RamHa

It was early in the morning, if you could call it that. The sun’s everlasting light struggled to pierce the permanent, gloomy, thick smog of Gotham. Instead of the bright blue skies filled with puffy white clouds, like the citizens of Metropolis get to enjoy, you get mute, gray skies and light that casts long, winding shadows on the concrete canyons of Gotham. You got the pleasure of enjoying a dull yellow or orange hue in the morning hours. It wasn’t idle, along with the high crime rate, corruption, and pollution—at least the rent was cheap.

But at least it was morning. The once-sparsely populated streets, walkways, and subways were beginning to fill with frantic crowds. Thousands of workers emerged from their homes and poured out onto the streets. You could hear the city's ambiance below: cars honking and revving—plus the typical sound of police cruisers' sirens wailing in the distance. You assumed they were responding to one of many murders that had happened during the night, or someone had discovered one of Jason’s unique ways of dealing with criminals.

Maybe that explains why the vigilante came to you worn out and tired beyond belief. He nearly gave you a heart attack when you entered your apartment. He was just standing in the darkness, leaning against the kitchen counter with his iconic red metallic helmet in his hands. The lighting didn’t help, as it cast his large, imposing silhouette like a child standing over their sleeping mother. You thought your time was up and validly let out a screech, only to hear a laugh slice through it.

Realizing who it was, you sighed in relief; your fight-or-flight instincts diminished as Jason pulled you into one of his hugs. You should’ve expected who it was by now. Your apartment was practically Jason’s home, an upgrade from the various safehouses scattered across Gotham—though he was careful not to draw attention to you unless he wanted one of his enemies to target you.

But you didn’t have any worries, believing fully in Jason’s abilities—especially his stealth, which made you wonder about the safety of your home if the vigilante could easily break in undetected. Nobody was gonna touch a single hair on your body without feeling his wrath, and because only he can touch your body.

Your tense, aching bodies relaxed and melted into each other. You could feel the vigilante’s warm, heavily muscled body molding against yours, defined and sculpted by years of grueling training and resurrection that brought him back. He pressed kisses on your forehead before moving down to your lips, pulling you into a heated dance as your lips moved with rhythm and intent. You could feel Jason’s calloused hands running underneath your shirt, pulling and squeezing your skin as he grinds his crotch—rubbing his tight, clothed bulge on yours.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Jason said, pulling back with a teasing smirk plastered on his face. You frown, whining under your breath as you wanted to go further, but that quickly vanished when Jason stripped himself of his clothing, leaving nothing but his underwear on. You unconsciously licked your lips, not shying away from ogling the manly tank in front of you. He gestured for you to follow his lead—you did so without hesitation.

That was last night, your naked bodies snuggled underneath the thick, cozy blankets. You switched between being the big and small spoon. Jason’s large arms wrapped around you, encircling you as he pulled you closer whenever he felt you were too far. You felt his soft breathing blowing on your nape, and his forehead pressed against your shoulders. That didn’t last forever.

The blare of your alarm woke you up. The annoying, piercing sound assaults your ears as it tells its time to get up. You groaned and begrudgingly dragged yourself out of bed, which was a hefty task with your body tangled with Jason in an amalgamation of limbs. The vigilante held onto you like a koala with a death grip. After some twisting and turning, you were freed from the man’s grasp.

Jason groaned in his sleep, turning over onto his backside, the sheets sliding off to reveal his chiseled, muscular body—one arm over his head and the other resting on his stomach. Even in his sleep, he was effortlessly stunning. He looked like one of those men’s magazine models you’d find at the store and bring home to masturbate to when the internet was still newly available to the public. And he was all yours.

You groaned as you arched your back, stretching the muscles as you propped your hands behind your head, rolling your shoulders backwards. You could hear stiff bones popping and cracking from the pressure. Once the stiffness and tension in your body were alleviated, you planned to make a hearty breakfast for you and Jason to enjoy before his usual routine during the daylight hours—a breakfast burger sounded perfect.

But something caught your attention. You didn’t notice beforehand, but it couldn’t be ignored once you made eye contact. The thick blankets covering Jason’s body slipped below his waistline, revealing his basic underwear and his massive dick resting on his thick, meaty thighs. Your jaw dropped. The massive thing must have slipped through the fly while he slept—it was lying flaccid on his right thigh. How did you not feel that pressing against your ass? You would’ve noticed immediately.

But it was there: Jason’s massive dick in all its glory. As if it couldn’t get any better, the massive thing was gradually lengthening. You watched as the flaccid cock rose to prominence, throbbing and jumping against the vigilante’s clean-cut abdomen. That’s when you heard choked grunts and moans, Jason thrusting his hips into the air—he was having a wet dream. The hand resting on his stomach moved to grip the sheets, his brows twitching as he gritted his teeth.

A burning sensation rushed across your face as you idly stood on the side of the bed, watching Jason have a vivid dream—most likely about you. The more you watched, the more you wanted that massive thing filling your mouth—feeling the heavyweight on your tongue and the thickness filling every inch as you try to take as much as you can. Your dick was tenting in your underwear at the mere thought of giving the vigilante head while he slept, and he continued having his wet dream.

Surely he wouldn’t mind? You remembered a while back, he brought up the idea of sucking him while he slept—it was random, something you weren’t expecting from him. It was after a particularly stressful patrol that left Jason irritated and on the verge of killing someone or breaking the nearest object within reach. He was still irritated, but it somewhat dissipated by the time he broke into your apartment. He came behind you and started peppering kisses on your nape while he kneaded your body with his rough hands, grabbing your hips and grinding them against his crotch.

After the deed was done, Jason lay back with you nuzzled into his body—panting and sweating. That was when he randomly brought up a proposal and gave you his full consent to use his dick while he slept. You never thought of or had the chance, but you couldn’t pass up this opportunity—given to you on a silver platter. He wouldn’t mind you messing with his morning wood.

You climbed onto the bed and crawled to Jason’s side—getting between his legs. You took a deep breath and wrapped your hands around it—it felt warm and heavy in your palm, and you barely managed to fit the thick shaft in your grip. You could feel the veins and ridges pressing against your tight grasp. Jason’s dick still manages to be impressive in length and girth despite sucking and holding it multiple times. There was something about it that made you immediately fall to your knees and beg the vigilante to give it to you.

“Ngh…” Jason’s breath hitched as he let out a soft moan, his body shuddering from your cold hand touching his dick. You smiled, slowly started to pump it up and down—you could feel it expanding in your hand, if that was even possible. As you stroked the massive thing, your warm breathing brushed against it, causing Jason to grunt and shudder.

The vigilante unconsciously started rolling his hips, aggressively thrusting into your hands—he was dreaming about fucking you on a rooftop during patrol, not caring who witnessed the love between two men. To Jason, this dream felt oddly realistic, given how warm and tight the sensation was, but he wasn’t protesting—not at all.

You gave a couple of long, shallow strokes before delivering a deep—Jason responding well to the technique. You wanted more, though. You were particularly salivating, mouth wide open, as you intended to take it. You started kissing the massive pole all the way to the spongy cockhead, licking and swirling your tongue around it before devouring the head, locking your lips around the thickness. You hear Jason sigh with relief, and peering up, you see his pectorals moving.

Smiling with a dick in your mouth, you went to town and started slurping—focusing on the cockhead by flicking the tip of your tongue into the slit, tasting the first beads of precum. You weren’t paying attention anymore as you were completely hypnotized—noises muffled except for Jason’s grunts and you slobbering on the man’s dick. Lust had a tight, restrictive control over your being. You moved to take more, swallowing as much as you can, inch by inch.

“Mmmm…” you whined, struggling to take the remaining inches, so you opted to use your hands. You bobbed your head and stroked the rest, slowly taking more as you relaxed your throat and ignored the gag reflex. You huffed and puffed through your nostrils until a hand rested on your head. You froze and pulled back, Jason’s dick plopping out of your mouth with a wet pop.

“I… uh,” you didn’t know what to say as another rush of heat flooded your cheeks.

“I didn’t say stop, did I?” Jason spoke, his voice deep and raspy after just waking up. There was a lustful glint in his eyes, something that you were all too familiar with. You felt the grip on your head tighten. The vigilante fixed his position, sitting upright before spearing your mouth back onto his massive dick.

Your eyes widen as the massive shaft abruptly fills your mouth. Jason’s fingers dug into your hair as he was determined to push all of his cock down your throat. Tears pierced your eyes, your lungs were burning from the sudden lack of oxygen, and your jaw ached. It didn’t stop until your nose was buried in Jason’s underwear waistband and your chin was resting on his clothed sack.

“Breath through your nose.” Jason grunts, holding your head in place. You followed the advice, relaxing your throat to accommodate the vigilante’s dick and breathing through your nose so you wouldn’t suffocate. “Yeah… just like that.” Another bellowing grunt and groan left his mouth, his head tilting back onto the headboard as you clenched your throat around him—the cherry on top was you stimulating his sensitive cockhead.

Jason controlled the pace, one hand gripping your head as he moved you up and down on his cock. He bounced you like a basketball, using your warm, velvety, tight throat as a personal fleshlight. There was a combination of Jason’s feral grunts and the sound of you slobbering on him—you imagined his dick being generously coated with saliva.

You had your back arched, your ass perfectly on display. Your hole was twitching, clenching, and begging—it was hungry and needed to be satiated, but you had a feeling you were going to get the proper treatment soon.

“That’s enough,” Jason said, pulling you off his cock. You whined, but that was squashed when Jason got out of bed and slung you onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—effortlessly.

“Where are we going?” you asked, looking back to see where Jason was taking you.

“To the bathroom. Need a shower.” Jason replied, as you could see, the familiar interior design was coming into view. You were then hoisted back onto the floor, Jason holding you with an iron grip. “C’mere.”

Jason tilted your head and locked his lips with yours, pulling you into a rhythmic dance of dominance. Your tongues are tied together as he humps and grinds his massive, saliva-coated dick against your clothed tent—smearing your already precum-stained underwear. You can feel his rough, meaty hands move towards your underwear, groping your cheek through the thin clothing, before you hear the sound of fabric tearing and Jason’s hands touching your skin.

“Hey! You could’ve just slid them down!” You complained, pulling back and huffing as the fabric continued to tear until it was ripped in two. Your throbbing dick popped out, grinding against Jason’s dick.

“I’ll buy more, I just really need you. You have me riled up here.” Jason grumbled, squeezing your ass cheeks before slapping the fat mounds. You yelped, your dick twitching as more beads of precum leaked from the slit. Jason took the opportunity to tangle his tongue with yours, swapping saliva and deepening the makeout session—drool seeped through the tiny cracks in your lips and dribbled down your chin.

A heavy, low whine vibrated in your throat, your eyes rolling back from Jason sucking the living soul out of you, and his rough hands having their way with your cheeks—gripping the mounds and thrusting you against him, your moans drowned out.

While Jason enjoyed and toyed with your ass, kneading it like a baker preparing dough. You indulged in his upper body. You greedily squeezed and groped the vigilante’s pectorals like how he was treating your ass—there were subtle, drowned-out grunts, a taste of his own medicine. You were amazed by the rock-hard firmness, yet how squishy they were in your palms. This was most likely a result of your actions, feeding him too well and stuffing him with any junk food he wanted.

You flicked, pinched, and pulled his nipples, feeling the nubs harden between your fingertips. It seemed his dick approved of your ministrations, throbbing against your dick as more guttural growls were further drawn out by the feral, hungry man.

Jason retaliated, pulling your cheeks apart to expose your puckered entrance like Moses parting the Red Sea. You pulled back, a gasp and moan choked out—thick strings of slobber connecting your mouths as the cold air travelled through the valley between your cheeks, brushing against the tight, warm ring of muscle. Whines and whimpers choked out your throat, your mouth ajar as Jason’s thick finger probed your entrance—circling his fingertip around the small ring.

You were in a haze, but your body moved on its own. As Jason teased your puckered hole, the nerves sent signals through your body—straight to your brain, whatever was salvageable. It sensed something thick and long, and your hips instinctively bucked backwards—desperate rolling movements as it tried to grip and drag the vigilante’s finger into the tight, warm depths of your hot ass.

“You want this, sweetheart?” Jason growled, his jaw locking as he watched how eager and desperate you’ve become. There was nothing behind your eyes except a lustful and needy glint.

“Yes! Please, I need it so badly,” you begged and babbled, rolling and bucking your hips as you held onto Jason’s behemoth body—your fingers digging into his pectorals.

“Get in the shower.” Jason bluntly says, moving to open the walk-in shower’s glass door. He still had a grip on your hips and dragged you into the small, confined space. The door closed and locked. The vigilante turned the knob, and the shower overhead burst to life. Warm water sprinkled from above, enveloping and cascading down your bodies. Jason’s thick, wavy hair matted down on his forehead.

The water flowed through every cove and ridge of Jason’s body, highlighting his defined muscles—watching it flow like a river between his pectorals, as if they were mountains shielding a valley. You were knocked out of your gaze by Jason slamming your body against the slippery, soaked wall with one leg hooked on his broad shoulder. The side of your face and hands pressed against the wet tiled walls.

“Ain’t this a beautiful sight?” Jason purrs, smirking—watching you scramble to hold onto the nearest surface for support, but he has you secure, his beefy arm locked and gripping your knee/leg. What was more eye-catching was the water soaking your already disheveled body, your dick throbbing, and your puckered hole, which was throbbing and trying to buck backwards to capture his dick.

He continued to be amused by your attempts to tempt him or push back. The flowing water couldn’t muffle the sound of your frustrated grunts and whines. Deciding to toy with you, he grabbed and positioned his massive dick against your puckered hole, teasing the tight ring by rubbing circles and almost penetrating—the cockhead pushing past the rim before pulling out. He hears your hitched gasps and cries, your body squirming to take what it wants, but is readily denied.

“Jay, p-please…” You whined.

As much as Jason wanted to continue his teasing rampage, his dick wasn’t going to last; it needed to feel the signature warmth and tightness. Precum drooled from the slit, and his shaft throbbed excessively. Your pathetic whining and cries for him weren’t helping either.

With a savage grunt, he once again positioned his dick against your sphincter and pressed forward. The confined space of the shower was filled with groans. You bit your bottom lip as the pressure grew against your rim. Jason gritted his teeth, and his face tightened.

“Fucking take it.” Jason groans as he plunges his dick completely inside your hole, his heavy balls and abdomen resting on the underside of your cheeks—your thighs. Your ass greedily swallowed every inch, massaging and clenching around the massive thing as your mouth spewed moans and cries of satisfaction.

Your chest tightened and heaved, the new angle was undeniably rearranging your guts—he was so deep inside your stomach that you could practically taste it in the back of your throat.

Just from feeling the tight embrace of your ass, Jason gave up rational thinking and became a hungry, feral man—spurred on by you.

“J-Jay… nghh… s-so… g-good!” you moaned, holding onto the tiled wall. Your breathing was harsh as Jason rammed his massive dick, your puckered hole stretching to its limits. His pace was brutal enough to collapse the tiled wall and push you into the next apartment. You can hear his heavy balls slapping against your thigh and the clapping of your cheeks, and the faint sprinkling of water from above.

“Fucking hell,” Jason growls, his heavy-lidded eyes notice a tummy bulge forming every time he thrusts—the size ranged from a tummy bump to his cockhead sprouting out. He managed to choke out a low chuckle, moving his free hand over the bulge to feel it. With each brutal thrust, he could feel his cockhead through your skin. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s me.”

