. His endlessly kind brown eyes locked with your own and nearly had you spellbound, but what drew your attention from falling prisoner was his essence. His strength. His soul.

You saw a mother and a dad-who-stepped-up hovering behind his shoulders. Their smiles were warm, yet tinged with sadness and regret—sadness that Duke had to suffer alone, and regret because they blamed themselves for him having to do so. 

You blinked once and painfully stretched smiles that nearly split skin into Glasgow grins flash banged you as maniacal laughter invaded your mind and drowned out all thought.

A white face that had become synonymous with senseless pain and chaos flickered in and out of your peripheral and ungrateful, ignorant mobs surrounded a lone figure decked in gold and black who silently withstood it all when you wouldn’t have blamed him if he had walked away. 

This was barely the surface of who Duke Thomas was, a sneak peek even. He was so much more than met the eye, and you wanted to get close enough to touch, to earn that permission.

Something shifted between you two, his meta abilities allowing him to see writhing shadows that tried to wriggle towards you only to be beaten back by an innate light you gave off. He couldn’t see what cast these shadows, but he knew they meant you harm and that was all he needed to know.

He looked at the soft, hopeful smile you gave him, and he suddenly felt he wanted to protect that smile and that it was strange how things finally felt right after so long.

He hadn’t felt like himself in the last couple of months but now with you right in front of him with a golden halo of afternoon sun around you, he felt like he was where he was supposed to be.

“Hey, Y/n.” He tried to nod nonchalantly but it was hard to look chill when his voice almost cracked, making him miss the withering glare Damian shot him from the side. 

You withdrew your hands from Titus and he whined like you’d scolded him. A smile curled your lips as you picked up your phone and carefully swiped, "𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝙳𝚞𝚔𝚎." 

He smiled back and was just about smitten. The corner of Damian’s mouth the others could see curled smugly. He got to hear your voice for himself while you used your phone for the others.

Looking at this for what it was, with Damian resting against the doorframe, Duke smiling down at you, and Titus snuggled in your lap, this was the nicest moment you’d ever shared in a public space in this damned haunted mansion. Isn’t that hilariously sad?

However, nothing lasts forever when a voice like nails on a chalkboard—and the reason why you awoke in a cold sweat many nights in your past life—cut through the room.

“Hey, Ty!” Stephanie smiled at you but it didn’t reach her eyes. She was a starved coyote, all teeth and desperate for a bite.

She didn’t give you a chance to respond—she didn’t want a response—when she stepped forward and touched the side of her own left eye, “Oh, wow. Aren’t you embarrassed?” She asked as if she was concerned with how you felt about your scar.

“You know, with that big scar like right there.” Her voice was high and intentionally carried.

You blinked once but didn’t miss a beat. You did want a fight today.

“𝙽𝚘, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍?” The AI voice responded.

Her smile almost shrunk before regaining the bravado. You weren’t welcome here and you shouldn’t get too comfortable.

You didn’t give her a chance to answer. 

“𝙰𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.” 

All of the air left the room, and you clicked your teeth in distaste, “𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢.” 

A cackle burst from Duke once before devolving into coughs as he weakly retreated into the hallway. You could hear as he tried to bite back the cackles and choked at the attempts. He didn’t mean to laugh at a friend, but he wasn’t expecting a comeback like that.

“You can’t just say that, Y/n.” He coughed but there was a smile on his face and a few tears in his eyes.

Stephanie’s smile completely receded.

“𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎.” You leaned forward and squinted at her mouth, “𝙶𝚘 𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔.” A Cheshire grin spread across your own lips and your eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Really? A lip joke?” She tried to play it off that your retort was juvenile but her reddening cheeks gave her weak spot away. “Is that all?”

“𝙽𝚊𝚠.” Your smile could rival the sun as you typed, “𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚘𝚘. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.”

If looks could kill you’d be dead where you sat, but all she could offer in this unexpected moment—when her power play was lost and she had to regroup to salvage her place in the pack before she gave it away—was a “Fuck you, Y/n.” Before turning and retreating. 

Your grin spread as you watched her leave, but that couldn’t last long when a whiny sound pierced your ears and rattled your nerves. 

“That was way too much for no reason.” Tim assumed a moral high ground as he stared down at you with a frown and shook his head disapprovingly. 

You mirrored his expression, “𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝?” You almost saw red, but he wasn’t worth it. He never was. 

He didn’t have an explanation, at least not a valid one for his favoritism. People like him would much rather skip around the truth instead of admit their bias.

“𝚈𝚘𝚞—𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎—,” you pretended not to know his name because you resolved to forget it, to forget him. 

“𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍. 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝."

You looked at him for a beat, your dark pupils stabbing into his soul, and delivered the last blow.

"𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍."

His eyes widened at your arrogance, nearly too stunned to move, but he disappeared down the hall after Stephanie after sparing one last dirty look.

You felt Cassandra cast a glance at you before following after the others but you pretended not to notice her. 

You felt a wet nose nudge your fingertips and looked down to find Titus bumping against your hands and whining softly. 

You tried to reach out to ruffle his ears but your hands trembled as adrenaline coursed through your veins and left you lightheaded and wonderfully high.

You’d done it. You’d just talked back to two of some of the people who’d made your life hell, and you were okay. 

So many times the words died in your throat before you could speak and every action faltered as ‘what-ifs’ crossed your mind with all the ways that trying to defend yourself could go horribly wrong.

It took dying and coming back to realize those thoughts were lies and self-sabotage and you shouldn’t have listened to them. You’d wasted so much time living in fear, but you truly had another chance to untangle the web before you trapped yourself forever.

“I did it, boy.” You whispered softly and rubbed the top of Titus’s head. ‘It was so scary, but I really did it.’ You sniffled. 

Duke rounded the corner again with a natural smile lighting his features. His eyes were bright and dazzling in the natural sunlight and his left dimple was prominent as he grinned at you. “Dish water. Really?” He smirked and plopped down on the couch beside where you sat on the floor.

He leaned over the armrest and gave Titus two solid pats before getting comfortable and producing a small package of powdered donuts.

“I didn’t know what you liked, but I saw these at the store, and…” He was actually giving you a gift. You hadn’t even had a full conversation with him yet, but he’d remembered you and thought to bring you a present. Was this a change that this new life and energy had wrought?

You gingerly reached up and took the package. 

“𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜, 𝙳𝚞𝚔𝚎.”

His smile softened as he watched you and found it adorable how you always called his name, “No problem, Y/n.” 

You admired the cute little paper sack, but paused when you felt eyes on you. Looking up, you saw Damian still leaning against the doorway and frowning at you, well, more specifically, the sack in your hands.

You repressed a knowing grin as you turned to Duke while Damian’s frown deepened.

“𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎?” Your phone asked and he touched his stomach and slumped down in his seat. “Thanks, but I’ve already had way too many.” He covered his mouth with a fist and looked like he needed some Pepto Bismol.

“𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙳𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚊𝚗?”

Duke raises a brow at your unlikely request but Damian is already answering as he crosses the room, “I don’t eat junk.” He says as he dips his hand into the paper sack and takes a powdered donut for himself. He sits in a recliner near you and the bookcase and nibbles on the baked good almost indignantly.

‘Okay, sure.’ He catches the curl of your lips and the tips of his ears glow pink.

Titus begins to whine in your lap from lack of attention and you rub his ears absentmindedly. Besides the darkness that clung to Stephanie and Tim like a second skin, and the restless dead that crowded Damian earlier, this room was free of the manipulations. The air was clear and all was peaceful. 

Duke lifted a remote control and asked, “‘You mind?” You smiled as you softly shook your head and he took the permission to press a button that revealed the large landscape painting to be a sleek flatscreen TV.

You blinked at how casually he did it. You’d never been so close to a TV in the manor. TVs meant communal rooms which you avoided as if your life depended on it—and it felt like it had—silent rejection was more than enough to know you weren’t wanted or invited.

A sharp look cut your spirit and would flash behind your eyelids when you blinked for years to come, every sort of rejection hurt more than you should’ve let it but when your world shrunk to a small group of strangers who hated you for existing, if they all rejected you then what would you have?

So, you were unfamiliar with all of the electronics the manor had. You’d never touched table hockey, never visited the home theatre (or even knew where it was), never stuck a toe in the Olympic sized swimming pool, hell, you couldn’t really list all of the recreational activities at the manor if you tried—your mind was blank.

It was pitiful, really. You’d haunted this house for a decade and didn’t enjoy any of the comforts having a sinfully affluent biological father should’ve brought you. You didn’t enjoy a single second of your life here…

You leaned back against the wall and Titus whined and looked at you as your eyes glazed over.

From his armchair, Damian wrinkled his nose slightly whenever Duke landed on an option he didn’t like, but he lowered his metaphorical hackles when Duke chose a nature film.

It was finally peaceful and his mind was still. For weeks, he’d been assailed by cryptic dreams that fed his paranoia and occupied his thoughts even in his waking moments, but now, he glanced from the corner of his eye and watched your profile and felt a sinking feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with legacy. 

His eyes scanned the finer details of your face, landing on your lips and losing focus as he wondered if they were as soft as they looked until he caught himself. 

Feeling the tips of his ears beginning to burn, he ripped his eyes away and looked at your own when he saw the stormy look in them. You stared off into space as Titus stood up from your lap to yelp in concern. 

You didn’t budge. 

Damian began to call your name, the word so foreign on his tongue, but so welcome. 

“Ty?”

Duke beat him to it.

You startled and the light returned to your eyes, you looked up at Duke from your spot on the floor with confused eyes and your mouth in a soft “o,” and Duke looked back at you in concern.

“You okay there?” He asked and immediately regretted how stupid the question was but you could hear in his voice and the flecks of honey in his eyes that he really cared. 

Your eyes shined with unshed tears and you delicately reached out and patted the armrest of the couch, your bandaged hand just inches from his own and he watched with anticipation only to deflate when you withdrew. 

You nodded and turned your attention back to Titus who huffed at you.

Duke paused for a beat as he knew you weren’t okay, that nothing would probably ever be simply “okay” ever again, but he resolved to make things as easy for you as he could. He sat up and stretched, “It’s almost dinner time.”

Damian scowled, “Didn’t you just eat?”

“I’m a growing young man.” Duke grinned darkly, “You’ll get there some day.”

“Tsk!” Damian raised a large coffee table book that was lying on an accent table near him and almost chucked it until he saw that you were in the path of his throw even if he arched it gracefully to be sure it didn’t touch you.

Damian drew his mouth into a tight line before rising first. “Then, we shouldn’t be late.” He cast a glance towards you as if Duke wasn't there at all, “Let’s go.”

You looked at him like you didn’t understand. No one had ever invited you to dinner before and you realized you actually forgot what it was like to be invited anywhere as you stared up at him in puzzlement. 

Shouldn’t this be a dream come true? Damian looked down at you expectantly, but a hint of confusion creased his own brow at your hesitation.

This wasn’t one of your most shameful dreams anymore. You had higher expectations for yourself.

You gently removed Titus from your lap who whined and struggled and Duke had to assist with the wiggling furbaby. “I know you like her, dude, but it’s time to eat.” Titus whined dramatically as if greatly offended and you and Duke shared a smile. Damian silently watched from the side.

Duke extended a hand to help you up and you took it, a warm thrill igniting from the contact and shooting up your arm and to your chest. Duke’s eyes widened and he suddenly found the floor incredibly interesting. 

“𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝.” You texted as you left without a parting glance. You didn’t plan to have dinner with them, your mind already set on a table for two.

Alfred was sprinkling a light garnish on a soup when you waltzed into the kitchen.

“I’m so glad you’re here, young mistress. Dinner is about to be served and I was just about to fetch you.”

You tilted your head and typed, “𝙽𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞.”

Alfred paused and then turned away from the porcelain bowl as if seeing you would make him hear more clearly. “Pardon, young mistress? I appreciate the sentiment, but naturally you’ll be dining with your family.”

You grinned, “𝚄𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢, 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.”

You leaned back against a counter and gazed back at him as his sharp mind worked to navigate this. “That is a privilege I don’t deserve—”

“𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑,” You were an immovable object, “𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠.”

The cheeky grin that graced your lips when you were in his presence wasn’t present at this moment. You were more serious than he’d ever seen you before, and the truth in your words finally settled deep and hit him in the ribs.

“Young mistress…”

“𝙲𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞?”

“I have my own meals at irregular hours that you shouldn’t try to share, young mistress.”

“𝙱𝚞𝚝, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘…”

Your lips pressed together and he could see you metaphorically digging your heels in the ground. 

“Your father’s expecting you.”

You wanted to scoff, but that’d be rude. He never wanted you to share a meal before and this was most likely Alfred trying to make you feel wanted as he’d tried so often in the past and even in this life.

“𝙸 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚘.”

Alfred trembled the slightest moment as his blood chilled. You exhaled and pouted, “𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝?”

“Excuse me, young mistress?”

You bit the inside of your cheek and turned your largest puppy dog eyes on him. 

“𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 “𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎.”

Alfred’s shoulders loosened the slightest amount and grinned softly beneath his moustach. 

“Hmm, that is a very good question.” He looked off in thought as he turned and slowly paced to the fridge where he opened it and pulled out a bottom shelf. Curiosity got you and you peaked over his shoulder to see a sumptuous dessert he had described to you while you were in the hospital stashed away. It was even more mouthwatering than the pictures he’d shown you!

“I intended on sharing a little dessert with the young mistress after her first dinner with the family, but if she doesn’t then, I have no choice…” He picked up the platter and walked to the waste bin with a look on his face that said this hurt him more than it hurt you.

“𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝! 𝙾𝚔𝚊𝚢!”

His theatrically drooped shoulders raised back pridefully once again as he beamed at you and his victory. 

“I knew you’d see reason, young mistress.”

“𝙼𝚑𝚖.” You pouted as you watched him hide the dessert in a secret compartment again. 

“Now,” He wiped his hands with a new twinkle in his eye, “Let’s wash up and I’ll escort you to the dining room.” You glowered at the man as your stomach growled and his triumphant grin only grew.

Alfred gently guided you to the dining room, and once again, you realized how unfamiliar the manor was to you. You hardly remember your last meal in the dining room or the breakfast nook.

How many years had it been before you hid away entirely? The turns you two took were unfamiliar and you walked slowly partly to be able to retrace your steps later and partly because you really didn’t want to go. The dessert you could practically taste and not wanting to cause trouble for Alfred were your only motivators.

“And here we are.” Alfred said proudly, his posture so regal that he could be mistaken for the master of the house and his voice was far more commanding and rich than usual.

Alfred was incredibly proud to be the one escorting you to dinner, and deeper down, the knowledge that he was your chosen family gratified him like nothing else. 

The dining room doors were opened wide and Alfred guided you in like you were the Crown Princess. You had been so focused on remembering your way that you hadn’t noticed the room go quiet until you two had arrived.

Everyone was there. 

Bruce sat at the head of the table with Dick at his right, then Tim, Duke, and Jason.

To Bruce’s left was an empty seat, then Damian, Stephanie and Cassandra. You found all eyes were with mixed reactions of annoyance (Tim and Stephanie), discomfort (Dick), and hope (Duke, Jason, and even Damian?). 

You paused and looked up at Alfred to make sure he saw your stubborn gaze. You were doing this for him and the dessert, and he almost chuckled at the hidden message.

“Let’s get you seated, young mistress.” Alfred went to guide you to the empty chair beside Bruce but you had let go of his elbow as if distracted and walked over to the empty chair beside Jason.

If you sat there it’d throw off the harmony, but why would you care about something like that? You could feel Stephanie’s resentful glare on you but kept a placid expression on your face and pep in your step.

You reached out and tried to wrap your bandaged hands around the back of the hand carved dining chair and Jason jumped up to help when it finally registered what you were doing. “Oh, damn, lemme help.” He sounded helpless as he rushed to take the chair from you and pull it back with ease. 

You smiled sweetly at him and nodded, but Alfred cleared his throat and cut in hastily before you could sit.

“A seat has already been prepared for you, young mistress.” You paused and frowned before nodding. You looked up at Jason again and gently patted the back of his hand that was gripping the back of the chair he’d pulled out for you and his heart throbbed.

You quietly mouthed thank you before slowly returning to Alfred’s side. 

“Just over here, young mistress.” Alfred guided you to the seat to Bruce’s left and you felt more flush the nearer you drew to it. Saliva was building in the back of your throat and a cold sweat forming under your arms. You were feeling nauseated and hadn’t even looked at Bruce’s face yet. If you had to look at him during dinner you’d throw up on the centerpiece. You pressed your lips into a perfectly polite smile as your appetite went out of the window.

Damian had been watching you the whole time. He was secretly glad that he’d be sitting by you during dinner, and he hadn’t once felt jealous that you were the one who sat at Bruce’s side when he would’ve usually claimed the spot. 

He didn’t feel a need to be jealous.

Until something bitter slipped in one ear and slithered in his throat and took control before he could control himself.

“Tch, you should be grateful to be sitting next to father.” He hissed and he almost bit his tongue when the words finally escaped. He didn’t know where it’d come from and whipped his head to his right—to the direction he felt something brush his ear—but the only one there was Stephanie who stared back at him with a raised brow.

Damian frowned and shivered, tasting rot on his tongue and feeling violated at being forced to do anything against his will. He’d been feeling that for months but it had come to a head today. 

He hadn’t meant to try to attack you and he sure as hell didn’t mean to thrash at you that Jason had to step in to restrain him. 

He didn’t mean to be as verbally abusive as he had, and he was really fighting to preserve those memories and keep them from being absorbed by a white fog that tried to keep them from his mind. As if to keep him from caring about you and his actions. 

Something was off and he hated the way it made him feel, how invisible forces tried to stoke angry flames to lash out at you and do his worst, but he noticed the calm you brought him just by being near and latched on to the solace you brought despite also being the target of the vile energy that tried to coax him. 

Now, he looked at you like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, shame blazing up the back of his collar.

You paused on your way to the chair and looked at him thoughtfully before leaning over, “𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎?”

Once again, he was thrown off by you and that made the vile spirit that tried to seed itself in his mind and take control wither away. 

He felt lighter again with a clear mind and grinned mockingly.

Alfred pulled your seat out for you and Damian stilled as he realized he would’ve done the same for you if he’d thought about it in time, if he’d had the chance with Alfred not being your shadow. He cast a withering glance at Jason and sniffed, ‘Your attempt at chivalry failed, Todd. I won’t give you a chance to try again.’ 

“𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑.” After sitting down you looked up at Alfred and smiled warmly with doe-like eyes as you reached back and squeezed his hand affectionately. 

Bruce didn’t miss this as he silently watched you from the moment you stepped into the doorway.

“It’s my pleasure, young mistress.” And Alfred meant every word.

“Finally, we can eat.” Stephanie groaned loudly and swayed in her seat, glancing to the side just to see that you were leaning back into your chair with the same passive smile and a cold glaze over your eyes. It was like you didn’t hear her.

You noticed Duke sitting beside Dick and beamed at him who smiled back in return, his left dimple prominent under the light of the crystal chandelier. 

You reached up and touched your own left cheek, mirroring his dimple, “It’s cute.” You mouthed and his eyes widened before he burst out in bashful laughter.

“Thanks, Y/n.” He looked at your face and his smile turned soft and warm as he held back any compliments he wanted to give in the presence of Bruce and the others. It might not be good practice to compliment a girl’s looks when her dad is right there.

You leaned back into your chair with mirth in your eyes as you relaxed and rested your arms on the armrests. You didn’t try to make conversation or look like you wanted to as you stared past Dick and to the wall clock. You looked right through him, and no one had ever done that before in his entire life.

You stared off into space, feeling the evil looming in the corners of the high ceiling, but the roiling clouds were too cowardly to reach out now. 

You’d seen the slimy neon green worm that’d slipped into Damian’s ear before you had a chance to react, and the corner of your mouth quirked up darkly. Witnessing how the wraiths affected the people around you to hurt you was even more incentive to get back at the malicious forces and make it hurt.

“Y/n.”

The voice made your skin crawl and you jerked to look in the direction it came from. Bruce watched you with an unreadable expression as the table watched silently. ‘Nosey bastards.’

Apparently Bruce had called you a couple of times before you’d finally heard him. Once again, that was a first for him.

Bruce watched your confusion as your eyes landed on him like he was a complete stranger before the polite and utterly detached smile gracefully fell into place.

“𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝙼𝚛. 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎?”

He cleared his throat, “How are you settling in?” The question was awkward on his tongue and fell flat onto the mahogany dining table with no one knowing how to salvage it.

You blinked before handling it gracefully. “𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙼𝚛. 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑. 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙿𝚃 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚎'𝚜 truly. 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐.” 

“Well,” Bruce looked to Alfred who was staring at the back of your chair, “That’s what he’s here for. It’s good to hear that you’re doing well.” He swallowed the bitter pill of his own daughter holding another man, even a man that he himself considered a father figure, in higher regards than she did him.

Yes, he didn't come to the hospital, but Alfred should've made you understand that he was busy. You should be able to tell by the news that he was scrambling to fix what happened, but here you were complimenting another man right in front of him. You just didn't see things clearly, he thought, and he'd have to set time aside to clear up your misconceptions.

You looked into Bruce’s eyes and held his gaze, as a sarcastic grin slipped through before you looked away and settled back.

He struggled to grab any topics to discuss, while completely traipsing past the discussion you’d had a few hours earlier. His hands that he’d been resting on the table balled into fists as that afternoon returned to mind.

You wanted to leave, and why? Where would you even go? You had no one and nothing, and what could be better out there for you than right here in a manor protected by your only living parent and financial stability? 

He resolved that you truly weren’t of sound mind just yet, so he’d have to be more considerate of you and not ask or expect anything too difficult. He unclenched his fists and exhaled as he once again assumed control of the situation and the people around him. That thing about Gotham Academy must’ve also been a mental lapse and he’d have Alfred choose an appropriate school for you before the new term began. 

By the time school opened up again, you’d have forgotten your episode and be a quiet member of the family. He sipped his wine as his nerves calmed.

“So, Y/n,” Dick tried, maybe he was disturbed by being ignored. “I heard you were hanging out today.”

He most likely heard that from Stephanie or Tim, but you didn’t care enough to inquire. 

You nodded.

“We should hang out some time.” He brightened, “There are a lot of cool places in the manor and it’d take all day to find them all.”

You didn’t open up the way he’d hoped at his offer or at the promise of adventure. You considered your crystal water glass with more interest than you did him as you lazily typed, “𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝙼𝚛. 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚜𝚘𝚗.”

You heard Jason choke on his drink and your lips curled into a smile at the reaction. Dick’s smile faltered and panic flashed across his eyes. 

“I’m nowhere near old enough to be ‘Mr. Grayson.’”

You looked up at him now, for the first time since you’d been in the dining room, and scrunched your brows in confusion as you considered him.

“𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏.” 

“I’m 28?” 

“𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙰𝙰𝚁𝙿 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚢𝚎𝚝?”

Dick gasped and looked like you’d slapped him, and Jason snickered from the end of the table as Duke covered his mouth and even Damian snorted just once before containing himself.

You were a hypocrite for doing this, he was only 2 years older than your true self, but right now they all knew you as a teenager and you were going to play into that if it meant bruising egos.

Tim sneered at you and you could hear Stephanie muttering to Cassandra but it was unintelligible to you and you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You watched the shadow of a mass gestate around him like nearly sentient sludge as you considered what was right in front of you and so easily overlooked.

It must’ve been so hard to be the blueprint, to be held to impossible standards and then once breaking one limit having to continue to outperform to uphold his place as the first—As the success. 

