mina

The line snakes around the venue like a pastel-coloured serpent, fans clutching albums, posters, photobooks, gifts. He stands in the middle of it — small, shaky, hoodie pulled up like he’s hiding from the sun — but you could spot his energy from a mile away. A live wire. A fever.

You don’t know him, but he knows you. Too well.

When he gets closer, security watches him with that look. The “please don’t make this difficult” look. But he barely notices. He’s too busy staring at you from behind the person ahead of him, breathing shallowly, eyes wide like he’s witnessing a god descend.

You smile when he steps forward. You always smile. Occupational requirement. “Hi! Thank you for coming today!”

His breath catches like he wasn’t prepared for you to speak directly to him — like he didn’t spend the last three nights rehearsing that exact moment.

“H-Hi,” he mumbles, voice small, breaking at the edges. “You—you look… different in person.”

The phrasing lands weird. Offbeat. A little too raw. You keep smiling anyway. “I hope that’s a good thing?”

He nods too fast. “Yeah. Yeah. You’re… softer. Smaller. Warmer.” His eyes rake over you, not sexual outright, but intense in a way that prickles your skin. “You look touchable.”

The air shifts.

You laugh politely, the trained kind. “Thank you…? Do you have anything you’d like me to sign?”

He doesn’t hand you merch. He hands you a photo of yourself — not official, not from any event. A candid. You walking into your agency building. Your smile falters, just for a millisecond.

“I—I printed it,” he says, fiddling with his sleeves. “You looked so… tired that day. I didn’t like it. I wanted to keep it safe.”

You sign it because protocol demands it, but your hand trembles almost invisibly.

When you go to slide it back across the table, he suddenly reaches out — not fast, not aggressive — but his fingers brush yours. Barely a graze. Enough to make your body tense.

His eyes widen like he felt electricity. “You’re warm,” he whispers.

You gently pull back. “Please keep your hands on the table, okay?”

He obeys instantly, palms flat, fingers twitching. “Sorry. I just— I needed to know.”

“Know what?” you ask, trying to keep the conversation moving, trying to get him to the exit.

“That you’re real.” The words land heavy.

You swallow. “I… am.”

He leans in slightly — not enough for security to intervene, but enough for you to smell that he hasn’t stepped outside in a long, long time. “I think about you a lot,” he murmurs. “Like… a lot. Every day. Every night. You’re the reason I get out of bed. Sometimes I don’t, but… you’re the only reason I ever try.”

You offer a gentle nod, hoping that encouragement will move him along. “Well… I’m glad my work means something to you.”

He shakes his head quickly. “Not your work. You. Just you.”

There’s a beat — one too long.

Then he says the thing that makes your stomach twist:

“Can I ask you something personal?”

You freeze internally. “If it’s appropriate.”

“…What does your bed look like?” You blink. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Your bed. Your sheets. Your room. I want to picture where you sleep. I—I think about it a lot and I need it to be accurate.”

Security subtly steps closer.

You try to steer the interaction back to normalcy. “That’s not something I can answer, sorry.”

“Oh.” His face crumples a bit, disappointment sinking deep. “Okay. That’s okay. I’ll keep guessing.”

You force a smile and try to guide him to the door. “Thank you for coming today. its been very busy”

He pauses. Then lifts his hand again — hovering near yours but not touching. “Can I… one more time? Just your hand..”

Your voice softens into professional firmness. “sorry..ive got to continue signing for others” You excuse, talking to him like hes a child.

Something in his eyes cracks — not anger, but fragile, desperate yearning. “…Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll wait until next time. I’ll be better then. I promise.”

He steps back slowly, eyes never leaving you until a staff member gently guides him down the stairs.

Later, when the meet-and-greet ends, you still feel phantom fingertips that never touched you.

Tim hovers around you often to make sure you don't skulk off and do things you know you shouldn't. For example, putting your weapon up Brian's ass while he sleeps like you've so tastefully mentioned.

Brian is not very appreciative of that, and toby is right next to him when you smacked him over the head in passing because you know he can't feel it.

They both complain to Tim often, and while they try to understand that you don't wanna be here and it must be hard, they remember they don't want to be here either, "So suck it up." they tell you.

Pricks, you think. Especially Masky. While Tim isn't that big of a deal to be around, Masky is what gets you. He just stares, and grabs whenever. You love it and you hate it. Maybe that's why you act out more often, to see if he'll snap.

And snap he does. Tim was already at his limit, hearing constantly about your bad behavior makes him pissed. He's not your caretaker, and he ain't a baby sitter either. And when he's sitting in his recliner hearing Brian complain through the flip phone as toby has a screaming competition in the back, he just takes another swig, and wonders if you just need a good fucking.

Always so pissy, and tense, you just need to feel mindless for a while don't you? He has to hang up on Brian mid rant to adjust himself and make a plan. Tim runs through scenarios as he goes about his week letting your bad behavior go unchecked to see how much you try to get away with.

And its a lot. You noticed how he just watched from a distance instead of stomping up, already tossing his cig so he can scold properly so you do what you want.

Hiding Toby's axe, putting Brian's camera in the far back of the fridge because he'd never check there. Rewiring traps to trip toby, and way more.

Currently you were tampering with Brian's camera set up so it'd be off trail and blurry when you hear footsteps behind you, whipping around to see Masky. He's never intentionally loud, always trying to be extremely quiet, so you've had to train your ears to catch it like the seasoned proxie you are.

You could feel your heart fall, when his eyes narrow at you behind his mask. He takes one step to you and the rest becomes a blur. Your eyes are in and out of focus as your back is scraping against a tree as he pounds up into you, a hand on his bicep squeezing every time it feels too good, and the other tugging at his hair trying to get him to slow down but its no use.

Words barely make sense as they fall from your parted lips, but his name tumbles out amongst the garbled "Slow down!" and "Mhm.. I c-cant take it Masky.." but as you think you've won as he slowly pulls out, the thought is quickly knocked out of you with a particularly hard thrust only hearing a very gruff, "That's sir to you, and you will brat."

Crying out against the tree as he doesn't stop until you've nearly gone limp against him, while Toby sits back at Brian's cabin as they both laugh thinking he's chasing you down into the woods to beat your ass. Yet they aren't wrong in a sense, your ass and back definitely hurt, and your attitude has been tamed for at least a few days, but just not in the way they think.

Which is fine to Tim as he carry's your limp and bare body over his shoulder while his other hand holds your clothes and his last cigarette back to his house. They don't need to know how he got you to be 'nice' just that you are.

So are dingy diner breakfasts. And full packs of cigarettes. And, most importantly—

Coffee.

Some days, the proxies could afford to splurge on a pack of Marlboro 47’s instead of the chalky Sonoma’s that constantly clouded their lungs.

And, god, what Masky wouldn’t give to have one of those filters sitting between his teeth right now.

Instead, he’s huddled in the passenger seat of their rusting pickup, fog curling on the inside of the windshield and moisture creeping through the seams of his gloves. The heater gave up somewhere outside of the interstate. The storm started maybe twenty minutes after that. Wet, heavy, and endless. It was just past sunset now, the last fragments of day holding on between the rows of pine trees. The windshield wipers made a soft chk-chk sound as the rain pelted the truck in rhythmic sheets, casting streaks of grey across the glass. The headlights cut through fog like a dull blade, barely illuminating the sign ahead: Hollow Pines Motel—a crooked “O” flickering like a stuttering heartbeat.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Masky muttered, voice low, rasped from disuse and days-old cigarette damage.

Hoodie, hands still on the wheel, squinted out into the rain. His soaked hood clung to his neck, the fabric stiff with damp. He hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour, not since they passed the blown-out gas station miles back, but now he nodded toward the structure. “It’s this or another two hours in this storm. But it’s starting to get rough, I can hardly see.”

You shifted in the back seat, body sore and stiff from being crammed in with gear and backpacks. “I’m not sleeping in this car again,” you said quietly. “I’d rather break into the motel laundry room and curl up in a dryer.”

Masky grunted something that might’ve been a laugh. Hoodie turned the wheel with a slow exhale and pulled into the lot, tires hissing over slick pavement. The neon vacancy sign buzzed weakly overhead like it was embarrassed to still be working. The three of you sat for a second in the silence. The kind of silence that comes from exhaustion that goes bone-deep. Hoodie shut off the engine, the low rumbling sputtering to a stop, steam wafting into the cold air.

“Christ.” Masky shoved open the passenger door, the wind snatching it like it was trying to pull him out. “You see the price?” he asked, yanking his coat tighter around his chest as he leaned into the rain to check the window near the front office. You all hauled your backpacks and loose gear into your arms, making sure to grab the pistols that were haphazardly shoved onto the console.

Hoodie was already out of the car too, stepping around the front with that slow, silent way he had. You followed them, boots sloshing in ankle-deep puddles.

Masky tapped the dusty glass of the check-in window. “Hundred bucks a night,” he confirmed.

You scoffed. “For a mattress that probably smells like piss and black mold.”

“Luxury accommodations,” Masky muttered.

Hoodie didn’t say anything. Just tilted his head toward the back lot, already making his way around the side of the building without waiting for a vote. You and Masky exchanged a glance—his eyes just barely visible behind his mask, shadowed and unreadable—before following.

The back of the motel was unlit, the shadows hugging the cracked stucco and chipped siding. The storm covered your movements well; even if there were cameras, the rain was so thick it blurred everything. Your boots slipped once in the mud, but you caught yourself on the siding. Hoodie was already crouched by one of the doors, gloved fingers working at the cheap lock with a bent nail file and a bit of force.

You leaned close, your voice barely above the wind. “You always this good at B&E, or is this just desperation?”

He glanced up at you, a little smirk twitching behind his balaclava. “You doubt me?”

“No,” you said. “Just surprised. Figured Masky was the one who played with locks.”

“I break things,” Masky replied from behind you. “Not finesse. That’s his job.”

The lock gave with a sharp clack and Hoodie stood, pushing the door open slowly. You all slipped inside like shadows. 

It was dark—no surprise—but you flicked on the wall switch, half-expecting nothing to happen. A single yellow bulb buzzed to life. The room was small, boxy, and smelled like mildew and cheap cleaner, the scent already soaked into the fake wood paneling and shag carpet. A dresser sat crooked against the far wall, one drawer missing. There was a tiny bathroom tucked to the left, door already ajar.

And there, smack in the middle of the room, was a single queen-sized bed.

The three of you stood there, dripping, steaming slightly from the sudden warmth of the heater kicking on. There was silence for a long moment, just staring at the ugly quilt bedding and the thin headboard.

“…Shit,” Masky said under his breath, breaking the tension.

You blinked slowly, peering around like maybe there’d be a cot hidden in the closet. No dice. “Well,” you said, unstrapping your gear. “At least it’s not the car.”

Hoodie dropped his bag with a soft thump. “I’ll take the floor.”

“You’ll freeze your spine into the carpet,” you muttered, shrugging off your coat. The boys pulled off their masks, wind-bitten ears and scowls now easily viewable. “We’ve all slept shoulder-to-shoulder in worse places. It’s fine.”

Masky huffed, peeling off his gloves and shaking out his sleeves. “Yeah, but this time I’ll have your elbow in my kidney.”

You smirked faintly and tossed him a dry shirt from your pack. “Then don’t sleep on the edge.”

“Not your call. I’m not sleeping between you two.”

The storm outside cracked louder now, wind howling through the gaps in the warped window frame. Hoodie knelt by the heater and fiddled with the dial. “It’s gonna get colder.”

“I’ll still hide in that dryer if I have to,” you replied, rubbing your arms.

Masky eyed the bed again, exhaling slowly through his nose. “You take the middle, then. I don’t want to wake up to your cold feet on my back.”

“Deal,” you said, without hesitation. “But if either of you snores, I swear I’m rolling off the bed and letting the carpet bugs have me.”

Masky shook his head, half a laugh slipping out. “We’ve slept next to corpses, and you’re worried about snoring?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. I deserve peace after that.”

Your joints ached from the cold, and your socks squelched as you peeled them off near the foot of the bed. The idea of crawling in without cleaning off three days of dirt, sweat, and blood made your skin crawl. You grabbed your pack and slung it over your shoulder, dragging it toward the bathroom.

“I’m showering,” you announced, not waiting for approval. “If I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, assume I’ve been consumed by mold.”

Masky raised a brow behind his cracked mask. “If the water’s hot, leave me some.”

“If it’s hot, I’m never coming out.”

You slammed the door shut behind you with your hip.

The bathroom light flickered, then steadied. It smelled like damp towels and lemon-scented cleaner that hadn’t touched a surface in years. The mirror was warped, streaked with time, and the tiled floor was a patchwork of mismatched squares, some missing entirely. You dropped your pack, stripping out of your gear with heavy, sluggish movements. Clothes hit the tile with a wet smack.

The water knobs were stiff. You wrestled with them until the pipes coughed to life, sputtering brown water for three full seconds before clearing into a thin, pitiful stream of heat.

It was glorious.

You didn’t even care that the pressure was weak or that the water smelled faintly like iron. You stood under it until the chill started to lift from your bones, your fingers red from scrubbing grime out of your hair. The shampoo from your travel kit barely lathered, but it was enough. Just enough to feel human for a moment.

When you finally stepped out, towel slung around your chest and hair dripping down your back, the small mirror was fogged over. You swiped your hand across it and stared at yourself. Hollow-eyed. Pale. Tired.

But still living.

You dressed fast—baggy shirt, clean sweats, and thick socks—and stepped out into the main room again.

“Bathroom’s yours,” you said, tossing your towel toward the radiator to dry. “If you want a shower before we all start reeking like death.”

Masky looked up from where he was pulling the dresser away from the wall. “You sayin’ I smell?”

“I’m saying we all do. But I’m starting with you.”

He snorted and grabbed his own bag. “Fine. Brian, you go after me.”

Hoodie gave a small nod from where he was sitting wide-legged on the foot of the bed, unpacking a crushed protein bar and flipping a knife lazily in his other hand.

The bathroom door didn’t quite latch all the way when Masky shut it behind him. The rattle of the fan and the sound of the shower pipes starting up again filled the room. Steam already began to curl out into the room.

You pulled your legs up onto the bed, leaning against the headboard beside Hoodie. “You think it’s gonna keep raining?”

He nodded once. “For a while. Pressure’s low. Wind’s picking up, too.”

“We’re a good three hours out from the mansion with clear roads. Storm like this?” You looked toward the window. “Could trap us here.”

Hoodie didn’t look concerned. Just thoughtful. “We have supplies for two more days. After that, we’ll need to hit a gas station or raid a rest stop.”

Masky’s voice echoed faintly from the shower. “We shoulda taken that turnoff by Route 16. I told you the forest line was too flooded.”

You called back, “Yeah? And then we’d be stuck in that ravine with the blown bridge.”

“I still say we’d have made better time!”

The pipes groaned as Masky shut off the water. You heard the sharp snap of a towel and the thunk of the cabinet door being yanked open. A second later, he stepped back into the room wearing black sweats and a Yale shirt he stole from a thrift store, towel hanging around his neck.

“Enjoy your mold bath?” you asked.

“Best bath I’ve had all week,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. He was still a little flushed from the heat. “Your turn.”

Hoodie stood and passed you a granola bar from the floor. “If I’m not back in ten, assume I fell through the shower tile.”

“Then I’m keeping your coat,” you said, biting into the bar. He smirked faintly and stepped into the bathroom, the door left cracked open again.

Masky sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, closing Hoodie’s open knife and tossing it across the room with a thud. “We need to barricade the door,” he muttered. “Just in case.”

You nodded, chewing. “Already thought of it. That dresser looks like it wants to collapse under its own weight though.”

“Then we collapse it into the door. Makes it heavier.”

You both got up and hauled the thing across the carpet. The drawers creaked and sagged, one half-falling out, but the bulk of it pressed up solid against the door. Masky shoved a chair into place behind it just for good measure. “That’ll buy us time if someone gets suspicious,” he muttered.

You gave it a solid knock. “Better than nothing.”

The sound of Hoodie’s voice floated from the bathroom. “If the dresser doesn’t hold, we’ll hear it. But we should sleep light.”

Masky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I always do.”

You sat back on the bed again, rubbing at your sore neck. “This whole thing—getting cut off from the trails, missing the rendezvous… it felt off.”

Masky’s eyes flicked toward you. “You think we were set up?”

“No. Just… something’s been off since the last drop point. Toby didn’t meet us. The codes we found were weeks old. And the mansion’s been radio silent.”

Steam spilled out of the bathroom as Hoodie stepped back into the room, hair damp, sweatshirt sleeves rolled up with his baggy shorts. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now we need rest.”

Masky grumbled, but nodded. You looked at the bed. Then at the two men standing near it.

“…This is gonna be cozy.”

Masky sighed, rubbing his face. “Don’t steal the covers.”

You plopped facedown in the middle of the mattress with a groan loud enough to rattle the springs beneath you.

“Kill me,” you muttered into the pillow. “Actually kill me.”

“We’d have to move your body,” Masky grunted.

“But then there’d be more room on the bed,” Hoodie added, his voice dry as the towel he tossed onto the footboard.

“Assholes.”

The mattress dipped as Hoodie moved first, reaching across you to shut off the lightswitch. The room was immediately swallowed in darkness, save for the flicker… flicker… buzz of the red neon sign outside the window. The words VACANCY pulsed through the cheap curtains, casting long, broken shadows across the cracked ceiling. It painted the room in hellish slices of red and black, over and over again, like a warning no one wanted to heed. Wind howled outside, and the storm pushed against the walls like a living thing, the door hinges creaking.

The floorboards creaked under Masky’s weight as he climbed in, shoving your legs with his knee. “Move over.”

“I’m in the middle,” you hissed. “You move over.”

“You agreed to the middle, idiot. That means you suffer.”

“Not my fault you both smell like a wet barn.”

Hoodie wordlessly climbed in on your other side, tugging the blanket halfway across himself and accidentally yanking it off your shoulder.

“Dude—! I just got warm!”

“Share,” he said simply.

You groaned again and tried to burrow under the half-flattened pillow. The mattress bowed toward the center, the way cheap ones always do, and the weight of both of them on either side left you trapped in a warm, squashed human sandwich.

“Your knee is in my back,” you grunted, trying to shift.

“Your elbow’s in my ribs.”

“Your foot is on my ass.”

“Should’ve slept on the floor,” Masky muttered.

Hoodie huffed beside you, and you felt the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. “Should’ve stolen a second room.”

“Would’ve been too risky,” you deadpanned.

Silence followed, except for the storm and the buzzing hum of the neon. Rain hit the windows like coins flung from the sky. Somewhere, metal creaked—maybe a sign coming loose in the wind. Every so often thunder rumbled, deep and low, followed by the sharp crack of lightning that lit the room up in stark, stuttering white.

