Mitsuki

You clenched your teeth, fighting the urge to swear. It was that kind of thinking — petty, avoidant, conflict-adverse — that had led to this, that had kept you as distant from the Waynes now as you had been when Bruce first adopted you. It was awful, really. Even in a family of black sheep, you were still somehow an out—

“(Y/n).”

The sound of your own name barked in Bruce’s low monotone dragged you from your spiraling thoughts. Right. The second part of this daily ritual. At breakfast, Bruce would go around the table, asking for updates on his wards’ lives with all the love and all the care of an army general demanding status reports from his ground troops. You must’ve missed Dick’s turn. That was probably for the best. You didn’t need his latest modeling gig or shiny new girlfriend distracting you during what came next.

“…I got accepted into the program I applied for,” you explained into your lap. “For my post-grad. It starts in fall.”

Dick laughed and patted you hard too-hard on the back. You had to catch yourself on the edge of the table. “Good job, kid. I remember— you mentioned that a couple months ago, right?”

You hadn’t, but you nodded anyway. Bruce hummed.

“Congratulations. Gotham University—”

“It’s not in Gotham,” you said, too hastily. That might’ve been the first time you’d ever interrupted Bruce. “I… I thought it might be nice to try something a little farther from home. You know how it is.”

Bruce, for what it was worth, did not know. He loathed Dick’s apartment in Bludhaven, hated the winters Damian spent with his mother. You’d hoped that staying at home during your undergrad years might endear you to him. In reality, he’d continued to treat you with the same frigid apathy and what embers of a social life you might’ve had in the city proper had been smothered by the distance. It didn’t help that Jason — the only other person who didn’t seem to intrinsically belong in Bruce’s pack, the only person who spared you a second glance at all — had bolted the minute he turned eighteen. For the past four years, you’d been a ghost haunting a house that wasn’t your home. For the past four years, you’d been huddled in the corner of the pack’s den, left to shiver while the rest of your family huddled for warmth.

This time, when Bruce spoke, you were giddy to cut him off.

“Metropolis is a long commute, but I’m sure you’ll—”

“It’s Gateway, actually. In California.” Finally, the glaze over his grey eyes fell away and you knew that you had his full attention. You had to bite your cheek to keep from smiling. “I leave next month.”

You could feel Bruce’s gaze burning into you. Dick’s, too. You’d never been happier. “Oh. Housing might be difficult to arrange on such short notice.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. There’s this grant, and—” And you were the legal ward of the man with the fattest trust funds on the east coast. This felt too obvious to warrant mentioning aloud and so you broke off into a breath of a laugh. “It’s all taken care of. Even the flight.”

First class on a luxury airline. With no return trip in sight, of course.

A wrinkle formed at the corner of Bruce’s lips. Not quite a frown, but not quite his usual icy stoicism, either. “I’m sure you can understand why this would feel rather sudden.”

You made a show of nodding, simpering. “I know, but—” You paused, shrugged. “I figured it was about time for me to spread my wings. That’s what alphas are supposed to do, right? Especially ones without a pack.”

Something flashed across his expression. Your lack of claim was a sore spot. The rest of your siblings had gotten their pack mark — a ring of Bruce’s teeth dug into the underside of their wrists — as soon as they turned eighteen. But here you were, four years into adulthood with no scars to show for it.

But if Bruce was ever going to care, the announcement of your upcoming departure would have been an odd time to start. The phantom of emotion passed — there and gone within the second. Wordlessly, he nodded to Tim, silently signaling that your conversation had come to an end.

You took no small amount of satisfaction in the fact that, even as Tim began to prattle on about his newest business venture, Bruce’s eyes remained on you.

~

In your worst moments, you believed that Bruce gave you such a terrible bedroom on purpose.

You’d been ecstatic the first time you opened the door. Young, hungry, and freshly orphaned, you hadn’t stood a chance against the manor’s silk sheets and wrought-iron terraces and huge crystal-clear windows. You’d spent weeks luxuriating in the extravagance of it all, mistaking Bruce’s wealth for paternal affection. Two months passed before you realized the flaw in the design. You had to walk down four hallways, down three flights of stairs, and past two much more interesting turn-offs to reach your bedroom. No one had a reason to wander so far, not unless they were looking for you. And, of course, no one would ever think to look for you.

You were used to the isolation. You’d come to expect it. Which might’ve been why it was so distressing to wake up smothered in Dick’s heady scent.

Mint and pine and arctic chill — like a bad flavor of gum. You recognized it automatically, but it took you another long moment to process the dead weight crushing you from above, the jagged pressure of his arm wrapped too tightly around your waist. Your eyes flashed open to find his body draped over yours, his head buried in the crook of your neck. Your dormant instincts flared to life, screaming for space, for security, for dominance. You shoved him away and retreated to the far side of the mattress, wrapping the comforter around yourself. Dick groaned, rolling onto his back and shooting you a lazy smile through his curtain of dark hair.

“Morning, little wing,” he chirped, voice deep and raspy with sleep. How long had he spent on top of you? “Gotta say, there are nicer ways to wake a guy up.”

His tone was light, playful. You weren’t so carefree.

“Why are you in my room?”

“A man can’t spend a little quality time with his favorite sister?”

You shook your head. He let out a breath of a laugh.

“Just come a little closer, alright?”

You hesitated, but Dick didn’t waver. More problematically, he’d positioned himself between you and the door so, short of jumping off your balcony, there wasn’t a way to escape without going through him. You shuffled closer, keeping the comforter wrapped around yourself, but if Dick noticed your aversion, he didn’t take the hint. As soon as you were within arm’s reach, he lashed out — catching you by the midriff and hauling you into his lap. He forced your head against his chest, pressing your ear to the muscle over his heart. You recognized the gesture. It was the same way someone might’ve soothed an agitated pup, a distressed omega.

You squirmed on reflex, but Dick was so, so strong. Yet another thing the rest of your family seemed to have in common.

“I really am proud of you,” he muttered. “You’ve always been so passionate about— uh—”

“Art history,” you filled in. There was only so long you could spend alone in Bruce’s mansion, tucked away among so many dust-covered priceless treasures, before you took an interest in other forgotten novelties.

“Right. Art history.” He moved on quickly. “But it got me thinking. It feels like we haven’t been paying enough attention to you.”

Your traitorous heart soared. You did your best to stamp it back down. “It’s a little late—

“Better late than never, right?” You tried to draw back, but his fingers rooted in your hair, keeping you in place. “We never really got a chance to bond. I know you’re leaving in a few weeks but—” He paused, chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you purr.”

Purr? He had to be joking. Alphas didn’t purr. Even betas had trouble doing it on command. You laughed, but Dick only drew you in closer.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”

You tried not to sound as confused as you felt. “I… I can’t do that. Like, physically.”

“Give it a try. It’s not like we don’t have time.”

Whatever. This was embarrassing, but Dick’s attention span was short and he was right — you had nothing but time, here. He’d get bored eventually, slink off and forget this brief break from the status quo. He would leave you alone, and this time, you would remember to be grateful for the cold shoulder.

You let a minute slip by. Dick didn’t move.

Another. He began to hum, leading by example.

By the time you reached five — his heartbeat counting out the seconds like a metronome — you were uncomfortable, sweating, and desperate to get away. Your vision blurred. You missed Jason. Your skull felt too thick. His scent had poured into you, leaving the taste of mint nauseatingly thick on your tongue. Anything would be better than this. Even utter humiliation.

It was a terrible, creaking sound — starting at the base of your throat and leaking out through your pursed lips. You would barely call it a whine, let alone a rumble, let alone a purr. Still, Dick laughed and let go of you, dragging his hand through his disheveled hair. “I don’t know why we never noticed how cute you are,” he said, finally, finally getting up and moving towards the door. “See you at breakfast, little wing.”

Once he was gone, you stewed in your embarrassment for another minute or so before deciding to treat this like what it was: a fluke. An exception. Some form of hazing administered too late to have its desired effect — whatever that effect was supposed to be. Face still warm to the touch, you dragged yourself out of bed, got dressed, and slinked out of your bedroom, determined never to think about Dick’s sudden outpouring of brotherly affection again.

Your self-inflicted amnesia might’ve lasted, too, had the first thing you’d seen upon stepping into the dining room not been Dick’s smile as he whispered into Bruce’s ear.

~

It quickly became very, very difficult to remember why you’d ever hated being ignored.

Dick was the worst by far. Suddenly, he had nothing better to do than trail after you through the mansion, asking constantly what you wanted to do with your big brother that day— like you were ten rather than twenty-two. Tim was just as much of a menace, albeit not half as clingy. He always seemed to be just outside of your peripheral, only as close as he needed to be to steal away your half-finished drinks. Stephanie suddenly wanted to take you shopping, insisting that she pay despite your reminders that both of your credit cards were linked to the same account. More than once, Cassandra sat too close to you at dinner, nearly in your lap.

Even Damian — young, stoic, frigid Damian — once made the trek to your bedroom to ask for one of your blankets in the middle of the night. You were too confused to think to refuse, but as you handed off a spare quilt, you managed to ask him why he’d want yours. Another alpha’s. He only pursed his lips, shaking his head.

“I don’t know,” he said, glaring at the floor. “You’ve smelled different, recently. Sweeter.”

Through it all, Bruce never said a word to you.

To make it worse, all the attention made you sick. Literally, physically sick. Your head felt light, your body hot. You had no appetite but ate like a starving animal. You slept more, left the house less. More than ever, you dreaded the thought of being left alone.

Worst of all, being around your family became excruciating. Their voices were too loud. Their mixed scents were too overpowering. You’d never had a very strong constitution, but you were still an alpha, still meant to be able to withstand the juxtapositional pheromones and verbal disputes that would terrify a beta and reduce an omega to a sobbing mess. Suddenly, though, you were as sensitive as a pup — barely able to tolerate your siblings’ usual bickering. Even the smallest argument left you fleeing the room to hide away in some long forgotten part of the manor.

That might’ve been why it’d been so easy for Jason to catch you alone.

You’d just locked yourself inside of one of Bruce’s seven (count them, seven) auxiliary libraries when the tell-tale tapping on the window, a muffled voice calling your name through the bullet-proof glass. You were at the window in a second, unlocking it in another. You barely had time to step back before Jason hauled himself through and pulled you into a blissfully suffocating bear-hug.

He looked rough. Rougher than usual, though you hadn’t seen him in the better part of a year. You felt the worn leather of his jacket against your skin as he pulled you against him, spotted a few splotches of red hair where his cheap black dye hadn’t stuck. He stunk of metal and gasoline and chemical fire, and you’d never been so happy to see him. You melted into him for as long as you could, only letting go when his hands found your shoulders, gently easing you just far back enough for you to see his grinning face.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he drawled. You swatted him in the arm and he went on, feigning offense. “Hey, that barely hurt. The rest of Bruce’s acolytes must finally be softening you up.”

“Please don’t talk about them,” you whined. “They’ve been— God, it’s terrible. Ever since I told them I was leaving—”

His smile widened, showing teeth. “Finally. You have a place lined up yet? I’ve got a spare bedroom downtown, if you don’t mind—”

You cut him off with a bubbling laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going back to school. Gateway City.” And then, softer, “Like we always talked about.”

His hands twitched. His scent took on a smokier note, not unlike a freshly snuffed cigarette. Still, that lip-splitting grin held strong. “I mean, that’s what you told Bruce, but—” He broke off, clicking his tongue. “California’s pretty far. I won’t be able to look out for you all the way out there.”

“You don’t look out for me here.” You couldn’t help it. Your voice broke on the last word, your joy draining away as his grew colder. Panic flashed across his expression. He started to draw you closer again, but you waved him off — pressing a hand into his chest. “I’m sorry, I just— I thought you’d be happier for me. Considering how quickly you got out.”

“It’s not the same, though, is it?” The question had a cruel lilt to it. “I’m an alpha, kid.”

And just like that, you’d forgotten why you were so happy to see him.

“I know. I am, too.”

“Really? ‘cause you don’t smell like one to me.”

Your shoulders dropped. You started to turn away, but he caught your wrist, jerking you back against him. His arm locked around your neck, cutting off your airflow. You gagged, clawing at his sleeve, but Jason only held his ground.

“It’s not that complicated.” His grip tightened. Black spots dotted your vision. You would’ve coughed if your throat hadn’t been clenched so tightly shut. “If you want to be an alpha, you’re gonna have to act like one.”

But you couldn’t. You were Bruce’s least favorite for a reason. The muscle hadn’t taken. The strength training hadn’t stuck. You hadn’t inherited his discipline. And, worst of all, there was that little, traitorous voice in the back of your head urging you to submit, submit, submit. It was yours, but you didn’t recognize the inflection, the cloying lilt. Wherever this instinct had come from, it wasn’t from you.

You tried to kick, to thrash, but your body was sluggish, resistant. The idea of hitting Jason left you light-headed in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the oxygen deprivation. Behind you, he sighed. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought he sounded disappointed. “C’mon, kid,” he said, barely loud enough to be heard over the blood rushing past your ears. “Don’t make me do this to you.”

But you couldn’t stop him. You couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t even make the only person who cared about you, the only person who might’ve even come close to loving you, stop hurting you.

Your body gave out a moment before your mind did. You were vaguely aware of your legs giving out, of your form going limp against Jason’s chest. His arm fell away from your throat, catching you by your waist instead. The last thing you felt was his shoulder biting into your stomach before your brain caught up with your lungs and the world went dark.

~

The first thing you felt upon waking up was warmth.

Awful, needling, searing warmth. The kind of uncomfortable heat that came from falling asleep in the sun and waking up hours later, dying of thirst and too disoriented to remember how to open your eyes. It took you long, aching seconds to grasp any other sensation, only to wish that you hadn’t bothered trying when you finally did. Something hard and cold bit into your back — laminated wood, the surface of a desk. There was something lodged between your legs. You could feel hands cupping the outside of your thighs, a tongue moving over your—

Reality came flooding back in too quickly, too roughly. New instincts be damned, you were going to be sick.

You wanted to bolt, but your body still felt heavier than it should’ve been. It was all you could do to force your eyes open, to take in the moulded ceiling and dim yellow lights of Bruce’s office. You tried to sit up, but a pair of hands caught your shoulder, easing you back down onto the desk. Bruce’s desk. You were on Bruce’s desk.

And you weren’t wearing any clothes.

The sight of your own skin was more startling than it should’ve been. You watched in horror as your exposed chest heaved weakly, as your bare knees shook and twitched where they were propped on someone’s shoulders. Dark hair formed a black hole in the center of your vision, and for a terrible moment, you thought it might’ve belonged to Dick. But then the rough edge of a scar pressed into the inside of your thigh and even an even worse possibility dawned on you.

Jason.

The horror was immediate and all-consuming. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think. You felt his lips seal around your clit and suck, and it was all you could do to let a miserable whine slip through your gritted teeth. There was a groan — deep and satisfied and brought on solely by your sounds of distress. His attention dipped lower, touch slipping into your cunt, and involuntarily, you strained against the hands pinning you down. There was an airy chuckle, a hushing-like noise, then Dick’s face dipped into view, peering at you from above. “There she is,” he cooed, in the same cloying, saccharine lilt he’d used the morning he’d trapped you in your own bed. The morning he’d tried to make you purr. “We were wondering when you’d wake up. Jason always gets a little rough, doesn’t he?” And then, his eyes skirting to the side, “Too rough to handle something so delicate. In my opinion, at least.”

Jason pulled back just far enough to speak. “Shove it, Richard.”

“And such a temper.” Dick sighed, leaning towards you. “I just thought, if we had to find our little sister a mate, it should be someone more like—”

“That’s enough, Dick.”

A new voice. Cold, steady, commanding. All the warmth left your body at once.

Knowing Jason was willing to do this to you hurt. Knowing that Bruce was in on it, too…

You didn’t even know what to call that type of pain.

Maybe it would’ve been better, had he at least been an active participant. But he wasn’t even trying to touch you. He sat on the lounge against the far wall, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped professionally between his legs. His expression was set in the same unfaltering neutrality he always wore, the neutrality you’d once mistaken for disinterest. His eyes — half-lidded and impassive — were fixed on you. He didn’t look away as you stared past Dick to meet his gaze.

There was a thin sigh, a readjustment to his posture. Jason’s tongue curled inside of you. “Jason has a more dominating presence. There’ll be less resistance if he initiates the bond.”

“But that doesn’t mean he’ll be a good mate.” Immediately, Dick was on the defensive. You’d always wondered how someone so quick to argue had managed to stay Bruce’s favorite for so long. “And he’s so far. We might as well have just let her move to the other side of the country.”

“The necessary arrangements have been made. Jason’s agreed to stay with us — for a time, at least. Until the worst of the bond sickness passes.” Bruce paused, pinched the bridge of his nose. You would’ve sworn his eyes were closed, and yet when Jason smirked into the inside of your thigh and began to speak, Bruce cut in before he could get a word out. “I’m already giving you my daughter, boy. Don’t make me change my mind.”

Dick frowned. “I mean, by that logic, aren’t you technically giving her your—”

“That’s enough, Dick.”

He frowned, but didn’t spend long licking his wounds. His attention fell back to you, his eyes widening as he bent down to your height. “I tried to volunteer,” he whispered, close enough for his lips to ghost over the shell of your ear. “But Jason beat me to it. I think he’s had this on his mind for a while.”

It was an awful thing to say. It was a vile thing to say. It was a cruel thing to say. You wanted to tell him to shut up, to leave you alone, but when you opened your mouth, all you managed to do was cry out. The knife-sharp bridge of Jason’s nose ground into your clit. He’d fallen into a steady pattern of lapping, twisting, shoving the most invasive part of his body that much deeper into the most vulnerable part of yours. It shouldn’t have felt so terrible. It shouldn’t have felt like anything at all. Alphas were insensitive, lumbering things. Alphas were strong enough to withstand something like this.

So why weren’t you?

His tongue slipped out of you, two thick fingers immediately taking its place. He spread you open as his tongue lapped the slick off your thighs, your skin. A few strokes later, his tongue found your clit and circled it, and your body cracked apart underneath him. The pleasure — if you could even call it that — was too hot, too smothering, too much. You waited for the backlash, the pressure of an internal knot clamping down around nothing, but it never came. There was only the burning heat, and beneath it, a voice that didn’t belong to you begging for more.

Jason nursed you through the aftershocks before pulling away. He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth and pushed to his feet, placing his body between your dysfunctional legs. Again, you sought out Bruce. “You did something to me.”

Immediately, Dick was there. “We just gave you a nudge in the right direction, that’s all. You said it yourself. We were running out of room for another alpha.”

You’d never said that, but it wasn’t worth the breath it would’ve taken to correct him. You met Bruce’s eyes. “Please, Dad.”

To his credit, he didn’t so much as hesitate. “You’re not a good fit for our pack. I must have known that, but—” He broke off, shook his head. “It’s better, this way. You deserve a mark. I’m sorry we denied you one for so long.”

But he wasn’t getting up. He wasn’t bearing his fangs, wasn’t asking for your wrist. He was just watching — staring on as Jason traced the head of his cock over your entrance, as he began to ease into you. You acted on reflex— hands flying to his shoulders in a vain attempt to push him away. That was a mistake, too. Before you could so much as make contact, you were on your stomach, both wrists pinned to the base of his spine while he thrust into you unopposed. You braced yourself for blinding pain, for a bone-deep sense of wrongness, but it never came. Instead, a pleasant buzzing filled the empty corners of your mind. Your body relaxed, welcoming him in. Liquid heat pooled in your veins, weighing you down and turning you into something heavy. Something wrong. Something else.

It felt right.

Understanding dawned on you in a single, horrifying flash. The gifts. The forced proximity. The shows of superiority. The way they’d observed you so unfalteringly over the past few weeks. An old term glanced over in textbooks and on the category listings of sketchier porn sites resurfaced from the forgotten depths of your mind — bitching. But that wasn’t supposed to be real. That wasn’t supposed to be something your family could do to you, no matter how little they loved you.

It was impossible and it was happening. You could feel Jason’s chest against your back, his tongue on your neck as he rocked against your ass. In front of you, Dick cooed and shrugged his jeans low on his hips, freeing his own painfully stiff cock. He tapped the leaking head against your lips and you locked your jaw in place, determined to safeguard what little dignity you had left. Dick only clicked his tongue, forcing his thumb past your lips and wrenching your teeth apart. He shoved himself into your mouth before you had a chance to bite down, his tip ramming into the back of your throat and making you gag.

There was an airy moan, a pleased sigh. Dick let his eyes fall shut, resting a hand on the crown of your head and petting. “Good girl,” he murmured, blunt nails raking over your scalp. “Let’s not talk about leaving anymore, alright? Just lay back and let your pack take care of you, from now on.”

His tone was light, soothing. It might’ve been more comforting if he hadn’t followed it up by tangling his fingers in your hair and jerking you forward, forcing your nose against his pelvic bone and fucking his cock into your throat.

The fullness was the worst part. Tearing you open, weighing you down. Your jaw throbbed where it was stretched around Dick’s cock, your cunt aching under the bruising force of Jason’s abuse. His hands were too tight around his hips, his pace too brutal to make you feel anything but scared. There was a rumbling growl, then you felt his mouth on the curve of your throat, nuzzling into you. A terrible, alien pressure beat against your entrance once, twice before he managed to force that much more of himself inside of you. Immediately, every nerve in your body flared to life. It took you a moment to understand the source of your agony, but not much longer. Honestly, the only surprise was that you hadn’t thought to dread this part sooner.

He’d knotted you.

But that couldn’t be right. Alphas only knotted their—

His mouth, moving over the tender flesh above your jugular. You tried to scream, to thrash, but Jason was so heavy on top of you and Dick only groaned as his cock smothered your voice. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t tell him to stop. You couldn’t do anything as Jason’s teeth sunk into your throat, breaking skin and drawing blood. Marking you — albeit, not in the way you’d spent so, so long waiting for.

In a daze, you looked toward Bruce. He hadn’t moved, of course, only leaned forward — propping his cheek on his fist. His dark eyes were cold as steel, but that wasn’t the worst part.

It had been some time since Kori had visited; it had been during one of the strange Earthen holidays that her friends had said she needed to experience. Dick had invited the entirety of the Teen Titans to Wayne Manor for the Giving of Thanks Festival. Only three of their friends had declined: Wally and Roy had plans with their own families while Donna was away to Themyscira. The Manor had been just as beautiful back then, lightly decorated with a fall aesthetic. Bruce had greeted the group of teens while holding his youngest child; a toddler Y/N who looked at her big brother’s strange-looking friends with big, curious eyes. But the small girl was quick to warm up to everyone: giggling at Garfield’s funny faces and jokes, listening in rapt attention to Victor’s stories, having a pretend tea-party with Kori and Tara, and even begging Raven to read her a book. Kori could still remember the fond smile she had seen on Dick’s face when he saw his little sister getting along with his friends and then a stutter in her heartbeat when she watched Dick and Y/N’s goodbye ritual: forehead-to-forehead and rubbing their noses together. When she saw this soft side of Dick, Kori knew she truly had feelings for her best friend.

Dick walked around the car and wrapped an arm around Kori’s waist. She could tell that her love was tired in a way she could not help. The dark bags under his eyes and the heaviness on his shoulders were reminiscent of the time Deathstroke tormented the former Boy Wonder. She knew that the smile on Dick’s face was merely a mask; it was feeble and trembling, threatening to turn into a frown. Kori leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her love’s cheek; the reaction was instantaneous, his smile softened just a little, making it more natural. If it were not for the fact that Dick and Kori were here for a specific reason, she would have told her love to just get back into the car and they could leave. But she wanted to see Y/N, wanting to hear all about her adventures during the summer. 

Kori had read the letters that Alfred had forwarded to Titans Tower. Dick had read a couple but every time he did, it was clear that he felt guilty; he knew he should have been there for some of those moments. But Kori knew that the fights Dick kept having with his father-figure was causing fractures in that big heart of his, making her love dread coming home. She knew that Dick had been relieved that Y/N had not been home all summer and felt horrible for feeling that way.