You could hear the voices that haunted Dick’s dreams, ‘Don’t end up like Jason. He was the angry one all along." but Jason’s death absolved Dick of the past and branded the deceased with the blemished reputation because the dead can’t testify.

Deep in Dick’s heart, he knew that he was the real angry robin but Jason dying in flames in what looked like a tragedy wrought by foolhardy and delinquent youth earned Jason that label that he couldn’t get rid of even when he came back again and was already a grown man.

Pity crossed your brow but vanished in the blink of an eye as you tempered your compassion. You wouldn’t misplace it in this life.

He made his choice before. He was strong enough to not succumb, but going with the flow was easier. Emphasizing other’s imperfections helped mitigate how much he hated his own and you couldn’t forgive him for using you as an outlet like that. 

‘Damn. Not even 30 and already this ran through. Dude doesn’t love himself. He never did.’ You chewed the inside of your cheek as Alfred arrived with the serving tray and not a minute too soon.

Alfred placed platters and serving bowls in the center and presented soups and refilled glasses, flitting from one place to the other as if he was teleporting and you tried to follow him with your eyes, disbelieving this wonder of a man.

And then he set a plate in front of you and raised the cloche but the aroma that wafted to your nostrils revealed what the dish was before you'd seen it. 

Suddenly, you were spiritually brought back to your grandmother’s kitchen where you were surrounded by light and love, and far away from this haunted house where broken children were collected like toys by an more broken man.

Your eyes fell to the dish and it looked and smelled everything like your grandmother’s signature cooking. It was your favorite and something she always made for you specially. Your trembling hand reached for your fork and almost dropped it as you struggled to cut a forkful and bring it to your trembling lips. 

You hadn’t had your grandmother’s cooking in 10 years and this was the closest you’d ever seen or smelled anything like it. Your eyes glazed over as you took the bite that would decide it all and you dropped forward in your seat, almost hitting your head on the table as the taste hit your tongue. 

“What’s wrong?” Damian’s voice was louder than he intended, shock marring his features as you collapsed in on yourself. 

It tasted just like her cooking, but how could Alfred have done it?

You raised your face and your eyes were completely blurred by tears and your reddening face startled Bruce and the others and elicited some gasps. Tim scowled at your emotion but Duke and Jason looked upset.

You turned to Alfred who was staring at you silently and expectantly while he held his breath.

“How?” You gasped in a broken voice, and he didn’t have time to answer as you rose from your seat and threw your arms around him like he was a life preserver and you’d been cast adrift at sea.

You held him close and cried into his lapel and he held you up as he rubbed your back while you quietly sobbed.

Bruce, your father, watched this display at a loss as his only daughter threw herself into another man’s arms for support. His hands balled into fists again and his mouth that was almost set to call your name closed into a tight line as he watched.

“There, there, young mistress.” Alfred comforted in a gentle tone as he rubbed your back and you wiped your eyes roughly with the back of your bandaged hands.

You pulled away and looked at his soaking wet dress shirt in shame. “I’m sorry.” You croaked and he rushed to dismiss it.

“You have no reason to apologize, young mistress.”

You sniffled and wiped your eyes some more, “It’s just like hers.”

He smiled and squeezed your shoulders before guiding you back to your seat that had almost tumbled backward in your excitement. You wiped your face with a dinner napkin as Damian watched you keenly. “What’s the big deal?” It was a simple dish in his eyes.

This didn’t offend you as your smiled impishly with swollen lips, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

He scowled, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙼𝚛. 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚜𝚘𝚗.” You joked as you swiped your message since your throat was beginning to ache.

“That’ll take too long!”

“Um, hello?” Dick looked confused by the fact he was catching so many strays but his voice fell on deaf ears as you had all of Damian’s attention. 

You tilted your head at your plate, “𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝.”

“And eat whatever you had to make do with that most likely lacks any nutritional value?” He said derisively but his voice lacked any venom and could be seen as banter. Like real siblings.

You didn’t need to hear more as you were pulling the plate to you covetously with a gleeful smile when he called out, “Wait!” Damian quickly stabbed a fork on your plate, halting your retreat, and cut a bite for himself.

He chewed on the bite silently, brows furrowed as he swallowed. 

“It’s certainly edible.”

“𝚂𝚎𝚎?” You beamed at him and his heart raced, “𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜. 𝙽𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎.” you joked and Damian would’ve breathed fire if he could’ve.

“I’m 14!”

“Fourteen in two months, young master Damian.” Alfred interjected and Damian scowled at the older man who practically stood guard behind you.

You smiled at Damian fondly, enjoying playing with him and his breath hitched as he reeled away from you and turned to his own plate.

His heart was thumping in his chest but it was with something the complete opposite of the negative influences who tried to rule him.

When Alfred presented your dish, Damian suddenly felt his arm twitching to lash out and flip the hot dish onto you, to see it scald your skin and ruin your night. To isolate you and banish you from the table and the kingdom forever in a swift motion that separated the haves and the have-nots—to put you in your place. 

But a chill and his uncontrollable growing affection for you immediately overrode the impulse. Why would he even do that? Why would he hurt you? 

He was sure he'd overcome such impulses in his most tumultuous times as a tween and he’d never hurt the weak which you undoubtedly were in his eyes no matter how cocky and aloof you seemed at times. 

So, why? He wouldn’t let whatever this is control him. He’d lock himself in his room to meditate or possibly hash out this chaotic energy in the danger room after dinner.

For now, he couldn’t look at you or his composure would crack. You shook up his heart and made him feel things he shouldn’t.

You grin teasingly as Damian focuses on his own plate and you pat a cool cloth that Alfred brought you around your eyes as you look over to Jason. You hadn’t seen him all day, and you didn’t want to lose momentum with him, you thought as you smiled shyly at him.

Jason grinned back and this wasn’t lost on Damian who started to brood and Stephanie who followed Jason’s line of sight to you.

“Take a picture.” She said lowly as she sipped her drink, intending to embarrass you for being caught looking, but you subverted expectations.

You perked up like that was a great idea and raised your phone so Jason could see. “May I?” You mouthed and Jason, who was at a loss. just nodded.

You hopped from your seat and went to his side as you pulled up the camera and angled it in front of you both to find the light.

“Try not to look like I’m holding a gun to your head.” You joked in a brittle rasp.

“It kinda feels you are.” He jested back.

You smiled for the camera and made a finger heart with your free hand, taking the picture quickly as the hand holding your phone started to tremble from the strain. You stood up from your stooped over position and tapped your phone. Then, Alfred’s own phone vibrated.

He plucked it from his pocket and saw that you’d sent the selfie to him. His face could rival every light in the dining room as he professionally pockets his phone after making the picture his wallpaper.

Bruce watched the whole thing.

“It doesn’t look too terrible.” Jason said self deprecatingly. “Send it to me.”

You held your phone to his and shared the picture and got his contact info, before bouncing back to your seat near the lonely king of the castle.

You savor your food before excusing yourself for the night. Maybe there’d been awkward chatter around the table and maybe Bruce stared a hole through your skull over his wine glass that Alfred refilled several times that night. 

Maybe Stephanie said snide remarks that earned disgusted looks from Jason, Duke, and Damian that made her shrink in her seat. Maybe Cassandra craned her neck just slightly to look over Damian’s head and to you, but you never noticed. Maybe Dick wracked his brain for something to talk about with you and was devastated for not knowing how to reach you. Maybe Jason looked down at his phone and the picture you two had taken and Damian set in his mind that he’d kick Jason’s ass during training.

You weren't paying attention so who’s to say?

You stand and grab your plate when a dark and gravelly voice assaults your ears. 

“Where are you going, Y/n?”

You know it’s not a question, but something of a demand in socially acceptable clothing. This would’ve rooted you to the spot and left your mouth gaping like a fish while you couldn’t find the words to respond. Fear would’ve filled you with adrenaline but none of the fight to do anything about it, and it would’ve been another disaster to steer your father from ever speaking to you.

You would’ve been afraid.

But now, as you looked over to him and his wine glazed eyes and the inky black tendrils that so desperately wanted to brush his shoulders but held back in fear of you, you simply smiled politely. 

“𝚃𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎.”

“Leave it. Alfred can do it, and you haven’t been excused.”

You tiled your head. He’d never made you stay at the table before and couldn’t recall anyone ever having to be excused. What was his game? To exert some power over you because you’d snubbed him earlier? You made a face in thought, he couldn’t possibly be so petty, could he?

Then, you looked at the man and remembered he was both Bruce Wayne and Batman and nothing was too low for him.

You raised a brow, and stared back at him. 

“𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.”

“This is what Alfred is paid for.”

“𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚜𝚘 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.” Bitterness touched your tongue and a sour expression crossed your face. “𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚢.”

Tim couldn’t hold back. “Would it kill you to not be so rude?”

You delicately touched the bandage around your throat and leveled a devastating smile that ruined him completely. Your eyes were bright and mocking, and your flair was dramatic.

“𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎?”

You left the dining room and the family to their own devices. You had plans of your own and time was ticking.

After washing your plate and utensils, you slip away into an overlooked hallway and leave the opulence of the Manor for the humble and nearly homely. Down a darkened hall and around the corner from the kitchen, you reach the servants’ quarters.

Glimpses of the past flash to mind like sketches on parchment. Women in starched aprons bustling about and gossiping between chores as they’re lucky to have such kindly employers, gardeners whose landscaping is their pride and joy, and all positions from kitchen staff, to deliverymen, are seen in detailed shots in your mind’s eye.

Once upon a time, Wayne Manor had an entire staff to keep the estate up and running as it took the hands and hearts of many to accomplish such greatness.

Until it didn’t anymore.

Until one man became all that the Manor and the Waynes needed because that was his lot in life–to exceed and become a pillar, indispensable but so often underappreciated. 

And then you came upon a small table with two chairs and saw that this is where Alfred took his meals at the oddest hours and all alone save for the ghosts of his past. 

He spent more holidays and special days dining alone than otherwise and you watched as the scene showed a younger man in his prime gradually age all alone at the table set for one as time moved on.

Finally, the memories showed your Alfred where you blinked and he was gone. ‘Were you alone too?’ Your heart ached. In your last life, you retreated to eating in your room and stopped eating full meals prepared by him, and he ate alone where no one could see as if looking anything close to human would shatter the perfect butler image he was known for. 

You slowly crossed the kitchenette and sat in the chair opposite Alfred’s chair and waited in that silence. 

“Young mistress, how did you get here?” Alfred was alarmed that you’d found your way to the servants’ quarters and was almost scandalized. 

You shouldn’t be in a place like this, so below your station and closer to his world, but looking over to you who took the chair opposite his like it was your spot told him that this was another thing he’d have to concede on. One of many times he’d let you have your way, within reason, of course.

He strode to the small table and carefully set the tray laden with the dessert he’d promised and you sat up straight, having more than enough room for your reward.

He removed the cloche of the tray and you saw that he had decorated the dessert with small sugar stars that shined and glittered like the true constellations. 

“Wow…” You mouthed as you leaned around the dish. 

“I happened to see them when I was out shopping, and immediately thought of you.” He mused as he walked over to a small window over the sink and shifted a wooden shutter to let in the moonlight. You stood and followed him, peering through the small window and up to the sky.

You could barely see two stars in the night sky as the smog from the city smothered them all, but the stars you could see persisted bravely and shined brighter for it.

“When I first saw you in that hospital bed, my lady,” He cleared his throat as he watched the sky, “I thought that your smile was worth more than all of the stars in the sky.”

Your first meeting still shook him to his core. How could he love you so much when he’d never met you a day in his life? How could he be so grateful to see you “again” and feel like he’d lost you before? He shook his head and then turned to you.

So many new feelings concerned him, especially these feelings that felt like they were carried for far longer than the months he’s known you, but he knew you felt the same. When you saw him, your smile was brilliant as relieved tears filled your eyes as you reached out for him like you’d known him all your life.

He wasn’t afraid of these new feelings. He just hoped that he’d never have to feel the pain of losing you. If those phantom pains were anything to go on, he doesn’t think he could handle the real thing.

“And sometimes I catch myself calling you 'Starling' in my mind.” He says wistfully with a mirthful smile, “I’ve almost addressed you as such in front of the others an embarrassingly amount of times.”

Your eyes widened as you stared up at the man like he’d handed you the world. 

A nickname.

Something personal and shared between family.

“Starling…” You whispered softly.

“Please accept my apologies for–”

“Call me that from now on, Al.”

He froze mid sentence. “Pardon?”

You stared up at him, “Please?”

This was inappropriate and he’d already crossed several boundaries before. He nurtured you too much, was too familiar and treated you like a precious granddaughter instead of the daughter of his master.

Hell, he even had a violently protective streak for you that he knew would conflict with his job’s priorities in the future, but with you looking up at him like he was the only one in the world who truly got you, how could he turn down his lady’s request?

“Anything for you, Starling.” He smiled warmly as you threw your arms around him in the second lifesaving hug of the day. 

You weren’t alone.

To be continued💙

Tag List

I didn't mean to fall for her, never planned to let my guard down, to allow her to burrow beneath the cold, hard fortress of my exterior. But she did. God help me, she did. And now, I've driven her away with my cruel, thoughtless words, my misguided attempt to protect her from the brutal and unforgiving world we inhabit.

I've never been one to dwell on the fragility of life, the precariousness of our existence. I've seen too much death, too much violence, so I never saw it coming. One moment I was a man of cold logic and ruthless ambition, the next I was a slave to my emotions. She crept into my mind and laid claim to my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment. I fought it at first, rage and denial my companions as I grappled with the force of my feelings.

But she was everywhere, her scent lingering in every room, her laughter echoing in every corner of the safehouse. I found myself seeking her out, chasing her ghost through the halls, desperate for a glimpse, a word, a touch. I was drowning in her, and I didn't know how to swim to the surface.

I've spent the last four months waging a war against myself, battling the feelings that took root in my heart. I thought I could destroy what I'd come to cherish, that I could extinguish the fire she ignited with cold indifference. I was always looking for an opportunity to destroy her feelings towards me, who knew success would taste so fucking bitter.

Her absence, once she's gone from the safehouse, leaves a void that sucks the air from my lungs and the color from my world. I'm a junkie, craving my next fix of her presence, and I've never felt so lost.

And fuck, it's a feeling I've never known before, not even with MC standing before me now, her eyes flashing with anger and recrimination.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? That was unnecessary, Sylus."

I look at Mc now, really look at her, and I feel...nothing. The love I once claimed to have, the feelings I once swore were real, have been washed away like a castle built on sand.

Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy as the weight of my shame. I can't meet her eyes, can't bear to see the disgust and anger I know I'll find there. I'm lost in the labyrinth of my own making, the path of my thoughts leading me back to the moment I lost control, the instant I let my demons slip their leash and ravage the one thing I swore to protect.

"I don't know what happened," I admit "I just...lost it. Seeing her like that, the way she looked at me...fuck...I never meant to hurt her, I thought I could protect her by pushing her away, by making her hate me."

And fuck, it hurts. It hurts like a bitch to admit how badly I've fucked up, how thoroughly I've destroyed the one good thing that ever came into my miserable life.

🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

Crimson stains of mortification painted your face as you brushed past Mc, Luke, and Kieran. You could feel their eyes on you, could sense their stares boring into your back as you hurried by. Of course they had heard everything, the shouting, the accusations, the confession that echoed through the hall. It was humiliating, knowing that your most intimate secrets had been laid bare before an audience. You wanted to disappear, to melt into the shadows and vanish from sight, but there was no escaping the sickening twist of your stomach.

Over the following days, you found yourself increasingly aware of Mc's eyes on you, her eyes lingering whenever you chanced upon each other in the halls of the HA. You always caught her staring at you from across the room, her expression unreadable, her thoughts a mystery locked away behind her eyes.

Finally, after what felt like an interminable stretch of tense silences and loaded glances, you reached your limit. You whirled to face her, patience frayed and temper short.  "Do you have something to say?" you demanded "Spit it out!"

But as the words left your mouth, you knew that whatever she had to say, you didn't want to hear it. Not now, not after the things that had been said, the bridges that had been burned.

"But if this is about the other day, then don't even bother," you added, adding a biting edge to your words. "I have no intention of discussing it."

"Is it true that you think Xavier is hot?" she asked, her voice ringing out in the silence of the office. You stared at her, certain that you must have misheard, that there was no way she could have just said what you thought she said. But the smug grin on her face told you otherwise.

"What?"you echoed, your voice rising in pitch and volume as the realization of what she had said sank in.

You knew you should have bitten your tongue. Because then she said it again, in the middle of the fucking office where anyone could overhear

"Lumiere, Xavier, same thing, do you think he is hot?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, of course it was Luke and Kieran, those meddling, gossiping bastards.

"Luke and Kieran?" You shook your head in disbelief.

Mc nodded "Well, we are going to have lunch with Zayne today. Wanna join us?"

"No" you answered immediately

But she wasn't deterred by your refusal. Oh no, she was on a mission, it seemed, and she wasn't about to let you off the hook that easily. She grabbed a wrapper from your desk, brandishing it like a piece of evidence in a courtroom drama.

"Come on," she coaxed, her voice taking on a tone that set your teeth on edge. "It's just lunch, take it as a thank you for all you've done. I know you haven't eaten a proper meal in days."

"I already ate"

"A coffee and a granola bar is not lunch" she said, her tone a mix of teasing and scolding, as if you were a spoiled child who needed to be set straight.

"Now who's spying on whom?" 

You were caught between the desire to tell her to fuck off and the knowledge that refusing her outright would only lead to more trouble, more questions, more unwelcome scrutiny. And so, with a sense of resignation heavy as a stone in your gut, you heard yourself saying, "Fine. I'll go."

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The atmosphere at lunch was as comfortable as a straitjacket, Zayne kept firing off questions about your well being and then there was Xavier, his blue eyes made your skin crawl. You were used to the cool indifference of Xavier, the way he kept you at arm's length, a distant colleague at best. You had spoken to him at work, exchanged pleasantries and mission briefings, but never anything more. And you had certainly noticed his penchant for napping in his downtime. But this...this was something else entirely. This was outright hostility, a silent accusation in every gaze he leveled your way.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat wishing you could disappear, but there was no escape. You were trapped like a fly caught in a spider's web, struggling against the sticky strands of their curiosity and disapproval.

Sick of the suffocating tension you turned to face Xavier directly, your eyes clashing with his "How come you're not sleeping during your lunch hour? Was the couch near the cafeteria taken?"

Your question seemed to startle him, his brows furrowing slightly as he considered your words. Before he could answer, however, MC let out a strangled, giggling sound, choking on the huge sip of water she had just taken. Zayne leapt up to assist her, guiding her out of the cafeteria with a hand on her elbow and a murmur of concern. He led her to the bathroom, leaving you alone with Xavier, a charged silence stretching between you.

Xavier watched them go, his eyes distant and thoughtful. Then, slowly, he turned back to you "Were you spying on me too?".

You felt your cheeks flush at his accusation, indignation rising in your throat. "What? No, of course not! I was just...curious, that's all. You're always asleep at this time, and I thought..." You trailed off, realizing how ridiculous your explanation sounded. Of course, he would think you were spying on him. Why else would you be asking about his lunch hour habits?

"Curious about what exactly?" he asked "My sleeping schedule? Or perhaps something else?"

You stood abruptly from your chair, the sudden movement causing it to scrape loudly against the cafeteria floor. "I'm gonna go now," you said, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. "Please let them know I had to leave."

"But you didn't even finish your food"

"I'm not hungry anymore," you said, your voice a flat, dismissive statement. You turned to leave, desperate to put an end to this conversation and the unsettling atmosphere it had created.

Xavier's voice stopped you in your tracks "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Yes," you admitted "You are."

You muttered under your breath, a stream of incoherent thoughts spilling from your lips as you hurried away from the disastrous lunch. "That was so weird," you murmured, shaking your head in disbelief. "Does he usually look at people that way? I mean, I know I'm working for the enemy, but still..."

You were so lost in thought that you didn't even realize Xavier had fallen into step beside you until he spoke, "Just people I find suspicious," he said, dry humor in his tone, like he could read your mind and was enjoying your discomfort.

A tiny scream escaped your throat and you whirled around to face him, eyes wide and startled. "Do you need something?"

"No" he said in a lazy drawl. "But we are heading the same way, and I think Zayne is probably taking MC to the hospital to get her checked out." he rolled his eyes "He's a health freak when it comes to her" he explained, as if you needed the clarification. 

You quickened your pace, but Xavier matched your longer strides with ease and you couldn't escape the feeling that you were being followed, corralled like a frightened animal by a relentless predator.

His question caught you off guard, your steps faltering slightly "I'm surprised you kept it a secret this long," he mused "Do you like working for Sylus?"

"You know him?"

"Not personally, but I know a lot of things about him."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned back to face the front. "A lot of people do". Sylus was a notorious figure, his name a byword for power and corruption in the N109 Zone. Of course people knew about him, had heard the stories, the whispers, the downright terrifying tales.

"Well, he certainly kept you well hidden, I knew about those twins working for him, but I didn't know about you."

You turned to look at him again, but his eyes were fixed on a point a few feet away. You followed his line of sight, brows furrowed in confusion, until your eyes landed on a sleek, black bird perched on a nearby branch.

Xavier turned to you "I even know that bird there, it's no ordinary bird, is it?"

That was enough for you. With a frustrated growl, you spun on your heel and walked away, heart pounding in your chest as you put as much distance between yourself and your unwanted companions. And yet, despite your best efforts to lose yourself in the crowd, you knew that you couldn't escape the long shadow of Sylus' reach.

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Despite your best efforts to maintain a safe distance, Mc seemed determined to draw you back into her orbit, to pull you in with her infectious warmth and boundless enthusiasm. You couldn't help but be charmed by her persistent friendliness. She was a force of nature, a whirlwind of laughter and lively chatter that swept you up and carried you along, whether you wanted to go or not.

She kept popping up in your life like a persistent weed, her friendship as unyielding as it was unexpected. You found yourself falling into a familiar routine with her. Lunch became a regular occurrence, sometimes with the brooding presence of Xavier hovering in the background. Other times, it was just the two of you, lost in conversation and shared laughter, the weight of your secrets temporarily forgotten.

One crisp autumn day, as the leaves crunched underfoot and the air held a palpable chill, Mc dragged you to an art exhibition showcasing the work of a friend of hers. The artist was an ethereal figure, his eyes a piercing and unsettling shade of violet. He was charming and funny, his wit as sharp as a razor's edge and twice as dangerous. He also looked familiar.

Later you remembered he also had a bounty on his head for $24,071,300.

Mc and the artist fell into an animated discussion, their voices a tangle of laughter and rapid fire quips. You hung back, happy to observe the easy rapport between them, a sense of longstanding familiarity and affection.

He talked to you about his art, of the passion and the pain that went into every brushstroke, and you found yourself caught up in the raw, unvarnished honesty of his words. It was a rare thing, to meet someone who was as unguarded with their emotions as he was.

You suspected that Mc and Zayne had slipped away, their disappearance as sudden and unannounced as their return a short while later. Mc's smile was pure bliss, a sight that made even the artist raise a brow in surprise.

Zayne, on the other hand, was a picture of flustered discomfort, his usually pale skin a vibrant shade of red that matched the wine staining his lips. He studiously avoided your gaze, his attention focused solely on the glass before him, as if it held the secrets of the universe. You had to bite back a laugh, poor, helpless Zayne, it seemed that even he was not immune to the charms of Mc.

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The call from MC came at the worst possible moment. You were en route to a meeting with Sylus at a different safe house when your phone rang, her sobs piercing through the static of the line.