You blinked slowly, staring at the ugly floral wallpaper that danced in flickering red.

“…I hate this,” you whispered.

Masky shifted beside you. “We’re not built for comfort.”

“No shit.”

No one spoke after that. The warmth of the bed was stifling and too hot on one side, too cold on the other. Someone’s arm was pressing into your shoulder blade. The mattress springs popped and squeaked every time one of you breathed too hard. But it was warm. And dry. And no one was bleeding out.

So it was enough.

You felt Hoodie exhale, his hand resting somewhere behind your shoulder. Masky’s breathing slowed on the other side, steady and deep.

The three of you, wedged together like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit, surrounded by motel rot, bad weather, and the hum of neon that never shut off. And still, somehow—somehow—you felt safer than you had in days.

Not comfortable. Not relaxed. But safe. Warm. Alive.

And that was all you needed.

── .✦

The cold woke you.

Not gently, either—rudely.

The kind of cold that slid under your clothes and coiled around your spine, setting your teeth on edge before your mind was even fully awake. The kind of cold that made your breath puff visible in the dark.

You cracked your eyes open and blinked slowly, vision fuzzy from sleep. The neon still pulsed through the flimsy curtains—VACANCY, VACANCY, over and over like a heartbeat. But the air in the room had shifted.

Frigid. Still. Dead.

You shifted, trying to burrow deeper into the blanket, but it didn’t help. The sheets were icy and clammy now, the warmth from earlier long since bled out. Even sandwiched between the boys, your body was curled in tight with shivers that refused to stop.

Your feet ached. Your fingers were numb. You muttered something like a curse and extended your leg under the covers, kicking sharply into Hoodie’s shin. He stirred with a grunt.

Another kick. “Wake up,” you hissed through chattering teeth. “It’s freezing.”

He groaned and rolled halfway toward you. “You woke me up to complain?”

“No, I woke you up to fix it,” you growled. “The heater’s dead.”

He sighed, sitting up stiffly and rubbing his hands over his face. “Storm probably knocked something out. I’ll check.”

You heard the soft rustle of fabric and blankets as he swung his legs off the bed. His feet hit the carpet with a dull thud. The air in the room was colder near the floor, and he muttered under his breath as he shuffled over to the ancient heating unit mounted below the window. You watched the silhouette of his body crouch in front of it.

Silence.

Then the sharp click-click-click of him toggling the controls.

Nothing.

“Anything?” you croaked, curling tighter.

He tried again. Click. Click. The machine made a low, sad whine and then gave up. “…It’s dead,” he said flatly.

Masky stirred beside you with a low groan. “Why the fuck are we talking.”

“Power’s out,” Hoodie answered, crossing the room and flipping the light switch. Nothing. No hum. No buzz. Just dark. “No lights. No heat.”

Masky grunted and buried his face deeper into the pillow. “Put on more layers.”

“I’d rather die,” you snapped.

“You will if you don’t move.”

But moving felt impossible. Every inch of your body throbbed from the chill, and even the thought of peeling back the blanket made your stomach twist with dread. You stayed still for a few seconds longer, limbs curled in, jaw clenched.

Then, against your better judgment, you did something stupid.

You turned over. And scooted forward.

Masky tensed as your frozen hands pressed against his back under the blanket.

“…Seriously?” he grumbled.

“I’m cold,” you whispered. “You’re warm. Shut up.”

“I’m not your personal space heater—”

“You are now.”

Before he could throw you off, you looked up toward the edge of the bed, toward Hoodie’s silhouette against the dim glow from the window. “You too. Come back.”

He hesitated for a beat—silent, unreadable.

Then, wordlessly, Hoodie climbed back into the bed and pressed in behind you, dragging the blanket back over your shoulders. His legs bumped into yours, cold against cold, but he wrapped one arm around your middle and flattened his chest to your back, sharing what little heat he had left.

“Fucking freezing,” he mumbled, breath curling hot against your neck.

“I told you,” you muttered.

Masky sighed like this was the single worst night of his life, but didn’t push you off. Instead, he rolled over to face you, adjusting just enough to tuck your frigid hands between his stomach and forearm, cursing under his breath when your fingertips touched bare skin.

The three of you laid there in stiff, half-defensive silence for a long moment—too aware of one another, too cold to care. The storm outside roared like it was clawing at the world, tearing through trees and battering the roof. Thunder cracked sharp again—too close this time—and you jumped a little, instinctively pressing back into the warmth behind you.

Hoodie didn’t move.

He was right up against your spine now, chest rising and falling slow and steady. One arm was still slung over your waist, hand resting on the curve of your hip. You thought he was asleep—until you felt it.

A small shift. A breath. Warm, humid, and far too close.

He was nuzzling against your shoulder without even realizing it, the scratch of his stubble catching your skin as his nose brushed against your shoulder. The blanket shifted with him as he exhaled, slow and hot right into the crook of your neck.

You twitched slightly, uncomfortable and hyperaware. “Hoodie,” you grumbled under your breath.

“Shut up,” Masky said against you, voice muffled as he turned his face into the thin pillow. “If he’s warm, let him be.”

“I’m not a heating pad.”

“You sure? You’re stiff enough to be one. Quit being a hypocrite.”

You let out a quiet, tired groan, but didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Didn’t want to, maybe. You weren’t sure anymore. Every inch of you was sore and freezing, but now you were also simmering—the kind of heat that came from nerves, not temperature.

Because Hoodie didn’t move away. Not after you spoke. If anything… he moved closer. His hand flexed gently on your hip, fingers brushing up under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin. Not in a purposeful way. Not even in a bold way. Just enough to make you feel it.

The heat of his palm. The silence between you. Your only saving grace against the awkwardness was the thundering rain to drown out your thoughts.

Masky shifted against you—closer. One leg hooked loosely over yours, tangling the blankets further, his knee brushing your thigh.

Your body tensed between them, caught in a coil of limbs and heat and quiet desperation to stay warm—except the room wasn’t cold anymore. Not even a little. You weren’t sure when the switch had happened. The heater was still off, but you didn’t think you’d need it anymore.

Maybe it was when Masky’s hand found your waist from the front, nudging Hoodie’s out of the way without a word. His knuckles dragged just below your ribs, resting on the dip of your waist. A sharp inhale rose in your throat, but you swallowed it back down. Then Hoodie’s hand moved—slow and steady—up your side, pushing the thin fabric of your shirt with it.

You let out the softest breath, barely audible, and immediately regretted it.

Because now? Now they both noticed.

Masky shifted again, his chest pressed against yours like he was trying to claim ground that Hoodie hadn’t gotten to yet. His hand stayed still—but the weight of it, the heat of it, was unmistakable.

“…We’re just trying to stay warm,” you mumbled, not sure if it was for them or for yourself.

“Right,” Hoodie murmured, voice lower now. Too low. Too quiet. Like he didn’t believe it either.

And yet, no one stopped.

Fingertips brushed skin in places they shouldn’t. Legs shifted and tangled until there was no telling whose was whose. Every exhale felt heavy. Every heartbeat, louder.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t even if you tried. Their breath was all around you now. Warm and slow and steady. Masky’s hand curled more fully onto your hip, hoodie’s fingertips resting dangerously at the edge of your ribcage.

Just trying to stay warm. Just trying to sleep. But none of you were sleeping. Not anymore.

The tension was palpable, like a low hum in the walls, crawling under your skin and pressing into your ribcage with every too-slow breath and unprovoked rub of Hoodie’s fingers. Not a single one of you had moved significantly in the last five minutes—but everything had shifted.

No one was breathing the same.

Masky’s hand was still on your hip, but his thumb now idly rubbed soft, small circles against your skin. Careless. Casual. Like it meant nothing. Like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. Except he was and you knew it.

And Hoodie’s hand? It was still resting against your side, fingers splayed just beneath the curve of your ribs. But his index finger kept twitching, tracing back and forth along the dip of your waist like he was memorizing it.

Not moving. Not groping. Not grabbing. Just there. There and not leaving. No one said a word.

The storm screamed outside—lightning strobing against the walls through the curtains, thunder slamming across the motel like a threat. But inside, the only thing louder than the weather was the silence. Heavy. Electric.

You swallowed thickly and shifted your hips slightly, just trying to get comfortable, but the second you did—

They both reacted. A small jerk from Hoodie’s side, as if startled. Masky’s hand tightening ever so slightly around your waist. And still—still—none of you spoke.

You could feel the heat building between your bodies, not just from physical closeness anymore, but from the constant, crawling knowledge that this was intentional. No one was pretending to sleep now. You could feel them thinking. You could hear them thinking. They were doing the same thing you were—holding their breath, trying to pretend they weren’t slowly, deliberately letting their hands wander. Acting like they were coy. Like none of this was deliberate. Like it was just… staying warm. It was. Sort of.

Your heart thudded too hard in your chest. You couldn’t breathe right anymore. Not with Hoodie’s breath now ghosting along your neck. Not with Masky’s fingers inching just a little lower, like he was daring himself.

Like he was waiting for a reason to stop. Or to keep going. The silence was unbearable again.

So you broke it.

“Y’know,” you said, voice a little too dry, “if you two are gonna feel me up, the least you could do is buy me coffee first.”

It hit the air like a lit match.

Masky let out a snort. Hoodie groaned and let his head fall forward against your shoulder, body shaking with quiet laughter. The tension cracked—not shattered, not gone—but enough to breathe again. Enough for everyone to get a second wind.

“Jesus Christ,” Masky muttered, dragging a hand down his face and rubbing at his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to toss your smartass off this bed.”

You grinned, even as his hand slid off your stomach, Hoodie’s following just after. They pulled back, barely, the air chilling where their hands had been. You rolled onto your back, staring up at the oddly colored ceiling.

“Relax,” Hoodie said, rubbing his palms against his chest like he was trying to wake up, trying to calm the sudden thrum of energy vibrating through all of you. “I wasn’t— we weren’t—shit, I don’t even know anymore.”

“No?” you said, voice lower now. “’Cause it felt like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

They went quiet again, for half a second. You reached out, grabbing both of their hands before they could retreat too far. Your fingers wrapped around their wrists, firm but not desperate.

“I said I was cold,” you murmured, “not that it was an invitation to leave.” Then you tilted your head, gave the smallest smile. “But if we’re gonna keep pretending this wasn’t happening—if we’re gonna lie to ourselves—then just go ahead. Crawl back under the covers. Sleep real close. Shake and sweat it out and pretend it’s the cold again. But I think you two know exactly what you want.”

That did it.

Masky’s eyes snapped to yours, sharp beneath the shadows of the room. Hoodie swallowed hard, his hand curling tighter into the fabric of his sweatshirt. You felt your pulse everywhere.

“If you’re gonna do this…” you said, quieter now, the storm filling in the background like it was listening, “then fuck it.” 

Your voice didn’t shake. “Do it.”

They didn’t wait. Hoodie moved first—he always did, once the hesitation cracked. He shifted back down, fingers sliding under your shirt with intent this time, not caution. His mouth found your neck before you could process how close he’d gotten, hot breath skating over your skin, lips brushing just under your jaw. Masky’s hands were on your waist again in an instant, pulling you toward him even as Hoodie leaned in from behind. They moved in tandem—without speaking, without planning—like they’d done this before, like they knew how to move together.

Like this was just another kind of mission.

Your shirt rode up as Hoodie’s fingers pushed higher, his teeth scraping your throat just enough to make your breath catch. A laugh slipped out, barely held in—half nerves, half disbelief.

“Still cold?” Masky murmured, voice low and husky near your ear.

You shook your head—because you weren’t. But not for the same reasons anymore. Masky’s hand spread flat against your stomach, fingers dragging upward, slow and deliberate. His mouth found your jaw, a low breath brushing your skin just before he murmured, “You sure about this?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

That was all they needed.

Hoodie’s fingers curled at your hip as he shifted behind you, one leg sliding between yours for leverage as his lips dragged heat up your neck. He didn’t kiss—not really. Just breathed, lips parted against your skin like he was trying to memorize your pulse.

Masky leaned in closer from the front, your bodies flush now, every part of you wrapped in them. His nose brushed yours as he looked down, searching your face, checking for hesitation—but there was none.

Not from you. Not from them. Only hunger. Only need.

He tilted his head and kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate. Not at first. It was careful, like he was trying to figure out just how far he could push you—how much you’d give, how much you wanted to be taken. Your lips parted, and he took that as permission to deepen it, his hand splaying wide across your back to pull you closer. You gripped onto his shirt, clawing at the fabric and the hot skin underneath.

Hoodie’s hand moved too—traveling up your spine under your shirt, the calluses on his fingers dragging sparks in their wake. You arched between them instinctively, and they both reacted like it was planned. Like they knew each other’s rhythm. Like they’d always known how to share.

You gasped as Masky bit gently at your bottom lip, Hoodie’s teeth following suit at your shoulder, syncing up without a single word. The world narrowed to touch and breath and heat, to the way your body trembled, not from cold anymore but from the overwhelming closeness.

Your shirt was sliding upward, Hoodie’s hands bunching it at your chest, Masky helping tug it over your head. You felt the way they stalled, felt the energy tighten around you. Hoodie’s mouth slid off your throat, attention elsewhere. Masky did the same, his mouth no longer moving against yours as you looked between them.

“What? Did you really think I was about to wear a bra to bed?”

Hoodie gave a stark laugh, tossing your shirt across the floor. Masky grinned, a rattled breath snaking through his lungs and brushing against your skin. If there was any chance of this fizzling out, that was all gone the minute you felt their rough hands on your tits. You could’ve blamed your nipples being already hard on the freezing temperatures, but you knew otherwise.

Hoodie tugged your shoulder, forcing you to lay on your back between them. He palmed at your right, strong hands squeezing and kneading the skin, planting kisses across your collar bone. Masky’s cupping the other—firm, rough, fingers spreading and squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb circles slowly around your nipple, not quite touching it yet. 

“You’re so sensitive here,” he murmurs. “Bet I could keep you whining just from this.”

Hoodie’s fingers are long and skilled, and you arch a little between them, like you can’t decide who you want more. “Let’s test it,” Hoodie says quietly.

“See how fast we can get you squirming,” Masky adds with a grin.

Masky leans in first, mouth latching onto your breast—hot, open-mouthed kisses around the swell, then his tongue flicks your nipple just once, and your hips buck. “There it is,” he mutters against your skin. “Already needy. Huh, mouse?”

Hoodie chuckles—low, dark. His mouth follows suit, kissing down your sternum, trailing heat, then latching onto the other. Slower. Teasing. He sucks it softly, just enough to make you gasp. You’re caught between them—their mouths warm and wet, their hands gripping and stroking and kneading like they’re mapping you out.

Your hands find purchase in their hair, each hand tangling into the short strands at the back of their head. They groan a little when you tug, eyes glaring up at you through heavy lids and hungry gazes.

Masky bites down—not too hard, but enough to sting. You yelp. He groans. “Easy now.” he growls.

“Watch it, Tim,” Hoodie says, licking a slow stripe up to your nipple. “Gonna overwhelm her.” He pinches it gently between his teeth. Sucks. Again. Again. The little gap in his front two teeth seems to be made for your nipple, rolling the nub like you’re not gasping at every move.

“Good. She asked for it.” Masky flicks his tongue fast and merciless, then blows cool air across the wet skin, watching you shiver. “You should see yourself,” he breathes. “So fucking hot. Should’ve done this ages ago.”

“Mhm,” Hoodie murmurs, the sound muffled as he sucks onto your nipple. His eyes are fluttering shut, fingers digging sharply into your hip as he groans against your skin.

Your mouth is parted, small gasps and quiet whines with every roll of their tongues and nips of their teeth. “Boys—shit.”

Now Masky’s sucking harder, pulling needy, wet little whines from your throat. Hoodie drags his thumb over the nipple he just left wet and stiff, watching you writhe. You tug their hair, the sensation making their eyes roll.

“Bet I could get you off from this,” Hoodie whispers.

“Bet you’d scream,” Masky adds, licking a circle around your nipple like he’s trying to ruin you.

And honestly? They’re not wrong. You’re soaked between your thighs, heart racing, every nerve on fire—and they haven’t even touched you there yet. Your clothes feel hot, sweatpants feel too thick—despite the clouds of foggy air that leave your lips every time you breath out.

“God, you’re beautiful like this,” Hoodie breathes, kissing along the curve of your breast, right where your ribs meet the rounded skin.

“So fucking responsive,” Masky grunts. “Twitching from our mouths alone.”

Then—hands. Everywhere.

Masky’s dragging his hand down your stomach, fingers slipping past your waistband. Your gasp, legs instinctively closing together, but they’ve always been stronger than you. Hoodie shifts off your nipple for a quick second, sitting up to slide two large hands under your hips and lift. Masky pops off too, leaning forward to push your sweatpants down and off your legs, tossing them behind him.

Your panties are soaked. Even in the low red light, even when you have to squint to see their awed expressions—you can feel it. The cold air hits your clothed core and your legs lock tight, trying to shield yourself from the frigid air. They just chuckle, thundering voices making every hair on your body stand up.

Hoodie moves first, two hands clasping over your knees, before he’s pushing your legs apart. Your shiver from the cold air—and maybe the feeling of ecstasy that shoots up your spine—before he’s leaning down between your thighs.

You gasp, sitting up onto your elbows, but Masky pushes your chest back down, crowding your space before you can panic. “He’s got you. Just relax, sweetheart.”

His mouth immediately finds the nipple that Hoodie was occupied on earlier, wet lips wrapping around the bruised nub and sucking gently as he kneads your other tit. He’s a lot more gentle than before, like he’s savoring the taste of your skin as he rolls his tongue. Your hands find his hair, but you’re now keenly aware of the hot breath that has found its way against your inner thighs.

Hoodie has leaned down between the spread of your legs, his short hair tickling your skin with every press of his lips against your inner thighs. He’s being slow, making sure the kiss is pressed firm, making sure you feel it. You find yourself spreading them wider the farther down the goes, his calloused hands kneading into the skin just above your hips.

“Hmm, Brian…” you huff, tugging Masky’s hair when he lets off one nipple and shifts to the other, eyes shut tight in quiet concentration. Hoodie chuckles, making your hips twitch, angling them upward. “So impatient,” he kisses your thigh again.

You’re about to wind off with something, making a snide remark—until you feel firm lips press against your clit through your panties. Your hips immediately jerk to the sensation, clit twitching for more when he begins to plant kiss after kiss against your folds, the sensation muffled by your thin underwear.

“Oh god, oh my god—”

Masky chuckles against your tit, kneading the mound in his hand as he looks up at you, eyes heavy with satisfaction. “Remember to be quiet, sweetheart. Don’t wanna wake the neighbours.”