You slowly and shakily peered down to see what the vigilante was talking about, and there it was; your mind was melting, and your vision was rainbows, but you could see the bulge and the faint outline of Jason’s massive dick thrusting into your body.

“J-Jay… J-Jay… please…” Your brain was scrambled, your speech reduced to incoherent babbling and pleas for Jason. Your hoarse throat is pushing the limits. With some momentum, you reluctantly let one hand from the tiled wall. Jason removed his hand, letting you feel the bulge in your stomach. Your mouth stuttered open, marvelling at the feeling. A tightness starts to knot itself, spreading slowly throughout your lower section.

You couldn’t give Jason a warning before your body spasmed and your asshole clenched around the man’s dick with a vice-like grip. Your ear picked up the guttural groans from the vigilante—feeling his dick being suffocated or being snapped off. Your dick throbbed and spurted thick ropes of hot cum, your moans bounced off the walls—the water washing your load down the drain.

“Fuck, sweetheart… s-squeezing my dick. Y-you feel so fucking good. So tight when you cum for me.” Jason moans, his muscular body shuddering, almost pained. He couldn’t move his dick; it was lodged completely inside you, and your greedy ass refused to let go. It wasn’t long before he reached his climax.

Garnering his strength, he pulled out slowly, dragging his massive shaft against your walls before slamming back—all you can do is whimper and drool as he fucked you past your orgasm and into overstimulation.

He didn’t last long. He let out a bellowing groan and growl, giving one more thrust to the hilt—his dick and balls twitched before unloading deep inside your ass, filling you to the brim with his hot, thick seed. Your fleshy insides were painted white; you felt the massive shaft throbbing, followed by a flood.

The shower fell silent apart from the labored panting and desperate intake of air, and the water cascading down your bodies. Every part of your being trembled from the intense orgasm; everything was foggy and blurry, and your gaze travelled to the bump in your stomach—you looked pregnant… did Jason really cum that much? It's been a week since you both had sex…

Your mind continued to reel and repair the damage until Jason spoke.

“We should do that again!”

The end

Author’s note — Hello, my strawberries! I hope this was good! I’m popping these fics out like Queen Anne. More food is coming.

Special thanks to my proofreader — @sagethegaywitch

Logan Howlett

- You don’t expect him to react. Not really. He’s endured bullets, blades, and the unrelenting weight of time itself. A playful bite from you should be nothing—should be a drop of rain against an unshakable mountain. And yet, the moment your teeth graze his skin, a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest, something primal and unbidden. His muscles tense beneath your touch, like an animal caught between instinct and restraint.

- His gaze finds yours, sharp and golden, flickering with something unreadable. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, but his eyes betray him—dark with challenge, with something wilder lurking beneath. “That all you got, darlin’?” he rasps, his voice rough as gravel, his fingers curling at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize you right then and there.

- But Logan is nothing if not a man of action. A heartbeat later, his arm is around your waist, pulling you in close, the heat of his body searing against yours. His voice dips lower, a teasing growl, though there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “Y’know what they say, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “You bite a wolf, you better be ready for it to bite back.”

- And he does. Maybe not in the way you expect—not with teeth, but with hands that grip too tight, with lips that press too hard, with a possessiveness that lingers in every touch. Because Logan doesn’t do playful. He does hunger. He does need. And if you dare to tease the beast, you’d best be ready for the storm that follows.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy freezes the moment your teeth press against his skin—not from pain, not from surprise, but from something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk yet, but the promise of one. And then, ever so slowly, he tilts his head toward you, his red-on-black eyes gleaming with mischief.

- “Ma belle, you tryna kill me?” he drawls, his accent thick and lazy, but his voice carries that unmistakable edge of heat. His fingers brush over your arm, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the intent behind your bite. “'Cause I gotta warn you, chérie… I ain’t the kind to die easy.”

- The next thing you know, he’s got you backed against the nearest surface, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His grin is downright wicked now, his gaze molten with amusement and something darker. “See, you play this game wit’ me, mon amour, you best know the rules.” His breath is warm against your lips, teasing, taunting. “You bite me? I devour you.”

- And then he leans in, and oh—Remy doesn’t just kiss. He claims. He teases. He tastes. His lips ghost over yours, never quite giving you what you want, never quite letting you escape, because if you’re going to start a game with the Ragin’ Cajun, you better be ready to lose.

Kurt Wagner

- The moment your teeth sink lightly into his skin, Kurt stills, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, his mind goes utterly blank—because of course you would do this, of course you would find new ways to unravel him, to leave him speechless and stumbling. His tail flicks once, betraying his surprise, before curling around your waist in retaliation.

- And then—oh. Oh, then he laughs. A low, breathy chuckle that rumbles in his chest, warm and so utterly Kurt. “Mein Schatz,” he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, his golden eyes gleaming. “Was that supposed to be threatening? Because I must say… you might have to try harder.”

- But his tail tightens ever so slightly, his hands settling on your hips, his body pressing just a little closer. His voice drops into something softer now, something teasing but fond. “Or perhaps you weren’t trying to scare me at all,” he muses, brushing his nose against yours, an intimate little gesture that makes your heart stutter. “Perhaps you were simply asking for a little attention, ja?”

- And oh, does he give it. He moves fast—so fast you barely register the shift before you’re elsewhere, whisked away in a blink of smoke and laughter. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re tangled in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of his teleportation, caught between breathless kisses and whispered endearments. Because if you’re going to bite him, liebling, he’s going to make sure you never regret it.

Scott Summers

- Scott’s reaction is immediate—sharp inhale, muscles tensing beneath your touch, jaw tightening as if trying to suppress whatever instinct just surged through him. His discipline, his restraint—it has always been his armor, his cage. But you—you have a habit of making him forget himself.

- “What was that?” he asks, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him. His fingers flex at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or set you firmly away. But his ruby-red gaze is locked onto you now, and he is searching—for your intent, for your reasoning, for something he can brace himself against.

- “You can’t just—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, as if that will somehow ground him. His lips part, like he wants to scold you, like he wants to tell you biting is not part of a proper battle strategy, but the words never come. Instead, his hand lifts, cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your lower lip in something dangerously close to reverence.

- And then, ever so slowly, his lips brush against yours—light, testing, but oh-so-intense. Because Scott Summers does not give in easily. He does not let himself have. But you—you are different. You are his exception. And if you are going to play with fire, then you had best be prepared to burn.

Jean Grey

- Jean stills the moment your teeth graze her skin, not in fear or surprise, but in the way someone freezes when they have just stepped into the unknown. She has felt so many things in her lifetime—pain, joy, rage, divinity itself—but the sharp, teasing sensation of you doing this? That is something new. Her lips part slightly, a breath catching in her throat, and though she does not speak, you can hear her thoughts as if they are your own: What exactly are you trying to do to me?

- And then, oh, she smiles. Slow, knowing, the corners of her lips curving into something dangerously affectionate. Her fingers trace lightly over your arm, telekinetic energy humming faintly beneath her fingertips as she studies you with emerald eyes that gleam with amusement. “You do realize who you’re dealing with, don’t you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with something teasing, something nearly predatory. “You think you can surprise me, love? That’s adorable.”

- But Jean is not one to let challenges go unanswered. The next thing you know, her hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers with effortless ease. She doesn’t need to use her telekinesis to hold you there—no, the intensity in her gaze alone is enough. “Tell me,” she muses, leaning in so close her lips barely brush against yours. “Do you bite because you want my attention? Or because you already have it?”

- And before you can answer, she kisses you—deep, slow, deliberate. Not just a kiss, but a response, a promise. Because Jean Grey is made of passion and power, and if you wish to tease her, if you wish to provoke her, then you must be prepared for the storm you have just invited into your arms.

Ororo Munroe

- The moment your teeth press gently against her skin, a low, melodic hum escapes her—a sound not of displeasure, but of acknowledgment. Ororo Munroe has spent years cultivating grace, control, an unshakable presence that commands gods and mortals alike. And yet, this—this quiet, playful act of yours—catches her off guard in the most unexpected of ways.

- Her silver eyes flick toward you, gleaming with something unreadable, and for a moment, the air around you shifts, electricity humming faintly in the space between your bodies. Not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a reaction—as if even the very elements themselves are uncertain how to respond to the way you unravel her. “My love,” she says at last, her voice a soft, indulgent purr. “Was that meant to challenge me? Or are you merely being mischievous?”

- Slowly, her fingers trail along your shoulders, feather-light, teasing, carrying the same effortless power as the wind itself. And then, in one smooth motion, she moves—you don’t quite know how, only that one moment you are standing in place, and the next, the storm has wrapped itself around you. You are pulled flush against her, her presence enveloping you in warmth, in strength, in the quiet promise of something far greater than either of you can name.

- “If you seek my attention,” she whispers, her breath brushing against your ear like the gentlest breeze, “you need only ask.” And then, with a slow, deliberate smile, she leans in, her lips brushing over the spot where your bite had just been—a silent response, a wordless challenge of her own. Because if you are to tease a goddess, then you must be ready to be worshipped in return.

Rogue

- The second your teeth sink playfully into her skin, Rogue gasps—sharp, sudden, entirely unprepared. It’s not that she doesn’t like it, not at all, but more that she did not see it coming. For all her strength, all her bravado, you have just done something no enemy, no battle, no nightmare has ever managed to do: you have caught her off guard.

- “Sugah,” she breathes, her accent thickening just a bit, her voice a mixture of amusement and something else—something dangerous. Slowly, her green eyes flick to yours, and oh, that look—half-smirk, half-warning—tells you that you might have just started something you cannot finish. “Did you just… bite me?”

- And then, before you can answer, she does what Rogue does best—she acts. One moment, you are standing comfortably, the next, she has you pinned. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firmly, her gloved hands gripping your wrists, her breath hot against your skin. “Y’know,” she muses, tilting her head as she studies you, “if you wanted my attention that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

- But the glint in her eye betrays her—because for all her teasing, for all her bravado, the truth is simple: she loves this. Loves that you would dare to play with her, loves that you know exactly how to unravel her defenses, how to make her forget the space she so often has to keep between herself and the world. And so, with a wicked little smirk, she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours as she murmurs, “Hope you know what you started, darlin’. ‘Cause I don’t play fair.”

Erik Lehnsherr

- The moment your teeth press against his skin, Erik goes very, very still. Not out of fear, not out of surprise, but out of calculation. He is a man of war, of tragedy, of wounds both seen and unseen, and he has spent his entire life anticipating danger. But this—this playful, fleeting bite from you—is not something he had prepared for.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. Not in frustration, not in anger, but in something far deeper—something like acceptance. His sharp, silver gaze flicks to yours, unreadable yet knowing, and a slow, deliberate smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Liebling,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as tempered steel. “Do you think this is a game?”

- He does not move immediately. No, Erik prefers patience, prefers anticipation, prefers to let you feel the weight of what you have just done. And then, finally, he acts. His fingers ghost over your jaw, light as a whisper, his touch deceptively gentle. But his grip—when it finally settles—is not. His hand tightens, not cruelly, but possessively, his thumb tracing over your pulse as he studies you like a puzzle he has yet to solve.

- “If you wish to test me,” he muses, his voice a low, dark promise, “then by all means… continue.” And then, in a move so smooth it leaves you breathless, he takes—captures your mouth with his, slow and unyielding, like gravity itself bending to his will. Because Erik Lehnsherr does not play. He conquers. And if you wish to tempt him, then you must be prepared to surrender.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier is a man of the mind, a man who has unraveled the deepest corners of human thought and consciousness, who has witnessed the entirety of existence through the whispers of others’ souls. And yet, for all his knowledge, for all the mysteries he has unraveled, you still find a way to surprise him. The moment your teeth press against his skin—soft, playful, fleeting—he stills, blue eyes widening just slightly, as if he cannot quite believe that you, of all things, could ever be so unpredictable.

- But then, oh, then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not the refined sort of amusement he offers in conversations of wit and charm, but something richer, something real. A warm, low sound that spills from his lips like honey, as if you have just whispered the most delightful secret in the world. He tilts his head toward you, curiosity sparking in his gaze, and for a moment, you see it—the boy he once was, the one who believed in the simple joy of being alive. “My dear,” he muses, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, “are you quite certain you wish to play this game with me?”

- Charles is a scholar, a tactician, a man who has spent his life wielding words and thoughts like weapons, and he is not one to let a challenge go unanswered. Before you can pull away, his fingers ghost along your wrist, light as a whisper, and suddenly—you feel it. Not words, not images, but a sensation, a feeling, as if he is pressing the weight of his affection directly into your soul. This is how he fights back—by letting you feel what you do to him, by drowning you in the sheer, unshakable depth of his love.

- “You are a fascinating creature,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, intimate thing, meant only for you. And then, with deliberate slowness, he leans in, his lips grazing the same spot where your teeth had just been, a silent response, a quiet promise. Because Charles Xavier is a man of the mind—but with you, he has learned to love the body, too.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has spent her entire life on the precipice of chaos. Magic flows through her like a storm, raw and untamed, and though she has learned to control it, there is still a part of her that lingers on the edge—uncertain, fragile, waiting for the world to turn against her. But you—you are different. You do not fear her, do not tread lightly as if she is glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. No, you play with her, tease her, press your teeth against her skin in a gesture so human, so simple, that for a moment, she forgets the weight of her own power.

- Her breath catches—just a little, just enough for you to notice. Her fingers curl against your arm, not to push you away, but to steady herself, as if grounding herself in the moment, in you. And then, slowly, her lips curve into something soft, something real. “You’re bold,” she murmurs, her voice laced with quiet amusement, but there is something else there, too—something dangerous. A challenge. A warning. Because Wanda Maximoff is not someone you tease without consequences.

- Before you can react, she moves. The world shifts around you, a flicker of crimson in the air, and suddenly, you are weightless, as if gravity itself has forgotten you exist. Her magic hums against your skin, curling around you like the brush of unseen fingertips, and she watches you with a look that is pure mischief. “Tell me, darling,” she whispers, tilting her head ever so slightly, “was that meant to tempt me?”

- And then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she leans in—her lips barely grazing your skin, a phantom touch, a promise of something more. Because Wanda Maximoff is chaos incarnate, and if you wish to play with her, then you must be prepared to dance in the storm.

Pietro Maximoff

- It happens so quickly that even you don’t realize what you’ve done. One moment, Pietro Maximoff is standing before you, talking, teasing, filling the space between you with his usual boundless energy, and the next—your teeth graze his skin, a fleeting, playful bite, quick as lightning itself. And then? He’s gone. A blur of silver and laughter, a gust of wind where he once stood.

- But before you can even blink, he is back—and oh, that look on his face. His lips are curled into a smirk, his blue eyes gleaming with something wild, something electric. “Really?” he breathes, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You think you can bite me? Me?” His laughter rings out, sharp and bright, and suddenly, he is moving again—circling you, his presence a flickering pulse in the air, there and gone all at once.

- And then, he strikes. Not with speed, not with force, but with something far worse—anticipation. He stops right behind you, so close that his breath is warm against your ear, his voice a whisper of pure, unfiltered mischief. “You know what they say about quick reflexes, don’t you?” he murmurs, and before you can even think to react, his lips brush against your neck—a flicker of a kiss, a ghost of a touch, so fleeting you almost question if it happened at all.