"I can't understand what you're saying," you said, voice rising in panic. "Are you hurt?"

MC's choked, hiccupping sobs were the only response for a long, agonizing moment. Then, between gasping breaths, she managed to choke out "No, it's Zayne..." and then she was crying again.

"MC, please stop crying, tell me what's wrong."

"He left me...he..."

You didn't waste time with empty platitudes or pointless reassurances "I'm on my way to your apartment. Wait for me there."

The roar of the motorcycle engine drowned out the wail of the wind as you tore through the streets, your tires screeching against the pavement as you took each turn at breakneck speed.

As you approached her building, you leapt from the bike before it had even come to a complete stop, your boots hitting the ground in a dead run for the elevators. You slammed your finger against the button to call for the elevator.

"I already pressed it, twice"

A man wearing a black hat stood before the elevator, his pose casual, his expression one of mild amusement as he watched you press the button with a growing sense of impatience.

You glared at him as you jabbed at the button once more.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding, and you stepped inside, pressing the button for the fourth floor. The stranger followed close behind, his presence a unwanted intrusion.

Finally, after what felt like an interminable wait, the elevator shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open, revealing the dimly lit hallway that led to MC's apartment. You didn't wait for the stranger to exit first, your need to reach Mc far outweighing any sense of polite etiquette.

The pounding of your fist against the door echoed through the hallway, you barely had time to register the sound of hurried footsteps approaching before you felt a presence looming behind you.

Acting on pure instinct you used your evol to drive the man away with all the force you could muster. The man let out a harsh grunt as he collided with the wall, breath leaving his lungs in a painful rush. He slumped to the ground with a look of shock on his face.

The door to MC's apartment swung open, she looked from you, to the man groaning on the floor.

"Gege."

Shit. The man on the floor, the guy who had been following you, was her brother. Caleb.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know..." you stammered out, already reaching to help the man to his feet. He grunted in pain as you hauled him up, his hand gripping at his ribs where you'd slammed him against the wall.

"It's fine," he ground out through gritted teeth "Now I know what it feels like to be at the other end of my own Evol."

MC stood before you both, silent tears streaming down her face, her eyes red and swollen from crying. The sight made your heart ache, gently you took her by the arm and led her back inside the apartment, her brother following close behind.

MC collapsed onto the couch and looked up at you, her lip quivering as she tried to speak. "Zayne... he..." she began, her voice catching on a sob. "He said... he thought one day he might hurt me. He wanted to end things, even said he is thinking of resigning..." Her voice dissolved into incoherent weeping.

Your phone began to ring insistently, you knew without a doubt, that Sylus was on the other end of the line, furious about your tardiness to the meeting. But right now, your priority was MC, she took precedence over any reprimand or recrimination.

Caleb moved to sit beside MC, his arm wrapping around her shaking shoulders in a gesture of comfort and support.

"What do you want me to do Pips"

--------

The three of you ended up in a bar, the air thick with the scent of cheap alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. The lights flickered over the three of you as you huddled around a worn wooden table, empty glasses and bottles littering the surface.

Caleb tossed back drink after drink, his flirtatious nature growing more pronounced with each passing moment. Mc's tears had long since dried, but the pain in her eyes remained.

It was in the midst of a heated discussion about Caleb's line of work, after MC excused herself to the bathroom, that the tension in the air suddenly spiked. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as Zayne suddenly appeared.

"Where is she?"

Caleb leapt to his feet "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Zayne, to his credit, did not back down. He met Caleb's glare with one of his own "She called me," he said "I know she's here with you."

Caleb scoffed, a bitter laugh tearing from his throat. "Why are you here, Zayne? To make things worse?" he challenged, his chin jutting out in defiance.

Zayne's eyes moved briefly to you before settling back on Caleb "I'm here to fix things," he said "Let me take her home"

The bathroom door swung open and out stepped MC, her eyes red rimmed and puffy from crying. She took a step forward, fumbling with something in her bag, her head remained bowed, lost in thought.

Zayne's eyes moved, drawn to her and the moment she looked up, her tears began to flow anew. They streamed down her face in rivulets, cutting through the remnants of her makeup like the tracks of a train through a barren landscape.

Zayne wasted no time in closing the distance between them. He reached out, his hands coming to rest on her upper arms, gripping her tightly as if afraid she might disappear if he let go. "Shh, it's alright," he murmured, "I've got you, sweetheart. I'm going to take you home"

He didn't wait for an answer, didn't give anyone else a chance to intervene. With a gentle tug, he steered MC towards the door, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist. When they passed by you, Zayne paused, his eyes flickering over your face. "Thank you," for being here for her"

With that, the two of them were gone, disappearing into the night. Caleb and you were left standing there, staring at the empty doorway.

"Yeah, you are welcome Zayne" 

You couldn't help but snort at Caleb's quip, the absurdity of the situation striking you as vaguely amusing in your inebriated state. He turned to you, a grin spreading across his face. It seemed that to be granted entry into MC's inner circle, one had to possess a certain level of rugged good looks, a requirement that Caleb fulfilled with ease.

Shaking your head to clear the sudden, unwelcome thoughts, you gathered your things, preparing to make your way home "Well, it was nice to meet you, Caleb"

Caleb noticed your unsteady stance and the way you clung to the back of the chair for support. "You're leaving already?" 

"Yep, I'm a bit drunk already, and I'm a weepy drunk too, so no more alcohol for me"

"Come on, just a couple more. I'll take you home"

Rolling your eyes, you fixed him with a skeptical glare "Are you going to take me all the way to the N109 zone?"

A look of arrogance settled over his face "I'm the far space fleet colonel, I can go wherever I want, sweetheart"

A few hours later, you stumbled through the doorway of the safe house, your feet unsteady and your vision slightly blurred. The night had been a whirlwind of laughter, liquor and lively company. It hadn't been the planned “couple of drinks,” but a full fledged night out, filled with boisterous conversation, loud laughter and even a few twirls on the dance floor. The bar had been emptying out as the early hours of the morning approached, and you took that as your cue to call it a night.

You made your way down the hallway to your room, one hand trailing along the wall for support. You craved the cleansing sensation of a hot shower, yearning to wash away the sweat and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke that seemed to have seeped into your pores.

Just as you were about to turn the knob and escape into the sanctuary of your bedroom, a firm grip seized your wrist, yanking you back. Before you could react, your back slammed against the door, the air knocked from your lungs by the sudden impact. You found yourself pinned, shoulders pressed against the unyielding wood, gaze locked with a pair of crimson eyes.

"Where the hell were you?" Sylus demanded, his fingers tightened around your wrist, not painful, but unmistakably possessive.

"None of your business" you were not about to justify your actions to anyone, least of all Sylus, who had made it abundantly clear that he cared little for your comings and goings.

A muscle ticked in Sylus's jaw, sign of his growing irritation. "The far space fleet colonel?" he sneered, disgust dripping from each syllable. "Really? What is he to you?"

You felt a flicker of confusion, brows furrowing as you tried to make sense of Sylus's sudden interest in your personal life. Where had his indifference gone? His cold, uncaring demeanor seemed to have vanished, replaced by this...this jealousy? Possessiveness?

"Don't...play...games with me" he warned "I saw you. The way you were looking at him. The way you let him touch you..."

You tilted your head to the side, a look of mock sympathy on your face. "Oh, you don't want me," you said, voice dripping with false concern, "but no one else can have me either? Is that the problem?"

Sylus opened his mouth but you cut him off before he could get a word in. "Besides," you snapped, your voice turning icy, "I wanted him to" You leaned in closer, your face inches from his, breath mingling with his own. "What is it Sylus? you don't like the idea of me falling for a man that is not you?

His knees seemed to buckle slightly "You're lying"

You let out a humorless laugh, a sound devoid of any real mirth. "Am I?"

Without waiting for an answer, you reached behind you for the doorknob of your bedroom door and, with a sharp twist of your wrist, yanked it open and slammed it shut in his face with a resounding bang.

Are you guys ready to see him suffer? 🖤🖤

@willow378 @viqlume @shadowmonsterrealms @quill-for-glory @violentriddlehoard @sleepykittyenergy @floofycookie @lighting-and-shadow @napforalifetime @insidious-innocence @zoezhive @69-gojos-wife-69

The evidence was clear: whenever you spent time alone with Phainon, birds would begin to gather, landing atop you both, much to your dismay as Phainon laughed while you tried to shoo them away.

Or that hot summer morning, when you casually mentioned at breakfast that rain would be a relief from the heat—and as soon as Phainon joined you, the sky opened and rain began to fall.

Not once during your stay had your prayers been answered—at least, not the ones you actually cared enough to ask for. But when Phainon was by your side, all these little miracles seemed to happen.

It must be that Lord Khaslana truly adored Phainon more than any of his wives. But you kept that thought to yourself—you might get struck by lightning if you dared expose it. (It was only a funny thought—you hoped the lord couldn’t read minds.) After all, he was the husband. He could have a tempter, even temptresses, as side pieces if he wished, and none of the wives could do anything about it, no matter how much they might wish.

One thing was obvious, though—you seemed so much happier these days.

Your eyes, back then, had always looked utterly hopeless, full of resentment whenever anyone dared to look at you—the gaze of a woman who had lost all hope, trapped by the duty to serve a husband she barely knew.

“Because a woman’s worth is said to lie in her husband’s favor—even if she’s the least cherished of the three, she is still expected to remain devoted. After all, a woman is the heart of her husband, whether he remembers it or not.”

Those were the first words spoken to you when reprimanded. But a wife being the husband’s heart didn’t apply to you—the moment you took your vows alone, his heart would have stopped beating long ago. (How many hearts does one selfish husband need?)

You were the only one with such thoughts in the temple. The other two wives, Daphne and Phoebe—whom you had to regard as sisters since you all shared the same lord—never shared your sentiment.

They were uncomfortable around you; it was obvious. They whispered their conversations only after you left, like children waiting for their parents to exit the room before continuing their tasks.

They were naive. Lord Khaslana never visited them—never on their wedding nights or even attempted to consummate the marriage—just like with you. Yet that never stopped them from dreaming of children when you walked past.

You once overheard them discussing having children at the dinner table. You didn’t understand why hearing that made you sick—it was usual for girls to start having children at fifteen, but you were already quite old for your age, and far behind.

Yet those memories and thoughts began to fade as you spent more time with Phainon. Even the high priest noticed the change, which was no secret—you got into less trouble and your attitude softened.

“You seem quite happy these days,” the high priest said with a smile, speaking about something other than a lecture as you stood in his office. His words pulled you out of your daydream.

“…Is that so?” you replied carefully, a bland smile tugging at your lips. You never trusted the high priest’s kindness—it was always laced with something else.

“Lord Khaslana also seems pleased that you feel this way. It seems the idea of sending you a personal watch keeper has had a positive outcome,” he added, referring to the previous “blessings” attributed to Lord Khaslana—though you doubted it, pushing the thought to the back of your mind.

“I’m grateful that’s the case.”

Phainon had miraculously pulled you out of your bed-rotting routine, coaxing you to come out and have some fun with him—without the guards, no less. At first, you were a bit annoyed; your social battery was practically nonexistent, and the idea of going outside felt exhausting. But Phainon’s relentless positive attitude didn’t waver, no matter how many times you refused. Eventually, he promised something really special—along with “delicious” food—and that was enough to get you to agree.

Now, here you were, sitting under the shade of a tree with Phainon, eating skewers together. Phainon had several skewers balanced in one hand, each one a different type of animal meat. He insisted you try them all. You suspected he was just being gluttonous.

“Is it good, my lady?” he asked, eyes bright and eager, watching your every expression so closely you almost imagined him wagging a white dog tail with matching ears.

“I haven’t even tried it yet,” you said, squinting at him before taking a bite. The meat was soft, tender, and surprisingly hot, causing an immediate sting on your tongue. You held it in your mouth as long as you could before swallowing.

“Ah! Are you alright?!” Phainon’s voice was filled with worry as he checked on you. “I should’ve cooled it down before telling you to eat.”

You waved your hand dismissively, cheeks puffed out from the lingering heat, trying not to cough like you would when choking on water. “It’s… fine,” you managed, eyes watering slightly before calming down.

“You should eat before the skewers cool down,” Phainon urged, his worried expression softening into a relieved smile as he saw you recover.

“Ah, you’re right, my lady! But I couldn’t enjoy them until I knew you were okay.” He chuckled and took a bite of his own skewer, eyes lighting up with delight.

“Mmm! This one’s amazing—you have to try the lamb next!” He eagerly held out another skewer, the scent of perfectly seasoned meat wafting through the air. Despite your initial reluctance, you couldn’t deny the food—and his company—were making this outing far more enjoyable than you expected.

You switched the skewer you had with a bite taken out to the lamb one, about to take a bite when Phainon stopped you. “Wait, my lady.” He gently blew on the meat. “Now you won’t be burned.” His warm smile, flashing teeth, made your stomach flutter unexpectedly, and you quickly took the bite as if to chase away that strange feeling.

The lamb was even more tender than the last. The spices danced on your tongue—rich, smoky, with just the right hint of heat. You chewed slowly, savoring it before swallowing and glancing at Phainon, who watched you with the same expectant sparkle in his eyes.

“Well?” he prompted, leaning in slightly. “Do you like it?”

You hesitated, watching his reaction closely. His brows knitted together in exaggerated worry.

“Oh no, did I pick a bad one? I swear the vendor said it was—”

“It’s good,” you cut him off before he could spiral.

His face lit up as if you’d crowned him king. “You made me worried there.” He laughed, then paused, an epiphany striking him as he rummaged through his things while you finished your lamb.

“My lady,” he called, drawing your attention to a delicate hairpin he held out. It was silver filigree shaped like winding vines, dotted with tiny, shimmering gemstones that caught the light. He looked so silly holding skewers in one hand and this pretty hairpin in the other.

“This is for you—your special gift.”

You blinked, surprised. “You… got this for me?”

Phainon nodded eagerly. “Of course! I promised you something special. The moment I saw it, I thought—it’s perfect for you.”

Your fingers hesitated before taking the hairpin. It was delicate, the silver vines shimmering with gems.

“Why would you—?”

“Because you deserve it,” he said simply.

That strange warmth rose in your chest again, and you quickly looked away, finishing the last bite of lamb. For the first time in a long while, you heard those words—you deserved something—without having to beg or ask. He had gone out of his way just to find and give it to you. You.

“Thank you, Phainon.”

You had even started doing things with Phainon that were quite frowned upon—like how both of your clothes were sopping wet. Phainon had shed a few layers (the sun mark on his neck now more prominent), and you were lifting your dress to tie it around your waist.

Looking around at the lake, the cool, fresh water felt wonderful. Well, in reality, you were mostly just lying on your back, letting the water sway you gently. Or holding your breath to dive under, just to see what you could find beneath the surface.

Until Phainon decided to start a war with you while you were peacefully floating—sending a huge wave that caused you to sputter and jump from the water, hair messy and gasping for air.

“Sorry, my lady, my hand must’ve slipped.”

“Your hand slipped, huh?” You slicked your hair back and, with all your might, threw a wave back at him, drenching him in return.

“Sorry, my hand must’ve slipped,” you mocked, grinning like you’d actually won the fight.

Phainon narrowed his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Oh, so that’s how it is?” His voice was calm, but you could tell he was plotting something.

You braced yourself, but he still managed to send another splash your way—smaller than before but enough to hit you square in the face.

Wiping the water off, you glared. “That’s the best you’ve got?” Without waiting for his answer, you scooped up as much water as you could and flung it back at him, catching him across the shoulder.

Water dripped from his body. Only now did your eyes begin to wander over the thin white layers of clothing clinging to him, becoming almost transparent. You felt like a man gazing upon a maiden’s bare legs—ironic, since your dress was tied up to reveal your own.

His shirt clung like a second skin—every ridge of muscle, every line traced clearly beneath the damp fabric. The sun mark on his neck pulsed faintly, glowing with the warmth of the day or the rush of movement—you weren’t sure which.

Looking away, flustered, you barely had time to react before another wave hit you. You sputtered, wiping your face with both hands as laughter bubbled out against your will.

“You little—!”

“Watch your tongue, my lady,” Phainon called, wading forward through the waist-deep water, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You never know when another... accident might happen.”

You squinted, shielding your face with your hands, ready for another splash even as you laughed behind the barrier.

The laughter still danced in your throat, but the water between you shifted and splashed. You took one step too quickly—meant to land a wave of your own after you stopped laughing so much—and instead your foot caught on a rock.

You yelped, slipping forward before you could stop yourself.

You stumbled into the water, which surged up your nose, burning sharp and fast, making your eyes scrunch shut as you flailed instinctively, water hitting your throat. Your vision blurred until you felt a pair of arms around you, lifting you up swiftly.

His arms were under your thighs, hoisting you like you weighed nothing. Your leg instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your fingers gripped his shirt before you could stop yourself. You gasped for air, hair dripping wet, the cold water leaving little trails down your back and shoulders.

“Are you alright, my lady?!”

You coughed into his shoulder, nodding faintly despite the sting in your throat. “M’fine,” you rasped, voice strained from water that had made itself too comfortable in your lungs. “I think I just slipped on something.”

His arms didn’t loosen—not even a bit. One hand held the back of your thigh, the other braced your back so tightly you felt the warmth of his palm through your soaked clothes. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, your breathing shaky but slowly settling—and yet, even when you could breathe again, he didn’t put you down.

Deciding you’d had enough fun for the day.

The lake water sloshed around his legs with each step, dripping from both of you in long, uneven trails. He reached the shore and crouched, lowering you gently onto the soft grass like you were fragile. His movements were slow and careful—as if you might break if he moved too fast.

You tried not to meet his eyes, mostly because yours wouldn’t stop blinking out water, your hair half-plastered across your cheek.

But then—before you could ask what he was doing—he knelt beside you, lifting your ankle gently to inspect the bottom of your foot.

“I’m not hurt,” you tried to argue, voice hoarse. “I just—slipped, that’s all.”

“Still,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across the arch of your foot, sweeping away grit or tiny pebbles. “We wouldn’t want you to get an infection. Thank goodness you were lucky and didn’t get a cut.” He smiled at you.

For some reason, you moved your foot, holding his hand and pressing it against his shoulder.

The second you did, you started laughing when you saw his bright eyes watching you. It almost looked like he enjoyed it.

“You like that?” you teased breathlessly, hair dripping in front of your face.

Phainon raised a brow, a grin tugging at his lips. His hand moved your hair away from your eyes. “My lady, you enjoy messing with me, don’t you?” Then he held out his hand for you to take, to lead you back home. “I just can’t help it.”

You and Phainon didn’t even think to stop as you walked through the pearly doors of the temple, leaving a trail of water across the polished floors.

His soaked shirt clung to his skin, the sun mark on his neck glowing faintly. Your tied-up dress dripped steadily while he held his pair of shoes, and you did the same for your own.

You didn’t even notice the servants’ horrified gazes at your drenched state and bare legs. Nor did you see the looks from Phoebe and Daphne, their eyes wide with disbelief at the sight of you like this.

As usual, Daphne, Phoebe, and you sat at one end of the table while the High Priest sat at the other. Surprisingly, the mood wasn’t terrible. You had little on your mind, just eating the same meal presented to all of you, while Daphne and Phoebe chatted as usual.

Before long, the High Priest dragged you out of your thoughts mid-bite.

“Any thoughts about the festival coming up in a few weeks?” he asked, like a schoolteacher prompting discussion among the group.

“Festival?” you said, confused—like forgetting you’d ordered something, only for it to suddenly arrive at your doorstep. Everyone looked at you oddly.

“Did you forget about the second biggest festival this year, Sister (Name)?” Daphne tilted her head at you.

You had completely forgotten.“It must’ve slipped my mind,” you said softly, leaving Daphne and Phoebe stunned at how you weren’t trying to change the atmosphere with your usual attitude.

“I heard there are going to be brighter fireworks when the sun sets on the final day,” Daphne said excitedly.

“Wait—brighter fireworks, Sister Daphne?” Phoebe leaned in, her voice dropping to a curious tone. “Not just flame dancers and smoke mirrors again?”

Daphne nodded, unable to contain her grin. “A brother told me they brought in alchemists and cooks from the East this year. Apparently, they have a sky-fire that bursts into shapes—flowers, birds, and even brighter colors than before.”

“Brighter fireworks? How wonderful!” Phoebe said happily, but still modestly. “I have to see that. Imagine the light reflecting off silk—” She paused and turned to you. “Sister (Name), are you going to spend the fireworks with Brother Phainon?”

The way she looked at you was cold, analyzing your response, though her lips held a pretty smile. It reminded you of your mother’s expression when you were younger—the same expression whenever she was angry but guests were over.

“…Phainon?” you echoed softly, buying time.

You felt it again—your childhood instinct, a strange déjà vu. Phoebe barely ever talked to you; maybe you were overthinking it?

“Of course, Brother Phainon, since you’ve become so close—thank Lord Khaslana for such a blessing—since you now have a reason to go out for the festival.”

You used to refuse to go to festivals. Every time one came around, it brought a venomous feeling to your stomach. Instead of joining in, you stayed in your room, silently crying into your pillow from sheer loneliness.

You always told them it was because you didn’t like crowds.

They believed you, of course. Why wouldn’t they? You were the difficult wife—a ludicrous saint for a woman—the one least loved by Lord Khaslana.

And now?

Now you had someone who always asked you to go.

You still weren’t sure if that was why the loneliness didn’t hurt as much anymore… or if you’d just grown used to it.

Either way, you didn’t answer Phoebe right away. You lowered your eyes to your food, chewing slowly.

“If Brother Phainon is available, I suppose I will accompany him.”

You didn’t say it like a declaration. You said it like a shrug. Like it didn’t matter.

“Of course he’s available. He is your watchkeeper, Sister (Name), so… devoted to you...”

She leaned slightly closer, slicing a fig in half with the edge of her spoon, her voice low and smooth like a criminal getting away with a crime.

“Nothing less expected from Lord Khaslana’s devoted children—to treat one of his wives with such love—may he be blessed.”

You must be insane. 

The conversation moves once more as Daphne romanticizes (like she always does) about how the fireworks are going to look during such a beautiful night and how she prays for the skies to be clear that night.

Phainon was so excited for the festival; you were only slightly excited—the last time you felt like that was when you were a young child. Phainon had been hyping up seeing fireworks together ever since you told him what you’d heard from Sister Daphne, saying he had the perfect place to take you (but you had to wait for the final day!).

You had so much fun throughout the festival days. You laughed more than you meant to. Ate things you hadn’t had since your mother’s kitchen. Even danced once—only because Phainon dragged you into it, and you were too stunned to pull away.

You might have stepped on his foot a few times. You were stiff and awkward and probably looked like someone trying to walk through mud. But Phainon just laughed each time like it didn’t hurt, and if it did, he said nothing, instead picking you up.

Both feet off the ground, arms around your waist, like you weighed nothing. Like you were something light and easy to carry. You barely had time to react—your hands clutched his shoulders out of instinct.

You felt your heart jump into your throat.

Gosh, you hoped he didn’t see the heat on your face.

. . .

On the last day, as the sun was setting, everyone waited for the fireworks to begin, ready for Phainon to take you to the place he had hinted at since the festival started.

Yet when he saw you—wide-eyed and mouth agape—looking so effortlessly beautiful, he froze.

That hairpin he gave you a while ago—the one he thought you’d forgotten, since he’d never seen you wear it before—was tucked neatly in your hair. Your hair was done up in a soft, elegant style, and your skin had the faintest touch of makeup, just enough to catch the light. But it was your lips that held him—the color there made you look almost unreal. The colors of your clothes complemented your entire look.