There’s no way they would be able to with the intensity of the storm outside, but it lights a spark low in your stomach nonetheless.

Hoodie plants one final, heavy kiss against your cunt before he’s hooking fingers under the waistband of your panties, slowly dragging them up your legs and off your ankles.

You can feel the thickness in the air, even despite the cold.

“Fuck…” Hoodie groans, mulling over every inch of your soaked cunt before him, eyes so wide you’d think he’s crazy. Masky smirks against your skin. You feel them both reading each other, shuffling in time until Masky’s teeth are nipping your chest, then your collarbones, up to your neck—and Hoodie’s hands move between your legs.

Hoodie’s warm hand spreads your folds open with slow, confident ease. You can feel his breath on your skin—close. Teasing. He runs two thick fingers between your lips, collecting the slick building at your entrance onto his fingers. “Jesus, you’re so wet. Haven’t even done anything.”

He thumbs at your clit, pressing the pad against the nub and eliciting a stark jolt from your body. They both chuckle, then Hoodie’s middle finger presses against your entrance.

“Oh, fuck—” you whine, arms wrapping around Masky’s shoulders as he finds a home at the crease of your neck, sucking with the same force as before onto your throat. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, and suddenly you’re keenly aware of just how exposed you are compared to them, their clothes still completely on while you lay shaking and bare.

Hoodie begins to press his finger, slowly slipping the first knuckle into your cunt, the cold digit making you hiss against your scalding insides. Masky captures the noise, lips gliding up your jaw and onto your lips as you drag your hands down his back. 

“Damn—tight,” Hoodie mutters. “Burnin’ up inside.” He pushes deeper, bullying against the resistance, until his entire finger is crooning into the heat of your walls. You cry out—head tilted back, running your hands under Masky’s shirt and pushing it up his back. His skin is so warm against your cold hands, him grumbling against your lips.

“Oh my god—Brian—please—” His free hand is pushing your knees apart, holding them open despite the instinctual jerks to close them shut every time he pumps that finger into your sopping cunt. It’s not another second before he’s adding another, curling the thick knuckles, your arousal glistening on his skin.

“Shhhh. Tim, can you grab her?” You’re dazed, kissed and dizzy and way-too-cold to think straight, but the two still seem to have a level head about them. Masky nods, biting a kiss against your jaw before he’s sitting up, pulling his half-askew shirt off his head and throwing it behind him. 

Your eyes are blurry, but the sight is enough to make your heart thud against your chest.

His body is thick. Solid. Built like a brawler. Not sculpted like a model, no—this is the body of someone who’s carried people over his shoulder, fought tooth and nail, hurt and healed, all muscle and brute strength. His chest is broad, lightly dusted with hair, and he’s got old scars crisscrossing his ribs—pale white against flushed skin. One, angry and puckered, traces the edge of his abdomen. You want to ask about it. You don’t. You’ll save it for later.

Hoodie follows, easing his fingers out of you, and sitting back on his knees. He pulls one arm out of his sweatshirt, then throws the fabric off, breathing deep and heavy as he looks down at you. His body is lithe. Lean muscle. Strong and resilient. Like he was made to move in the dark. His skin is pale in the light—not sickly, but smooth, cold-toned, with a few old bruises and sharp collarbones you want to mouth at. His stomach is flat, lightly defined, the kind of body that doesn’t beg for attention until you look too long. And then it’s like it begs you to touch it.

Both of them in the red VACANCY light. They move before you can stare for as long as you’d like.

Masky pushes an arm under your shoulders, lifting you just enough to sit behind you, back against the thin headboard. You’re naked, trembling, and pulled into Masky’s lap—back to his chest, legs splayed wide across his thighs, pussy bare and soaking, dripping down onto the bedspread.

His arms cage you. One around your waist, firm. One between your breasts, hand teasing the soft weight of them, thumb brushing a nipple already sensitive from earlier, still slick with their mouths. “You look so good like this,” he breathes into your ear. “So helpless.”

“All for us,” Hoodie adds from below, kneeling between your spread legs.

You’re tilted back, cradled in Masky’s lap, thighs open wide and shaking—because Hoodie’s face is right there. Inches from your core, his breath hot, his fingers already sliding between your folds again. “So pretty,” he mutters. “So fucking pretty, little mouse.”

“Don’t make her wait,” Masky growls. “She’ll start begging.” Hoodie grins, Masky does too.

Hoodie licks a slow, devastating stripe through your folds—tongue thick, hot, relentless—and your whole body jerks against Masky’s chest. He groans behind you, lips dragging along your neck, holding you tighter. “Yeah. Just like that. Let him taste how bad you need it.”

Hoodie wraps his arms under your thighs, pinning them open, then sucks your clit straight into his mouth—firm, wet pressure that sends shockwaves straight up your spine. “Oh my god—B-Brian—”

His response is to moan against you—low and hungry—then slide two fingers inside your slick heat, curling instantly, like he knows the spot. And he does. Your arch into the feeling, gripping your hands into the fabric of Masky’s pants.

“Feel that?” Masky mutters, gripping your chest, grinding his clothed cock slowly against your lower back. “He’s already got you shaking. Not even fucking you yet.”

You sob, back arching. Masky holds you tighter.

“Eyes on him,” he commands. “Watch what he’s doing to you.”

You do. Hoodie’s devouring you—tongue flicking, lips sucking, fingers pumping slow and deep, angled perfectly—and the sight alone would be enough to undo you. But with Masky’s rough grip on your tits, his breath hot in your ear, his teeth nipping your neck? You’re already right there.

“Mhmm—Hah—Fuck—” you whine, moaning every time Masky’s lips brush under your ear.

There’s no rush in him. This isn’t frantic. It’s not desperate. It’s methodical. He licks in a rhythm—slow flicks to your clit, long, wet drags through your folds, then dipping just enough of his tongue inside you to make you cry out before he’s back up again.

Your hips jerk up, instinctive. Hoodie groans—and the vibration of it against your clit sends a bolt of pleasure so sharp you gasp. “There it is,” he murmurs against you. “That little flutter. Right around my fingers.”

He fucks you slow—fingers deep, tongue steady, so much eye contact. He watches every twitch of your thighs, every shake of your breath, memorizing you. “You wanna come?” he asks softly, lips brushing your clit. “Then take it. Grind on my mouth. Come just like this.”

You do. You grind. You moan. You beg. Hoodie speeds up. His tongue never stops—swirling, licking, sucking like he’s trying to ruin you forever—and his fingers are hitting just right, just right, over and over.

Masky’s mouth is on your neck, kissing hard, biting a little, hand dragging down to your throat just enough to hold. “Come on,” he growls. “Let him taste it.”

“Be good,” Hoodie pants. “Give it to me.”

You shatter. Your thighs clamp down, toes curling, back arching against Masky as you cry out—loud, shaking, the orgasm rolling through you so hard it blinds you.

Hoodie doesn’t stop. He keeps licking. Gentle now. Praising. Masky holds you through it, one hand stroking your thigh, the other soothing your chest. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Come all over his fingers.”

You’re a mess—you can feel it. Your thighs are slick, chest heaving, and your head’s tipped back on Masky’s shoulder as aftershocks ripple through you—little tremors you can’t control. Hoodie’s fingers are still inside you, curled perfectly, buried to the knuckle while his mouth rests just above your clit, his breath still hot against your overstimulated skin.

He’s staring. Watching your pussy twitch. Watching your orgasm leak down over his fingers, practically dripping onto his wrist. “Christ,” he says softly. “Look at this mess you made on me.” And then, slowly—deliberately—he slides his fingers out of you.

You feel everything. The drag. The stretch. The wet sound as you clench down, reluctant to let go. His fingers are soaked. Glistening. Sticky with you. “Still so warm,” he murmurs, eyes low, voice thick. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t wipe them off. Instead, Hoodie brings them to his mouth and sucks. First one finger. Then the next. Tongue swirling. Lips sealed around them as he tastes your orgasm like it’s dessert—slow, patient, savoring every drop of you like you’re something holy.

You watch. You can’t not watch. His eyes never leave yours as he licks his fingers clean, moaning quietly, like he could drink down your pleasure and still need more. “Tastes so good,” he mutters, fingers leaving his mouth with a soft, wet pop. “I could keep eating you all night.”

And he means it. Because once his fingers are clean, he leans back in. His hands return to your thighs, spreading them open wider again—reverent now, like he’s laying you bare for something sacred. Then he dips his head and licks you clean.

There’s no rush now. He already got you to fall apart. His tongue is gentle, slow. He licks up the mess he made, collecting the slick along your folds, savoring it. You gasp as he brushes your clit again—sensitive, overstimulated—and he pauses. Your hips twitch, instinctively tilting into him.

He groans. Masky kisses up your throat, trailing the pulse line up your neck, rubbing your sides as he watches Hoodie.

He licks along your slit. Soft. Deep. Focused. Devouring you slowly like the taste is something he’d kill to keep on his tongue. Every flick is precise. Every swirl of his tongue feels like the echo of your orgasm being dragged out longer and longer, until you’re shaking all over again.

Your thighs squeeze his shoulders. Your hands tug at Masky’s pants. You moan—loud, raw, needy—as he sucks your clit one more time. “B-Brian—please—”

He kisses your thighs one last time, then crawls up your body—slow, mouth wet, eyes hungry. He plants his hands at either side of Masky’s hips, resting his weight just above you. He doesn’t say anything as he leans down and kisses you, tongue slipping past your lips.

And you taste it. You taste you. Raw. Sweet. Still slick on his tongue. You moan into him, and he smiles against your mouth. “Told you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Fucking addictive.”

“Fuck,” Masky mutters, voice low, rough, gravelly with want. 

“Yeah,” Hoodie says, quieter, more composed—but there’s a rasp to his voice that wasn’t there before. “She’s still dripping.”

He lifts his fingers. Still slick with his spit and the taste of you. Masky stares. His jaw clenches. Hoodie grins.

“You wanna taste?”

That makes him freeze. His eyes flick up to Hoodie’s—sharp, uncertain. A silent what the fuck hanging in the air between them.

But then your voice breaks the tension, soft and breathy, “Please… I wanna see.” You smile small between them, looking up through wet lashes as they challenge each other.

Masky’s eyes snap back to you—and whatever resistance was there? Gone. Disappearing behind a smug smile.

Masky reaches out. Not for you—for Hoodie.

His fingers wrap in Hoodie’s hair, yanking him forward fast—rough, impatient, like it pisses him off that he even wants this—and he kisses him. Not clean. Not graceful. It’s awkward. Heated. All teeth and subtle fighting. Their noses bump. Their mouths don’t line up right. Masky’s jaw is too tight, and Hoodie’s caught off guard, breath stuttering against the pressure of it—but neither of them pulls away.

Masky tastes your slick on Hoodie’s lips and growls. “Jesus,” he breathes, breaking the kiss for just a second, staring at Hoodie’s mouth like it betrayed him. “What the fuck.”

“You’re the one that kissed me,” Hoodie mutters, but there’s no anger—only heat, confused and burning, as he presses forward again.

They kiss deeper this time. Still awkward. Still not romantic. But slower. Hungrier. Their tongues slide, catching the taste of you between them—and it’s not about each other—it’s about you—or at least they’re telling that to themselves.

Masky’s hands go back to your thighs. Hoodie’s palm presses against your stomach, holding you still as they lean in together—over you, around you.

You reach up and wrap your fingers into their hair, tugging them both close—sandwiched between them, heat radiating off their bodies like they’ve been waiting for this. You pull them down toward you with a breathless whine, lips parting—eyes wild with need.

“Good grief,” you whisper, voice wrecked, trying your best to sound humorous. “I can step out of the room if you need me to.”

You glance outside to see the way the rain is flooding off the gutters and onto the pavement below, and maybe think otherwise.

Their eyes flick to each other—sharp, unreadable—but they don’t speak. They don’t need to.

Because Hoodie’s fingers are already under your jaw, tilting your face up. And Masky’s grabbing your waist, yanking you back toward his chest. It’s greedy. Open-mouthed. Back and forth—Hoodie’s lips first, still tasting like you, then Masky’s mouth, rough and hot, tongue sliding between your teeth like he’s trying to take something from you. They groan—fuck, they groan like they need this—and you moan into them as your thighs clench around Hoodie’s hips.

Their hands are already on your body—gripping your waist, your hips, your jaw—and suddenly you feel it: a shift in the weight of the bed, a rush of cool air as they move.

“Off the bed,” Masky speaks, voice thick, already climbing down. “On your knees. Now.”

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Hoodie murmurs, gentler—but the command is still there in the grip of his hands on your arms.

You’re panting as they guide you off the mattress, strong hands dragging you to the edge and down—the motel carpet rough under your knees, your body between them.

Hoodie stands to your right, skin glistening with sweat, chest rising and falling steady. He hooks his thumbs in the band of his shorts, and drags them down, kicking them and his boxers off his ankles. Masky is on your left, he does the same, tugging the string of his sweatpants and kicking them off as well.

Your hands are resting on your knees as you kneel between them, but you’re fighting the need to wipe the drool from your lip as you glance between them.

Hoodie is long. Thicker than you expected. Veins along the shaft, flushed at the head—and fully hard now. Standing proud, ready. Like the sight of you wrecked is more than enough. His pubic hair is short and well kept, a light brown trailing up to his belly button. He grins, hand fisting the base as he watches you with blown pupils and parted lips.

Masky is heavy, thick, flushed from you grinding back against him. Half-hard, proud, veins visible in the light. He’s bigger than Hoodie, but not longer. His pubic hair is thicker, too—running up through his torso to the patches at his chest. You see the thick, aching weight of him, twitching with every breath you take.

They’re both standing over you. And you’re down between them—messy, panting, mouth wet, eyes wide, ready.

Their hands find your hair at the same time. You hiss as they pull you closer, up off your heels, hands finding their thighs.

Hoodie brushes your jaw with his thumb. “Open that pretty mouth,” he breathes.

Masky growls low in his throat. “Gonna ruin it, baby.”

Your knees press against the motel carpet, damp and rough beneath your skin, but you don’t care—all you can feel is the heat rising off them, their bodies looming over you like the storm about to break through the window.

Hoodie’s cock nudges your lips first, thick and flushed, twitching with need. His fingers thread into your hair, gentle but commanding, tilting your head forward. He holds himself at the base, tapping the drooling head against your pout.

You open your mouth, tongue lapping the tip, tasting the salt of him. He groans low, deep in his throat—and you suck him in slow, sliding your mouth down the length as far as you can go, then pulling back off with a wet pop.

Right then, Masky’s hand curls around the back of your neck, steadying you, thumb brushing your cheek as his cock presses at your other lip. You turn to him, parting your lips and wrapping them around his head, swirling your tongue around his head. He groans through his teeth, then huffs when you pull off as well.

Hoodie’s fingers tighten in your hair again, tilting your face toward him. You open your mouth willingly, and he slides in deep—slow, controlled. “That’s it,” he groans, his hips giving one gentle thrust. “Open wider for me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Masky stroking himself, smearing your spit down his length as he watches you.

Hoodie’s cock glides over your tongue, salty and smooth, his breath growing rough as you suck your lips around the size. You hollow your cheeks, swallow around him, making his knees twitch. “Dammit,” he growls.

He fucks your mouth deep and slow, thumb resting on your jaw, guiding the rhythm. It’s wet, messy—obscene—your throat working to take him in. 

When you choke a little, he lets out a dark chuckle, pulling out just enough to let you breathe. “Good… just like that. Now—”

“My turn.” Masky cuts in, voice rough with impatience. His hand replaces Hoodie’s in your hair, tugging you toward him. He doesn’t say much—just lets his cock rest against your lip, thick and leaking.

You look up at him. You know that look. You’ve seen it every time he runs out of cigarettes, every time he cleans his pistol before a kill, every time you’ve caught each other’s gaze tonight—need.

He slides into your mouth hard, almost punishing, like he hates how much he wants this. “Fucking hell,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You like being passed around, huh?”

Your moan vibrates down his length. He grabs the back of your head and starts thrusting, shallow at first, then deeper—fucking your throat with sharp, possessive hunger. Your hands claw up his thighs, nails clenched into his skin until you go to reach for the base of his cock, wrapping a fist around to give yourself some relief.

He snatches your wrist before you could even really try. “Don’t use your hands,” he snaps. “Just your mouth.”

You obey, eyes wet, throat stretched—letting him use you. Hoodie scoffs, looking between the two of you, gripping his own cock so tight he’s wincing. He grips Masky’s shoulder, leaning his weight on him as they both look down at you, both get off to the sight.

Masky grabs either side of your jaw, pulling you until you’re buried to the hilt, your nose pressed against his pelvis. You gag, tears slipping from your eyes, refusing to look anywhere but between the dual-paired eyes. Then he pulls out, with a wet gasp and a tight grip to your jaw.

“Switch.” They trade you again.

Hoodie’s cock back in your mouth, already slick from your spit, sliding in easier this time. His pace is gentler, but more thorough—praising you, petting your hair—making your eyes flutter every time he tries to reach the back of your throat. “Doing so good for us, little mouse.”

And then it’s back to Masky—rougher now, grabbing your face, thumb dragging your spit from your lips as he pushes in again, groaning through his teeth as your tongue swirls around the head. He’s quick, cockhead knocking against the roof of your mouth with each snap of his hips. “So fucking wet.”

Back to Hoodie. He lets you moan around him, and jerks just slightly when your tongue flicks the underside.

Back to Masky. He groans, “Gonna ruin your throat, sweetheart,” while his fingers dig into your mouth, tugging your jaw open.

And they keep going, keep snagging you by the hair and dragging you into a different cock before you can get settled. It’s dizzying, but you’ve never been so horny in your life. You can practically feel yourself dripping onto the carpet below, inner thighs slick with want.

Eventually, your face is a mess—lips red, eyes wet, throat raw—and both of them are panting. Their cocks are twitching, flushed, glistening with your spit and smears of precum. 

“Fuck, I could come just like this,” Hoodie mutters, thumb brushing your lower lip.

Masky growls, holding your head back as your hands grip their hips, everyone taking a moment to breathe. He’s silent for a moment, eyes dark with something unspoken—hunger, jealousy, something sharper. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling your head back just a little, tilting your chin up so both cocks press against your lips.

Hoodie’s eyes darken, his fingers tangling in your hair on the other side, steadying you with a grip that says this is going to get messy.

They slide in together—slow at first—thick, hot, slick. Your mouth is so full it almost hurts, your tongue flattened beneath them both, trying to stretch and swallow, but there’s barely any room. They can barely get just past their heads, the first ridge of a vein on Masky’s length pressing into your lip.