- And then? He’s gone again. Laughing, running, taunting. Because Pietro Maximoff is not someone who is caught—he is the storm itself, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to chase the wind.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, unraveling the mysteries of science, of genetics, of the very fabric of existence itself. And yet, for all his intellect, for all his careful observations of the world—he does not see you coming. The moment your teeth press playfully into his skin, his entire body freezes, blue fur bristling slightly, golden eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

- “Oh, my stars and garters,” he breathes, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of a man whose entire world has just shifted. Slowly, his gaze flicks down to you, studying you with the same meticulous focus he applies to his research, as if you are some rare, fascinating discovery he has yet to fully understand. “You do realize,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “that by initiating such an experiment, you are opening yourself up to… repercussions, yes?”

- And then, oh, his smile. Slow, wickedly amused, utterly delighted. Before you can react, he moves—not with the hesitant carefulness of a man afraid of his own strength, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how to turn the tables. One moment, you are standing, the next, you are swept off your feet, cradled in arms that are both impossibly strong and impossibly gentle. “Ah,” he muses, adjusting his grip as if holding you is the most natural thing in the world, “I do believe I now have the advantage.”

- And then, with a quiet chuckle, he leans in—not to bite, not to tease, but to kiss the very spot where your teeth had been, slow and deliberate, a scholar testing a theory. Because Hank McCoy is a man of knowledge—but when it comes to you, he is more than willing to be a student of the unknown.

Emma Frost

- The moment your teeth graze her skin, Emma Frost’s response is immediate—a slow, measured inhale, the faintest arch of a perfectly sculpted brow. She does not startle, does not react with anything so crass as surprise. No, Emma assesses. A woman of elegance, of control, she has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one catches her off guard, that no one slips beneath the carefully constructed ice of her composure. And yet, you have done it, a playful bite against porcelain skin, an action so simple yet so bold that, for the briefest moment, even the White Queen falters.

- But then, oh, then she smiles. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. A curl of her lips that carries no warmth, only sharp amusement and something far more wicked. “Darling,” she purrs, voice smooth as silk, laced with the faintest edge of laughter, “if you wanted to get my attention, there are… other ways to do so.” Her fingers ghost along your wrist, deceptively gentle, a reminder that while you may have started this game, she is the one who will dictate how it ends.

- She does not retaliate with force, nor does she melt into you like some lovesick fool. No, Emma punishes in the most exquisite way possible—she makes you wait. A brush of her fingertips against your jaw, a lingering glance, the press of her body close enough to promise but never enough to give. “Tell me,” she murmurs, tilting her head, voice rich with amusement, “was that truly your best effort?”

- And then, when you least expect it, she strikes. A shift of movement so swift, so precise, that you don’t even register it until it’s happening—her lips against your pulse point, her teeth grazing the same spot where you dared to mark her. It is not surrender. It is not an answer. It is a lesson. A warning. A challenge. Because Emma Frost does not lose—but she does enjoy playing with her prey.

Laura Kinney

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Laura reacts. No hesitation, no pause—her body tenses, muscles coiling like a predator poised to strike. Instinct kicks in before thought, before reason, before she can even register that it’s you. And for a split second, you feel it—the sheer, terrifying violence that lurks beneath her skin, the razor’s edge of a woman who has spent her entire life as a weapon.

- But then, just as quickly as the tension rises, it fades. A sharp exhale, a flicker of recognition, golden eyes narrowing as she processes what you’ve done. There is no laughter, no teasing retort—just a look. Calculating. Intense. Confused, but not displeased. “…You bit me,” she says at last, voice flat, as if stating the most bizarre fact in the world.

- And then? She tilts her head, considering you in that unnerving, almost animalistic way of hers. “Why?” The question is genuine—Laura has never been one for mind games or coy affections, has never understood the subtle language of teasing and playfulness. Biting is something she associates with combat, with survival. But with you? With you, it is different.

- Slowly, tentatively, she mirrors the action. A nip, precise and measured, as if she is testing this new form of affection, as if she is learning you the way she has learned every other part of the world—through experience, through instinct. And when she pulls back, there is something new in her gaze, something raw and unspoken. Because Laura Kinney may not understand why you did it, but she knows one thing with certainty—if you bite, then she will bite back.

Wade Wilson

- You barely have time to finish biting him before Wade gasps—loud, theatrical, utterly over-the-top. “OH. MY. GOD.” His hands fly to his chest, staggering back as if you have mortally wounded him. “DID YOU JUST—YOU DID. YOU ABSOLUTELY DID.” His voice is thick with emotion, somewhere between scandalized and delighted. “Babe. You bit me. Like a feral little love-goblin. That’s so hot.”

- And then? Then, all hell breaks loose. Within seconds, he is biting you back—but not just once, no, because Wade Wilson is incapable of moderation. He is nibbling at your cheek, at your shoulder, at your hand, peppering you with playful, exaggerated love-bites while making increasingly absurd noises. “CHOMP.” He sinks his teeth into the air dramatically, eyes wide with manic glee. “RAWR. Oh, sorry, that was my dinosaur impression. But honestly? If I were a dinosaur, I’d be a love-raptor. A snuggle-saurus. A Wade-a-don Rex, if you will.”

- The worst part? He does not stop talking. “You’re lucky I don’t have rabies,” he chatters, waggling his brows. “I mean, I might. I did lick a questionable taco truck the other day. But, y’know, if I do have rabies, then I guess that makes you my one and only transmission method—romantic, right?” He grins, then gasps again, as if struck by a sudden epiphany. “WAIT. Does this mean we’re in a vampire romance now? Am I your dark, brooding, undead lover? Babe, I gotta be honest, I am so ready to emotionally gaslight you across centuries of longing.”

- But then—just when you think he’s going to turn this into a full-fledged one-man show—he pauses. Just for a moment. The humor dims slightly, enough for something softer to slip through. And then, in a rare, fleeting act of sincerity, Wade leans in, pressing a kiss—not a bite, not a joke, but a kiss—to the very spot where your teeth had been. “…Seriously, though,” he murmurs, voice warm and uncharacteristically quiet, “that was, like, really cute. You’re really cute.” And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment is gone, swallowed up in another round of ridiculous, dramatic antics. But for that one, brief second? He meant it.

Victor Creed

- The instant your teeth graze his skin, Victor Creed laughs—a low, rumbling thing that vibrates in his chest, a sound that is both amused and hungry. He does not startle. He does not pause. No, Victor reacts the way a predator does when something small and delicate dares to bare its teeth—with interest.

- His fingers curl at your waist, grip firm, possessive, a wordless acknowledgment of what you have done. “Now that’s adorable,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Little thing thinks she’s got fangs.” His golden eyes gleam as he studies you, head tilting slightly, as if debating whether to play along—or devour you whole.

- And then? He leans in. Closer, until his breath is warm against your ear, until you feel the sheer size of him, the sheer power in every inch of his body. “You wanna play rough, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, something edged with promise. “You sure you can handle that?” And then, without hesitation, he bites back. Not gentle. Not teasing. But slow, deliberate, lingering—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who you are dealing with.

- When he pulls away, his grin is wolfish, sharp and deadly. “That all you got?” he taunts, dragging a thumb over the mark he’s left behind. “C’mon, now. If you’re gonna bite, bite like you mean it.” And with that, he watches, waits, golden eyes glinting with something dangerous, something wild. Because Victor Creed is a man who thrives on blood and instinct, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to lose.

Julian Keller

- The moment your teeth graze his skin, Julian smirks. A slow, lazy curl of his lips, equal parts cocky and intrigued. He doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t react with surprise—no, Julian Keller is a man who thrives in the unexpected, who wears confidence like a second skin. “Well, well,” he drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable, “look at you. Feisty today, huh?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with the kind of arrogance that makes you want to bite him again—harder, just to wipe that smug expression off his face.

- But then, before you can so much as think about it, he moves. Swift, fluid, his telekinesis pressing against you, pinning you in place—not harsh, not cruel, but playful. A silent reminder of who he is, of what he can do. His grip at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his body angled close, so very close, and for a second, it feels less like a game and more like a challenge. “That supposed to be some kind of warning, babe?” he teases, his breath warm against your ear. “’Cause if you’re picking fights, you should know—I never back down.”

- He doesn’t retaliate immediately. No, Julian waits. He lets anticipation build, lets you think you’ve won—that you’ve caught him off guard, that he’ll let this slide. But then, just as you relax, he strikes. A sharp nip against your jaw, quick and precise, a mimicry of what you had done to him. But unlike you, he doesn’t stop there. No, Julian Keller is competitive, and if you’re playing this game, then he’s playing to win.

- “Gotta admit,” he murmurs against your skin, voice a quiet rasp, “you’ve got guts. I like that.” His grip loosens, but that smirk remains, his green eyes gleaming with challenge. “But next time? Maybe try a little harder.” And just like that, he pulls away, walking off as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just left you standing there, heart pounding, already plotting your revenge.

Kitty Pryde

- “Oh!” The moment your teeth press into her shoulder, Kitty lets out a startled squeak, her entire body jerking in surprise. She phases instinctively, and before you even register what’s happening, you’re biting nothing—your teeth sinking into empty air as she slips through you, her molecules scattering like mist. It’s not that she minds, not really. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it. And Kitty Pryde does not like being caught off guard.

- “Did you just—?” Her voice is breathless, half-laughing, half-accusing, her wide eyes locking onto yours. There’s no anger there, no real irritation—just confusion and delight, an almost incredulous sort of amusement at the fact that you, of all people, had dared to bite her. “Okay, rude,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in mock offense. “You can’t just do that without warning! What if I phased and got stuck inside the floor? You’d feel really bad, wouldn’t you?”

- But her protests are all for show, because the next second, she’s grinning, her playful side taking over. Kitty Pryde is mischief wrapped in kindness, and if you think for one second that she’s letting this go unanswered, you’re sorely mistaken. “Y’know,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin, “if this is how we’re communicating now, I could phase my hand into your ribs and just… give your heart a little squeeze. Not lethal! Just, y’know… uncomfortable.”

- And yet, despite her teasing, despite her empty threats, there’s a warmth in her gaze, an unmistakable fondness in the way she leans in, brushing her lips—soft, fleeting—against the spot where your teeth had been. “But,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something gentler, something real, “I think I like this way better.” And then, with one final cheeky grin, she phases through you once more, vanishing just before you can grab her in retaliation.

Nathan Summers

- The moment you bite him, Cable pauses. No visible reaction. No sharp inhale, no startled flinch. He simply stills, his entire body locking into that unnerving, soldier-like stillness. His metal hand, which had been resting at your waist, remains unmoving, his entire frame rigid as if waiting, assessing. It’s instinct, honed over decades of battle, of survival. Because Nathan Summers is not a man accustomed to softness, and affection—even when playful—is something he has never learned to anticipate.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. His head tilts just slightly, his cybernetic eye dimming, the faintest flicker of something amused passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. “…Did you just bite me?” His voice is low, gravelly, tinged with something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “Huh.” He says nothing else for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you as if trying to decipher what exactly prompted you to do such a thing.

- And then, finally, he shakes his head, a quiet huff escaping him—something that might, under very specific lighting conditions, be mistaken for a chuckle. “You’ve got guts,” he mutters, the corner of his lips twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk. “Reckless, but gutsy.” His organic hand brushes against the spot where your teeth had been, as if committing the sensation to memory.

- He doesn’t bite back. Doesn’t tease or taunt or retaliate. No, Cable is not a man who plays games. Instead, he opts for something simpler, something quieter—his hand cupping the back of your head, his lips pressing against your forehead in a rare display of open tenderness. A silent acknowledgment. A wordless acceptance. Because Nathan Summers may not understand softness, but for you, he is willing to learn.

Warren Worthington III

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Warren lets out a sharp gasp—a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to pleasure. His wings flare instinctively, feathers rustling with a sudden, unconscious movement, his entire body reacting before his mind can catch up. Because Warren Worthington III is a man of control, of composure—and yet, with you, it seems to shatter so easily.

- “Did you—” His voice is breathless, his pupils blown wide, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You just—” He swallows, as if struggling to find the right words, as if the simple act of you biting him has completely short-circuited his mind. He is an angel carved from marble, all sharp lines and celestial grace, and yet here he stands, utterly undone by something so small, so mortal.

- And then, something shifts. A slow, wicked smile tugs at his lips, the sharp edge of his Archangel persona slipping into his gaze. “You really shouldn’t do that,” he murmurs, voice a velvet purr. “Not unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His wings snap forward in an instant, encircling you in a cocoon of soft, gilded feathers, trapping you against his chest. His fingers ghost over your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

- “Because now?” His lips brush against the very spot you had marked, his voice dropping into something dangerous, something electric. “Now it’s my turn.” And then, before you can even think to protest, Warren Worthington III—heir, angel, warrior—bites back.

Kevin Sydney

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Kevin’s entire form shifts in surprise. One second, he’s his usual self—sharp jaw, bright eyes, that ever-present smirk—and the next, he’s you, your own expression of mischief mirrored back at you. His voice, now an exact replica of yours, lilts with exaggerated amusement: “Wow, is this what I look like when I do something reckless? No wonder you love me.”

- He lets the illusion linger just long enough to make you blink in disbelief before shifting back, his laughter spilling out in warm, unrestrained waves. There’s no irritation, no reprimand—just the unshakable joy of a man who thrives on unpredictability, who relishes in the absurd. “Biting, huh? I like this new development,” he teases, rubbing the spot where your teeth had been with faux contemplation. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that, but hey, I do have a thing for surprises.”

- He retaliates in the most Morph-like way possible—by suddenly growing a pair of exaggerated fangs and snapping playfully at you, his grin widening as if daring you to test your luck again. “C’mon, babe, if we’re making this a thing, let’s make it fun,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top display of challenge. “What’s next? Claw marks? A dramatic villain monologue? Give me something to work with!”

- And yet, despite all the jokes, despite the effortless laughter, there’s something softer underneath. Because Kevin Sydney is a man who hides behind humor, who masks emotion with theatrics—but the way he touches you now, fingers brushing idly along your wrist, is genuine. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, his usual grin dimming into something real, “I like when you do things that catch me off guard. It reminds me that life’s worth sticking around for.”

Raven Darkhölme

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Mystique doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t jerk away. Instead, she merely stares, her yellow eyes sharp, assessing, calculating. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking—whether she’s amused, annoyed, or considering shifting into someone entirely different just to make you regret it. “Interesting,” she murmurs at last, her voice low, velvet-smooth, carrying an edge of intrigue that makes your heart stutter.

- Then, before you can so much as blink, she moves. A blur of shifting colors, of muscle and bone rearranging in an instant—and suddenly, she’s behind you, her lips a ghost of a presence against your ear. “You really think you can surprise me?” she purrs, her breath cool against your skin. “I’ve spent lifetimes being a step ahead. If you wanted to catch me off guard, you’d have to try harder than that.”

- But despite her words, despite her unshakable composure, there’s an undeniable interest in her tone. Because Raven Darkhölme is a woman who’s spent decades in control, who rarely allows herself to be touched without permission—and yet, you’ve just walked right through every layer of her defenses without fear. And that? That fascinates her more than she’d care to admit.

- “Brave,” she muses at last, her fingers tracing the very spot you had bitten, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she adds, “But reckless.” And just like that, she shifts—her form melting into someone else, someone entirely unfamiliar—before disappearing into the shadows, leaving only her voice lingering behind: “I will be returning the favor.”