“Come, my love, let us see your little sister. I am sure she will be glad to see you,” Dick’s smile softened a little more as he pressed a kiss to Kori’s forehead. He let go of her waist to take her hand as they walked forward. As they climbed the stoop stairs, one of the Manor’s large front doors opened to reveal Alfred.

“Master Dick, it’s good to see you are well. And Princess Koriand’r, it is an honor to have you grace our humble home with your presence once more,” Kori giggled as she pulled the butler into a warm hug. Alfred chuckled in good humor, giving the alien princess a squeeze of the arms. Kori let go so Dick could greet his grandfather-figure. Alfred soon stepped out of the way of the door to let the couple inside and then was quick to take at least Kori’s light jacket to reveal the purple summer dress Dick got her as one of his gifts for the anniversary of her Earth arrival.

“Have you been well, Alfred?” Kori quickly took off her shoes to place them at the nearby shoe rack as Dick did the same and Alfred was putting away the princess’s coat.

“I have. It had actually been a quiet summer with the Young Master away at their camp. Apart from Doctor Isley taking up residence at the local farmers market for a tense two days last month,” It had actually been a funny sight to see Poison Ivy standing in the middle of Bristol’s highly acclaimed Lilian Market, hosted by the Hartwell family farm; it was only a few years old and named in honor of one of the family’s grandchildren who had unfortunately passed during a Rogue attack. It had been clear that the villain was there looking for a simple reason to wreck mayhem, probably something about the local rich families using their wealth to inflate prices of their products, but Esme Hartwell, the matriarch of the family, came strolling out of her farm stall. The former doctor had been clearly confused by a woman her grandmother’s age in dirt-covered blue jeans and an oversized straw hat walking right up to the villain without a trace of fear on her aged face. Esme had then given Pamela a guided tour of the Hartwell farmland, showing off how her family had been handling their farm for generations, barely changing how things were done and how well they treated their produce and livestock. The former doctor was later seen the next day working alongside Esme at the farm stall, dressed in some of the farmer’s daughters’ clothes. When Oracle finally sent Batman towards the farmers market, the villain went willingly, but Pamela had actually gotten misty-eyed when Esme promised to come visit her at the asylum with some fresh jam and homemade baked goods for the villain and her friends; Alfred was fairly sure that Esme had just made her farmers market into a neutral zone for heroes, villains and those in between, considering he saw some of Harvey Dent’s men as well a disguised Edward Nygma browsing the wares and actually paying for their goods. 

“Babs told me about that. Is it true that Ivy was actually helping at the market?” Dick looked amused, but he honestly did not mind Pamela. She wasn’t big on hurting kids so the most she would do when Robin was out on the field was tangle the Boy Wonder up in a bunch of vines while focusing on Batman. Even when Dick changed to Nightwing, it was clear that the former doctor was torn between having to fight him or just reverting back to her usual Robin tactics.

“Master Dick, if I had not witnessed it myself, I would not have believed it either,” Alfred closed the coat closet door and started to lead the couple toward the solarium where he knew Y/N was taking her afternoon tea. The butler pretended to not notice Dick glancing towards Bruce’s rooms. Kori took the younger man’s hand once more, giving it a squeeze, before she turned back to Alfred.

“May I ask how the Titans have been doing?” Alfred watched Dick’s gaze lingering on the door to Bruce’s study before he turned back to the butler to answer the older man’s question.

“They’re doing well. Virgil and Jaime stepped up to help Kaldur lead while Brion and Artemis took up the tactician role since…” Dick trailed off, unable to speak Jason’s name out loud. The teen had not taken up the leader role like the former Robin had done, instead choosing to help with tactics and fighting techniques, which was one of Jason’s strong suits.

“What about Y/N? How is she handling…” Kori stopped, glancing over at Dick; it appeared to Alfred that the younger man had cautioned his girlfriend about saying Jason’s name aloud at the Manor. The butler did not like that the name of a boy they had all loved had become taboo. Only one person was allowed to say it and it was merely because Y/N said her nickname for Jason instead. Alfred paused, the solarium’s glass panel doors were opened just a little a few feet away from the group.

“...The young master still sometimes waits at the front door. She asked me when she returned from her camp if…if he had come home yet…” Alfred took a moment to calm his emotions, feeling the wave of sadness once more. He had been caught off guard by Y/N’s question but he had handled it with his usual tact. All the butler could say was ‘not yet’, which the girl had accepted before returning to her meal; Alfred was not ashamed of the tears he let himself weep later that evening. Dick took a quick breath as if he had been punched in the gut while Kori rubbed his arm in comfort.

“...Alfred, I hate to say this but we can’t keep this lie going…It’s only going to break Y/N’s heart even worse once she realizes…” Alfred glanced back at the glass panel doors.

“I know, Master Dick. It breaks my own heart when I have to lie to the Young Master, but I cannot say the words I need to say out loud. I cannot bring myself to be the one who breaks her heart,” Alfred looked back at Dick and the younger man could see that the butler was torn with his emotions.

“So what do we do?” Dick had only been a little older than Y/N when he lost his parents, but he had sort of understood the concept of death by that age. A contourist and one of the strongmen for Haly’s Circus had passed away when Dick was 6 and his parents sat him down and explained why his Zia Ylenia and Ujak Kazimir were not coming back to the circus; Kazimir’s heart finally gave out and Ylenia just never got over the heartbreak of losing the love of her life. He had been mostly devastated by the fact that death was permanent, but comforted by his parents’ faith in that death was merely another form of life; that maybe somewhere out in the universe that Ylenia and Kazimir were together once more. He felt the same about his own parents’ death after he finally accepted Bruce’s help; he hoped that his parents were still together, maybe watching him grow and find family and even love of his own.

“Given Gotham’s track record for doctors and psychiatrists, I have reached out to a contact in Metropolis to help me find a trusted child therapist. She is doing research at the moment and will get back to me shortly. She and I believe that we should wait for the new school year to start before we introduce therapy to the Young Master’s schedule,” Lois Lane had been surprised when Alfred had called but after hearing what was happening with Y/N, she agreed to help. The reporter was after all the reason why the Justice League now had a few trusted therapists added to their medical department; she had seen Clark struggle with losing civilians and Kara still dealing with the fact that she witnessed her entire planet be destroyed and put her foot down. If only Alfred had enough fire in himself to force Bruce into therapy as well, but he had found out just the other day that his access to the BatCave entrance had been revoked with his entry code no longer working.

“That…that’s a good idea…” Dick looked thoughtful, and Alfred could see where the younger man’s thoughts were going.

“If we find a reputable child psychiatrist, I will make sure their name is sent your way. I’m sure your friends and their proteges would appreciate it,” Dick let a soft smile spread across his face.

“Thanks Alfred,” The butler reached forward and gave Dick’s shoulder a squeeze.

“No matter how old you’ve gotten or how far away you move, it is still within my duty to provide you help, even if you do not ask for it. You know how much I’ve disliked how Master Bruce has been treating you lately and I understand the need to be away from him. But you are still family, Master Dick, always,” Alfred could see a shine start to appear in the younger man’s eyes and gave his shoulder another squeeze. Kori hugged Dick’s arm to her chest. The two gave the former Boy Wonder a few moments to collect himself.

“Now, let us join Young Master Y/N in the solarium. I find every moment with her brightens the day just a little more,” Dick wiped at his eyes and sniffed.

“Yeah, yeah. That sounds great,”

XX

Y/N was seated at the same table where her life had changed only a few months ago when she heard voices coming down the hallway. One of the sketchbooks Alfred had placed in her tower was open in front of the child with a couple of bottles of different colored ink. Nearby was a tea tray with Y/N’s favorite mug sitting next to a half-full teapot and a small arrangement of sweets Alfred had set out for afternoon tea. It had only been a few days since the girl had returned from her camp. She had spent these past couple days either catching up with the Manor’s ghosts or trying to readjust to her civilian life that did not have as much activity that camp life had. Alfred had promised a visit to one of Gotham’s skateparks in a day or two after they went shopping for school supplies; the butler needed to see for himself that Y/N could handle herself on a skateboard before he thought about getting her one of her own.

Y/N capped her fountain pen, putting it away in the pen case Alfred had gotten her with one of her favorite cartoon characters embroidered on it as she heard voices get closer to the tea room. She quickly closed the ink bottles as well, remembering the small lecture Alfred had given her about the proper care of her new art supplies. Y/N looked over her hands taking in the sight of the ink stains adorning her skin -dark red with gold flakes, brilliant blue and electric green-, but she knew she would not have the time to properly wash her hands before the guests arrived. For a moment, the girl wondered who was visiting, but then the familiar sound of Dick’s voice made Y/N’s head snap over to the doorway.

“Dickie!” Y/N closed her sketchbook before she scrambled out of her seat and raced over to the doorway. Dick kneeled down as he crossed into the solarium and held out his arms. It took a lot of his training to make sure the two siblings did not fall backwards as Y/N slammed into her big brother with a hug. Dick squeezed the girl for a long moment, before picking Y/N up as he stood; neither sibling wanted to let go of the hug just yet.

“Oof, Little Wing, what did they feed you at that camp of yours? I swear you’ve gotten a little heavier than the last time I saw you,” Y/N leaned back a little in Dick’s arms, her ink-stained hands clutching onto the collar of her brother’s jacket. The vigilante could practically see stars in her eyes.

“S’mores! They’re so good. Have you had one before?” Dick could not help but laugh.

“Yeah, I’ve had some. Can’t believe you haven’t had one this whole time. I’ve failed at being a big brother,” Y/N patted Dick’s cheek as if to reassure the man.

“That’s okay, Dickie. Alfred probably wouldn’t let you give me one anyway,” Dick chuckled, knowing that Y/N was right and the butler definitely would not have let the younger man give his sister a s’more; way too much sugar and barely anyone could keep up with a hyperactive Y/N so it was best that her sugar rushes were handled by that camp of hers. A bell-like laugh sounded behind Dick, making Y/N lean over to look behind her big brother.

“Miss Kori!” Dick turned a little so they could see Kori and Alfred looking at the siblings fondly. Y/N began to wiggle in her brother’s arms, holding out her hands towards the alien princess. Kori let out another laugh before stepping forward to take Y/N away from Dick.

“Little One, it is so good to see you. It has been far too long. You have grown so much,” Dick smiled fondly at two of the people he loved most in the world. Y/N looked up at Kori’s emerald eyes with adoration.

“You did too, Miss Kori. Your hair is longer and fluffier!” Kori could not help the giggle at Y/N’s words; she liked those terms for her hairstyle and would definitely be using them herself.

“Now, come, Little One, you must tell me all about this camp of yours,” Y/N nodded eagerly, but then thought about something. She turned her head toward Alfred, who was picking up the tea tray to go refill the teapot.

“Wait, Alfred, the pictures! We gotta show Dickie and Miss Kori!” Y/N wiggled excitedly in Kori’s arms which tightened just a little so she would not accidentally lose her grip on the wiggling, smaller girl.

“What photos?” Alfred’s tone sounded confused but Y/N could see the twinkle in the butler’s eye that told the girl the man absolutely knew what she meant; he was merely teasing. Alfred tapped a gloved finger to his chin as he pretended to think.

“Alfred! The ones Poppy gave you,”

“Ah yes, those photos. Let me put the kettle on and collect the album I have been making,”

XX

Kori settled into the chair with Y/N seated upon her lap while Dick took the seat right next to them. The man grabbed one of the cookies on the plate that Alfred had left behind and munched on it as he took in the art supplies on the table. He furrowed his brow slightly at the ink bottles and then glanced back at Y/N’s hands that were stained.

“Did you pick up another hobby while you were away?” Y/N looked over at her big brother. She started to nod, but then remembered what Lou Ellen had told the smaller girl to say if she was asked about her supplies.

“Lou Ellen and Ramzi said calligraphy could help with getting the words to stop moving. I haven’t started on words yet, just getting used to the way the pen works. Alfred got me a bunch of pretty colors,” Dick had never heard of that method being used to help with dyslexia, but Alfred had said that the camp Y/N went to was specialized in helping kids with ADHD and other learning disabilities.

“That’s good. I hope it does help,” Y/N grinned at Dick before looking back to Kori to tell her all about Lullaby; though she referred to the Pegasus as a regular horse as per Alfred’s careful instructions. The butler reappeared with a new teapot on his tray and a photo album under his arm. Alfred set the album down in front of Dick before going about pouring everyone a new cup of tea.

“I’m still in the process of transcripting the captions the other campers had made, but I have most of the photos placed,” Dick looked at the album that had a clear title stating ‘Summer One’ in Alfred’s delicate script. He opened it to the first two photos: Y/N in what looked to be a before and after. In one photo she was wearing a too-large bright orange shirt that had a Pegasus on it, the shirt was basically a dress on the girl and Y/N was holding up the excess fabric with a confused look. The next photo was Y/N in the same orange shirt but this time it was the proper size; the girl was smiling while her hair was a mess with a hand still resting on the top of the girl’s head. The caption read ‘There was a mix up at the camp store. They sent the largest size shirt instead of the smallest. Connor snuck in and stole the right size - Julia’.

“So who’s Connor and Julia? They’re the ones who wrote some of your letters, right?” Y/N nodded at Dick’s question as she set the tea cup back down.

“They were my cabin counsels. They were in charge,” Y/N most likely meant counselors, but Dick gave his sister a smile as he turned the next page. They slowly went through the available photos while Y/N described what was going on and Kori and Dick asked questions. But then the former Boy Wonder froze as he stared at one photo. There was a tall black-haired boy kneeling in front of Y/N with paint in his hands; the boy was very carefully painting a neon green domino mask onto Y/N’s face with some streaks of yellow and dots of red along the mask. Dick felt like his heart had frozen over, because for a moment, he did not see a stranger, instead he thought he could see Jason being the one to paint Robin’s domino mask onto Y/N. The vigilante could hear his little sister saying something next to him, but he was not registering the words.

“My love?” Kori placed a warm hand on Dick’s forearm, making him jolt and the whole table looked at him with concern. The man blinked rapidly in an attempt to dislodge the false memory and then took a deep breath before looking toward his girlfriend and his little sister. He forced a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

“I’m fine…I’m fine…” It was clear that Dick was trying to reassure himself instead of his loved ones. But his eyes drifted back to the photo; he still could not shake away the fake image of Jason. The boy in the photo had a scar down his face and across his nose that was almost too familiar; Dick had seen what the Joker had done while he was torturing Robin, the jagged ‘J’ had been cut across Jason’s face and forced them to have a closed-casket funeral since no one could handle staring at that mark. Dick could feel tears welling up in his eyes so he stood up from his chair.

“Sorry…I need a moment,”

XX

Kori watched Dick leave the solarium as she glanced back at the photo that had clearly rattled him. Under the photo was another caption in Alfred’s handwriting: ‘Sherman couldn’t say no to Y/N’s little face. I’m going to weaponize this - Connor’. The alien princess wondered what exactly about the photo had sent Dick into a near panic attack, but then she herself could see a similarity to Jason Todd in the teen in the photo; the main difference was that this ‘Sherman’ was a little lighter in color than Jason and it was clear he had brown eyes. Y/N looked up at Kori with worried eyes, one of her small hands reaching up to gently touch the alien princess’s cheek.

“Is Dickie okay? Is he sad?” Kori’s heart clenched at the question. She brought up one of her hands to cover Y/N’s.

“He will be alright, Little One. He simply needs a moment to feel his feelings,” Y/N nodded, not entirely understanding but accepting the explanation. The girl took her hand away from Kori’s face and leaned against her chest in an attempt for some comfort. The alien princess wrapped Y/N in a gentle hug.

“Maybe when Jay comes back, everyone can feel better again,” Kori could feel her heart breaking at Y/N’s words. She did not know what to say to the younger girl so she simply gave her another squeeze. Alfred was sat across from Kori and she could see that what Y/N had said had devastated the older man.

XX

Dick had not meant to walk to Bruce’s study. His feet had simply carried him there while his mind was still trapped in the false memory of Jason painting a Robin mask onto Y/N’s face. The study was empty with stacks of paperwork and even a tray of covered food left abandoned on the desk. Dick walked over to the grandfather clock, shivering at the usual cold spot in front of it. He pulled the secret lever that revealed the keypad and typed in his access code. The wall behind the grandfather clock pushed away, revealing the elevator door for the BatCave.

Dick could barely recognize the man looking back at him in the reflection of metal doors. His tanned skin was pale with dark bags under his eyes. There were a couple of stress pimples peeking out that he knew that Kori was eventually going to force a facemask on him to take care of it. His hair is shaggy and overgrown, covering his eyes and neck, but he could not for the life of him bring himself to ask Alfred or even Gar or Victor to trim it for him. These were just the consequences of his own guilt so he forced himself to bear with them. Dick had known he had been an asshole to Jason while the younger boy was Robin. He had known that all Jason wanted was for them to be like brothers, to be close, but Dick just needed to find who he wanted to be on his own. So he pushed away everyone, even Kori and Y/N, and by the time he felt like he was finally comfortable in his name and skin again, it was too late. Jason was taken by the Joker, Bruce became a man consumed by vengeance, and Y/N was just a reminder that Dick had failed as an older brother. 

After what felt like hours, but was only mere minutes, the elevator doors opened to reveal the extensive BatCave. The dinosaur animatonic was the first thing to greet Dick before the symphony of bat screeches above him started up. The former Boy Wonder could see that the BatMobile was still here so he made his way over to the BatComputer console. It was there that Dick found Bruce; he had his suit on but his cowl was still off. 

Bruce’s head was bowed over the keyboard, his fingers flying across the keys with a speed that spoke of desperation rather than efficiency. The glow of multiple monitors cast harsh shadows across the man’s face, illuminating the gaunt hollows of his cheeks and the tension in his jaw. On one of the screens, Dick could make out several different maps layered over each other as if they were trying to find the same variable. Another held a list of people with many of the names already crossed out.

“Dick,” Bruce’s voice was flat, devoid of the warmth that used to fill it when Dick was just a boy learning to be Robin. He did not turn from the screen, his eyes fixed on the report he had been typing.

“Bruce,” Dick’s voice was equally flat, a mirror of the man who raised him. The two vigilantes stood in silence for a long moment, the only sounds being the distant dripping of water and bat screeches.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” Bruce still did not turn around. He instead closed the report he was typing to open up a new file filled with photos of various hide-outs. His father’s words start to fan the flames of anger in Dick’s chest. The guilt that he felt earlier helped fester that anger into something uglier.

“Really? That’s all you have to say to me? I come home after months away, and you won’t even look at me before you send me away?” Dick stepped closer, his hands clenching at his sides.

“I’m busy,”

“Busy,” Dick laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Busy doing what? Chasing another lead that goes nowhere? Running yourself into the ground while the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces?” Bruce finally turned, and Dick felt his breath catch. His father’s face was gaunt, his eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles, and stubble on his chin was almost a beard. 

“What do you want, Dick?”

“I want you to stop this. I want you to come upstairs and have dinner with your family. I want you to spend time with Y/N before she forgets what you look like,” Dick’s voice cracked slightly.

“Bruce, she still thinks Jason is coming back. She waits for him at the front door. She keeps asking Alfred when her brother is going to come home,” Something flickered in Bruce’s eyes -pain, grief, guilt- before it was quickly smothered by the mask he wore when the cowl came on.

“That’s not my problem,” Dick felt something in his chest snap.

“Not your problem? Y/N is your daughter! How can you say that? How can you hear that she doesn’t understand what’s going on and think it’s not your problem?!” Dick’s voice rose.

“Because I can’t fix it!” Bruce slammed his hand against the console, making one of the nearby screens flicker.

“I can’t bring him back! I can’t make this better! The only thing I can do is make sure the monster who did this pays for what he took from us!”

“And what about Y/N?! What about what the Joker took from her?!” Dick was shouting now, his composure finally shattering.

“Jason was her life! He was the one who walked her to her first day of kindergarten. He was the one who read to her every night. He was her everything while she was his! Y/N is seven, Bruce. Seven! And she doesn’t even know that her life will never be the same again,” The words hung in the cavernous space of the BatCave, echoing off the stone walls. Bruce’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek, but he said nothing. He just stood there, still as a statue, and his blue eyes glittering with something that might have been pain or might have been anger.

“You want to know what the worst part is?” Dick’s voice dropped to something quieter, but more dangerous.

“I was just upstairs, looking at photos from Y/N’s summer. She was so happy, Bruce. She was laughing, making friends, learning new things. And I realized that I haven’t seen her that happy in almost a year. Not since Jason was still here. Then, she comes home and she has nothing. No brothers, no father, none of the warmth that filled this house since she was left on our doorstep. And what hurts the most is that she knows. Y/N knows that something is wrong, but no one has the guts to tell her. We’re nothing but a bunch of cowards,” The silence that followed Dick’s words were deafening. Bruce’s face had gone completely still, but his eyes were raging. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous growl; the same voice he would use as Batman.

“How dare you,”

“How dare I what, Bruce? Tell you the truth? How dare I remind you that you have a daughter upstairs who still believes in you? That’s the real tragedy here. Not that Jason died, but that you’re letting his death destroy the family he loved,” Bruce moved so fast Dick barely had time to register it. One moment he was standing several feet away, the next he had Dick by the collar of his jacket, slamming him against the cold stone wall of the Cave. Dick’s head cracked against the rock and he saw stars for a moment.

“You don’t get to lecture me about family,” Bruce’s voice was barely a whisper, but it was filled with a venom Dick had never heard from the man before.

“You left. You walked out. You could not stand to be in the same house as me, so you ran off to Blüdhaven and pretended that was enough. And you want to talk to me about abandonment?” Dick shoved back, breaking out of Bruce’s grip with a speed that surprised them both. He rubbed the back of his head where a lump was already forming, but his eyes never left Bruce’s.

“Because you pushed me away! You pushed everyone away! That’s what you do when things get hard, isn’t it? You isolate yourself, you bury yourself in the work, and you refuse to let anyone in. I learned it from the best,” Dick knew his words weren’t hitting Bruce as well as the younger man wanted. So when he caught sight of Jason’s Robin uniform encased in a glass display box, he knew what he wanted to say next.

“I left because you made me feel like I wasn’t enough. You took Robin away from me. So I tried to become someone you’d be proud of. Jason left because he struggled to be the perfect little soldier you wanted him to be. We will never be good enough for you!” Bruce’s fist connected with Dick’s jaw before either of them could think. Dick stumbled back, more stunned than hurt. The former Boy Wonder pressed a hand where his father-figure just hit. Bruce looked stunned at himself, but he did not apologize.

“Get out,” Bruce’s voice was a low, trembling thing, barely controlled. Dick could feel the warmth of blood trickling from his split lip and he knew he and Bruce both had gone too far. But he could not leave, not without saying one more thing.

“Fine. I’ll go. But you should know,” Dick wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving Bruce’s.

“You’re not just losing me. You’re losing Y/N too. And one day, when you finally come back for air, she may not be there waiting for you. She may stop believing in you and who you think you are when you wear the cowl,” Dick turned and walked toward the elevator, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. He paused at the entrance, not looking back at Bruce.

“I hope the Joker is worth it, Bruce. You’re not the man who raised me, I don’t think I even know you anymore,” The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off whatever Bruce might have said in response.

XX

Bruce stared at the closed elevator doors for a long moment, before he looked down at his own hands. On the BatComputer, Oracle’s icon popped up before her voice came over the comm piece in the hero’s ear.

“B? I’m sending you a location on a lead now. It’s an abandoned fun-house on Amusement Mile. A few sources say Joker’s been spotted nearby,” Bruce reached for the comm to answer.

“Copy. I’m on my way out,” Bruce pulled on his cowl, the familiar weight settling over his head like a shroud. As he walked over to the BatMobile, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the shiny surface of the vehicle. For a moment, Bruce did not recognize the man staring back at him.

“She still thinks Jason is coming back. She waits for him at the front door. She keeps asking Alfred when her brother is going to come home,” Bruce closed his eyes and tried to not let that image of his youngest child haunt him. Y/N will understand when she’s older why Bruce did this, why he went to such great lengths to hunt down the monster that took Jason away from them. Dick was wrong, Bruce tried to make himself believe, but he did not think he could lie to himself either.