You had asked your maid to dress you up a bit since it was the last day of the festival, and you should at least try for the final day.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there like an idiot, eyes stuck on you as if seeing some kind of holy vision. You shifted under his stare, unsure if you’d done too much—if maybe you looked stupid. (Even though the high priest complimented you when you were leaving, and even Daphne complimented you—as she was ready to leave with Phoebe to watch together.)

“…What?” you asked, voice barely above a murmur, glancing away.

Phainon blinked, like he forgot how to speak for a second. Then his mouth finally worked.

“You look—” he paused, letting out a breathy laugh as he stepped closer, “utterly beautiful, my lady.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice so small you almost doubted he heard it. But he did. He lowered his head, brushing a fingertip against the hairpin.

“The sun is no longer in the sky. You should show me the place before the fireworks start,” you said quickly, causing him to move back a little.

Phainon blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat as if to shake off the stunned silence between you. “Come on then.”

He offered his hand again, more confidently this time, and you took it without hesitation. He led you to a beautiful spot with a clear view of the city. Even where the temple was located, the view wasn’t as clear as this place.

Not noticing, Phainon climbed onto a strong tree branch.

“My lady, give me your hand.”

Looking at him funny, still holding your hand out to him, you said, “Are you sure this is safe—”

You gasped, clutching his arm for balance as you settled beside him on the sturdy branch.

“How much strength do you have?” you asked, surprised—is he even human?

Phainon chuckled softly, the sound warm and steady in the quiet dusk. “More than you’d expect,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ve been climbing trees since I was a child. This is nothing.”

Before you could say anything, the first firework burst in the distance—an explosion of scarlet and gold rippling across the night sky. Phainon’s hand tightened around yours, warm and steady.

“It’s beautiful,” you said randomly, in awe at the pretty symbols and colors.

Phainon, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about the fireworks. Seeing the joy in your expression made him so happy—the way your lipstick-colored lips were slightly parted and your eyes sparkled as the colors reflected in them.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he said quietly, voice barely above the crackling fireworks, making your heart skip a beat.

You looked at him then, the words sinking in. His face leaned toward yours, causing a stomach full of butterflies. He stared at you with half-lidded eyes, hands moving to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“May I, (Name)?” he whispered, his voice a mere breath against your lips, cheeks flushed.

You loved the way he said your name, like it was the most precious thing in the world—making your heart ache in the sweetest way. Without a word, you nodded, barely daring to breathe.

Phainon’s hand lingered for a moment before he closed the distance, his lips soft and warm against yours. His fingers tangled lightly in your hair, fiddling with the hairpin as the kiss deepened—very slow, as if he wanted this moment to last forever.

Your makeup was smudged after your kisses—your lips slightly swollen, the color of your lipstick smeared a little. The hairpin he had given you was slightly askew, and your cheeks still burned from what had transpired.

You and Phainon had stayed up in that tree long after the fireworks ended, talking about random things, stealing glances, and kissing again (a few more times after that). It was only when the night grew too cold and passed the temple’s curfew that he finally helped you down, his hands lingering on your waist a second too long before letting go.

The walk back was quiet, filled with hand-holding and soft laughter. Phainon walked you all the way to the temple gates, his fingers brushing against yours one last time before he bowed his head.

“Goodnight, my lady,” he murmured, his voice thick with something unspoken.

You barely managed a reply before slipping inside, your heart still racing. Walking silently through the halls—strangely, there were no guards or anyone waiting for you, just dead silence.

When you came close to your room, you were stunned to see Phoebe stepping out, her expression so severe you’d have thought you’d killed a family member of hers.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, with slow, deliberate steps, she moved toward you. The flickering torchlight cast sharp shadows across her face, making her expression unreadable.

“Sister (Name),” she said, her voice eerily calm. “How… convenient that you return now.”

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice steady. “Phoebe. What are you doing in my room?”

Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “Looking for you, of course.” She tilted her head, eyes raking over your disheveled state—the smudged makeup, the loose strands of hair, the way your lips were still faintly swollen. “Though I suppose I should have known where you really were.”

“Sister (Name),” she spat your name with such hatred, “did you spread your legs for that man? Is that why you’re late?”

“Excuse me?” you said, eyes wide as if she were insane.

Phoebe took another step forward, closing the space between you until the fabric of her robes brushed against yours. “I asked if you spread your legs for him when you said you were going to watch the fireworks. If you admit it and ask for forgiveness, perhaps Lord Khaslana won’t give you such a painful death for committing adultery.”

Her breath was hot against your face. The corner of your mouth curled upward—slow and off-kilter—into a smile, though you were in utter disbelief.

“You’re meant to be one of three wives and saints, but you dress and act like a prostitute, seducing any man who even looks at you?”

She just kept on talking.

Instantly, the back of your hand connected with her face.

A sharp crack echoed faintly in the empty corridor.

Phoebe staggered back, eyes wide with shock and pain, clutching the side of her face where your blow had landed. She grabbed the collar of her dress and dragged herself close to your face.

“You can marry Lord Khaslana seven times over and bear all his children for all I care. But get it through your thick skull—I despise that man. Understand, or are you too damn stupid to?!” you spat in her face. You could see the fear behind her eyes.

Just as the last word left your lips, a sudden crack of thunder ripped through the night.

You couldn’t care less.

Your heart fluttered with excitement—something you hadn’t felt in over 10 years—and it wasn’t with the delusion of being part of a big happy family or even being acknowledged.

No, there were bigger and better things that thrilled your heart and made you feel like you were walking on air. An uncertain future lay ahead but you were going to grab it with both hands.

Amidst the darkness that encased the manor, something sweet was calling out to you and telling you that you needed to go to the park. It was strange because you don’t recall ever going in the past—actually you don’t recall getting out much at all in the past—but you felt like that place was where you could kick off some of your plans. 

You knew there would be key players you’d need to meet and places you’d need to venture to make your dreams come true, and you weren’t going to benefit by being a shrinking violet in this life. 

Searching online, you found that you could get to Gotham Park by bus and the nearest bus stop was around a 3 mile walk from the manor. The weather was pleasant this time of year so walking the distance wouldn’t be a problem, and you could even get a bus pass online. 

One little hitch is that you’d need bus fare and didn’t want to ask Alfred for money so soon. 

You didn’t feel like answering any questions about leaving the manor when you hadn’t been out of the hospital for one day and huffed in annoyance. 

Maybe if you buttered him up delicately over the next few days you could slip in the bit about needing a few dollars. The sweet hum tickled your ear, and gently called you to the next step. Gotham Park was the next stage of this game.

You walked familiar halls to the kitchen and looked back on the time you had avoided it—along with every other part of the mansion—completely. 

It got to the point that even the thought of coming across a member of that damned family would make your heart seize up. You began to isolate yourself more and more until you stayed put in your room, the little bathroom in the same hall, and to the kitchen late at night when all was quiet or they were on patrol. 

You snuck around like a thief in your own ‘home.’ The anxiety made you reclusive and being reclusive exacerbated the issues you already had and birthed even more. You were a complete agoraphobe by the time you were 20.

You frowned sadly. You couldn’t waste away in this house a second time. 

The purple tendrils slithered down the sides of the walls like blood in old horror movies and wriggled with minds of their own. It was truly disgusting and you held your breath to keep from gagging.

You finally turned a corner and found salvation in Alfred who was in the kitchen and embraced by the light from the large bay window overlooking the garden. He was wiping a glass when you walked in.

“My, Young Mistress, I wanted to meet you and bring you back.” He checked his watch, “I’m so sorry. How did you find your way?” 

“No need to apologize, Mr. Pennyworth. I retraced my steps no problem.” You typed.

Alfred was still disappointed in his miscalculation, but kept on, “How was your talk with Master Bruce?”

“It went well.” You swiped on your phone before pulling yourself into a seat and adjusting the bandages on your wrists. Alfred gazed at your face and found that the bandage beside your eye was now gone. “Ah, there’s my Young Mistress. I knew she were very pretty.”

You gasped and turned away so he couldn't see the smile that hurt your cheeks. The thing about compliments from Alfred was that they were always sincere as was everything he said.

 If he called you pretty, it was because he genuinely thought so and that warmed your heart. Your family would’ve loved him.

“So, is this where you work your magic?” You texted, and Alfred let you change the subject with a knowing smile.

“I wouldn’t say it’s magic, but I haven’t had a complaint yet.”

You tried to rest your arms on top of the island and lean on them as comfortably as you could so that you could watch him. 

The way he moved across the kitchen was nothing short of graceful. How could he make chores look elegant? It’s funny how you avoided the kitchen and the sunlight it let in because of fear when you felt so safe in this warmth now. It took you back to a time where you belonged somewhere and you knew that the people loved you.

You watched him in a daze and any remaining stress melted away as the image of him busy in the kitchen began to mesh with memories of your grandmother doing exactly the same. Being around him, around someone that made you feel so safe, made life’s challenges seem conquerable.

“I’m looking forward to what you’ve got planned. Something about you tells me that you know how to season your food.” You grinned and he chuckled. “I hope I don’t disappoint.”

You were so comfortable as the soft clinking of dishes, the running of water as he rinsed vegetables and the low bubbling of saucepans became sleep sounds to you. 

“Where’s my head today?” Alfred sounded truly disappointed in himself. “Let me show you to your room, Young Mistress.” You looked up at him half awake with a trickle of drool nearly slipping from the corner of your parted mouth.

“Come on. Someone needs to rest before dinner.” You allowed him to guide you off the chair and towards your “new” room.  You'd be lying if your said you hadn't been dreading this moment.

Your room had been your prison cell and sadly it was half self-imposed. Your room had simultaneously been your safe space where no one treaded after a few years and the place where the darkness concentrated the most.

‘Not again. Not again.’ You stood up straight and stepped to the side where you took Alfred’s arm in yours. You’d be brave. This wasn’t your prison. A lump formed in your throat that you could barely breathe around but you wouldn't let the shadows know it.

“My apologies, Young Mistress, but this’ll be a temporary fix. I’ve recently gotten permission to start renovations and plan to have a room made just for you.”

You think you remembered this. Alfred promised to work on your room, and he even got the go-ahead from Bruce but it was never completed. There was always something going on. 

Some members of the family needed saving or all hell was breaking loose on actual hell on earth and Alfred was spread too thin. 

You placed a gentle hand on his own reassuringly and expertly swiped with the other. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Pennyworth. I know you’re always busy. I’m happy just to have a roof over my head.”

This wasn’t just lip service to look good even though it certainly didn’t hurt to score more brownie points. You’d only be here for 2 years and planned on banishing demons and being outside for the most part. No need to stress Alfred over something so trivial.

Alfred froze like you had insulted his cooking. “What do you mean, Young Mistress? You deserve more than just a roof over your head and I’d thank you not to settle for the literal bare minimum.” He sucked in a breath between his teeth, “I already have catalogues and swatches for you to choose from.”

‘These plans will fall through, Alfred. It’s never going to happen.’ You smiled placatingly and patted his hand as you continued down a hall to a set of rooms reserved for uninvited guests. 

You could feel a petty and sarcastic energy saying “Welcome Home” mockingly and it made your skin crawl, but you did one thing that your mother told you when you were having a panic attack at school, “Turn that fear into anger.”

Alfred opened your bedroom door and gestured for you to enter first.

He tried his best just like always. The duvet and pillows were freshly laundered and matched your favorite colors. He had washed and replaced the curtains and thoroughly dusted everything and aired out the room. 

It was pleasantly plain save for the bundles of flowers, cards, small plushes and little goodie bags displayed on the chestnut desk. They were all gifts from the people who took care of you in the hospital.

You made a show of admiring the room and the care Alfred put into arranging it for you and looked at the names on the cards.

Not a single one from your new “family.”

 It’s a good thing things hadn’t changed; this would make it easier to be as much of an ass as you wanted to be.

You looked over to Alfred and a wide, heart-melting smile spread across your face. Your eyes glistened and you looked away towards the window to wipe them as you sniffled. 

“I knew it…” You whispered more to yourself and Alfred urged you.

“Knew what, my lady?”

“That I could count on you.” Your voice was a weak rasp that could be carried away by the wind but he hung on every word. He couldn't wait for the day he could hear your voice as it really was. He could imagine your full laughs and playful jokes clear as day.

You sat on the bed and looked genuinely happy with how soft the duvet was and his heart ached as he watched you be so pleased with a plain guest room. You were entitled to so much more, but you were just glad to be given a room and Alfred could hardly bear it.

“I’m going to get better soon so we can garden together. My mom had a green thumb and I think I do too.” You looked like you were trying not to brag as you texted and Alfred smiled, “It’ll be nice to have a little helper. I’ll prepare your gloves.” 

A comfortable silence passed between you before he remembered the saucepan and pots he had simmering on the stove. “I’ll continue preparing dinner, Young Mistress. Please rest and I’ll come get you when it’s ready.” You nodded as he left with a soft click of the door as he took the warmth with him.

It wasn’t even a second before you heard waves crashing in your ears and suddenly the bed felt like it was tilting sideways and you had to grip the sheets to keep from tipping over.

Swoosh, swoosh

You could hear the gale winds from that night and nearly feel the flood's spray misting your face. 

It doesn’t waste time, huh?

Dark clouds were looming in the far corner of the room. Yard-long tendrils hung low and limp for now as the house was waiting to feed on you. 

Had it been like this in the last life? Everyone in the house, save for the one man who actually met you outside of it, had already disliked you before you even arrived. Was it always the house?

You could hear whispers of the dead with the loudest being the most recent—The drowned and lost. 

‘Your problem is with him. Not me.’ You thought, feeling that the energy could reach them.

Tension was building in the back of your head and your temples were beginning to pound. You inhaled deeply and exhaled all of the negative energy you could. You wouldn’t let it in. 

You laid back and your muscles immediately relaxed against the mattress that Alfred must’ve replaced before you came. Your thoughts cleared and you tried to organize the facts. Was the miasma and the haunting the cause of everything? 

Yes and No. You knew in your bones that a hint of loathing must’ve been in their hearts from the start or it wouldn’t have been so easy for the dead to manipulate them.

 It only exacerbated their most negative qualities and the biases they already had against you, and with that realization you knew you couldn’t give them grace.

The haunting needed your misery because feeding off of Bruce wasn’t enough after being a stagnant food source for almost 4 decades and you were the sensitive sacrificial lamb. 

You were the survivor who got a billionaire father while countless innocents lost their lives because he couldn’t put one maniac to sleep or get off his high horse.

‘Sins of the father…’ 

You stared at the ceiling and thought of them all–The members of Bruce’s family who made you ashamed to even be alive. You clasped your hands over your stomach and willed yourself to be strong.

Damian had been the physical one from the beginning. From the kick when you had just arrived, to shoving you against walls, and making you fall flat on your face—something about you tempted the violent nature he overcame in the years before you showed up and he couldn’t resist.

You developed a fear response and could detect when he was near even if he was rooms away. 

You recognized his steps, his breathing patterns, and the way the air shifted around him. You were more aware of his presence than your own, and the mere thought of him inspired the most primal fear in you more than the first humans feared the dark. 

Maybe it’s because you suspected if he “accidentally” killed you no one would question it. Maybe it’s because if he amped up his cruelty and did something truly criminal, there’d be no justice for you. 

He made Wayne Manor a 24/7 battlefield but a hell that was too familiar to escape. If you ran, where would you go? You had no life skills or safety net. There was no place for you in the manor or the outside world.

Damian was the instigator of many shameful memories that’d haunt you in your subconscious but one thing that you’ll never forget for as long as you live was the time with your Nana’s picture. 

You had found an old photo of your Nana online that you printed out and kept with you. It was your keepsake and absolute treasure, especially after you’d lost all your possessions in the flood. 

When you looked at that picture, you saw someone who looked like you. That photo was an anchor that kept you from completely losing yourself and proof that even though you didn’t belong to this family, you had indeed belonged somewhere.

It was a quiet and good day because you hadn’t seen anyone all day. You had let your guard down and you recall looking back on that moment and hating yourself.

You’d been standing in front of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s portrait and gazing up into Martha’s face while wondering what she had been like. Her eyes were soft but undoubtedly intelligent. She didn’t want for anything, but she didn’t hold on to her wealth with her history or charity. She was truly noblesse oblige.

Her smile made you smile back as you held your Nana’s picture in one hand. ‘I wonder if you two would’ve got along.’ You honestly felt they would’ve hit it off.

You reached forward with your Nana’s picture to tuck it into the picture frame. It was a little 3 by 2 photo that didn’t take any space at all and you weren’t going to leave it there. You just wanted to set the two women near each other so you could look at the resemblance. 

Your two grandmothers.

You were so at ease that you didn’t notice Damian had been watching you from down the hall until he stormed at you when he saw you touching the portrait. 

You were usually hyper-aware of him but had been lost in the warm feeling that thinking of your two grandmothers had brought and your heart almost jumped into your throat when he burst onto the scene. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” His tone was accusatory and you felt like you’d been caught stealing. He wrenched your wrist and bent it painfully while ripping your Nana’s picture out of your grasp. 

He scanned the small photo. “Who’s this?”

“M-my N-Nana.” You didn’t mean to squeak but he scared you and his hold on your wrist had you curling up in pain. If you had to speak anymore, you knew you’d end up blubbering.

“Hm,” He stared down at the photo but something in his eyes changed. The razor blade cruelty won.

“Then she’s nothing.” He dropped the photo and then stomped down and ground it into the floor leaving a shoe print.

“No!” You pulled away and he let go, almost causing you to fall back. You dropped to your knees to recover the picture and he stomped down on your hand. You shrieked and felt knuckles crack and dislocate. Your cries echoed in the hall and he hissed “Stop whining.” as if you were a child throwing a tantrum in the toy aisle.

He took hold of your hair and looked down at you. 

“Don’t think that because your whore mother tempted father into bed that you’ll ever be one of us.”

You were struck speechless and felt like you were submerged in ice cold water. You wanted to retort but so many thoughts overwhelmed you at once. 

How could anyone say that? 

Why would he say that? 

What had you done wrong? 

You want to defend the two most precious women in your life but words failed you as you doubled over in a panic attack.

“Pathetic.” 

He wiped his hands on his pants then turned on his heel and left you there to pick up the pieces.

Over the years, he mellowed out and just ignored your presence. He’d scowl when you were near or exude an aura that said ‘Don’t speak.’ but at least he didn’t attack you like before or ransack your room and rip up your books and anything of personal value.

For a while after you came to the manor and before he decided you were nothing, every book, notebook, sketchbook, or anything else you cherished would be torn apart and left in your room for you to find. He was mocking you. Goading you to tell someone.

He knew no one would listen.

No one believed you or offered to speak to him about it and actually, most everyone (minus Alfred and Jason) thought you were trying to pin your own bad behavior on him, trying to frame him for attention, or were genuinely going crazy and wrecking your own stuff.

He used Titus to intimidate you, and instigated Stephanie to harass you by saying you were talking about her or messing with her things, and she’d always believe him and fly off the handle. 

You had tried to clear up the misunderstanding once or twice but you’d overwhelmed with tears and couldn’t speak during these altercations. 

In the end, you always looked like the guilty party who could dish it, but couldn’t take it and every case was closed with you as the bad guy. 

It was like Stephanie relished in hating you. You were her prey. A way to assert dominance and maintain her place in the family. You were never invited to things and when you were, it was to the wrong location or the wrong time and you always missed it or stood up. 

“Y/n! Why didn’t you come? We waited for you.” Her eyes were mocking but her voice was concerned and almost wronged as if you stood her up. 

She had a gift for projecting her voice so all could hear her side and assume you were in the wrong. Your voice only shrunk in anxiety, and her manipulation worked every time.

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” No the fuck she wasn’t. 

“We would’ve invited you, but we didn’t think it was your kind of thing.”

“Why are you always looking so sad, gosh!”

“You’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter. You’d think you’d have something to smile about.”

“You’re like a vacuum that sucks out all the fun in the room.”

You were in social danger any time you were in her sights. Every interaction had to be in front of an audience and she laid into you with no one to intervene. The few times you tried, you were ganged up on for being too sensitive and not getting the joke.

You remember her getting up in your face shouting and you could feel little drops of spit hitting you. You remember that disgusting memory vividly. She was yelling at you to never touch her stuff again but you never did to begin with.

You could see Damian smiling devilishly behind her as she did exactly what he wanted. He was the devil on her shoulder and she was too stupid to see it. Maybe part of her knew but she always bit the bait giddy to have a reason to go off on you.

God, you should’ve popped her in the mouth even if she would’ve beat you up after.

Cassandra was always witness to the social humiliation. She was the toughest in the family, the only one that could best Bruce in combat, but she did nothing to protect the weakest person there.

 She watched, she judged, she ignored when you weren’t actively being a victim, and you felt like a ghost. 

Sometimes it felt like you were already dead.

Tim got you mentally and Dick got you emotionally. You thought you could be friends with Tim with him being closer in age and sharing similar interests. He got along with everyone so why couldn’t you?

Simple. He was already biased.

 After reading up on you and fighting the media circus from the moment you were discovered, he’d seen enough of you for a lifetime and didn’t hide it. 

Attempts at conversation were met with withering looks that made the words die in your throat. Questions were met with exaggerated sighs as if you were the most mentally incapable person he had ever met. 

When you started homeschooling because your mental health declined, he mocked your course work and why it was hard for you to keep up. “I guess intelligence isn’t hereditary,” Something dark took over in him, “Or this is the best your mom could do.”

He embarrassed you in front of his friends and even made them feel awkward about it. Connor and Bart were disturbed by his behavior, and couldn’t get a real reason from him for why he was acting this way.

“Just ignore her.”

“She’s no one.”

“When is she going to get out of here? Why’s she even around?” 

One time, Tim caught you struggling over a very difficult math problem when you felt someone staring at you. You turned to meet his eyes and he said something that killed a part of you that you thought had already died. 

“I wish you hadn’t been found.” 

His eyes said he meant it.

Dick was apparently physically flawless if you asked anyone. He was considered a true hero, the de-facto leader of any team he joined or at least the most trusted advisor, and countless people and respected heroes trusted him as an equal. 

Surely someone as big hearted as him could just treat you like a person, right?

Wrong.

Your weight fluctuated with your mental health and your skin changed too. Stress breakouts and pimples were a common occurrence and your skin was either too oily or too dry at any given time. 

His eyes never really saw you, or let you in like a person he accepted. He looked at you like a half finished sketch that the artist had given up on. You weren’t worth finishing, but he figured he’d take pity and steer you in the right direction. 

He was so nice like that.

“You know that’s really bad for you.” He would say when you’d grab for anything you could eat quickly as you rushed back to your room.

“You’d look and feel better if you lost some weight, you know?”

“Look at everyone. You’d really benefit from some exercise.” 

He pinched at your sides to emphasize his words. “Steph and Cass are so active. Maybe you could workout with them?” As if they’d even let you. If you tried with them they probably wouldn’t go easy on you and you’d be battered in minutes.

Or when you starved? He was proud of you. Of course, now you lost weight in some of the ‘wrong’ places and your hair was thinner and you were even weaker, but you were going in the right direction! Keep it up, Y/n! 

He was confused that you didn’t glow like the others. You didn’t look like the others. Damian was so good looking so how were you the awkward step-sibling when you had Wayne blood in your veins? Dick shrugged. Maybe it just skipped a generation.

It had weighed on you. 

The misery had been too much to carry and you had attempted to take your life several times during your decade at Wayne Manor. 