Illyana Rasputina

- The moment your teeth sink into her skin, Illyana freezes. Not in shock, not in discomfort, but in something else—something unreadable, something ancient and dangerous. Because Illyana Rasputina is not a woman accustomed to softness, and affection—even playful—has always been laced with sharp edges in her world. Her grip on her Soulsword tightens, and for a fraction of a second, her eyes flicker with golden fire, as if Hell itself has stirred in response.

- And then, she turns to you—slowly, deliberately, her expression eerily calm. “Did you just bite me?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s something lethal beneath it, something that makes even the air around her still. She doesn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounds… curious. As if she’s trying to decide whether this is something to be annoyed by—or something to encourage.

- And then, after what feels like an eternity, she laughs. It’s low, dark, a sound that carries the weight of fire and steel, of war and something far older than you could ever comprehend. “Hah. You’re bold,” she muses, tilting her head, considering you with something between amusement and fondness. “I like it.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, her Soulsword vanishes, and she leans in—so very close, her breath warm against your throat.

- “But you do realize,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper of shadows, “that I always bite back.” And before you can so much as react, she’s gone—vanished in a flash of eldritch fire, leaving nothing behind but the lingering heat of her presence and the unshakable knowledge that this game has only just begun.

Alex Summers

- The second your teeth graze his skin, Alex jumps—a sharp, involuntary reaction, his entire body tensing as if you’ve just electrocuted him. “What the hell?!” he blurts out, twisting to look at you with wide, startled eyes. There’s no immediate anger, no irritation—just sheer, genuine confusion, as if he cannot comprehend why you would do something so reckless.

- And then, as realization dawns, his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips twitch, and before you can so much as breathe, he lets out a laugh—not the kind you were expecting, not cocky or smug, but genuine. It’s warm, boyish, disbelieving, the kind of laugh that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You bit me,” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “Are you—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

- And yet, despite his reaction, despite his initial shock, there’s something undeniably fond in the way he looks at you now. Because Alex Summers is a man who has spent his life in the shadow of expectation, of responsibility, of chaos—and here you are, bringing something light into his world, something unexpected, something good. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind that as much as he pretends to.

You didn’t expect this to be how your weekend would go. You’re sure no one across the world expected their weekends to go like this. You had plans for the few days off campus, plans that Mark suggested, as he would be free as long as nothing interfered. You already knew what the Viltrumite was planning: a ritual every weekend whenever he had time.

But at last, that was never meant to be. The plans for the weekend weren’t ruined; they were dramatically improved.

Mark sat across from the bed where you were, naked and stroking his dick to the sight before him. He watched with bated breath as alternate versions of himself ravaged and used your body for their pleasure.

His balls ached, and cock throbbed as fresh globs of precum gushed from the tiny slit. He knows he should be out protecting the world and stopping some of his variants, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away or stop masturbating.

Eve, Cecil, and others were definitely gonna berate him for abandoning the world to its own vices, but that was something to worry about later.

At least he doesn’t have to worry about these variants inflicting any more death and destruction. Their focus was wholly on you and only you; they didn’t pay him any mind.

Main Mark’s presence was completely ignored, with only brief side glances and smirks before they returned to the task. The Viltrumite is confident that the GDA has the global situation under control, even if it means sacrificing some heroes; this was for the greater good.

This was better than any man you or Mark brought home. Better than when multi-Paul fucked you to the point where the mattress collapsed, and Mark had to step in to see if you were okay before escorting Paul back to prison. You’re still impressed by how Mark convinced Cecil to release Paul temporarily.

You remembered how Kate’s brother used you, his clones using your mouth and ass at the same time, double-stuffing your holes like a double-stuffed Oreo cookie. Of course, this was better than the Paul encounter because the men using your body was your boyfriend, or well, his alternate variants from different universes.

You were lost in the throes of sex. Your holes are stuffed to the brim with dicks that share the same length and thickness as Mark. You couldn’t even remember that the same men fucking you were the same ones who wreaked havoc across the world, murdering thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people, and reduced humanity’s greatest cities and hubs to rubble and ash, toppling civilization in just two days.

You were too cock hungry, slutty to think about the implications of your actions – too busy giving a sloppy deepthroat to one of the variants and having your ass being split open by another two.

One of the variants—the one without a mask—was the most vocal of the four. His hand gently gripped your head as he slid his cock deeper into your warm, wet mouth. You peered up to look at the disheveled state of the variant; he looked so much like your Mark whenever you sucked his cock. It was endearing.

That shifted when another variant, who stood beside maskless, yanked your hair to pull you off the other one. This one had a sinister grin on his face, bearing his shaped canines before he started throatfucking you—ramming his cock deep into your mouth.

You gagged and choked as your eyes rolled back. The voices around you were fuzzy and muffled, but you could make out that the maskless variant was reprimanding the variant next to him, telling him to be gentler with you.

Sinister replied with “He can handle it. Just look at him. He likes this.”

Another voice chimed in, this time it was the variant with a mohawk who lay beneath you. “Holy shit, look at that. There’s a fucking bulge!” you then felt his hand gliding over your exposed throat.

Mohawk let out a cruel cackle as he began to thrust faster into your hole, and the other variant followed suit. This one was more serious and authoritative; he bore the Viltrumite attire before stripping. You could feel his hands kneading your shoulders before he leaned forward and kissed your nape.

You were completely overstimulated. Your cock is throbbing and gushing precum onto Mohawk’s abdomen. Everything was blurry and fuzzy. Peering to the right, you could make out Mark humping his fist as it looked like he was about to cum, his toned body coated with sweat as it glistened in the light. The superhero tweaked his rock-hard nipples for extra stimulation.

You both make eye contact…

October 18th, 2024. Upstate University. 1:30 pm, 5 hours before the Invincible War.

You mindlessly typed away on your laptop, the keys clicking and clanking as you were enthralled with completing your notes before you walked to your next lecture. Your eyes were darting back and forth, making sure there were no typos or errors in the notes. The beaming lights from above became an annoyance, too bright and straining your eyes, and a headache. Just a few more, then you’re out of here.

Background noises were blocked and muffled as you paid no mind to anyone around you, ignoring the chatter and footsteps of your peers exiting the lecture room for their time off or next class. That was until someone managed to pull you out of your empty daze.

“Hey, Y/n, it's been a while since you and I last saw each other.” The other man grins as he leans his head against his hand. Giving the man your full attention, you recognized him as the first man who fucked you other than Mark.

Eric was his name, a player on the college’s football team. The memories of that night flooded your mind.

—Flashback (one or so year ago)—

Before Mark dropped out to focus on being a full-time superhero, you took him to a party, sort of as a token or toast of goodbye to a normal life. You both enjoyed the time, drinking and chatting with others. You wanted to make sure that Mark still had a great time before he returned to his hero duties and subsequent training under the GDA.

“You'd better still make time for me,” you said with a not-so-serious voice, but still meant it. You poked at Mark’s chest while drinking from the solo cup. You know that Mark is invincible, one of the newest, most powerful heroes in the world. With that power comes great responsibility, and Mark couldn’t keep up with classes or studies when he was constantly fighting and saving the world from world-ending threats.

“I promise. If I don’t keep it, then you’re more than welcome to slap me or something.” Mark chuckled as he leaned forward to press a kiss on your forehead before moving to your lips. His hands were resting on your hips as he pulled you closer to him, almost dropping your drink on him.

“Would that even be possible? You barely felt anything when I accidentally kicked your shin,” you replied, a warm smile on your face, chuckling at Mark’s proposition. You placed your drink on a nearby surface so you could rest your hands on the other man’s shoulders.

Mark simply shrugged.

As the night continued, Mark was getting a little tipsy. Leaning closer to you, searching for your touch, and that’s when he said that he always fantasized about other men fucking you. The confession caught you off guard. Your eyebrows raised, your words choking in your throat as you tried to formulate a response, but your brain was still processing. Mark Grayson—your boyfriend—fantasized about you being fucked by another man while he watched.

“I, uh… sorry for saying that…” Mark sheepishly apologized, his face flustered with embarrassment as he realized what he said. The man scratched the back of his head, a nervous smile etched across his face as if his heart hadn’t dropped into his stomach.

He tries to avoid your gaze by looking away; perhaps you were too drunk to hear or remember what he said. News flash, you were still sober and retained the words.

“No, it's okay… I just didn’t take you to have that sort of kink,” you replied, pulling Mark to face you and giving him a reassuring expression. Mark chuckled nervously, his body still tensed but relaxing from your comfort and nonjudgment, or were you silently judging him?

“Yeah… maybe I should’ve kept that to myself.” An awkward silence fell over the area despite the party continuing around you. You tried to speak, lighten the mood, but the words got stuck in your throat.

The same could be said for Mark; you could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to think of something, most likely to change the topic to something else and forget whatever happened. It looked like he was detaching himself from reality. He was probably praying for the alcohol to kick in.

“So, care to explain? Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” You broke the awkward silence with that simple question. Mark still seemed out of it until you poked his nose and cheeks, and it took about a minute for the superhero to break out of his empty daze.

“Uh, could you repeat what you said?” Mark asked with that dumb face, even though you knew he wasn’t listening. A dumb face you loved, along with everything else about the man – even if it can get annoying.

“I just wanna know…” You paused, momentarily, trying to find the right words. “Just wanna know… erm, I want you to go into depth about your fantasy… yeah…” You slowly nodded – your eyes squinted and your jaw clenched. “But you don’t have to! We can overlook this.” Adding that extra bit so Mark doesn’t feel forced to explain himself in an already uncomfortable situation.

“I just randomly stumbled upon it, and when I watched it, my mind went to you. I-I… thought how hot it would be for another man to fuck you, like aggressively. Give something that I can’t,” Mark said, his voice hushed so nobody could eavesdrop.

You were confused by what Mark was saying, “give something that I can’t.” But he already gave you everything you could ever want. He’s an amazing boyfriend, despite hero duties cutting through – he still pushed some time aside for you. On the sexual side, you’d say he’s doing great in that category. He gave you the most mind-numbing orgasms you could ever receive – pushing you to your limits of sanity as his cock fucked you dumb.

The superhero possessed an above-average-sized cock, but it was the thickness that made you drool – splitting your ass open and hitting all the right spots. He was always gentle with you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he pinned you to the bed, thrusting his cock in a slow but powerful pace… then it clicked.

Mark’s fantasy sprouted from his hesitation. He wasn’t sure if you’d be able to handle a Viltrumite, human-Viltrumite hybrid like himself. He worried that he might hurt you, and in a worst-case scenario, kill you.

Sounds kinda stupid when said aloud, but he took it seriously. He engaged in vanilla, soft sex because he didn’t want to hurt you, despite how he wanted to let go of control and ravage your body – leave behind marks on your skin and bring you to another level of pleasure. You understood where he was coming from, but you still enjoyed having sex with the superhero.

“I still enjoy doing it with you!” you replied, pausing again. Your brain was conjuring an appropriate, supportive, nonjudgmental response.

Maybe extinguish this awkward situation or give in to Mark’s fantasy? You were intrigued by the cuckold fantasy. You went with the latter option. “But if you want, we can try? If that's okay with you.”

Mark's eyes widened as he took a sip from the cup before choking on the liquid, aggressively hacking and coughing–drawing the attention of nearby partygoers, giving Mark the side-eye treatment. Muffled giggles could be heard, but were drowned by the loud music and chatter.

The superhero grabbed your arm, pulling you to a secluded area away from everyone else. He gasped, wiping some of the alcohol dripping from his mouth before turning to you. “Y-you… You know you don’t have to! I–”

“You have a boner.”

Mark froze as he peered down to see that there was a prominent bulge in his pants. You could only smirk, observing how the clothed bulge throbbed underneath as your mouth salivated.

You took a few strides forward, pressing yourself against Mark’s body and groping his bulge. Both hands stroked, doubling the effort. “F-fuck.” You heard your boyfriend’s breath stutter as he latched his hands onto your hips, pulling you closer so he could grind against you.

“Y/n… fuck… do you really wanna do this? I just don’t wanna put you in an uncomfortable position.” Mark moans, humping and grinding against your hand. He held you closer, desperate and needy for stimulation and the thought of watching you get fucked by another man. You couldn’t see, but Mark felt beads of precum ooze from the slit, staining his boxers with the pearly substance.

‘He’s really into this,’ you thought. You’ve seen the superhero become needy and horny, but this was new. You only saw this when he was about to cum, your hole clenching around his thrusting cock, pulling him deeper, and milking his cock. His face when he was close to an orgasm always replays in your head.

He was like this just from a fantasy–a fantasy you agreed to do. Your cock slowly started to harden, filling the space in your underwear.

“Oh, quit your yapping. Maybe I do want this… If I get to see you like this more often,” you whispered into his ear while staring into those beautiful brown eyes. You continued stroking his clothed bulge before squeezing the tip, causing Mark to groan.

“If you do want to do this… I already have someone in mind.” Mark replied.

“Oh? That was quick. How long have you been planning this?” Eyebrows raised as you moved your hand from Mark’s bulge to wrap them around his neck — much to the superhero’s displeasure.

“I’ve been noticing how he’s been looking at you… Eric’s his name.”

That name vaguely rings a bell. You weren’t very attentive to other people's names, because your focus was often needed elsewhere. The cogs and gears were churning in your head as you looked through memory logs–Mark watched with amusement.

“You mentioned him to me. More like complained.” After a minute, it clicked; he had the same Calculus class as you.

He was assigned to be your partner at the beginning of the semester – you complained to Mark about how much of a moron the man was while watching a movie with him. One of the only good things was that he wasn’t that bad-looking, but he lacked brains and incentive.

Mark figured he’d be the perfect–he saw the glances the jock gave you when you weren’t looking. He also saw how much Eric was packing… the perfect specimen.

“Ohhh, you mean him… You wanna go? Also, you might wanna hide that.” You said, pointing to Mark’s noticeable bulge. After fiddling with and adjusting his pants, you dragged Mark to see if Eric was up for it.

—Flashback over—

The memory flashed through your head: Eric putting you into a mating press as he rammed his cock deep into your depths. You remembered the grunting and groaning above you as the jock didn’t hold back and took what he wanted… it felt amazing.

Eric lacked the thickness but made up for it with length. From the sidelines, Mark stroked his cock to the sight of his boyfriend, just like how he imagined it. That night, you both enjoyed yourselves.

“Yeah, it has been a while.” You said, closing your laptop and packing it into your backpack. You weren’t interested in small talk with the jock as you prepared to leave for the rest of the day and head home. Dealing with Chicago traffic was the last thing you wanted to do on a Friday.

“Was wondering if you wanna go back to my dorm, tutor me on some calculus. You can bring your little boyfriend along,” Eric said, following your movements as you headed towards the double doors.

You knew what the jock was insinuating; it was obvious, but you weren’t giving in to what he wanted, as you had plans for the weekend. After agreeing and playing out Mark’s cuck fantasy, Eric was the go-to man whenever Mark couldn’t find another guy.

“Sorry, see, I’m gonna be… busy for the weekend and later today as well!” You tried to make an excuse. It was a half-truth: you weren’t busy at all, but you did need some things done after you returned home. Before Eric could say anything, the rest of the students in the lecture hall were leaving, the professor's voice muted by chatter and footsteps.