XX

Kori was waiting for Dick in the foyer when the grandfather clock closed its secret door behind him. The look on her face told the man she had known he had argued with Bruce again. She did not say anything, just walked forward and wrapped her arms around him. Dick tucked his face against her neck as he wrapped his own arms around his girlfriend, taking the amber-vanilla scent of her shampoo and the warmth of her golden skin. He did everything he could to not focus on the overwhelming wave of sadness threatening to consume him. Kori said nothing about the fact that her shoulder was getting wet.

“I love you,” Dick hugged Kori tighter at her whisper.

“I love you too,” The couple held onto each other for another moment longer, before Dick finally pulled away. He rubbed at his eyes, before he looked at his girlfriend guiltily. 

“I can’t stay here. I can’t be in this house,” Kori placed a gentle hand on Dick’s bruised cheek, her emerald eyes searching his face.

“What about Y/N?” Dick’s heart clenched. He shook his head.

“I can’t say goodbye to her. If I see her face, I’ll stay. But I can’t stay. I can’t be here anymore, Kori,” The alien princess studied her love for a long moment, and then nodded.

“I understand. Go to the car. I will say goodbye to Y/N and Alfred. I will explain that we have an emergency with the Titans. I will be quick,” Dick wanted to argue, wanted to tell Kori that he really should be the one to say goodbye, but he couldn’t. If the vigilante went back into the solarium, if he saw Y/N’s trusting little face staring at him with love in those beautiful eyes, Dick would break. So he nodded, pressed a kiss to Kori’s cheek, and walked out the front door. The alien princess watched him go, her heart heavy. Then she turned, squared her shoulders, and walked back down the hallway leading to the solarium.

Y/N was sitting at the table again, her sketchbook open in front of her and her ink-stained fingers carefully drawing a symbol that looked like a spiral. Alfred was nearby, clearing away the tea things, but Kori could see the worry etched into the old butler’s face.

“Little One,” Kori’s voice was soft as she kneeled beside the child. Y/N looked up, her big eyes searching the princess’s face. The girl tilted her head at the older girl as if she could see Kori’s conflicted emotions.

“Where’s Dickie?” Kori reached forward, and caressed Y/N’s cheek, smiling softly as she leaned into her touch.

“Your brother and I need to go. There is an emergency with our team. He asked me to tell you that he loves you very much, and that he will call you soon,” Kori hated the lie, but it was a mercy compared to the truth. Y/N’s face fell for a moment, then brightened again.

“Like a superhero emergency?” Y/N’s eyes lit up in excitement.

“Are you going to save someone? Is Miss Raven going to use her magic? Is Mister Gar gonna turn into a tiger again?” Kori could not help but smile at the girl’s excitement.

“I am sure there will be many heroic deeds tonight. Now, I promise you that I will make sure your brother calls you sometime soon. But if you do need him, Alfred does know the numbers for Dick, myself and the Tower,” Both Kori and Y/N glanced over at the butler, who gave them a nod. The girl looked back at the alien princess.

“Miss Kori?”

“Yes, Little One?”

“Could you give Dickie a hug for me?” Kori felt her heart melt at Y/N’s words.

“Of course I will,” Y/N leaned forward to wrap her arms around Kori’s neck, who immediately wrapped her own arms around the young girl. And then Kori felt it.

It was subtle, barely there; a faint hum beneath the surface of the girl’s skin, like a distant melody playing just out of reach. Kori’s breath caught in her throat. She had felt something similar only once before, in the presence of her dearest friend. Raven’s soul had always sung with a dark, ancient harmony; a byproduct of the demonic power that flowed through her veins. But this was different with Y/N; it was softer, younger, more tentative, like a song that was still searching for its notes, still learning what it wanted to become.

But it was magic. Undeniably, unmistakably magic. Kori had spent enough time on Earth to recognize the signs. She had fought alongside sorcerers and mystics, and had witnessed the way magic coiled beneath the skin of those who wielded it. Y/N’s song was barely a whisper, fragile as thread, but it was there; a melody woven into the very fabric of Y/N’s soul, waiting to be sung. The alien princess held the young girl for a moment longer than she had intended, her arms tightening almost imperceptibly. She could feel the faint thrum of potential beneath her fingertips, a power that was only just beginning to stir. Whatever Y/N was becoming, whatever magic was awakening within her, it would change everything. It would change her.

Kori did not know what it meant. She did not know if it was a blessing or a curse, if it was something to be nurtured or feared. But she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that Y/N was no ordinary child; she never had been. The loneliness that clung to her, the way she saw things others could not, the strange summer camp, the ink-stained fingers, the quiet intensity in her gaze; it all made a terrible, beautiful kind of sense.

Y/N Wayne was magic. And one day that magic would reshape her family in ways none of them could predict. Kori pulled back slowly, her emerald eyes searching Y/N’s face. The girl looked up at her with innocent curiosity, utterly unaware of what she carried within her. Kori’s heart ached with a fierce, protective love.

“Little One,” Kori’s voice was softer now, almost reverent. Y/N tilted her head, waiting.

“Yes, Miss Kori?” Kori opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say? I felt the magic sleeping inside you? I know you are more than you appear? I am afraid for you and I am afraid for everyone who loves you? None of it would help. None of it would make sense to a girl who was still discovering who she was. Instead, Kori leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Y/N’s forehead, letting her lips linger for just a moment longer than usual. She could still feel the faint hum of power against her skin, a warmth that had nothing to do with body heat.

“You are loved, Y/N Wayne. Never forget that,”

XX

The car ride back to Blüdhaven was silent. Dick stared out the window at the passing Gotham skyline, his jaw clenched. Kori drove, her gaze occasionally flickering to her love’s face, but she said nothing. She knew better than to press when he was like this. The sun had fully set by the time they crossed the bridge into Blüdhaven. Dick finally spoke up when they stopped at a red light, his voice hoarse.

“He hit me, Kori,” The princess’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. She had seen the bruise starting to form on his jaw, had felt the tension radiating from him, but hearing him say it out loud made something cold settle in her chest.

“I know, my love,”

“He’s never…he’s never done that before. Not to me. Not to anyone he considered family,” Dick’s voice cracked a little.

“I don’t know who that man was down there. That wasn’t Bruce,” Kori reached over and took his hand, her thumb tracing soothing circles across his trembling knuckles.

“Grief can transform even the kindest souls into strangers. But that does not excuse what he did. You did not deserve that,” The light turned green, but Kori did not move. She turned to face Dick fully, her emerald eyes glowing softly in the dim light of the car.

“You are not responsible for his choices, my love. You cannot save someone who does not wish to be saved,” Dick laughed bitterly.

“Then what am I supposed to do? Just give up on him? Despite what he did, he’s still my dad,” Kori squeezed Dick’s hand.

“I know. But you are allowed to protect yourself. Give him space. Eventually he will see the light, but if he can’t, you have to protect Y/N. Because right now, you are the only one who can,” The words hung in the air between them. Dick’s stoic expression started to crumble, and his eyes began to shine with tears. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Kori’s, and let out a shuddering breath.

“I don’t know how to do this alone,”

“You are not alone, Richard Grayson. You have me. You have our friends. And you have Y/N, who loves you like you personally hung the moon for her. We will find a way through this. Together,” They sat there for a long moment, forehead to forehead, breathing in sync. Finally, Dick pulled back, his eyes red-rimmed but his expression steadier.

“Let’s go home,” Kori smiled softly and put the car back into drive.

XX

Y/N stood at the large windows by the front door, watching her brother’s car disappear down the long drive. She pressed her small hand against the glass, feeling the cool surface beneath her ink-stained fingers.

“Miss Kori said Dickie would call,” Y/N’s voice was just above a whisper. She could feel Alfred’s presence behind her, steady and warm as always.

“I have no doubt she will make sure of it, Young Master,” Alfred’s voice was gentle, the same tone he used when Y/N was sad and he did not want to push. Y/N finally turned away from the window, her expression thoughtful.

“Dickie was sad. Really sad. Even when he was smiling, his eyes were sad,” Y/N looked down at her hands.

“Do you think if I got really good at magic, I could make him feel better?” Alfred’s expression flickered with a mixture of something complicated: love, worry, and a deep, abiding sadness.

“Master Dick’s sadness is not something that can be fixed with magic, my dear. It is something he must work through on his own. But you being here, being you, does help. More than you know,” Y/N nodded slowly, accepting the answer even if she did not fully understand it.

“Now, I believe I am in need of some assistance with making dinner. Let us test your knowledge of the herbs that you learned over the summer, shall we?”

XX

Gotham Academy loomed before Y/N like a gothic cathedral made of dark stone and stained glass windows. The building was beautiful in a cold, imposing sort of way, its tall windows reflecting the gray sky above. Students milled about the front courtyard, catching up on others’ summers or bemoaning the fact that school is starting again. Y/N stepped out of the Bristol charter bus and immediately tried to blend into the crowd. She spotted her friend, Jenny Hickory, near the front steps, surrounded by a small group of other children. The red-haired girl waved enthusiastically when she saw the youngest Wayne, and Y/N waved back, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Y/N! Over here!” The daughter of Hecate made her way through the crowd, weaving between older students with practiced ease. Jenny threw her arms around Y/N in a tight hug.

“I missed you over the summer! Did you have fun at your camp?” Y/N nodded, her smile growing.

“It was so fun. I learned how to ride a skateboard and make–”

“Hey, Jenny! Miss Noonan is already calling for our class!” One of the other girls tugged on Jenny’s sleeve, pulling her away. The red-haired girl gave Y/N an apologetic look.

“I’ll see you at lunch. We can sit together,” Y/N nodded, watching as Jenny was swept away by the crowd. For a moment, the daughter of Hecate stood alone in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by children who did not seem to notice her at all. It was strange, this invisibility. It was as if the other students were looking right through her. Y/N wondered if this was how the ghosts back at the Manor felt when someone living walked right through them.

XX

The second grade classroom at Gotham Academy was bright and welcoming, with posters of the solar system, a reading corner with colorful cushions, and a large world map taking up an entire wall that even had superhero logos next to the cities those heroes operated out of. Y/N stood in the doorway, her new backpack -one that Alfred had purchased during their school supplies trip with patches of an owl and a skateboard properly stitched on and straps for a skateboard attached- felt heavy against the girl’s back. 

Miss Luisa Guzmán was exactly as the note from Miss Dahl had described: warm, patient, and genuinely excited to meet her new students. She had dark curly hair pulled back in a low bun, kind brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She wore a bright yellow cardigan that reminded Y/N of sunflowers over a light blue dress. When she spotted Y/N hovering in the doorway, she immediately crouched down to the girl’s level.

“Y/N Wayne! I’ve heard so much about you,” Miss Guzmán’s voice was soft and melodic.

“Miss Dahl told me about your special interest in Greek myths. I think you’re going to have a lot of fun with a segment of our lessons in history this year,” Y/N’s eyes went wide and she offered her new teacher a small smile.

“Thank you, Miss Guzmán,”

“Why don’t you find a seat? Any one you like. We’ll be starting our morning lessons in just a few minutes,” Y/N scanned the classroom. There were about twenty desks arranged in clusters of four. Most of them were already occupied by chattering children, some familiar faces from last year. Y/N found an empty desk near the windows, the cluster of desks it was a part of had only one other kid seated. The boy did not look up as Y/N sat down and began to put her school supplies on the desk.

XX

The first few weeks of second grade passed quickly for Y/N. Miss Guzmán was everything Miss Dahl had promised: patient, understanding, and always willing to make accommodations. She gave Y/N extra time on reading assignments, allowed the girl to use colored overlays to help the words stay still, and never made her feel bad for needing to move around during lessons. When the girl started to feel overwhelmed, Miss Guzmán would simply nod toward the back of the classroom where there was a small sensory corner with fidget toys, noise-cancelling headphones, and cozy beanbag chairs. Y/N was grateful for her new teacher’s kindness, and was not the only student in the class to take comfort in the sensory corner.

But Jenny was no longer in Y/N’s class. The red-haired girl had been placed in Miss Noonan’s class across the hall, and while the two friends still saw each other at lunch and recess, it was not the same. Y/N could see Jenny making new friends, laughing with other children and even joined the school’s equestrian club. Y/N’s only friend had drifted away. The daughter of Hecate tried to not let it hurt, but it did. It felt like another person leaving, another connection slipping through her fingers.

The other students in Y/N’s class seemed to look right through her. It had to be the necklace, Y/N realized. Lou Ellen had explained that the notice-me-not spell would work on mortals as well, to make them not quite pay attention to Y/N, but this was different. It was like the other children did not even register Y/N’s existence. She would sit at her desk, raise her hand to answer a question, and the teacher would call on someone else. She would try to join a group activity, and the other children would simply forget to include her. At lunch, Y/N would sit at an empty table, watching the other kids laugh and play, feeling like a ghost in her own life.

It was lonely. So very lonely.

But there seemed to be another kid in the same shoes as Y/N. Tim Drake sat in the same cluster of desks as the daughter of Hecate. His black hair always fell into his eyes and cut in a straight fringe like the rest of his hair. His gray-blue eyes always seemed to be watching everything with a deep intensity that other kids called weird but Y/N found comfort in. Tim never spoke much in class -Y/N had heard Miss Guzmán try to gently encourage the boy to participate more- but when he did speak, it was always thoughtful, almost as if he had been carefully weighing every word before letting them leave his lips. Outside at recess, Tim did not play with the other kids either. Instead, he took photos with a camera that looked too expensive for a kid his age should have. Y/N would watch the boy from her lonely spot on the swings and wonder what Tim was taking pictures of.

Y/N remembered Tim being in Mister Landry’s class the previous year, and he had been one of the only kids to not laugh when the teacher decided to call the youngest Wayne stupid in front of the whole class. He was quiet and alone then too. Tim lived in Bristol, like Y/N. His family’s estate was just down the road from Wayne Manor. They saw each other on the charter bus most mornings. Y/N usually watched the world go by through the bus windows while Tim read books that looked far too advanced for his age. Sometimes though, the lonely children would say ‘good morning’ or even spare a smile to the other.

XX

The first week of October arrived with the typical Gotham dreariness: gray skies, persistent drizzle, and leaves that rotted on the ground rather than crunching underfoot. Y/N sat in the back of the town car Alfred was driving; he had picked her up from school instead of letting her take the charter bus home. But the butler did not take the usual streets Y/N knew led back to the Manor. Instead, the daughter of Hecate found Alfred had gotten on the bridge that would take them across the bay over to Metropolis.

“Where are we going, Alfred?” Y/N peered out at the dark waters of the bay. She had never been to Metropolis before, but did remember that Mister Clark and Miss Lois worked over there. She had not seen the couple in a long time and wondered how the two were doing.

“We are going to meet someone, Young Master. Her name is Doctor Shiloh Blackwood. She is a specialist who helps children navigate difficult emotions,” Alfred kept his voice carefully neutral. Y/N furrowed her brow.

“Difficult emotions? Like what?”

“Like sadness or confusion. Like the feeling of missing someone who isn’t there?” Y/N was quiet for a long moment, her small hand playing with the chain of the necklace her mother had given her.

“Is this about Jay?” Alfred’s grip on the steering wheel tightened while he chanced a glance of Y/N through the rearview mirror. He opened his mouth to speak, but found that no words came. It was apparent that his charge found that his silence was an answer itself since Alfred noticed the girl nodding.

XX

Doctor Shiloh Blackwood’s office was in the quiet part of Metropolis, tucked away on a tree-lined street that felt almost peaceful compared to the chaos of Gotham. The brownstone Alfred parked in front of had a bright blue door and planters in almost every window. Y/N followed the butler into the first floor office and took in the details of the waiting room. The walls were painted a soft green with comfortable-looking armchairs. There was a bookshelf that had a mixture of children's and young adult fiction as well as local magazines and newspapers; Alfred took one of the Daily Planet’s before he sat on one of the armchairs. In one corner, there was a toy chest but a stuffed fox looked like it had fallen out. Y/N walked over to pick up the fox and stared into its button eyes.

“That’s a good choice,” A soft voice made Y/N look away from the fox. They found a woman standing by the previously closed glass doors. She was very tall with silver hair and hazel eyes. She wore a pale pink cardigan over a blouse and slacks. When the woman noticed Y/N’s surprise, she gave the girl a soft smile.

“You must be Y/N Wayne,” The girl nodded shyly, clutching the fox to her chest.

“Well then, hello Y/N. My name is Doctor Shiloh Blackwood, but you can call me Shiloh if you’d like. I’ve heard a lot about you from Alfred,” Y/N glanced over at her butler, who gave his young charge a nod. Shiloh stepped out of the way of the door, revealing her office behind her.

“Why don’t you come in and we can get to know each other? You can bring your new friend, if you wish,” Alfred gave Y/N another reassuring smile and the girl walked into the office area. She tried not to panic as Shiloh closed the door behind them. The doctor pulled back the curtain that was covering the glass door to give Y/N the view of the waiting room.

“I need to keep the door closed for your session. But I don’t mind keeping the curtain pulled back,” Y/N looked up at Shiloh before glancing back at Alfred. The girl waved at him through the window and got one in return. Shiloh walked over to an egg-shaped chair and sat down, grabbing a notebook from the end table next to it. Y/N took in the details of this room as well. There were a few other seat options to choose from: another egg-shaped one, one that was almost like the armchair in front of the fireplace back at the Manor, and even a rainbow-colored beanbag chair. With her new fox friend in hand, Y/N sat down as neatly as she could on the beanbag. For a moment, the doctor and patient stared at each other.

“So did Alfred tell you why you’re here today?” Y/N shook her head as she looked down at the fox.

“He said you help kids who are sad,” Shiloh smiled.

“That’s one way to put it. I help children understand their feelings. Sometimes feelings can be big and confusing, even for us adults, and it’s nice to have someone to talk about them.” 

XX

The therapy sessions became a regular part of Y/N’s routine. Every week, Alfred would drive them across the bay to Metropolis, and Y/N would sit in Shiloh’s office and talk. At first, the daughter of Hecate did not know what to say. She would clutch the fox, which she named Finnick after a character in one of the books Jay had read aloud, and stare at the colorful rug beneath her feet while Shiloh asked gentle questions about her week, her friends, her school, her family. Slowly, hesitantly, Y/N began to open up.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m invisible,” Y/N admitted during her third session. She was sitting cross-legged on the beanbag chair, Finnick in her lap, her small fingers tracing the stitching on his face.

“Invisible?” Shiloh’s voice was curious, not judgmental. Y/N nodded, but did not look away from Finnick.

“At school. The other kids don’t see me. They look right through me, like I’m not even there,” Y/N glanced up from Finnick to Shiloh, who was writing something down in her notebook.

“Jenny doesn’t sit with me anymore. She has new friends now. And when I try to play with the other kids, they forget I’m there. It’s like I’m a ghost,” Shiloh nodded, her expression thoughtful.

“That sounds very lonely,” Y/N nodded, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to let fall. She buried her face against Finnick’s felt body.

“It is. But it’s not like that at camp. At camp, everyone sees me. They talk to me and play with me and…and I’m not invisible there,” Y/N did not see Shiloh making another note.

“Tell me more about camp. What makes it different?” Y/N thought about it. She thought about Lou Ellen and Maeve, about Connor and Julia and Fitz, about Josie and Sienna and Clarisse. She thought about the campfire songs and the strawberry fields and the way the other campers made Y/N feel welcomed. She thought about the feeling of belonging, of being seen and being loved for who she was instead of what her last name meant.

“Everyone there is like me. Well, not exactly like me. But they understand. They don’t think I’m weird for having trouble with words or reading, or for needing to move around a lot. And they don’t look through me. They look at me,”

“Like your family?” Y/N’s expression flickered. She looked back down at Finnick.

“Sometimes. Alfred looks at me. Dickie used to, but he’s sad now. And Pa…” Y/N trailed off, her voice growing small.

“Pa doesn’t look at me anymore. Not really. He’s too busy looking for the monster,” Y/N did not mean to say that. The words had just slipped out. Shiloh’s pen paused over her notebook while Y/N glanced out the window doors toward the waiting room where Alfred was waiting, looking panicked.

“The monster?” Y/N bit her lip. She knew she had said too much and broken the rules that her family had almost cemented into the girl’s mind. But Shiloh’s voice was soft and gentle, like Alfred’s when he was trying to coax the girl out of a bad mood.

“Y/N, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I want you to know that you can tell me anything. I won’t be upset. And I won’t tell anyone unless you’re in danger. This is a safe space,” Y/N looked back over at Shiloh. The doctor’s hazel eyes were warm and patient. Y/N wanted to trust her.

“I can’t tell you about the monster. It’s a secret,” Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper. Shiloh nodded, making another note in her notebook.

“That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it. But if you ever want to, I’m here,” Y/N nodded, relief flooding through her as she hugged Finnick to her chest. For the rest of the session, she talked about camp, about the older kids at the local skatepark who were quick to take Y/N under their wing, about the new books Alfred had ordered for her from the demigod contact. By the time the girl made it back to the butler in the waiting room, she felt lighter than she had before.

XX

As the weeks passed, Y/N found small moments of joy wherever she could. Skateboarding had become her escape. On the weekends, Alfred would drive the girl to one of the local skateparks and watch as Y/N practiced the moves Fitz had taught her. The skatepark in Bristol was not well populated with only a few kids that Y/N recognized from galas, but there were a couple of older kids that seemed to look out for the younger ones. For the first couple of visits, the youngest Wayne had to rent a skateboard from the entrance hut.

Alfred had eventually kept his promise and bought Y/N her own skateboard: a beautiful piece of craftsmanship with a dark wood deck and custom paint job in her favorite color with a swarm of bats and birds flying right next to each other. Y/N had cried when she saw it, throwing her arms around the butler and holding tight. The older kids at the skate park had celebrated when the girl came with her new board.

“Thank you, Alfred. Thank you, thank you, thank you,”

“You are most welcome, Young Master. Though I must insist on a full set of protective gear, no matter your demigod nature. Helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist guards. Non-negotiable,” Y/N had agreed enthusiastically, and Alfred had smiled that rare, warm smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

XX

After the first couple of sessions, which Shiloh considered the getting-to-know-you visits, the therapist began to ask Y/N questions as a sort of homework; something for the girl to think about until her next visit. Sometimes they felt simple, like ‘what do you do after you have a nightmare?’ or ‘what would you change at school if given the chance?’. Y/N knew the answers for those: Alfred would make the same warm honey milk that Camp Half-Blood had sent the recipe to the butler and the girl would curl up in the library in one of Jason’s hoodies and no more mean teachers.

But it was the questions like ‘what does safe mean to you?’ or even ‘who in your life do you want to be most like when you grow up?’ left Y/N stumped for those week periods between sessions. The girl would go to Alfred to get a better idea on the word ‘safe’. To Y/N, safe meant Dickie’s warm hugs, Alfred’s rare smiles, and when she used to curl up against Jason as he read aloud. But it also meant looking out at the Gotham sky and seeing the bat signal since that meant Batman was out keeping their city safe.

In the middle of December, Shiloh asked a question that made Y/N feel frozen like the snow outside.

“What do you know about death?” Y/N looked up from Finnick in her lap at the therapist.

“Death?” Shiloh nodded, as she made a note in her notebook.

“Yes. That is your homework question for this session. When you come back, I want to know what you know about death and what it means,” Shiloh closed her notebook and stood from her egg chair. Y/N stood up too, still clinging to Finnick.

“Like always, you can ask Alfred and even your brother Dickie about the topic, but make sure you make your own conclusion on what you think death is. Alright?” Y/N nodded, and she held up Finnick for Shiloh to take back like she always did at the end of their sessions.

“How about you take Finnick home with you? Think of him as an early Christmas gift,” Y/N hugged the felt fox to her chest, smiling softly against his faux fur.

“Thank you, Miss Shiloh,” The therapist winked at Y/N before she opened the glass door to the waiting room, where Alfred was waiting.

