Prophecy

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𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐲, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞!!

“𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐧.“

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𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 • 𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 • 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒

currently playing:

♬ I, carrion (Icarian) — Hozier

status: just graduated!

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Jack Howl x Reader

2.15k words

a/n: one bed trope you will always be famous!

Everything starts when you laugh at Jack Howl in front of his entire Spelldrive team

“You know,” you say, watching him finish practice drills for what feels like the hundredth time, “I’m starting to think you actually like making everyone else look bad.”

Jack wipes sweat from his face with his sleeve and doesn’t look bothered at all.

“If everyone else trained harder, that wouldn’t happen.”

Epel groans loudly from somewhere nearby. “See? This is exactly why nobody likes talkin’ to you after practice.”

“You’re just slow.”

“I’m gonna hit him with a rock,” Epel mutters toward you.

You laugh.

Jack glances at you right away.

Since you can’t help yourself, you grin and say, “I could probably beat you in a race, though.”

The entire field goes silent.

Jack blinks once.

“…No, you couldn’t.”

“Oh, wow. The confidence.”

“It’s not confidence if it’s true.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You brought it up.”

“You’re still annoying.”

You spot a quick hint of amusement on Jack’s face, almost too fast to catch.

“Fine,” he says, crossing his arms. “Race me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Epel immediately perks up. “OH this is gonna end terribly.”

“You’re serious?” you ask.

Jack tilts his head slightly.

“You scared?”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

That’s your first real mistake.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Your second mistake is agreeing to race him down the mountain trail behind campus.

To be fair, it didn’t seem that bad at first.

When you started, there was only a light snowfall. You could still see the path, the air was cold but not unbearable, and Jack almost looked relaxed standing next to you at the trailhead.

Almost.

“You can still back out,” he’d said.

“Oh my god, shut up.”

“You’re the one who challenged me.”

“You accepted suspiciously fast.”

“That’s because I know I’m gonna win.”

“You are unbelievable.” Jack’s ears twitch a little.

“You’re talking a lot for someone who’s about to lose.”

Then he took off running.

And honestly?

For the first few minutes, it’s fun.

Cold air burns your lungs while snow crunches beneath your boots. You can hear Jack ahead of you occasionally throwing smug little comments over his shoulder.

“You’re slowing down.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You nearly trip.

Jack immediately doubles back. Concern flashes across his face so quickly and naturally that it catches you off guard.

“You okay?”

“…I’m fine.”

He studies you for a second longer before stepping back again.

“Watch your footing.”

He says it in a surprisingly gentle way.

Something you know is going to linger in the back of your mind.

Unfortunately, that’s around the same time the storm starts getting worse.

At first, it’s subtle.

A little more wind.

Thicker snowfall.

Then, all at once, the whole mountain disappears under a blanket of white.

The temperature drops sharply enough to hurt.

Jack notices before you do.

His posture changes instantly.

No more teasing. He stops racing.

“Stop.”

The firmness in his voice makes you obey automatically.

Snow whips violently around both of you now, obscuring the trail almost completely.

“…Oh,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.”

For the first time all evening, Jack looks genuinely worried.

“We need to head back. Now.”

The walk back should have been easy.

Instead, the storm gets worse much faster than you expect.

Wind screams through the trees. Snow gathers thick around your ankles. Visibility drops lower and lower until Jack is little more than a dark shape beside you.

Still, he never lets you fall behind.

Every few steps, he glances back.

Every few minutes,

“You still with me?”

“Yes.”

“You warm enough?”

“No.”

Jack exhales sharply through his nose before shrugging off his varsity jacket.

You immediately protest.

“Jack, absolutely not.”

“Put it on.”

“You’ll freeze.”

“I won’t.”

“You literally look cold.”

“That’s because it’s snowing.”

“Which means you are cold. Idiot”

“You argue too much.”

“You’re trying to give yourself hypothermia out of chivalry.”

“It’s not chivalry.”

“Then what is it?”

Jack opens his mouth to retort but stops.

His ears flick once in irritation before he shoves the jacket toward you harder.

“…Just put it on.”

As soon as you put it on, you feel warmth all around you.

And somehow, it feels like he’s there too.

The jacket smells like winter air and detergent and cedar and something unmistakably Jack.

Your heart reacts in a way you’d rather not admit.

Jack notices your silence immediately.

“What?”

“…Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“You smell good.”

The words leave your mouth before your brain can stop them.

Jack nearly chokes.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I- uhm- I did not.”

“You did.”

His face turns bright red right away.

“You’re insane.”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s cold outside.”

“Mhmmm.”

Jack actually looks offended that you’re laughing. Unfortunately for him, it only makes you laugh harder.

And even with the storm, and despite the cold and the wind getting worse,

You notice the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth too.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The inn appears like a miracle.

Warm golden light shines through the windows, and snow piles up on the roof.

You practically stumble through the front door.

The elderly woman behind the desk takes one look at the storm and sighs sympathetically.

“Roads are closed tonight.”

“That’s fine,” Jack says immediately. “We just need a room.”

“Luck you, there’s only one room left!”

You both feel a wave of relief.

“One bed.”

Jack freezes next to you so suddenly that you almost laugh.

The poor woman looks between the two of you knowingly.

Jack looks like he’d rather fight the storm again.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The room upstairs is tiny.

One bed shoved against the wall. One flickering heater. One small window rattling from the wind outside.

Jack immediately drops the bags beside the door.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“You absolutely will not.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You say that like you’re not built like an old man.”

Jack looks offended.

“I’m stronger than you.”

“That has nothing to do with your back problems.”

“I don’t have back problems.”

“You stretched for twenty minutes after practice yesterday.”

“That’s normal!”

“You make noises every time you stand up.”

Jack pouts, and you laugh so hard you nearly miss the fact that he’s smiling now, too.

Slight and brief.

But real.

Suddenly, the room feels a lot warmer than it did before.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The heater dies around midnight.

One terrible sputter.

Then silence.

Cold immediately creeps through the room.

You curl tighter beneath the blanket instinctively.

Across the bed, Jack sighs heavily before sitting up.

“…Move over.”

You blink sleepily.

“What?”

“You’re freezing.”

“So are you.”

“I run warm.”

“You’ve said that like six times tonight.”

“Because it’s true.”

“You’re literally shivering.”

Jack ignores that.

Carefully, awkwardly, he shifts closer beneath the blanket until warmth radiates against your side.

Being this close changes everything right away.

You become painfully aware of every little thing.

The warmth of his arm brushing yours.

The steady sound of his breathing.

The way his hair falls messily over his forehead when he’s tired.

Jack goes rigid beside you.

“You keep staring.”

“You’re very pretty.”

Silence.

Then,

“…You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because-”

Jack cuts himself off harshly, clearly frustrated with himself.

You tilt your head slightly.

“Because what?”

Golden eyes flick toward yours briefly before away again.

“Because you make me nervous.”

The confession lands softly between you.

Jack exhales slowly.

“I don’t know how to act around you sometimes,” he admits quietly. “And I hate that.”

Something in your chest soars, then aches.

“Jack-”

“I mean, look at me right now.” He laughs once under his breath. “I can stand up to Leona. Compete in front of crowds. Handle basically anything.”

His ears flatten slightly.

“But you look at me for too long and suddenly I forget how to function.”

Your heart almost stops. Before you can answer, exhaustion finally pulls you under.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The nightmare comes hard and fast.

Snow.

Cold.

Screaming wind.

You’re running.

Your lungs burn while panic claws violently through your chest.

“Jack!”

No answer.

A sick, heavy fear settles in your stomach.

Then finally,

You see him collapsed in the snow.

Motionless.

Blood staining white beneath him while the storm keeps covering him more and more and—

You wake with a broken gasp.

For one horrible second, the dream still feels real.

Your chest aches.

Your breathing comes too fast.

Beside you, Jack Howl wakes in a groggy haze.

He’s about to start complaining, but then he looks at you. 

He sees your frazzled state and teary eyes.

It alerts him instantly.

“Hey.”

His voice is rough with sleep but steady.

You can’t answer.

Jack’s expression changes the moment he sees your face.

Worry appears on his face right away.

“…Bad dream?”

You nod weakly.

Jack pushes himself upright beside you without hesitation. The blanket has slipped from your shoulders at some point, and before he says anything else, he pulls it back around you carefully.

His hands are warm.

Grounding.

“You’re shaking.”

“It felt real,” you whisper.

Jack’s ears lower slightly.

“What happened?”

You hesitate.

“You got hurt.”

The admission barely leaves your throat.

For a second, Jack says nothing at all.

Wind rattles violently against the windows while snow taps softly against the glass.

Then, more quietly,

“That scared you that bad?”

You laugh weakly despite yourself.

“Kind of, yeah.”

Jack looks down for a moment, thoughtful in that faraway way he sometimes gets. Moonlight shines softly on his face, silver on tan skin and tired eyes.

Then finally, he says,

“…C’mere.”

The words are quiet.