You were able to make out on the whiteboard that the midterm exams are next week; you should prepare for them. You groaned in annoyance, but took the time to slip past while Eric was distracted by some of his teammates and the flood of students leaving.

You bolted for the doors leading to the great lawn, pushing past them and being greeted with the massive complex of Upstate University. The grounds were populated with students, professors, and aides, as well as students from other high schools touring the place.

William was already notified of your departure to return home. The twink asked if you and Mark were gonna do anything special over the weekend, then added a winky face emoji. He was aware of your relationship with Mark, but not to the extent of knowing Mark’s cuck kink. It would definitely intrigue William, as he never would’ve thought his best friend would have that type of kink. He’d probably poke fun at Mark.

As you walked the campus grounds, you wished Mark were here to carry you home. You didn’t want to walk half a damn mile just to reach your car. Curse this massive university. But you still love your precious baby. Once you reach the student parking lot, your phone begins ringing with the familiar ding, and you already know who’s messaging you. Pulling the device out of your pocket, you skimmed through messages.

They were from Mark

Today at 1:45 PM

Marky (or whatever name)

Can’t wait to see you this weekend. Bringing a special someone.

As long as no jackass decides they want to wake up and destroy the capital.

Also, I’m bringing food, your favorite :)

You smiled at the messages as they came through, your body filled with warmth and adoration, your heart beating faster than usual, and your eyes brightening. He was the perfect boyfriend in your eyes.

Despite his complex family life—his father nearly killed him before leaving to have another family before returning to Earth with his half-brother, Oliver –, duties as his superhero alias, Invincible, and near-death experiences, he still manages to make time for you and protects you from imminent danger, like when that Viltrumite woman crashed your date and threatened you if he didn’t comply. The memory of her cold, rough hand grabbing your neck and slightly squeezing it still sends shivers down your spine—you’re confident Mark handled it properly.

Ignoring the gloom, he always treated you to dates or late-night flights whenever he could, even taking you to other cities you had on your checklist. You relished those moments, scrolling through videos and photos whenever you missed him too much. This was gonna be a great weekend: spending time with Mark, then doing your weekly weekend ritual. There was another notification, this time from your mom.

Today at 1:46 PM

Mom

Your father and I are gonna be gone for the weekend and will return in one week. We got some business in [random US city]. The fridge is fully stocked, and some emergency money.

Please don’t trash the place.

Love you!

‘Yes!’ You exclaimed internally; you had the whole house to yourself! Things just keep getting better. You yanked at the door handle and entered the vehicle. You couldn’t wait for the weekend to begin as you drove home to freshen up.

Meanwhile, in an undisclosed location, a man was assembling an almost unstoppable force. Fueled by vengeance and hatred for the hero whom he blamed for everything: Invincible. He turns to the waiting people across from him—they all wore different suits, had different histories, different motives, and different wants, but they all shared the same face and body.

He promised that these alternate variants can have whatever they want—expand their empires across the multiverse, settle some scores, perhaps exact revenge on dear ole’ dad. In return, he wants them to ruin another Invincible’s reputation and turn the hero over to him. He was hell-bent on this mission, itching to enact his master plan as the time drew closer.

‘Just a few more.’

Timeskip—you’ve arrived home. 4 hours before the Invincible War.

The engine came to a screeching halt–shutting down as you turned the key in the ignition switch. You managed to beat the traffic and the rush home three hours in advance. Gathering your belongings and exiting the vehicle, you stood in front of your childhood home.

It felt relieving to be home; being in a familiar place was comforting. Your room was your personal haven, plus Mark’s haven, especially after his confrontation with his father—you remembered tending to his injuries and comforting him while he slept in your arms.

You turn to see some of your neighbors out and about; some are preparing to pick up their children from school, others are taking out groceries, and some are tending to their cars or other appliances. It was a nice neighborhood. You walked to the door's threshold, a welcome mat on the floor with two potted plants standing on either side. Lifting one of the potted plants revealed a spare key, granting you access to the house.

“Home sweet home,” you said, fiddling with the key before opening the door. The first thing on your agenda was to get a bottle of water. Locking the front door and dropping your items on a nearby table, you dash to the kitchen, swinging the refrigerator door open to reveal a fully stocked interior — enough food and drinks to last, confirming what your mother said in the texts.

You grabbed a bottle and popped the cap off, gulping the cold, refreshing water. You could feel your body cooling, the heat dissipating, and your thirst quenched. You sighed, crushing the plastic frame and tossing it aside. It wasn’t long before you opened another bottle and closed the refrigerator.

As you closed the door, you saw a note from your parents. It read the same as the text message, except it mentioned Mark. “Use protection, sweetie.” Seems like they already knew what you and Mark were gonna do in a free house. Shaking your head and rolling your eyes at the note, you head upstairs—the floorboards creaking with each step, and your hand gripping the guardrail.

“Just like how I left it,” you said to yourself, gripping the knob and opening the door – the hinges squeaking and groaning before it was silenced. You stripped off your day clothes and put on some clean, comfortable ones. You took off your shoes and socks, letting your feet and toes breathe before doing the same to your pants.

“Maybe I should take a nap… got the whole weekend,” you mumbled, collapsing onto the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight as you pulled the sheets over yourself and nuzzled into the soft pillows. You scrolled through social media for a bit, reading the news and watching short clips. You turned off your phone and moved to your side. With no distracting videos playing, your mind wandered to the guy Mark was gonna bring this time.

Blood began rushing down to your lower regions, and your flaccid cock sprouted within your underwear. Your breathing grew heavy as your hand moved to grasp your throbbing erection – just a little touch caused it to twitch. Ever since the party, it has become a weekly ritual for Mark to bring a guy over so he can watch him fuck you.

There wasn’t a weekend when Mark didn’t bring one or more men to fuck you into bed. Hell, there probably wasn’t a single man in the city who hadn’t been inside you—except men who are married or in relationships, and older. You enjoyed the feeling of being used and fucked, ravaged by a horny man while Mark sat on the sidelines, stroking his cock.

Your hand slips into your underwear, stroking your cock as memories of past encounters flood your head. After the deed was done, Mark would come over and praise you, peppering kisses and soothing your aching body—his fingers rubbing your hips and back before moving down to your puffy hole.

You moaned softly as Mark’s finger circled your entrance, gathering the leaking cum and pushing it back into your hole.

It would then transpire to your body being flipped onto your stomach, Mark pulling your cheeks apart to reveal your puffy hole. It looked like a petal, undamaged and untouched, despite being used multiple times.

Mark would salivate, a complete munch as he buried his head between your plump rear. His tongue lapped at your hole—eating the leftover cum or pushing it back in with his tongue, his hands kneading and squeezing your cheeks, pulling the mounds apart before releasing them. He ate you like a hungry, deprived man—starved and dehydrated.

After he had his fill, he would fuck you into the bed, softer as per usual, before dumping another load into your ass. You were in bliss. While you did enjoy the rough manhandling of the men Mark brought, you still enjoyed having sex with the hero. To be held and comforted was everything.

But you weren’t going to waste an orgasm. You begrudgingly stopped, your weeping cock throbbed with need, and precum stained your underwear. It was better to hold off on your climactic release until Mark arrives. Maybe some sleep will do the trick and help quell your urges.

Unbeknownst to you and the world, a cataclysmic event was brewing.

To be continued

Author’s note: hello, my strawberries! I really hope y’all enjoyed this part! Part 2 is complete but I decided to postpone it cause i wanna rewrite and expand some of the backstories. Part 3 is almost complete with the last scene. This fic is THE longest I’ve ever written, word count at 21k as the total… insane.

Special thanks to my proofreader: @sagethegaywitch

“You done talking?” Dick snapped. “Because if you have another joke in you, now would be a great time to shut the hell up.”

By the third day, he’d stopped eating entirely. Coffee and adrenaline were the only things keeping him upright. His patience was gone, his temper frayed so thin it snapped at the smallest provocation. Training dummies were left in pieces. His knuckles were split and raw, blood smearing the wraps because he forgot (didn’t care) to change them.

On the fourth day, Bruce finally stepped in.

“You’re not cleared for patrol tonight.”

Dick laughed, but it was harsh and humorless. “Excuse me?”

“You’re distracted. You’re irritable. You missed three tactical cues in training.” Bruce’s voice was firm. “That gets people killed.”

Dick’s jaw clenched. “So that’s it? You bench me because my personal life imploded?”

“This isn’t about your personal life. This is about your judgment.”

Dick stepped closer, fists clenched. “Funny. You never seemed to have an issue when your judgment was compromised.”

Bruce’s eyes hardened. “Enough.”

“No,” He shot back, anger finally spilling over. “You don’t get to pull rank now. Not when you taught me to bury everything and keep moving like nothing hurts. This is on you too.” Dick turned and left, rage and shame twisting together until he couldn’t tell them apart.

Meanwhile, you were doing just as badly.

You ignored his missed calls. Deleted the voicemails without listening to them and called it self-preservation. Reasoned that if you heard just a word, that it would only drag you back into something already poisoned. Your plan was to keep ignoring him until the heartbreak lessened into something more bearable, but then Kory showed up.

You recognized her flaming hair though the peephole immediately.

“Y/N,” she said softly, after you opened the door against your better judgement. “May I come in?”

“No.”

Her expression faltered. “Please, I only want to talk.”

You laughed, brittle. “Of course you do.”

“Dick is hurting.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Kory blinked. “I may not understand everything that happened, but—”

“You don’t,” you snapped, anger flaring hot. “And forgive me if I don’t want the woman my boyfriend was in love with mediating our breakup. I don't care what happens to him anymore. And if he's as broken as you claim he is, maybe you should go back to him. Seems on brand."

Kory flinched as if you'd slapped her, the green in her eyes dimming with hurt. It was almost enough to make you feel guilty.

Almost.

“It’s not like that,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Not anymore. What I felt for Dick, it was real, but it was also a lifetime ago. We remain good friends, nothing more. However, what he feels for you is real. He loves you, Y/N. That's why he's a wreck. He’s not eating, not sleeping. He’s picking fights with everyone. He’s going to get himself killed out there.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “And that’s supposed to be my problem? He made his choice. He lied. Let him deal with the consequences.”

“Is that what you really want?” Kory challenged, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. “To wait for a call from Bruce? To hear that the man you love—yes, you still love him—died because you were too proud to answer the phone?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You hated her for it. Hated that she could see through the brittle armor you’d built around yourself. Hated that she was right.

“Just go, Kory,” your voice cracked. “Please.”

She looked at you for a long moment, her expression softening with something like pity. She gave a slow, sad nod. “I hope you find what you’re looking for in this silence. I really do.”

She turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of your apartment. You slammed the door before sliding down the wood. The tears you’d been fighting for days finally broke free. You weren’t just mourning a relationship. You were mourning the fool who had believed it was real in the first place.

Back at the manor, Dick’s confrontation with Bruce had left him hollowed out. He’d stormed to the gym, needing the violence, the mindless repetition of hitting something until his muscles screamed and his lungs burned. He’d gone through three bags, his movements sloppy and fueled by a self-loathing so profound it was a physical ache.

"Master Richard. A moment, if you please."

Dick didn't turn. "Not now, Alfred."

"Now," Alfred insisted, stepping closer. He held out a glass of water and a clean towel. "Your hands require attention before you do permanent damage."

Dick looked down at his knuckles, raw and bleeding through the frayed wraps, before grabbing the towel and water.

"This cannot continue," Alfred stated. "Your self-flagellation is achieving nothing but ensuring you are too injured and exhausted to function, should the city actually require its protector."

"He's right, you know," a new voice said from the doorway. Jason was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, looking unimpressed. "You're putting on a real performance. The tragic, fallen hero. It's a bit much, even for you."

Dick's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "What are you doing here?"

"To tell you to get a grip," he said, pushing off the doorframe and walking in. "So he left you. Boo hoo. You fucked up. We get it. But you're taking down the whole team's efficiency with your moping. Wally's walking on eggshells, Bruce is in full Bat-dad mode, and frankly, it's boring."

Dick's jaw tightened. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Jason countered, getting right in his face. "I know what it's like to have the person you care about look at you like you're a monster. I know what it's like to screw up so bad there's no coming back from it. The difference is, I didn't have a dozen people hand holding me through it. You fucked up. So either fix it or accept the consequences and move the hell on. This…this is just pathetic."

For the first time in days, a different emotion cut through the haze of grief and shame. Pure, unadulterated rage. "Get out." Dick snarled.

"Make me."

Your suit remains in the cylindrical glass vault on the wall—Nightingale’s armour pristine, untouched. The matte black plating catches the cave lights in dull glints, the bat emblem symbolic on your chest, pink highlights and accents decorating your suit.

It's neat. Too neat.

Like it’s waiting.

Waiting for it's wearer to come back and put it on. Dick notices it first. His gaze snags on the suit and lingers half a second too long before he looks away Jason clocks it next. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, like he’s bracing for a hit he knows is coming. Damian doesn’t look at it at all.

Bruce steps forward.

“No patrol tonight.”

The words echo strangely against the stone.

Everyone freezes.

“What?” Steph says immediately, boots halfway on. “You’re joking.”

Bruce doesn’t blink. “I’m not.”

Tim swivels in his chair, confusion flashing to irritation in a heartbeat. “Bruce, we’re already running behind—Oracle flagged three hotspots—”

“I know,” Bruce says.

Jason lets out a sharp laugh. “So what, Gotham’s just on its own now?”

Bruce’s mouth tightens. “You’re benched. All of you.”

The cave feels smaller.

Tighter.

“For how long?” Dick asks carefully.

“Tonight,” Bruce replies.

Then, quieter, firmer: “Tomorrow too.”

Damian finally looks up. “That is unacceptable.”

Bruce turns to him. “You’re staying.”

"And if any of you try anything, I'll stretch that time to indefinitely."

The finality in his voice shuts everyone down.

Even Jason doesn’t push. Not when Bruce looks like that—tired in a way no sleep fixes, grief stitched into every line of his face. He looks like he's aged years in the past few weeks

“Suit down,” Bruce orders.

Reluctantly, one by one, they comply.

The walk back up to the manor is silent.

Boots echo against stone. Gloves are pulled off and shoved into pockets. Helmets are clipped uselessly at belts. No one says what they’re all thinking: that patrol would’ve helped. That punching something would’ve been easier than sitting with the ache.

They pass your suit again on the way out.

Cass’s fingers twitch like she wants to reach for it.

Damian pauses for a fraction of a second—so brief it’s almost invisible—but his shoulders tense, breath hitching before he schools himself and keeps walking.

The elevator doors close.

The cave disappears.

They reconvene an hour later in Tim’s room, still dressed half-for-battle, irritation buzzing under the grief like static.

Tim’s sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. Jason’s leaning against the desk, arms crossed, foot tapping. Steph paces, restless energy with nowhere to go. Cass sits cross-legged near the window on a bean bag, watching the city lights like she might memorise them. Duke’s slouched in a chair, hoodie pulled up, jaw clenched.

Dick stands near the door, arms folded, trying—and failing—to keep the peace.

“This is bullshit,” Jason mutters finally. “Benched. On a random ass Tuesday night.”

“It’s not random,” Tim snaps, far sharper than intended.

Silence.

Steph exhales solemnly. “It's 'cuz tomorrow’s her birthday.”

No one answers. How could they refute that?