“See you after the holidays,”

XX

Y/N thought over the word ‘death’ during the car trip home and even during dinner. It was during dessert that the girl finally spoke up.

“Alfred, what is death?” The butler froze as he was placing a piece of strawberry cheesecake in front of Y/N. For a long moment, the only sound in the dining room was the soft ticking of a clock nearby. Alfred’s hand trembled almost imperceptibly before he steadied himself, setting the plate down with his usual precision.

“That is a very heavy question for a young mind, Young Master Y/N,” Alfred’s voice was carefully neutral, but Y/N could see the storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. The daughter of Hecate looked down at her cheesecake, suddenly not hungry.

“Miss Shiloh said it was my homework. She said I could ask you and Dickie about it, but I had to come up with my own answer,” Alfred took the seat across from Y/N, folding his hands on the table. The gesture reminded the girl of the way he sat when they first discussed her troubles at school.

“Death is…a transition,” Alfred began slowly, choosing his words with the same care he used when handling fine china.

“A transition from one state of being to another. For some, it is an ending. For others, it is merely a beginning,” Y/N tilted her head, her small fingers tracing the edge of her plate.

“Is it like when someone goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up?” Alfred’s expression flickered again with pain, which he quickly suppressed.

“In a way, yes. But sleep implies the possibility of waking. Death is…permanent. At least in this world,” Y/N thought about the ghosts that haunted Wayne Manor. She thought about Martha and Thomas, about John and Mary, about Catherine. She thought about the way those spirits lingered, unable to move on.

“But the ghosts, they’re still here. They’re not gone gone,” Alfred’s eyes widened slightly. He had known Y/N could see the spirits of the house, but hearing her speak so plainly about them still sent a chill down the butler’s spine.

“The dead can linger, my dear. Some more than others. But they are not truly living. They are echoes of the people they used to be, memories given form,” Y/N considered this, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Then where do they go? When they stop being ghosts, I mean,” Alfred was silent as he considered what to say. He thought about the Wayne family crypt, about the bodies kept there. He thought about the souls that he knew linger in their home, about the ones that he wished he could have just one more moment with.

“The answer to that question, my dear, is one that scholars and philosophers have debated for centuries. Some believe in an afterlife, a realm of peace where the dead find rest. Others believe in reincarnation, in the cycle of rebirth, becoming someone new. And still others believe that when we die, we simply cease to be,” Y/N’s eyes went wide at the different possibilities after death.

“What do you believe, Alfred?” The butler reached across the table and took Y/N’s small hand in his own. His skin was warm and calloused from years of service.

“I believe that death is not something to be feared. It is a natural part of existence, as certain as the rising of the sun. But I also believe that it is the living who suffer the most from it. The dead feel no pain, no grief. They have moved beyond that. But we who are left behind must carry on,” Y/N glanced over Alfred’s shoulder where Martha appeared. One of her pale hands hovered over the butler’s shoulder and she looked like she wanted to cry.

XX

Christmas morning dawned gray and cold, the sky spitting out a mixture of sleet and snow that coated the Manor’s grounds in a thin layer of ice. Y/N had barely slept the night before, or ever since she had sent her letter to Santa a few weeks ago. She had asked for just one thing this year. The girl had been dreaming of Jason, but last night was different. It was not like the normal dreams where he was alive and happy like before, but a new dream where he was standing in the Manor’s foyer, his back to Y/N. He was wearing his Robin uniform, the one with the long yellow cape that the girl liked to hide under. But this time, Y/N could tell something was wrong.

“Jay?” Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper. Jason had turned, but his face was a blur. He said something, but the words were garbled, like a radio tuned to the wrong station. Then the front door opened, and Jason had walked out into the gray morning, disappearing into the fog.

Y/N had woken in her bedroom, the breath knocked out of her, her small hands clutching at her blankets. She had lain there for a long moment, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars her brothers had once helped put up with her heart pounding in her chest. Then Y/N had gotten up, wrapped herself in one of Jason’s hoodies, and made her way down to the Manor’s foyer. She stood by the front door, just like she had been doing for the past year, waiting for a brother who would never come through it. 

XX

Dick had not intended to come to the Manor on Christmas morning. He had made a promise to himself after that fight in the BatCave, a promise to keep his distance, to protect his heart from the pain of watching Bruce destroy himself. But Kori and his friends had come together to get gifts for Y/N and Dick could not bring himself to be another person to neglect his sister on this day. Alfred had met the former Boy Wonder in the foyer and took the large box of gifts with a fond smile.

“Where’s Little Wing?” Alfred closed the coat closet door after putting away Dick’s jacket. The butler kept his back toward the vigilante for a moment. When the older man turned around, there was a heartbroken look on his face.

“The library,”

“What’s wrong, Alfred?” The butler glanced away with a sigh.

“The doctor I have sent the Young Master to had broached the topic of death recently…” Dick felt something snap in his chest.

“Does she…?” Alfred shook his head.

“No. She asked what I knew about death and what I thought happened afterwards. But Master Jason’s name has not come up yet,” Dick still felt unsteady.

“Then, what happened?” 

“She has been lost in thought since that night. And this morning, I awoke to the young master waiting by the front door again,” Dick knew that Alfred had gotten up at four in the morning to get started on his day. If the butler woke up to find Y/N already up, who knew when the girl woke up themself or if she went to sleep at all.

“There’s also this,” Alfred pulled an envelope out of his inside suit pocket, handing it over to Dick. The mailing address was to Santa Claus in the North Pole, and it was from Y/N. The vigilante pulled the letter out and felt his heart break even more when he saw the one thing his sister had asked for this Christmas.

‘Please send Jay home’

XX

Dick stared at Y/N from the entrance of the library. She was still in her pajamas and looking out at the snow falling onto the grounds of Wayne Manor. There was a stuffed fox on the girl’s lap, where she was absentmindedly playing with one of its ears. As he stepped closer, he realized that his little sister had dark shadows under her eyes like she had not been sleeping. Dick sat down next to his sister on the couch. He could see that she was biting her lip in thought so the vigilante waited. It was not a long wait before Y/N turned her head to her big brother.

“Dickie?”

“Yeah, Little Wing?” Y/N bit her lip again and looked down at her hands. With a heavy heart, Dick realized that his little sister was wearing one of Jason’s old hoodies

“Jay’s not coming home, is he?” The question hit Dick like a physical blow. He had known this day would come, had even dreaded it, and had prayed he would not be the one to answer it. But here they were, and Y/N was looking at him with those big eyes, fighting back tears, and just hoping Dick would say what Alfred would always say.

Not yet.

Dick opened his mouth, but the lie would not come. He could not do it. Not anymore.

“...No. I’m sorry. Jay…Jay can’t come home…” Y/N’s face crumpled, but she fought to keep her composure.

“Is he lost like Odysseus?” Dick blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question. Odysseus? Where would an eight-year-old even learn about some mythical character even he hadn’t even learned about until high school? But he shook the thought away, focusing on what to say next. 

“Little Wing, what did Alfred say about death?”

“Alfred said when someone dies, they are no longer here with us…That death was permanent and no one could come back,” Y/N glanced through the room as if she was looking for or at something before she turned back to Dick.

“But…Jay’s just lost, right, Dickie? He said he’d be back soon. He promised. Dickie. Please, you have to find a way to bring him back,” Dick could feel his heart breaking at his little sister on the verge of a breakdown.

“You and Pa are heroes. You save people. You can save Jay. Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll be so good. I’ll never complain about anything ever again. I’ll do all my homework, and eat all my vegetables. I’ll help Alfred with chores. I’ll never, ever ask for anything ever again. Just bring Jay back,”

“Y/N…” Y/N’s tears finally began to slip down her face as she shook her head. She knew Dick only used her name when he was being serious. The girl reached forward with shaky hands, grabbing onto Dick’s shirt.

“No, no. Bring me Jay. I want my Jay. Where is Jay? Dickie, please. He promised,” Dick pulled Y/N against his chest into a tight hug. He let his own tears stream down his face as his little sister kept saying ‘he promised’ over and over again.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. But Jay’s gone. He’s dead, baby,” Y/N let out a sound that was half-sob, half-scream, burying her face in Dick’s chest. The man held her tightly, rocking her back and forth as if she was a baby again.

XX

The hours blurred together. Y/N’s sobs slowly quieted into hiccups, then into exhausted whimpers. Dick held her through all of it, his own tears drying on his cheeks that he could not bother to wipe away. The snow outside had begun to fall harder, making it hard to see anything. Y/N’s cries had finally exhausted her, her small body going limp against Dick’s chest. The vigilante looked down at his little sister, her face tear-streaked and swollen, her breathing shallow and uneven. He knew he should move her, should get her up to her bed, but Dick was still an older brother who had just broken his youngest sister’s heart. So sue him, if he wanted to hold onto Y/N for just a little longer.

Dick ran his hand up and down Y/N’s little back. He paused when he felt some sort of metal and cord around her tiny neck. The older man looked down, following the metal and cord around Y/N’s neck and found two very different necklaces. One was a delicate silver with a strange three moon charm with different gemstones; it was beautiful and Dick wondered where Y/N got it. He would have to ask Alfred where his sister had gotten it; maybe he could get one for his Star. The other necklace was a leather cord with a simple-looking bead; it was a silvery blue color with what looked like a twisting green snake painted onto it. That had to be from the camp Y/N went to over the summer. Dick had heard that Alfred had already confirmed the youngest Wayne’s attendance in the upcoming summer; she must have really liked it there.

“Little Wing?” Dick’s voice was barely above a whisper. Y/N stirred slightly, her small hand fisting in his sweater.

“Don’t go, Dickie. Please, not you too,” The words were so quiet, so broken, that Dick felt his heart shatter all over again.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ves’tacha. I’ve got you,” The nickname Dick’s mother once called him just slipped out, but he knew he meant it with his whole heart. Y/N was truly his ‘Beloved’ sister. He pressed a kiss against the top of her head, before he carefully cradled her against his chest as he stood up. The girl’s head lolled against his shoulder, her eyes already fluttering closed, but she still let out a small whimper. 

Dick made his way through the Manor’s halls, not knowing that those that haunted said halls walked alongside him. His parents were at his side, their sad gazes for once not turned toward their son, but to the small one he claimed as family. Martha had kissed her husband’s cheek before leaving him to his constant vigil over the Cave’s entrance as she followed after her grandchildren. Catherine, still weeping since her own son had disappeared from this realm, could only let more tears fall at the sight of the brokenhearted family. Even the ones that Y/N had yet to learn their names, but have been looking after the youngest Wayne since her ghostly sight had been discovered, bowed their heads in solidarity as the two walked past.

Y/N’s room was exactly as the girl had left it earlier that morning, but it felt like a lifetime since Dick had been here. Gone was the crib he made with Alfred; the butler had let the boy choose the colors, a dark green to match Robin’s uniform and a purple so dark it was almost black to match Bruce. In place of the crib was a four-poster bed with drapes in Y/N’s favorite colors, a quilt that Alfred claimed belonged to Martha Wayne’s mother and too many stuffed toys that he knew were from his family and friends. Dick eyed the neon green tiger that he knew Gar had sent the first year he met Y/N as he gently laid the girl on her bed. He began to pull the covers up to her chin, but a small hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

“Stay, Dickie. Please,” Y/N’s voice was thick with exhaustion. Dick looked down at the girl and saw the desperation in her eyes, and he knew he could not refuse her. Not today. Probably not ever.

“Okay, Ves’tacha. Scoot over,” Dick pulled his damp sweater over his head, leaving him in his BPD t-shirt. He climbed into the bed and immediately the girl curled right up against him, her small body fitting against his side like she was always meant to be there. Dick wrapped his arms around her again, tucking her against his chest.

“Love you, Dickie,” Y/N went limp once more against his body, finally resting after who knows how long.

“I love you too, Y/N. More than anything,” Dick pressed another kiss to the top of Y/N’s head, feeling her breathing even out. He closed his own eyes, not moving for some time and just listening to the wind howl outside. For the first time in months, Dick did not feel the need to run.

XX

Dick did not leave Y/N’s side for the next couple of days. He told himself it was because his sister needed him, because she was still grieving, because she was too young to be left alone with her pain. But the truth was simpler and more painful: Dick needed Y/N too. The grief that had been festering inside his chest for months had finally broken open, and being near Y/N was the only thing that made it bearable. They spent the days in a quiet haze, opening gifts by the tree and menorah, eating Alfred’s cooking, and talking about everything and nothing.

But Dick could not ignore the elephant in the room. Bruce had not been home. The man’s bedroom and study were empty. The younger man had seen and heard the news reports on the television and radio. The Batman was out there doing what he always did: hunting for the Joker, losing himself to the darkness, and drowning in his grief. Dick wanted to confront Bruce, wanted to scream at him to make him see what he was doing to his family. But when Dick was about to try to do just that, he discovered something that left the former Boy Wonder filled with ice and dread.

Dick had slipped away at the end of dinner one night as Alfred prepared coffee, hot chocolate and dessert. The grandfather clock loomed before him. He pulled the secret lever to reveal the keypad. He entered his access code and waited, but then the screen flashed red, leaving behind one message.

ACCESS DENIED

Dick had stared at the screen, his blood running cold. He tried again, more carefully and slowly this time, making sure each digit was absolutely correct.

ACCESS DENIED

Dick typed in Alfred’s code, the butler had let the younger man know just in case of an emergency.

ACCESS DENIED

“Maybe Jason’s?” Dick put in Jason’s code; he had helped the younger boy figure out his own when he took over as Robin.

ACCESS DENIED

Dick felt a chill run down his spine. He had one more code he could try. The one Bruce made for a worldwide disaster.

ACCESS DENIED

The screen went black, then displayed a single line of text: 

THIS ACCESS POINT HAS BEEN PERMANENTLY DISABLED BY THE SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR

Dick felt something inside him break. Bruce had locked him out. Not just him, but the rest of his family, even the memory of Jason. There was no coming back from this. Dick pulled out his phone and called Barbara. For half a moment, he felt bad, but then his friend picked up on the second ring.

“Dick? What’s wrong?” Barbara’s voice was sharp with concern. Dick could hear someone in the background singing badly while someone was cheering them on. Barbara was probably with her father at the Gotham PD holiday party. That bad feeling filled the man’s chest again.

“Sorry, Babs…I just…” There was a muffled conversation on the other side of the phone call before the singing slowly began to disappear.

“Dick, take a breath and then tell me what’s going on,” Dick took a steadying breath as he leaned against Bruce’s desk.

“He locked me out…”

“Who did?”

“Bruce. I’m at the Manor, and I tried to get into the Cave, and he locked me out. He shut off the access point. None of the codes work. Mine, Alfred’s, Jason’s, even the emergency one,” Barbara gasped as Dick hung his head, closing his eyes. He felt like clinging to the bare threads that were barely holding his family together and he did not know what to do. Barbara was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, more careful.

“When Bruce started this crusade, I thought I understood. The Joker ruined my life. He needed to be stopped before he ruined more lives. But…Bruce is no longer the Batman I looked up to anymore. He’s more violent and he’s even started to hesitate listening to my advice,” So Bruce was even shutting out Barbara too.

“But the worst was the other day. Bruce almost killed a man. He may have been a henchman, but he is likely going to be in the hospital for months,” Dick bit his lip as a wave of nausea washed over him.

“I don’t know what to do, Babs,”

“Same,” For a moment, the former Robin and Batgirl let the silence linger. The man who saw the best in them was drowning what he thought was justice, but could it even be called justice anymore. 

“I hate to say it, Dick, but you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved,” Dick sighed.

“I know. But I have to try. He’s still my dad. He’s still Bruce, even if he’s forgotten how to be. We need him…Y/N still needs him,” Dick glanced over towards the door of the study, down the hallway that would lead back to his sister.

“How is my favorite munchkin?” Dick let himself smile at Barbara’s nickname for Y/N. It was rare that his friend would interact with the girl, rarer now due to how inaccessible the Manor was for Barbara’s wheelchair. But he remembered the one time that the former Batgirl had helped Dick watch over Y/N when Bruce was at a gala and Alfred was away for vacation. The toddler had been chaotic and had been running circles around the teenagers, but Barbara had scooped up Y/N and the trio made their way down to the home theater. The rest of that night passed quickly with children’s cartoons and movies and way too much popcorn.

“It’s been a rough couple of days,” Every time Dick tried to tell himself that he should head back to Blüdhaven, he would look at Y/N and feel haunted by her breakdown from the other day. Kori had texted him and told him to keep staying with his sister; the Titans would be fine for a little while without him.

“But now she can start healing,”

“Yeah,”

“Look. I’ll keep an eye on Bruce. I’ll track his patterns, make sure he doesn’t go too far. I can’t stop him, but I can still watch over him,”

“Thanks, Babs. I don’t know what else to do,” Barbara sighed.

“You’re doing what you can, Dick. That’s all any of us can do. Now go take care of Y/N, give her a hug for me,” Dick smiled weakly.

“Thanks, Babs, really for everything,”

“Always,” Dick hung up and stood in the empty study for a moment. He glanced at the clock, trembling at the chill in the air. He knew he should feel angry, should feel betrayed, but all Dick felt was a deep, hollow sadness that echoed in the halls of the Manor.

XX

After almost a week of staying at the Manor, Dick finally had to leave. His boss at BPD had messaged him about covering a shift. The vigilante agreed to come back after one last night. He had to break the news to Y/N and Alfred over dinner, but surprisingly the girl was understanding. All she asked of Dick was to read her a bedside story. So after dinner and Y/N’s nightly routine was almost done, the vigilante found himself back in the girl’s bedroom. As Y/N was brushing her teeth, Dick looked around her room for a book. There was a couple on the nightstand. A small smile appeared on his face when he picked up the first one to find Alice in Wonderland. There was a red and green bookmark with a yellow tassel sticking out towards the end. Dick turned when he heard Y/N’s footsteps coming over.

“Hey, I haven’t read this one in a while. How about this one tonight?” Dick held up the book in his hands. But instead of looking excited, Y/N looked like she was about to cry. The girl quickly snatched the book away from her big brother, hugging it to her chest.

“Whoa…hey, Little Wing, what’s wrong? We don’t snatch things like that,” Y/N wiped at her eyes.

“Sorry, Dickie,” Dick kneeled down, putting a hand on Y/N’s shoulder.

“It’s okay. Just tell me what’s going on, okay?” Y/N nodded, before looking down at her book.

“It’s just…Jay was reading this before he…” For a second, Dick did not understand but he glanced back down at the book, catching sight of the bookmark once more, at its Robin uniform colors. Then, it clicked in his brain, remembering all the times he had found his siblings reading together and Jason holding that exact bookmark that Dick knew Y/N had made for her big brother.

“Oh…oh, sweetheart. I understand,” Y/N shook her head.

“I know you said Jay is gone, but if I finish the story, then he really is gone. This way, Jay is just in Wonderland with Alice…and I can visit him,” Dick felt his heart breaking all over again. He gave his little sister a gentle smile.

“I get it, Little Wing. I like that idea. How about this? I won’t finish the story for you, but how about we start it over? We can send Jay onto his trip through Wonderland together,” Y/N thought for a moment over Dick’s words before nodding. Dick motioned towards the bed. He waited for Y/N to climb up before he settled in right next to her. The girl tucked herself against the older man’s side as he wrapped his arm around her and then opened the book to the first page.

“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank…”

XX

The rest of the school year passed in a blur of gray skies and quiet moments. Y/N found a rhythm to her days: school with Miss Guzmán, therapy sessions with Miss Shiloh, skateboarding on weekends, and letters to Lou Ellen and her camp friends. The grief over Jason still lingered like a shadow, but it was no longer the all-consuming darkness that it had been that winter holiday.

In March, Y/N received a letter from Connor Stoll. He was settling into New Rome College, specializing in languages, particularly lost ones. He wrote that he missed Camp Half-Blood but was excited for the future. He also included a photo of himself, his older brother Travis next to a girl and a boy. The girl was apparently Travis’s girlfriend, Ava Delaney, daughter of Pomona while the other boy was Agustín Pérez, son of the Norse god Bragi. Connor had met the son of Bragi at orientation and were supposedly ‘just friends’ but he also called the boy Auggie and had left a small heart by his name on the back of the photo. 

In April, Y/N got a letter from Josie. The daughter of Aphrodite graduated high school early so she could travel Europe with her father as he filmed a new movie over there. She sent photos of ancient ruins and seashores and told the child to keep practicing their cooking skills with the new instructor at camp. She also mentioned meeting a girl while in Rome named Caterina and that she was too pretty for words. Josie lovingly called her Cat and said her father really approved of the Italian girl. Y/N did not know much about romance, that was for bigger kids, but if her friends, Connor and Josie, were happy, then maybe love was something to look forward to when the daughter of Hecate was older.

Julia sent updates from the Hermes Cabin. She was doing well as the new counselor, though Fitz was taking up Connor’s former role as the camp troublemaker. She had hoped that Alphonse would temper the child of Hermes’s mischief, but lately the two have been working together on pranks. Julia, also, has a new year-round camper by the name of Jubilee; the new camper was only a couple years older than Y/N and had a talent for theatrics. There were several bets being made about Jubilee’s parentage, but Julia was hoping the kid would be claimed by summer just so she did not have to deal with the younger girl’s chaos anymore. 

And Lou Ellen wrote about her preparation for the coming summer, about the new spells she had been practicing and the books she had been collecting for Y/N’s education. She mentioned that she had been in contact with a daughter of Pluto named Hazel Levesque who was also a student of Hecate, but she mainly used the Mist as a weapon other than to use spells. Lou Ellen said Mist training would have to wait until Y/N is older, since it could be really tricky at first. That she was just asking Hazel for some advice and what sort of spells the daughter of Hecate could begin to teach her younger sister.

XX

By the time summer arrived, Y/N had grown in ways both visible and invisible. She was a little taller, a little leaner from all the time spent on her skateboard. Her hair had grown longer, falling into her eyes if she did not push it back, but she had waved away Alfred’s attempts to trim it. And there was a quietness to her now, her grief and loneliness clinging to her. But there was also a spark of something new: a determination that flickered behind her eyes like a candle flame.

The day Poppy pulled up to Wayne Manor in his beat-up station wagon, Y/N was waiting by the front door with her trunk packed and Jason’s backpack slung over her shoulders once more. Alfred stood behind her, his hand resting gently on the girl’s shoulder.

“Ready for another summer, kiddo?” Poppy grinned as he hopped out of the car. Y/N nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Ready,” Poppy grinned as he popped open the trunk of his car. Alfred knelt down to adjust Y/N’s collar, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“You have the emergency numbers?”

“Yes, Alfred,”

“And the drachmas?”

“Yes, Alfred,”

“And the rules?”

“Eat my vegetables. Listen to my counselors. Write home every week. And have fun,” Alfred nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright.

“Good. Then off you go, Young Master Y/N,” Y/N leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Alfred’s neck. The butler held her tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he pulled away.

“I’ll miss you,” Y/N’s voice was a whisper, only for Alfred’s ears to hear.

“And I you, my dear. But you will have a wonderful summer. I am sure of it,” Y/N wiped at her eyes, giving Alfred another smile. Then she turned, grabbed Poppy’s outstretched hand, and climbed into the station wagon. As the car pulled away from the Manor, Y/N looked back through the rear window. Alfred stood in the doorway, a small figure against the grand stone facade. She watched until he disappeared from view, then turned to face the road ahead.

XX

Camp Half-Blood was just as Y/N remembered it: the strawberry fields, cabins that were every color of the rainbow, the sound of laughter and clashing swords. Y/N stepped out of the station wagon and breathed in the familiar scent of pine and salt water. For a moment, the weight that had been pressing on her chest for months seemed to lift just a little. A blur of movement caught their eye, and before Y/N could react, two figures were barreling toward her.

“BABY BAT!!!” Fitz’s voice was unmistakable, carrying across the parking lot like a battle cry. They skidded to a stop in front of Y/N, their green hair messy and now a little longer, a braid framed the right side of their face with an orange-red round stone at the end of it.