You gag once—low, wet—but they hold you there, groaning above you.

“That’s it, baby. Take it all,” Masky growls.

“Good girl,” Hoodie whispers, hips twitching.

You feel them push deeper, their hands pulling your hair to keep you steady as they fill your mouth completely—every inch, no space left—you can’t even move your tongue. Your cheeks bulge out, saliva pooling, and your eyes water—but you won’t back down.

They start moving slowly at first, their cocks sliding in and out in tandem, driving you wild with the tightness and heat. You can taste them—salty, slick—mixed with your own spit, the feel of want and possession.

Their breaths are heavy, ragged, voices low and broken.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Hoodie pants.

“Goddamn, how’ve we only just now done this?” Masky hisses.

You gag again, swallowing hard around them, desperate to keep up, desperate to show them just how much you want it.

The motel room fills with the sounds of wet mouths, shallow gasps, and the slick, messy rhythm of two cocks moving inside your mouth—one gripping, one teasing, both claiming. They rival the storm outside, the intensity not even close to the swirl of emotions in this room. The roar of the rain and thunder is nowhere near the roar in your skull.

Your jaw aches. Your throat flutters around them. And it’s so obscene the way they use you—not cruel, but so fucking filthy it makes your thighs press together, desperate for friction.

Masky’s voice is tight, groaning low as he watches your lips stretch around him. “Fuck, look at that. So fucking messy.”

Hoodie strokes your hair, his fingers trembling just a bit as you moan around both of them—the vibration making them both curse. “She’s drooling all over us,” he breathes. “Sweetheart, you want us that bad?”

You can’t speak—not with your mouth so full—but you whimper, the sound broken and hot. And they feel it. Your tongue flexes beneath them. Your throat squeezes.

Their hands grip tighter. And for a moment, they start fucking your mouth—not deep, not cruel—just slow, building rhythm, hips rocking forward in sync, stuffing you full again and again until your eyes roll back and your spit drips down your chin, slicking your neck.

You don’t want it to stop.

But suddenly, they pull out—quick, with a wet gasp and a groan, your mouth gaping open, lips red and glistening, a string of saliva still connecting you to them. You’re gasping, drooling, fucked-out and needy, and they just look down at you like they’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“C’mere,” Masky rasps. “Up.”

Hoodie helps you to your feet—gentle now—kissing your spit-slick cheek, his breath shaking. “You did so fucking good,” he whispers. “But we’re not done.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Masky’s hands are on your hips, gripping tight, pulling you toward the edge of the bed.

Hoodie’s already climbed up, sitting back against the headboard, his cock is heavy and red, leaking with need and smeared in your spit, twitching as he props himself up on one elbow, watching you with dark, hungry eyes.

You crawl forward on your knees, fingers grazing the soft fabric of the bedspread, then dragging up his thighs, and lower your head toward him.

Your lips part eagerly, tongue sliding out to taste the slick head of his cock. He lets out a low groan, hips lifting just enough to press into your mouth. Your lips open wide, tongue swirling, sliding over every inch of him. The salty taste of him fills you, hot and sharp. His fingers thread into your hair again, tugging lightly, steadying you. But the other wraps under your jaw, angling your head just right so he can press into the back of your throat. “So good, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with need. “Just go nice and slow.”

You obey, your tongue flicking over the underside, swirling around the sensitive tip, your mouth stretching, working him deeper.

Behind you, you feel movement. Masky’s heavy hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles over your skin just above the curve of your ass.

He leans over you, body pressed atop your back, pulling your hips up to meet where his heavy cock sits against your tailbone. His breath is warm against your neck, voice low and rough. “Got you good and wet, huh?” he growls. “Look at you, taking him like you were made for this.”

One hand slides under your hip, fingers slipping between your legs, pressing firmly against your soaked folds still incredibly sensitive. You shiver, hips pressing down involuntarily, grinding against Masky’s hand. His grip tightens, thumb brushing your clit in slow, teasing circles.

Hoodie’s cock twitches in your mouth, hips rocking gently, setting a slow rhythm. You suck harder, deepening your mouth around him, feeling his pulse through your lips. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails scratching lightly at your scalp.You wrap a fist around the base of his cock, helping you as your eyes flutter closed, breath hitching around him.

Suddenly, Masky’s mouth presses to your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly, sending a sharp thrill through you.

“Make him cum, alright?” he hisses. “Let him spill all in that pretty mouth.”

You hum around Hoodie’s cock in response, tongue swirling, lashes fluttering as you feel Masky’s fingers press one last time against your clit, making you arch back just slightly. You can feel every nerve firing, every muscle tightening in eager anticipation.

He sits back, gripping your hips with bruising hands. Slowly, deliberately, Masky lines himself up. You jolt at the feeling, bulbous head smearing across your folds and collecting your arousal. You shiver, breath hitching around Hoodie’s cock as your back curves toward Masky’s. He chuckles low, and then begins to push in.

At first, just the thick head of him bobs inside—slow and steady—stretching you wide, the new, delicious pressure making your muscles clench and pulse around him. Your walls immediately grip around him, sucking him in the best they can. Your hips press back, desperate to take more, to swallow him whole.

Hoodie moans deep above you, fingers tightening in your hair as he feels your gasp and throat flutter around him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Masky rasps behind you, his breath hot against your skin. His hands grip your hips firmly, steadying you as he pushes deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt inside your warmth.

The stretch, the fullness—your body’s desperate response sends a wave of heat rippling through you, mixing with the wet slickness from Hoodie’s cock in your mouth. You try to focus on your breathing, but it’s hard when Hoodie’s hips rock up, pushing deep and slow against your tongue, while Masky’s hands knead your hips, thumbs digging into your skin.

Your hands clutch the bedspread, nails scraping the thin fabric as Masky starts to move. His thrusts are slow at first, deliberate and testing—letting you adjust, letting you savor the sensation of being filled by him.

The motel room is alive with sounds—the wet slick of Hoodie’s cock sliding in and out of your mouth, your muffled moans and gasps, and Masky’s low growls as he fucks you from behind—all accompanied by the wonderful pounding of the storm.

You feel every inch of Masky’s cock inside you—thick, hot, and demanding—while Hoodie’s steady rhythm in your mouth keeps you dizzy with pleasure. Fucked absolutely out.

Masky leans down, pressing his chest to your back, one hand sliding under your body to cup your breast, fingers teasing your nipple. He kneads it roughly, making you arch against him, grinding back with every thrust.

Meanwhile, Hoodie’s hands tighten in your hair, pulling your head closer, making you take him deeper, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside. You’ve almost got it all—almost.

The mingled sensations—the fullness behind, the heat in your mouth—makes your head spin. 

Your breath comes in ragged gasps; your hips start to move with Masky’s rhythm, meeting him, pushing back harder. He growls, biting lightly at your neck, leaving mark after mark.

Hoodie moans deep, head leaning back to hit the headboard, voice thick with need. “You’re such a good girl for us,” he groans. “Taking us both so well.”

Your cheeks burn with the praise, your body trembling as Masky’s thrusts get harder, faster, hips slapping wetly against your skin. His hands roam greedily, one sliding between your legs to brush your clit, thumb circling as he fucks into you. Every thrust knocks against your g-spot, every tug of your hips angling your spine, forcing his cock deeper.

You cry out around Hoodie’s cock, your throat full and achingly stretched, saliva dripping down your chin. The waves of pleasure rise quickly now—your body screaming with need and overstimulation.

Masky’s grunts grow louder, his hips slamming against you, every thrust harder than the last. Hoodie’s breathing grows ragged; his fingers tighten in your hair as he holds you captive, your lips and tongue worshipping every inch of his cock inside you.

“Gonna come—” Hoodie gasps.

“Yeah,” Masky growls, voice rough and desperate.

Your body trembles, caught in the eye of their storm—filled, stretched, pleasured from both ends.

Your throat is sore, stretched perfectly around Hoodie’s cock as he shudders, his hips twitching deep inside your mouth. You feel the thick pulse, the hot flood spilling down your throat. Hoodie groans low, voice ragged, as his hips collapse down onto the bed, breath heavy and satisfied.

His cum floods into your throat, and you swallow in time with every twitch of his cock, nails digging into his skin. You pull back just enough to catch your breath, lips swollen and slick, your gaze flickering up to meet his. But before you can savor that moment, you feel Masky’s grip tighten on your hips, rough and insistent.

He growls, voice dark and possessive. “My turn.”

Without warning, he yanks you up by your hips, pulling you up onto your knees and back against his chest. Your legs wobble, but his hands hold you steady, strong. His cock is still buried deep inside you, thick and hard, and with a sudden force, he starts thrusting again—harder, faster—driving up into you with a hunger that steals your breath.

His arms wrap around your middle, holding you close as you bounce back to match every thrust. Your hands reach back, clutching his head and shoulders for support as you try to keep up with the sudden increase in pace.

Masky’s breath is hot against your neck, low and rough. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he snarls. “You gonna cum all over this cock?”

Your body responds instantly—every nerve on fire, every muscle trembling as he pounds into you. You nod, eyes rolling into your head.

Hoodie watches with dark, hungry eyes, sitting up off the mattress to press against your front. He palms at your tits, rolling your nipples as they bounce with every knock of Masky’s cock.

He leans forward, pressing a wet, teasing kiss to your cheek, then down your jawline. “You’re so good for him,” Hoodie whispers. “So fucking perfect.”

He nips at your jaw, trailing his hand down your stomach and between your legs, pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit. He jerks the bud, and you cry out, wrapping an arm around Hoodie’s shoulders.

You pull him to you, chasing hips lips as you feel your cunt ache, feel the familiar coil in the pit of your stomach. Masky feels how you tighten around him, his pace stuttering. His breath grows ragged, voice thick with desperation as he pulls you tighter against him.

“I’m—fuck—gonna—” he gasps, hips stuttering.

“Yeah—please—inside—” You’re cumming so hard your vision cuts, eyes rolling so hard the two have to hold you steady when you go limp in their arms. Hoodie’s fingers slow, easing you through the waves of pleasure. Masky thrusts once, twice—until he buries in as deep as he can.

Masky presses his face into your shoulder, biting the skin as he cums into your cunt. You feel the spill, the thick ropes that paint your cervix and fill you so good.

The bed creaks, old springs shifting under the weight as bodies shift and breathing rattles lungs. You’re gripping both of them, a head pressed close to either shoulder, each kissing your skin.

“Fuck…” you huff, eyes struggling to stay open. You rest your chin against Hoodie’s shoulder, trying your best to catch your breath. “Feels good… So warm…”

Hoodie’s eyes darken with a dangerous hunger as he pushes his fingers further past your clit, feeling the spot where your entrance begins—stretched full of Masky. He hums, making your body jerk as he tries to press his fingers into the little space there is left.

“Brian—” you warn, nails digging into his shoulder. It doesn’t matter, he somehow manages to press the first knuckles of his middle fingers in, digits burying in the warmth of your cunt along with Masky’s cock. You all groan, Masky’s hips involuntarily jerking up at the sensation of Hoodie’s knuckles against his length.

“Brian, man. What—” Masky starts.

“Stay in,” Hoodie murmurs to Masky, voice low and urgent.

Masky stalls, searching his eyes, but growls his assent, hips still heavy inside you, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid to lose you.

Hoodie pulls his fingers out of your sensitive entrance, reaching around behind your legs to pull them out from under you. Masky catches your weight, holding you steady as Hoodie pulls your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back. Hoodie grips under your ass, Masky holds under your thighs, your body sandwiched between them.

Hoodie shifts closer, positioning himself at your entrance. Your body tightens instinctively, every muscle clenching around Masky’s cock buried deep within you.

“Wait—Wait, hold on—”

“You can take it,” Masky kisses against your shoulder, continuously glancing between you and Hoodie. “You will.”

Slowly, carefully, Hoodie pushes forward. 

At first, just the tip teases your wet, stretched folds. You gasp—a mix of pleasure and shock—as you feel yourself being stretched again, wider than you thought possible.

Masky’s hands grip your thighs tighter, steadying you as Hoodie tries to fight the resistance, bobbing the very tip of his cock against the tight ring of muscle burning from the attempted stretch.

“Shit—shit, shit shit—” Your breath hitches, eyes fluttering closed, mouth parting in a moan. You try your best to relax, try your damnest not to cry and whine with every burn that runs up your body.

Finally, one angle catches his head, your cunt opening up around his thick head. Hoodie’s cock slides past Masky’s inside you, the sensation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A delicious fullness floods your senses, your body opening to take them both, cunt absolutely screaming in sparks of pain and overwhelming ecstasy.

Masky shifts, thrusting just enough to give you room, hips grinding slowly, his voice a low growl against your skin. “Gonna ruin this pussy,” Masky rasps. “You’ll never be satisfied again if it’s not us.”

The three of you move as one tight, wet unit—Masky’s cock buried balls-deep, Hoodie’s cock sliding alongside him, pinning you open so completely it’s like you don’t even have a choice. The motel sheets are rumpled beneath you, their knees pressed hard into the thin mattress, arms braced against their shoulders for balance as Masky’s heavy thrusts rock you forward into Hoodie’s chest.

You can feel both of them inside you. Masky’s thick length fills your back walls, the girth taking up most of the room inside, causing you to lose your breath with every hardened thrust. Hoodie’s cock presses into your front, sliding quickly past Masky’s still-buried base, the dual pressure stretching you wider than you’ve ever felt before.

“C’mon, little mouse. Let us hear you.” Hoodie smiles.

Their hands grip your hips and thighs like anchors, thumbs digging into flesh, guiding your movements. Every time Masky pulls out slightly, Hoodie pushes in an extra half-inch, and vice versa, the two of them taking turns controlling your rhythm. The sensation is overwhelming—a deliciously torturous fullness that has your entire body humming with overstimulation.

Your senses explode. The slick heat of Masky’s cum still coating you from before mixes with fresh heat as you’re squeezed around both of them, a salt-tinged warmth that makes your toes curl. Their breaths are hot in your ear and on your neck—Masky’s rough growls vibrating against your spine, Hoodie’s low moans tickling your shoulder.

The sound of skin slapping skin echoes around the cramped room—Masky’s thighs smacking against your ass, Hoodie’s groaning as he presses flush into you.

With each thrust, Masky leans forward, chest against your back, caging you. His hands push your hips down, angling you so every stroke smacks your cervix with delicious force. You feel every ridge of his cock sliding deep inside, muscles clenching around him. “Hnn—gonna fu—shit—gonna fuck you stupid, sweet girl.”

Hoodie shifts his grip from your ass to slide to Masky’s hip, feeling his timing. He digs his nails into Masky’s skin, matching his pacing so he fucks you in perfect sync with Masky, making you cry out. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?” Hoodie pants. “Wanna do this forever.”

Your head falls forward onto Hoodie’s shoulder, lips parted in breathless moans that each of them feeds on. You can taste yourself on their skin—your slick mix of spit and cum—and it makes you ache for more. Every nerve ending feels alive, your clit crushed against Hoodie’s pelvis, Masky’s cock pulsating inside you like a living thing, and your brain goes fuzzy with the exquisite pain-pleasure of being stretched beyond your limits.

“It’s too much—fuck—I can’t—can’t keep up—”

They don’t let you rest.

Masky’s thrusts grow harder, sharper, forcing your hips up into Hoodie’s pelvis each time the head of his cock hits your g-spot. Hoodie, in turn, squeezes your ass so tight you can’t move, riding those jolting shocks from Masky’s cock, matching you thrust for thrust with a fierce, driving pace that threatens to break every bone in your body.

Your vision swims; sweat beads on your skin. You feel your orgasm building again—hot, desperate, unstoppable. They know your signs now. They’re built to adapt, to learn, to complete impossible tasks—so of course they know exactly what it feels like when you’re about to cum already. As the pressure peaks, Hoodie’s hand slaps down hard on your ass, and Masky’s fingers dig into your thighs in a gritted command, “Come for us.”

With a final, simultaneous plunge—Masky’s cock buried to the hilt, Hoodie’s thrusting floor-to-ceiling—you break.

“Fuck!”

Your toes curl, your back arches, and a guttural cry tears from your throat as wave after wave of orgasm ripples through you. Your body clenches so fiercely around both of them that it drives them over the edge, too.

Masky roars, releasing inside you in long, trembling spurts, his cock pulsing deep within. Hoodie groans your name, spilling his hot cum as he holds you tight, his fingers still gripping your ass as he comes.

Their combined release floods you, warmth coating your insides as the tremors of your orgasm shake your limbs. For a long moment, the three of you move together in trembling grinds—skin gleaming with sweat, breaths ragged and mingling as you ride out every inch of pleasure, tight cunt milking every drop they’ve got.

Finally, Masky pulls back, still buried inside you, and Hoodie slides out, collapsing under you on the bed. You fall forward, landing on top of Hoodie, Masky following behind.

They sandwich you, sweat-soaked bodies pressed close as Masky musters the last of his strength to slip out of your spent cunt, sending cum spilling from your folds and onto the bedsheets below. 

The room smells like sex and sweat and crappy motel soap.

You’re sprawled across Hoodie, boneless and dazed, your body still trembling from the storm they dragged you through. The thin, scratchy sheet is tangled around your legs. The pillows are damp and askew. The red light from the neon sign outside bleeds in through the blinds, painting everything in a low crimson haze.

Everyone rolls off each other, taking up the entirety of what little space there is of the matters.

You’re caught in the middle, surrounded by the weight of their bodies, the heat of their skin, and the press of breath that slows with every minute on either side of you.

Masky’s against you, chest to your back, arm slung lazily around your waist. His hand is splayed across your stomach, fingers twitching occasionally, as if he’s trying his best to go back to staying still. His breath brushes your shoulder in soft exhales, nose buried in the crook of your neck.

In front of you, Hoodie lies on his back, one hand lazily stroking your arm, eyes half-lidded and dark with something softer than before. He’s flushed, chest rising and falling slow, mouth slightly parted. There’s a sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, his lashes damp from the heat and friction of everything that just happened.

No one speaks for a long while. Just breathing. Just silence. The weight of your shared pleasure settling in the small, hazy air of the motel room.

Your body aches in every place they touched. You’re full, sore, and you feel like your soul’s been picked clean—but not in a bad way. It’s grounding. It feels good, like you’ve finally unwound all the tension in your psyche.

Eventually, Hoodie shifts, his knuckles brushing your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but the touch is soft, thoughtful.

Masky murmurs into your shoulder, his voice scratchy and low. “You good?”

You nod, barely, too tired to speak yet. But your hand finds his on your stomach and laces your fingers through his, gently squeezing.