You smiled wryly. You’d thought you were such a loser that you couldn’t even kill yourself right, but maybe it never worked because there was still goodness in the world that reached out to you when no one else would. 

You hadn’t failed. You had been saved.

The faces of those special few crossed your mind, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest and to your belly. 

The horrors of the past and the attempts invaded your mind as if to overwhelm you and force you back on that lonesome path to your end, but it couldn’t force you again. Those kind faces and selfless eyes made you smile as tears prickled the corners of your closed eyes.

It all went like this…

❥

You had gotten addicted to exercise and any way to lose weight. Images of Barbara’s and Starfire’s perfect bodies flashed in your eyes whenever you blinked and Dick’s “advice” kept you awake at night. It hadn’t been an attempt, but a consequence of your pain.

You’d been doing exercises on your bedroom floor, going too fast, pushing too hard, when you went into cardiac arrest. You and Alfred don’t know how he did it, but he felt a pain in his own heart when you were having the attack and he nearly flew to your room before he knew it. 

He performed first aid and rushed you to bed where he tended to you. He took you to doctor’s appointments and put you in therapy. He managed your diet and watched you like a hawk.

Once again, no one visited. 

❥

Tim’s cruelty had become too much for you to bear. It’d been a beautiful spring day and a gentle breeze carried the scent of jasmine all the way up to the third floor balcony. 

You stood at the railing and a great sadness and bitterness consumed you. Why were you the one pushed to the edge like this? Frustrated tears blurred your vision. Why were you so hated when your only sin was living?

 Even now on such a beautiful day you were going to end it all while they were all having fun together.

It wasn’t fair.

You climbed the railing and angled yourself so you’d land on the stone below and without another thought you pushed off and tilted head first.

Bart had watched it all in disbelief from the backyard, and hoped that he was just being dramatic until he saw you climb the railing. 

Tim had been prattling on about some new tech thing he was working on while Bart’s body was vibrating with unreleased energy. 

‘She won’t…’

She did.

He was racing to you and catching you in his arms in a flash. He caught you just in time before your head was cracked open on the stone patio and your tearful eyes fluttered open and found his petrified face. 

His heart was pounding in his throat and his hands felt numb. He had never seen you so up close before. He didn’t even remember the last time you spoke or if you’d ever spoken to each other without Tim interrupting and shooing you away. 

His mind was going crazy trying to find you in his memories and he realized he hadn’t been able to make any with you with Tim around. All that came to mind were anxious eyes and an insecure smile before darting away. 

You blinked through the tears and a strangled gasp slipped out as your face broke into disappointment, “Why?”

“What?” Bart was dumbstruck. Did you mean why’d he catch you or were you just confused. He hoped it was the latter.

“Why’d you save me?” You cried and Bart stared down at you as you fell apart in his arms. 

He didn’t treat Tim the same after that. He tried to tell Tim about your attempt and Tim waved it off as an accident. “She’s crazy.” He’d said and Bart couldn’t let it go. 

He felt like he needed to avenge you in some way, but he didn’t know how. It was a family thing, wasn’t it? People always said not to get into other people’s business, especially family matters.

He stopped coming around as much and even Tim realized he was being ghosted but didn’t get why. Bart tried to keep tabs on you when he’d ask Barry to mention you to Batman but nothing ever came of it. Barry knew something was up but was stonewalled hard by Bruce whenever he tried to be a good adult and float the idea that, hey, maybe his daughter needs help.

None of the adults intervened, and he carried that with him and wondered what he could’ve done differently for the rest of his life. 

News of your death had hit him personally. He saw it coming. He knew if no one had intervened it would end up like this, but he prayed someone in your family would come around and see the signs if they wouldn’t listen to an outsider like him. 

He was too hard on himself. He had been a kid like you were, but he hated himself for not saving you,

He never forgave himself or the batfamily. 

❥

It had been a gorgeous winter day and the pond had frozen over into pure crystal. You should’ve been enjoying nature, but you weren’t here for sightseeing.

Damian’s words and actions had gone too far regarding your mother and what made it worse was that no one defended you. 

You’d had enough.

You were wary of large bodies of water since the storm, but something about drowning to meet your end seemed right. Like finishing what had been started.

You were numb, almost robotic, as you walked to the middle of the pond, kicked on the ice, and let it swallow you whole. The icy cover slipped back in place seamlessly and it was like you’d never been there at all.

Connor was always aware of you when he came over. Tim dismissed you and you were too afraid to meet Connor’s eye no matter how disarmingly smooth he tried to be with you, but he was still always aware of your presence. 

It was like he was unconsciously keeping track of you, something he’d never done for anyone else unless required for a mission. For some reason, due to a completely foreign feeling, he needed to make sure you were there. 

He could feel you getting farther away, and used his x-ray vision too look through Tim’s bedroom wall, through the mansion and out in your direction.

His eyes found you immediately and he stilled as he saw your figure getting smaller and smaller as you got further away from the manor and farther into the brush. ‘Where’s she going?’ 

He half-rose from his chair as dread began to set in and leaned forward as he watched you get farther away and then suddenly your heat signature dropped and disappeared. 

He jumped from his chair and bolted out of Tim’s room, clipping doorframes and knocking off wooden panels along the way. Once outside, he took to the sky in the direction you were and found the point where he’d lost you.

His heat vision melted the ice above you and he dove in and dragged you out in seconds. His heart was racing the entire time as he gave CPR like he’d seen in the movies, kicking himself for not knowing how to save someone when he called himself a hero. 

What if he didn’t make it in time? What if he wasn’t doing CPR right?

He flew you through the cold and gently lay you in front of the fireplace where his heat vision had it lit and raging instantly. Alfred rushed to gather blankets, but besides that, they were the only two in motion. 

Connor realized that he was screaming for someone to help, for Tim to get his ass downstairs. His mind was so loud he couldn't even hear his own screams until he became aware of his throat going hoarse.

Tim ambled downstairs and gazed at your pale, violently shivering and barely conscious self. 

“What’s the big deal? She fell.” 

Connor looked Tim in the eyes for a hint of a joke or just a simple tale of Tim putting his foot in his mouth once again but Connor’s heart plummeted when he saw that the man he called a friend was dead serious. 

‘What the fuck is wrong with these people?’ 

There’s a shouting match after that, but Tim didn’t understand what the problem was. Y/n fell in the pond, and of course she’d be out there all alone because she’s dumb and just wants attention. 

Connor saw red and it all happened so fast. He may have hit Tim, and he may have gone on a minor rampage in the manor before storming out to never return again. 

And that was the end of their friendship. 

Connor would fly as far away from the manor as possible but close enough to see you using his x-ray vision. Sometimes he’d just watch you all night just to know you were still there. Just to know you were still alive. 

Metas were barred from Gotham and when Batman and the others found out about Connor’s bodyguarding, they ramped up anti aerial measures that forced Connor to stay farther away until he couldn’t enter Gotham airspace at all. 

The one night he slacked off on watching you was the one night he lost you.

❥

Jon had been over and innocently passed by the lounge when he heard Stephanie yelling in your face, “Don’t touch my shit again!” Her voice was shriller than he had ever heard from her even when yelling at bad guys, and you were as quiet as a mouse with wide glassy eyes. Even a naive boy could tell that this was unfair.

He peeked inside and saw Damian grinning like he was watching his favorite show. “She falls for it every time.” Jon didn’t know if he was talking about you or Stephanie as he frowned in confusion. 

His brows knitted together and his face burned hot when he saw your mouth trembling and heard you choking to speak. 

“Get Bruce to buy it for you. Why do you always take my stuff?”

“Maybe that’s how she always was.” Damian offered from the background, gleefully fueling the fire. 

Jon snapped. 

He wasn’t sure what was going on but he knew this was wrong. His inner sense of justice told him so.

“Leave her alone!”

Damian startled beside him, not expecting the outburst and the sheer force the shout gave out, and Stephanie leaped up and whirled around with wide eyes like she had been caught in an embarrassing moment. 

“W-Wha-, you were there?” Jon ignored her question and marched forward, “What are you doing?” He puffed up his small chest, his fists balled. 

“W-well, she took my thing…” She was suddenly slightly aware of how immature this seemed, but pride wouldn’t let her give in.

Jon was younger than her, but stared up at her like she was a simple child. “Did you see her do it?”

Stephanie and Damian held their breaths.

“No, but Damian said—”

Jon turned around to his friend, “Did you see her do it?”

Damian sneered indignantly, “And if I said yes?” Jon stared at Damian like he was seeing his true self for the first time. 

Had he been mistaken about his friend’s character this whole time? 

“Th-thank you.” You choked out pathetically to Jon and hurried from the room.

It was a screaming match between Jon and Damian and Stephanie that shook the walls, and even though Damian was one to always get the last word, Jon’s voice shook pictures from their hooks and threatened to knock over priceless art unless he composed himself.

He had to calm himself down because he had a feeling the more he fought with them, the harder it’d be for you later. He knew that he could leave and go back to his safe warm home, but you had to stay here with them. 

He didn’t want to leave you in a worse position than he found you. Clenching his fists and screwing his eyes shut tightly, he counted to 10 like his dad had showed him.

Maybe it was something Kryptonians shared because just like Connor, Jon couldn't let this go as he felt a grudge forming for you. Jon stalked away from the argument with no answers or guilt from the people who harassed you, one of which he’d called a “friend,” and he wanted to see you one last time before he left.

He pushed open what he thought was your bedroom door and anything he wanted to say died in his throat as only a pitiful “Y/n.” tumbled out.

His voice had been so small then, and it came clearly through the eerie silence that surrounded you in your room. You had fashioned a noose and hung it over a low hanging beam and Jon had walked in on you standing in place. He knew what it was for.

“Don’t do it.” 

Your eyes were red and glassy. They begged for help but they wanted even more to not cause some innocent kid distress. You tore down the noose and tossed it to the dirty clothes hamper. “I wasn’t, I promise.”

He didn’t believe you, but he wasn’t prepared for a situation like this. What would his dad do? It finally hit him how young and inexperienced he was, and he felt like a sorry excuse for a hero.

“I’ll be okay.” You hurriedly tried to rub the snot from your nose and rushed to grab tissues and move the stool away. “Thank you for saving me, Jon.”

He thought back to that altercation in the lounge and thought it didn’t count. “I didn’t save you.” He said more bitterly than he intended. 

He didn’t make anything better! The people who hurt you didn’t care and he had even misjudged someone he thought was a friend this whole time! 

You looked over at him, “Yes, you did, Jon. You saved me twice.”

Jon’s chin quivered and he was too ashamed to cry in front of you. He never visited Damian again and after hearing about the insanity at Wayne Manor and Superman himself trying to talk to Bruce, the relationship between the Supers and Bats was never the same.

Your death caused a rift between the two families. Superman treated Batman like a coworker and stopped acquiescing to his eccentricities. 

He went toe to toe with the Bat and didn’t back down on many things.

Connor and Jon focused on Metropolis and growing into men you could be proud of. 

They’d never forget the one they didn’t save.

❥

You hadn’t had him the first 16 years of your life and you’d thought you outgrew needing a father. You didn’t know him, and didn’t want him so why did it hurt so much when he obviously didn’t care about you. 

Why was one child loved and the other wasn’t? Was it because of your mother? He loved Damian’s and not yours? Damian was blue blooded and you were a statistic?

You did it the old-fashioned way in the tub and Jason and Titus were the ones who found you. 

It’s funny that the dog that put you on edge was the first to notice something was up. . 

He’d never attacked you, he was a good boy and unlike dogs bred for fighting and assault you knew he didn’t have bloodlust, but he intimidated you with his sharp knowing eyes. 

However, contrary to his master’s wishes and the evil dead that surrounded you, he couldn’t hate you. He saw the spirits of beloved pets floating around and following after you and he knew you were a good human with a loving heart. 

He wanted to get near but the malicious energy concentrated around you knew he could see them and that put him in danger. So, he steered clear of you and watched the tendrils and the dead that hated you for surviving from a safe distance. 

He was the only one who could see what you were going through, but couldn’t do a thing about it. Who could he tell?

And things remained like that until one evening he felt a shift. The walls were groaning and the wind howled but as always he was the only one who could hear it. His tail went straight up and his hackles raised.

Something was wrong with you. 

Titus bolted for Jason, one of the few humans he could sense had good feelings towards you, and took bit down on his ankle and tugged hard.

“Titus! What the hell?” Jason pulled back but Titus dragged him clean out of his chair and to the ground. The dog dragged Jason a little more to make sure he got his point across and then dropped Jason’s leg.

Titus rushed to the door and turned back to Jason expectantly, barking when Jason wasn’t getting up fast enough. 

“What kind of Scooby-Doo bullshit is this?” Jason mused as he pulled himself to his feet and chased after the anxious dog, his blood going cold as he realized he was heading to your room. 

Something in him knew what this could be about.

‘No. Please, no!’

Titus ran towards a door and barked and scratched desperately. Jason was close behind, almost overtaking the dog and broke the door down with a shoulder charge. It sounded like a bomb went off as the wood split and splintered, sending its remains scattering across the tiled floor.

There you were.

Your eyes were closed.

“No, no! Y/n, why would you?” He knew why, actually. He’d always had a feeling that there was a darkness you shouldered that was even darker and deeper than he knew, but he just assumed he had more time! 

More time to come around and finally talk to you, more time to work his way into your life and get you out of the manor. Why did he take it all for granted? Why did he, like everyone else, take you for granted?

He hauled your soaking wet body out of the bath and to a room nearest to the front of the house all the while screaming his head off. 

“Help! Alfred! Someone fucking help!” 

Alfred stitched you up and treated you in the med bay, and Jason fought Bruce in a way he never did even when he first came back as the Red Hood. 

Walls collapsed, bones were broken, and several had to jump in to try to separate the two but none were strong enough to end the struggle.

It finally ended when Jason realized he wanted to kill Bruce, and he almost succeeded.

He withdrew when he realized it’d feel so good to kill Bruce for you.

After that, Red Hood and Jason Todd officially broke away from Bruce Wayne and Batman. It was like Jason had died a second time as a quiet gloom was once again cast over Bruce’s life, but he wouldn’t acknowledge his failure. He wouldn’t acknowledge that he had any fault in your attempt or that that was the reason Jason would never forgive him.

The one time Jason came back to try to build a bridge to cross over to you, was the night you ended your life in front of him.

He thought he had more time.

Your eyes flew open and you inhaled a shuttering breath that struggled down your throat. Your lungs felt like they had been shriveled up and you turned your head over the side of the bed to throw up water. Where had it come from?

You coughed while wiping the tears from your eyes and looked up to see long tendrils like thick black hair reaching out and surrounding you from all sides. It was like you were a juicy fly entangled in a web and the widow was creeping closer and closer knowing that you had nowhere to run.

It should've scared you.

It pissed you off.

"You motherfucker!" You reached out and took hold of the black mass with both hands.

With two unbandaged arms and weaving scars that healed over the course of 10 years.

You didn't waste time wondering why you were an inch or two taller or why you felt stronger than ever before. You didn't take notice of the clothes that were far sexier and fantastic than your wildest dreams.

All you could feel was the raw hatred you had been holding on to for 10 long years as golden chains shimmered and wrapped around the writhing black mass that struggled in your hold. The moment a chain touched the mass, it sizzled and popped like bacon touching hot grease.

The mass let loose a horrific shriek from a nonexistent mouth like several pigs being slaughtered at once and your eardrums felt like they'd popped. It writhed desperately as the chains from your scars tightened and squeezed around it.

It shook in your grasp but you held tight and wouldn't be knocked from your feet.

"Go to hell!"

The chains clenched tighter until the mass was eviscerated into nothingness.

Your bedroom shook and you could hear the walls and inner beams shifting around you as other entities cried in horror and retreated farther into the mansion and away from you.

Your clenched fists shook as you caught your breath.

You ran your tongue alone a pointed canine and smiled salaciously.

Then, you looked up and saw your reflection in the plain vanity mirror. The 26 year old you who you had never seen so radiant and powerful before stared right back and winked.

❥ Tag list~

No one in the temple dared to say it to your face—except the High Priest, with his sugar-coated words. After all, they must be thinking: how could one of the so-called wives of Lord Khaslana, the world-bearing god who carried so much for the people of Okhema—whether their physical or internal battles—be anything less than devoted? (even though the title was a backhanded compliment, but you're insane for thinking that way)

You wouldn’t think of yourself as his wife, more like a trophy that lives in his temple rent-free. The man never shows up or even tries to talk to you, yet somehow, you still have to pray to him every day.

Not that you are well acquainted with the verses that even children know. You only remember them when they are sung, unable to repeat them if asked. Sometimes, during prayer, you go off on random rants—mostly to yourself—or your thoughts wander to unrelated things that pull you off task.

It’s not like you ever really listened. There was a reason you were given the title of “outrighteous”—for having an attitude and opinions on most things in the temple. You never exactly followed the rules. Yes, you were “punished” only by the High Priest—nothing from your husband, no real reprimand to change your behaviour. But who could blame you for being lonely? You were rowdy, loud, and impulsive, and now you feel like a leashed animal trapped in a temple full of people with whom you cannot hold an interesting conversation.

Even with your personal maid.

Every day spent in your room was boring—nothing to do except needlework, read prayers, and whatever else there was. You genuinely just rot in your bed all day.

The faces in the temple begin to blur together. You start to forget who’s who.

Especially the two other wives he has—Daphne and Phoebe.

They are very beautiful, too. Everyone seems to think so. Even though the three of you live in separate wings (but still meet for meal times), you hear the maids and guards rave about the other two.

You don’t really talk to either of them—they’re devoted followers in your stead. It’s like a duo in a trio situation.

“I feel Lord Khaslana has given me a sign today. When the sun was burning bright in the sky, I prayed for something to calm this heat—and it started raining,”

the short, blonde-haired Daphne said with a bright smile, her blue eyes wide as if they might pop from their sockets.

“Congratulations!” Phoebe replied, tossing her long brunette hair behind her shoulder to avoid getting food on it—the same copy-and-paste smile fixed on her face.

To have the three of you together like this, with the High Priest at the other end of the table, was like going to a family friend’s house without knowing who they were.

You felt a heat rise in your stomach, one that made your blood boil.

Taking bites of your food while the other two laughed and smiled across from each other, you sat at the end of the table, simply hoping to finish dinner quickly and be done with it.

“What about you, (name)? How was your day?”

The two wives, Daphne and Phoebe, stopped talking and glanced awkwardly at you from the corners of their eyes.

You slowly lifted your head from your plate and looked at him with the most intense, narrowed eyes you could muster—filled with utter annoyance to the brim. Just a simple question.

“Fine. It was fine. Thank you.”

Your anger felt like it might burst at any second, like a ticking bomb ready to explode.

His smile did not falter.

The High Priest sat at the end of the long polished table, hands delicately folded over his plate, chin resting slightly forward as if genuinely interested—not poking a beast in a cage for the entertainment of favored pets.

You knew this game.

“Wonderful,” he said smoothly. “May Lord Khaslana continue to grace your days with peace and purpose.”

Your (rightful) wenchful attitude began to show more and more in the days that followed. You didn’t even bother trying to hide it anymore—especially the way you looked at people. That gaze didn’t change, not even when you were assigned a new, watchful keeper to be by your side at all times. You cursed yourself for falling into this predicament because of your venom-filled words.

Still, your gaze didn’t waver—not even when that caretaker, Phainon, a man with beautiful white hair and even finer eyes, knelt down and held your hand with such grace and softness. “I will do my best to serve you, My Lady.”

Even you had to admit—you could see why the maids gushed upon first laying eyes on him. He was utterly beautiful, like a blessing from Lord Khaslana himself. A face handcrafted by the god, dressed in white silks like a present.

You thought him just another obedient servant, another pair of watchful eyes sent to tame your unruly behavior at your ‘husband’s’ request. But the way his fingers lingered when he handed you your tea, the way his voice dipped low when he murmured, “Careful, My Lady, the High Priest is watching,”—it was all too deliberate.

“You have quite the pretty face,” you said dreamily as the two of you sat in a field of flowers. It had been a long time since you’d been out like this, relaxed. You were even allowed to go without guards now, thanks to Phainon’s presence. He perked up at your words, still seamlessly cutting the apple in his hand.

“Are you perhaps married?” you asked shamelessly—he was still a man, after all—but social awareness had flown out the window a long time ago.

Phainon’s knife paused mid-slice, just briefly, the silver edge catching the sunlight. He looked a bit stunned—not offended, not flustered, just… surprised. He looked like a dog!

Then he gave the smallest smile, the corners of his mouth curling like the first bloom of spring. “No, My Lady. I’m not married.”

You perked up immediately, leaning in a little with a cheeky grin. “Not even promised?”

“Not even promised,” he chuckled.

“Ugh, you're lucky you're not stuck like me,” you sighed, feeling a little jealous of his situation. He simply put an apple slice to your lips, then motioned to your mouth, which you leaned in toward.

“You don’t like your marriage, My Lady?” he asked—such a silly question, considering everyone already knew the answer.

“Of course not,” you replied almost immediately. “Lord Khaslana has two other wives. I doubt he even thinks I’m beautiful. Or that I exist.”

You said it matter-of-factly, with the same tone you’d use to comment on the weather, like it didn’t bother you. You took another apple slice from Phainon’s hand and popped it into your mouth.

When you looked back at him, he had a sad expression on his face—like you’d just kicked him. It almost felt like you’d kicked a puppy and now it was whining at your feet…

He must have been one of those people. The kind who cared quite a lot about Lord Khaslana.

“But I’m grateful to him for taking me in,” you sighed softly.

And yet, even as the two of you walked back, that strange undertone of sadness—or was it guilt?—never quite left his expression.

You figured that out about three hours into your first day on the job. You’d walked into the sleek, glass-walled office on the 40th floor of Wayne Enterprises with your little notebook clutched in your hands, fresh off the Kent Farm and still smelling faintly of hay and sunscreen, heart pounding in your chest like a scared rabbit. You’d been prepared for a challenge. You hadn’t been prepared for Bruce Wayne.

The tabloids don’t do him justice.

Sure, they get the broad strokes right. Tall. Ridiculously good-looking. Billionaire. Occasionally seen with models or philanthropists or both on his arm. But they miss the quiet intensity that follows him into every room like a storm cloud, the way his blue eyes could pin you in place with one look, or how his voice, deep and smooth like whiskey, can make your stomach twist in knots even when he’s just telling you to rearrange his schedule for the fifth time that morning.

Actually, it’s a brutal, gladiatorial occupation requiring the patience of a saint, the multitasking ability of a NASA mission control operator, and the emotional resilience of someone who doesn’t cry when a perfectly good apple pie burns.

You are not that someone.

But you try. Lord, do you try.

You’re not sure if it’s the Kent in you or the catastrophic crush you’ve been carefully tending to like a forbidden summer bloom, but you don’t give up. No. You set your alarm for 5:00 AM every day, you iron your skirts and blouses the night before, and you march into Wayne Enterprises with a to-go cup of black coffee that could wake the dead. 

You take his calls. You reschedule meetings when Bruce inevitably disappears—out for “personal reasons” that you’re not allowed to question. You politely field phone calls from ex-lovers who think they can just waltz back into his life. You smile through tight teeth when angry supermodels demand an audience with “Brucie.”

“Miss Kent.” His voice cuts through your daydreams as you fumble with the office phone. You curse under your breath—quietly, because you’re still a Kent and Ma raised you better—before turning toward him.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne?” You push your chair back, notebook ready, pen poised like a weapon of mild administrative warfare.