Bordering on awkward.

But genuine.

You move closer slowly, and the second you do, Jack pulls the blanket around both of you more securely until warmth settles between you again.

This close, you can hear the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Feel the warmth radiating from him.

Jack leans back against the headboard slightly, one arm resting loosely behind you like he’s trying to comfort you without making a big deal out of it.

“You know,” he murmurs after a moment, “you’re really bad at hiding when something’s bothering you.”

“You noticed?”

“You looked like you were about to cry.”

“Oh.”

“…Yeah.”

Embarrassment burns instantly across your face.

Jack notices that too.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“You won’t look at me right now.”

“…Maybe a little.”

A quiet huff of amusement leaves him.

You finally glance toward him.

Jack’s expression has softened completely now, all the usual sharpness gone from it.

When Jack cares, he cares with his entire heart.

“You wanna know something?” he asks quietly.

“Hm?”

“When we got stuck out there earlier…” He pauses briefly. “I was more scared for you than myself.”

Jack looks away toward the storm outside.

“I kept thinking if something happened to you because I agreed to that stupid race, I’d never forgive myself.”

The honesty in his voice hits you even harder than the nightmare. His jaw tightens slightly. “I know you can handle yourself. I know you’re not weak.” A faint breath leaves him. “But the idea of losing you still scared the hell out of me.”

Silence settles softly between you.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full of everything you haven’t said yet.

Heavy with everything neither of you has said properly yet.

Then quietly, you ask,

“Is that why you kept checking if I was still behind you?”

Jack’s ears flick once.

“…Maybe.”

“You were worried.”

“I said maybe.”

“You gave me your jacket.”

“You were freezing.”

“You looked ready to fist-fight the weather itself.”

“That storm was annoying me.”

You stare at him flatly.

Jack finally sighs.

“…Fine. I was worried.”

He sounds reluctant, but the way his hand tightens around the blanket gives him away.

Something warm blooms in your chest.

“You care about me a lot, huh?”

Jack freezes immediately.

You watch as he realizes, in real time, that he’s walked right into a trap.

“…Don’t start.”

Your smile widens slightly.

“Oh my god, you do.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

Jack nearly chokes.

“I did not say that!”

“You didn’t have to.”

His face turns violently red.

You swear that even his ears are red now.

“You are unbelievable,” he mutters, horrified.

But he’s smiling.

It’s small, helpless, and he can’t hide it at all.

You laugh softly, the last remnants of panic finally easing from your chest.

Jack watches you for a second too long after that.

Then, quieter,

“…You’re okay now?”

The gentle way he asks catches you off guard.

You nod slowly.

“Yeah.”

Jack studies your face carefully like he’s making sure you mean it.

Then finally, he relaxes too.

Outside, the storm continues raging against the mountainside.

Inside, wrapped in warmth and soft golden lamplight, Jack hesitates for a moment, then carefully intertwines your fingers under the blanket.

Neither of you teasing or flustered.

Somewhere between woodland hymns and holy ruin

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Masterlist | Reblogs

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Hello! I’m Prophecy.

Welcome to my little corner of the internet.

Requests are always welcome. Send whatever your heart desires drifting my way.

There is only one thing I will not write:

Any form of NSFW content.

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• twst • dc / robins

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• marvel • marauders • harry potter

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none, currently.

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Take a seat by the fire, stay awhile, and make youself at home.

Malleus Draconia x Reader

1.04k words

A/N: on a roll w/ these. I think it's because I have so much schoolwork due. #procrastinator.

Malleus Draconia had lived long enough to measure his life not in years, but in the music that accompanied it. 

They had music in Briar Valley, of course they did.

But it was different than the sort of music that was popular among humans. It was older, more instrumental, and ethereal, in a way. It reminded Malleus of his childhood. Reminded him of dancing in the Great Hall with his grandmother when they needed a break, of being young and free, of being able to wander the Earth as if it were his little world, and of everything within it being his and his alone.

The music changed as he got older. It morphed into something slower, deeper, quieter, and focused. Measured and restrained.

It reflected what he was becoming.

A perfect heir.

A prince.

A future king.

There was less wandering and laughter. Days now overtaken by lessons in magic and diplomacy. Power, he learned, was not something he was allowed to wield freely. It was something he had to control.

Until one day, the music stopped.

As if something within him had been cut clean through.

He was surrounded by a college full of people, a place filled with life.

Yet, he had never felt so alone.

He noticed the absence of the music. The absence of warmth and rhythmic melodies being replaced by whispers of fear and judgment whenever he passed by. 

He had become accustomed to isolation long before this. But it was different. He could tolerate the whispers and the looks.

But what he could not tolerate was the silence.

The painful, deafening silence.

Without warning, you arrived. 

It took him by surprise. You were one of the first people (human or fae) to not be intimidated by him. One of the first to treat him as an individual. An equal. Not as a powerful mage to be feared.

It confused him. He thought you foolish. Who would treat THE Malleus Draconia as a simple man?

But he kept running into you. In the courtyard, in the halls, even on his nightly escapades.

It was then that he heard the faint start of a melody.

It was slow, very slow.

A simple smile sent his way during a passing period, a small “Hello” sent his way during lunch, and an accidental brush of shoulders in the courtyard.

He noticed the smaller things about you in these moments. The way your voice would lilt in change in the hallway, fighting to be heard against the ocean of voices. The way the sunlight would catch in your hair as you laughed with the first-years during lunch before your eyes landed on him. The memory of your scent as you quickly rushed out an apology after brushing shoulders.

All insignificant on their own became something soft and steady.

Something that sounded like the beginning of a song. 

Nothing like Malleus had ever felt, or heard, before. 

The music got louder the more he was around you.

It strengthened with every conversation, every fleeting interaction he had with you.

One night changed everything.

He had been walking, as he often did.

The grounds of Ramshackle were quiet, glowing under the moonlight. it was one place that he could go that felt peaceful.

Until

"Mind if I join you?"

He turned.

And there you stood, outlined by the shine of the night.

He should have refused. It would have been the sensible option.

But something tugged in his brain.

A small nod followed suit.

You fell in step beside him.

The silence was awkward at first, but Malleus didn't mind, and it seemed you didn't either.

You broke the barrier by starting a conversation.

You spoke about your day, your classes, and some small frustration with one of your classmates not pulling their weight during a group project.

You asked him questions too. Not about his power or his royal status. But about him. What he liked. What he thought. What he remembered.

And for reasons that he still cannot explain, he answered.

When the walk ended, he expected that to be it.

A one-off. A singular moment in his expansive life.

But the next night you returned.

And again. And again. And again.

What should have been a small, fleeting act of spontaneity turned into an unlikely friendship.

After that night, Malleus found himself drawn to you. 

At first, he tried (and failed) to keep his distance.

He would linger in places where he thought you might be.

He would watch you to make sure you got to your classes ok.

When asked by Lilia or Silver, he would find a lame excuse about needing to talk to one of the teachers.

He would watch and listen for you and your friends' laughter during lunch. Never fully listening to what Sebek was ranting about or Lilia's teasing comments.

As weeks passed, he got bolder.

He started walking you to your classes under the guise of convenience. Eventually not needing an excuse altogether.

He would escort you home at night, despite you trying (and failing) to convince him that you were fine.

He provided for you in small ways. You would find things you needed appearing before you had the chance to go to Sam's to get them for yourself.

You argued. You protested. You refused.

Of course you did.

It only made the melody lighter. Stronger. Warmer.

Soon, it was odd to spot one of you two without the other by your side.

“Best friends," Silver stated.

"A distraction” is what Sebek called it. 

“Love” and “fondness” are what Lilia claimed.

Malleus could not find it in himself to correct them.

He could not find words accurate enough to define what he felt.

He enjoyed your presence, your passion, your intellect, and your beauty.

But most of all, almost selfishly, he loved the music you put back into his life. The rising and falling, and the sweet sound of your voice, created a symphony so beautiful it would make the angels in Heaven weep.

You changed him.

With you by his side, Malleus was no longer alone, no longer feared.

He was gentle, patient, and kind.

But above all.

He was yours.

Sebek Zigvolt x Reader

~2k words

A/N: can u tell I’ve been watching Bridgerton. I love an angry confession

The first thing you notice is how loud he is.

Not just in voice (though that alone could shake windows) but in his presence. There's an intensity he carries with him. 

And right now, all of that intensity is pointed directly at you.

“You have been avoiding me.”

It isn’t a question. Of course it isn’t.

You don’t look up from your book. “I’ve been busy.”

A lie. A weak one, too.

You can feel the way his glare sharpens, like a blade being dragged slowly across stone. The air feels heavy. Charged and crackling. 

“Busy,” he repeats, voice dropping into something more dangerous than his usual shouting. “That is a poor excuse.”

You turn a page, deliberately calm. “It’s not an excuse. It’s just what’s been happening.”

A beat of silence follows your response.  

Then a sharp slam.