Hoodie lets out a breath—somewhere between a sigh and a huff of amusement. “Didn’t think you’d actually let us go that far.”

You blink slowly, managing a tired little smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Hoodie chuckles under his breath, the sound light, pulling you a little closer with the crook of his arm. You nuzzle into the curve of his shoulder, lips brushing over the faint scrape of stubble on his jaw.

Behind you, Masky groans quietly. “Stop flirting.”

“You can’t call dibs on her after we just shared her.”

You laugh under your breath, soft and barely there. Masky’s grip tightens just a little at your waist in response.

“You okay?” Hoodie asks this time, a little more serious.

You nod again. “Yeah. Just… full.”

Both of them laugh, low and lazy and quiet, and you let your eyes flutter shut as they sit up.

They don’t say a word.

They just move—Masky sliding down your body to one side, Hoodie shifting to the other—and before you can protest, both their heads dip low.

Masky begins at your hip crease, tongue tracing slow, firm licks along your soaked skin, gathering every last drop of cum that smears across your skin. His free hand cups your thigh, pressing you open for him, while his other hand snakes between your legs to steady you. Each broad stroke of his tongue pulls your body taut with sensitivity, the warmth of his mouth searing against your skin.

Hoodie, mirrored on the opposite side, leans in beneath your belly, tongue flicking up in short, quick passes at your lower lips—then sliding deeper into your soaked center. He laps gently, methodically, collecting the sweetness you left behind. His breath hovers warm across your thigh as he cleans with expert devotion, making sure no spot is missed.

They work effortlessly.

Every few inches of Masky’s slow, worshipful licks are matched by Hoodie’s precise, teasing sweeps. You feel the wet press of their tongues meet at the center, swallowing and savouring you, their mouths hot and insistent.

Masky’s tongue drags a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, then circles it, flattening and pressing until you arch your back, legs tensing around both of them. Hoodie’s tongue dives in synchrony, curling just right to find every crevice, every tremble point. You grab the bedsheets, tugging and pulling with every sharp roll of the muscles.

Their hands aren’t idle either. Masky’s fingertips brush delicate arcs along your inner thighs, glide up to tease your sensitive folds; Hoodie’s thumb brushes gentle, reassuring circles over your hip bone as he leans in to work the tip of his tongue against your clit again.

You moan—soft, breathy, nearly pained with relief and pleasure—as they feed on you, cleaning you with their mouths like they’re righting some cosmic wrong. The red neon light flickers in the curtains, painting their faces in shadow and warmth, and you’re suspended between their ministrations, heart pounding.

Finally, when every drop is gone, they lift their heads together, lips glistening, eyes dark with need and something softer—care, devotion, worship. Masky presses a slow, wet kiss to your inner thigh; Hoodie brushes your stomach with his nose, his breath feather-light.

They slide back up—Masky pressing a gentle kiss behind your ear, Hoodie trailing one across your collarbone. Their hands settle on your hips and shoulders, cradling you in a triangle of warmth and quiet satisfaction.

You’re nestled between them again, chest still rising in unsteady waves as the weight of their attention and afterglow begins to soften into something cozy, close. The scratchy motel sheet is pulled half-heartedly over your legs, but Hoodie reaches to tug the heavy comforter up higher, draping it over all three of you. You instinctively scoot closer to the body heat pressing into you from both sides. The heater is still broken, the electricity is still shot—but you’re incredibly warm despite it.

Masky’s arm is hooked under your neck, fingers resting lightly on your shoulder. Hoodie’s hand is against your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles into your bare skin. Their bodies bracket you like armor, all strong limbs and quiet breath.

There’s a quiet moment—just the loud thrum of the rain in the background and the distant hum of neon through the window.

Then you tilt your chin up toward Hoodie and nudge Masky’s jaw with your nose. “C’mere,” you whisper, voice still low and sleep-thick.

They don’t hesitate. Hoodie leans in first, kissing you slow and unhurried, his lips soft and warm, the kind of kiss that isn’t asking for more—it’s just being. A little messy, from how relaxed he is, but sweet.

When you break apart, Masky is already there, nudging Hoodie aside with a little grunt like he’s annoyed he had to wait. His kiss is rougher, more teeth, more pressure—but not because he’s impatient. It’s just him. And you like that.

They both kiss you again—switching off without a word—until you’re dazed, lazy, flushed all over again from nothing but mouth and hands and heat.

You hum against Masky’s lips as he kisses you one last time, then break away with a smug little grin. “You know…” you murmur, glancing between them. “You two should kiss again.”

Hoodie’s eyes flick toward Masky, brow arching slightly. Masky scoffs, instantly bristling.

“Fuck off,” Masky mutters, shifting on the mattress. “Not gonna do that just ‘cause you get off on it.”

“Yeah,” Hoodie echoes, dry but amused, “not a circus act for you.”

You pout playfully, dramatically cuddling into Hoodie’s chest like you’re wounded. “Rude,” you mumble. “After you did unspeakable things to me, too.”

Masky snorts. “Yeah, more like you begged us to, sweetheart.”

But even as he says it, you catch the glance he and Hoodie share—a flicker of tension, a spark of something under the surface. A challenge.

And then Hoodie shrugs. “Fine.” He grabs Masky by the jaw, jerks him forward, and kisses him across you.

It’s not graceful. It’s not slow, or romantic. It’s messy and firm and unexpected—Hoodie’s hand in Masky’s hair, their mouths pressed together hard enough to bruise. Masky makes a surprised sound, fists clenching in the sheets, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

The kiss breaks after a few seconds—both of them pulling back just a little, eyes locking for one tense, unreadable moment.

“Happy now?” Masky mutters, breath warm and a little shaken.

You beam. “So happy.”

They groan in unison—so done with you—but they don’t move away. The three of you settle again, tangled under the blanket, skin against skin, quiet and warm. Hoodie lets out a soft breath, his fingers threading lazily through yours. Masky shifts until his nose brushes your shoulder.

And it’s not another minute before your breathing slows, eyes fluttering shut whether you’d like them to or not. It’s just so warm, and safe, and…

── .✦

The first thing you notice is the sharp click—the unmistakable hum of power rushing back through the motel’s ancient wiring.

Lights flicker on, harsh and sudden, cutting through the red glow of the neon sign outside. The storm has passed. Outside, rain still trickles down the windowpanes, gentle now, like a quiet exhale after a violent scream.

You stir slowly, eyelids fluttering open to find Masky’s warm chest pressed against your back, Hoodie’s arms wrapped loosely around your waist. All three of you are tangled, skin slick with the aftermath of last night’s messy heat. Your muscles ache, sore from every touch, every thrust—but that ache feels good, grounding.

You reach out, fingers trailing softly over Masky’s shoulder, then nudge Hoodie’s arm. Their eyes blink open, heavy-lidded and slow, matching your own sleepy haze.

Masky grunts low, voice rough from sleep. “Power’s back. Storm’s over.”

Hoodie’s lips twitch into a tired smile. “Figured. I heard it snap back a few minutes ago.”

You press a kiss into Hoodie’s shoulder, then turn to face Masky, your hand resting on his chest. “Feels like… we should get up.”

Masky groans, pulling you closer. “Five more minutes.”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, the warmth of their bodies still wrapping around you like a cocoon. “Nope. We gotta move before motel staff starts getting suspicious.”

Hoodie shifts, fingers brushing your ribs, his eyes dark and sleepy but amused. “Final shower before the road?”

You nod. “Yeah. Warm water. Then hit the road and figure out why Toby didn’t meet us.”

Masky lets out a slow breath, reluctantly peeling away from you. Hoodie follows, helping you all untangle from the sheets and each other, muscles stiff but spirits gentle.

Together, you move toward the bathroom, the air cool against your heated skin, the scent of rain still lingering in the cracked-open window. The sound of water soon fills the room—steady, soothing—and you lean against each other, sharing quiet moments of comfort before the world outside calls you back to motion.

The morning was cool but the shower was blistering hot—steam clouded the cracked mirror, dripping down the grimy tiles like sweat. You shuffled in first, hauling the wrinkled plastic curtain closed, the water sputtering uncertainly before finally warming up.

The spray hit you in jagged pulses, barely enough to drown the sweat and grime from the night. You grabbed your clothes from the grimy floor and hung them on the rusted rack, wincing as the cold brushed your skin.

Then, the bathroom door creaked open.

“Hoodie?” Masky’s voice echoed in the tight space. “You getting in or what?”

Hoodie grinned, stepping into the narrow space, brushing damp hair from his eyes. “Hell yeah. This place might be a shithole, but a hot shower’s a hot shower.”

You laughed, leaning back against the cool tiles as Hoodie slipped in beside you. Masky pressed in from the doorway, careful to avoid knocking over the lone soap bar.

The three of you shuffled under the tiny showerhead, water washing away the grime and the tension. The cramped space forced your bodies close, and though it was uncomfortably tight, it was also… familiar.

“Man,” Hoodie said, voice muffled by the water. “You ever crave something stupid after missions? Like, I dunno—pancakes? With syrup? Maybe some crispy bacon?”

Masky chuckled. “Pancakes sound nice. But all I want is a coffee.”

You smirked. “I’d kill for a greasy diner breakfast right now. Coffee that’s strong enough to wake the dead. Eggs over easy. Hell, I’d even take burnt toast.”

“Burnt toast?” Hoodie teased. “You’re picky.”

“Not when it comes to food. I’m starving.”

The water splashed harder as Masky shifted, nudging you gently. “We’ll get there,” he promised. “Back at the mansion. Full kitchen, good food, and maybe even a bed that doesn’t squeak.”

The warmth seeped into your bones, but reality crept back in. The storm had passed, but you still had to get out.

You rinsed off quickly, the water cooler than before, and dried off with the thin motel towel. Masky and Hoodie did the same, the cramped bathroom turning into a mess of wet clothes and half-stifled laughter.

Back in the room, you grabbed your packs, and Hoodie yanked open the dresser. With a grunt, the three of you shifted the heavy, scratched piece of furniture off the door—praying that nobody heard the loud shuffling.

“Think they’ll lose their shit when they see this place?” you asked, peeking over your shoulder to see the absolute disarray you’re leaving it in.

“Doubt it,” Masky shrugged. “They probably get worse than this.”

You peeked out the grimy window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the lot was nearly empty.

“Alright,” Hoodie said, voice low. “Let’s move before someone sees us.”

You crept out the door, puddles of water and broken tree limbs littering the lot. Outside, the cold air hit you all at once, bracing and sharp. The truck was waiting, just like you left it—windows streaked with rain, engine cool but ready.

You climbed in, each of you wiping the last drops of water from your faces. Hoodie turned the keys, the engine sputtering to life, before you peeled out of the parking lot. Music was turned up, the heater was turned high, and you all relaxed back into your familiar spots.

Masky’s hand dipped into the glove compartment with that familiar, casual ease—the one that made you forget just how much he needed the habit. His fingers closed around a crumpled pack of cigarettes, the familiar crinkle of cellophane breaking the silence. He pulled one free, flicked the lighter from his pocket, and inhaled deep.

Passing the cigarette over, you caught it next—fingers brushing against his briefly as you took a slow drag, the smoke filling your lungs and settling the restless ache that lingered after the night. Hoodie leaned in, grabbing it carefully, his eyes half-lidded in that hazy, just-woken-up way.

Just then, your phone buzzed—buried deep in the bottom of your pack, vibrating insistently. It was a burner, one used only to communicate between proxies. You cursed softly, fumbling to unzip the heavy canvas and dig through the clutter.

“Shit,” you muttered, finally pulling it free. The screen flashed with Toby’s name.

“Where the h-hell have you be-been?” his voice was sharp, frantic.

You glanced up at Masky and Hoodie, who had gone quiet, exchanging looks loaded with equal parts exhaustion and irritation.

You answered, voice low, “We got caught in the storm. Couldn’t get back to the mansion.”

Toby’s rant came fast and furious through the speaker. “You should’ve c-come back. The meeting point was h-hours ago. I never met you gu-guys cause boss told me to come back. Not wo-worth getting caught in a storm. St-Staying out like that? Stupid.”

The three of you shared a glance—silent, tired, and pisses beyond compare knowing that while the three of you were forced into a shitty motel to stay safe, Toby was lounging at the mansion with his feet kicked up.

You cut the call, the line going dead with a quick flick of your thumb. You tossed the phone back in the bag with a groan.

Masky cracked a crooked grin, shaking his head. “Screw it. After last night? A diner stop is worth it.”

Hoodie nodded, the cigarette between his fingers almost forgotten as he looked out the window. “Yeah. Pancakes, bacon, coffee… Toby can kiss my ass.”

You smirked, leaning back against the seat, the morning sun finally breaking through the clouds as the truck rolled down the highway. The energy stirred, a silent thrum between the three of you that was undeniable now, one that you didn’t even have to speak on to know.

Sleeping in your own bed is a luxury, no doubt.

But when two pairs of strong hands keep you warm, hold you close, and make you feel like the cold isn't going to kill you.

Maybe sharing one isn’t so bad.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.

That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.

"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.

That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.

You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.

"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.

Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.

Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.

You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.

Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.

Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.

"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."

The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.

"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.

"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."

He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."

This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.

"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.

He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.

Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.

"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."

Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.

"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."

Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.

Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—

Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.

Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.

It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.

A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.

Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.

He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.

"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."

You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.

"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"

His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.

"She's dead."

It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.

Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.

When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.

Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.

You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.

It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.

"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.

There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.

"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.

Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.

"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."

You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.

"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."

His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.

"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"

Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.

"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.

Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."

"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."

"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.

"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.

"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"

He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."

You draw a short breath. "Shit."

Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.

You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.

He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.

"There is nothing here." He states.

"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."

His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.

"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.

Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.

You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.

"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."

You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.

The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.

"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.

Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"

"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."

That... sounds very Damian of him.

You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."

Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."

Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.

This time, you take his hand.

Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.

"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.

His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."

Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."

You raise a brow, confused.

He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."

Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.

"What do you want to know?" You shrug.

His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"

Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"

His smile strains a little, and you realise why.

"Ah." You murmur.

"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."

You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."

He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.

"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.

"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."

"So, why are you here?" You push.

A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."

You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.

"What else do you like?" He reiterates.

Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"

"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."

"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."

His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."

"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."

He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"

"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."

He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."

"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."

The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.

He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.

"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."

"I like that."

You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.

"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."

His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."

Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.

"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."

Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.

Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.

It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.

"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."

He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.

He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.

"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."

"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.

You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.

"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."

Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.

"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.

"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"

"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."

"At being fair?" He asks.

"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."

The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.

He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.

"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.

"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."

Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.

You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.

A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.

"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.

He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.

"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."

"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"

Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.

What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.

"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."

He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.

"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."

"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.

You blink, taken aback by his reaction.

"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."

"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."

His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.

"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."

Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.

"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."

His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."

"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."

"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."

"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."

He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.

"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."

He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"

"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."

He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.

"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."

He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.

"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.

You nod gently.

Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.

When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.

When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.

"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.

As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.

He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.

It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.

"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."

You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."

"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."

This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.

Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.

"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."

That settles it. In two days... you're going home.

"I hate waiting."

"I am aware." Damian murmurs.

"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.

"Alright."

Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.

His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."

You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."

"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.

"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"

"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."

"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.

"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.

"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.

He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.

Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.

"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.

The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.

"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.

Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.

Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.

"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.

"I never got to tell you." He starts.

Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.

"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."

"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."

The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.

He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."

"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."

Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.

"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."

"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."

You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.

Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.

You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.

How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?

Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.

A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.

"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.

He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.

What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.

"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."

That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.

He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.

"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."

"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."

It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.

In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.

Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.

But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

[extra pov] - alt! damian + reader’s damian after her return

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

"Whatcha lookin' at?" You jumped at the sound of your boyfriend's voice.

"Oh—uh, nothing. Just looking at some photos." You felt bad for lying.

"Hm. What photos?" He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, causing his shirt to rise and show off his V-line.

You swallowed thickly, eyeing him up and down. He was wearing gray sweats that hung too low and a black muscle tank he had cropped himself. Talk about an '80s heartthrob.

"It's just photos my friend sent." You could hear her giggling through the phone, saying something along the lines of, "You're in trouble."

"Shut up, I'll call you later." You quickly pressed the red button and locked your phone.

Dick approached the bed, plopping down beside you and resting on his forearm. "Come on, show me… or you're gonna make me think you're doing something naaaughty." He sang the last word, tilting his head as he looked at you with those big doe eyes you adored so much.

You felt horrible finding another man attractive when you had such a caring, loving boyfriend right here. You pouted, looking down at your phone and then back at him. With a sigh, you turned your phone back on and showed him.

"We were talking about Nightwing and how… cute he is."

Dick examined the picture for a second before smirking. "Can't blame you. Dude's got killer quads."

Your eyes widened for a second. "Wait… you're not upset?" You eyed him suspiciously.

He scoffed out a laugh. "No. Why would I be? He's nice-looking. Plus, I got something he doesn't."

You furrowed your eyebrows. "What?"

"You." He swiftly sat up, yanking your thighs toward him and wrapping your legs around his torso. He leaned down, trapping you beneath him as he placed a hand beside your head. Your stomach immediately erupted with butterflies.

"No matter how many superheroes you have a crush on, I'll always have your heart." He smiled, holding your chin in between his thumb and index finger.

"And you're just okay with this?"

He shrugged. "What can I do? You have eyes. Plus, I know you're loyal. It's like you liking one of those anime guys—it's just never going to happen."

You gasped, lightly hitting his chest. “Rude!”

He laughed, but something in his eyes told you he was holding back. You didn't know what it was, but you weren't going to worry about it.

Jason T.

You were watching the late-night news when a story about Red Hood popped up. He had saved the mayor from an assassination attempt. The news reporter stood outside the building where the crime had taken place, explaining how it all went down.

A moment later, they showed shaky phone footage of him carrying the mayor over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes while shooting at what you assumed were the bad guys.

You bit your bottom lip, holding back a smile.

“Mmm, what a man,” you whispered to yourself.

“What was that?”Your boyfriend peeked up from his book.

“Oh, uh… nothing. Just watching the news.” You cleared your throat and pointed to the TV.

“Hm.”

You avoided his gaze and continued watching.

“You… don’t like him, do you?” he asked, marking his page before closing the book. Heat rose up your neck and spread across your cheeks.

“No… maybe?” You winced, not wanting to look at him. “Okaaay! I do. He’s hot, and strong, and he’s for the people!”

Jason scoffed.

“I mean, this guy is like a tank.” He can take a hit and keep moving. I once saw a video of him take out ten drug dealers at once and just walk it off.”

Jason shook his head in disapproval.

“He’s a murderer. Trust me, there’s nothing to admire about him.”His body became tense, almost as if the more he thought about Red Hood, the angrier he got.