Elizabeth Taylor Wayne, your pet Cavalier, pads into the room then, tiny paws soft against the carpet of Tim's carpet, who's room she frequented after your passing. She’s wearing one of her little pink sweaters—slightly crooked, like someone rushed putting it on. She pauses in the doorway, head tilting, tail wagging uncertainly before she beelines straight for Damian. (YO I LOVE DOGS OMFG)

Of course she does.

Damian stiffens as she noses at his boots, then sighs and crouches, scooping her up with practiced care. She settles immediately, licking his chin like she’s claiming him.

“She’s anxious,” he mutters, more observation than complaint.

Jason snorts quietly. “Yeah. Wonder why.”

Dick rubs a hand over his face. “Bruce thinks keeping us here helps.”

“Helps who?” Steph asks.

Yet again, no one has an answer.

Tim finally speaks, voice low. “He couldn’t even look at her suit.”

That does it.

The room goes heavy.

Dense.

Like the air itself is grieving.

Elizabeth squirms, then wriggles out of Damian’s arms and hops onto Tim’s bed, curling up atop one of your old hoodies like it’s instinct. Like she knows.

Damian watches her with an expression he doesn’t have words for.

“She was supposed to wake me up tomorrow,” he says suddenly.

Everyone looks at him.

“She always does,” Damian continues, staring at nothing. “She said birthdays should start early. That they deserve… ceremony.”

Steph presses her lips together.

Dick swallows. “We’ll still—” He stops.

Tries again. “We’ll get through tomorrow. Together.”

Jason scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. “Yeah. Sure.”

Outside, Gotham hums on, uncaring.

Inside Tim’s room, surrounded by half-packed gear, borrowed hoodies, and the soft breathing of a dog who misses you in a way she can’t explain, your siblings sit with the weight of being benched—not just from patrol, but from the one thing they all want most.

To outrun the day that’s coming.

The house knows before anyone says it out loud.

Wayne Manor is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like it’s learned how to mourn without making noise. The kind of silence that presses against the ears, that fills every corner until it’s hard to breathe.

Damian wakes first.

He always does.

Training drilled into muscle memory. For a brief, treacherous moment, his body moves on instinct alone—feet hitting the floor, posture straightening, already turning toward your room with irritation half-formed on his tongue. He expects to see your door open, light spilling out, you already awake and doing something infuriatingly normal.

Instead, the hallway is still. Your door is closed.

The realisation hits him in stages. Not like a blade, but like pressure—slow, crushing, unavoidable. He stands there longer than he should, staring at the door like if he waits long enough, you might open it yourself and give him a kiss on the cheek.

Elizabeth Taylor trots up beside him, soft and warm, tail brushing against his calf. She presses her head into his leg, grounding him. Damian exhales shakily and kneels, burying his fingers into her fur.

Her pink velvet dog bed isn’t in your room anymore.

It migrated.

Quietly. Over several days.

It sits in Damian’s room now, tucked beside his bed, next to Titus'.

No one commented on it. No one questioned it.

She sleeps there every night, curled close to him like she’s guarding what’s left.

Everyone has been taking care of her.

They take turns bathing her, brushing her coat, changing her outfits with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for something fragile and irreplaceable.

Jason complains the loudest but never skips his turn. Steph hums softly while she buttons tiny sweaters. Alfred puts her in a pink stroller and takes her to your grave every now and then. Cass watches her like she’s memorising her existence, Dick brings Haley over more often, for Elizabeth to have a girl companion. Damian's taken up replenishing her doggy bowl and upkeeping her insanely expensive diet you sponsored.

After all, she is the last living thing that loved you without knowing what death was.

Downstairs, Alfred sets the table.

He does it the same way he always has—measured, precise, unyielding in ritual. The grand dining room feels cavernous this morning, its long table too long, the ceiling too high. Sunlight filters through the tall windows and lands across the polished surface like it doesn’t know what it’s illuminating.

Your place is set.

The chair between Duke and Damian is pulled out, napkin folded neatly, cutlery aligned just so. Alfred adjusts it twice before he’s satisfied. He doesn’t look at the chair for long. One by one, they drift in.

Dick checks his phone as he walks, then stops dead when he sees the date. He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.

Jason takes the seat across from yours without realising it, then stiffens when his gaze flicks up and lands on the empty space opposite him. Tim arrives last. Hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands. Eyes shadowed. He hasn’t been sleeping well. None of them have.

Bruce doesn’t come down.

Alfred pours tea.

He comments on the weather. Mentions a meeting at Wayne Enterprises that Lucius has postponed. His voice is steady, clipped, perfectly composed. He asks about training schedules that no longer exist. About patrols that aren’t happening. They answer him because it’s easier than saying anything else.

Forks scrape against porcelain. Cups clink. Damian doesn’t touch his food. Elizabeth sits at his feet, chin resting on his shoe, eyes tracking every movement like she’s afraid someone might disappear if she looks away.

The chair stays empty.

It’s Tim who finally breaks.

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“It’s her birthday.”

No one responds immediately.

The words don’t echo. They sink.

Steph’s hand freezes mid-reach. Duke swallows hard, eyes fixed on the table. Dick closes his eyes like he’s been punched. Jason’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding audibly.

Alfred stills.

Just for a breath.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I believe it is.”

No one wishes you happy birthday.

After breakfast, no one knows what to do.

They hover in that awful in-between—too restless to sit, too exhausted to move. Bruce still hasn’t come down. The manor feels wrong without him, like the absence of both father and daughter has knocked something structural loose.

That’s when they see the package.

Bruce stands near the base of the staircase, motionless, a medium-sized box clutched in his hands like it weighs more than it should.

Your name is printed on the label in clean, unmistakable letters. Ordered weeks ago. Scheduled. Planned.

For today.

No one speaks.

Bruce doesn’t look up. His grip tightens slowly, knuckles whitening. The box crinkles faintly under the pressure.

Alfred approaches quietly, like he’s walking up to something wounded.

“Master Bruce,” he says gently. “Perhaps… a game might be of use. The children could use the distraction.”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t move.

But he doesn’t object either.

So they play cards.

Uno, of all things. They gather in the sitting room, sunlight slanting through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air like nothing has changed.

Steph volunteers to deal.

She shuffles once. Twice.

Disperses the cards, makes sure everyone has the standard deck of seven.

Everyone has one. Yet there's one extra deck remaining.

One meant for you.

“Oh,” Steph breathes.

Her hands shake. She almost drops them.

No one tells her to stop.

She reshuffles, and deals again like muscle memory can carry her through what her heart can’t.

They play.

They argue about rules. Jason accuses Dick of cheating. Damian snaps at Tim for not paying attention. Alfred comments dryly from the armchair, pretending not to notice the way conversation falters every time someone laughs too hard.

Tim’s phone buzzes.

A TikTok.

It’s stupid. Genuinely stupid. A video that would’ve made you laugh. Without thinking, without pausing, he hits share.

Your name pops up automatically.

Sent.

The realisation lands a second later.

He stares at the screen, breath leaving him in a sharp, broken sound. The phone slips from his hands. He curls in on himself, shoulders shaking as Cass’ hand finds his sleeve and Dick shifts closer, anchoring him.

Later—after cards, after silence, after everyone drifts away—Bruce stands alone in the hallway.

He holds the package.

He doesn’t open it.

He stares at it like it might start breathing.

“I was supposed to give this to you,” he whispers, voice breaking completely. “I was supposed to be here.”

The manor listens.

And for the first time that day, it lets him cry.

After your funeral, it felt like there was a hole Dinah and Ollie harboured that they couldn't fill up. The penthouse is too quiet when they come back from your funeral.

It’s the kind of quiet that only exists after something enormous—after crowds, speeches, the weight of hundreds of eyes and condolences and hands on shoulders. The doors shut behind Dinah and Ollie with a soft click, and suddenly there’s nowhere for the grief to hide.

Dinah slips her heels off by the door without bending down, toes nudging them aside.

Her feet ache. Her shoulders ache. Her chest feels hollowed out, like something vital has been scooped cleanly away.

Ollie sets the keys down too hard on the counter. The sound echoes.

He winces like he’s broken something.

“Well,” he mutters, forcing air into his lungs, “home sweet—”

He stops himself.

Dinah doesn’t answer. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, still in black, still stiff, still holding herself like if she lets go she’ll collapse straight through the floor. There’s a strange exhaustion that follows events like this. Not the kind sleep fixes. The kind that makes your bones feel heavy, your thoughts slow and sludgy, your body lag a half-second behind your mind. Dinah feels it settle into her joints as she walks further inside, fingers brushing the back of the couch.

She can still hear voices.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” “She was such a beautiful soul.” “She loved you both so much.”

Dinah sinks down onto the couch and stares at nothing. Ollie hovers for a moment, unsure, then sits beside her. He reaches for her hand, squeezes once.

Solid. Real.

“She shouldn’t be dead,” Dinah says suddenly.

Ollie’s jaw tightens. “No.”

“She was supposed to come over,” Dinah continues, voice flat, distant. “To get back her airpods, and she wanted to borrow a dress. She said she’d already planned the outfit but wanted my opinion.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “She always wanted your opinion.”

“She never listened to it,” Dinah says.

A pause.

“But she wanted it.”

The penthouse smells faintly like flowers—sympathy arrangements that arrived before they left, before they could stop them.

Dinah hates it.

It feels invasive. Wrong.

She stands abruptly. “I need to change.”

Ollie watches her walk away, shoulders squared, movements precise like she’s holding herself together through sheer discipline. He doesn’t follow.

Dinah goes to the closet.

She’s halfway through unzipping her dress when she sees them.

The handbags.

Lined up neatly.

Exactly as you left them.

Her hands still.

For a moment, her brain refuses to connect the dots.

They’re just bags.

Leather. Fabric. Accessories.

Normal things in the closet of a woman who happens to have a billionaire for a husband.

And then the memory hits her sideways.

You, perched on the bench, swinging your legs. “Dinah, why do you have so many black bags?” “Because black goes with everything sweetheart, your father knows that of all things..” “That’s boring. This one though?” You’d picked up the ridiculous beaded clutch, grinning. “This one has personality.”

Dinah’s throat tightens.

She slowly, carefully zips the dress back up and steps out of the closet.

That’s when the days start to blur.

The quiet mornings. The untouched handbags. The way Ollie stops cracking jokes when he realizes no one’s laughing.

And eventually—weeks to months later—it’s the department store.

Dinah hasn’t moved the handbags.

They’re still where you left them—lined up along the back of the walk-in closet in their shared penthouse, pristine and untouched.

Chanel, YSL, the ridiculous beaded clutch you insisted she needed because “Dinah, it’s cute.” Dinah passes them every morning and every night and does not touch a single one.

She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t need them.

That’s a lie.

Ollie notices first.

He notices everything lately.

Dinah feels both blessed and cursed to have such an observant husband.

The way Dinah’s fingers hover, the way she inhales like she’s bracing herself, the way her shoulders tense when she catches sight of something that still smells faintly like you—your perfume, your shampoo, your presence.

“You gonna rotate your bags or keep ‘em in museum formation?” he asks one morning, light, careful.

Dinah doesn’t look at him. “They’re fine.”

Ollie nods. Lets it go.

He’s learned when not to push. He feels your absence as well.

Queen Industries feels wrong without you. Ollie’s office used to be a revolving door whenever you were in town. You’d show up unannounced, feet kicked up on his desk, stealing his coffee, complaining about Bruce, asking if Roy was around, asking if Dinah had eaten yet.

You made the place loud. Lived-in. Human.

Now it’s just… quiet.

Too clean.

Ollie catches himself glancing at the door some afternoons, half-expecting you to barrel in with a grin and a complaint and some overpriced desserts you bought from that viral pastry place downtown.

But yet, it never happens.

The door stays closed. The silence settles.

He hates it.

That’s why he suggests the department store.

“Dinah,” he says one afternoon, keys in hand, “you haven’t bought anything frivolous in weeks. That’s not like you.”

She arches a brow. “I don’t need frivolous.”

“Okay, but want?” he counters. “Come on. Smell some expensive nonsense. Yell at me about notes and undertones.”

She hesitates. Then sighs. “Fine.”

The store is bright and glossy and painfully normal.

Dinah moves through it on autopilot—past makeup counters, past mirrors, past smiling employees who don’t know her world has ended. Ollie trails behind her, hands in his pockets, watching the way she moves slower than usual, like she’s underwater.

They reach the perfume section.

Rows and rows of glass bottles. Gold caps. Elegant labels. Too many choices.

Dinah reaches for one without thinking.

She freezes.

Her fingers close around the bottle.

She doesn’t spray it.

Doesn’t need to.

She already knows.

Ollie sees it immediately—the way her breath stutters, the way her grip tightens, the way her eyes go distant.

“Babe?” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”

Dinah swallows.

Her voice comes out quiet. Fragile.

“Y/N used to wear this.”

Ollie steps closer, his usual bravado evaporating. “Yeah?”

Dinah lifts the bottle, finally spraying it onto the tester strip. The scent blooms into the air—warm, familiar, unmistakably you.

Sweet without being childish. Sharp without being harsh. Confident.

Alive.

Dinah closes her eyes.

And suddenly you’re back.

You’re sprawled across her couch, kicking off your shoes, telling her about a gala you went to with your father and sister that bored you out of your mind. You’re hugging her hello, cheek pressed to hers, that exact scent clinging to your skin. You’re laughing, loud and bright, asking if she wants to gossip because oh my god you will not believe what Dick and Jason did.

Dinah’s chest caves in.

She makes a broken sound before she can stop herself.

Ollie’s arms are around her instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ve got you.”

“She smelled like this,” Dinah whispers, fingers trembling as she clutches the strip. “Every time she came over. Every time she hugged me. I didn’t even realize how much I associated it with her until—”

Her voice cracks.

Ollie tightens his hold. “She had good taste,” he says hoarsely. “Obviously.”

Dinah lets out a shaky laugh that dissolves into a sob. “She was our kid,” she says. “She just… showed up one day and never really left.”

“I know,” Ollie replies.

His own voice wavers now. “I miss her stealing my office chair.”

“She stole everything,” Dinah says.

“My clothes. My makeup. My time.”

Ollie exhales. “My peace.”

They stand there like that—in the middle of a luxury department store, surrounded by strangers and polished glass and music that feels inappropriate—holding each other while grief quietly wrecks them.

Dinah pulls back first, wiping her eyes. She looks at the bottle again.

“I can’t buy it,” she says. “Not yet.”

Ollie nods immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

She puts it back carefully, like it might shatter.

As they walk away, Ollie glances back once, then mutters, “She’d be mad we didn’t buy anything.”

Dinah huffs weakly. “She’d tell you to stop being dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Ollie says. “And then she’d hug us both and say we were doing our best.”

Dinah presses her lips together, nodding. They leave the store empty-handed.

The scent lingers anyway.

Just like the memory of you.

ON ANOTHER EARTH, IN A SEPARATE UNIVERSE.

You remember the night your father died.

23 days before your birthday

On another Earth, the night your father dies does not end when his heart stops.

It stretches.

It coils around your spine and stays there.

You remember the sound first—not the explosion, not the chaos, but the quiet after. The way Gotham goes eerily still when something sacred has been taken from it. Rain clings to your lashes. Your gloves are slick with blood that will never come off, no matter how hard you scrub later.

Batman is not dead.

But Bruce Wayne is.