Your book is ripped out of your hands, snapped shut with enough force to make you flinch despite yourself. You finally look up, irritation flashing, only to be met with something that stops the fury of words rising in your throat.

He’s furious.

Not the loud, blustering anger everyone else sees, the kind you’ve gotten used to. Not the kind that comes with lectures, dramatic declarations, and commands no one takes very seriously. 

No.

This is quieter.

Worse. It’s frightening.

“You think I would not notice?” he demands. “You think I am so oblivious that I would fail to see you slipping away like a coward?”

Your brows knit, and a scoff escapes your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Do not play dumb!” he snaps, stepping closer. “You avoid me in the halls. You leave when I arrive. You barely speak when I address you, that is if you acknowledge me at all.”

Each accusation lands harder than the last. Settling somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

“And now,” he continues, voice tightening, “you sit here pretending nothing is wrong.”

“I’m not pretending,” you fire back, finally standing. “I just don’t see why it matters so much to you!”

The words hang there.

For a split second, something flickers across his face. Shock, maybe? Or something even more fragile.

Then it’s gone.

“It matters,” he says, low and sharp, “because your behavior is unacceptable.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shoot back, anger rising to meet his, “I didn’t realize I needed your approval for how I spend my time.”

“You do not,” he bites out immediately. “But when your actions are so blatantly disrespectful-”

“Disrespectful?” you laugh, short and disbelieving. “Sebek, I haven’t done anything to you!”

“That is precisely the problem!”

His voice echoes off the walls, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room trembles with it.

“You have done nothing,” he repeats, stepping even closer. “Nothing but pull away without explanation. Nothing but treat me as though I am… insignificant.”

Your breath catches.

That wasn’t what you expected.

“I don’t-”

“You do,” he cuts in. “And I will not tolerate it.”

“You don’t get to decide what I do!” you snap, even as your chest tightens. “You don’t own me!”

“I am well aware of that!” he snarls. “Do not twist my words!”

“Then what do you want from me?” you demand. “Because all you’ve done is yell and accuse me of things I didn’t even realize I was doing!”

“Then perhaps,” he says, voice dropping again, “you should have been paying more attention.”

The tension between you is suffocating now.

He’s too close. Too loud. Too much.

“Why?” you ask, frustration cracking through. “Why does it bother you so much? Why do you care if I’m not around you all the time?”

He freezes.

Just for a second.

But you see it.

And suddenly, something shifts.

“…Because it is improper,” he says stiffly.

You stare hard at him. 

“…That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the reason?” you press, disbelief creeping in. “Because it’s ‘improper’?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

You shake your head, stepping back. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It is not.”

“It is!” you argue. “You’re acting like I betrayed you or something, when all I did was what? Spend time somewhere else?”

“You avoided me.”

“Maybe I needed space!”

“From what?” he demands. “From me?”

You hesitate.

That’s what does it.

His expression twists, a pitiful, raw look slipping through the rigid pride he clings to so fiercely.

“…I see.”

“No, you don’t,” you say quickly, but it’s too late.

“You find my presence so unbearable,” he continues, voice quieter now. He’s shaking with something far more volatile than anger, “that you must actively distance yourself.”

“That’s not what I said-” you spit out quickly

“You did not need to say it!” he snaps. “Your actions were more than sufficient!”

Frustration surges again. “You’re twisting everything!”

“And you are refusing to explain yourself!” he fires back. “Do you expect me to simply accept that?!”

“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!” you shout.

Silence.

Heavy, crushing silence.

And then-

“That,” he says slowly, “is where you are wrong.”

Your breath falters.

Because suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a normal argument anymore.

It feels like something else.

Something bigger.

“You assumed,” he continues, each word deliberate, “that your absence would go unnoticed. That I would not care whether you stood beside me or vanished entirely.”

His fists clench at his sides. His chest rising and falling at a deep and constant pace. 

“You assumed,” he repeats, voice tightening, “that you meant nothing.”

“I didn’t say that-”

“But you thought it,” he cuts in, sharp as a blade. “Or you would not have acted this way so carelessly.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

Because how do you respond to that?

He takes your silence as confirmation.

Of course he does.

A bitter sound escapes him. Not quite a laugh.

“…Unbelievable.”

“Sebek-”

“Do you have any idea,” he interrupts, stepping forward again, “how infuriating it is to be treated as though I am irrelevant by someone who-”

He stops.

The words die in his throat.

Your heart stutters.

“…By someone who what?” you ask, softer now.

He doesn’t answer.

His gaze shifts, like he’s fighting something. Like he’s trying to shove it back down where it belongs.

But it’s too late.

You’ve already seen it.

“Finish that sentence,” you press.

“No.”

“Sebek.”

“I said no.”

“Why?” you demand. “You’ve been yelling at me this entire time, but now suddenly you don’t want to talk?”

“Because it is not necessary,” he snaps.

“It clearly isn’t!”

“It is!” he insists. “This conversation has already gone too far-”

“No, it hasn’t gone far enough,” you counter, stepping closer despite the way your pulse pounds. “You’re upset. Really upset. And it’s not just because I wasn’t hanging around you as much.”

“That is exactly why-”

“Then look at me and say it doesn’t matter if I stay away,” you challenge.

He freezes.

“Say it doesn’t bother you,” you continue, voice quieter but steadier, “and I’ll drop it.”

Silence.

“Say it,” you push.

His jaw clenches.

His hands curl into fists.

And for a long moment, it looks like he might actually do it.

Like he might force the words out through sheer stubbornness alone.

But then-

“…I cannot.”

Your breath catches.

“What?” you whisper.

“I cannot say that,” he repeats, voice strained and hoarse. 

All at once, everything feels very, very still.

“Why?” you ask.

And this time he answers.

“Because it is a lie!”

The words come out sharper than anything he’s said before. It’s raw and unfiltered and reckless, entirely un-Sebek.

“It does bother me!” he continues, voice rising again, but not in the same controlled way as before. “It is insufferable! Your absence is distracting, your silence is aggravating, and your refusal to even acknowledge me is-”

He stops, breath hitching.

“-entirely intolerable.”

You feel your breathing stutter.

“Why?” you ask again, barely above a whisper.

And this time he doesn’t dodge it.

“I do not know!” he snaps, frustration spilling over. “Do you think I enjoy this?! Being affected by something so trivial?!”

“It’s not trivial,” you say quietly.

“It should be!” he argues. “There is no logical reason for your presence to matter to me to this extent!”

“But it does,” you point out.

“Yes!” he shouts. “And that is precisely the problem!”

He runs a hand through his hair, agitation written into every movement.

“I cannot focus when you are near,” he admits, voice tight. “And when you are gone, it is… worse.”

Your heart skips.

“I find myself searching for you,” he continues, almost like the words are being dragged out against his will. “Noticing your absence. Wondering where you are. Who you are with.”

There’s something dangerously close to jealousy in that last part.

“And when you avoid me,” he adds, quieter now, “it is… infuriating.”

“Because?” you ask, even though you think you already know.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for once, there’s no pride shielding him. No arrogance. No carefully maintained composure.

Just something honest.

Something messy.

Something real.

“…Because I care,” he says.

The words land between you like a crack of thunder.

“And I do not care lightly,” he continues, voice lower now, rougher. “I do not form attachments without reason. I do not concern myself with people who are unworthy of my attention.”

Your breath feels unsteady.

“But you-” he stops, jaw tightening again.

“…You are different.”

Silence.

“…So when you pull away,” he says, quieter now, “it is not something I can simply ignore.”

Your throat feels tight.

“I didn’t realize,” you admit softly.

“Clearly,” he mutters.

You almost laugh, but it catches somewhere in your throat.

“I wasn’t avoiding you because I didn’t care,” you say after a moment. “I just… thought maybe I was bothering you.”

That gets his attention.

“…Bothering me?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you shrug, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “You’re always so intense. I figured maybe you just tolerated me.”

For a second, he looks genuinely stunned.

“Tolerated you?” he echoes, like the concept itself is offensive.

“Yeah?”

“That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard,” he says flatly.

You blink. “Wow. Okay.”

“I do not ‘tolerate’ you,” he continues, stepping closer again. Slower this time. “If that were the case, your absence would have been a relief.”

“It wasn’t?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“No,” he says immediately. “It was not.”

There’s no hesitation this time, his pride not getting in the way.

And somehow, that feels more overwhelming than all his yelling put together.

“…So,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “what now?”

He hesitates.

Just briefly.

Then-

“…Now,” he says, voice steady again but softer than before, “you will stop avoiding me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That sounds less like a request and more like an order.”

“It is both,” he replies without missing a beat.

You huff a quiet laugh.

“…Fine,” you say. “But you have to stop yelling at me every five seconds.”

“I do not yell-”

“You literally shouted my name across the courtyard yesterday.”

“That was necessary.”

“It wasn’t!”

“It was.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

“…You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, gaze fixed on you, “you are still here.”

Your heart skips.

“…Yeah,” you admit softly.

“…Try not to disappear again.”

It’s not an order this time.