Bruce glances at the clock on the wall. He’s wearing one of those immaculate, tailored charcoal suits that probably cost more than your entire apartment.

“There’s a board meeting at noon. I need the quarterly reports from R\&D printed and summarized.” He pauses, eyes narrowing just slightly. “And cancel lunch with Veronica.”

Veronica. Right. The supermodel. One of the many.

You nod, scribbling it down. “Of course.”

His gaze lingers for a second longer than necessary, unreadable, before he turns and retreats to his office, the door shutting with a soft click. You exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the familiar ache settling in your chest.

Because Bruce Wayne doesn’t see you.

Not really. Not the way you see him. He sees a secretary. Efficient. Professional. The girl from Kansas with a polite smile and too many pens in her purse. Meanwhile, you see him—the man behind the Gotham mask, sharp-edged and distant, carrying the weight of an entire city on his shoulders.

And you’re in love with him.

Hopelessly, stupidly, painfully in love.

It’s not ideal.

This is fine. Totally fine. This is the job.

Sure, he makes you take calls from the kinds of women who have their own perfume ads and the press on speed dial, but that’s fine. Sure, he makes you memorize his calendar like your life depends on it, but fine. Sure, sometimes he leaves you with half his workload and the other half of his headaches, but fine.

You didn’t move to Gotham to have a soft, easy life. You moved here because a friend had recommended you and you needed the job, even if your parents were more than happy to let you live on the farm. At first, it was very difficult.

Renting an apartment had been the worst part. Gotham wasn't anything like Smallville, or even Metropolis, where your brother lived. Much more dangerous and dark, but just as beautiful. So, you'd ended up in a moderately affordable building with a small balcony that you'd filled with plants.

And not to mention how the people there weren't even a third as polite. How they gave you weird looks whenever you mumbled a "sir" or a polite "ma'am," but that could also have been because the Kansas accent had become so engrained in you, refusing to leave.

But you’d gotten good at reading Bruce. You had to. He was many things—Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, impossible perfectionist, a certified menace to your daily stress levels—but predictable in his routines. You’d memorized the way his brow twitched when a board member droned on too long, the faint edge in his voice when he asked you to "reschedule" a dinner with some socialite (which always meant cancel entirely), and the carefully contained glances he cast your way when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Of course, maybe that last part was just your imagination.

Because if Bruce Wayne actually looked at you the way you looked at him, well… you'd probably combust right there behind your tidy little desk outside his office.

But no. You were just his secretary. The secretary with a too-big crush, a closet full of pretty, neatly pressed dresses, and a last name that carried weight only in your home place.

“Y/N?”

His voice snapped you out of your thoughts, rich and low and way too dangerous for this early in the morning. You looked up, startled to find him standing in front of your desk, broad-shouldered and devastating handsome.

You tried not to let your eyes linger on the cut of his jaw or the perfect, infuriating way his dark hair fell over his brow.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. You never called him that unless you were flustered—or hiding something.

“The schedule for today?” he prompted.

Right. His schedule. You were supposed to be a professional. You snatched the leather-bound planner off your desk and opened it with practiced precision.

“You have a ten o’clock with Lucius Fox, followed by a board meeting at eleven. Lunch is with Mr. Park from the GCPD charity board—”

“Cancel lunch.”

You blinked. “But—”

“Park only scheduled it to pitch more PR appearances. I’m not interested.”

You hesitated. “Should I tell him you’re busy or—”

“Tell him I’m unavailable. If he presses, tell him I’m allergic to public relations.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. Bruce caught it, the faintest glint of amusement flickering in his eyes before it vanished behind that familiar, stoic mask.

“And tonight,” you continued, clearing your throat, “there’s the Wayne Gala.”

His expression didn’t change, but you swore you caught a flicker of resignation in his gaze.

“You’re still attending, right?” you asked, fighting the urge to fidget with your pen.

Bruce’s eyes settled on you in that way that made your heart stutter—steady, intense, unreadable.

“Are you attending?” he countered, voice deceptively neutral.

You frowned, momentarily thrown. “I… well, I wasn’t invited.”

“You’re my secretary.”

“Technically, yes, but—”

“You organized the entire event.”

You ducked your head, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I just coordinated. It’s not the same.”

His jaw flexed, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then, without warning, he leaned down, palm braced against your desk, invading your personal space just enough to short-circuit your brain.

“Be there,” he said simply, voice low and final.

Your throat went dry. “O-Okay.”

He straightened, adjusted his cufflinks, and walked back into his office, leaving you staring after him like a lovesick idiot.

But here’s the thing.

He does see you.

Bruce Wayne notices everything.

The way you hum when you’re overwhelmed with scheduling requests. How you bring a spare cup of coffee to your desk at exactly 9:15, just in case he needs it. The worn denim jacket from Smallville you sometimes forget on the back of your chair. How your smile never quite reaches your eyes sometimes.

You think he doesn’t care.

But he does.

He cares more than he should.

Because for the first time in years, he finds himself looking forward to Monday mornings. To your quiet, determined voice filtering through the intercom. To your handwriting on his notes. 

But he’s a fool.

A coward.

And so he stays quiet.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of phone calls, emails, and one very aggressive supermodel threatening to “storm the building” if Bruce didn’t return her messages. You handled it, like always, smiling politely, making apologies, and filing it away as just another day in the impossible life of Bruce Wayne’s secretary.

But tonight—the gala—it was different.

The Kent in you was screaming this is a bad idea. Smallville had taught you to keep your feet on the ground, your head clear, and your heart safe.

But Gotham had other plans.

By the time you arrived at Wayne Manor, you felt wildly underdressed, even in your nicest gown—soft blue satin that hugged your figure and made your eyes stand out in the dim light. The manor buzzed with the city’s elite: sharp suits, glittering dresses, whispered gossip trailing behind every conversation.

The party swirled around you like a glittering storm of perfume, champagne, and barely concealed arrogance. You sipped at your glass, nerves humming just beneath your skin, but you stayed grounded. For now.

Until you saw her.

Bruce stood across the room near the grand staircase, his expression cool, unreadable—but beside him, clinging to his arm like a designer handbag, was a woman you couldn’t tear your eyes away from.

Tall. Blonde. Sun-kissed skin that practically glowed under the chandelier light. Her gown shimmered in the low light, the cut sleek and expensive. She was the kind of woman that belonged in Bruce Wayne’s world. The kind that laughed easily at whispered jokes, who made socialites stare with jealousy and men stare with want. She tilted her head, smiling at him with practiced charm, a hand lightly resting on his chest as she spoke.

And Bruce—he’s not brushing her off. He’s not pulling away. He’s standing there, listening, patient, polite. His expression is carefully neutral, but you know him. You’ve studied him like a language, and you see it—the tiny flicker of amusement when she says something clever, the faint dip of his head when she leans in.

Your heart sank like a stone tossed into deep water.

You looked away, swallowing the bitter ache rising in your throat. Of course. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him with women before. Supermodels. Heiresses. Gotham’s elite tripping over themselves for a chance to stand where she stood now.

You set your glass down with more force than necessary, turning on your heel before your emotions betrayed you. The last thing you needed was to cry into your free bar champagne.

The room blurred as you weaved through the crowd, determined to find some breathing space, anywhere but here.

That’s when you found the bar—and her.

A woman leaned casually against the polished counter, swirling amber liquid in her glass with delicate fingers. Her short black hair framed her face in soft waves, dark as ink, contrasting beautifully with lightly tanned skin and sharp, green eyes that glittered with curiosity as she noticed you approach.

The bartender barely had time to greet you before the woman spoke first, voice smooth and low, with a teasing edge that wrapped around you like silk.

“Well, aren’t you just a breath of fresh air?”

You blinked, momentarily startled. “I… what?”

She smiled, slow and warm, like she was entirely unbothered by the sharp edges of this world. “You look like you wandered in from somewhere far, far away.” Her gaze drifted down your frame, lingering on your still-slightly-flushed cheeks and the soft blue satin of your gown. “Somewhere real.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Smallville, actually.”

Her lips curved in amusement. “Figures.”

You slid onto the stool beside her, grateful for the unexpected reprieve from your spiraling thoughts.

“I’m Selina,” she offered, raising her glass. “Selina Kyle.”

“Y/N,” you replied, smiling despite yourself.

Selina’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Pretty name. Pretty girl. What’s your excuse for looking like you’d rather be anywhere else?”

You hesitated, tempted to brush it off, but something about her—maybe it was the friendly smirk or the purring warmth in her voice—made it easy to be honest.

“I work for Mr. Wayne,” you admitted, fiddling with your bracelet. “Secretary. Calendar wrangler. Human voicemail inbox.”

Selina’s expression morphed into something wickedly teasing. “That explains the heartbreak face.”

Your cheeks flushed. “It’s not… I mean, I—”

“Relax, sweetheart.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You’re not the first, and I’m guessing you won’t be the last.”

You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands. “Is it that obvious?”

Selina chuckled, the sound light and unjudging. “Only to someone who’s been there. You’ve got the look.” She took a sip of her drink, eyes softening. “Trust me, men like Bruce? They notice more than they let on.”

You lifted your head, doubtful. “Not him. He’s…” You sighed. “He’s different.”

Her smirk widened like she knew a secret you didn’t. “Aren’t they all?”

Despite the ache still clinging to your chest, her flirty, easy confidence soothed some of the sting. You chatted for a little while longer—about Gotham’s ridiculous social scene, expensive shoes, and how impossible it was to find decent coffee in this city. Slowly, the tightness in your chest loosened, replaced by the quiet comfort of unexpected companionship.

But happiness in Gotham never lasted long.

The collision was entirely accidental. You’d been making your way through the crowd again, half-lost in thought, when it happened.

The champagne flutes on her hand dangerously, and one tips, spilling its fizzy, golden contents all over the front of your dress. The cold is immediate, sharp against your skin, seeping through the delicate fabric and turning the soft blue satin dark and sticky.

You gasp, instinctively reaching for a napkin, already sputtering out apologies.

“I’m so sorry, I—”

But the woman’s gaze sweeps over you like you’re something stuck to her shoe. She’s impeccably dressed—pearls, tailored silk, not a hair out of place—and her expression drips with disdain.

“You should watch where you’re going,” she snaps, her voice clipped, precise, and cruelly condescending. “Clearly, you’re not used to being at events like this.”

“I—um—I didn’t mean—”

“Obviously not,” she cuts in, eyes raking over your soaked dress with thinly veiled disgust. “But what can you expect from… assistants.”

Something ugly twists in your stomach. It’s not even the words—it’s the way she says it. Like you’re beneath her. Like you’re a stain on the carpet. And worst of all, she’s not the first to think it.

You swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes burning.

“Excuse me,” you whisper, your voice barely steady.

You turn sharply and flee, weaving through the glittering guests, past chandeliers and waiters and couples who don’t notice you’re unraveling. You burst through the manor doors and into the night, the rain hitting you like cold glass.

The sky is heavy, dark, and pouring, but you barely feel it over the ache in your chest, the humiliation clawing up your throat. You raise your hand, waving desperately until a cab finally screeches to a stop, and you slide inside, your soaked dress clinging to your skin, your heart pounding wildly.

“Address?” the cabbie grunts.

You rattle it off quickly, voice thick with tears you refuse to let fall—not here, not yet.

The ride home blurred past the rain-streaked window. By the time you reached your small apartment, your teeth chattered and your heart ached with embarrassment so sharp it made your chest physically hurt.

Inside, you stripped out of the soaked gown, trembling hands fumbling with the fabric. The champagne stain spread across the satin, stubborn and taunting.

Warm pajamas—fleece, oversized, impossibly soft—helped, but not enough to quiet the storm inside you. You sat on the floor by the sink, the dress clutched in your lap, damp with tears as you scrubbed at the stain in vain.

The first sob broke free quietly, and then another, until your shoulders shook, and you pressed your forehead to your knees.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You ignored it at first, but when it buzzed again—your mother’s name lighting up the screen—your resolve crumbled.

You swipe to answer, voice trembling. “Hey, ma.”

Her voice wraps around you like a quilt. “Hi, sweetheart. Thought I’d check on you. You were on my mind tonight.”

You swallow, the knot in your throat threatening to choke you. “It was a long night.”

“Tell me.”

So you do. You tell her about the gala, about the pretty blonde, about the woman who made you feel small, about the rain and the taxi and the stupid, ruined dress.

Ma listens to every word, soft murmurs of comfort filling the quiet between your sobs.

“Oh, honey,” she says finally, her voice tender and steady, like home. “You know what I always told you. People can only make you feel small if you let them.”

“I know,” you whisper, curling into yourself. “But sometimes it’s hard not to.”

“I know it is. But you’re a Kent, sugar. You’ve got more heart than that whole city combined. Don’t let some snooty woman take that from you.”

You sniff, wiping at your eyes. “The dress is probably ruined.”

“Clothes can be replaced. My girl can’t.”

Your chest aches, but the edges start to soften.

“And besides,” Ma continues gently, “the year’s almost done. Christmas is right around the corner. Why don’t you come home for a bit? We’ll put you to work on the farm. Your father's been asking when he’ll see you next.”

You smile faintly, the image of the old farmhouse glowing warmly in your mind. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Come home, baby,” she said softly. “For as long as you want.”

“Okay,” you whispered, the exhaustion catching up to you. “I’ll come home.”

And for the first time that night, you let yourself breathe.

Until a loud, metallic noise startles you.

“What was that?” your mother’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker, concern lacing her words even from miles away.

You stood frozen in your living room, heart lurching up to your throat. It had come from the balcony. Something heavy. Something… metallic? The rain outside still battered against the glass, wind howling like it was personally offended.

“Probably… the wind,” you tried to sound calm, but your voice wobbled.

“Wind doesn’t sound like that, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t exactly argue.

Your eyes darted around your modest apartment, landing on the first potential weapon in sight—the old, battered broom leaning against the kitchen wall. It wasn’t exactly an impressive choice, but it was better than facing Gotham’s nightlife with bare hands.

“Ma, I gotta go,” you whispered, grabbing the broom in a white-knuckled grip.

“Y/N—”

“Love you,” you interrupted softly, already creeping toward the balcony. “Kiss Pa for me.”

You hung up, slipping the phone onto the counter, broom clutched like a sword as you edged toward the sliding balcony door. Peeking through the glass, your eyes narrowed in confusion. The balcony was dark, but even with the rain streaking the glass, you could make out a broad shape slumped among your poor, potted plants. Your gaze sharpened.

A man?

His cape—or was that a coat?—dragged heavily on the soaked ground, the fabric clinging to his frame. The dim city light caught the unmistakable shape of pointed ears rising from the silhouette of his cowl. Unmoving except for the faint, labored rise and fall of his chest. His shoulders sagged slightly, like they were carrying the weight of the world—or at least tonight’s injuries.

A bat mask. A symbol that had been plastered all over Gotham’s tabloids for months now.

The Batman.

Your eyes widened. "Oh my God…”

Your pulse thudded against your ribs, nerves tangled with curiosity. He wasn’t threatening, not like this. He looked… exhausted. Slumped awkwardly on one side, one gloved hand bracing against the floor as if trying—and failing—to push himself upright.

The other hand pressed tightly to his torso. Even in the dim light, you could see dark, wet streaks staining his suit.

Blood.

The logical part of your brain reminded you: he beats up criminals, not civilians. You were safe… mostly. Still, your fingers tightened around the broom handle, and—against all better judgment—you poked him lightly in the side with the bristles.

“Uh… hey,” you called softly, voice higher than usual. “You okay there, big guy?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, his head tilted up, and even behind the intimidating mask, you could feel the weight of his stare settle on you.

The intensity made you freeze for a heartbeat—but you noticed the tension in his shoulders loosen, just slightly. He wasn’t here to hurt you.

The Batman—Gotham’s Batman—was hurt. And… on your balcony.

This city was ridiculous.

You lowered the broom slightly, heart racing. “Are you… gonna pass out? Or… need help?”

His breathing was heavy beneath the mask, but after a pause, he managed a rough, gravel-edged reply. “Help… would be… good.”

You hesitated only a second longer before setting the broom aside. The Kent in you—years of patching up scraped knees, stubborn farm injuries, and now your brother’s occasional “training bruises”—kicked in.

“Alright, c’mon,” you muttered, slipping your arm under his. “Let’s get you inside before you drown out here.”

It took effort, but between his stubbornness and your determination, you managed to half-guide, half-drag him inside. Rainwater dripped from his cape and suit, puddling onto your floor. Your poor couch squelched as he collapsed onto it with a heavy, pained grunt.

You grimaced. “Okay, we’ll… deal with the couch later.”

First aid. You needed the first aid kit.

You grabbed the small, dented metal box from the kitchen cabinet, snapping it open to see what was inside. It wasn’t exactly stocked for vigilante wounds, but it would have to do. 

You returned to the living room, dropping the kit beside him and kneeling at his side, crossing your legs beneath you. Your gaze flicked over him—his gloves were off now, discarded on your coffee table, his bare hands braced on his thighs.

But it wasn’t his hands that worried you.

The blood staining his side caught your attention—the dark smear spreading across his suit, seeping from beneath the armored plates.

Your fingers hovered uncertainly.

“Hey… uh, I’m gonna help you, alright?” Your voice was soft but steady. “But I can’t get to that with all… this.”

Your hand gestured vaguely toward the torso section of his suit.

For a long, tense moment, he didn’t move. The air between you thickened with unspoken questions. Then, finally, with slow, methodical movements, he reached up, fingers finding the subtle seams at the sides of his suit.

The chest armor loosened, peeling away to reveal scarred, marked skin beneath.

Your breath hitched.

Broad, muscular, every inch of him screamed strength and experience—the kind of body molded by years of brutal training and hard-earned scars. Bruises bloomed across his ribs in shades of deep purple and blue, some old, some alarmingly fresh. A shallow gash bled sluggishly along his side, the likely source of the stain.

Professional. Be professional, you scolded yourself.

“This’ll probably sting,” you warned, voice quiet.

Grabbing gauze and antiseptic, you began to clean the wound with careful, practiced hands.

As you dabbed carefully at the wound, the alcohol making him hiss softly through gritted teeth, you fought to keep your hands steady.

He remained silent for several beats, watching you with unreadable eyes beneath the shadow of his cowl. Then, his voice rumbled low, unexpectedly cutting through the quiet.

“You’ve been crying.”

Your hands stilled.

You didn’t meet his gaze immediately, focusing instead on dabbing antiseptic along the edges of the gash.

“Sharp observation,” you replied lightly, but your voice betrayed you—soft, shaky, raw around the edges.

His eyes softened—barely noticeable, but there.

“Why?”

The question hung between you, heavy and sincere. No judgment. No mocking curiosity. Just… quiet concern.

You hesitated, biting your lower lip as you worked. The gauze wrapped around his torso with steady, if slightly trembling, fingers.

“A party,” you admitted finally, taping the bandage in place. “Someone ruined my dress. Said I didn’t belong.”

His eyes never left yours.

“Gala?”

You nodded, the corner of your mouth twitching bitterly. “Wayne Gala.”

The words hung between you for a second, quiet, but not empty.

Batman’s eyes narrowed just slightly. There was a flicker of something beneath the surface.

“Did something happen there?” His voice stayed low, that smooth, rasping tone that carried authority, but there was an edge of something softer to it now. Less like the Batman of headlines. More… human.

You shrugged lightly, returning your attention to the emergency kit as you began packing away the supplies, the soft rattle of gauze and bandages filling the space between your words.

“Nothing unusual for a Wayne party,” you replied, trying to sound dismissive, but your voice caught just a little. You could still feel the sting of that woman’s words clinging to you like smoke. “Fancy people with expensive shoes and sharper tongues. That’s Gotham.”

His gaze didn’t waver, even as you busied your hands. “Someone upset you.”

It wasn’t a question. You hated how easily he saw through you. You pressed your lips together, not looking at him as you spoke.

“It’s not a big deal,” you lied. “Just some socialite who thinks anyone without a trust fund shouldn’t breathe the same air as them.”

A pause. You risked a glance at him.

The corners of his mouth tightened, and even though the mask covered most of his face, you could feel the disapproval radiating off him. Not at you—but at the situation. At whoever had made you feel small tonight.

“You don’t believe that, do you?” His voice was quieter now, laced with a firm, grounded certainty that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shrugged again, this time weaker. “Doesn’t really matter what I believe. You’ve seen the crowd Bruce Wayne runs with.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, eyes drifting to his injured side before flickering back up. “People like me… we don’t fit.”

His jaw flexed. “People like you?”

You let out a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Small-town girl with a Metropolis zip code. A Kent. I grew up feeding cows and fixing fences. The fanciest thing I owned back home was a Sunday dress from Sears.” You pulled the blanket around your legs a little tighter, voice dropping with vulnerability you couldn’t quite hide. “Now I answer phones for the richest man in Gotham and try not to drown in places I clearly don’t belong.”

The silence stretched after your confession, heavy but not uncomfortable. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you expected.

“You belong,” he said simply, like it was fact—not up for debate. “Don’t let people like that convince you otherwise.”

Your eyes snapped to his, startled by the quiet sincerity behind the words. The shadows softened him for a moment, the harsh lines of the cowl blending into the dim light, but the conviction in his voice stayed.

You exhaled, some of the tightness in your chest easing. “You’re not what I expected, y’know.”

He tilted his head slightly, curious. “No?”

You smiled faintly, relaxing into the couch’s armrest. “All those stories… newspapers, rumors. You’re supposed to be this terrifying, ruthless vigilante. Gotham’s monster in the shadows.” Your eyes traced over him—tired, soaked, bruised. “But you’re… different.”

He let out a low sound that might’ve been the ghost of a chuckle. It was rough, brief, but real.

“I can be terrifying,” he teased, and for the first time tonight, the tension in your apartment cracked just a little, warmth slipping in through the cracks.

Your smile widened despite yourself. “I’ll believe it when you stop bleeding all over my floor.”

His mouth quirked again, the expression faint but not entirely hidden.

A beat of silence passed, comfortable now. The rain outside tapped steadily against the glass doors, a constant hum filling the space.

Then, he shifted slightly, his broad shoulders easing back against the couch, some of the tension bleeding from his posture. His hand pressed lightly to the gauze at his side, checking your handiwork.

“You’ve done this before,” he observed, his gaze drifting over the neatly wrapped bandage.

“Farm,” you answered simply. “Kent household is a masterclass in minor medical emergencies.” You gestured vaguely. “Cuts, scrapes, falling off tractors… patching up stubborn men.”

The corner of his mouth tugged, and your heart did a small, traitorous flip at the sight.

“You handle this better than most,” he admitted quietly.

You arched a brow, teasing. “What, bleeding strangers collapsing on my balcony? Sure, happens all the time.”

“Could’ve called the cops,” he pointed out, watching you closely.

You shrugged, voice light but sincere. “Didn’t think they’d patch you up.”

Another pause. His eyes never left you.

“And… you believe I’m not here to hurt you?”

It was a serious question, but you smiled softly, warmth creeping into your expression as you leaned in, resting your chin on your hand.

“I don’t think you’d let me shove a broom at you if you were the type to hurt civilians,” you teased. Then, softer, “Besides… you save people.”

His eyes darkened with something unreadable, but not dangerous. He didn’t deny it.

You hesitated, then added quietly, “I’ve seen the news. You stop muggings. Get kids out of danger. You might scare the criminals… but you help people.”

The admission settled in the air between you, thick with quiet honesty.

“You’ve been watching me,” he noted.

You rolled your eyes. “Everyone’s been watching you.”

His gaze was sharp, steady—watchful even in exhaustion.