“Fitz–” Y/N started, but she was cut off as the child of Hermes scooped her up in a crushing hug. The girl melted into the embrace before Fitz pulled away. The daughter of Hecate reached up and fixed Fitz’s askew glasses, getting a cheeky grin in thanks.

“You grew! How much? You were a mere gremlin when you left!” Fitz held Y/N at arm’s length, examining her with exaggerated scrutiny.

“You’ve lost your color! Gotham really does not get any sun, does it? And—oh, oh no. You’ve got that look,” Y/N tilted her head.

“What look?”

“That look,” Fitz repeated, pointing at Y/N’s face. The girl pouted in confusion, not totally understanding the child of Hermes’s words.

“The one that says you’ve been through some stuff. The one that says you need a skateboard, a half-pipe and someone to tell you everything’s going to be okay and fed you a bunch of cookies,” Y/N felt her eyes sting, but she blinked rapidly and tried to give Fitz a small smile to placate the child of Hermes.

“I don’t have a look,” Fitz did not look convinced, nor did Julia as she crouched down next to her sibling and Y/N. The daughter of Hermes soothed away some of the daughter of Hecate’s wild hair.

“You absolutely have a look. But Fitz is right. We’ve got you now, kid. Whatever happened back in Gotham, you’re here now,” Y/N allowed herself to be pulled into another hug by Julia, this one gentler than Fitz’s enthusiastic tackle, but just as warm. The daughter of Hermes held Y/N for a long moment, her hand rubbing small circles on the smaller girl’s back.

“Lou’s been preparing for weeks. She’s even got a whole curriculum planned,” Julia pulled away as she spoke. She looked amused about Lou Ellen’s preparations.

“Come on. Let’s help Poppy get you to your Cabin,”

XX

The Hecate Cabin looked exactly as Y/N remembered it: dark wood, inlaid stones, and carved runes. The door swung open before the girl could get up the stairs, and Lou Ellen stood in the doorway, her white-blonde hair pulled back in its usual twisted bun. There was a familiar screech of an owl further into the cabin, which made the sisters smile.

“Hey hon,” Lou Ellen’s voice was warm as she pulled Y/N into a hug. The girl melted into her big sister’s embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and old books. Y/N felt some of the tension she had not even realized she’d been carrying finally begin to ease.

“I missed you,” Y/N’s voice was muffled against the fabric of Lou Ellen’s overalls.

“I missed you too, little sister. Come on, let’s get you settled. I’ve got so much to show you,” Lou Ellen pulled back, her neon green eyes searching Y/N’s face for a moment. Whatever she saw there made her expression soften.

“You’ve been through it, haven’t you?” Y/N nodded, not trusting her voice. Lou Ellen squeezed her shoulder.

“It’s okay. We’ve got all summer. Plenty of time to talk, or not talk, whichever you need. Heck, I’d bet Clarisse will give you something to hit if that’s what you want,” Lou Ellen picked up Y/N’s trunk that Poppy had left before he went to go meet up with some other Satyrs. The girl giggled a little at her sister’s suggestion about Clarisse as she followed her sister inside their cabin. Maeve waved her wings at the sight of the Gothamite, screeching in her usual eerie way.

“Hi, Maeve!” Y/N ran over to the barn owl and Maeve leaned down to preen the girl’s hair. Lou Ellen walked over as well after leaving the girl’s trunk by her bed. The daughter of Hecate had a soft smile on her face as she looked at her familiar and little sister.

“She says her owlet looks tired. Have you been sleeping well?” Y/N tilted her head.

“Owlet?’ Lou Ellen let out a small laugh, before taking her seat at the table at the center of the cabin.

“Baby owl. She used to call you Pup at first because of Fitz’s nickname for you, but recently changed it up to Owlet. Now stop ignoring my question,” Y/N bit her lip as she took her own seat across from Lou Ellen. The girl shook her head. Her strange dreams had continued since Christmas. It was often about Jason, about forgetting his face and voice, but then it transformed into the same dreams about her father. Y/N could not remember the last time she had seen her father in person. Only fragments of him were scattered around the house: Mister Lucius often came by with paperwork that was left stacked in the study, Alfred had complained about the coffee mugs disappearing from the kitchen cabinets, sometimes a hint of his cologne lingering near his rooms, and even Grandpa Thomas had started to leave the study to roam the Manor with his wife, which he never did.

“Bad dreams,” Lou Ellen frowned at Y/N’s words, but she knew that demigods often had dreams that were considered strange or unusual.

“Did your Alfred make the recipe Will sent him for the honey milk?” The drink was not a cure, just something a camper had seen in a movie and had made one night a young camper had a nightmare. The recipe spread quickly through the camp and it was often made to comfort those who struggled with sleep. Y/N nodded; Alfred had made the honey milk for the bad nights, but those bad nights just kept happening.

“Hmm, maybe we should add lavender or catnip to help. I’ll talk to Will,” Y/N nodded along, but it was clear that Lou Ellen was speaking her thoughts aloud to organize them. The younger daughter of Hecate looked around the Cabin. It had changed a little since the previous summer. The bookshelves were even more packed, with new scrolls and leather-bound tomes, but the shelf by Y/N’s bed had regular books as well that were suited to the younger girl’s tastes. The table the sisters were seated at was no longer covered in books, though Lou Ellen’s side had a stack of notebooks and sketchbooks, ink bottles and a few books. Maeve was preening herself on her branch attached to the table.

“Okay. So I’ve been working on a system,” Lou Ellen’s voice made Y/N turn back to her sister. The older daughter of Hecate practically vibrated with excitement as she gestured to the table.

“A way to teach you the glyphs that will actually make sense. Mother threw me in without making sure I could float. And while it worked out in the end, I don’t want that for you,” Lou Ellen had been in her early teens when she was finally claimed by Hecate, but she had struggled with her powers even before that. Just like Alabaster had, which was why Luke had gotten his claws in her older brother. Thankfully, it was Julia and then Hazel Levesque who helped the struggling Lou Ellen.

“So I thought about it over these past couple months and then it hit me when I was reading. Glyphs in their own way are their own language. When I make a spell, especially a combined spell, I am making words. Watch,” Lou Ellen grabbed her battle sketchbook; it was circular with easily tearable paper. Julia had commissioned Alphonse to make it for her, as well as several additional ones to replace the old ones. Lou Ellen grabbed one of her pens and flipped open the notebook. She began to draw the spiral glyph for wind, making it the center of the spell. Then she made six teardrop shapes along the spiral outer rim. Lastly to complete the spell and with practiced ease, Lou Ellen drew the spell circle around the entire spell but stopped just before closing the circle. The daughter of Hecate looked up at Y/N, who had watched her do this in a matter of seconds with wide eyes.

“Ready?” Y/N nodded eagerly to Lou Ellen’s question, which the older girl answered with a wink and closed the circle. The daughter of Hecate pressed ink-stained fingers to the center of the spell and let her intent flow through her. 

The ink on the paper began to glow first an eerie white gleam for its wind element that began to twinge with blue for the added water. Fog began to bellow upward off of the paper to drift up into the room. Y/N looked around, fascinated by the soupy mist. Lou Ellen often used this spell as a cover; though she mainly used it for Capture the Flag. Sometimes she could change the color of the fog with different colored inks and her intent; Percy Jackson had been fond of the bright blue fog Lou Ellen had used the one time he was at camp for a visit and got to play the game.

“That’s amazing!” Y/N’s voice was filled with wonder as she watched the fog swirl around them. Lou Ellen grinned, clearly pleased with her little sister’s reaction.

“That’s only just the beginning. Watch this,” Lou Ellen circled her finger against the spell circle, continuing to flow her intent into her work. Around the sisters, the fog began to swirl in the same direction the witch was moving her finger. Y/N whipped her head around to follow the fog, stars in her eyes.

“Can you make shapes?” Lou Ellen grinned at Y/N’s question.

“I can. But it takes a bigger spell circle,” Lou Ellen finally took her finger away from the paper to release the spell. The fog slowly began to dissipate, leaving the room slightly chilled.

“The real magic is in the intention. The glyphs are your words, the spell is the sentence, and your intent is the meaning. Without intent, the glyphs are just shapes. Without the glyphs, the intent has no form. Do you understand?” Y/N thought over Lou Ellen’s words, trying to understand their meaning, before she nodded.

“I think so. The glyphs are like letters, and I put them together to make words. And the words have to mean something, or they don’t work, right?” Lou Ellen’s grin widened.

“Exactly! Do you want to try your first spell?” Y/N nodded eagerly. Lou Ellen tore out the fog spell from her battle notebook as the girl across from her sat up on her knees to watch her big sister.

“The ‘Light’ spell is the easiest, but it’s also one of the most versatile. You can use it to illuminate a room, to create a small flame, or even to blind an opponent if you’re clever enough,” Lou Ellen began to draw the new spell. A dot in the middle of the page was then surrounded by a small circle and then eight short lines like rays of sun wrapped around the middle circle and then finished it off with the final circle. Lou Ellen pressed her finger to the center of her spell to imbue her intent. A small flame came up from the paper. Lou Ellen pulled her finger away from the paper, but did not let go of her intent as she cupped the flame, forcing her focus towards the fire instead. She moved her hand around and the flame moved with her as if tethered to her palm. Lou Ellen then closed her hand, willing away her intent to extinguish the flame. The daughter of Hecate looked over at Y/N, whose mouth was agape. Lou Ellen could not help her chuckling at her little sister.

“Ready?” Y/N nodded again excitedly. Lou Ellen grabbed one of the empty sketchbooks she had available and slid it across the table. The younger girl took off her backpack and pulled out the calligraphy set Alfred had given her. Lou Ellen held up the spell she had just drawn so Y/N could copy it. The younger daughter of Hecate drew as carefully as she could with painstaking precision. It was not perfect, but it was close.

“Now, do as I did. Place a finger onto the glyph and focus. Focus on your intent. Think about what you want it to do. What sort of light you want it to become,” Y/N closed her eyes, concentrating. She could have thought about all sorts of light that was in her life that she wanted her light spell to become: about the light that filled her tower at sunset, about the warm glow of the fireplace in the library, even about the way Alfred would turn on the small lamp by Y/N’s bed before saying goodnight. But the light that she thought she wanted was from a memory with Jason, about the nights they would watch fireflies fly all around the gardens. That was what Y/N wanted. Lou Ellen watched a small will-o’-wisp of light pop up from Y/N’s spell, but then it was followed by several others forming as well, exactly like fireflies. 

“Y/N, open your eyes,” Y/N did as she was told and she found herself surrounded by the will-o’-wisps. Some were even blinking like a firefly would, but they stayed floating around their creator. With excited breath, Y/N grinned widely as she looked around at her spell. Lou Ellen could not help but smile as well.

“Okay, release your spell. Let go of what you felt, will them away,” Y/N lifted her finger away from her spell circle. She remembered Jason telling her to say good night to the fireflies so the girl could go to bed. So in her mind, Y/N said good night to her will-o’-wisps and the tiny balls of light faded away. The girl beamed over at Lou Ellen, who returned it with a wide smile.

“That was amazing for a first attempt,” For the first time in months, Y/N felt like she had control over something, that she could do something to make a difference in her own life.

“So, about your schedule,” Y/N looked up at Lou Ellen at the sound of her voice. She tilted her head curiously.

“What about my schedule?”

“I would like to include magic lessons during the week, not just the weekend like last summer. So are there any activities you would not mind dropping to do so?” Y/N thought over her usual camp schedule. She liked all of the activities she did, but there were some she was willing to drop.

“Swimming, Archery and Pegasi Riding,” Lou Ellen nodded.

“Sorry, but Archery is nonnegotiable. It’s a required activity for all demigods. Chiron wants us to always be prepared for battle even if we’re in a time of peace,” Y/N pouted a little, but then shrugged. The other activities she dropped could still happen during weekends, since those days were usually free time for the daughter of Hecate.

“Am I going to be able to do Capture the Flag this year?” Lou Ellen shook her head.

“No. Chiron wants you to progress a little more with your weapons training before he lets you loose in that game. I also want you to have a few magic tricks up your sleeve before you do that too,” Y/N nodded, accepting the answer. She would just have to annoy Clarisse a little more so the daughter of Ares will let the younger girl do more than just swing a wooden sword. A conch horn could be heard outside in the distance, making the daughters of Hecate look at each other.

“Dinner time. Come on, I heard from the harpies that there’s going to be a special dessert tonight,” Y/N grinned as she jumped off her chair. The younger daughter of Hecate took her backpack over to her bed before she waited by the front door for her sister. Lou Ellen gave Maeve a scratch under the owl’s chin before joining her sister. She held out her hand for Y/N to take.

“Hey, Y/N?” The girl looked up at her sister’s voice. Lou Ellen had a soft smile on her face as she opened the Cabin door.

“I’m proud of you, you know. For today, for everything. You’re going to do great things, I just know it,” Y/N felt her eyes sting, but this time it was not from sadness. She nodded, leaning against her big sister with a small smile on her little face.

“Thanks, Lou,”

“Any time, hon,”

XX

The days at Camp Half-Blood fell back into a comfortable rhythm. She still had the same lessons and activities like the previous summer. There were many familiar faces around the camp, but some people were missing. Josie and Connor were two people Y/N missed the most, but Sherman from Ares Cabin and Sabrine from the Aphrodite Cabin were also gone as well. There were also new people the child of Hecate met; Minho Hwa, a son of Aphrodite who took over the cooking lessons from Josie and Jubilee Radcliffe, the girl Julia had written about in her letters, who was actually Mr. D’s daughter. She was 10, had warm olive skin with freckles all over, hazel eyes and honey-blonde hair that curled wildly. When the daughter of Dionysus wasn’t following after her older brother, Pollux, she still kept to the Hermes Cabin schedule, which meant she was often in the same lessons as Y/N. After a few days of being in the same classes, Jubilee followed the daughter of Hecate to the half-pipe after dinner.

“So why does Fitz call you Baby Bat?” Y/N looked at Jubilee as she held onto her skateboard.

“I’m from Gotham,” Y/N noticed a pair of bright pink roller skates strung together and thrown over Jubilee’s shoulders.

“Oh that’s cool! I’m from DC. I’ve seen Wonder Woman a couple of times. Have you ever seen Batman?” Y/N bit her lip, wanting more than anything to nod her head, but she shook it instead.

“No. I live in the Bristol neighborhood. We don’t get a lot of villains out there so Batman isn’t seen there much,” Jubilee pouted, but she quickly recovered.

“That’s a shame. But I bet you’ve seen some of the cool stuff anyway. Your city is supposedly haunted or something,” Y/N giggled at Jubilee’s comment about her hometown.

“Or something. I did see the aftermath of Miss Poison Ivy taking over Robinson Park. She made a bunch of huge flowers that reminded me of Wonderland,” Jubilee’s eyes sparkled with excitement as the two girls got closer to the half-pipe.

“Tell me everything!”

XX

Y/N and Jubilee quickly became inseparable. The daughter of Dionysus was loud, enthusiastic, and had a dramatic flair that fit perfectly with her divine parentage, but also apparently her mortal parent as well. Her mother was Nimona Radcliffe, a semi-famous stage actress, and Jubilee eventually wanted to be like her mother. The daughter of Dionysus was going to be a year-round camper, due to her mother’s heavy schedule, so to some degree she knew almost exactly what Y/N went through with her own father. Jubilee was also fiercely loyal, and she took one look at Y/N’s quiet loneliness and decided that the other girl needed a friend and that friend was going to be her. It was the kind of friendship that happened quickly and easily, the way friendships did when you were young and the world was still full of possibilities. They spent their free time together: skateboarding and roller-skating, exploring the edges of the forest, trading stories about their families, and making up elaborate games that only they understood the rules to. The camp soon found that if you went looking for one kid, the other was always going to be nearby. For the first time since Jenny had drifted away at school, Y/N had a friend who actually saw her.

But Y/N’s true focus that summer was on magic. Lou Ellen was a patient teacher, encouraging the younger daughter of Hecate’s imagination for spells. Every day, Y/N had to try a new spell, whether it turned out right like her will-o’-wisps or really wrong like the time she first attempted a water spell and it shot off the page like a high-powered water gun and sprayed Lou Ellen completely. The older daughter of Hecate had laughed that off and immediately hugged her sister to get her wet as well before showing where the younger had gotten wrong with her spell. 

XX

The summer passed in a blur of growth and discovery. Y/N’s magical abilities expanded rapidly under Lou Ellen’s patient tutelage. She learned to form simple shields, to manipulate small objects, to create minor illusions, and even handle various elements to a novice degree. But her favorite spell was her first, her will-o’-wisp fireflies. Just like Lou Ellen could change the color of her spells with different inks, Y/N could do the same with her tiny lights. The girl often fell asleep reading as her will-o’-wisps hovered over her.

But it was not just the magic that Y/N grew in ability. Her combat skills had improved somewhat under Clarisse’s watchful eye. The daughter of Ares had finally relented and allowed Y/N to progress from a wooden sword to a blunted bronze blade. Y/N was still clumsy, still too small to properly wield the weapon, but she was determined. She practiced every day, even on the days that she did not have the sword and shield practice, with her small hands developing calluses that Alfred would definitely notice and worry over when Y/N returned home.The girl was not sure if the sword was the weapon she wanted to be her primary weapon, but Clarisse had said that figuring that out could happen when the daughter of Hecate was older. Lou Ellen had her battle notebook, but she also preferred her bow and even had arrows that had spells carved into their wood; she merely had to focus her magical intent into the arrow and let the arrow loose.

XX

But even as Y/N grew stronger, even as she made friends and learned new skills, the grief still lingered. It was a quiet companion, always present, always waiting. Sometimes, in the dead of night, Y/N would wake from a dream of Jason and lie in her bed, staring at the ceiling and wonder if she would ever feel whole again, if the hole in her heart would ever heal. These thoughts were often accompanied with tears.

Lou Ellen noticed; she always did. She would wake from her own sleep as if she knew that her sister had another bad dream and would pad over to Y/N’s bed with quiet footsteps. Her little sister always made room for her big sister, just like she would if the younger girl came over to her bed. The daughter of Hecate would lay down with Y/N and run her hand through the younger girl’s hair, humming softly until Y/N’s tears finally stopped.

“I miss him too,” Lou Ellen had whispered one night as Y/N wiped away her own tears. The girl looked curiously at her sister.

“I never met him, but I miss him. Because he was important to you, and he made you happy. And I wish I could have known him,” Y/N sniffled, tears welling up in her eyes once more.

“I think he would have liked it here. He would have gotten along with all you big kids really good,” Y/N’s voice was wobbly as the tears threatened to fall once more. Lou Ellen smiled as she pulled Y/N’s blanket over herself and got more comfortable.

“Really? What Cabin do you think would suit him most?” Y/N thought it over as she wiped at her eyes some more.

“Maybe Hermes. Though I think he used to read more than all the Athena kids do,” Lou Ellen chuckled.

“I think we both know that Fitz would have probably driven him up the wall,” Y/N giggled, but then shook her head.

“No. Jay’s favorite book was Pride and Prejudice. He would have liked the fact that Fitz named themself after Mister Darcy. I think he would have also liked the pranks they come up with and would try to use them on Dickie,” Lou Ellen laughed again, bumping her forehead against Y/N’s. The sisters were quiet for a couple of moments, before the younger girl spoke up again.

“Lou? Will it get better? The sadness?” Lou Ellen was quiet for a long moment, her fingers still carding through Y/N’s hair. The only sounds in the Cabin were Maeve’s soft hoot-like snores and the distant chirping of crickets outside.

“I think…” Lou Ellen began slowly, her voice thoughtful.

“I think it gets different. Not easier, exactly, but different. You learn to carry it with you instead of letting it carry you,” Lou Ellen shifted to look down at Y/N’s face, her neon green eyes soft in the darkness.

“Some days, it will feel like the sadness is too heavy, like you can’t breathe around it. And on those days, you have to let yourself feel it. You cry, you scream, you break things if you have to. You don’t have to be strong all the time. That’s what I’m here for, and Alfred, and even Fitz and your other friends,” Y/N pressed her face against Lou Ellen’s shoulder, her fingers curling into the fabric of the older girl’s sleep shirt.

“But other days, you’ll wake up and the sadness will be quieter. It’ll still be there, like a shadow that follows you around, but it won’t be so loud. And those are the days you hold onto, because they mean you’re healing, even if it doesn’t feel like it,” Y/N was quiet for a moment, absorbing Lou Ellen’s words. Then, in a voice so small it was almost inaudible, she whispered.

“Do you think Jay knows I still love him? Even though he’s gone?” Lou Ellen felt her heart crack a little at the question. She hugged Y/N tighter, putting her chin atop the younger girl’s head.

“Hon, I don’t know much about what happens after death. I think it’s different for everyone, mortal or not. But I do know that love doesn’t just disappear when someone dies. It’s still there, and I think…I think they can feel it. Wherever they are,” Y/N sniffled again, burying her face in Lou Ellen’s chest. She missed her Jay, she missed his voice and warm hugs, she missed that he was her hero inside and out of the cape. 

“I hope so too,” The sisters lay there in comfortable silence for a long while, the weight of the conversation settling around them like a heavy blanket. After some time, Lou Ellen heard Y/N’s breathing even out into the slow rhythm of sleep. She pressed a kiss to the top of the younger girl’s head, before she whispered into the darkness of their Cabin.

“Sleep well, little one. I’ve got you,”

XX

The summer ended too quickly, as summers always did. On the last full day of camp, Y/N sat on the dock with her feet dangling over the water, watching the sun set over the Long Island Sound. Jubilee sat beside the daughter of Hecate, her honey-blonde hair a wild mess of tangles from a day of running around the camp. The two girls had spent their last day together trying to do everything they had not gotten around to doing: a water balloon fight that soon turned into a whole camp escapade, trying each other’s skating equipment that only ended up in a trip to the Apollo Medic Tent and all other sort of things children were supposed to do at their ages. The older demigods just let the two kids be, letting them have this day to themselves, since they knew that Y/N would be headed home the next day and Jubilee would be staying at camp.

“I’m going to miss you,” Jubilee’s voice was surprisingly quiet. Y/N looked over at her friend, feeling a lump form in her throat.

“I’m going to miss you too,” It was true. After the school year of basically being alone, Y/N had someone who understood her and she understood Jubilee too.

“Promise you’ll write?” Jubilee held out her pinky. Y/N linked her pinky with the daughter of Dionysus’s.

“Promise,”

“You’ll come back next summer?”

“Try and stop me,” Jubilee grinned, her usual brightness returning.

“Good. Because I’ve got so many plans for us. The big half-pipe, joining Capture the Flag finally and I even want to try the rope obstacle course with you,” Jubilee was terrified of heights so the obstacle course and Pegasi riding were the only activities from the schedule she did not do. But she had seen how much fun Y/N had up there and thought maybe it would not be so bad if she was up there with her friend. Y/N laughed, the sound surprising her. It felt good to laugh, to feel light, even if the weight of the coming school year loomed over the girl like a storm cloud.

“Deal!”

XX

The drive back to Gotham was long and quiet. Y/N watched the familiar landscapes give way to the familiar gray of her city, her heart heavy with the weight of leaving camp behind. Poppy kept the radio volume low, letting the girl process in silence. When the station wagon finally pulled through the gates of Wayne Manor, Y/N felt a strange mix of emotions: relief at seeing home, sadness at leaving camp, and anxiety at whatever awaited her inside. Alfred was waiting on the front steps, just as he had been the year before. Y/N had barely waited for the car to stop before she launched herself out of the car and to the butler. She threw her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his chest.

“Alfred,” Y/N’s voice was muffled against his shirt.

“Welcome home, Young Master,” Alfred’s voice was warm, his hand coming up to rest on the back of Y/N’s head.

“I trust you had a good summer?” Y/N nodded, her eyes stinging with tears. She had learned so much, grown so much, but there was still so much she did not understand. So much that she was still waiting for.

For now, though, Y/N was home. And that was enough.

XX

A few miles away from Wayne Manor, in a mansion that was just as grand but infinitely emptier, Tim Drake sat in his room surrounded by photographs, newspaper clippings, and a conspiracy board that would have made any seasoned detective proud. His computer hummed softly in the corner, its screen displaying a paused frame from a blurry video that had been circulating the hero forums for a few months. 