“…I’ll try,” you say.

He studies you for a second.

Then nods, just slightly, a small smile peeking through.

“…See that you do.”

But he doesn’t step back.

Kalim al Asim x Reader

~1k words

A/N: Mandatory Jamil appearance obviously.

The party is alive in every possible way.

Lanterns glow like scattered stars across the courtyard, casting everything in warm gold. Music hums through the air. Loud enough to wrap around conversations and laughter without drowning them out. There’s movement everywhere: students dancing, talking, leaning into the night as if it might last forever.

It’s exactly what Kalim loves. What he’s best at, some might say. It’s exactly what he planned.

And yet-

His attention keeps slipping.

Back to you.

You’re across the courtyard again, caught in that same soft light, and he swears it makes you look like something unreal. You’re smiling at someone, nodding along to whatever they’re saying, completely unaware of the way he’s been stealing glances at you all night.

It’s not subtle anymore.

Not to him, at least.

“Kalim.”

The voice is low and unimpressed,

A familiar smile takes over Kalim’s face. He doesn’t even need to turn. “Hey, Jamil-”

“You’ve been staring at them for the past ten minutes.”

Kalim finally looks over, smile dropping slowly, blinking once. “Have not.”

Jamil raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Do you want me to count the exact number of times you’ve looked over there, or-”

“Okay, maybe a little,” Kalim admits, grinning, but it falters just slightly as his gaze flickers back to you again. “I just… I don’t know.”

Jamil follows his line of sight, expression flattening in his all-knowing way. “You ‘don’t know,’” he repeats.

Kalim exhales, quieter now. “They just-” He stops, searching for the right words, which isn’t something he usually struggles with. “Everything feels better when they’re here.”

Jamil watches him for a moment, and for once, there’s no immediate sarcasm. Jamil releases a small, almost resigned sigh.

“…Then go talk to them.”

Kalim hesitates. Which, for him, says everything.

Jamil notices immediately.

“…You threw an entire party,” he says flatly, “and this is what you’re nervous about?”

“I’m not nervous,” Kalim shoots back quickly and defensively.

“You are.”

“ ‘M not.”

“You’ve reorganized the fruit table three times.”

Kalim pauses. Searching for an excuse “It was unbalanced.”

Jamil stares at him.

Then, without another word, he reaches out, grabs Kalim lightly by the shoulder, and turns him directly toward you.

“Go.”

Kalim laughs under his breath, a little breathless despite himself. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“I’m efficient,” Jamil snaps. “Now stop hovering and do something about it.”

Kalim doesn’t argue this time.

He lets his feet (and heart) lead him toward you.

You don’t notice him at first.

You’re mid-conversation, smiling politely, when the person you’re talking to suddenly glances past you and stiffens slightly.

“Oh- uh, Housewarden.”

You turn.

And there he is.

Kalim, standing just behind you, a little closer than expected, but not enough to feel overwhelming. Just enough to feel intentional.

“Hey,” he says, softer than usual.

Your expression brightens instantly. “Hey.”

That’s all it takes.

Whatever he was going to say disappears for a second, replaced by a quiet, full feeling that’s been following him all night.

“I was looking for you,” he admits.

You tilt your head, amused. “At your own party?”

He smiles, a little sheepish this time. “Yeah… turns out it’s not that fun if you’re not around.”

There’s that same, gentle pause again..

Behind him, Jamil is watching. Of course he is.

And when Kalim hesitates just a second too long, Jamil makes a subtle motion toward the dance floor. Which goes barely noticeable to anyone else.

Kalim catches it and rolls his eyes.

But he takes the hint.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks, a little more quietly now.

The music has slowed.

Not completely. There’s still rhythm and still movement. It’s softer now, more drawn out. The kind that doesn’t demand energy so much as it invites closeness.

You step onto the dance floor with him, and for a second, neither of you moves.

Then Kalim gently places one hand at your waist.

Careful. Like he’s making sure it’s okay.

His other hand finds yours, warm and steady, and when you settle into the movement with him, something in his expression softens completely.

This is different from how he usually dances.

Kalim is normally bright, energetic, the center of everything. But here, now, he’s slower. More focused.

On you.

The world doesn’t disappear, but it blurs.

Lanterns smear into gold streaks, voices fade into the background, and the music becomes something distant compared to the quiet rhythm you fall into together.

“You look… really nice tonight,” he says after a moment, almost like he’s been holding it in.

It seems simple.

But the way he says it isn’t.

His gaze lingers. You can tell he means more than he’s saying.

“You’ve kind of ruined the party for me,” he adds lightly.

You blink, taken back “That sounds like a bad thing.”

He shakes his head, smiling softly. “No. Just means I don’t really want to be anywhere else right now.”

Your hands shift slightly as you move, and he adjusts with you instinctively, pulling you just a fraction closer without even realizing it.

It feels natural.

Effortless.

“I think I overdid it,” he murmurs after a moment.

You glance around again. The lights, the decorations, everything he put together. “This? Overdoing it?”

Kalim’s eyes stay on you.

“No,” he says quietly. “All of it.”

There’s a small pause.

“I could’ve just invited you.”

The words land softer this time.

Closer.

And for once, Kalim doesn’t try to fill the silence after.

He just stays there, swaying gently with you. And it’s more than enough.

At the edge of the dance floor, Jamil watches for a moment longer.

Then he exhales, shaking his head just slightly.

“…Finally,” he mutters under his breath.

And for once-

Jealous!Deuce Spade x Reader

1k words

A/N: got the itch again……

Deuce can’t stop the jealousy building in his chest.

It’s not sudden. It’s been simmering.

He noticed it earlier. Noticed it before the music got louder, before the crowd got thicker. The way a Savanaclaw guy kept glancing your way like he was waiting for something. Watching. Timing it.

Deuce didn’t say anything then.

He should have.

Now it’s worse.

Because that same guy is standing way too close to you, leaning in as if he belongs there, like he earned that space. And you're laughing.

That soft, easy laugh Deuce knows too well.

The sweet sound he pulls from you without trying.

His grip tightens around the plastic cup in his hand. It bends slightly under the pressure. The liquid inside vibrating.

Across the room, Ace Trappola is shouting something at him, probably stupid, but Deuce doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t care.

All he sees is you.

And him.

And the way that guy looks at you like he’s already decided something.

Like you’re his next move.

Deuce exhales sharply through his nose.

Yeah. No.

He moves before he can overthink it.

One second he’s across the room, the next he’s right beside you.

“Hey.”

You turn, surprised at first, but then your expression softens immediately. “Hi Deuce-”

“Having fun?” he cuts in, voice steady but edged.

The Savanaclaw student glances at him, unimpressed. “We were just talking.”

Deuce’s eyes flick to him, sharp and unimpressed right back. “Yeah. I can see that.”

There’s a pause.

Not friendly.

You shift slightly, glancing between the two men. “Deuce-”

“Walk with me,” he says.

Not loud or aggressive.

But not really optional either.

The other guy lets out a quiet huff of amusement. “You always get this territorial, or is this a special occasion?”

Deuce stares at him, expression unimpressed.

“Funny,” he says. “You always this bold with people who clearly aren’t interested, or just tonight?”

That lands.

The guy’s smirk tightens, but there’s still something smug there. “Pretty sure they can decide who they talk to.”

“They can,” Deuce agrees easily. He glances at you and lays his hand on your waist.

Then, finally, he looks at him again.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Silence stretches for a second too long.

You step in before it turns into something louder, your hand catching lightly on Deuce’s sleeve. “Okay, hey. I’m gonna- just give me a second, alright?”

You don’t wait for an argument. You pull Deuce a few steps away, out of the immediate tension, into a slightly quieter pocket of the room.

He lets you.

Barely.

“What was that?” you ask once you’re out of earshot.

Deuce runs a hand through his hair, exhaling, but the irritation hasn’t left. It’s still there, sitting just under the surface.

“You didn’t notice?” he asks.

“Notice what?”

“That he’s been watching you all night.”

You blink. “What?”

“I saw him earlier,” Deuce continues, jaw tight. “Across the room. Every time you moved, his eyes followed. He waited until you were by yourself, then suddenly he’s right there like it’s natural.”

Your brows knit slightly. You glance back without thinking.

Deuce noticed.

Of course he did.

“And you’re laughing with him like it’s nothing,” he adds.

“I was just being polite,” you say.

“I know,” he says immediately.

That’s not the problem.

His gaze sharpens, locking onto yours.

“That’s exactly why he picked you,” he says. “Because you are nice. Because you won’t shut it down even if you’re not interested.”

There’s no accusation in his voice. Just certainty

And irritation. But not at you. Never at you.

“He’s not subtle,” Deuce continues. “He wasn’t trying to just talk.”

Your expression shifts, understanding now.

“And I didn’t like the way he looked at you. Like he had a chance,” he adds, quieter but more intense.

The words sit heavier now.

“I don’t like people deciding they can just walk up and take your attention like it doesn’t matter.”