A deep silence fell over the room for a few seconds. You slouched into yourself with a frown.

“I-I wouldn’t say that, Jason…”

You continued, “Red Hood is a lifesaver. He fights for the little guys who can’t protect themselves. He might take lives, but what would you rather have—an innocent person dead or a psychotic human trafficker running around the streets?”

“And dare I say…” You covered your face with both hands like you’d just confessed to a crime. “…he’s better than Batman.”

Complete shock took over his face watching you hide behind your hands. Jason’s cheeks turned a dusty rose color.

“Wh-what?! You think Red Hood’s better than Batman?”

“Well, yes. He gets rid of the bad guys. Batman just puts them in jail—or barely that—and then they break out and repeat the cycle. Now, in no way, shape, or form am I saying murder is right. Absolutely not. BUT if it’s between a mom and her kids or a killer clown… kill the clown.”

Jason was stunned. He’d never heard you speak about a topic this adamantly before—not unless it was about one of those romance books you read or the political state of the world. But never about vigilantes or what people like to call anti-hero’s.

Honestly, he was kind of proud.

“I… for the first time in years, I’m speechless.” He admitted.

You shrugged and switched the TV over to Netflix.

“Well, that’s just my take on it. Don’t get too mad over it. I just prefer Red Hood over Batman.”

While you flipped through the menu looking for a movie, Jason hid a proud smile behind his hand. You had unknowingly made him fall for you even harder.

Tim D.

You and your boyfriend Tim were having your monthly shopping trip. He held your hand while carrying your bag in his other hand, while simultaneously being on his phone. You weren’t upset because you knew he was taking care of business.

You smiled happily swinging his hand back and forth looking into the shops as you passed by. One shop in particular caught your attention. You let out a gasp, dragging him behind you.

“Look Tim! It’s Red Robin plushies, oh my goodness.” You smiled gushing over the plushies on display in the window.

“Come, I want one!” You dragged your boyfriend into the shop. You were in awe they had all the justice league in plushie form, including Nightwing, Red Robin and Robin. Of course your favorite was Red Robin.

“Uh babe?”

“Hmm?” You asked looking at the wall of trinkets.

You browsed through the stickers, keychains, bracelets— they had so much stuff. You could spend a fortune in here.

“Just out of curiosity when did you start liking Red Robin?” He asked watching you be so giddy over the overpriced items.

“What do you mean silly I’ve always liked him— I oooh this one would go so well in my car! Imma hang it from the mirror.” You smile waving a tiny Red Robin symbol in his face.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You’ve never mentioned this guy.”

You frowned. You looked up at nothing trying to remember if you mentioned him or not. You shrug, maybe you didn’t…oops.

“I swear i did, if I didn’t yes I like Red Robin. He’s such the hot nerdy type…kinda like you!”You smirked teasing him. Tim’s face grew a bright red.

“You think I’m hot? Wait— nerdy?!”

You shrugged, “well yes, you’re incredibly smart, very handsome, an extremely hard worker, you manage to remember things I’ve said only once…which is a bit scary but I kinda like it.”

“All the qualities I love in a guy, plus you have a killer physique. Definitely a sleeper build.” You smirked pecking his lips. He stood there stunned, like the first time you ever kissed him.

“Sleeper build?” He repeated your words as if it was a foreign language. If he wasn’t blushing he was blushing now.

You spent the last ten minutes collecting figurines, plushies and stickers of Red Robin and Tim happily paid for it all. The most eager he’s ever been to spend money.

“You actually like Red Robin? Not many people remember he’s even a Robin…” he trialed off with a long look in his eye.

“Of course I do, he’s very brave and smart. People pay more attention to Nightwing but I think he’s just as cool.”

Tim fell silent watching the road as he drove. It wasn’t an awkward silence just a comfortable one almost like he was thinking.

“You said I…had a killer physique?” He glanced at you then back at the road.

You kind of cringed at the word choice hearing it from him.

“maybe, why bring it up now?” You gave him a teasing look.

“Nothing…just wanna show you what it can do. If you allow me” he glanced over to you with a mischievous glint in his eye. You felt the car pick up speed, you let out a flustered giggle.

“You’re a mess Tim.”

Damian W.

You were lying on your boyfriend’s bed while he was immersed in his sketchbook. You were scrolling through Twitter when you pass a tweet posted by Gotham’s_Gossip, it was about Robin.

Robin saves civilians from The Riddler only for said civilians to still feel unsafe. A trash title paired with a blurry picture of Robin swinging from rooftops.

Out of curiosity you clicked the post to read to comments and to your surprise they were really mean.

‘Not surprised he’s rude.’

‘Believable. He saved me from a thief than told me I’m an idiot for being out late’

‘Boooo. Never liked him anyways. That can’t be the same robin batman had before, he was such a joy’

‘Lol why is this kinda funny’

You frowned scrolling further down and they all were hate comments.

“What incompetent people, they wouldn’t know a good hero if they smacked them in the face.” you mumbled spam reporting the post.

“What’s the matter?” Damians smooth voice drifted through the room.

You shut your phone off smacking it on the bed, “nothing its just…Gotham is so hard on Robin. He’s doing his best, all heroes don’t have to be all smiles and rainbows. The guy saved your life and you’re complaining? If I were him I’d let them get roughed up a bit before helping.”

Amused Damian’s lips held a slight smile.

“Beloved, why are you so adamant about defending Robin?”

You shrugged sitting up “I dunno, I always liked him I guess.” You whispered the last part hoping Damian didn’t hear but of course he heard.

Now intrigued he closed his sketchbook and sat up from his desk.

“You…like Robin?” He asked voice full of skepticism.

You contemplated on answering that question. Damian has always had a jealousy streak no matter how many times he denied it, you could always tell.

“Well yes” you answered carefully. “He’s very calculated, strong and incredibly smart when it comes to taking down bad guys bigger than him.”

Damians cocked an eyebrow.

“He doesn’t have to be like Superman. Smiling and taking photos, he’s already putting his life on the line to save the city the least they can do is say thank you geez. You don’t see Mary Sue going out at night with her child’s baseball bat beating up criminals do you?”

For some odd reason that got a small chuckle out of Damian. Maybe the thought of a middle aged mom with a bat sitting on rooftops waiting for criminals amused him.

You chuckled too imagining it.

“It is nothing to worry about, my heart. I’m sure those comments do not bother him. He seems very disciplined and couldn’t care less about what those people think.”

You snorted. “Well they should appreciate him more.”

Damian’s expression softened ever so slightly, “You speak as though you know him personally.”

“I don’t.” You quickly defended. “I just think people are unfair. Everyone praises Batman, but Robin is out there doing the same thing. He’s younger too. That has to be difficult, especially juggling his personal life along with being a vigilante.”

For a moment Damian simply stared at you. Difficult? Most people assumed Robin enjoyed the danger, the violence, the endless patrols. Very few stopped to consider the weight that came with the mantle.

“You think highly of him.”

You nodded “Someone has to, plus I think he’s kinda cute ” The answer came so quickly Damian almost choked on air.

You frowned looking at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying not to laugh ” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I am just merely surprised that is all.” Damian leaned back against his chair. “Tell me. What else do you admire about this Robin?”

You groaned immediately. “See? This is why I didn’t want to answer.”

“Answer.” He pressed.

“You’re being weird about it.” You picked up a pillow throwing it at him, but he caught it effortlessly.

“And you are avoiding the question.” You narrowed your eyes before finally relenting.

“Fine. I think he’s brave.” Damian’s teasing expression faltered. “Brave?”

“Yeah. People hate him, criminals want him dead, reporters make fun of him, and he still goes out every night. I’d quit I don’t have time for all of that.”

A strange warmth settled in Damian’s chest. “You would quit?”

“Oh absolutely. Gotham would be on its own, good luck with fighting off alien and psychotic clowns.” That earned a genuine laugh from him.

You blinked shocked, Damian isn’t the type of person who laughs a lot. Especially not at your corny jokes “Wow. You’re really enjoying this conversation huh?”

He shrugged not hiding it, “Perhaps.”

You narrowed your eyes at him suspicious as to why this conversation amused him so much. “Should I be concerned?”

“No.” He simply answered but the smile never left his face.

You pointed accusingly at him. “You know, for someone who claims not to care about Robin, you’re awfully invested in hearing me compliment him.”

Damian nearly gave himself away. “Perhaps I simply have excellent taste in conversation.” With that he turned around opening his sketchbook once again.

You shrugged him off laying back down busying yourself on your phone.

You balled a sheet in your fist, aware for the first time that you were, in fact, in a bedroom. It must’ve been Jason’s apartment, but you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten here. There’d been the fairgrounds, the backseat, but nothing else. You guessed it didn’t really matter what came that. Your life had already ended. The landscape of your purgatory was inconsequential.

Fighting against the soreness, you pulled yourself up. The space was sparsely decorated save for a few cardboard boxes and a corkboard dotted with grainy pictures, but there was a door near the foot of your bed and, more importantly, a window on the other side of the room, made accessible by a plastic, fold-out card table. It took a few steps to remember how to use your legs, but finding the latch was easier, the glass pane sliding upward with only a slight amount of resistance. The opening wasn’t huge, but you could fit your shoulders through, and it opened up into an utterly deserted, utterly desolate alleyway. Judging from the fire escape on the opposite wall, you were a few stories up – four, at least.

The frame bit into your stomach as you leaned out, palms planted on the exposed brick of the exterior wall. Your feet were on the card table, and then, they weren’t – your body hanging unsupported in the air, levitation before free fall. You shut your eyes, but you never quite reached the plummet. An arm was already around your waist, a chest already against your back. You were jerked out of the window and onto the floor unceremoniously, the fall broken only by Dick. Jason was still in the doorway, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Dick, if nothing else, had the decency not to look so surprised.

“Was she trying to…?”

“She was trying to run,” Dick finished, and just like that, Jason’s expression lightened, relief taking the place of abject horror. They really were family, no matter what either of them might’ve said. A few words from his older brother, and what the younger knew to be true was rendered false, replaced with a more palatable reality.

“Can’t let you out of our sight for a second, can we?” He was talking to you now. Great. With an airy grunt, you were lifted off of the floor and deposited back onto Jason’s cot of a bed, your shoulder resting against the metal headboard. Dick knelt in front of you, smiling. That seemed to be his resting expression, as annoying as it was. “Your apartment’s not far from here, right? Don’t tell him I said anything, but B still pays the rent. I think he wants you to have somewhere safe to run off to if you ever decide to leave home.” He paused, laughed. “Not that you’d have a reason to. He’s just worried, like that. Fuck, he’s worried about you right now, even though you’re safe with us.”

Dread coiled in the pit of your stomach. You should’ve begged them to take you back to the mansion, back to Bruce, back to someone who could protect you. You should’ve made a run for the door – fight, kick, scream until you got out and caught a cab to somewhere far, far away. You had to go back, but you couldn’t go back. He could keep you safe, but he was going to kill you.

They were going to kill you.

Your gaze moved to Jason, silent and pleading. He didn’t notice, his own eyes locked on the floor. “Don’t expect much. I’ve been getting the silent treatment since—”

“Since you fucked her.”

Not the word you would’ve used, but you weren’t really in the mood to correct him. Jason set his jaw. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Since that.”

Dick hummed. “Could you step out for a minute? I’m just going to do a quick check-over, make sure nothing’s damaged.”

Immediately, Jason bristled. “I’m not going fucking anywhere. Not if it means leaving you alone with her.”

For the first time that could remember, Dick’s smile faltered. He glanced over his shoulder, resting a hand on your knee in the same motion. “You called me, little wing. Do you want my help or not?”

You watched Jason intently, never once looking away. He played the role of a cornered creature well – shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms only to let them fall to his sides a second later. When he did answer, though, it came a little too easily, a little too painlessly for the act to be believable. You couldn’t believe you’d ever fallen for it, before. “Do what you have to, but I’m staying.”

For a split second, something like hatred flashed across Dick’s expression. It cleared up quickly enough, though.

“Whatever you say.” He shrugged, pushing himself to his feet. “Just don’t move. You’ve already scared the poor thing half to death.”

You were wearing Jason’s jacket. Your shirt had been torn beyond use, and your bra was probably still on the floor of his car – in the same tangled heap as your panties, most likely. Dick eased the zipper down with care, letting the fabric slide off of your shoulders. Skin exposed to cool air, you moved to curl into yourself, but Dick caught you by the arms, holding you in place as his eyes raked over your collarbones, your chest, the string of dark, bruising marks trailing from the base of your throat to your navel. A few were from Bruce, a few from Jason. It was hard to remember which. Apparently, they liked the same spots.

Dick let out a low whistle. Your shorts were next, pulled low on your thighs, allowed to drop to your ankles only after Dick spared a glance in Jason’s direction. He fell onto the mattress next to you, arm wrapped loosely around your waist. His thumb dragged over the bruising, following the path down until he reached your—

“Don’t,” you muttered, hoarsely. “Please.”

“So she can speak,” he laughed, pressing a kiss into your temple. If he’d heard what you said, it was deemed too unimportant to acknowledge – his hand slipping between your thighs. You thought about screaming, but didn’t. You considered trying for the window again, but decided that if they were just going to stop you from toppling over the edge, it wasn’t worth the effort.

What Jason did to you hurt because you hadn’t expected it. It’d been dumb of you not to, sure, but you hadn’t. It hurt because you expected him to be better than that, expected him to care about you more, expected him to be different from the family he took such surface-level pains to distance himself from. When two of Dick’s fingers dragged over your slit, gathering the remnants of slick and cum Jason had left behind, it hurt differently – more of a cold ache than stabbing burn. You’d never liked Dick. Of all the things he could violate, your trust wasn’t on the list. This hurt because you’d known it was going to happen and tried to stop it. This hurt because it meant that you failed.

You didn’t realize you were still staring at Jason until Dick caught your chin, turning your head towards him. “It’s just you and me,” he murmured, circling your clit once, twice before forcing his digits inside of you. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s already gotten his time with you.”

You opened your mouth, but the only thing that escaped was some strangled, alien noise as Dick spread you open. There was another kiss, this one to the corner of your jaw. “You don’t have to say anything – you know I’ll always be here to look out for you, right? It doesn’t matter what kind of—” Calloused pads grinding against the walls of your pussy, his voice low and easy in your ear. “—messes the others make, you’ve got me. Since the first day B asked me to walk you to work. Tim just wants something to point his camera at, and Jason would love anything that smiled at him, but me – I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you.”

Jason grunted. “You’re a dirty fucking liar.”

Dick didn’t seem to notice him, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit. You jerked away from him on reflex, but his free hand shot to the side of your head, drawing you into his side and forcing you to rest your head on his shoulder. Proximity seemed to be his main goal, your body pressed into his at every odd angle, his face buried in your neck and his hand tucked between your all-but shut legs. He reminded you of Bruce, like that – so convinced that everything would be alright if he could just pry open his ribcage and stuff you inside. Or, maybe, Dick was the opposite, desperate to burrow a hole in your flesh and live there. Either way, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving your abused cunt empty, throbbing and confused. Absentmindedly, you glanced towards him, and your mistake was swiftly punished by the feeling of teeth against lips, his mouth against yours as he took you by the waist and dragged you onto his lap. You shook your head with as much strength as you could manage, but again, Dick played oblivious, only groaning into your mouth as he rutted against your hips, grinding into your cunt through the denim of his jeans. Jason raised his voice, barking something unintelligible, but Dick was already fumbling with his fly, already—

The lights cut. There was the sound of shattering glass, a rush of cool air before they clicked on again, flooding the room with brightness.

The first thing you noticed was that Dick was standing – leaving you alone on the cot while he scrambled to his feet, a child dropping the toy he wasn’t supposed to play with. The next thing was Jason, suddenly rigid at the foot of the bed, the remaining color drained from his pale face.

Finally, you twisted towards the window, following both of their eyes. There was a spray of glass and wood on the floor where the pane had been broken away, the frame itself now filled by an amorphous, black shape – identifiable only by the aura of pure, unadulterated rage radiating off of it.

Ah.

You’d been wondering when Bruce would come for you.

~

The drive back to the manor was short, endless, and quiet. Dick and Jason promised to find their own way back, meaning you were alone with Bruce. That was fine. At least, this way, you’d have the mercy of a private death.

For the first leg, he didn’t talk to you at all. He kept spare clothes in one of a thousand bottomless compartments – sweatshirts, drawstring pants, loose-fitting articles that could be handed out to those who’d been forced out of their homes by fire and flood without the chance to dress themselves for Gotham’s bone-deep chill – and you shuffled into something thick and shapeless while he drove. It was only after he’d slipped out of the city and into one of the many darkened, lifeless tunnels that connected his estate to the city that he sighed, let autopilot take over, and turned to you.

“Are you hurt?”

“I think I’m dying.” And then, with a shallow exhale, “I should be fine.”

He pursed his lips, resting a hand on your thigh. Involuntarily, for the first time that you could remember, you flinched away from him, throwing your body against the passenger-side door. Suddenly, it seemed like too much to be trapped in a car, too much to be so close to another person, too much to be searching for a handle and not able to find one and—

“Breathe.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. You sucked in a few staggering breaths until the pulsing in your lungs was manageable and you could think about something other than throwing yourself out of a vehicle going well over ninety miles per hour. Bruce didn’t recoil, but his grip tightened around your thigh – any pretense of affection lost in the wake of his control. “How do you feel?”

“Jason, he—I didn’t want to, but—”

“I know what happened. How do you feel?”

“Bad.” You buried your face in your hands, shaking your head. “And stupid. And so— I knew this was going to happen. I just thought, because the others were so much worse, he wouldn’t be the first to crack. And, god, he practically called me his mom right before it happened. I don’t even think they have a word for that.” You weren’t crying, but you wiped at your eyes before resurfacing. “Are you going to do anything?”

Bruce didn’t respond, not immediately. He’d already taken off his cowl, but he was still wearing the rest of his pitch-black suit – still recognizable as the hero you loved, rather than the man you hated. The scales tilted a little further towards Bruce, though, as he leaned towards you – wrapping an arm around your shoulders and locking you against his chest. You felt him bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. As if there was any way you didn’t reek of someone else’s, by now.

“Jason was missing, and you were gone. For half the night, I had no way of knowing if you were alive or dead.” Warm air fanned over your scalp. “This can’t happen again.”

“Does that mean you’re going to…?”

“We’ll see.”

He held you for the rest of the drive, and you let him. It was only when you pulled into the open, underground chamber he shared with his vigilante hell-spawn that he reluctantly let you go and stepped out. Bracing yourself, you followed shortly after.