“Y’know,” you began, your voice breaking the quiet, “I didn’t exactly picture my Saturday night ending like this.”

A brow under the cowl arched faintly. His lips twitched—barely—but you caught it.

“Unexpected house guests are common in Gotham?” he asked, voice low, rough, that rasp unmistakable even softened by fatigue.

You shrugged lightly. “Usually it’s angry or drunk neighbors, not six-foot-something vigilantes falling on my plants.”

His eyes drifted toward the balcony door, lingering on the flattened pots, the shattered ceramic.

“Apologies for the casualties,” he muttered.

You smiled despite yourself. “They were on borrowed time anyway. This city’s got terrible sunlight.”

A quiet hum left him, almost a huff of amusement if you were being generous.

You watched him for a moment longer, curiosity outweighing caution now that the shock had settled. His broad frame was hunched slightly, weight shifted to one side to avoid putting pressure on the bandaged gash. The blanket draped awkwardly over his shoulders, the edges damp but slowly drying from the apartment’s warmth.

For a man built like a walking warning sign, he looked oddly… human.

“Is this… normal for you?” you asked carefully. “The whole ‘bleeding on strangers’ furniture’ thing?”

“Occupational hazard,” he replied simply.

You tilted your head, biting back a grin. “Danger pay included?”

His eyes slid back to yours, sharp as glass. “Wouldn’t recommend the career path.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning to join,” you teased, your fingers absently tugging at a loose thread on your pajama pants. “I think I’m barely surviving my current job.”

A pause.

“You work for Wayne,” he stated again, the certainty in his voice settling over the room like fog.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “You’ve got an impressive memory for someone half-delirious on my couch.”

His head tilted faintly, studying you. “It’s… noticeable.”

“What is?” you prompted, curiosity peeking through.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on you, unreadable under the shadowed mask. You waited, letting the silence stretch, expecting him to evade the question entirely.

But instead, his voice came quiet. Honest.

“You stand out,” he admitted.

You looked at him then, surprised by the sincerity tucked between the words. You swallowed, wetting your lips, forcing your eyes down to your hands to keep from staring, and, instead, you shifted topics, easing the tension.

“Bet this isn’t your first run-in with Gotham rooftops.”

His lips quirked faintly. “Rooftops, alleys, warehouses… name it.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “That’s one way to see the city.”

“Best way,” he replied simply.

“Define ‘best’,” you teased, your tone soft, lightening the mood.

A pause. His eyes lingered on you, thoughtful.

“Most honest,” he answered.

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the couch. “Guess you’d hate my job then.”

“Secretary?” His brow arched. “Nothing honest about it?”

You laughed softly. “Depends who you’re working for.”

A longer pause this time.

“And Bruce Wayne?” he prompted carefully. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated, pulse tripping unexpectedly. Careful. Careful.

“He’s…” You chose your words, fingers twisting your pajama sleeve. “Complicated.”

His eyes narrowed faintly, curious.

“Most days, I think he’s impossible,” you admitted, your voice quiet now, honest in a way you hadn’t planned. “He’s cold, distant… expects everything and says almost nothing.”

“And the other days?”

You smiled to yourself, gaze drifting to the rain-slick windows. “The other days, I think… maybe he’s just lost. Or tired. Or carrying more than he lets anyone see.”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. You could feel his eyes on you, steady, lingering.

Finally, his voice cut through the quiet again—rough, softer now.

“People notice more than you think.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t elaborate, only watched you with that same unreadable intensity, shadows curling at the edges of his expression.

The room settled into quiet again. The rain softened, tapping faintly against the glass.

And that’s when your gaze shifted—sliding down the sharp slope of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw.

Strong. Defined. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist with quiet realization.

Your eyes lingered on his mouth—lips you’d seen pressed into faint, disapproving lines during board meetings, biting back frustration during impossible phone calls, curled ever-so-faintly in quiet amusement when he thought you weren’t looking.

You’d stared at Bruce Wayne's mouth more times than you cared to admit. It was hard not to when you were sitting across from him most days, fielding angry calls from supermodels and rearranging his schedule on a dime.

And now, up close, barely away from you, with his cowl hiding everything but his jaw, his lips…

You recognized him.

The sharp line of his jaw. The curve of his cheek. The slope of his mouth.

Bruce Wayne.

It hit you like a punch to the ribs.

But you didn’t say anything.

Your heart hammered wildly, your mind spinning, but you kept your expression carefully neutral.

You shut your mouth.

And he… didn’t notice. Or he did—and he didn’t care.

His eyes drifted to the window again, watching the rain streak down the glass, the faintest ghost of exhaustion settling over his expression.

You stayed quiet, your mind racing, pulse skittering wildly beneath your skin, but your face remained soft, composed—the same mask you wore around Bruce every day.

For now, your secret stayed safe between the two of you.

And his?

You kiss his cheek, scrunching your nose at the feeling of his stubble which he hasn't made an effort to shave. You felt it last night, when he was buried between your thighs. You had to put a salve on the inside of your thighs just as you woke up from the chaffing.

Your aloe plant was losing its limbs quicker than it could grow them.

He wakes up relatively quickly most of the time, taken out of his slumber from the feeling of your weight on the mattress leaving beside him. His shift starts later in the evening, so he doesn't have to rush as much as you do.

"Take me to work?" you ask gently, pressing deft fingers across his forehead and sweeping tufts of hair from his eyes.

He didn't say a word. Weird on its own.

Marc would probably be apologizing, mumbling about how he should have already been awake and helping you. Steven would have been trembling in excitement, getting up the second you woke him up, doting on your every move, and following you around like a hungry puppy. 

You watch as he goes into the bathroom for a couple of minutes, the shower on and steam pouring out from the bottom opening of the door.

He comes out without a towel, walking around with his junk swaying and without even glancing at your perplexed expression.

He changes quickly, wearing a thick jacket even if it was about to be summer.  He looks over his shoulder, pointing with his head to the door.

"You ready?"

…

You glance at your side, keeping your bag close to your stomach as he drives. He barely looked at you, leaned back against the seat and lazily gripping the steering wheel. You hop off the car the moment he parks. You didn’t think he would follow behind you, you didn’t even notice him as you walked through the glass doors to the building. 

His hand was suddenly on your back, startling you as you paused to push the door. Your hand grips his wrist before he could get inside.

“What are you doing?” you harshly whisper.

He quirks his brow, glancing between the crack of the door and you, his lips twist in slight annoyance.

“What?” he spits.

He didn’t sound like Marc, American yes, but not Marc American. It sounded exaggerated like Steven’s voice. Something distinct and completely different from both of them.

Your eyes widen, you let go and step away. 

“I want to make sure you get in safely.”

You nod, avoiding his gaze.

“Hey.”

You take a deep breath in. His scent was different, how could you have not noticed?

Ever since you’ve been claimed by them you’ve been developing stronger senses. Specifically smell. Marc and Steven were as pungent as ever. Whoever this was, was too. They smelled like wood, leather and cleanliness.

They smelled good. But of course they would, Marc and Steven did too.

“Hey.”

He places his hand where your shoulder and neck meet, his thumb gently pressed against your pulse. His hold on you was possessive and yet strangely gentle. Your eyes were glassy when you looked up, his lips purse from the way you tensed. His hand falls to his side. 

“I just wanna walk you in, yeah?”

You let a man you don’t know walk you in, holding onto his arm as he strides inside.  Your steps are hurried against his slow ones, his leisure was making you anxious. You make it to the front desk and let go quickly. You grit your teeth as he leans against the counter, combing a finger through the bowl of candies.  

Your mouth parts, about to tell him to leave but he came out of his office. The floor’s department head. 

“Marc!” he greets excitedly, as if he was welcoming an old friend. He claps a hand over his shoulder, “Marc” flinches. You mimic the reaction.

“What brings you here?” your boss asks. 

Your eyes connect and you glance down onto your computer screen, signing in to your account and ignoring his stare. No one knew you were a thing. No one knew you were even pregnant. You wore loose blouses and jackets anyway, they would never know. 

Hopefully.

In your embarrassment everyone thinks Marc rejected you, which he did in the name of “protection”, and you didn’t want them to start more rumors about you anytime soon. His presence would surely cause a stir.  You already saw the stares from the early birds when he strutted in, your arm entangled around his.

They’d probably say you baby trapped him in some way. The alter, whom you’ve never met or heard of being mentioned, turns to your manager. 

“Just wanted to have a chat with you,” he smiles.

Your brows furrow and still you stare into your blank screen, scanning over the meeting schedules. Pretending to not be listening in on their small talk. 

“Come to my office.”

The alter’s fingers tap against the desk, making you look up at him. He sends a smirk in your direction as he’s directed to the department head’s office. 

“What are you doing?” you mouth. He sends a wink and a kiss with a purse of his lips in your direction, walking over to the office further down the hall. 

He comes out a couple minutes later, kissing his fingers and blowing it to you as he leaves, mouthing an “I’ll pick you up later” as he walks out the door.

You didn't see the boss the whole day, eventually they sent you to check up on him since he wasn't answering any meeting calls. Everyone huddled near your desk, waiting for you to come back, wanting to know what was happening. Everyone expected him to be having a mental breakdown. Rumor was spreading that his wife filed for a divorce weeks before. 

You initially ignored them, not wanting to become a shoulder to cry on, especially not to a middle aged man with wandering hands. A look from one of your coworkers who happened to see Marc walk in with you in the morning makes you get up out of your seat to finally check.

You grit your teeth as you knock on the door.  His office was the only one that had a closed off space, no clear windows because of his need for privacy.

You don't get an answer, you wait a few moments before knocking again. Still, no answer.

People start coming closer, wondering what the problem was. They didn't see him leave the office, you're pretty sure the last time he left was when he- You curse under your breath and close your eyes tightly begging whatever omnipotent force out there would make your assumptions wrong.

The last person to leave the office was Marc, or Steven, or someone in Marc and Steven's body. An alter you've never met. 

You twist the handle to the door roughly, gasping as you stumble inside. He was slumped over, documents scattered all over the desk, turned outward in the direction of the chairs in front of his desk.

You stood there frozen; his body was pale, deathly pale. Who knows how long he could have been laying there.  A mug had fallen to the floor, the coffee dried up on the carpet.

His death was announced by a coworker brave enough to approach the body, checking his pulse by his collar. 

Everyone was sent home early, police interviewed you and you somehow failed to mention a guest appearing before his last appearance outside of his office. They emphasized the importance of your recollection as the security cams stopped working the night before. 

He was waiting for you outside, leaning against his car with his hands tucked inside his jacket pockets. You were about to call to be picked up, your phone in hand. You stare blankly at him, knowing your intuition was proven. It would have been strange in any other circumstance for him to be early.

You sigh as you get inside the passenger's side, his hand finding your thigh as he swerved in reverse, driving out of the parking lot.

"What's your name?" you ask as he kneads your leg. You grip his wrist, moving his hand and putting it back on his own lap.

He just smiles, looking on into the traffic, his eyes glancing at you every other second. Your sharp glare amused him. You really thought you could pull off the interrogator look, it was cute. He plays along. 

"Jake Lockley."

You hum. You lean back against the passenger's seat, back aching from sitting in your cheap office chair all day long. 

"Why did you do it?"

His hand reaches out to caress the barely there baby bump. His hand lands on your thigh. You don’t move it this time. 

"He was a bad person."

You hum again. 

"He has cameras in his office y'know."

He snorts.

"He doesn't. He says he does so that no one tries to steal anything. We checked."

We? Your confused pout was cute. 

"That's why we were there in the first place, sweetheart. You just made us stay a little longer."

Your jaw clenches and you turn to the side, folding your arms over your chest. His hand thumps against the leather of the seat as you shift away from him. 

Marc told you about what happened to him and explained why he turns every full moon, which prompted him to talk about Khonshu. You knew he killed people, he was probably doing it all the time, but you didn't think you would be anywhere near his jobs anytime soon.

He swore you would never see that part of him. You guess he was technically still true to his word. Still, Jake tastes the sourness of the betrayal in his tongue. You were more hurt than afraid. He was surprised by how much that affected him. His smile disappeared, his face neutral. 

"He was getting more dangerous, I had to, for your safety," he says as he makes a turn. Your head tips lightly in his direction. Your scent less sour at the possessiveness you felt in his words. You couldn’t help but feel warmth at the thought that he would protect you, even if you’ve barely met. 

"What did he do?" you mutter. 

He purses his lips, turning off the engine as he parks next to the sidewalk, a diner illuminated against the descending sun. Your face heats up, he knew you were hungry without you having to tell him. His fingers thrum against the steering wheel as he glances in your direction.

"You don't want to know."

…

"Jake! It's been a minute," she says cheerfully.

He smiled up at her, food in his mouth and threatening to spill. She smacks him upside the head lightly, glancing in your direction.

"Thinks he's funny, this one."

You chuckle, sipping from your mug of hot chocolate as she chastises him. Something about minding his manners in front of ladies.

You and Marc come to the diner all the time. You finally had your official first date here.  It was nice and quiet later in the evenings and Linda, the owner of the diner, was always there to greet you both, even making conversation as you waited for your food. 

She leaves with a passing hand on your shoulder, carrying a coffee decanter for the table on the other side of the diner.

"She knows."

He didn't forget your look of surprise when he was greeted by his name at the door.

You look up from your plate, swallowing thickly.

"Figured. Probably knows more about you guys than me," you mutter.

You were a little peeved, especially since you were essentially going to live out the rest of your days with them. Who knows what else they could be hiding?

He moves his hand over yours. He would be irritated too. 

"Her daughter, Gena, saw me half dead in their alley after a bad mission. Everything was hurting so much I couldn't even breathe."

He pauses and takes a breath in, focusing on moving your fingers and intertwining them with his.

"It was a bad night. They helped me, a stranger, without a second thought."

You didn't say anything in response. At your quietness he let go of your hand, digging into his food again. You twirl around the eggs on the plate, your mind swirling with questions. 

"What do you do?"

He almost chokes on his food; he didn't expect you to ask. He almost wanted you to be hesitant around him. He just killed your employer. You shouldn't be so curious.

"I'm a cabbie."

You scoff. He smiles lightly as you roll your eyes and cross your arms. 

"Do you do those things often?"

"Do what?" he asks offhandedly, biting into a flapjack. His eyes were averted, chewing loudly and quickly and staring into his plate. You huff. He smirks as he swallows thickly, chugging down his mug full of coffee. 

He wipes his mouth with a napkin. 

"If you can't say what I did, maybe you can't handle the topic,” he quips. You narrow your eyes and lean forward. 

"Do you kill people often?"

You say it loudly and with confidence. His eyes widen before he starts to laugh.  It sounded ridiculous coming from your lips. 

"I protect the body, if killing comes with the responsibility so be it. I protect you too now, just so you know."

He points to your neck, and you flinch. His eyes flash with hunger as you pull your collar up, covering the jagged mark out of sight.

…

You keep your distance from Marc and Steven. You knew it was upsetting them, at some points their irritation was almost suffocating but you didn’t care.

Jake was amused. You didn’t have to feel it through any weird connection to know that. When you turn your head away from him he smirks and chuckles. When you refuse to talk to him in the mornings he kisses you lightly on the temple.

It had gotten to the point where he started teasing you. Lightly kissing your neck and cradling your cheek to keep you still when you grumbled a quiet response to whether or not you wanted pasta for dinner.

He’d pinch your cheeks when you pouted and scowled. Even going as far as pinching your ass whenever you walked past him to sit by yourself in the living room.

You were getting pent up despite trying to be angry at the fact that they kept a whole person from you.

But the frustration disappeared for Marc and Steven one night, instead being replaced by immense caution directed towards Jake.

Jake picked you up from work and you were in the passenger's seat. The windows to his limo were tinted, his hand was creeping up your thigh and you squirmed in your seat.

You liked his company; he was funny and in a way less serious than the other two when it came to everyday living. His actions were calculated and purposeful, he made you ginger tea when you felt nauseous and rubbed your back without a word. His behavior made you giddy at times. It was like meeting someone for the first time, naturally, without rushing. 

Of course, he liked to have a hand on you at all times. Just like the others but since they were essentially in time out, you've had more time with him and the way his hands would wander when he was bored.

The tension was making you restless at this point.

He speaks without turning in your direction.

“Do you want me to stop?”

You breathe in deeply. His fingers were hovering right over the button of your skirt, caressing over your swollen stomach, massaging into the waistband that was growing tighter every week.

Your hand pressed his harder against you. You salivate as he does. 

“Please don’t…”

The squelch of your arousal resounds in the car, his thick fingers sliding easily inside of you. You’ve denied yourselves sex, too angry to let them anywhere near you.

Steven was the most saddened by that.

You were so pent up, so much slick was gushing out of you, dripping onto his leather seats as you rocked your hips back and forth.

He turned the car roughly to the left, your body rocked forward and his fingers sunk in deeper. You bite your lip mid moan.

You can see red run up his neck, his jaw tensed so tightly you’re sure he was going to break a tooth.

He groans when you place your hand over his bulge, the jeans are tight, his belt already digging into his belly and becoming even more of a burden as he hardens at the sound, the scent of you.

The car smelled gloriously arousing, he felt pride and joy at the fact that he was bringing you so much pleasure. 

His skin prickled and his senses were overloaded with you, you, you. He could barely focus on the road ahead.

He lets you rock into his hand, your swollen clit catching on his thumb as he stiffens it.

His breathing was picking up, it was as if he could feel your orgasm with you. His legs stiffen, the car moves faster from his foot still being on the pedal.

You grip his arm feeling the muscles on his bicep tighten as you squeeze. Your back meets the cushion of the seat, arching as your hips lift. His two fingers stuff you full, they move apart inside of you, scissoring and stretching you deliciously and bringing you towards the edge.

He comes with you in pulses, gritting his teeth as he groans through the urge to close his eyes and rut against your hand over his jeans.

He distantly hears you cry out, sound escaping past your lips as you practically claw at his arm.

His heart pulses in his ears, deafening out as he breathes deeply. He was disoriented, he almost wanted to slap his face to get him out of his daze, but your hand was tight against his forearm, smoothing up and down his jacket as your chest evened out its breaths.

Instinct takes over and he pushes on the breaks quickly. The car lurches to a stop making you grip the door when you're threatened to bounce off the seat.

Your hand shakily moves to cover your mouth. You were inches away from crashing into a car, you can see the people inside turn around and look between you both in annoyance.

“We’re fine,” he says, tension in his tone.

His hand grips the inside of your thigh tightly, you turn to him only to see that he was focused on the rearview mirror. 

He glares into the reflection. You adjust your skirt when he lifts his hand, pushing his fingers between his lips and sucking lewdly, still staring into the mirror, his eyes narrowing and his lips curling into a grin. 

He smiles widely, still staring at the mirror. You had this feeling pass through you, like a child winning a game, making snide comments to the other players.

"Pinches cabrones," he murmurs, wiping his spit on his leg, wincing when he shifts to move the car forward and feeling his dick pulse in stimulation. He unbuckled his belt quickly, his belly freed and revealing the growing wet spot of his tucked in dress shirt he wears to work. 

He curses under his breath at the mess of cum, his hand palming his stomach and lightly lifting it to feel the extent of the wetness. 

He turns to you at the next red light, looking you over. Your breath evened out, but you were still visibly dazed, your lips were swollen, and your nose was runny.

You shift on your soaked underwear too. You wince, you probably made a mess on his leather seat. You were both uncomfortable in the sticky dampness you both had caused. 

"You okay?" he mutters. His eyes focus on the road again as the light changes.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

You snort. His hand blindly reaches for yours and he smiles when you start to chuckle, gripping his hand and fiddling with his fingers. You felt like a wild teen. Like a first love. 

"What?" he asks, chuckling along with you.

"Your seat is ruined, Lockley."

…

You thought the night would have ended there. Soft chuckles as you got out of the car into a diner Jake found on some random website, it was nearby the apartment at least.

The food was good, the servers a little irked from the way you took turns going to the bathroom before sitting down to eat. You two were talking for hours, the moon was shining already.

Jake suddenly tensed, looking to his side briefly as if there was a person there. Before you could ask what was wrong he took his phone out of his pocket, acting as if he were answering an important call.

The phone was off the whole time, he didn't even touch the screen to answer. He stands and you give him a look. He knew you knew who he was really talking to. The damned giant bird. 

He still acts as if he was on the phone with someone, stepping away from the booth and whispering harshly.

"Viejo Pajarro..."

He went outside to talk, leaving behind a stack of bills to pay for the food.

You realize then that you shouldn't have gone outside by yourself.  First of all, you weren't in a part of the city you've ever been to, second, the man following close behind you didn't seem nice. 

You thought Jake would have been by the car, pretending to have a conversation on the phone with the bird man, effectively scaring whoever was following you away, but he wasn't there. 

Your heart was beating out of your chest as you got closer to the limo, praying to some god that you somehow had the keys, even if you saw them glint against Jake's belt.

It all happened relatively quickly, your bag was on the floor, he pressed you against the car door and you were shaking. 

"Please, I don't have anything."

The gun pressed against your belly and you wanted to sob. You finally look up at your assaulter, he looked young.

"Please-no-I'm pregnant," you rush out. 

His face falls, the gun in his hand slacking as he steps back slightly.

"Hey!"

You both turn at the shout. You gasp as Jake strides closer, his ceremonial suit on. He was becoming more well known throughout the city. There had been some conspiracy theorist internet videos talking about a man in white, throwing knives the shape of half crescent moons at criminals. Bodies of pedophiles, rapists, and human traffickers were starting to appear all over the U.S. with the same deep cuts from the same blade. 

Moon Knight scared many, since so few have come out of encounters alive. 

You’re shoved forward, your knees bending from fear and making you fall to the ground harshly. The barrel presses against the back of your head, Jake grasps crescent darts from his chest.

"Let her go."

The gun presses further, making you crane your neck forward. Jake steps closer.

"Don't come any closer! Stay where you are!"

You can feel the gun shake in his hand, you keep your eyes on the ground, too scared to lift it up towards Jake.

Despite the warning Jake creeps forward, the click of the safety makes him stop, you stop breathing entirely.  It feels as if you couldn't take a breath in, your lungs suddenly stopping their motion.

You're on the ground, your hands and knees as you heave air. You couldn't stop yourself from shaking. 

You could barely make out a ‘shit’ coming from the man behind you. He moves to kneel down, but something cuts the air. The gun falls to the ground, he gurgles as he slumps to the floor.

In your horror you watch as he stares at you pleadingly, his hands at his throat, a dart embedded in his neck.

Jake calls out your name, you shuffle for a moment, crawling in his direction before you gather enough strength to stand.

You stumble into his now open arms, stepping away from the body that fell beside you. He wrapped his cape around you as you buried yourself as close to him as possible.

It took you a minute to gather your bearings, to calm as he purred in your ear, willing you to take in his scent as he cocooned you against himself.

“Oh my god, that was a person," you say.

You push away from him, panicked.

"You just killed a person.”

He grasps your shoulders when you start to back away slowly.

"He was going to kill you."

You shake your head. He really wasn't. You could see it in his face, he was scared, Jake was just too angry to see it. He loosened his hold on you and he wanted to help you up. The safety was on until Jake appeared. 

He should have let go of the gun when he kneeled down.

"You could have talked to him"

"He had a gun pointed to your head-to your stomach seconds before."

"He was scared."

"He was scared? I was scared for you! You wanted me to give him a chance to kill you!? Our baby?!"

You step back. He was shouting and you were getting frightened. The armor changed, morphed into an actual white suit.

"Let's all calm down, yeah?"

He cooed as he brought you to his arms, instructing you to call the police.