Your breath catches slightly at that.

“Deuce…”

He exhales, slower this time, trying to steady himself. But he doesn’t take it back.

“I’m not making something out of nothing,” he says. “I watched it happen.”

There’s a pause.

Then, more direct

“If I hadn’t come over, you’d still be standing there with him.”

It’s not a question.

You step closer without really thinking about it.

“Maybe,” you admit. “But not because I wanted to.”

That’s enough to shift something in him.

Not all the way.

But enough.

Deuce studies your face like he’s looking for anything that contradicts that.

He doesn’t find it.

“…Then why didn’t you leave?” he asks.

You hold his gaze, completely steady.

“Because you hadn’t said anything yet.”

That lands just as hard.

For a moment, Deuce goes still. He’s focused.

“…So you were waiting,” he says.

You smile, “Yeah.”

Something in his expression shifts. His jealousy sharpening into something more deliberate.

He glances back once toward the Savanaclaw student, then returns his attention to you, fully this time.

“Good,” he says.

His hand moves before he overthinks it. Closing gently but firmly around your own.

“Then don’t make me wait next time.”

Your breath catches slightly.

Deuce leans in just enough for his voice to drop, meant only for you despite the noise around you.

“If someone’s trying their luck,” he says quietly, “I want you with me instead.”

It’s not a question. Not even really a request.

It’s a boundary. A claim, in the only way Deuce knows how to make one, without overstepping.

He lets go after a second. But he doesn’t step back.

Doesn’t look away.

And when the noise of the party swells again, when the crowd shifts and pulls at the edges of the moment

Deuce stays right where he is.

Close and certain and stable.

Sound of Music!Damian Wayne x Reader

Da brain worms got me 💔

6.6k words.

Realized halfway through that this concept might be better as a Bruce fanfic, so if you want that lmk.

Enjoy!

Damian Wayne believed in order the way some people believed in religion.

After losing everyone he loved and being the new guardian to his siblings' children, this was not something he was willing to slip up on. Not again.

Order was not optional. It was not aesthetic. It was survival. Structure kept chaos at bay; discipline kept grief contained. Without it, the world slipped. First an inch, then a mile, then straight into bloodshed.

Wayne Manor reflected this belief perfectly.

Every hallway was quiet by design. Every room had a purpose. Training schedules were memorized. Meals occurred at precise times, eaten efficiently, without needless conversation. Even the staff had adapted to the rhythm. They moved smoothly, speaking softly, never disrupting the flow Damian had imposed.

It worked.

Mostly.

Which was why the woman Alfred ushered into the entry hall that afternoon felt like an error in the equation. One that he had worked so hard to perfect.

You stood just inside the threshold, one suitcase at your feet, rainwater clinging to your coat. Your expression was polite but curious, eyes flicking upward to take in the vaulted ceiling, the staircase, the sheer grandeur of the place.

And, absolutely unforgivably, you were humming.

Not loudly. Not even deliberately. Just a soft, wandering melody, as if silence made you uncomfortable.

Damian felt something tighten behind his ribs.

“Master Damian,” Alfred said calmly, “this is the tutor I mentioned.”

Damian’s eyes snapped to you. You straightened immediately, the humming cutting off the moment you noticed him watching.

“You’re Mr. Wayne,” you said, offering a hand, a bright smile on your face. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Your tone was warm. Too warm. Damian stared at your outstretched hand like it was a provocation. Like an angel playing with its assigned human.

“I am,” he said flatly, making no move to take it. “And you will refrain from unnecessary noise while in this household.”

Your hand hovered for a second before you lowered it, blinking once. Then you winked.

“Understood,” you said. “Though I should warn you, I tend to hum when I’m thinking.”

“That will cease,” Damian replied.

“The thinking or the humming, sir?” Something flickered behind your eyes. An emotion Damian was not used to. Not fear, not anger, not even submission. It was amusement.

Alfred cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should give our guest a tour.”

Damian nodded curtly. His eyes cutting a thousand knives into your smiling shield. “Briefly.”

As you followed them through the manor, Damian catalogued everything about you with clinical precision. The way you walked. Not hesitant, not entitled, simply carefree. The way you asked questions. Not to challenge, but to understand. The way you thanked staff by name.

You were competent. Which somehow made you worse.

The children observed you from a distance like curious birds. Jason leaned against a doorway, arms crossed, sizing you up.

“She looks like trouble,” he muttered. Tim peered over his tablet. “Statistically, people like that usually are.” Cassandra tilted her head, studying you intently. Dick and Stephanie were whispering to each other, giggling something about your dress.

You noticed them immediately.

“Hello,” you said brightly. “I’m not here to replace anyone, just to help keep things running smoothly.”

Jason scoffed. “Good luck with that.”

Damian watched the exchange with growing irritation. You were too comfortable. Too at ease. You hadn’t flinched once. Not at the manor, not at him, not at them.

It was unacceptable.

Later that evening, Damian called a household meeting.

You stood at the back of the room, hands folded, posture attentive. You listened as Damian outlined expectations with the precision of a commander issuing orders.

“There will be no deviation from posted schedules,” he said. “No unnecessary activities. No disruptions during training or meals. Emotional outbursts will be addressed privately.”

You raised your hand. The room went still. Damian stared at you. Slowly. Dangerously. “Yes?” he said.

You hesitated, then spoke carefully. “Do those rules apply to everyone?”

“Yes.”

“And if someone… needs a break?”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “Breaks are earned.”

Something in your expression changed. “I see,” you said quietly.

Dismissed, the meeting ended. The others filtered out, murmuring. You lingered, clearly debating whether to say something else. “Speak,” Damian said sharply.

You met his gaze. “You run this house like a fortress.”

“It is one.”

“And fortresses are good for keeping enemies out,” you continued. “But not always great for keeping people in.”

Damian’s eyes hardened. “You are here to assist, not to psychoanalyze.”

You nodded. “Maybe that’s what this house, this family, needs.”

You nodded at him and turned to leave, pausing at the door.

“For what it’s worth,” you added gently, “confidence doesn’t always have to sound like commands.”

Then you were gone.

Damian stood there long after, anger simmering low and dangerous.

You were insubordinate. Disruptive. Inappropriate.

And worst of all. You were absolutely convinced you were right.

— — — — — — —

Damian Wayne discovered the music room by accident.

That, in itself, was an irritation.

The room had been unused for years. An architectural relic left over from a time when Wayne Manor hosted galas instead of strategy meetings and when children were allowed to be children. Damian had no need for it. No one did.

Which was why the sound drifting down the corridor that afternoon made his blood run cold.

Laughter.

Not the sharp, sarcastic kind Jason favored. Not the quiet, breathless kind Tim tried to suppress. Not even the loud, playful one Dick lived by. This was something else entirely. It was unrestrained, bright, and completely alive.

Damian followed the noise with long, deliberate strides. Mentally preparing for war.

Inside the music room, chaos had taken shape.

You stood near the grand piano, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled, clapping your hands in rhythm. Dick perched on the piano bench, tapping out uneven notes. Tim stood nearby, intently reading from a sheet of music. Cassandra stood at the center of the room, listening.

And all of them were singing.

Badly. It made his heart ache.

“Stop.”

Damian’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Everything froze.

You turned first. “Oh. Hello, sir.”

Jason winced. “Hello, Uncle.”

“This ends now,” Damian said coldly. “What do you think you are doing?”

You glanced around the room, then back at him. Then, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, you said, “Teaching.”

“This is not teaching. This is noise.”

“It’s music.”

“It is undisciplined,” Damian snapped. Glaring at you. “There are drills scheduled. Training modules to complete.”

“And they’ll still be there in an hour,” you said calmly, hands folding behind yourself. “Right now, they’re learning something else.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “They are not soldiers. They do not require-”

“They’re children,” you interrupted, more firmly now. “They deserve joy.”

Stephanie coughed. “I mean, I am kind of enjoying this.”

“Silence,” Damian snapped.

You held up a steady hand.

“Let me explain,” you said. “This isn’t about perfection. It’s about building their confidence. Listening. Breathing together.”

Damian scoffed. “Breathing is instinctual.”

“Not when you live in a house where a stutter in that ‘instinctual breath’ will get you reprimanded,” you replied softly.

That landed harder than either of you expected.

The room went quiet again.

You turned back to the kids. “Let’s try something simpler. No singing.”

Damian opened his mouth to object, but you were already speaking.

“Think of music like steps,” you said. “Little pieces you can climb. The first is ‘Do.’ It’s a starting place.”

Jason hummed experimentally. Tim followed more precisely. Cassandra watched closely, then joined in.

“And ‘Re’ is the next step,” you continued. “A little higher.”

Damian watched, jaw clenched, as their voices layered together. Not perfectly, but sincerely.

“And ‘Mi’,” you said with a smile, “is where it starts to feel like a song.”

Damian did not remember the last time the manor had sounded like this.

He did not remember the last time he had sounded like this.

“Enough,” he said sharply.