You don’t scream. That comes later. Right now, you’re too busy counting breaths that aren’t happening, hands shaking as you press down, as if pressure alone could undo destiny.

“Dad,” you whisper, uselessly. “Please.”

His cowl is cracked, his face pale beneath it. His eyes are still open, unfocused but somehow still kind.

That’s what destroys you — the kindness. Even now.

Someone pulls you back. Dick’s voice cracks your name like it’s breaking glass. Damian is shouting, furious and terrified and far too young to be watching this. Tim's gotten nauseous, you can't decipher what Babs is saying over your comms.

You don’t remember leaving the alley. You don’t remember the ride back. You only remember that Gotham keeps breathing even when Bruce Wayne doesn’t.

The cover story is decided before the blood dries.

You are not in the room when they say it, but you hear it anyway — whispered through walls, through Alfred’s careful silences, through the way everyone avoids your eyes.

A drug overdose. Suspected suicide.

The words feel obscene.

Bruce Wayne, philanthropist. Bruce Wayne, troubled billionaire. Bruce Wayne, fallen icon. Bruce Wayne, a father, who is now dead.

The media eats it alive.

They speculate. They pity. They dissect his life like it belongs to them.

You sit at the long dining table and stare at the empty chair at the head.

He died in an alley protecting his city.

And the world thinks he gave up.

Parallel lines you don’t yet have the words for twist tight in your chest.

The funeral is public.

Of course it fucking is.

Bruce Wayne deserves marble steps and black umbrellas and a sea of faces pretending they understand loss and better yet, pretending they knew who he was.

You're holding your dog, and Ace and standing beside Dick, who hasn’t slept. Damian is rigid on your other side, small hand fisted in the fabric of your coat like he might fall apart if he lets go. Tim looks hollow. Cass watches everything with eyes too sharp. Steph cries quietly. Jason doesn’t look at the coffin at all.

They speak of Bruce Wayne’s achievements. They speak of his generosity. His legacy. His struggles.

They do not speak of Batman. They do not speak of the man who taught you how to breathe through pain.

When the casket is lowered, something inside you follows it.

Later, when the cameras are gone and the world finally leaves you alone, you break.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

You fold in on yourself in a hallway at Wayne Manor, hands pressed to your mouth to keep the sound in. Your knees hit the floor. Alfred finds you there and doesn’t say a word.

He just kneels, dignified even in grief, and holds you like you are still a child who scraped her knee.

“I am so very sorry, Miss,” he murmurs.

You nod because if you speak, you will drown.

The days after blur into responsibility.

Someone has to take over Wayne Enterprises.

That someone is you.

Board members test you at first — subtle, patronising, polite. You shut it down quickly. You wear black like armour. You speak carefully.

You do not cry in meetings. Tim's by your side more often then not.

At night, you sit in Bruce’s study with the lights off, listening to the house settle.

You don’t touch anything. It feels like trespassing.

Dick becomes Batman because Gotham doesn’t wait for grief.

You watch him leave the cave the first night, cape settling over his shoulders in a way that makes your chest ache.

He pauses at the steps.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply.

But you do it anyway.

Damian stops sleeping through the night.

He ends up in your room more often than not, curled tight and furious with the world, he holds you like you'll disappear as well. You brush his hair back like Bruce used to. You never mention it.

You become the constant in all their lives.

Joining the PTA for Duke regardless of how much you hate Margie and all the other middle-aged women. Showing up to Cass' ballet recitals. Taking Damian to piano classes and his swimming lessons. Helping Jason on the occasional mission, and the occasional hangover.

And it costs you more than you let on.

You and Dick ramp up your presence at the Watchtower.

Initiating meetings, scheduling timetables, emails with the UN.

Even though the two of you are heavily respected, all your league members look at you the same.

Two kids who lost their dad.

And now they're paying the price for his absence.

Dinah and Ollie are the ones who notice first.

Because of course they are.

They show up without warning, no fanfare, just familiar noise cutting through the manor’s oppressive quiet.

Ollie complains about the driveway. Dinah hugs you hard enough that your breath stutters.

They don’t ask you to be strong. They don’t ask you to talk. They just stay.

Something you took for granted quite frankly.

You end up in Star City more often than you expect — weekends at first, then longer stretches. Dinah teaches you how to breathe again, slow and deliberate. Ollie distracts Damian with archery and loud jokes and the kind of fatherly affection that doesn’t demand anything back.

You sit on their couch one night, exhausted, head tipped back, and Dinah drapes a blanket over you without comment.

“You’re allowed to rest sweetie,” she says softly.

You don’t answer.

But you stay.

They become your anchors — not because they fix anything, but because they don’t try to.

Because they remember Bruce without making him a ghost.

Because they look at you and still see you, not just the weight you’re carrying.

When you laugh — really laugh — for the first time in weeks, it startles you.

Ollie grins like he’s won something.

“There she is,” he says

This past weekend, you've been staying with Dinah and Ollie, it was the perfect opportunity as Dick's on a solo mission with the Titans, Tim and Damian are with the Kents, Jason's with the Outlaws and Steph and Cass are preoccupied with Babs on girls night, they were gutted you couldn't come with, but they weren't gonna stop you from being with Ollie and Dinah. They knew how much you relied on them.

Star City feels wrong before you ever see it.

It’s subtle at first.

The way the air hums just a fraction too loud, like the city itself is vibrating under your skin. The sky is clear, but it feels watched.

You stand on the balcony of Ollie’s penthouse, coffee cooling untouched in your hand, and you can’t shake the sense that something is leaning toward you.

Waiting.

Dinah notices because Dinah always notices.

“You’re doing that thing,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are sharp.

You glance back. “What thing?”

“The staring-into-the-middle-distance-like-the-universe-is-about-to-punch-you thing.”

You huff a weak laugh. “Didn’t know I was that obvious.”

“To me? Always.” She steps closer, her shoulder brushing yours. “You been sleeping?”

You hesitate. That’s answer enough.

Below, Star City moves like nothing is wrong.

Cars. People. Normalcy.

It makes your teeth ache.

“I don’t like this,” you say finally.

Dinah doesn’t ask what this is.

“Neither do I,” she replies.

Inside, Ollie’s on the phone, voice low, humour stripped clean. When he sees your expression, he ends the call immediately.

“What,” he asks. Not joking. Not loud.

Just what.

“There’s something in the Glades,” Dinah says before you can. “I can feel it.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “Merlyn.”

The name lands like a bruise.

You straighten instinctively. “You’re sure?”

“No,” Ollie admits. “But I’m never wrong when it matters.”

The lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

You all freeze.

That hum you felt earlier deepens, crawling into your bones, vibrating behind your eyes.

Somewhere far away—too far to pinpoint—metal screams.

You don’t say it.

But you’re already reaching for your gear.

The facility isn’t marked on any public map.

It sits half-buried in concrete and steel, a scar stitched into the city’s underbelly. The closer you get, the louder the sound becomes — not noise exactly, but pressure. Like reality being squeezed through a needle’s eye.

Your comm crackles.

“Energy readings are off the charts,” Dinah says, voice tight. “This isn’t just tech.”

“No,” you murmur. “It’s worse.”

The entrance yawns open, heat rolling out in waves. Inside, the air shimmers, bending light in ways your brain doesn’t like. Your head throbs. Your teeth buzz.

Ollie draws an arrow anyway.

“Guess Merlyn decided subtlety was overrated,” he mutters.

You move ahead of them without thinking, instincts honed sharp by too much loss, too much responsibility. Nightingale moves like second nature — quieter than fear, faster than doubt.

The core chamber is massive.

Circular.

Wrong.

Spanning hundreds of metres in distance.

A machine dominates the centre, towering, spiralling rings rotating at different speeds, glowing with a violent, sickly light. Energy arcs between them, snapping like lightning with no thunder.

The air smells burnt, metallic, alive.

You gaze up at the machine

You hear Dinah swear softly. “That’s a supercollider.”

"It's a particle accelerator. Merlyn failed with the last two, this one's gonna succeed." You say.

Ollie goes still. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

At the far end of the platform, Merlyn waits.

He looks pleased.

“You’re late,” he calls out, voice echoing unnaturally. “I was beginning to think grief had dulled your reflexes.”

Your hands curl into fists.

“You’re going to shut it down,” you say coldly. “Now.”

Merlyn laughs.

“Oh, child,” he says. “This is the shutdown. Of everything.”

The machine pulses.

Harder.

Your knees buckle for half a second before you catch yourself.

Dinah grabs your arm. “You okay?”

You nod, even though your vision is fracturing at the edges.

“Split up,” Ollie says. “We disable the outer rings.”

You don’t argue.

You should.

But something in your chest is pulling you forward, toward the heart of the machine, toward the light that feels like it knows your name.

The closer you get, the worse it becomes.

Gravity wobbles.

Time hiccups.

Your footsteps echo twice, then not at all.

You swear you see movement in the light — shadows that don’t belong to anything solid.

Your comm screeches.

“Nightingale—!” Dinah’s voice cuts in and out. “Something’s—wrong—”

“I know,” you gasp.

Your head pounds. Images flash behind your eyes — Bruce’s smile. Damian asleep on your shoulder. Dick’s hand on your back. A coffin lowering into the earth. Another one. Parallel grief folding in on itself.

Merlyn steps into your path.

Up close, his eyes are fever-bright.

“Do you feel it?” he asks eagerly.

“The strain? The walls between worlds thinning?”

You raise your guard despite the vertigo. “You’re insane.”

“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “But I’m also right.”

He gestures, and the machine surges.

You scream.

Not from pain — from everything. From the sensation of being pulled apart at a molecular level, of existing in too many places at once. Your knees hit the platform. You claw at the metal, gloves smoking where they touch.

Dinah shouts your name.

Ollie fires an incendiary arrow that disintegrates midair.

Merlyn’s grin widens.

“You’ve been holding the universe together with grief and duct tape,” he says softly.

“You were always going to snap.”

He grabs you.

For a split second, you think of your father.

Then he throws you.

You don’t fall.

You are taken.

The world detonates into colour and sound and screaming light.

Your body is weightless, then impossibly heavy.

You can’t tell where you end and the energy begins. The supercollider howls, rings spinning faster, faster—

Your thoughts fracture.

Is this how he felt?Is this how I die?Is this how I leave them?

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

Space folds.

Time screams.

You're shot into a myriad of electric webs, seas of blue with sparkling rope.

You see cities that aren’t yours.

Skies wrong shades of blue.

Your atoms stretch.

Your soul lurches.

The last thing you feel before everything tears—

—is your name being ripped out of the universe like it was never meant to stay.

And then—

nothing holds you anymore.

You wake up on concrete.

Cold seeps through your suit first—through the plating, through the kevlar, through whatever adrenaline is still clinging to your bloodstream like it knows it’s about to be evicted. Your vision swims. Light fractures overhead, neon signs bleeding into each other, letters doubling, then tripling, then snapping back into place.

Star City.

You know it instinctively. The smell—salt, oil, rain. The hum of traffic a few streets over. The particular way the wind curls through alleyways like it’s learned the city’s bones by heart.

But something’s wrong.

Your ears ring, a high, thin whine, like feedback after an explosion. You push yourself up on your elbows and the world tilts violently to the left.

Your stomach lurches. You swallow hard, breathing through it.

“No,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong here. Too loud. Too real.

Your head throbs where it hit—when did it hit? The last thing you remember is light. Pressure. The feeling of being pulled apart and stitched back together incorrectly.

You sit up slowly.

The alley is narrow.

Brick walls on either side, damp with last night’s rain. A flickering security light buzzes overhead. There’s a dumpster to your right, graffiti you don’t recognize sprayed in angry red strokes.

You look down at yourself.

Nightingale’s suit is scorched.

Hairline fractures spiderweb across the chest plate. Your gloves are blackened at the fingertips like you tried to grab the sun and lost. Your mask is still on—thank goodness—but the edge is cracked near your temple.

Your comm is dead.

Of course it is.

You try to stand.

Your ears ring as you push yourself upright, palms scraping against the ground.

Your hands stutter.

Not shaking. Stuttering.

Your fingers leave faint echoes behind them when you move, like afterimages burned into the air. You watch, horrified, as your wrist phases a fraction of an inch out of sync with the rest of you, snapping back with a sharp, nauseating jolt.

“Oh—no,” you whisper. Your voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “No, no, no—”

You stagger to your feet, back slamming against the wall as another wave of distortion rolls through you. It feels like pins and needles under your skin, like your atoms are being politely but firmly told they don’t belong here.

Wrong Star City.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe through it.

In. Out. Slow. The way Bruce taught you. The way Dinah insisted on when your hands shook too badly to string an arrow.

Dinah.

Your eyes snap open.

They were just with you. Both of them. You can still hear Dinah shouting over the rising whine of the collider, still see Ollie’s hand gripping your shoulder, too tight, too scared.

You turn in a slow, unsteady circle, scanning the street beyond the alley mouth.

Pain explodes up your spine and you gasp, stumbling back against the wall. Your breath comes fast, shallow. Your heart is hammering, too loud in your ears.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s—fine.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Where are Ollie and Dinah?

They were just there. You can still hear Dinah’s voice in your head, tight with warning. Ollie’s hand on your shoulder, solid, grounding.

You open your eyes again and the alley is still empty.

No Green Arrow. No Black Canary. No humming supercollider tearing reality open behind you.

Just Star City.

But not your Star City.

You think of your family, of Dick, Damian, your siblings back home, you wonder if Dinah and Ollie notified them of you disappearance. The panic the two of them might be feeling, are probably experiencing.

But your thoughts return to your surroundings.

Of a different Star City.

You don’t realise how deeply wrong it is until you hear footsteps.

They’re halfway down the block, arms full of nothing, the shopping bags long since abandoned back at the department store counter.

Dinah is mid-sentence, voice warm with something dangerously close to nostalgia, when Ollie stops so suddenly she almost runs straight into him.

“Ollie—?”

He doesn’t answer.

He’s staring down the alley.

Dinah follows his gaze, annoyance melting into something colder, sharper, the instant she sees the movement there. A figure braced against the brick, head bowed, armor catching the flickering streetlight in jagged flashes.

The air feels wrong.

Not tense. Not hostile.

Off.

“Do you see that,” Ollie says quietly.

Dinah’s fingers curl around his wrist without her thinking about it. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I do.”

The figure moves—and glitches.

For a split second there are two of them, offset by a fraction of space, before snapping violently back into one. Dinah’s breath catches hard in her throat.

“…That’s not funny,” she whispers. “That’s not—”

They’re already moving.

Not as Green Arrow and Black Canary. Not with masks and weapons and mission parameters.

Just as themselves.

Because whatever is happening in that alley, it feels personal in a way that makes Dinah’s chest ache.

You hear them before you see them properly. Footsteps approaching, voices cutting off mid-conversation.

You spin, adrenaline flaring sharp and hot, muscles screaming as you drop instinctively into a defensive stance. The world lurches again at the sudden movement, your balance wobbling as static skitters across your skin.

Two figures stand at the mouth of the alley.

Civilian clothes.

Dinah’s scarf. Ollie’s jacket.

The exact way Ollie stands when he’s relaxed but ready, weight shifted just so, hands loose at his sides.

Your heart slams into your ribs so hard it hurts.

“—Uncle Ollie?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Both of them freeze.

Dinah’s eyes widen, just a fraction. Ollie’s shoulders go rigid, like someone’s just drawn a bowstring through his spine.