You’d only seen their hideout (hideout, because you weren’t going to call it the ‘Batcave’, no matter how many times you were asked to) once, the night Bruce first brought you to the manor. That day, it’d been empty, his kids still keeping a measured distance and Bruce still too wary to let anyone get that close to you. Tonight, though, Stephanie and Tim haunted the outskirts of the sparing ring while Barbara and Harper held court in front of the largest computer you’d ever seen – scrubbing through security camera footage from outside Jason’s apartment. Duke lingered nearby, and spared you an apologetic smile as you came into sight. You weren’t sure how much he knew, but it couldn’t be a lot. The poor kid probably thought you’d been kidnapped, or better yet – actually managed to get away.

Dick and Jason were already here. They kept their distance, tactfully positioned just behind Stephanie and Tim, but you still made sure to keep Bruce between you and them. As if that’d ever done you any good.

Bruce wasn’t so thankful for the space. Raising a hand, he gestured to Dick, already moving towards the elevator. “Nightwing. Upstairs. With me.”

You flinched into yourself. “Bruce, I really—”

“This will only take a few minutes.”

It might’ve been more reassuring if he’d stopped to smile, to squeeze your shoulder, to glance at you at all. Instead, you watched as he and Dick disappeared behind titanium elevator doors, neither of them ever looking back.

The cave suddenly felt a little smaller than it had, a few seconds ago. A little more crowded.

Unsure where to go or what to do, you stayed where you were – arms crossed anxiously over your chest. Your mind drifted back to the car you’d arrived in, to the tunnels that connected you so intimately with Gotham proper, but you weren’t left to your own devices for very long. Behind you, Steph mumbled something to Tim, nudging his side. He cleared his throat before saying something to Jason, nearly too muted to be heard. “So, do you know if we’re good to…?”

“To do what, Drake?”

“You know.” And then, after a beat of silence, “What you did.”

You weren’t facing them, but you didn’t have to be. You could feel the drop in the temperature, the tension in the air. You ducked your head half a second before Jason’s fist barreled into Tim’s check, knocking him to the floor. Jason was on him before he’d even hit the ground.

The others rushed past you – Stephanie’s shocked laugh, Barbara’s raised voice, Harper’s barked threats. You were rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to hear beyond the beating of your own heart and the violent collision of skin against skin. You might’ve stayed there forever, until they killed each other, until someone was kind enough to kill you if it hadn’t been for a feather-light hand wrapping around your wrist, a gentle tug forward. You raised your head and found, surprisingly, Cassandra. Of course. You couldn’t blame yourself for not noticing her before – she tended to keep to the shadows, like that.

“Come on.” Again, she tugged at your wrist, as if it was only natural that you’d follow after her. When you failed to react, she grinned and without making a sound, pulled you into an effortless bridal carry. If you had any faith at all in the idea of safety in numbers, you might’ve screamed, thrashed, done anything to stop her. Right now, though, you just wanted to be alone, and being alone with Cas was about as close as you were going to get.

The elevator was empty by the time she reached it, Dick and Bruce having disappeared into some other part of the manor. You let her carry you to the bedroom you shared with Bruce and, rather unceremoniously, drop you onto the foot of your bed. Whatever she was looking for, it required a lot of touching to find – a palm pressed against your forehead, two fingers underneath your chin, checking your pulse. When she reached for your wrist, you waved her off, not bothering to hide your agitation, your discomfort. There wasn’t a point in playing nice, anymore.

Cassandra wasn’t so downcast. Light on her feet, she fell into a crouch, staring up at you from a little over a few feet away. “Bruce was scared you were hurt. Terrified.” Her smile never wavered. “Should be calming down, now. Jason’s safe – part of the family.”

You dragged your knees into your chest. “That’s what I thought, too.”

She started to shake her head, but didn’t get a chance to spit anything out. The bedroom door swung open and Stephanie barged inside, shutting it again after taking a discreet look down the hall. Her attention shifted to you, next – her smile nearly as bright as Cas’.

“Tim’s getting his ass handed to him.”

“Good. I hope he and Jason tear each other’s throats out.”

“Someone’s grumpy.” She fell onto the mattress next to you, arms crossed behind her head. “Is it just ’cause Jason lost his cool?”

Shrinking into yourself wasn’t enough. You were on your feet in a second, riffling through the contents of a writing desk in another. Cas turned her head, owl-like, and Stephanie rolled onto her side to watch you. “You can be honest with us. Who were you hoping for? Dick? Tim? Me?”

“A mouthful of broken glass.”

“That wasn’t one of your options, sweetheart.” You pulled open a drawer, finding little more than scraps of paper and a few abused pens. You left it open and moved onto a bedside table. “I would’ve gone with Tim. He’s the voyeur type – very hands off.”

Nothing in the bedside table, either. You grabbed the closest corner and pushed as hard as you could, but the damn solid oak only swayed once before falling back into place. Fucking rich people. You couldn’t even take your anger out on their furniture.

“Do you hate us?”

It was Cas, this time, her tone purely curious. You crossed the room to Bruce’s walk-in closet, populated dominantly by the designer suits he’d wear once or twice a month when his socialite reputation forced him to actually show his face in public. He would mention taking you to one of his events, every now and then, kiss your neck and have you try different colognes as he mused how much more bearable the night would be if he had you by his side. It would never actually happen, obviously. Bruce still had reservations about letting you walk through the garden on your own. A crowd of drunk socialites with wandering hands and ulterior motives was never really an option.

“She doesn’t.” Stephanie answered on your behalf. You shoved a hand into one of Bruce’s less frequently worn jackets, then patted down the one hanging behind it. “She’s just a little tense, that’s all. It took us all a little while to come around to family life.”

Jackpot. You felt something hollow and cylindrical through an interior pocket – a pill bottle, the contents untouched and the dosage strong. You could remember Bruce mentioning it months ago, something about staging a scandal to push a story about Batman out of the news cycle. You scanned over the label just thoroughly enough to catch the words ‘anti-anxiety’ and ‘sedative’ before pulling the container into your sleeve, letting it settle against your wrist. Whatever it was, you’d make it work.

You spun on your heels and immediately went still. There hadn’t been any footsteps, any voices, any shift in the lighting, and yet, when you turned around, Cassandra was looming above you, caging you against the wall. If she’d noticed the bottle, she didn’t seem to think anything of it. Her attention was on you – just you,dark eyes prying into the very core of your being. You spared a glance towards the doorway, now occupied by Stephanie. “Go on,” she encouraged, her gaze just as cutting. “Tell (Y/n) what you told me.”

“I’ve never had a mom, before.” She edged closer, and you moved away – your back pressing into the bar. “It’s fun.”

It was annoying. They were annoying –so fast, and so strong, and so willing to ignore your attempts to dart around her as she cupped your face and smashed her mouth into yours. Neither Bruce nor his sons had ever been the embodiment of gentleness, but Cassandra was uniquely rough around the edges, uniquely oblivious to how easily her lips bruised yours. You remembered someone mentioning that her first kiss was with one of the Supers, which made sense. She never seemed to consider that her partner may not be invincible.

Her attention span gave out before your panic-induced paralysis. You felt her teeth against the corner of your jaw, then your neck, her face eventually finding a home in the crook of your neck. Scarred hands drifted under the back of your jacket, pressing into the column of your spine, and then there were more – another pair on your shoulders, Stephanie’s voice in your ear. “I think I’ll have to wait a while longer. In-law rules – we laid them out while you were gone.” Cassandra bit into the base of your throat hard. You could feel her tongue moving over your skin as Stephanie went on. “You don’t mind if I hang around for this, though, right?”

Stephanie giggled, Cassandra’s teeth broke fresh skin, and then, you were on the floor, back slumped against the wall, staring up at Bruce as he held Cassandra by the shirt collar, having forcefully pulled her away from you. She could get away if she wanted to, lash out if she wanted to, but she didn’t seem angry, or surprised, just alert to the abrupt change in dynamic. Stephanie was crouched next to you, still smiling. After making sure you hadn’t blacked out, she pushed herself to her feet, patting Bruce’s shoulder. “Just keeping things warm for you, B.”

She made her exit hastily, despite her bravado. Bruce watched her leave before letting go of Cas. “Find the others.”

Blunt. Neat. Direct. Even that was more than she needed, really. Cassandra nodded once, then she was gone, leaving you and Bruce alone.

You wanted to yell at him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. You might’ve, too – raised your voice, scrambled to your feet, seen how far you could make it through the labyrinthine halls of his manor before you were caught by another set of groping hands and gnashing teeth, but all fantasies of such explicit5 resistance abandoned you the second you actually looked at him. He didn’t look cold, or irritated, or any of the awful, selfish things that would’ve made him an appropriate pincushion for the jagged needles of your anger. He looked tired.

And you were tired, too.

He held out a hand, trying to help you up. You stared at it for a second, then another, before finding your voice.

“Please don’t touch me.”

The weariness knit into his expression darkened. Sighing, he leaned forward and took you by the wrist, dragging you upright. As you stumbled onto your feet, your chest ached and the pill bottle burnt into your arm.

You walked ahead of him, back into the bedroom proper. He was still in-uniform, but the armor was slowly falling away – the gloves, the belt, then enough little, disparate parts to leave him more Bruce than Batman in front of you. Eventually, he closed what little distance there was between you. A hand on your hip, another cupping your cheek. He kissed you delicately, as if he suddenly felt the need to pretend you were made of glass. As if you couldn’t still feel the blood and saliva dripping down your chest.

Your borrowed clothes were discarded quickly enough, thrown into some shadowed corner where he wouldn’t have to think about them until morning. Your body was posed on the edge of the mattress, where he could kneel in front of you as he fucked his tongue into your cunt and sucked on your clit – a believer worshiping their idol to absolve themselves of sin. You considered telling him to stop, trying to relish that new freedom. Maybe you did. Like everything else you did, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference.

“I think they’re…” He trailed off, pushing a lingering kiss into the inside of your thigh. “I think they’re confused. Disoriented. Dick says he’s in love with you – has been since before I brought you home. Jason thinks you’ve shown some kind of preference for him.”

He usually liked to be on top, favored positions that let him fold your knees against your chest or force you to look into his eyes. Somehow, tonight, you found yourself in his lap, head resting against his chest and thighs straddling his as he guided your hips slowly, carefully. “They’re all so young. It’s not an excuse, but it can’t help.”

“Dick and I are only a year apart,” you muttered, absentmindedly. “We could’ve been in the same class.”

Bruce didn’t respond. There was another kiss, this one pressed into your forehead, and a soft groan as he rolled his hips against yours.

He came inside of you. He usually did, but still. Salt in the wound and all.

When it was over, you let him hold you, counting out the seconds. When you reached a number that felt appropriately innocuous, you squirmed and asked if you could use the bathroom.

Bruce sat up immediately. “I’ll run a bath. There’s a new bottle of vintage downstairs if you—”

“Later.” You smiled, going slack against him before picking yourself up. “Honestly, I think I just need to be alone for a minute. To put things together.”

He hesitated, but not for very long. You could feel his eyes following you as you flitted through the room, picking up a few odds and ends – a hairbrush, one of Bruce’s shirts, your discarded clothes – before slipping into the en-suite, locking the door, and dropping everything save for the little, orange pill bottle.

You got the shower running and stood in front of the sink, fiddling with the child-proof cap. In place of doubt, you felt resignation – pure, neutral awareness of what needed to be done and how to go about doing it. Any hesitation was only reflex, born of some base animal desire not to do harm to oneself. You didn’t like pain, but you’d had a win condition, a clear line between what you would tolerate and what you wouldn’t. You didn’t want to do this, but you didn’t want to find out what was on the other side of that line, either.

The pills tasted bitter. They left a layer of chalk on your tongue, a knot the size of your fist in your throat, but you did your best to wash it down. Tossing the now-empty bottle in the sink, you laid on the tiled floor, pulled your knees into your chest, and waited.

~

You woke up crying.

Not out loud, and not for any reason you could remember, but still – crying. Dried tears formed stiff tracks down your cheeks, saliva wetting the corners of your lips. The inside of your mouth tasted sour, acidic, like you’d thrown up recently. You weren’t sure whether or not you should’ve been surprised by that.

You weren’t in the manor. The ceiling was too low, too white, your surroundings distinctly unrecognizable despite the haze over your vision. You glanced down and found your own body in a similarly alien state. You were wearing a hospital gown, with a small collection of monitors and needles attached to your left arm. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, groaning internally. Somehow, you’d managed to screw up this, too.

You tried to sit up, but only succeeded in sinking further into the paper-thin mattress. Nothing hurt, but your body was beyond your control, still rebelling after your brain’s mutiny. With some effort, you managed to turn your head far enough to see a window, half-expecting to find the Wayne Manor courtyard outside. Instead, Gotham’s skyline stretched on as far as the eye could see – a collection of misshapen skyscrapers and sparkling city lights fighting against the early morning fog. That, if nothing else, caught you off-guard. You’d assumed that Bruce would rather watch you die than trust anyone else to take care of you.

Not that he’d ever let you out of his sight. You felt a weight settle onto the edge of your cot, heard someone let out a deep breath. You didn’t have to guess who it was.

“You took me to a hospital.”

“You didn’t leave us much of a choice.” Us. You wondered who got the privilege of carrying your body out to the ambulance, if there’d even been one. You wouldn’t put it past Bruce to rush into the emergency center, your limp form slung over his shoulder, playing the good Samaritan as he rattled off some story about finding you unconscious in an alleyway or unattended in the back of a club. Anything to keep his family’s public image under control. “You put yourself in danger.”

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

 His thin-lipped scowl deepened. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” This time, when you tried to sit up, Bruce was there to help you – one hand on your back and the other on your shoulder as he guided you into a more respectable position. You might’ve flashed him a smile by way of gratitude, if you’d been feeling more thankful. “You knew what I was afraid of, Bruce. You must’ve been able to guess what I’d do in a worst-case scenario.”

“You never came to me about this. You never told me the kids were—”

“I did.” Your voice was muted, strained, but he went quiet as soon as you opened your mouth. He wanted a martyr, not a fight. “Please, don’t pretend this is my fault.”

For once, he seemed to listen to you. Nodding, he drew in a long breath, his expression callousing over into something rational, something beyond emotion. “It would be short-sighted to leave you unattended. During your recovery, especially.” Recovery, like you’d broken a limb. You stifled a laugh as he went on. “As the manor would present too many unknown variables, I’ve found a safe house in the city. It should be ready by the time you’re released.

A penthouse in the city. Just like you’d always wanted. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. This isn’t a game.” He drummed his fingers against the over-starched sheets, wrinkling them. “The others have been generous enough to divide their patrols. They’ll be able to monitor when I can’t be there.”

Your heart dropped. “Bruce.”

“They’re as concerned for your safety as I am.”

“Bruce.”

“That’s enough.”

“It’ll kill me. They’ll kill me.”

“They’re trying to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.” At least he had the decency to sound like he believed it. “They care about you.”

You felt something rise into the back of your throat – sick and acidic and gnashing. You opened your mouth to scream, to cry, to argue, but nothing came out, your desolation silent in its totality. Bruce only sighed, resting his hand on your thigh. A small smile came to rest across his lips – exhausted, but still terrible in its sincerity.

Calling them kids might’ve been too generous, actually. Only Damian and Duke were younger than eighteen, and as far as you were concerned, they were your saving graces – Duke for meeting the bare minimum requirements for human decency and Damian for adamantly denying you were anything but an unwanted burden on his father. The rest were more-or-less adults, as little as you wanted to acknowledge the nonexistent age-gap between you and your gaggle of stepchildren. They were grown. They should’ve known better.

Tim, for example. He had to be… what? Nineteen? It wasn’t the pinnacle of maturity, sure, but he should’ve known you’d be able to hear your own sheets rustling through the bedroom door, should’ve assumed that you’d know he’d know Bruce would be out on patrol until sunrise. He should’ve known to wait until you were in another wing of the sprawling Wayne estate, somewhere far away from the master bedroom, or better yet, skipped rummaging through your things entirely. You knew better than to dream, though.

The door was still shut, but what was happening behind it and who was responsible were both foregone conclusions.  It was Tim, because of course it was Tim, and he going through your meager possessions, because what else would he wait until Bruce was gone to do? Cringing, you rested your shoulder against the steady wood and knocked gingerly. “…Drake? Are you in there?”

Immediately, the rustling stopped. You went on. “I think Bruce is out, if you need him. Is there something you’re trying to find?”

It was a good out. An easy out. Thankfully, he was smart enough to take the bait. A few seconds later, the door cracked, a disheveled Tim emerging with a dark blush spread over his pale cheeks and his hands shoved conspicuously deep into the pockets of his hoodie. It was a struggle not to roll your eyes. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d come out with his dick still in his hand.

Your cheeks ached as you put on your dozenth unstrained, unworried, everything’s-fine-because-why-wouldn’t-it-be smile of the day and moved aside to let him out. “I’ll let him know you were looking for him when he gets home,” you assured, like you couldn’t see the way his bright eyes were fixed to the carpeting. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help. You all are just so heroic – it’s still a little hard to believe I’m a part of this at all.”

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, and you pretended not to hear him, cocking your head to the side. When he corrected himself, his voice was a bit louder, a bit clearer. “Don’t worry, I… I found what I was looking for. You don’t have to bother Bruce.”

“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’s so proud of you and your siblings, after all – it’s practically all he talks about.” A lie, but a fair one to tell. There was no reason Tim should have to know Bruce spent the majority of your time alone with his teeth buried somewhere in your neck, muttering paranoid fantasies about how many different ways you could be killed, mutilated, or otherwise indisposed by the members of his rouges gallery. “Honestly, sometimes, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve been here for years, rather than just a couple of months.”

You only realized your mistake when those bright eyes shot to you, suddenly wide and blown out with desperation. A hand darted towards you, and you stumbled out of the way, but not quickly enough to avoid Tim’s vice-grip on your forearm, to spare yourself the feeling of something cold and wet sinking into your sleeve. “You’re leaving?” The words seemed to slur together, spilling out too quickly to be restrained or refined. “You can’t leave. Bruce won’t be able to handle it, and Steph, she’ll—I mean, security-wise, we won’t be able to make sure you’re—”

Internally, you were keeping up a steady mantra of ‘Thisissogrossthisissogrossthisissogross.’

Externally, by some miracle, your smile never wavered, only growing sweeter as you cut him off with a chirping laugh. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, and then, after a slight lapse, “Would you mind letting go of me? It’s—uh, it’s kind of starting to hurt.”

As if on a switch, he let go of you entirely, pulling away as abruptly as he lashed out. There was a mumbled ‘I’m sorry’, and he made a swift retreat, disappearing around the next corner before you could so much as think about bringing up Bruce, again. You watched him go, only letting your expression fall once you were sure he was out of sight.