The singing faltered.

You turned to him slowly. “Why?”

“Because this is not productive.”

“Productive for what?”

“For survival.”

You studied him for a long moment. “They’re surviving already, Damian. They’re just not living.”

He stiffened at the sound of his name on your lips. It was too familiar and far too intimate.

“You are overstepping,” he said.

“And you’re hiding,” you replied.

The words were not cruel. That made them worse.

Tim cleared his throat. “We can stop, if you want.”

Jason crossed his arms. “Yeah. Your call, boss.”

Damian hated that they were looking at him like this. Waiting. Choosing.

He exhaled sharply. “Five minutes,” he snapped. “Then training resumes.”

Your eyes widened.

“Five minutes,” you echoed, smiling. “Deal.”

You turned back to the kids, clapping once. “Alright! From the top.”

The music resumed, brighter now, and full of freedom.

Damian retreated to the doorway, arms crossed, expression hard.

But he stayed.

He told himself it was supervision. Control. Risk assessment.

It was none of those things.

It was curiosity.

You caught his gaze once, just once, and instead of smirking or challenging him, you offered a small, genuine smile.

It unsettled him far more than defiance ever could.

When the five minutes were up, Damian cleared his throat. “That is sufficient.”

The music stopped.

Jason groaned. “Aw, c’mon.”

The children lingered, reluctant.

You nodded. “Alright. Thank you for trying.”

They filtered out, chattering softly.

As the room emptied, the silence felt wrong and breakable.

You gathered the scattered music sheets, humming softly again. Barely audible.

“I told you not to-”

“I know,” you said gently, not looking at him. “Sorry.”

You hesitated, then added, “You stayed.”

“I was ensuring compliance.”

You smiled. “Of course.”

Damian bristled. “Do not mistake tolerance for approval.”

“I won’t,” you said. “But thank you anyway.”

“For what?”

“For letting them have this.”

You passed him on your way out, brushing close enough that he caught the faint scent of hyacinth and rain.

He found his eyes following your retreating figure.

Damian stood alone in the music room long after you left.

His fingers twitched at his side.

Unbidden, a single note escaped his throat. A quiet, almost imperceptible note.

He froze.

Then, furious with himself, he turned out the lights and left.

But the melody followed him down the hall.

— — — — — — —

Dinner at Wayne Manor, in the lightest sense of the word, was a tactical exercise.

That, at least, was how Damian Wayne viewed it: a daily test of discipline, efficiency, and self-control. Every seat was assigned. Every utensil had a purpose. Conversation was permitted only when relevant, and never loud.

The table was long, gleaming beneath the chandelier. Damian stood at its head, posture straight, eyes sharp as he surveyed the room.

Everything was correct.

Until you sat down.

You took your seat smoothly, back straight, hands folded in your lap. Perfect posture. Perfect timing.

Damian almost relaxed.

Then you smiled at Jason.

Jason smiled back.

Damian’s jaw tightened.

Dinner began in silence, as it always did. Cutlery moved in unison. Plates were passed with precision. No one spoke.

You endured it for exactly three minutes. With minimal leg shaking.

Then Cassandra’s fork slipped, clinking softly against her plate.

She froze.

Damian inhaled. “Cassandra–”

“It’s alright,” you said gently, without looking at him. “Accidents happen.”

Damian’s eyes snapped to you.

“This is not your place,” he said sharply.

You met his gaze. “I’m aware.”

Jason shifted in his seat. Dick stared very intently at his plate.

Cassandra glanced between you and Damian, uncertain.

Damian folded his hands. Holding back a sneer. “Proceed.”

The meal continued.

Then Jason knocked over his glass.

Water spilled across the pristine tablecloth.

Damian stood abruptly. “Enough.”

Jason stiffened. “It was an accident.”

“You were careless.”

Before Damian could continue, you reached for a napkin and dabbed at the spill.

“Looks like the table survived,” you said lightly. “No permanent damage.”

Damian stared at you like you had committed a felony.

“This household functions because of rules,” he said coldly. “Without them, there is chaos. With you, there is chaos.”

You looked around the table and at Jason’s clenched jaw, Tim’s hunched shoulders, Cassandra’s watchful silence.

“And with you, there’s fear.”

The word hit the table harder than the spilled water.

Damian’s voice dropped. “Fear keeps people alive.”

“Fear keeps people obedient,” you corrected. “Not happy.”

“That is not the objective.”

“Isn’t it?” you asked.

Silence fell again. It was tight. Electric.

You picked up your fork. “May I try something?”

Damian laughed once, sharp and humorless. “No.”

You did it anyway.

You lifted your napkin, folded it neatly, and placed it on your lap. Then you picked up your fork in the wrong hand.

Jason’s eyes widened.

Tim choked on his drink.

Stephanie leaned forward, fascinated.

Damian’s patience snapped.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

You looked genuinely surprised. “Eating.”

“That is improper.”

“So is shouting at dinner,” you replied mildly.

Damian slammed his hand on the table. “You will not undermine my authority in my own house.”

You stood.

Slowly. Calmly. Every movement measured.

“I’m not undermining you,” you said. “I’m showing them they don’t have to be perfect to be worthy of kindness and respect.”

Damian stood as well, fury sharp and immediate. “Sit down.”

You held your ground. “No.”

The word echoed.

The children's eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to hope, maybe lightheadedness.

Damian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You forget your position.”

“No,” you stated. “I remember it very clearly.”

You gestured to the table. “You’re teaching them to fear mistakes. I’m teaching them they can survive them.”

Damian’s hands curled into fists.

“Sit,” he repeated.

You didn’t. You stood straighter.

For a moment, it felt like the manor itself was holding its breath.

Then Cassandra stood too.

“She’s not wrong,” Cassandra said simply.

Jason blinked. “Oh my god.”

Damian stared at them like the ground had come out beneath his feet.

He had trained assassins. Faced gods. Lost parents, family, mentors, and battles.

The rebellion terrified him. It reminded him of his siblings. Of how his faults led to their demise.

“Leave,” he said finally, voice tight.

You nodded. “Yes, sir.”

You turned to the kids. “Thank you for dinner.”

As you walked away, Damian felt something he had never allowed himself to feel in command.

Uncertainty. Grief seeped back into his heart.

The table remained perfectly set, food untouched, rules intact.

But the silence was no longer obedient.

It was empty.

And for the first time, Damian wondered which was worse.

— — — — — — —

Damian Wayne did not approve of unscheduled outings.

He approved of training exercises. Strategic simulations. Patrols with clear objectives and measurable outcomes. Fresh air was acceptable only to the extent that it improved physical endurance.

Which was why the sight of you standing in the entry hall that morning with a backpack slung over one shoulder and an expression that bordered on hopeful, filled him with immediate suspicion.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A walk,” you replied.

Jason snorted from the stairs. “That’s illegal here.”

You ignored him. “There’s a river on the edge of the grounds. The weather’s nice. The kids haven’t been outside together in weeks.”

“They train daily.”

“This is team building,” you countered. “It’s not the same.”

Damian folded his arms. “This is unnecessary.”

Tim peered around the corner. “It could be... educational?”

Cassandra tilted her head. “I’d like to go.”

Damian hesitated.

That was becoming a pattern.

“You will remain within sight,” he said finally. “No climbing. No swimming. No—”

“Yes, sir,” you said brightly, already ushering the kids toward the door.

Alfred leaned close to Damian as the children passed. “You’re losing your edge, Master Damian.”

Damian scowled. “I am supervising.”

The path to the river wound through trees and open grass, sunlight filtering through leaves in soft gold patterns. The air smelled like damp earth and spring.

The kids loosened immediately.

Jason kicked stones into the water. Tim crouched at the bank, fascinated by insects skimming the surface. Cassandra stepped carefully into the shallows, eyes closed, listening. Dick climbed trees, and Stephanie picked flowers in the clearing.

You stood at the center of it all, coat discarded, sleeves rolled up, laughing as Jason splashed water at Tim.

“Careful,” you warned, grinning wolfishly. “You’ll start a war.”

Jason grinned back. “Worth it.”

Damian remained on higher ground, arms crossed, scanning for threats that did not exist.

“This is inefficient,” he muttered.

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “You’re allowed to enjoy it.”

“I am not.”

“Well, sir,” you said lightly, “you’re doing a terrible job of looking miserable.”

That was a lie. He looked plenty miserable.

Then Jason slipped.

It happened quickly. One moment laughter, the next a startled shout as Jason lost his footing and went down hard, splashing into the river.

Tim yelped. Cassandra gasped.

You burst out laughing before you could stop yourself.

Jason resurfaced, soaked and sputtering. “Oh, you think that’s funny?”

“Yes,” you said breathlessly. “Very.”

Jason lunged for you.

“Jason–!” Damian barked.

Too late.

Jason grabbed your arm and pulled you forward. You lost your balance with a startled laugh, tumbling into the shallow water beside him.