Steven waited with you as the police came. He answered their questions, out of his attire, and drove you both home.  He was the one who held you in bed as you cried silently.

…

Jake showed up less frequently.  He felt as though he had scared you, enough to make you not want to see him ever again. It was alright. He makes himself believe it was for the best. 

His aggressiveness makes him think he would make a terrible partner, a terrible father.  Wendy may not have birthed him, but she damn sure was a factor into his creation.

They all knew that, Steven knew that, Marc knew that. It was why Marc was the most afraid, the most in tune with your needs. He knew you wouldn't let him become his mother, Steven and Jake wouldn't let him either, but there is always the fear that it might happen. As if it ever could. 

You reassure him it won't. You know it won't. 

Jake though, he feels as if he should be resented. Steven was sweet, doting, a friend, someone who had unconditional love. He was brutal, making the hard decisions, protecting when no one else could.

He was the aggressiveness of others turned against them. He plays their game to get out of it. He dreads the thought of never walking away from the tight fists, the bloody snarls and the bursts of desperation.

The responsibility that Khonshu gave them amplified the need for his presence. The curse from the monster that bit them made his need to protect inconsolable. 

Now they found you, their mate, and he was foaming at the mouth, writhing to let him out. To keep you home instead of letting you roam around where he knew the world was dangerous and cruel. 

He fights through it. He just couldn't do it that time. The gun at your head was too much, the sourness of your scent and the taste of your tears in the air was too much.

Your distress made him panic; it scared him beyond comprehension. He saw red when the gun that man was holding inched closer to your stomach. In the back of his head he knew he was probably just putting it down, he was kneeling down to help you relax.

He should have aimed for his shoulder, but his eyes zeroed in on his neck.

He wanted to be like Marc. To have a semblance of him.

Knowing when things went too far. In a way he wants to hate the fact that he works for Khonshu. He wants to dread the call like they do. He wants to detest it as much as he does. But he enjoys it most of the time, that sickly sweet taste of brutal justice. 

Then again, Marc was on the verge of alcoholism and Steven doesn't really know how to get out of stressful situations.

They get to have you and he gets to make sure you’re alive. He ensures that you are loved, that his child will be loved in the rightest of ways. He couldn't risk himself turning into Wendy or even Elias. 

He would never be an Elias. He was damn sure of it.

…

You turned the bedside lamp on after you both came down. Your hands were running down his neck, over his shoulders as you sat on his lap, tracing parts of his body as he tried to catch his breath.

You liked the routine, he liked to be held and touched gently after a good orgasm. When you tried to trace down his pecs to his soft stomach his eyes shoot open, he stopped your hands from roaming further.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

Marc leans his head back, up against the pillows you fluffed for him before riding him to the stars. His cheeks redden, and he smooths his hand up his stomach, he pokes at his belly. His other hand smooths over his face in frustration as his finger disappears in the softness. You frown.

“You are very handsome,” you reassure slowly, your eyes showing extreme sincerity.

He mumbles to himself.

Sure, he gained weight, some relationship weight you liked to call it, and he carried it well. He was bulkier now; his abs may have lost definition and his shoulders were broader than before, but he was just as strong.

You swear you could feel the muscle of his arms bulge when he picked you up, carrying you to bed whenever you stayed up too late watching reality tv in the living room. You cup his cheek and turn him to face you directly, his jawline was softer, cheeks fuller unlike his previous sunken and tired appearance months before. 

“What did you say?”

You try to smile, your thumb drawing circles on his jaw gently, tsking when he avoids your gaze.

“I need to lay off the sweets,” he says louder.

He developed a belly, a proper gut, ever since he met you. You’ve never mentioned when his shirts would get tighter, when he would have to get bigger pants. It became more noticeable when you had gotten pregnant, your scent changed, he was much calmer, enjoyed a little more of life than usual.

He didn’t have to worry about you leaving, so he subconsciously let go and settled down a bit.

“I think you look great like this,” you mumble absentmindedly. Your nails drag over his skin, humid with sweat and soft as you press into his chest. 

He hums sarcastically as if saying, 'Sure you do.'

"You look like a father," you jest.

He stares for a moment, unamused. He sits up against the headboard, rolling his eyes as you cup his cheeks with both hands.

"I don't care if you have a belly or not. I like it because it's you..."

You lean up to his ear, your hands now running down to squeeze his sides.

"Also might be because you look homely, safe and like I'm taking care of you like a good mate should."

You feel him harden again as your breath tickles his earlobe. You press your stomach against his.

You couldn’t understand him. Technically, you were growing too. They liked it, they felt warmth whenever they noticed your bump. When you would hold them from behind and your belly would make contact with their back first.

Steven would talk to it, the baby, and Marc would pat it, drawing circles over your skin whenever he thought you were asleep or weren’t paying attention.

The scent of their arousal didn’t surprise you whenever you absentmindedly rubbed the top of your bump, sitting down at home, watching TV.

You almost did it on purpose, putting a hand on your back while the other cupped the underside of your belly when you stood for too long.

Putting on their shirts, the clear outline of your breasts and body on display. Barefoot and pregnant as you made breakfast.

They went crazy over that.

They also didn’t miss your arousal whenever they were on the couch or in bed, shirtless, waiting for you to accompany them. The rise and fall of his breaths, his damn stomach, made you think of a bear; comfy, warm, big, strong and protective.

Whenever you were thinking too much or too hard about something at work, you baked. Whenever you were in a good mood, you baked. When you were sad, you baked.

You liked to bake and make food. Your home was practically stocked with eggs,flour and sugar.

“Is it good?” you would ask slyly. Marc practically inhaled your food. Leaving no crumbs at your kindness in the form of sustenance.

“I love you,” he would moan. You would usually laugh, especially since he always asks for seconds, but sometimes you couldn’t help it. You felt good that whatever you did made them feel good.

Sometimes you think you didn’t show your appreciation. They took you to work, they cleaned the house, they took the time out of their day to ask about your day. Tasks were shared unequally, and they usually took the heavier bulk of chores. 

They were perfect and you felt as if you didn’t do enough. So, by cooking and making small treats, it felt as if you were paying their affection back in some way.

The balance of give and take was essential, with them constantly being helpful, affectionate and generally around, the small act of giving them some extra sugar was barely enough, in  your opinion.

So yes, you do get aroused by their growing gut. It was a symbol of your love. The progression of it, considering their whole situation was not something you particularly wanted in the first place.

They just denied the fact that you could possibly be into their softness as much as they were into yours.Even if they grew claws and their hair texture got rougher on some starry nights.

"You don't like me like this?" you ask innocently.

Your hips shift forward, his cock slides snuggly inside you. You practically lay on top of him, pressing your head against his neck.

"I’ll love you however you look," he murmurs.

You nip at his jaw, he tenses and groans as you go lower, your tongue meeting the small patch of sensitive skin on his neck.

“I’m only swollen because of you. Only gonna get bigger.”

His hips twitch forward on instinct, feigning adjusting himself from his sitting position. He groans at the image of your body going through changes, your belly extending, your breasts swelling up with milk, your body softening further. All due to him.

You sit up again, your hands on his shoulders as you start to move your hips, bouncing softly as he closes his eyes, parting his mouth as the back of his head dips into the pillows further.

"Fuck, you’re gonna look so good," he moans.

His hands meet your hips, squeezing the fat of your ass and lightly helping you along.

Your hands slide down, resting against the swell of his stomach, palms massaging further down until it cups the underside of his belly.

You squeeze and he stares at you, confused but mostly aroused at the idea that you were turned on by the way he jiggled as you bounced harder on his lap.

You lick your lips.

“You’re gonna look good too,” you huff.

You grind your clit against him as he bottoms out with each lift and fall of your hips.

The squelch of arousal and the slapping of skin amplifies.

You were starting to moan openly, your words coming out breathy; as if he was fucking the air out of your lungs.

“So big and strong… gonna be like a teddy bear… so soft for me… mine…”

Your scent was off, it was strange. He knew when you were horny, he could smell it but this was different, downright hostile. He fucking swears as you throw your head back, mouth agape in a wanton moan he could see your canines growing.

Your grip on him tightens, your nails biting into his skin. Making your mark, claiming your territory. He couldn’t help but pop a knot in you.

You cum, completely overstimulated from the past rounds as you collapse on his chest. He doesn’t mention the starry look in your eye, how you nuzzled and sniffed along his claiming mark for a few minutes even as his knot came down.

He was startled when you pushed up against his chest to sit up. Your hands are on his face and smoothing over his cheek leading down towards his lips.

“Where did this come from?”

You were still sweaty, discombobulated and you swiftly changed the tone of the atmosphere. Just like that. He gave you a look, your eyes were half lidded. Pregnancy brain, he thinks. 

Your thumb traces over the mustache he was growing on his face, mesmerized. You ignore the way he snorts, confused at your sudden drunk like behavior.

You smelled weird. An overload of scents invades his nose.

You were decidedly undecided. It was nice now that his beard grew out but then he shaved most of it off, keeping a bush above his lip.

It looked good, you thought. He looked like a dad. You furrow your brow, staring at him when he doesn’t answer your question.

He looks at you in panic, the sudden seriousness in your face catching him off guard.

“Do you not like it?” he asks slowly. 

“I don’t hate it,” you quip.

He huffs.

“It was Jake’s idea,” he mumbles. He feels you tense above him, your hands smoothing over his chest and down to rest on his stomach as you sit up straighter.

You frown. He can feel your anxiety rise, dread in the pit of your stomach.

His hands smooth over your arms, stroking up onto your neck. 

“Hey, he didn’t mean to scare you.”

You purse your lips.

“He didn’t scare-“

You sigh. Laying on his chest again as you breathe out deeply.

“He killed someone, and he didn’t feel anything."

His hand caresses over your back.

"He was scared. He was angry, not at you, but at the fact that he left you in danger."

If he were to be honest, he would have killed him too. Steven might have not, but he knows that he would have. In a way that scared him, that person could have been innocent, he could have let you go if only Jake had stalled a little longer.

It doesn't change the fact that he would have killed him too.

Fear breeds violence. And Marc is very fearful. Jake is too, which makes him good at what he does. He has a drive that forces him towards an unsavory solution.

Violence is almost always the quickest path towards it.

“He just wanted to protect you, like we all do,” he whispers.

“Please understand,” he adds when you stay quiet.

You burrow further into his shoulder as a response.

…

Your body couldn’t keep up. You were changing too quickly, your hormones were like rapid fire, changing almost every minute as your body tried to get accustomed.

Because of this, you were almost always by his side. Only letting him leave when he had to work.You called off your own work, or more like he called off work for you.

Steven was very attentive to your needs. He liked taking care of you, you liked the way he didn’t get tired of the way you incessantly found ways to lead him back to bed.

The bedroom was an organized mess, covered in blankets and pillows, sheets upon sheets that you said you absolutely needed or else you would probably die.

You weren’t going to but the anxiety in your head at the mere thought that you wouldn’t have those specific white with pink polka dot sheets made you think you would spontaneously combust.

You spent your time there, making a nest and burrowing under the mass of softness almost all day for the past week.

Oftentimes you would lead him wordlessly to the bedroom, able to convince Steven to lay down with you, covering him gently in blankets and pillows until his face was the only thing visible.

“Oh-“

You wrap a blanket over his legs, making it difficult for them to move apart.

“Darling-“

You shove a pillow on either side of his head, the soft ones you liked that felt weighted and like stuffed animals.

“This is just-“

You shush him, pecking his lips as you pull a thicker blanket over his torso, pressing in the fabric until it pinned under him.

For a moment he squirms, a final giant blanket pulled over you both as you cuddle to his side. He looked like a swaddled baby, he felt like one too.

It was warm and your content hum against him made him relax, almost as if you were soothing him to sleep.

You start to purr, he didn’t even know you could do that, and you make him melt.

“This is kind of lovely, isn’t it?” he mumbles slowly, his words starting to slur together.

His eyelids feel heavy, his breathing deepening as you kiss his cheek gently, smoothing his hair to the side and caressing the sides of his face as he closes his eyes for a nap.

He woke up, loosened from the blankets and pillows and with you beside him. An arm wrapped over his stomach loosely as you snored softly. He couldn’t help but imagine you with your baby already. Your instincts were making you practice, unfortunately he was the usual victim to your antics. 

But he also knew it was getting close to a full moon.

They were getting restless, their bodies aching as if they were ready to transform at a moment's notice.Their fists pounding harder against the enemies of the night and their irritation pulsed at every small inconvenience.

Most of the time the full moon meant they were clingy to you, watching you interact with anyone in barely contained anger. Now, it was you who was acting clingy.

You started to exhibit strange behaviors, only increasing by the day.

Marc's worries were being pushed to the side, Steven thought that you were just overly affectionate and tired. Hormones. 

Even if you haven’t been outside by yourself in a while, and you refuse to let them go anywhere without you being there. Even when you start to sweat in your sleep, twisting and turning from discomfort whenever he is out on missions. 

Every day nearing the full moon made Marc anxious, he was expecting the worst, Steven convincing him otherwise. 

Marc was seemingly right.

They expected you to be home when they came back from work. It was a full moon now, they just wanted to lay down for the night, have you wrap them up in blankets that smelled like you and sleep.

They didn’t expect the apartment to be trashed, the bedroom to be a complete mess and the door halfway open as they turned the hall.

…

Jake knew almost immediately. He fronted without explanation, their distress pushing him forward. He curses when he peaks outside, shrugging on his jacket as he picks up his keys. The moon was already out, taunting him.

He was grateful for the control, the practice they’ve had with holding in their form even as the moon begs them to change.

It was probably your first time, you were most likely scared, looking for them. He wanted to puke, his stomach swirling and his mouth filling with bile he had to spit out on the sidewalk.

He went by the path to the current security job they had. It was for a rundown building, closed at this time. Barely any customers, on the verge of bankruptcy and of letting them go. It wasn't exactly safe to be around at night.

He knows you're vulnerable and in anguish, he feels your anxiety spike just as he sees a group of people from the corner of his eye.

“Hey!”

You were in your pajamas of all things. Barefoot and cowering as two men crowd you.

They turn to his voice.

You didn’t look much different, of course you wouldn’t, he was probably half of werewolf, you would be even less.

Even he didn’t look like the monster that bit them, not as hairy or wolf-like. Not as feral… anymore. The first time is always the worst one.

He imagined he would have been dangerous, killing without remorse maiming whoever was in his path, but he was scared, traveling around London, lost as if he were a newborn.

When Marc met you, he was startled by the way his other form reacted so harshly, becoming aggressive and restless.

He only acted that way during his ruts.

It was why Marc wanted to back off, to not show you what he really was. For a moment he thought he would hurt you despite the way he yearned to be around you.

Marc learned to embrace the need though, albeit with reservations, being away from you would cause more harm than good. It would probably drive both of you insane if he continued to push you away.

Jake is learning that lesson now.

…

You were overstimulated, smells and sounds were making you feel crowded. You couldn’t stop from trying to find Marc, or Steven, Jake. It was like you were possessed, going by what you knew of their workplace and wandering from there.

The two men were ignored initially, you were too concerned with sniffing the air, finding any indication that they were even at their shift.

Then they grabbed you and cornered you, talking to you until your ears started ringing from the rise in volume of their voices.

By the time Jake dropped their bodies to the floor you were crouched down, hands over your head as you tried to block the sounds of their flesh tearing, their bones breaking, and the scent of their blood all over the corner of the street.

He picked you up carefully, your growing nails digging into his arm whenever you swayed too harshly.

“Ey, hermosa.”

He sits you down on the bed; you didn't even notice you even entered your home, least of all your own room. He cups your head in his hands, and you lean heavily into his palm.

"We're home."

You nod. 

"You look different," he tries to joke. The pain all over his body was starting to become unbearable. He moaned lightly and it was almost as if the sound was beside your head.

He chuckles when your now pointed ears flicker.

"I was trying to look for you," you mumble.

You barely registered your voice sounding muffled, your tongue sliding over your teeth almost expecting to find cotton. Your canines were longer, sharper than before.

"You shouldn't have, it's dangerous in your condition."

He was starting to sweat, his face turning red as he closed his eyes tightly. Your fingers instinctively swipe over his cheek, flicking the drops away. 

You were stunned when you caught the size of your fingernail. You almost cut him as your thumb smoothed over his cheek.

"It was like I couldn't control myself, I just ended up on the streets before I knew it and-“

He groans, closing his eyes tightly before marching out of your hold and into the bathroom, holding his head in his hands.

You could hear him for a couple of minutes, objects falling to the floor, groans coming from his throat as his bones shifted and the muscles in his body rearranged.

You whine from the back of your throat as he attempts to stand, working the doorknob for a few seconds before slamming the door open.

Something was off about him; you didn't like it. Your eyes kept on directing you to his neck, you thought it looked a little bare.

He picks you up from where you sat, pressing your back against his chest as he plops onto bed, wrapping his arms around your waist and connecting over your stomach.

He holds you tight, trying to ignore the way you were trying to turn. His hands envelope your own, twisting gently to compare yours with his.

"Still so small."

You have matching hands now, he offhandedly remembers your comment about painting his nails, how they looked like acrylics from how thick they were and how they curved slightly at the base.

As his grip loosens you turn, your nose meeting his neck before he could react. You make a noise of disgust.

He takes it as dissatisfaction because of his presence. You probably wanted Marc or Steven, not him.

"You smell wrong."

His jaw tenses, humming as you grip onto his shoulder tighter, pulling him down for better access. Bile rises between his molars again. A pit in his stomach formed. He was readying himself for you to ask him to leave.

"I can fix it."

Before he could ask what you meant, you bit him, sinking your teeth into his flesh and staying locked on so surprisingly that he could barely feel the initial pain.

His body fills with euphoria, his cock chubbing up and his knot aching. You envelope him like a blanket, his senses suffocating with only you.

He falls onto the mattress, on his back groaning as the lust increases tenfold. Your own body starts producing more slick, the pheromones in the room working on overdrive.

Guiding his hands, you drag his nail against the seam of your pants, the sound of it tearing resounds around the room.

The pieces fall to the side of the bed. He watches leaning against your nest of pillows and blankets as you remove your panties from one leg and then the other.

His hands caress up your thighs as you reach behind your back to unhook your brasier. Your breasts releasing from the fabric and your nipples pebbling from the cold air.

He grips your hips for a few moments, his body tensing and his eyes staring into yours as you sit up against his lap. He suddenly lifts, making you yelp and dragging you forward until your pelvis meets his chin.

His mouth was watering, he pushed you further up and his lips met your cunt, moving as if he was kissing you. He groans into your folds, and you lean forward from the stimulation, gripping onto the headboard to stabilize yourself. 

Your thighs were on either side of his head, you didn't fully seat yourself, too scared to crush him with your weight. 

It wasn't until his tongue breached your folds, circling around your clit before finally squelching inside of you, did you let go. 

His fingers dig into your ass, pulling you deeper onto his tongue.

He grunts when he feels you clench around the muscle. Your hands tighten over the headboard, your hips gyrating against his face.

“Fuck- I-“

The bridge of his nose nudges against your clit.

One thing about Jake was that he has seemingly lived off of the appraisal of others. He has gotten so little of it back then, Khonshu being the only person to congratulate him with a job well done after missions and now recently you, telling the others how good they made you feel, how much of a-

“Good boy.”

-they were.

He moans at your praise. He gets off on it, acting as a fly on the wall whenever they have sex with you, thrusting their hard cocks inside of you as you babble away.

It was nonsense that made him want to burst. It created a warmth inside him that nothing else could bring.

Truth was, you wouldn’t dare say anything if you weren’t dazed from their thumb pinching over your nipples or your clit. From their fingers or cock dragging against your walls.

“Your tongue is so fucking- so good,” you whimper.

You may have thought about it, more than once or twice, the size of it every full moon. It was so long. You liked to kiss him, just for it to stuff your mouth full.

It was strong too, the muscles would flex and the sheer girth of it made you fantasize about other places it could slather onto.

You liked a lot of things they didn’t like about themselves.

Jake liked that.

He starts to lift you, up and down on top of his mouth repeatedly. You reach behind you, past his belly and grip him from the base.

“Jake,” you moan. He hums against you, pushing his face impossibly closer to your cunt, his nose rubbing into your clit with more pressure.

“You make me feel so good.”

His cock twitches in your hand. He starts to pant, slurping and mouthing relentlessly as you squeeze. You lift off shakily, his tongue grinding against your mound as you scooted away. A faint squelching sound being made as he unsheathed his tongue from your pussy.

His pupils were dilated so round, they almost made his irises look black.His chest was heaving and he licks his lips with his eyes now closed, feeling you move down his belly.

For a moment you both are at a stand still, his cock fit snuggly between the cheeks of your ass. His hips undulate, your pelvis meets his stomach, your mound grinding against his belly.

Your clit throbbing.

Your hands move up to his pecs as he thrusts up, you could feel the sticky mess of his precum collecting on the small of your back as you squeeze his softness.

Your tongue glides along his throat as you lean down. He squirms when your teeth drag against his skin, sensitive and raw from your bite.

He whimpers when you bite down lightly and you shush him with a growl. He was being impatient, he wanted to be inside of you but you wouldn’t let him.

“Is this what it felt like? When Marc bit me?”

So helpless, so desperate for a mate’s attention?

Your mouth was covered in his blood, you licked your lips as you sat up straighter, your hips moving back and forth against his cock.

You cup his cheek and he closes his eyes. With a thick swallow, and a gasp as you started lifting your hips up and down he answers a quiet yes.

“Just thinking about you leaving makes me crazy,” you whimper.

You lift to your knees, moving over his erection and finally pulling him from his misery, his mouth opens in an almost silent groan as you sink down.

“I don’t want you to leave anymore.”

The past week you’ve felt horrible, like something was missing. Your anxiety was through the roof and the day before you felt as if you were going to collapse from it.

Now, connected, with Jake present again, it was as if the feeling had disappeared completely.

His knot is starting to catch on your opening, as you rut against him it starts to swell.

“Promise you won’t leave,” you demand.

Your hips move desperately, he tenses below you. You rut harder against the underside of his belly. You guide his hands over your breasts.

"You won't leave me, right?"

He squeezes your chest, his thumb running over your nipple as you bounce aggressively. His balls tighten, he breathes deeply to stall the inevitable. But you wanted him to lose himself, you wanted him to spill his brains out. 

"I love you. I don't think I can live without you. All of you."

You both shake, trembling thighs and sweat soaked bodies piercing into each other's skin. 

You saw white, you couldn't focus on just one feeling. His hands were running down your body, his eyes closed, panting as you slump against him.

Your skin awakens as he touches you, bumps rise from your back to your arms, heat from within your own breast travels to your stomach, towards the rest of your body.  You go limp, pressing your ear against his chest, hearing his heart beating in sync with yours.

Your hands tighten over his flesh, his blood pools over your fingers, making the air smell sweet. You press it to your lips, groaning at his taste. 

His neck throbs, the wound healing into a matching silver scar. 

You've never claimed to love them, and, in this copulation, you've spilled your truth.  You've kept it for a long time, you just didn't know what was stopping you.

You nuzzle against him, your nostrils flaring as you take a breath in his scent. A scent you’ve missed. Sweet, musky, like fresh pine and wilderness. 

"Don't leave," you whisper.

He never left; he was about to respond. But he knew that wasn't what you really meant.

He kisses your head, cradling your belly.

"I promise."

--------------------

Woah! This is the final part! Thank you to all that have read and supported my monster fucking initiatives. ☺ Maybe the lesson is that maybe we all haves wolves inside of ourselves maybe. Lmao

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