Without further caution, you slipped into your bedroom, glazing over the mess of pulled-out drawers, overturned clothes and scattered dirty laundry in favor of falling into bed, rolling onto your chest, and screaming into your pillow as loudly and for as long as your lungs would allow.

~

You tried your best never to be alone. It was a little draining, to be honest – having to keep a running chart in the back of your mind of who you could trust and who you couldn’t, constantly trying to guess whether it’d be safer to be alone with someone or if you were better off taking your chances on your own – but you’d learned your lesson the first time you’d fallen asleep in the Wayne’s at-home movie theater and woken up to Cassandra spread over you like a human weighted blanket, staring unblinkingly at your face and playing half-consciously with your hair. You tried not to leave yourself unguarded, after that.

Alfred was your first choice, Barbra your second, with Bruce as a distant third. Sometimes, you could get away with loitering near Damian (something you hated nearly as much as he did – you could only stand to be addressed as his father’s “jezebel lover” so many times), but Bruce was at one of Damian’s school events, leaving them both conveniently unavailable, and Alfred would be locked inside of his underground shooting range for another hour and a half, an activity you knew better than to interrupt. Meaning, you were on your own.

Meaning, you’d picked a very bad time to need something to drink.

The kitchen was deathly quiet, but you still made an effort to keep your head on a swivel as you made your way carefully to a corner cabinet, like stepping on the wrong tile would trigger a pit trap, or a flurry of arrows, or one of another million terrible things you hadn’t thought were possible before Bruce dedicated himself so entirely to proving you wrong. Mentally, you reviewed your haphazardly assembled schedule as you fumbled with the wood paneling and reached for a mug from the highest shelf. Tim was definitely out, touring local colleges on Bruce’s behest, Steph was supposed to be in class, and Dick—

Your fingertips made contact with cool ceramic half a second before another, larger palm wrapped around yours, a broad chest pressing into your back as your mug was stolen out of your hand. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

And Dick was on bed rest with three broken ribs. Right. Of course.

You really shouldn’t have bothered leaving your room at all. Suddenly, dehydration didn’t sound like such a bad way to go.

“Let me get that, baby bird.” You cringed at the petname, but nodded, letting Dick confiscate your mug and with it, your ability to make a swift exit from a conversation you’d rather not have. “Green tea, right? I know it’s your favorite.”

“On the mark as always, Dick.” There was just enough enthusiasm in your voice to overshadow the despair. You waited until you heard the muted click of an electric kettle before turning around and settling against the counter. “I wish you wouldn’t dote on me, though. I already feel useless enough as it is.”

“Don’t sweat it, I’ve been going stir-crazy all week.” He flashed you a quick smile – toothy and beaming – before pulling open the silverware drawer and rummaging through it, like Alfred would keep his teabags with his cutlery. He was topless, wearing the same pair of black sweatpants he must’ve slept in. He didn’t plan to go out, clearly, and it wasn’t like you had much of an alternative. “This is just the basics, too. For a while there, I had your breakfast, lunch, and midnight snack preferences memorized.”

You forced yourself to smile, albeit, not as brightly as him. “…did you, now?”

“Mhm. B had us running in-person surveillance before he finally bit the bullet and brought you home, and—” He cut himself off with a sudden laugh, shaking his head. “And, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part. Oops.”

Mercifully, the kettle whistled before you could start to consider the implications, and you reached behind you, fishing two bags out of a teacup-shaped jar. It was easy enough to edge him out of the way, but not having to worry about pretending he’d ever made himself a cup of tea meant he could devote more of his energy to talking, so you still managed to lose, in the end. “He’s stingier with the surveillance footage, now. I’ve never seen him so jealous.”

“He can definitely be a little overprotective.”

You tried to keep your tone even, polite, but Dick was like his siblings – quick to action and slow to take a hint. A hand curled around the counter next to you, and you dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into the darkening water. “It’s just us in the manor, right?”

Another spoonful, just to be safe. “I think Alfred is—”

“Out for the day. Wayne Enterprise emergency – I let him know as soon as he finished down in the range.” In your peripheral, you watched his other hand come to rest on your opposite side, caging you in. “I wouldn’t mind the company, if you were starting to get lonely.”

Another spoonful. It’d be too sweet to drink, but anything not to have to look at him. “I’m afraid wouldn’t be a lot of fun, Grayson. Honestly, I was just planning on getting a little sle—”

“That’s perfect,” he cut in, too eager to wait his turn. “I’m a great cuddler.”

You curled your hand around your mug, hoping the warmth would be enough to ground you. Instead, it only burnt your palm, and for a second, you could imagine a world where your teeth weren’t buried in the plush of your cheek, where you didn’t have to remind yourself that turning around and splashing boiling-hot water on an all-but superhero’s face wasn’t a good idea. For a second, you genuinely considered it.

And then, a sound not totally dissimilar to thunder filled the kitchen; loud enough to leave your ears ringing and your adrenaline spiked. You flinched into yourself, but it only took a moment for fear to shift to relief as you noticed the bullet lodged into the wood less than an inch from your head. Your expression lit up just as Dick’s fell.

Without waiting for him to let you go, you slipped away – sprinting across the kitchen and throwing yourself into Jason’s – brave, bold, beautiful Jason – chest. He caught you one hand and finished re-holstering his handgun with the other, laughing as you hugged him as tightly as you could manage. Dick huffed, playful offense failing to mask real agitation, and you felt Jason brace against you. “Jerk off and shut the fuck up, Oedipus.”

Dick’s smile turned uneasy. “It’s good to see you too, man.”

“I didn’t come here for you,” he snapped, as short-tempered with his siblings as you wished you could be. He looked down, holding you that much tighter. “How’s my best girl holding up?”

“I’m just fine, Jason. I do think we have to have a talk about how you treat your brother, though.” You glanced over your shoulder to Dick. “A little privacy? You really ought to be staying off your feet, too.”

Reluctantly, Dick slinked out of the kitchen, hesitant to go but eager to nurse his wounds. You only went on once you were sure he was gone.

“It’s been awful. I found another hidden camera in my bedroom, and I think Tim’s tapping my—”

“I’ll do a sweep.”

He let you go, but you caught his arm. “Please, I know it’s important, but—” You cut yourself off, swallowing. It was irrational – the way you let your guard down so quickly around Jason. The mask never slipped around anyone else, whether you were afraid of them or they were one of your rare, precious exceptions. Jason existed outside of the Wayne family, though, outside of Bruce’s corrupting influence. He wasn’t going to hurt you. More importantly, he wasn’t going to let anyone else hurt you, either.

“But I really don’t want to think about that, right now,” you finished. “Just… just for a little while, alright? I don’t want to constantly feel like I’m walking on eggshells, at least not while you’re here.”

Jason stood strong for all of three seconds. With the fourth, he sighed, buckled, and shook his head, his exasperation brimming with affection. “How long until Bruce gets home?”

“Six more hours. He’s not due to check-in for another three.”

“I’ve got my bike out front. How do you think he’d feel about a joy ride?”

And just like that, you lit up. “It’d give him a heart attack.”

Jason pulled you close, kissing the top of your head.

“Perfect.”

~

Unfortunately, Jason’s visits were few and far between. You had to find ways of fending for yourself, in the downtime.

“I miss the city.”

Bruce glanced over his shoulder, gaze flickering over you before returning to the buttons of his dress-shirt. You sunk that much deeper into the mess of sheets and pillows, taking some small amount of solace in the way the cool silk felt against your warm skin.

(Sex wasn’t something Bruce came to you for often, but when he did, you gave it to him willingly, albeit with no more enthusiasm than was absolutely necessary. You rarely enjoyed it and always regretted everything you did or said during the act, but it was better than the alternative. Part of you trusted him, trusted Batman, enough to believe that he’d take your refusal for what it was, that you wouldn’t have to say anything more than ‘no’. The remaining overwhelming majority was able to look around you, to remember the way he’d held you down as he forced a needle stocked with medical-grade sedatives into your throat, and recognize that your opinion probably didn’t mean very much to him. Still, you couldn’t let things get that bad. Even if you had to surrender every other facet of your being, you couldn’t let things get that bad.)

“You hated the city. You said your landlord was a tyrant and that even the criminals were living paycheck-to-paycheck.” And then, after a second of thought, “And that there were more rats in Gotham than people.”

“Well, he was, they are, and you know I love animals.” You pushed yourself up, keeping a sheet bunched against your chest as you slumped against the headboard. “I was tired and overworked – you could see that. But, things would be different if I was staying with, say, my wealthy trillionaire boyfriend in one of the penthouse apartments that I know he has because his youngest son got in trouble for bragging about them in school last week?”

Bringing up his kids was a dirty tactic – the fastest way to get Bruce’s undivided attention. This time, when his eyes shifted in your direction, they stayed there, and he made his way back to your side of the bed. He collapsed next to you and, with no resistance on your end, pulled you into his lap. He didn’t seem to care whether or not his immaculately tailored, freshly pressed suit was creased in the process, but you did your best not to squirm. “You want to leave the manor?”

The first half of a frown tugged at the corner of your lips. “That’s not what I—”

“Elevated pulse, avoidant eye-contact,” he muttered. “Something’s bothering you.”

It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t wrong, either, but still. You would’ve preferred to be asked.

“…it’s your family,” you admitted, feigning guilt. “They’re all—” Horny, depressed, creepy little orphans. “—great kids, but it’s just been so much so quickly, and I think it… I think it might’ve been too much too quickly. For them and for me.”

“They adore you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Dick was close to moving back in when I decided it was too dangerous to leave you to your own devices.”

You melted into his chest, sighing. Reflexively, he curled around you – a good thing, if a bit claustrophobic. Bruce liked feeling like a shield between you and harm, between you and the world he couldn’t control. Hopefully, eventually, he’d realize he had more to shield you from than greedy landlords and villains who always seemed to be just out of sight. “It’s not that easy. It’s just been such a rocky adjustment period, and…” You curled your hand around his wrist and squeezed, hoping the force would be enough to communicate what you couldn’t put a word to. “I’m really afraid something bad might happen, Bruce.”

For a moment, he seemed to consider it. There was a kiss to your shoulder, solemn and lingering, then another to your cheek, more fleeting. “I’ll talk to them. They’ll give you space, if they’re told to.”

If he told them to. You doubted you held much authority, here. “And the apartment in the city? On the highest floor, tall enough to see from Gotham to New York?”

Bruce smiled, and your heart soared.

Then, he started talking, and it crashed back down, dying upon impact. “Once I know it’s safe for you, sweetheart.”

There was another kiss, this one to the nape of your neck, then another, lower down on your spine. A calloused hand slipped underneath the sheet still hugged against your chest, and you allowed it to.

Honestly, it would’ve been kinder if he’d cut you into pieces and fed you to the wolves himself.

~

You made a run for it as soon as the arguing started.

Arguing, not yelling – the distinction was minor, but significant. Yelling would’ve meant an injury, or a mission gone wrong, or something else that signaled a sudden complication that couldn’t be smoothed over with sugar-sweet sentimentality or orders issues with an ice-cold strictness. Yelling would’ve meant Bruce didn’t mind letting you overhear, which usually meant you didn’t need to be involved. Arguing, all hushed whispers and hissed explanations and vague warnings, was different. Arguing meant, more often than not, that they were arguing about you.

It was Tim’s fault, as far as you could tell. Barbara had been the one to find the conspicuously encrypted file on one of Dick’s civilian devices, the one to mention it to Stephanie as a point of concern who went to Tim within the hour, but it was still his fault. He’d gotten Bruce involved, let his need for approval tip the tenuously balanced scales that kept his family whole and you safe. He’d talked them all into waiting until Dick was close enough to confront in-person, stopping by for his weekly equipment pick-up and check-in. He was the reason you’d gotten close enough to hear something about ‘pictures’ and ‘inappropriate use of reconnaissance material’ before fleeing to the mansion’s foyer – the only part of the house you could be sure wasn’t occupied. If you were lucky, you’d only be there for half an hour or so, enough time for them to compromise on some non-solution and return to your carefully maintained status quo. If you weren’t, you’d spend the early hours of the morning—

Something small but forceful hit the nearest window, shortly followed by another projectile, then another. The glass was too thick and the world outside too dark to make anything out, but you didn’t need to see anything to know who’d come to your rescue.

Jason.

You rushed to the door, then hesitated. Jason would only get a slap on the wrist for luring you out of the estate, and Bruce could never bring himself to be that strict with you, but now might’ve been a bad time. Tensions were already running high. Your little disappearing act wouldn’t—

A sudden rush of footsteps clattering through the ceiling from the floor above you, hushed voices raised just to the point of audibility. None of it was entirely coherent, but Dick’s came the closest. You managed to make out a half-choked “If you’d just let me—” before someone cut him off.

With your better judgement reduced to buzzing static, you pried open the closer of a pair of huge, mahogany doors and slipped out of the estate entirely.

Of course, Jason was waiting outside, a small stock of pebbles still in his left hand and, of course, you threw yourself at him, letting him catch and spin you twice before setting you back onto your feet with an airy laugh. A pitch-black sports car was waiting at the end of the driveway, the engine purring loudly enough to drown the rest of the world out. “Rough night?”

“You have no fucking idea,” you muttered, breathless. “I don’t care where we go, just get me out of here.”

There was a reason Jason was your favorite. There was no argument, no prying, just his arm around your waist as he herded you into the passenger seat. Fifteen minutes and a little over fifty miles later, the mansion was little more than a dull glow on the horizon, and you could pretend you’d stopped thinking about Bruce entirely.

There was no effort to make conversation, as bad as you felt about pulling Jason into your prolonged tryst with self-pity. Instead, you sunk into the leather of his seat and fixed your gaze on the passing landscape, clinging to any detail you were able to latch onto as it flew by. It was possible, between the subways and boarded-over windows and perpetually overcast skies, to go days without seeing the sun in Gotham. Still, your life had felt brighter there than it ever did in Bruce’s estate.

Jason turned down a road you didn’t recognize, and you managed to find your voice. “Are we going into the city?”

“Even better.” He flashed you a smile, the engine purring as he accelerated. “You’ll like it, I promise. Just sit tight.”

As if you had much of a choice.

Road gave way to forest, forest to empty plains, and empty plains to the dilapidated remains of what you could only label as a long-abandoned amusement park – like Disney World if there’d been some terrible, possibly nuclear accident followed by twenty or so years of absolute neglect. Jason’s car glided past the rusted remains of an iron gate, past the corpses of rides buckled under their own weight, and came to a stop in front of a paint-stripped merry-go-round almost entirely sheeted be vines and weeds and overgrowth. You let out a low whistle as he threw the gear shift into park and, for the first time in any vehicle you’d ever shared with him, pulled his keys out of the ignition. He’d always left the engine running while visiting the mansion, but then again, you’d always been pretty eager to make a hasty escape, too.

“I love it, Jason. I’ve always wanted to get tetanus from a broken down carnival.”

“A fair, actually,” he corrected, slipping his keys into his jacket pocket. Like he expected you to try and steal them while his back was turned, or something. “My parents used to take me here, before I met B. There weren’t a lot of Ferris wheels after that.”

There was a short lapse, the sound of lips moving against teeth. You made the mistake of humming, of glancing over to him, of leaving yourself open for another question, and Jason, as nice as he was, was more than happy to take advantage of you. “So, when did you and B start…”

He trailed off, drumming his fingers against the wheel. You filled in the rest with a breathy chuckle. “When did I start sleeping with your dad?”

He jabbed an elbow into your side. “First of all, you can admit you’re fucking him or call him my dad, but you’ve gotta pick one.” You opened your mouth, already ready to spit out some dumb joke about what Bruce would’ve preferred to be called, but Jason cut in, sniping your stupid joke out of the air. “Secondly, answer the question. I get enough of your diversions back at home.”

“Being a buzzkill must run in family,” you sighed, but gave in quickly enough. “It happened once before the whole kidnapping thing, when he was staying at my apartment and sleeping off a broken leg. I hadn’t even seen him without his mask on at that point, but I figured it was a sign – destiny, or something.” You did your best to smile, slumping against the door. “It was dumb. He gave me a couple weeks after bringing me to the estate, mostly because of the crying and stuff, but things started up again pretty quickly.”

“Do you… like it?”

“Do you like asking about your dad’s sex life?” He flinched back, and laughing, you went on. “I guess I don’t care. There’s not a lot else to do.” You swallowed. “Would it matter if I didn’t?”

For someone with so many questions, he didn’t leave a lot of time for yours, the hypocrite. Moving on swiftly, he asked, “And the others, have they…?”

“No.” And then, after a beat, “Not yet.”

He seemed to relax, at that. His back was still straight, his shoulders still squared, but his grip on the wheel loosened, his jaw unclenching ever so slightly. You tried the handle – locked. Obviously. As if you’d ever get that lucky.

His voice was soft, sweet. The kind of tone you’d use on a child, or an animal, or a doll. “This would probably be easier in the backseat, right?”

“Let me out.”

“So you can go where,baby? It’s just us out here.” He laughed, resting a hand on your thigh. You slammed your shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge. “Hey, hey, this doesn’t need to get rough. I’m not going to be like Dick. The others – they’ll do it wrong, treat you like a cut of meat they have to get to before anybody else. I just need to make sure you get out of this in one piece.”

Nails embedded in leather, body crammed as far from him as you could force it be. You weren’t hyperventilating, but only because you’d stopped breathing entirely. “Let me out, Jason.”

“I love the way you say my name. It’s pretty, and delicate – just like you.” He sighed, shook his head. “I know you don’t get it, but I’m just trying to take care of you, like you’ve been taking care of me for the past few—”

“Stop acting like I’m your mom.” A sob fractured the final syllable, another bubbling up from deep in your chest a moment later. Your body was beyond the point of rationality, but the soft, preservational part of your mind wasn’t so beyond the point of seeking refuge. There was a way out of this, as ghoulish as it seemed. You couldn’t stop it from happening, but you could make it better. You’d regret it in an hour, when it came time to explain yourself to Bruce, but what happened in an hour didn’t matter, not if you couldn’t survive the next few minutes.

You might’ve done it, too – or, you might’ve tried, at least. You wanted to. You planned to. And yet, when you opened your mouth, there was only one thing you could seem to say. “I don’t want to do this, Jason.”

His nails bit into your thigh, his smile easing at the corners. For a second, you almost thought he’d pull away. For a second, you almost thought he’d sigh, straighten back up, and admit this was all part of some cruel, unfunny joke that the two of you would remember fondly, later on.

Then, he laughed and leaned forward, lips brushing against the top of your head. You felt him speak before you heard his voice, but the cloying reverberation alone was enough to tell you that you would’ve been better off never saying anything at all.