Cold water soaked through your clothes. You came up sputtering, hair plastered to your face, laughter spilling out uncontrollably.

The kids froze. Then Cassandra laughed too. A soft, bright sound Damian had almost never heard.

Tim followed. Then Jason again. Dick and Stephanie joined the two of you in the river.

Soon they were all laughing, really laughing, splashed, muddy, soaked through.

Damian stood rigid on the bank, heart hammering.

This was unacceptable. Unsafe. Reckless.

And yet—

You pushed wet hair out of your face and looked up at him, eyes bright.

“Your turn,” you called.

“No.”

Jason grinned. “C’mon, boss.”

“I said no.”

You waded closer to the bank. “Just come down. You don’t have to get wet.”

Damian took a step back. “This ends now. Everyone out of the water.”

No one moved.

“You don’t trust this because you can’t control it.”

Damian’s voice sharpened. “Control is the point.”

“And what happens when you lose it?” you asked.

“I don’t.”

“You will,” you said gently. “Everyone does.”

Jason splashed water toward the bank. A few droplets landed on Damian’s boots.

That was it.

“Enough!” Damian snapped. “This is childish. You are endangering yourselves, and you–” His glare cut to you. “You are irresponsible.”

The laughter died.

You straightened, water dripping from your sleeves. “They slipped. No one’s hurt.”

“That is not the standard,” Damian said. “The standard is perfection.”

“No,” you said firmly. “The standard is being a child.”

Damian’s chest felt tight. Too tight.

“You think this helps them?” he demanded. “Letting them fall? Letting them look foolish?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “Because they learn they won’t be punished for it. They learn how to get back up, they learn that looking foolish is a part of the human experience.”

Damian’s voice dropped. “That’s not how the world works.”

You held his gaze. “It is exactly how the world works. You’ve been too cooped up in that manor of yours to truly exist in the world you make them fear. The world is not out to ‘get them,’ it is there to shape and mold them in ways you are unable to.”

The words hit something deep and brittle.

Damian turned away abruptly. “Out. Now.”

The kids obeyed this time, reluctantly climbing out of the river. You followed, soaked and shivering, but still calm.

“Children, go to the manor, your tutor and I have much to talk about.”

You felt bad; the kids gave you a sheepish look as they scurried up the hill.

As you gathered your things, Damian avoided looking at you.

“You overstep constantly,” he said. “You undermine authority. You encourage recklessness.”

You wrung water from your skirt. “You mistake fear for respect.”

Silence stretched.

Finally, you added quietly, “I’m not trying to take control from you, Damian. I’m trying to give them something I think you’ve never had.”

He flinched.

You noticed. “I’m sorry if that scares you.”

Your apology was worse than defiance.

You turned away, guiding the kids back toward the manor.

Damian remained by the river, staring at the water where you’d fallen in, laughter echoing faintly in his memory.

He did not remember laughing like that.

He did not remember being allowed to fall.

And for the first time, standing alone on the riverbank, Damian Wayne wondered if the thing he feared losing most was the very thing keeping him from breathing.

— — — — — — —

The storm arrived without warning.

One moment, the manor was merely dark and still, the next the sky split open. Thunder rolling low and deep, rain lashing against the windows with startling force. The lights flickered once, twice, then steadied.

Damian Wayne barely noticed.

Storms were nothing. Noise was nothing. Chaos, contained and predictable, was nothing.

Fear was quiet.

He sensed it before Alfred alerted him. Before the staff murmured. Before the first hesitant footsteps padded through the halls.

Cassandra appeared first, barefoot, eyes wide. Jason followed, pretending he wasn’t rattled. Tim lingered in the doorway, clutching a tablet he wasn’t reading.

They did not look at Damian.

They looked past him.

You came down the stairs moments later, hair loose, cardigan pulled around your shoulders. You took in the scene instantly. The storm, the kids, the tension Damian hadn’t realized was visible on his face.

“Hey,” you said softly. “It’s alright.”

Jason exhaled. Tim relaxed. Cassandra moved closer to you without hesitation.

Damian stiffened.

“They are not children,” he said sharply. “This is unnecessary.”

You didn’t argue. You never argued during moments like this.

Instead, you crouched to Cassandra’s level. “Thunder sounds scary when it’s loud, doesn’t it?”

Cassandra nodded frantically.

“It helps to focus on things that feel safe,” you continued. “Things you like. Things that make you feel steady.”

Jason scoffed weakly. “Like what?”

You smiled. “Different things for everyone. I like thinking of hyacinths, summers spent climbing trees, and snowball fights with my siblings.”

You led them into the sitting room, lighting lamps to soften the shadows. The storm raged outside, but inside the space grew warm, contained.

You sat on the floor with them.

Damian remained standing.

Jason mentioned motorcycles. Tim talked about puzzles and stargazing. Cassandra described the feeling of sunlight on her hands.

You listened, responding gently, grounding them in the moment.

Damian watched from across the room, arms crossed, heart pounding for reasons he did not understand.

You glanced up at him. “You can sit too, you know.”

“I am fine.”

You studied him. Quirking up an eyebrow, “Are you?”

The storm cracked louder, thunder shaking the windows. Cassandra flinched.

Without thinking, Damian stepped forward.

The movement surprised both of you.

He sat, very stiffly, near the edge of the group. Cassandra leaned into his side instinctively. He froze, then slowly, and awkwardly, allowed it.

The storm continued.

You spoke softly, your voice steady, weaving reassurance and calmness through the room. Damian realized, dimly, that his breathing had slowed.

When the worst of the storm passed, the kids drifted off one by one. Jason slumped against the couch, Tim half-asleep with his tablet, Cassandra curled comfortably near Damian’s shoulder.

Eventually, Alfred ushered them to bed.

The sitting room emptied.

Only you and Damian remained.

Rain tapped gently against the windows now, quieter, almost peaceful.

“You handled that well,” Damian said at last.

You blinked, clearly not expecting the admission. “Thank you.”

Comfortable silence stretched.

“You were frightened too,” you said gently.

Damian bristled. “I was not.”

You didn’t push. “You don’t have to admit it.”

He stared at the floor. “Fear is weakness.”

“No,” you said. “Fear is information.”

He looked at you sharply. “That sounds like something you say to make people comfortable.”

You gave a light smile, “It’s something I say because it’s true.”

Another pause.

“I did not grow up with comfort,” Damian said quietly.

You softened immediately. “I know.”

“You do not,” he corrected.

“I know enough,” you said. “Enough to see when someone learned survival before safety.”

The words slipped past his defenses before he could stop them.

“You make it seem so simple.”

“I don’t think it’s simple,” you said. “I think it’s worth it.”

Damian looked at you then and saw exhaustion beneath your warmth. Resolve beneath your kindness.

“You undermine me,” he said.

You laughed at that. “Only when you’re wrong.”

A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

The realization hit him slowly, dangerously:

You were not trying to replace his authority.

You were trying to share the weight.

Outside, the storm faded completely.

Inside, something Damian had locked away for years loosened. A small crack in his once impenetrable walls.

And for the first time, he wondered what it might be like to choose comfort without guilt.

— — — — — — —

The music room did not belong to Damian Wayne.

That, he decided, was the problem.

It had never been his space. Not truly. It existed outside the systems he understood, outside the rigid hierarchies he relied upon. Sound could not be controlled the way schedules could. Emotion did not respond to command.

Which was why he had avoided the room since the day he’d shut it down. The day the music died with those he loved.

Until now.

He found you there late in the evening, long after the manor had gone quiet. Lamps cast a low, amber glow across polished wood. The windows stood open just enough to let in the night air.

You were alone.

You hadn’t noticed him yet. You stood near the piano, sleeves rolled up, fingers moving gently over the keys. Not playing a song so much as feeling one out. Making up a story to pass the time and using the piano to tell it.

Damian watched from the doorway.

You hummed, as you often did. This time, however, instead of irking him, the sound settled in his chest in a way he did not like.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

You startled, fingers slipping from the keys. “Oh. Geez. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb anything.”

“You didn’t.”

That surprised you both.

You closed the piano gently. “I thought… since everyone’s asleep… it was okay.”

“Okay,” Damian echoed quietly.

You met his gaze. “You don’t like this room.”

“I do not like what it represents.”

“And what’s that?”

He hesitated. “A reminder. Loss of control.”

You nodded, as if that confirmed something you already knew. “Would you like to try?”

“No.”

You smiled faintly. “I didn’t ask if you’d be good at it.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You are persistent.”

“One of us has to be.”

You crossed the room slowly, stopping a careful distance away. “Doesn’t have to be singing. Or performing. Just… movement.”

Damian’s posture stiffened. “I do not dance.”

“That’s not true,” you said gently. “You train. You spar. You move with precision. With your upbringing and carrying the Wayne family name, I know you’ve had classical dance training.”

“That is different.”

“Only because you’ve decided it is.”

Silence stretched between you, taut as a wire.

Outside, the city hummed faintly. Inside, the air felt charged.

“Just one song,” you said. “You don’t even have to like it.”