At the center of Tim’s board was a single photograph: Bruce Wayne, standing outside Wayne Enterprises, his face half-turned away from the camera. But Tim knew what was underneath that expensive suit and that billionaire’s smile. He knew the truth that no one else seemed to know.

Bruce Wayne was Batman.

It had taken Tim months to piece it all together. Years, really, if he counted the time he’d spent obsessing over the Caped Crusader. He even risked nights out alone in Gotham just to take photos from afar of Batman and Robin. But soon that obsession led to analyzing every detail of the heroes. The way Batman moved, the way he fought, the way he carried himself; it all soon pointed toward one man. And once Tim had that thread, everything else began to unravel.

The Evidence Board:

Center: Bruce Wayne = Batman

Photo 1: Bruce Wayne at a Wayne Enterprises charity gala, 3 years ago. A large bruise on his jaw that matched the one Batman had received during a confrontation with Killer Croc the night before.

Photo 2: Batman and the first Robin, Dick Grayson, leaping across a Gotham rooftop. The acrobatic style of this Robin matched the exact performances of the former circus performer who Bruce Wayne had adopted.

Photo 3: Batman and the second Robin, Jason Todd, standing next to the BatMobile. Tim had analyzed the angle of the photo and determined that the second Robin was approximately the same height and build as the boy Bruce Wayne had adopted after Dick Grayson moved out. The boy that died several years later at the hands of the worst of Batman’s villains.

Photo 4: Batman all alone. There was no new Robin after Jason Todd’s death. That was a problem. Tim had been monitoring Batman’s activities for over a year, and he had seen the way the vigilante had changed since losing Jason. Batman was more brutal now, more violent. His movements were sharper, less controlled and he was making mistakes.

Photo 5: Y/N Wayne, standing in the schoolyard at Gotham Academy, looking lonely. Underneath this photo was a post-it note with a question mark.

Why is she not Robin?

This was the question that haunted Tim. Bruce Wayne had a biological child. She was the right age to be trained from the beginning. She has been in the Wayne household since infancy, that was long enough to be shaped into a Robin. She has been there for years, growing up alongside Dick Grayson and Jason Todd. She would have known the secrets, should have known the truth of her family.

But Y/N was not Robin.

Tim had watched her at school, had observed her on the bus, and had even done a few nights of surveillance on the Wayne Manor grounds. Y/N was just a kid; a lonely kid who skated at the local park, who seemed to like Greek mythology, who always seemed to be reading or drawing or just staring out at the Gotham skyline as if waiting for something. Y/N did not have the build of a warrior or soldier. She did not have the scars or the bruises that came from nightly patrol. She did not have the intensity in her eyes that Tim saw in Dick Grayson’s photographs or the determined set of the jaw that Batman wore under his cowl.

Y.N was just a girl who was alone, who was clearly grieving the loss of her brother, who had been forgotten by the father who now spent all his time hunting the monster that had stolen his son.

Why was she not Robin?

Tim did not have an answer for that. Not yet. But he had other pieces of the puzzle that he was fitting together.

Photo 6: A strange station wagon driving up Wayne Manor’s drive. Tim had taken this photo through his telescope. The driver had been a man with an uneven gait. He had been dressed in cargo shorts and a bright pink t-shirt, something utterly out of place in Bristol.

Photo 7: Y/N Wayne getting into that same station wagon, a trunk in the back. Alfred Pennyworth had been standing at the front door, his hand raised in a wave. He had not seemed alarmed nor called for security. He had watched his charge drive away with a stranger without a trace of concern.

Where did Y/N go during the summers?

The question had actually been answered during the school year when Miss Guzmán had the class talk about their summers. Y/N had mentioned going to a summer camp, one that was specialized for kids with ADHD. The youngest Wayne had called it Camp Delphi and Tim had written it down because he had thought it was a strange name for a camp. When he had gotten home later that day, he had gone looking for Camp Delphi. 

It was supposedly in Long Island, New York. Its website boasted about its way of handling kids with ADHD and other learning disabilities. But what Tim found strange was the photos seemed staged, like there was something hiding along the edges. There was no social media presence; in fact the camp seemed to pride itself in being a technology-free camp. There were no reviews from parents or former campers, nor did there seem to be a way to sign up for the camp. 

Just an address and a phone number. When Tim put the address onto a map online, he found a large valley of what looked to be strawberry fields but at the center was a blurred out plot of land that looked like it had several smudges for buildings. When Tim attempted to call the number, he got a voicemail: “Thank you for calling Camp Delphi. The camp director is currently unavailable at the moment. If you have the extension for the activities director, please type that in the keypad and we shall direct your call,”.

Tim stared at his conspiracy board, his eyes tracing the connections between Bruce Wayne and Batman, between the Robins and their civilian identities, between the mysterious summer camp and the youngest Wayne. The pieces were there, but they were not fitting together.

Why are you not Robin?

Tim looked at Y/N’s photograph again, at the loneliness in her eyes, at the way she held herself like someone who had been waiting for a rescue that never came. At times, it felt like Tim was looking at a mirror instead of looking at a different kid. He thought about the way Bruce Wayne had become more and more recluse while Batman had become more violent, more ruthless, more desperate since Jason’s death.

Batman needed a Robin.

Not just as a partner, but as something more fundamental. Jason had been Robin, Dick had been Robin. They had been the anchor that kept Batman grounded, that kept him from falling into the darkness. Without a Robin, Batman was nothing but a man consumed by his own vengeance. Bruce Wayne was spiraling; he was close to losing himself entirely.

And Tim knew that if someone did not step up soon, Batman was going to do something that he could not take back. He was either going to kill the Joker or he was going to get himself killed trying. Either way, Tim could not let that happen.

Tim’s parents were never home. They were archaeologists, always traveling to remote dig sites and always leaving their son alone in the Drake Mansion with only the nanny, who showed up once a week to check on him and make sure he had not starved or burned the house down. Tim had no one looking over his shoulder. No one to tell him that what he was about to do was reckless, dangerous, and probably impossible.

Tim could train. He had access to gym equipment, to knowledge, to the resources he needed to shape himself into what was necessary. He had watched Batman and Robin for years, and had studied their movements and techniques. Tim knew he was not ready to be Robin; not yet. But he could learn. No, he would have to learn.

Tim turned back to his computer, pulling up the files he had created for his plans. It was detailed, almost obsessive in its thoroughness: training schedules, exercise regimens, nutrition plans, detective techniques, even notes on the kinds of mental conditioning he would need to survive Gotham’s streets. Tim had a long way to go. He was only nine years old, and he was not a fighter. But he was smart and determined. He was not going to let Batman destroy himself if Tim could do something about it.

Tim glanced at Y/N’s photograph one more time. He wondered if Y/N had ever felt this way: alone, desperate, willing to do whatever it took to save someone she loved. Maybe she had. Maybe she was still feeling this way as she waited for a father who would not come and grieving a brother who was never coming back. That was the tragedy of it all. Y/N had the potential to be Robin; she could have had the training with the access and her bloodline. But for some reason, she was not.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Tim’s voice was barely a whisper, even though he did not need to be quiet in his museum of a home.

“I don’t know why you’re not the one doing this. But if you can’t, then I will,” Tim stood up, squaring his shoulders. He had a long road ahead of him, one that would require sacrifice, pain and countless hours of training. But Tim will do it; for Batman, for Gotham, for the family he had been watching from afar, the family that did not even know he existed. He was going to prove that he was not just another neglected kid in Gotham, just another forgotten kid who had been left behind.

Tim Drake was going to become something more.

A/N: Soooo, how was it? When I started writing this chapter, I was originally like 'I wonder if it's obvious that one of my first ever ship was DicKori' before shrugging to continue. Also, I tried to be respectful towards Romani culture and language in this story since Dick is Rom and when I was going through a Romani language book, I found the term 'Ves'tacha'; I really hope I used it right, because the book said the term was for someone beloved (of great affection), but did not specify if it was familial or romantic. So if someone does know, please tell me if I need to correct it. Thanks for reading! I hope to update you on the next chapter soon!!!!!

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Demon!Simon Riley couldn’t help but smirk as you fainted. It was a valid reaction from a mortal, he supposed, who had no idea the supernatural world existed, and had just witnessed a creature appear in their home

Demon!Simon Riley still stood at 6 feet 3 inches and could have passed as a normal man, albeit a very buff and bulky man, if it weren’t for the black mass that covered his head. It didn’t look like a mask, but instead an aura escaping him that screamed danger. Now that he thought of it, that was probably the reason you had passed out

Demon!Simon Riley waited around until you came to. He was sitting on your couch, flipping through historical dramas on your TV. He had shifted slightly so the black aura around him had dimmed considerably. He didn’t say anything when he noticed you were waking up. 

“Are you… an actual demon?” you couldn't help but ask

Demon!Simon Riley snorted and replied sarcastically, “no, love, I’m just a regular human that appears whenever demonic incantations are read aloud.” He picked the TV show The Great and you couldn't find any words. He grunted when he saw the outfits and when the title An Occasionally True Story popped up, he muttered, “yeah, obviously. That’s not what Catherine the Great looked like.” 

Before you could ask if he had somehow met Catherine the Great, he turned towards you. “What do ya need?” You still didn’t answer, mouth hanging open

Demon!Simon Riley sighed as you still didn’t answer. “Listen, love, I’m probably not gonna hurt you. At least not now, anyways. Depends on what you want. You mortals always want something.” It was clear he didn’t like conversation from how he didn’t say anything afterwards, just continuing to watch the TV show. It wasn’t until a long time later you told him of your ex-boyfriend

Demon!Simon Riley whose eyes narrowed and flashed pitch black when he heard of your plight. He had seen the horrors of man throughout the years and it seemed like it hadn’t gotten any better in the last few centuries. 

You were explaining how you didn’t know what Simon wanted from you in return when he held up a hand. “I’ll take care of it,” he said 

Demon!Simon Riley felt his lips pull up into a small smile when you asked what the exchange would be. He shrugged and replied, “won’t torture you forever in Hell, birdie, if that’s what you’re worried about.” And then he was gone

Demon!Simon Riley showed up a little later, looking pristine. “All done, birdie,” is all he said before sitting back down on your couch to finish his TV show

Demon!Simon Riley, as it turned out, wasn’t intent on leaving. You spluttered and stammered, but he seemed rather content living with you. You weren’t sure what the hell was happening, but it wasn’t as if you were going to tell a demon to get the fuck out of your house

Demon!Simon Riley kinda became a part of your routine, oddly enough. It didn’t seem like he needed to eat or sleep, but still hung around your place. He would disappear sometimes (no more than a few hours at a time) before popping back into your life and scaring the shit out of you. You were getting horribly skittish about your sudden lack of privacy, no matter how much he tried to calm you down. (His way of calming you down turned out to be staring at you until you stopped hyperventilating)

Demon!Simon Riley didn’t talk much, which was why it was terrifying when he suddenly just materialised in your kitchen sometimes, beginning to cook a dish from the 13th century that he suddenly remembered. He seemed to have an infinite supply of whatever he wanted and always refilled your fridge, which in this economy, you weren’t complaining about

Demon!Simon Riley was so odd to have around. It seemed surreal and every day you woke up, unsure if it was all a dream

Demon!Simon Riley certainly was not a dream and he made it very clear by getting almost too comfortable. You weren't sure if it was because you summoned him in your own home and he was somehow now tied to it, but he was acting like he would never return to Hell now. You almost wanted to call the friend who recommended this in the first place and curse her out

Demon!Simon Riley was determined to catch up on everything he had missed within the last centuries. He used your library card and began reading through the books you had at home while also using your subscriptions for shitty TV

Demon!Simon Riley was pretty quiet. He didn’t talk a ton, but when he did, it was sarcastic remarks about how humans had changed or stayed the same. He particularly liked watching shows about Satan or religion and just ripping it apart in a steady, low monotone. You got sort of used to hearing him grumble about the inaccuracies as you were working

Demon!Simon Riley randomly gave you little bouquets of flowers or precious jewels. You weren’t sure where he got them, but when a diamond necklace suddenly appeared on your coffee table with no explanation, you wanted to ask if it was made out of condemned souls

Demon!Simon Riley also somehow kept the entire house clean? It seemed a bit counterintuitive, since he was a spawn of Hell, but it was nice not having to dust

Demon!Simon Riley began walking around shirtless which you couldn’t do anything about lest you confront the demon now living with you

Demon!Simon Riley who sat on your couch, shirtless, and reading

Demon!Simon Riley knew what he was doing. Asshole.

Demon!Simon Riley, as said before, was 6’3” and just muscle. He had a layer of fat on him that made his tummy roll when he sat down and looked delicious. His biceps seemed like perfect chew toys and his thighs squished out whenever sitting. It was like he knew when you were ovulating

Demon!Simon Riley called you birdie and love

Demon!Simon Riley just wouldn’t go away. You weren’t sure that the age-old demon knew what overstaying was or how to take a hint, but it didn’t seem like it. Eventually, you had to sit him down and lay out the problem. After you were done, he sat there, quiet. After a while, you had to ask, “are you okay?” You weren’t sure if a demon could feel emotions, but you wanted to try

Demon!Simon Riley sat back on the couch and crossed his arms in the AC/DC hoodie he had somehow got. “I thought you liked having me around,” he muttered. You were quick to assure him that you did, it was just a bit weird sometimes and you wanted to know if there was an end date

Demon!Simon Riley shrugged. “I got you those flowers,” he mumbled. You told him that they were very nice and you really did appreciate all the gifts. “I was in the middle of Bridgerton,” he continued in his rough voice. Then, he stood. “But I’ll go.” Before you could protest, he was gone. 

It was an adjustment, to say the least, to have him gone. You had gotten so used to him popping up that going without him for long stretches of time felt unnatural. You somewhat expected him to just reappear one day, but it didn’t seem likely. His presence had become a welcome constant and you missed having someone to bitch about your coworkers with. He knew all of the drama about the HR lady. You lasted for all of four days

Demon!Simon Riley was summoned back and this time, you didn’t faint. He looked rather nonplussed when he reappeared in the pentagram, as if he was practically pouting, but that faded when you quickly hugged him

Demon!Simon Riley said, “you still don’t need the pentagram.”

That night, you sat down with him to watch Bridgerton with him. It seemed to be one of his favourite shows, oddly enough. It wasn’t long before you noticed some trends. Bouquets of flowers appeared in the show as did jewelry and you gave him a side-eye when you recognised his actions as old courting rituals

Demon!Simon Riley simply shrugged and said, “I didn’t think you would want an eternal globe of hellish fire. I settled for flowers.”

Demon!Simon Riley whose eyes turned black when you had sex

Day 1

The Wayne manor was never truly quiet. Someone was always laughing, arguing, training or running late to patrol. The grandfather clock chimed somewhere in the foyer while Alfred ran the kitchen. Dicks laugh echoed from the drawing room, followed by Jason's complaint  about something Damian had, undoubtedly, said on purpose. Tim, who had been awake for an unhealthy amount of hours, counting solely on caffeine and stubbornness. It was warm. Lively. And somehow, no room for you in it. 

Descending the staircase unnoticed, you heard the oldest talking about one of his old circus stories. There was a time you would want to engage, ask questions about it and be the great listener you always were. But not today. Today you decided to take advantage of the almost nonexistent attention you received from the family, to just grab something easy to eat and go walk to school.

School had taught you something important : people rarely asked questions if you looked like you knew where you were going. So you wandered. To libraries. To cafes. To rooftops, overlooking how the city swallows their inhabitants. You caught yourself here more times you can count, gaze weighing on Gotham's streets, which always seemed so alive. Anywhere but home, not because you hated the manor, but because it made no difference being there. 

You finally felt the raindrops coldly touching your skin, making you retreat to shelter yourself. Eyes scanning as the people start to disperse. The sky slowly turned into a ugly and lifeless shade of grey. A pair of eyes looked at your back, an amused and predatory smile creeping into the stranger's mouth. 

It is time to go home… 

The streets emptied. Neon signs reflected in the puddles. You walked slowly, hood pulled low against the weather. A shiver ran down your spine, the city was different. Quieter and yet awake.  It whispered. Warned. Watched. 

From behind, a faint squeak of rubber against wet asphalt could be heard. Your hands closed tightly around your backpack strap as you slowly turned behind. A smile, painted in crimson, stretched across the man's face. A smile that every gothamite knew.

“No…”- You muttered quietly, almost in disbelief.

Laughter echoed into the empty space. High pitched, creepy and dangerously unmistakable. 

“Oh.”- The man stepped closer, amusement dancing in his eyes.- “There you are.”

Your fingertips felt slightly numb from your tightening grip. For all the times you wished you had been noticed, not once you imagined it would be by such terrifying eyes.

Day 2

Y/N's absence, unlike Jason's one, came quiet. No people looking. No worry from a parent whose child is missing. Quiet as if someone who had already prepared to leave. 

The manor was unusually quiet. Not peaceful. Heavy.

Dick noticed it first, his eyes wandered through his siblings, everyone was there. Everyone. The silence between conversations had grown longer over the past few days, each member of the family retreating into their own routines. Patrols ended with little more than a nod before everyone disappeared behind closed doors.

The only person who wasn't there anymore was the one no one had realized had stopped trying.

"...Has anyone seen Y/N?"-Tim asked the question absentmindedly while scrolling through reports in the Batcave. Dick frowned.

"They weren't at breakfast."-Damian looked up from sharpening his sword.-"They have not joined dinner in four nights."

Bruce's fingers paused above the Batcomputer keyboard.

"Vacation?" Jason suggested, though he didn't sound convinced.

"For gods sake Jason, they're thirteen."- Dick shook his head.

Silence settled over the cave. Bruce typed the reader's communicator ID into the system.

No signal. No recent transmissions. No GPS. Nothing.

"That's... odd."-Tim frowned harder.

"I've been trying to reach them since yesterday."- Barbara's voice crackled through the speakers.

"You didn't tell me."- Bruce looked up.

"I assumed someone here knew where they were."

No one answered. Dick's stomach tightened. When was the last time he'd actually spoken to them? Not a passing "Good patrol." Not asking them to grab equipment. An actual conversation.

He doesn't know. 

Day 3

The room smelled of rust, mildew and old concrete. Somewhere above, water dripped with a maddening ‘plop’ sound, each echo stretching through the darkness like a countdown. A single bare bulb swung from the ceiling, throwing jagged shadows that never seemed to stay still. 

Your wrist burned against the rope binding them to the chair. Every attempt to move only made the coarse fibers bite back deeper into your skin. The cut in your face pulsating, blood and spit as you couldn't keep your mouth closed. Tears had been long gone, leaving you only with that numbness.

A burst of laughter shattered the silence. Slow, deliberate footsteps approached from the darkness until polished purple shoes appeared beneath the edge of the light. 

“The babybat seems quite tired.”- Joker sang. His grin impossibly wide.- “At this point I shouldn't be calling you a bat, right? It is not like he claimed you as one too.”

The cruel words danced out of his tongue. His mocking tone does little to hide his amusement.

“Child, y'know what the Bat hates the most?”- He mused.- “Not losing, that's nothing for him.”- He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.- “He hates being too late.”

Your mind wandered, hanging by a thread. Truth be told, if Bruce really hates being too late, you would never know, after all he never shows up for you. The man circled you lazily, humming to himself and watching you every reaction. Then he glanced towards an old television in the corner, its static filling the room with a faint hiss.

“Should we send them something? I do love an audience.”

Every sound outside the room became a source of hope. A distant creak. A muffled crash. footsteps that never came close. Joker every trace of your face looking for optimism.

“oh, still waiting for them, aren't you?”- He chuckled, almost sympathetically.- “Hope is a fragile thing and is also a privilege, child. It seems there is no spare left for you.”

He tapped the side of your chair with theatrical impatience before wandering away again, leaving only the swinging light and the deafening silence behind. 

Day 4.

Four days. Seventy two hours of your disappearance. First the family thought you were just going with your routine and soon would be home. But then one day passed. And then two… Three… And here they are.

“Bruce.”- Barbara called, her voice changed. Heavier. Concerned.- “I… I found something.”

Every eye turned to the monitor. Several traffic cameras flickered onto the screen, the footage was grainy and rain distorted the image. The timestamp read four days earlier. There, Y/N stepped out of an alley, hands holding tight to their backpack as they turned around. For anyone else it seemed normal, for detectives it looked haunting. Then hands grabbed the child, pulling them back to the alley and then… Nothing.

“Every nearby camera either malfunctioned or was disabled.”- Barbara said while clicking another file.

Bruce's expression hardened. Tim was already typing.

“No ransom demands. No financial activity. No digital footprint.”- His fingers wandered fastly around the keyboard.- “Someone wanted them to disappear.”

As if the circumstances were not gloomy enough, a notification appeared. An encrypted video file. No sender. No metadata. Only a single line of text.

For the Bat.

No one moved

“Dont.”- Dick asked, but Bruce opened it anyway.

Static. Then darkness and with it a lone hanging light. A familiar chair. The image was blurry, as if the camera had been intentionally damaged. Y/N was in the center of it.

Alive. 

Barely, but alive. Exhausted, bound and hurt. Before anyone could speak, laughter echoed through the speakers. Slow, cheerful and completely unhinged.

“oh, Bats!”- The clown stepped into view.- “I was wondering when you'd notice something was missing.”- His wide smile filled the screen.- “I have to admit…”- joker tilted his head, eyes fixed directly on the camera.- “I expected it to take two days… It took four. You are quite something, ain't you?”

No one in the cave dared to speak. Joker crouched beside the chair, flashing the camera an exaggerated pout.

“Poor thing, kept waiting for you.”- He laughed.- “But… This one isn't as important as the first one, right? Will you let me keep it?! They don't even call for you anymore!”

Dicks fist clenched until his knuckles turned white. Jason, beside the pale complexion, looked ready to smash the monitor. Bruce didn't move, his face remained unreadable. Only Alfred, standing silently near the cave entrance, notices his master's hands trembling.

“You see Bat, this one is quite different from him… They are sadder. Quieter.”- The screen flickered, its image going blank for a few seconds and then flickered back to life. Bruce almost wished it hadn't.

The room appeared again. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then Joker stepped into the frame, smiling. That alone was enough to make Jason's stomach turn. The clown paced around Y/N, humming beneath his breath.

“Sadness. I hate it.”- Stopping beside the chair, he leaned down.- “So… I've decided to help your bird.”- He laughed openly.- “Show them, Child. You've been so unhappy, I'm sure they have never seen you like this!”

“No.”- Jason muttered, chest rising and falling in despair.

The camera shifted and Joker moved out of the way. Bruce's breath stopped. A red line curved across Y/N's face. The grotesque imitation of a smile. Deep. Crooked. A mess of dried blood and spit. Y/N eyes remained opened, yet empty. 

The room went silent. Dick hand covered his mouth. Tim stopped breathing. Damian stared at the screen with an expression no one has ever seen on him. Horror. 

Jason didnt move. He couldnt. For a horrible second, he wasnt in the batcave, he was back there. Years ago. Bound. The same laughter. The same feeling of helplessness. the same sick realization that Joker wasnt merely trying to hurt them. He was trying to make their suffering into a joke.

“There!”- Joker spread his arms.- “Much better! Now you're happy.”- He laughed hard, arms curling into his stomach. When he stopped, his grin stretched wider than ever.- “The time is running, Bat. Tic-Tac. How much do they have to lose before you decide they're worth saving? Well…Until there, we'll be having some fun.”

The video ended. Silence. No one spoke. No one knew how to. Bruce stared at the blank screen. For the first time in years…Batman had no plan. Only guilt. And somewhere beneath Gotham, someone they had unknowingly left alone was still waiting for a rescue they had never realized needed to happen. 

“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”

Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.

“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”

“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”

He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.

“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.

“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”

Peter’s face flushes under his mask.

“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”

“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.

He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.

“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”

“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”

You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”

Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.

“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.

He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…

“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”

“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”

“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.

“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”

Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?

The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.

“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.

“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.

“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”

“Starting now?”

“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.

The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.

Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.

From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”

Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.

Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.

“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”

You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.

As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.

This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.

“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”

For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.

He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.

But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.

Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.

“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.

“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”

“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.

“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”

“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”

You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”

Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”

You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.

“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”

Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”

A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.

“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”

“We’re partners?”

“Haven’t we been this entire time?”

Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.

Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.

And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.

“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.

Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”

The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.

“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.

Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”

“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”

He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”

You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”

Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.

And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.

“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”

You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”

“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”

A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”

The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”

“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”

Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.

“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.

You chuckle. “No, probably not.”

Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.

He clears his throat. “So, uh—”

“Can I ask you something?”

You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”

Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”

You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”

Peter stays quiet for a moment.

In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.

There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.

Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.

“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”

You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.

“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”

Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.

“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”

His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.

Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.

“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”

“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.

He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.

He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.

Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.

“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.

Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”

“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”

Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”

“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”

The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”

“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”

“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”

“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”

“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.

Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.

“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”

He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.

“Be careful, Spiderman.”

He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.

Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.

He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”

Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.

“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”

Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.

The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.

Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.

When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.

“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”

“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.

The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.

It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.

“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.

But it’s too late.

“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.

Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.

Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.

Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.

“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”

Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.

“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.

He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.

“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”

“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.

Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”

“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.

You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”

“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.

“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”

“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”

A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.

“Static? Are you still there?”

“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”

The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.

On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.

“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”

You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.

“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”

Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.

He woke up.

He survived.

You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.

A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.

You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.

Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.

For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.

A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.

Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.

With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.

A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.

You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”

The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.

“—atic?”

That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.

“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”

Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”

“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”

You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.

“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”

A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”

You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”

You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”

That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.

“I missed hearing your voice.”

Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.

“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.

Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”

You smile into your pillow. “Good.”

A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.

“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.

You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”

He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.

“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.

You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.

You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.

“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”

You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.

Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.

“Do you… have a boyfriend?”

You blink.

The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.

“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.

Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.

“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”

A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.

“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.

“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.

“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”

A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”

You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”

“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.

You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”

A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.

“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.

“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.

“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.

You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.

“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”

You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.

But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.

“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”

“Goodnight, Static.”

And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.

It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.

Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.

The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.

He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.

Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

Ned.

Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.

He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.

Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.

“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.

You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.

“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”

Peter’s heart stops.

“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”

That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.

“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.

“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.

The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.

The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.

The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.

His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.

“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”

This is it.

Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.

Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.

Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.

Just in case either of you calls in.

Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.

“No, go ahead.”

That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”

You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.

The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.

He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.

Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.

Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.

“So, tell me more about this party.”

“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”

Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.

“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.

You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing tonight, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”

Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”

You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”

Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”

You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.

“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”

You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.

“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.

The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.

Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”

You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”

A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.

You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.

“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”

The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.

“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.

A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.

“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”

“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”

“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.

You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.

“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”

“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”

The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”

The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.

“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”

He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.

“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”

The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.

If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.

“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”

“It’s too late, Spiderman.”

From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.

The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.

The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.

Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.

One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.

“Spiderman, stop!”

You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.

Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.

He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.

He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.

“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”

Peter looks around, his chest heaving.

Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.

He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.

“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.

You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.

He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.

Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.

He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.

Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.

There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.

“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.

Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.

“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.

You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.

“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”

Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.

For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.

“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”

You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.

As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”

With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.

The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.

His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.

His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.

You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.

Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”

“Shut up, Evie.”

You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.

“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”

He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.

“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.

You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.

Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.

You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”

Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.

Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.

Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.

“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”

Standing right behind him is MJ.

“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.

“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”

Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.

“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”

“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”

A shudder passes through your body.

My name is Peter Parker.

“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.

📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

A single, soft "Oh" fell past your lips as you took the key from beneath the old mat.

It was the first time you'd been to this place since Yuki recommended it to you last year. It's very serene, she assured you. Quiet, lonely, and fun, with a lake nearby and no other soul in the forest. A perfect house if you want to rest a bit from university during the summer break.

Yet you thought that a cabin described by your friend sounded like the perfect place to start a little project of yours that's been burning your wicked mind for a while.

"You want to be a pornstar?" Satoru raised his brows and let the pen fall onto your dorm's carpet as you studied for the finals. "Like, a real pornstar? A person who makes porn?"

It's not as if he didn't know you were a campus sweetheart. A slut, more like it, yet your idea nevertheless left his mind in a daze.

You nodded, putting your pen down. A question for radiative physics class scribbled messily, as your eyes shone almost evilly.

"Are you really surprised?" A scoff slipped past your lips, eyes narrowing. "Besides, you're no better whore than me."

Satoru leaned against your roommate's bed as you both sat on the floor. A tiny table between you, two cups of coffee, dirty black, and mock exams not even half finished.

"Well, yeah. But I want to work in astrophysics, and if I remember correctly – you do too." He tapped his pen against his pouted lips, a deep thought clearly bubbling behind his ocean eyes. "I mean, if you'll keep your face away from the camera, it should work."

"Of course I will," your eyes curled into a cheeky smile, something malicious already bubbling in a pretty mind of yours. "Actually, I already have an idea," you crawled closer to Satoru, sitting right in front of him with a raised hand. "You know the recent boom in slashers, right? Okay, imagine me, the poor sweet virgin, being chased by two killers in the woods, before they tie me up and fuck me senselessly. With all the artificial blood and stuff, after they killed all of my friends, I went on a summer camping trip with."

Satoru listened with arched brows, clearly amused by the gory, slightly concerning plan. He knew you were a hardcore freak. A nerd too, always shining brightly in your shared classes. But the freak first.

A weirdo, almost a lunatic, finding heat and bliss in the weirdest things, yet always meeting his needs during sex. Because sex with you, dearest heavens, was mind-blowing. A heavenly ecstasy, pleasure wrapped at his fingertips, bursting together with the sweetness of your sly tongue. Skin, fingers, the wetness, that always dripped all over him in such an–

"Why are you hard?" you hummed, eyes squinting gently. He didn't react quickly enough as your foot found its way to press against his bulging sports shorts. "You thought about me moaning like a bitch on a tape, huh?"

He chuckled, long fingers wrapped around your ankle, then pressed your foot closer. "I did, sweets. In fact, I wouldn't mind being on it with you."

Tilting your lovely head, the sole of your foot brushed the full, fat shaft of his cock. "That's good to know because I've been meaning to ask you to play one killer."

"And the other?"

You giggled. "Your friend, Suguru, from the arts seems quite lovely. I'm sure I could do a lot with his tongue piercing."

Satoru's head tilted gently, and a soft scowl formed between his brows as the pressure became almost painful. His teeth gritted, fingers clutched tighter around your ankle, yet he did not push you away.

"So you'll play a virgin, huh?"

A wide grin twisted your lips. "Your sweetest one."

And thus, a few weeks later, after all the exams had been passed with a pure blessing, you found yourself inside the cabin.

Naoya, your dickhead friend from the film department, agreed to take part in your little project and arrived a day early with you to prepare everything. Suguru and Satoru were due to arrive tomorrow afternoon, so you had time to wander restlessly around the house while Naoya set up all the filming equipment.

The inside of the cabin seemed even lovelier, warmer, with the last threads of sun slipping through the small windows, basking the creaking floor in flame. The smell of wood, dry and clean, drenched in the sap of forest leaves, danced in the slowly setting darkness right over the high porch.

The fireplace was there, cosy and filled with logs, yet the sweat still clung to your spine, as if the heat of the journey hadn't yet rinsed away with the slowly falling evening.

Naoya put your suitcases in the hallway, then took a deep, tired breath. "I need a shower. And something to eat."

The owners supposedly left you some food, so you opened the small kitchen's fridge, the flickering light casting your face in cold light.

"Hmm, bread with peanut butter and jam?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at his scowl.

Always so mean, so spoilt, yet unfortunately, he was the only one who agreed to take part in your wicked project. The only one who hated the idea to the point of feeling no sexual attraction to you.

"What jam?"

"Strawberry, of course," you furrowed, taking the jar from the fridge.

"Fine," he said, looking around and spotting the small stairs leading to the upper floor. "We should have two bathrooms, so let's hop in first."

You giggled, taking out the rice cooker. "We can shower together, if you wish."

But he didn't say anything, leaving you with a snicker and a low, "Slut," that met your grinning cheeks.

The shower was cold, sweet, wetting your body pleasurably as you pinned your hair up. The sweat clinging to your skin, dust, and heavy air dirtying it, swirled together in the drain of the small shower. It wasn't the cleanest you've ever seen, but compared to your dorms, everything seemed better.

Leaving the bathroom in nothing but tight shorts and a skimpy top, without your bra – everything just to give Naoya another reason to measure you with his nasty gaze – you saw the sandwiches ready on the table.

"Ah, thank you, my dearest househusband," you giggled, sitting down by the wooden table.

The warm light of the old lamp bathed his dirty-blond hair in yellow. Snake eyes, always so priggish, narrowed to two almonds. Yet he didn't comment, joining you at the table with his own sandwiches.

"We need to choose the bedroom for filming. I'll set up the camera today. We can also go around the house in the morning to check the whole plan for the script," he started, and you nodded, your mouth glued with peanut butter. "Let's change the sheets for ours, because there's a chance the artificial blood won't come off. Ah, and I can't film their faces, right?"

You hummed, wrapping your hair with a clip. "Well, they'll have the masks, so it doesn't matter. Try to avoid mine."

"No cock sucking then?"

Your head tilted, brows furrowed, as you thought for a moment. "I guess, unless you can do a super close-up of my lips. My pussy's much prettier anyway."

He trembled, as if shivers smooched down his spine. "I can't believe you got accepted for astrophysics."

You giggled, licking your fingers clean and tapping two on your temple. "That's because I have an amazing mind."

He looked at you for a moment. At your lovely, sly grin. Cheek with a hint of reddish jam. Eyes mingling devilishly. Hair pinned up in a clip, a few strands falling gently along your warm cheeks. You were almost irritatingly ethereal, smart, beautiful, and such a pervert that Naoya truly couldn't comprehend how someone like you could have the mind to study astrophysics at the most elite university in the whole country.

"Sure you have," he muttered, taking another bite of his sandwich.

When the evening had finally fallen deep and the darkness had fully slipped into the warmly lit cabin, you decided it was time to go down and check the basement. Although finding the key proved more difficult than you'd thought it would be, as if the owners wished to keep whatever wickedness was locked there.

And this only made you crave going down there even more. Naoya waved his hand and went upstairs to work on the cameras. Leaving you with a, "Just scream if something happens, but don't expect me to go down there," as the single look into the unfathomable darkness of the basement made him shake his head.

"Coward," you giggled, turning a small lamp on.

It flickered once, twice, before finally burning out and leaving you with a sigh. So, with the flashlight in your hand, you went down. Step by step, careful and slow, as the old stairs creaked beneath your feet. The darkness wrapped you, a faint light bathing the long descent that seemed never-ending.

Until you finally touched solid ground and found yourself in a small basement. Spider webs hung from the ceiling, a few shelves filled with old books sat serenely in the dusty corner, and a small table nestled against the wall. It looked plain, rather uninviting, yet you had nothing else to do until tomorrow, so you walked around, checking each book. Some old tales, long-forgotten romances, dusty history books, a few classics…

"Oh?" fell curiously, as your fingers bumped the skin–clad book.

You pulled it from between other volumes, feeling its weight in your palms. It was thick, old, almost ancient, and wrapped in a thick leather belt, as if whatever it held were utterly unkind. It felt soft beneath your fingers, almost human–like, yet its cover was sewn with nasty, crooked stitches. Long, dirty, yet real, you traced them with your fingers, each bumping against your skin.

So you did the only proper thing and laid it on the table. With a small flashlight between your teeth, you pulled the old belt, trying to fight its strong grip. It must've sat here for a long, long time, as the dust swirled right in front of your lashes, sticking nastily to your freshly washed face. The belt was long and thick, almost like tree branches, yet softer to the touch.

It finally gave in, letting you unwrap the book from its snug clutches.

Demonology, was written inside, without any other information. No author, no publisher, no date, only crooked, ink-spilt letters bending on the front, yellow page.

Your eyes glimmered in the faint lightning, heart suddenly skipped a beat as you clutched the book tighter. Oh, it felt as if you'd just discovered a long-lost treasure, a rare gem, almost a groundbreaking archaeological find. It was amazing, wicked, and scary, and as you flipped a few pages, a small gasp slipped past your wrapped-around-the-flashlight lips as you saw the old, yellow pages, carefully filled with various demons and their descriptions.

Oh dearest, Naoya would faint just from seeing it.

So you quickly closed the book and went back upstairs. You ran through the hall and living room before storming into the largest bedroom to scare the man hunched over the camera.

"Fuck! Can you please at least knock?" His palm fell on your quickly falling chest, snake eyes much larger than usual.

The little camera was set on the tall tripod, facing the king-sized bed. The room was rather big and cosy, with wooden walls and a large window directly above the bed frame, overlooking the deep, dark forest.

Naoya sat on the bed, yet his head shot your way the moment you stormed like a nightmare.

"Look!" Walking his way, you held the heavy book right in front of your chest, presenting it full to his bulging eyes. "Do you have any idea what it is?"

His straight brows furrowed. "Do I wanna know?"

Flipping the heavy cover, you showed him the first page. And the second, and the third, each one scribbled messily, with handwritten notes and crooked pictures of demons.

"Where did you get it?" he asked softly, taking the book from your hands. He read the pages with a frown, his finger brushing the old, crumpled paper. "It's at least a thousand years old."

"Oh, I found it in the basement. Locked with some old leather belt. I barely managed to open it, but here we are."

Naoya looked up, eyes almost stormy, a deep sigh and a wish to wig you from head to toe already bubbling in his chest. "You saw a fucking human-skin-bound book, bent shut, and decided to just open it? Without even thinking why it was secured like an artefact from the deepest corners of hell?"

You walked around the bedroom and looked at other shelves. With many more books than you expected, yet they seemed to have been read by the travellers and owners themselves. Nothing truly interesting that piqued your interest.

"Why not? I was curious. It's not as if anything will happen. And why do you think it's bound in human skin?" You shrugged and popped a squat to check the lower shelves filled with board games. "Oh, they have a monopoly. How about doing oral sex instead of paying rent for stepping on the property?"

Naoya closed his eyes and took a deep breath. One breath after another, through the nose and past the mouth, as he tried to calm himself.

"Have you seen it? It's clearly human skin. Don't you think it's fucking terrifying?"

Your head shook as your fingers traced an old, dusty box, deeply hidden beneath other games. "Hm, I think it's fascinating. You know, maybe it was made by some wicked witch or, oh, a cult. Do you think it was made from someone who was sacrificed to the devil?"

Naoya began to regret agreeing to your pleadings. The image of your pouted lips and plush breasts beneath the skimpy top still swirled in his mind, yet every part of him, every sense, was screaming in alarm to get himself away from his peculiar friend.

Although a friend could've been far too strong, as you loved teasing him and he somehow easily gave in to your haunting whispers.

"That's it, I'm taking it ba-"

"Oh my god!"

His heart nearly stopped in dread as you discovered something he was desperately trying to hide from your sight. He hid it deep beneath the heavy board games, covering it with a flimsy tablecloth he found on the shelf, just to prevent you from seeing this devilish thing.

"I can't believe they have a Ouija board!" you gasped in awe, quickly joining him on the bed. The board was already unpacked, clutched in your fingers, as you looked all around it and finally set it down.

And then…

And then something flickered behind your eyes. A sinister, ominous plan, blended with the lovely – or rather, malevolent – smile that made your cheeks swell. Naoya could read your mind with an almost horrifying precision. Knowing you for the past year, he could pinpoint each of your perverted thoughts.

So he quickly shut the book and smashed it against the board. "Absolutely not."

Your lips pouted as one hand swiftly grabbed his wrist to stop him from rising. "Oh, come on! You have no idea what I wanted to do!"

Naoya gritted his teeth, trying to free himself from your grasping fingers. "Truly? Because I think you considered summoning a demon from this book using this devilish thing."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the laughter that was barely held back in your throat.

Naoya was seething. Oh, he was so, so furious, and you could see faint grey smoke swirling above his scowling head as he tried to pull your fingers apart, one by one. But you held him in an almost unbelievably tight grip, eyes fixed on his face.

"Actually, I thought about summoning a demon and fucking him on camera."

You laughed when Naoya let out a low, tired groan, and instead of lifting the book, he simply leaned over and banged his forehead against it. Until your crackling filled the dim bedroom, lit only by the warm bedside lamp and moonlight spilling past the thick trees.

There was something warm in the way excitement clung to your spine when Naoya finally gave in. You could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, and a sigh of surrender finally escaped his lips.

"Why do you need to be like that?" he asked, voice muffled because of the book.

"Like what?" you hummed, brushing his dirty-blonde hair. "Just imagine how famous I'd become. That's, like, oh god, the perfect way to boost my career. And don't you want to be known as the first director to film a fucking demon?"

There were many things Naoya wanted. But summoning an ancient monster wasn't one of them.

And yet, he muttered a quiet, "Fine," and took his hands off the book and the board. "But you know there's a chance this thing isn't even working?"

"I know it is," you giggled, opening the book again. "I just feel it."

"And you know that there's a low chance that demons actually exist?"

"No, they do."

Naoya grimaced, yet still flipped the book over to you. "How can you be a physicist and believe in such things?"

You hummed, reading the description of each demon carefully. "It's fun."

And that was truly the simplest way to describe it.

Fun.

Being slightly obsessed with creatures and demons was fun. Spending nights preparing for exams, then watching horror films on your old, self–bought TV, neatly hidden in your tiny closet. Reading erotica about monsters, spectres, and vampires just to feel a thrill that tingled your spine in the most pleasurable way.

During the day, you've learned about the mysteries of the universe; at night, you've bent all your beliefs just to get yourself off to the dream of fucking with a monster.

Your dirty little secret, neatly concealed behind a mask of a simple campus slut and a nerd. Because you enjoyed being a weird girl, with perverted fantasies and wickedness always lurking around your lovely face. You loved sex, yet finding people who could truly satisfy your craving was difficult.

And so, among all the men you've slept with, Satoru was the only one who always agreed to your devilish scenarios. The obsessive ex, stalking murderer, a clown chasing you through the haunted house with a knife. His teeth on your skin, yours on his, until, sometimes, you've drawn a bit of blood from his lips, cherishing the metallic sweetness on your tongue.

Him, eating you out during the period, waiting for your shuddering climax, kissing you deep and filthy, with your own blood smeared all over your fucked face.

But Satoru also wasn't a thing. A creature, a monster, who would satisfy your most wicked, carnal pleasures.

And Naoya only needed to know that it was fun.

"Oh," your voice dropped as you turned to a blank page. "Ryomen Sukuna," you read aloud, yet found no description or sketch of the only demon, only his name and DO NOT SUMMON written in crooked, wicked letters.

Naoya looked up, seeing the same sinister flicker behind your eyes. "No, absolutely not," he said, his finger immediately falling on the warning. "Let me help you translate it. It means that, under no circumstances, no matter what happens, we mustn't summon this specific demon."

But he knew, he saw, that you were dead set. Your lower lip caught between your teeth, eyes shining sweetly, as you looked up and nodded.

"This one. I have a good feeling," you giggled, already placing the book and the Ouija board on the bed in front of you.

"Don't you think there's a reason he's the only one marked like that? Without any description, not even a sketch?"

You hummed, scanning for any information about the demon. Only its name, the warning, and something dark and smeared on the paper, ending just at its edges. Blood, perhaps, yet you quickly hid it with your hand to prevent Naoya from seeing.

"I think no one has ever seen him, and it's our duty to step into uncharted territory," you giggled, seeing as Naoya nevertheless stood behind a small camera.

Straight eyebrows still slightly furrowed, dark eyes rolling. "You're an astrophysics student, not an archaeologist."

"Demonologist."

He scoffed. "Anyway, the camera is ready. Do you want to change or…?"

You looked over the skimpy, whorish enough outfit and shook your head. Tight shorts curled just beneath your cheeks, perked nipples visible through the top, lingerie long gone. Cute, perfect for an innocent, porn-style look.

"No, it's good," you plucked at the scuff of your top, lowering it gently. Letting the camera capture the fuller view of your breasts. "How is the angle?"

"Below the neck," Naoya murmured, adjusting the camera slightly. "In case of something, we can cut the recording. You know, that video of your face would probably bring you more fame, right?"

You corrected the pin-up and smiled cheekily. "I believe my body is hot enough to guarantee success."

Naoya didn't say anything, but simply hummed and raised his eyebrow.

It was time.

The warm light from the lamp cast a gentle halo over your body. Basking in its warmth, you let the rays spill around your naked arms, breasts, and thighs, pressed together as you sat on your heels.

With a nod of your head, Naoya raised his thumb and a little red dot of recording lit up.

"Hi everyone," your low, seductive voice wrapped around the camera's deep lens. "It's so late already, isn't it? Well, how about I keep you company and maybe have some fun, hmm?"

The camera dropped slightly onto your hands, then zoomed in on the Ouija board. Fingers clenched around the heart-shaped planchette, with a glossy eye in the middle.

"By having some fun, I mean, what do you think about playing with a few demons? Sounds cool, doesn't it?" Your giggle mingled with the sharp, flickering sound of a lighter as you lit a candle. Putting it on the bed, where the mattress felt most stable. "Mhm, let's hope we summon a sexy demon. I'm sure he could take such good care of me."

Your thighs basked in the candle's warm glow as you pressed two fingers to the planchette and took a deep breath. Excitement and stress mingled, bubbling in your chest, the familiar, thrilling throb deep in your lower belly already pooling in your shorts. If you parted your legs right now, Naoya could clearly see a small, wet patch just beneath your moist pussy.

With a wooden heart in the middle, you started, "Is there anyone with us tonight?"

There was a brief moment of silence, the dim room lit only by a flickering candle and a warm bedside light. Naoya stood behind the camera, visibly troubled. His lips were pressed together, and eyes looked slightly uneasy as he nervously glanced around the room before finally looking back at you and shaking his head.

The plachette didn't move either.

"It seems our demons are a bit shy tonight," you laughed, biting your lower lip. "Hm, how about we call for the specific one? Maybe it will answer to my sweet pleadings."

You took another deep breath, pressing the index and middle fingers tighter against the heart-shaped wood. "Ryomen Sukuna, are you with us?"

Naoya gripped the metal frame of the bed, crystals of sweat already beading on his smooth temple. The owl's muffled hoot echoed deep within the forest, and a gentle wind stirred the curling branches that tapped at your bedroom window. The silence remained thick and still, and even though it was midsummer, a cold sweat kissed the back of your neck.

"Hm, Ryomen Sukuna, would you like to visit the sweetheart tonight?"

The shivers of excitement ran down your spine, as if something unfathomable and bloodcurdling were about to happen. Yet the room remained dusky and chilly, with only Naoya's shuddering breaths mingling with the candle's flickering flame and the hum of crickets beneath your porch.

"I don't think he's–"

But then the flame flickered. Gently, curling and twisting in the still air before finally dying out. Grey smoke from a vanilla-scented candle curled over the glass, and you both watched it with wide eyes.

You, biting on the inside of your cheek to muffle the giggle.

Naoya letting a low, "Fuck" slip past his lips as he started looking around the room.

"Don't worry," you said, clearly trying to lift his spirits. "I moved on the bed and–"

"No."

His voice… you've never heard it like that before. Low, yet edged with a high note. Trembling and groggy, he stepped back and fixed his gaze somewhere over your shoulder.

"Behind you," he whispered, not daring to point his finger. "The corner. There's…"

You quickly turned your head, eyes searching for the thing that frightened him so.

And… oh.

He was monstrous, enormous, and tall, nearly touching the ceiling with his head. Four crimson eyes gleamed brightly from the dark corner, reflecting the warm flames. Four arms stretched long and high, while his body crackled and bent as if awakening after years of sleep, fully straightening from its cocoon.

The breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. Lips parted as you saw a monster up close. If you reached out, your fingers would almost touch the hem of the white robe around his hips. It was like petting a tiger, meant to be watched only from a tightly closed cage.