Damian studied you. Your expression calm, a lack of expectation. You weren’t challenging him now. You were inviting him.

Against his better judgment, against his instincts screaming at him to walk out. He stepped forward.

“Fine,” he said curtly. “One.”

You smiled, relieved.

You moved first, slow and deliberate, giving him time to mirror you. Damian followed stiffly, posture rigid, every motion calculated. His hand hovered uncertainly before settling at your waist, light enough to retreat at any moment.

“This is inefficient,” he muttered.

You laughed softly. “You’re not supposed to optimize it.”

The music, soft and wordless, filled the room. You guided him gently, adjusting his steps without criticism, your touch brief but steady.

“You’re overthinking,” you murmured.

“That is impossible.”

“Then you’re doing it very creatively.”

A corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it.

Gradually, Damian relaxed.

Not completely. Not recklessly. But enough that the tension in his shoulders eased. Enough that his grip grew more certain. Enough that his steps stopped anticipating failure.

You looked up at him then, closer than you had ever been. Close enough that he could see the faint crease between your brows when you concentrated. Close enough that your breath warmed his collarbone.

“You don’t have to lead all the time,” you said softly.

His voice dropped. “If I don’t, things fall apart.”

“Or,” you countered, “someone else helps carry them.”

The thought unsettled him.

The song ended. Neither of you moved.

Damian became acutely aware of everything: the warmth of your hand in his, the quiet of the room, the way his heartbeat had slowed to match yours, your faces inches apart.

“This was a mistake,” he said quietly.

You didn’t pull away. “Then why aren’t you letting go?”

He didn’t have an answer.

Instead, he stepped back abruptly, composure snapping back into place like armor.

“This changes nothing,” he said.

You studied him, sadness flickering across your expression.

“Of course,” you said gently.

You turned back to the piano, giving him space.

Damian left the room without another word.

But later that night, lying awake in the dark, he replayed the feeling of moving without command. Of being held without expectation.

And he realized, with a mix of fear and longing, that something had changed.

Whether he allowed it to continue was another matter entirely.

— — — — — — —

Damian Wayne withdrew with surgical precision.

The morning after the dance, schedules were revised. Training blocks extended. Meetings added. Patrols doubled. Any moment that might have left room for stillness, a conversation, or reflection, anything involving you was filled.

He did not seek you out.

You noticed immediately.

At breakfast, Damian spoke only when necessary. At training, he corrected sharply, efficiently, without lingering. At dinner, the rules returned. They were quiet, controlled, unquestioned.

It felt like losing ground you hadn’t realized you were standing on.

The children noticed too.

Jason frowned more. Tim watched Damian like he was trying to solve a puzzle that refused to make sense. Cassandra stayed closer to you than ever, her hand brushing yours in passing, as if to reassure herself you were still there. Dick complained more than ever. Stephanie chattered less.

You kept your smile. You always did.

But the music stopped.

The piano lid stayed closed. The humming faded. The manor, slowly and cruelly, reverted.

One afternoon, Alfred found you in the garden, sitting on the low stone wall overlooking the grounds. You stared out at the trees without really seeing them.

“You’re thinking of leaving,” he said gently.

You startled, then sighed. “Was I that obvious?”

“To me,” Alfred replied. “Yes.”

You folded your hands together. “I don’t think I was meant to stay.”

“You’ve done a great deal of good here,” Alfred said.

You smiled faintly. “That’s kind of you.”

“But?” he prompted.

“But I wasn’t hired to change him,” you said quietly. “And I don’t think he wants to be changed.”

Alfred considered that. “Master Damian does not always want what he needs.”

“I know,” you said. “And that’s the problem.”

Later that evening, Damian passed the music room.

The door was open.

You stood inside, placing sheet music back into a cabinet. Methodical. Careful. Like someone preparing to leave a place better than they found it.

“What are you doing?” Damian asked.

You turned, surprise flickering across your face before you smoothed it away. “Tidying.”

“You have avoided me,” he said sharply.

You laughed softly. Not humorlessly, but not warmly either. “You set the tempo, I followed it.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and unresolved.

“This is for the best,” Damian said finally.

You looked at him, and for the first time, you didn’t soften, you didn’t smile, you didn’t frown. You kept a straight face, an almost cold gaze.

It felt like an arrow through his heart.

“For who?” you asked.

“For everyone.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you said. “I think it’s for you.”

His jaw tightened. “You do not understand.”

“I understand that you’re scared,” you said, “And that you’d rather lose something good than risk wanting it.”

“That is not—”

“You said the dance was a mistake,” you continued. “So I treated it like one.”

Damian’s hands clenched at his sides.

“You disrupt my authority,” he said. “You encourage weakness.”

“I encourage humanity,” you replied. “There’s a difference. I have done my best to help your children flourish. And in the process, I thought I was able to change something in you, too.”

“You are too close,” he snapped. “This is not appropriate.”

“Then tell me to leave,” you said rebuttaled.

The words hung between you.

Damian opened his mouth.

Closed it.

He could not say it.

You exhaled, something breaking in your chest. “I’ll finish out the week.”

His eyes snapped to yours. Something akin to fear shone in his emerald green eyes. “You are leaving?”

“I don’t want to,” you admitted. “But I won’t stay somewhere I’m not welcome.”

Damian said nothing.

You nodded once. “Goodnight, Damian.”

You passed him in the doorway, close enough that the air shifted. This time, neither of you reached out.

That night, the storm did not come.

The manor lay quiet, suffocating in its order.

Damian sat alone in his room, staring at the revised schedule on his desk.

Everything was perfect again.

And yet, he had never felt more empty.

— — — — — — —

You packed quietly and quickly.

No dramatic farewell. No slammed doors. Careful folding, neat stacks, a suitcase slowly filling with proof that you had never intended to stay forever.

The manor felt different without music.

The halls echoed again. The silence was sharp, sterile, obedient.

Jason noticed first.

“You’re leaving,” he said, leaning against the doorway to your room.

You smiled at him. “Looks that way.”

“That’s stupid,” he muttered. “You make this place tolerable.”

Tim hovered behind him, expression tight. “Damian knows, right?”

“Yes,” you said. “He knows.”

Cassandra appeared silently at your side, fingers curling into your sleeve. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

You crouched to her level. “I’m not disappearing,” you said softly. “Just… moving on.”

She shook her head once.

That afternoon, Alfred informed Damian of your departure.

Damian did not respond.

He stood in the Batcave, hands braced against the console, staring at nothing. His heartbeat felt too loud in his ears.

Everything had been restored. Control. Order. Distance.

And yet—

He remembered Cassandra laughing in the river. Jason humming off-key. Tim leaning over piano keys with wonder in his eyes.

He remembered you standing soaked and smiling, unafraid of his anger.

He remembered the warmth of your hand on his shoulder.

He remembered breathing.

Jason stormed into the cave without warning.

“Are you really gonna let her go?” Jason demanded.

“This is none of your concern,” Damian snapped.

“Like hell it isn’t,” Jason shot back. “She didn’t just help us. She helped you.”

Damian turned away. “You don’t understand.”

Tim’s voice came from the stairs. “We do.”

Cassandra stepped forward last, gaze steady.

“You’re afraid,” she said simply.

The word struck true.

Damian swallowed hard.

He left the cave without another word.

You were standing at the edge of the grounds, suitcase beside you, coat buttoned, staring out toward the road as if memorizing it.

You didn’t hear him approach.

“Wait.”

You turned slowly.

Damian stood a few feet away, breath uneven, composure cracked just enough to be human.

“I do not know how to ask you to stay,” he said.

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t dare move.

“I was raised to believe that love is leverage,” he continued. “That joy is a vulnerability enemies exploit. That control is the only way to survive.”

You listened. You always did.

“When you arrived,” Damian said, voice low, “you threatened everything I built. Not because you were reckless, but because you were kind.”

You swallowed. “Damian—”

“I told myself you were a mistake,” he said. “But the truth is… You were the first thing that ever felt like a choice.”

Silence stretched, fragile and electric.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Damian admitted. “I don’t know how to be soft without losing myself.”

You stepped closer. “You don’t lose yourself by letting someone in.”

He looked at you then. Not guarded, not commanding.

Bare.

“I want you to stay,” he said. “Not because the manor needs you. Because I do. I need you.”

Your breath caught.

“You don’t have to promise forever,” you said quietly. “I just want honesty.”

He nodded once. “Then stay. And teach me. Even when I resist.”

You smiled. Slow and real and lovely. “I can do that.”

Damian reached for your hand this time without hesitation.

The manor behind you felt different already.

Not louder or messier.

But Alive.

— — — — — — —

The music returned.

Steadily. There was laughter in the halls, humming while working, quiet songs at night when the world felt heavy.

Damian never stopped valuing discipline.

He learned that joy did not undo it.

Sometimes, late in the evening, he would find you in the music room. Sometimes he would join you. Sometimes he would just listen.

And sometimes, when no one was watching.