He was revolting. Monstrous, terrifying, yet strangely beautiful. With muscles rippling along his back, a broad torso, and a grinning mouth in his stomach that made you swallow hard.

Sharp jaw, now scratched by one of his hands as he looked around the room. Crimson eyes glinting between you and Naoya with a squint.

"Call him away," Naoya whispered, slowly stepping further into the room. Away from him, from you. "Fuck, do something."

Coward.

"No," you smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. "I can take him."

Naoya cursed under his breath, eyes fixed on the monster without ever looking away. His narrowed, almond-shaped eyes watched you both carefully, as if gauging the room's atmosphere.

Two upper arms crossed over his chest, lower ones hanging loose.

"What year is it?" His low, scruffy voice sent shivers down your and Naoya's spines.

"Nineteen eighty-five," you said.

The monster, Sukuna, chuckled, ruffling his pinkish hair. "Thousand years, huh. Who set me free?"

Naoya didn't even try to take the blame; his hand immediately pointed at you. And you, pointing at yourself with your index finger.

"Hm, aren't you a dove?" Sukuna stepped closer, and you could almost feel the floor trembling beneath his heavy body. "Do you have any idea what creature you have summoned?"

Naoya backed away, taking careful steps towards the door, before he suddenly stiffened as if remembering that you were still in the room.

Closer to the demon than he was, with eyes shining brightly as if bewitched by a monster in front of you.

Your head shook, a few strands of hair slipping from the clip to brush the flame-kissed cheek.

The monster lifted his fingers, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. You could see just how enormous he truly was. Naoya looked next to him like a twig. Yet his figure, towering over your seated form and casting long shadows across the bedding, somehow made you squirm. As the shorts suddenly felt wetter and tighter, you wondered whether Naoya could see a damp patch pooling beneath your pussy from behind.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He gritted, trying take a few steps closer.

You were mesmerised, mind lost in awe at seeing a demon in real life, after years of masturbating to the mere idea of fucking with it.

Naoya drew closer, step by step, carefully, his fingers trying to grab your arm. "Fuck, we need to leave. Now, or else it–"

But then, Sukuna waved his hand, and something wet landed on your arm. It soaked your skin in a sticky, muggy substance, giving off a distinct smell reminiscent of rusted metal.

The one you knew all too well, and as your eyes drifted down to your right arm, your breath caught once again in your throat.

A long streak of blood trickled down your skin, together with something thick. It was quite similar to a tissue, thick yet soft, reminding you of a swollen cheek. The more you looked at it, the more certain you became that it must have been someone's cheek.

Sukuna brushed something from your chin, his thumb damp in something crimson.

Naoya didn't say anything. He simply couldn't, because he wasn't there any more. When you turned back, your eyes fell on the large, dark puddle of flesh and blood pooling around his shoes.

The walls of the bedroom seeping with his burst body, long strings of blood rolling down the wooden planks onto the old, soft carpet. Half of the room, the one behind your back, fully basked in metallic, crimson darkness.

"Oh," was the only thing that could slip past your lips, before Sukuna pinched your chin and brought you back. "He–"

"Was talking too much," he whispered, now squeezing your cheeks with two fingers. "Answer my question, dove. Do you have any idea what you have done?"

And to his surprise, you nodded.

Sweetly, almost shyly, yet he noticed this flame – a flicker – that burned behind your blown-out iris. He noticed your plush lips fallen open, the body wriggling on the bed, thighs clenched tight, until the droplets of sweat beaded between the brushing skin.

And he could smell you too – the sweetness of your arousal that soaked the flimsy, slutty material of the thing you dared to call a cloth.

From where he came, your attire wouldn't even suit a nightgown. Back then, women dressed modestly and humbly, always lowering their gazes before the King of Curses, trembling at the mere sight of his grinning belly-mouth.

Their eyes always slightly swollen, a little too worried, as mercy did not visit his household and the walls seeped blood far more often than they should. His fingers broke necks effortlessly, feet stomping on piles of bodies of those who dared to bother the King of Curses, whether he was trying to soothe his mind or to haunt.

But then a shaman of sorts, a sorcerer, trapped his body within a cursed book. For the next thousand years, it remained buried deep beneath the shifting layers of a changing world. In the darkness underground, it moved and travelled through countless other fingers of curious, heedless humans who seemed to take pleasure in calling forth demons.

But not him. No, as no one dared to call the most wicked, as if utterly rational it was to avoid the creature of his rank.

And yet, after thousands of years of being trapped, he suddenly appeared in a dimly lit room, with the warm smell of the human body wafting through the air and a little, pretty dove sitting on the bed.

Now, looking at him with flushed cheeks and a lovely glimmer behind her wicked eyes, as he brushed the soft lower lip.

"I should kill you," he murmured, pressing a thick thumb against your lips. You parted them gently, inviting it in with eyes curling into a smirk. "Such a foolish girl. But I owe you for setting me free."

With a nod, you gently sucked on his finger. It nearly filled your mouth, pressing heavily against your tongue as you coated it with sticky saliva. Your lips hollowed, eyes fixed on the demon's face as if trying to memorise all his devilish features. The small bump on his nose, tattoos carved into his skin with almost uncanny precision, pinkish hair falling over his forehead as he leaned forward, the second hand releasing your hair from a clip.

He pulled his finger, once again clutching your cheeks with his now wet digits. "So tell me, what do you wish for?"

He held you in a tight grip, pressing right against your jaw until you felt a sharp pain. "I want you to use me."

Sukuna tilted his head, eyes narrowing into two almonds. "Use you?"

You nodded briefly and raised your fingers to press against his thighs. The muscles bulged, bent, and shifted beneath the long, creamy tunic he wore as your hand slid upwards. Higher and higher until your finger tugged at the cloth wrapped around his hips. Your own wriggled messily on the bedding, just to feel the slick pull of your shorts brushing against your already swollen clit.

With a single pull, the cloth fell, revealing…

"Oh," you gasped, as the musky, heavy smell of his two fat cocks suddenly hit your face.

Red, long, with veins curling around their swollen shafts and all the blood already dripping down to feverish tips.

His hand slipped to the back of your head, clenching a fistful of hair and pulling you back. "Do you know what you're asking me for?"

You nodded, long fingers digging into his beefy thighs. "Do whatever you want with me," fell playfully, as you bit your lower lip. "Fuck me for the camera. Please?"

Sukuna's eyes slipped to a little something turned at you two, the red light watching him closely.

"This thing?" He asked, taking it with one of his lower hands.

The small, black camera, with its lens now pointing at you. The need to cover your face was quick, and, unfortunately, as it would turn out, you pushed Sukuna away, trying to cover yourself with a hand.

"Wait, no, my face–"

But you didn't finish, as he suddenly pressed you against his heavy, leaking cocks. Muffling your pleadings, nose buried in his black hair as you took a deep, moany breath and let it leap off his skin.

He hummed lowly, the camera in his hand looking comically tiny. The lens pointed right at your face, to get a clear view of the glossy, sly eyes.

"Push me again, and I'll break those pretty fingers of yours," fell in a rumble that tickled the deepest, warmest flesh of your lower belly. "How about putting your mouth to use, hm? I'm sure you can do more than just look like a whore."

There was simply no way to take both of his cocks into your mouth. Your fingers curled around one, feeling the leaking, creamy precum stick to the pads, lips smooching kisses down another. Too heavy to even stand and cling to his abdomen, yet hard enough to become too big to wrap your lips around it.

You kissed the first shaft. Licking, sucking, biting into the bulging veins, till finally catching wetly on the plump head. Where the smell was the heaviest, oh so manly, forcing your mind to spiral into a thoughtless state, with a heavy pall of lust clouding your vision, as your lips finally wrapped themselves around one cock.

Fingers pumping another, yet your hand was simply too small to wrap it whole.

And your mouth, oh dearest, you took it in, cheeks bulging and tongue pressed beneath his shaft, allowing it to slide in with a sickly, filling pressure. But he was simply too big.

"I can't," you whimpered, pulling gently away. His fingers still gripped your hair tightly, crimson eyes narrowing at the sight of your flushed, sweating face. Utterly lovely.

"You begged," he snapped, a finger from his third hand catching the corner of your lips and stretching them harshly. "I'm sure this filthy mouth of yours sucked on thousands of cocks."

You chuckled, giving a firm squeeze to his second cock. "It did. Yet never on monster's one," instead of taking it back in, you wrapped another hand around it. "But my pussy's stretched enough to take you in."

Gaze fixed on Sukuna's face, a slight heat already creeping up his cheeks. Jumping between Sukuna's face and a small camera held tight in his hand. Well, if NASA will not accept your application, at least you'll have a Plan B.

Your lips traced kisses along his abdomen, with tongue licking the happy trails and teeth biting into veiny skin, before finally reaching his lower mouth. Wet, salivating, grinning just as he did, as you placed a soft kiss against it.

His low chuckle echoed off the wooden walls, the smell of Naoya's blood still heavy in the air, swirling your mind senseless.

Sukuna's lower mouth parted, a fat, wet tongue licking your small lips before forcing its way down your throat. His free hand quickly grabbed your top and tore it off your chest. Your shorts were next, but he didn't let them fall to the floor.

No, instead, with eyes following the way your small mouth sucked on his tongue and both hands took care of heavy, leaking cocks, he pressed the drenched part of your shorts to his face.

Taking a deep, filthy breath, tongue sticking out to lick your creamy cum that stuck to the cloth. Sucking it dry, tasting the sweetness of your cunt and groaning almost pathetically around the flavour that seeped through his body.

You moaned around his tongue, softly sucking the muscle as you felt your taste slip down your throat.

"Delicious, hm?" Sukuna chuckled, brushing the hair from your lovely, flushed face. "Can't believe your pussy is the first thing I taste after a thousand years of starvation. But hell, you taste so fucking good."

Your eyes rolled back as the teeth of his lower belly bit on your lips. Pulling a line of blood that filled both your mouths.

His cocks weighed in your palms with drenched squelches, as you pumped them all this time. Thumbs smearing the precum around the two swollen tips, palms trying to squeeze that fatness that emitted heat against your naked breasts. His lower belly devoured you sweetly, long tongue pressing against yours whole, and you wondered how it would feel deep inside you pussy.

You felt that was close. His both cocks leaking heavily, balls constricting and shafts pumping blood right into the mushroom tips, as your nails grazed their bulging surface.

He suddenly pushed you away from his mouth. With a single, sharp move, he squeezed both of his cocks, pressing the tips against your lips.

You knew what he wanted, so you parted them with a smile, sticking out your tongue. Letting it smash against the underside of his shafts, eyes fixed on his face.

Narrowed, cheeky, curling in the most slutty way Sukuna hadn't even seen among the courtesans.

In fact, he had never met a woman like you, driven by a true passion and lacking any fear towards a monster like him.

You must've been slightly off your head, he tried to reassure himself, before pressing his lips into a tight line and finally letting the long, bubbling pleasure spill all over your tongue.

Splashing it with long, filthy ropes of heavy cum, that stuck in the swollen balls for far too long. Cumming all over your face, lips, breasts, as you moaned and licked both reddened tips. Your tongue pressing to his swollen head, curling around the small slit as if trying to pull more cum out of his warmth. Lips wrapping around them, licking clean, and thighs rubbing against each other until your skin ran a fever.

His eyes narrowed, one of the hand pushing you slightly back, till you fell on your elbows. With a grin and tilted head, as if knowing what he wanted.

"Hmm?" You cooed, parting your legs slowly. Painfully, straining slowly, as he watched your drenched, sticky folds open up with strings of cum sticking to your sweet, swollen hole. "Is that what you wished to see?"

Your fingers scooped his hefty cum coating your face, chin, breast, before pressing it against your pussy, mixing it together with your own juices.

Finger played with your clit, before slipping down to push inside the gaping hole that only waited for Sukuna to fill it with his cocks. Your thighs spread wider, head fell back as you moaned, pulling drenched squelches of his cum mixing with yours.

"Fuck, why don't you join me?" Your tone fell soft and silky as you looked at him with a doe-like furrow. "I think she's missing you. I feel so-ngh-empty here." You pressed your hand to your lower belly.

Something almost predatory bubbled behind his eyes. Almond-shaped eyes that stayed fixed on your face, frozen, as if he didn't dare let his gaze slip down. Through your breasts, soft belly, to the parted, fully drenched thighs that you spread for his massive body, wide open.

"Even whores aren't as wicked as you," he muttered, eyes finally falling down. "Such a fucking slut."

He followed the roll of your fingers. Clit, swollen and drenched, pinched by your pads as you pushed two digits in. Too short to feel any pleasure, yet enough to show him how tight your cunt was.

"I am," you giggled, the sweetness of your voice kissing his warm ears. "And I always wanted to fuck with a demon, so you can use me as you wish."

His knees finally met with the mattress. Camera left on the bedside table, angled to look right at the side of your lovely face.

Two upper hands spread your thighs wider, lower wrapping around your hips to lift you up and press against his lower mouth.

Fat, drenched tongue slipped past the grinning lips, to give your pussy a long, filthy lick. Forcing your fingers out and instead stuffing your hole full, till the creaminess of your cum wrapped around its heavy muscle.

A soft, moaning breath slipped past your lips, eyes rolling back as you gripped the hem of the bedding.

"Fuck, that's, oh my fucking-" His teeth caught on your clit, the painful pleasure washing over your spine as you let him press you to his belly closer.

"And you, foolish woman, think that you can take me whole with this weeping cunt?" He chuckled, trying to force his fat index finger into your whole. The skin stretched almost painfully as he thrusted it alongside his tongue. "I would rip you in half."

Your hips lifted from the mattress, back flush against it, as you wept beneath his filthy body. Your tight walls clenched around his tongue, slick and curved, with the tip already pressing against your sensitive spot, making your toes curl.

"I-I, fuck, I can take you. Mhm, there are two holes for a r-reason."

Sukuna chuckled and scooped a bit of your creamy cum, just to poke with his finger your puckered, tight hole.

"Truly? Because it seems to me that…" He pressed the pad against your ass. But surprisingly, the tight ring of muscles gave way, allowing him to slip a finger inside. "Oh? So you stretched yourself even there?"

Your eyes glimmered with sweat, tears, the pleasure your body was overwhelmed by, and this wicked cheekiness that made the demon's grin widen in an almost ominous sense.

"I know how to take a monster cock," you giggled, wriggling your hips on his finger, tongue, just to feel him deeper. "So why don't you stop treating me like a dolly, hm?"

Your hands slipped down your body. One, wrapping around the perked nipple, squeezing it tight to draw a lovely moan from your pouted lips. Another meeting his tongue pushed deep inside your cunt. Small fingers catching on the tight hole wrapped around it, just to slip in with the nasty squelch.

"Unless you want me to be one?" A cheeky grin flattered as his tongue bumped your plump spot, bursting stars right in front of your eyes. "Nghh, unless you want me to be your sweet virgin girl, hm? I can act innocent, if-"

But one of his hands left your hip to squeeze your cheeks. Lips pulled together, jaw tight, as he lowered himself and locked a filthy strap around your pouty lips.

"Don't fucking do it. Don't act all cute and innocent on me while stretching your ass just to fit my cocks," His crimson eyes met yours – slightly glossy, fucked. "Acting innocent? Are you a child? I fucking hate it."

You grinned wider, biting down on your lower lip, as if trying to muffle, to ignore, the threatening bubbling in your lower belly. The splashes that filled your pouch, heat creeping up your neck as another fat finger slipped inside your ass. Now, two of his fingers pumping you fully, spreading you open as the walls eagerly yielded to the wetness of your cum and allowed them to slide past the muscle rim.

His tongue deep, pressing your small fingers inside against your walls, before you pulled them out and crushed against your trembling clit. Rolling it in slow circles, gently pinching as you sensed the sizzling beneath your skin. Biting your muscles feverishly, as you felt the sudden tightness spreading through your stomach.

"I–I, fuck, I'm going to cum soon," slipped in a moan, as you rolled your hips harder against his tongue. "Sukuna, I–"

But you didn't have time to finish.

Not when he suddenly pushed you away, taking tongues and fingers from your weeping holes. A gasp escaped your throat a second later, when something big and swollen pressed against them.

And as you heard a low "Deep breath, dove," the sharp, drowning pain pinched every nerve in your trembling, tender body.

Your back fully pressed to the mattress, hip slightly elevated, thighs sticking wet to your heaving breasts, as he sunk both of his cocks in your puckered, swollen holes.

Without warning, only a sinister, wicked grin and crimson eyes, cherishing the pain that mingled with pleasure on your lovely face. Teeth biting your lower lip, harsh, drawing blood. Eyes going white, head pounding, as you felt the stretch you'd never even imagined in your wildest dreams.

You pictured yourself getting split on a monster's cock. Fucked senseless, till your spine would arch painfully and its heavy, massive body lay on yours, taking away your breath.

You thought about how bulging your belly would be, but when you looked down, the sheer sight of the plumpness seething through the pouch made your head spin.

"Fucking hell," Sukuna groaned, feeling the sudden tension in your holes. "You'd better fucking relax, dove, because I'm not waiting for you to get used to it." A finger gripped your face, forcing your foggy gaze to meet his. "You were running that pretty mouth of yours all this time, so take it without a complaint."

His cocks snugged against the tight muscles warmly, yet he could barely thrust them fully. His upper hands on the back of your thighs, lower ones spreading your cream–coated folds, just to see the way your poor, weeping pussy tried to swallow him in.

As, oh, she tried, and so he pressed your puffy clit to help her take it full. Inch by inch, as both his cocks sank deeper, sliding through the wetness of your walls till the skin beneath your belly button bulged.

Sukuna giggled, pressing his massive hand against it, pushing both shafts deeper into your squishy insides.

"What's wrong, dove?" he asked, watching the dark, mascara-stained tears slide down your cheeks. His palm cupped them in an almost loving manner, his fat thumb resting on your lips. "Is that not what your silly head dreamed about? Huh? You thought fucking with a monster would be easier?"

His shaft slid painfully slowly, and you knew that, despite all his words, he was trying to stop himself from splitting you in half.

Because he could – of course he did – but there was something about you – wicked, restless, biting deep into his marrow – that somehow made him want you to last a bit longer. The insolence of your working on his nerves, the cockiness and the blush that kissed your cheeks in a wicked manner.

He hated women of your sort.

And yet, right now he couldn't forget the taste of your honeyed pussy on his tongue. The flavour still coated his throat with muggy drops as he savoured it while sliding his cocks deeper through the wetness pooling beneath your hips.

"It's not," you whimpered, taking a deep breath as he finally sank himself fully. He thought you would beg him to stop, push him away, and cry and weep in pain. Yet your hand wrapped around his neck, tugging softly at the pinkish hair. "It's better than I have ever imagined."

It must've snapped something within him.

Because the moment his balls met your ass with a wet smack, he pulled both cocks till nothing but red tips stayed snuggled inside your gaping holes, and thrust back in. And again, again, again, forcing your breath to stay locked deep within your lungs, as he didn't give you a chance to take anything but a shallow weep.

His massive body pressed you deep into the mattress, pussy coating his fat cock with creamy strings of cum, linking your soppy folds with his pubic hair.

No sex you've ever had could be compared to this. No fantasy of yours that slipped wickedly into your mind at night, while you fucked yourself senseless on some jock's cock could meet the reality of taking a true monster's dick.

The musky heaviness that filled your belly was overwhelming, as was the heat he filled you with.

And when he pulled again, you've noticed something dark coating his veins, bulging skin. Crimson, fresh liquid that glimmered beneath the warm glow of the bedside lamp.

"Fuck," you groaned. That's why you felt a cock smack against your cervix that achily. "I'm on my period."

But Sukuna grinned. His cock pulled from your pussy, another one staying still in your ass, as his fingers slipped down and thrusted inside your hole, to swap on the blood-drenched walls.

"Hm, and here I thought you lied to me about being a virgin. I'm afraid I would need to kill you, dove," he groaned, dragging the fingers out. Hefty liquid covered them, the droplets of blood thick and clotted, as he pushed them into his mouth, eyes never leaving yours. "Fuck, still just as sweet. But I might like this taste even more."

You moaned, feeling the head of his cock again at the entrance of your pussy. This time, shoved deep till the mushroom tip kissed your bloody cervix, pushing painfully past the swollen muscle to stab the creamy womb.

Your scream was immediately muffled by his lips. Carnal, sweet, his bloody saliva mixed with yours in a raw, sensual kiss. Although difficult, it was to call it a kiss, as he devoured you fully. Lips pressed against each other's tongues, falling past the rim of your mouths as he licked, kissed, bit your face hole, smooching wet, heavy kisses over your sweat-drenched skin.

Like a dog, yet you cried out in pleasure as he folded you in half, his massive body completely pressed against yours.

The splashing in your pouch filled the room, leaving nothing but your heavy breaths. Your sweet moans as he pierced you with his cocks, till your womb was full of everything but his cum.

"Inside me," you cried, wrapping yourself around him. "I need to feel your cum, fuck. I need it inside."

Sukuna chuckled into the crook, one of his hands reaching for the long-forgotten camera. The lens was pointed directly at your crying, pleasure–twisted face as his pace quickened.

The tongue of his lower belly slipping past the monstrous lips, to flicker your puffy clit. To suck on it cruelly, bite softly, as he felt your walls squeezing tight around his cocks. Swallowing them in, letting both drenched shafts, one smeared fully blood, snug into the warmest plushness of your body.

Your eyes rolled back and your lips fell open as the orgasm crept up your neck. Kissing down the spine, splashing low in your belly as his belly mouth pressed its tongue against your clit.

"Smile for the camera, dove," Sukuna chuckled, savouring the pleasure of the view unfolding before his eyes. "Such a beauty, aren't you? Letting yourself get spilt on the monster's cock, huh. A fucking slut," His hand reached for your cheeks, forcing you to look straight into the lens. "Come on, you wanted to do it. Don't leave without showing the climax."

The gushing in your belly was perilously close to spilling. His lower tongue pressed against your clit, cocks swelling even bigger deep in your pussy, as you saw your belly inflating with the fatness of his shafts.

And when his bloodstained lips smashed against yours, as he angled the camera to look directly at your faces, you finally came. "Sukuna, f-fuck, I-I–nghhh–"

Squirting all over his abdomen, wetting the bed and his lower belly, which lapped up your splashing juices and swallowed them all with a groany moan. Your walls clamped around him in maddening tightness, and soon you felt the heavy warmth spill deep into your womb. And ass, with ropes and ropes of milky creaminess, growing your already stuffed belly, till the splashing of your squirt was changed for his cum.

The sleepiness suddenly settled over your mind. Your tired body melted beneath his heavy touch. Yet before your eyes could relax for a moment, he suddenly lifted your balm and bit your thumb, drawing a few droplets of blood and pressing the finger against the old, yellow paper of the book.

Right next to his name.

"Now, dove," he chuckled, pressing his own bloodstained finger beside it. "We're making a pact. You can summon me whenever you wish, agreeing to use you however I wish." He looked at your fucked, swollen face for a while, then cupped your cheek softly. "But after your death, you'll be joining my side in hell."

You nuzzled into his warm skin, licking his thumb sweetly. Eyes mingling, bewitching wickedness that sent shivers down his spine.

"You promise?"

He chuckled. "Of course. Who else could ever handle you?"

Your eyes fell on Naoya's body, or whatever was left of him. But Sukuna quickly turned your chin back to his face and kissed you slowly, raw, with the still metallic sweetness of your blood.

"I'll take care of him," he muttered, finally letting his cocks slip from your cunt. The mix of blood and cum pooled beneath your hips before his lower mouth drunk it fully, pushing the rest back inside your whole. "And now. Let's see how much blood I can draw from this sweet pussy, shall we?"

You giggled, nodded with a grin, and turned the camera off.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

The book cover was inspired by the Evil Dead movie series heheh (one of my fav horrors ever)

art by @/kcokaine_

dividers in order @uzmacchiato (red line), @annahasabighead (blood droplets), @strangergraphics (tape)

ref from here !