You take a step toward them.

The world breaks.

Your vision fractures into overlapping images, the alley stretching and folding in on itself as your body lags behind your intent. You gasp, clutching at your side as your outline shimmers violently, air cracking around you like displaced electricity.

“Hey!” Ollie snaps, all instinct now. “Don’t move.”

“Woah—woah,” you say quickly, panic rising, hands lifting placatingly even as they leave ghostly trails behind them. “It’s me, it’s me, I swear—”

You rip your mask off.

For one awful, suspended second, no one moves.

Dinah feels like the ground has dropped out from under her.

It’s you.

It’s your face.

The same person she’s scolded and laughed with , the same cheeks she's pressed kisses to when the world got too heavy. The same jawline, the same scar near your temple she remembers patching up herself.

But your eyes—

Goodness.

Your eyes look like they’ve seen too much.

Not older, exactly.

Just… exhausted in a way she’s never seen on you before.

Like sleep hasn’t touched you properly in years.

Like grief has taken up permanent residence behind them.

There are fine lines of tension around your mouth that shouldn’t be there yet.

Scars she doesn’t recognise.

A weight to the way you hold yourself that makes her chest ache.

You look at them like you’re drowning and they’re the only solid thing left in the world.

Ollie swallows hard.

“…Kid,” he says, voice low, careful, like one wrong syllable might shatter you. “That’s not possible.”

“I just saw you,” you say, breath hitching. “You were there. Both of you. The collider—Dinah, you were yelling at Merlyn, and Ollie you told me to get back and—”

Your body spasms.

A violent ripple tears through you, your form blurring and splitting before snapping back with a sound like a gunshot. You cry out, dropping to one knee, nausea flooding your throat.

Dinah moves without thinking.

Ollie catches her wrist.

“Dinah,” he says quietly. “Our kid is dead.”

The words sit there.

Heavy. Final.

You look up at him.

Something flickers across your face—pain, old and sharp—but it settles into something quieter, sadder.

“…Not on my Earth,” you whisper.

Silence.

Then Dinah steps forward anyway.

She stops just short of touching you, hands hovering inches from your shoulders, like she’s afraid you’ll glitch apart if she makes contact.

“Say that again,” she says softly. “Slowly.”

You explain.

Not cleanly. Not all at once.

Fragments spill out between breaths.

You come from a different Earth.

Different choices.

Bruce died instead of you.

Surviving things you weren’t supposed to.

Merlyn. The collider. The moment everything went wrong.

Ollie listens without interrupting.

That’s how Dinah knows—knows—he believes you.

Because with Ollie, disbelief would’ve come loud. Defensive. Angry.

Your body glitches again, smaller this time but relentless, a constant shimmer at your edges like the universe is tugging at you, trying to pull you loose.

Dinah’s eyes fill with tears she doesn’t bother to hide.

Ollie exhales slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

She reaches for you.

Stops.

Looks at Ollie.

He nods.

Dinah pulls you into her arms.

The contact grounds you instantly—and breaks something wide open inside your chest. You cling to her like she’s gravity itself, fingers digging into her coat as another wave of distortion rolls through you. Dinah buries her face in your neck, inhaling the same smell that went with you everywhere.

Ollie joins a second later, wrapping both of you up, pressing his forehead briefly to yours.

“We’ve got you,” he murmurs, fierce and unsteady. “We’ve got you.”

For the first time since the collider, the world holds.

They don’t ask where to take you.

Ollie doesn’t even consider anything public.

The penthouse doors slide shut behind you, sealing out the city, and the quiet hits you like a wave.

Without the noise to anchor you, the wrongness comes roaring back.

The penthouse is different.

The kitchen and the living room have been swapped. Dinah and Ollie's wedding portrait looks different. Huh.

It's all a bit uncanny really.

It's the same house, same people, but there differences everywhere.

You think that's probably what they thought when they laid eyes upon you.

Your reflection in the glass windows flickers, lagging a half-second behind your movements. You sway, knees buckling as the room seems to tilt.

Dinah catches you before you hit the floor.

“Easy,” she murmurs, guiding you down onto the couch. “I’ve got you.”

Your glitching worsens under the stillness. Your outline shimmers constantly now, like a bad signal. Ollie watches it with a tight jaw, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.

“You’re decaying,” he says.

You huff out a weak, breathless laugh. “Yeah. That happens when you’re not supposed to exist somewhere.”

Dinah shoots him a look.

“What,” he says. “That’s my way of panicking.”

She kneels in front of you, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes.

“We’re going to fix this,” she says, voice steady despite the tears shining there. “You hear me? We didn’t survive losing you once just to do it again.”

Your throat tightens.

“Still bossy across universes,” you murmur smirking.

Her smile breaks—and she pulls you into another hug, holding you like she’s afraid the universe might steal you back if she lets go.

She hugs you so tightly, it's so comforting.

You can tell she's been through a lot.

She still scratches your scalp the same way she always did, puts a hand behind your neck.

Some things never change, you guess.

The city outside keeps moving.

And for now—

You’re still here.

Ollie doesn’t pace when he dials.

He stands at the window of the penthouse, one hand braced against the glass, the other holding the phone like it might detonate. Star City glows below—alive, oblivious, cruel in its normalcy. Dinah sits behind you on the couch, her arm draped around your shoulders, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles like she’s afraid you’ll slip out of existence if she lets go.

The call connects on the third ring.

“Bruce,” Ollie says.

There’s a beat.

Then Bruce's voice, low, tired, restrained to the breaking point. “Oliver.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “I need you to listen. And I need you to stay calm.”

That alone is enough to make Bruce’s spine go rigid on the other end of the line.

“What’s happened?” Bruce asks. “Is this about Gotham?”

“It’s about your daughter.”

Silence.

Not the empty kind.

The dangerous kind.

The kind that means Bruce has gone very, very still.

“…Which one,” Bruce says quietly. Asking even though he knows the answer.

Dinah closes her eyes.

“Y/N,” Ollie answers.

The name hangs between continents.

Bruce’s voice drops. “That’s not funny.”

“I know.”

“Oliver.”

“I’m not joking.”

Another pause.

Longer.

He can hear Bruce breathing now.

Controlled. Measured. Like he’s already bracing for impact.

“She’s dead,” Bruce says.

It isn’t an accusation.

It’s a statement. A fact carved into his bones.

“I buried her.”

Ollie swallows. “I know you did.”

“Then don’t say her name like this,” Bruce snaps. “Don’t—”

“She’s sitting on my couch,” Ollie says, cutting in. “She’s alive. She’s hurt. And she’s not from this universe.”

The words land wrong. Like broken glass in the mouth.

“You’re going to explain,” Bruce says, voice razor-thin, “right now.”

“She looks like her,” Ollie continues, slower now, choosing every word. “But older. Tired. Like grief’s been living in her bones for a long time. She knows things she shouldn’t. She called me uncle. She called Dinah aunt. She—”

“Stop,” Bruce breathes.

“No,” Ollie says. “You need to hear this. Because she thinks you are dead.”

Bruce’s hand tightens around his phone so hard it creaks.

“In her world,” Ollie says, “you died on the same mission. Same explosion. They ruled it a suicide. Covered it up. Just like—”

Bruce closes his eyes.

“…Just like we did with her,” he finishes hoarsely.

Dinah opens her eyes again, tears streaking silently down her face.

“She’s decaying,” Ollie adds. “She got into an incident with Merlyn and got shot into this universe, I think it's because this universe doesn't have Y/n in it. But it's like she doesn’t belong here. Barry might be able to help, but right now—right now she needs you.”

A long, broken breath on the other end.

“…I’m coming,” Bruce says.

“Come alone,” Ollie replies gently. “As Bruce.”

The call ends.

He doesn’t go to the cave.

He doesn’t touch the Batmobile, doesn’t pull on armour, doesn’t look at the memorial wall. He takes the stairs instead of the lift, every step echoing too loudly through the manor.

The living room is full.

They’re supposed to be gearing up.

Half-suited, half-armed, irritation crackling through the air because patrol was delayed again.

But they're not. 'Cuz they're benched.

Damian is on the floor with Elizabeth Taylor curled against his thigh, pink bed dragged in like a quiet rebellion. Dick is mid-sentence, Steph sprawled across the arm of a chair, Tim cross-legged with a tablet, Jason leaning against the wall, Cass and Duke close together.

Bruce passes through them like a ghost.

“Bruce?” Dick says, confused. “You good?”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

Jason straightens. “Hey. Where are you going?”

Bruce stops at the door.

“I need to step out,” he says.

Damian frowns immediately. “For what purpose?”

Bruce turns then.

His eyes land on each of them in turn, like he’s committing their faces to memory.

“It’s about your sister,” he says.

The room detonates.

“What?” Steph blurts.

Tim’s tablet slips from his hands and hits the floor with a sharp crack. “Bruce—?”

Dick is already moving. “Is she—did something—?”

“You benched us, then you say that?” Jason snaps. “You don’t get to just—”

“Enough,” Bruce cuts in, sharper than intended.

Silence slams down.

“I will explain,” Bruce says, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Later. Alfred will stay with you.”

Damian rises to his feet, Elizabeth’s leash still looped around his wrist. “Father. You are withholding critical information.”

Bruce meets his gaze.

It softens considerably.

He kneels to meet Damian.

“Son, I need you to trust me,” he says.

Damian’s jaw tightens.

He nods once.

Bruce leaves.

The front door closes behind him with a quiet finality that feels like another loss.

You don’t mean to open the news.

You really don’t.

But the penthouse is too quiet, and Dinah’s thumb has stilled on your shoulder, and Ollie’s gone tense in that way he gets when he’s bracing for bad timing. A tablet is in your hands before you’ve fully registered it.

Your name is trending. It's been trending for weeks.

You stare at it, blankly, like your brain refuses to translate.

You tap.

Your face fills the screen.

Y/N WAYNE, DAUGHTER OF BRUCE WAYNE, DEAD.

Another headline.

Another photo.

A gala smile.

A candid shot with Damian scowling beside you.

Death ruled a suicide.

Your throat closes.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Dinah notices instantly. “Hey—hey, sweetheart, what did you see?”

You tilt the phone toward her.

She sucks in a sharp breath.

You scroll numbly.

Edits. Tributes. Candle emojis.

She would’ve been another year older today.

People arguing in comment sections about whether you were happy.

Whether you were lonely.

Whether you were “too gentle for this world.”

Your hands start to shake.

“I’m dead,” you say, distantly. “Here, I mean.”

Dinah pulls you fully into her chest now, arms locking tight. “I know.”

Your eyes burn. “They said I killed myself.”

Ollie’s voice is rough. “They didn’t want questions.”

You nod slowly. “Same thing they did to my dad.”

The realisation settles like ash.

“This isn’t my universe,” you murmur. “I knew that. I just—I didn’t think it would hurt like this.”

Your vision blurs. The glitching starts again, a faint stutter at the edges of your hands, like static crawling up your skin.

Dinah presses her forehead to yours. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

“Am I allowed to be?” you ask quietly.

Footsteps sound behind you.

The door opens.

Bruce Wayne, your father, stands in the threshold.

He looks smaller without the suit.

Older.

His eyes find you instantly—and stop.

Time folds in on itself.

You look up.

Every breath has left your lungs.

Dinah and Ollie's gazes remain transfixed on you and Bruce staring at each other.

“Daddy?” you say, small and uncertain, like a child testing the edge of a nightmare. You stand, slowly.

Bruce crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into him, arms crushing, desperate, breath shuddering against your hair.

“Oh my goodness, baby, you’re here,” he whispers. “You’re real.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into his coat. “Daddy I missed you.”

He lets out a sound that might be a sob.

When he pulls back, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding, trembling.

“You shouldn't be here. My daughter is dead,” he says, voice breaking. “Here.”

You nod.

“I know. I saw.”

“And in your world,” he continues, forcing the words out, “I died.”

“Yes.”

The symmetry is unbearable.

“They said you overdosed,” you add softly. “Suicide. They couldn’t tell the truth.”

Bruce closes his eyes. “We did the same to her.”

Your chest aches.

“I buried you. I took over the company. Dick became Batman. Damian—he needed someone. I stayed Nightingale. I just… hardened.”

Bruce cups your face gently. Smiling, even though the pain he's feeling is the worst he has ever felt, like stitches being ripped open again.

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

Your glitching worsens suddenly, static crawling up your arms.

Bruce notices immediately. His jaw sets.

“You’re destabilising,” he says. “Barry can help. He understands this kind of physics.”

You nod, trusting.

Exhausted.

“I don’t belong here,” you whisper.

Bruce pulls you into him again, softer this time.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re not alone. I promise sweetheart.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, feeling like he'll disappear at any second, but you savour this moment.

The moment lingers longer than it should.

Bruce’s hands are still on your shoulders, like if he lets go you’ll flicker out completely. You can feel it—the strange, itchy wrongness under your skin, the way the air doesn’t quite agree with you.

Dinah watches it happen with a tight mouth. Ollie clocks it immediately.

“You’re destabilising again,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

You nod faintly. “It gets worse when I think too hard.”

Bruce exhales, then straightens. The Batman slides back into place—not the armor, not the voice, but the decisiveness.

“I’ve already called Barry,” he says. “And I notified the Watchtower. Select members only.”

Ollie lifts an eyebrow. “You trust them with this kind of stuff?”

“I trust them with her,” Bruce replies without hesitation.

That lands heavier than anything else.

Dinah squeezes your hand. “Alright. Then we move.”

She stands, already reaching for the hidden panel near the hallway. “We suit up.”

You blink. “Now?”

Ollie gives you a soft, crooked smile. “Kid, if you’re gonna glitch out of existence, you’re doing it somewhere with the best minds in the universe.”

Dinah disappears briefly and returns with something folded carefully over her arm.

Your breath catches.

It’s a suit—but not yours.

Not Nightingale as you knew her.

The silhouette is familiar, but refined.

Reinforced seams. Subtle gold threading worked into the black. A faint canary insignia worked into the inside lining, near the collar.

Dinah holds it out. “Temporary. Modified to stabilise your vitals. Barry’ll do the real work, but this’ll help .”

You take it with trembling fingers. “You didn’t have to—”

“We did,” Ollie says gently.

As you change, the penthouse hums with quiet urgency. Dinah and Ollie suit up too, muscle memory guiding them. When you step back out, fully masked, Bruce stops breathing for half a second.

You’re Nightingale.

But older. Sharper. Tired in a way this world’s Nightingale never had the chance to be.

Bruce approaches you slowly, like you might spook.

“You ready?” he asks.

You hesitate—then lean forward and hug him.

He makes a small, broken sound as his arms wrap around you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I should go home first,” he says quietly. “I need to tell them, the kids deserve to know.”

You nod. “I know.”

You pull back just long enough to press a kiss to his cheek. He does the same to your hair, lingering.

“Be careful,” he whispers.

“You too, daddy.”

He watches you go with Dinah and Ollie, something in his chest ripping open all over again.

Bruce drives home in silence.

The city lights blur past, reflections ghosting across the windows. His hands are steady on the wheel, but his thoughts are anything but.

Alive. Not his. Dead here. Alive somewhere else.

The manor looms ahead like a mausoleum.

Inside, the lights are on.

Alfred opens the door, welcoming him.

He walks ahead, trying to figure out a way to break the news to his children.

Too many of them. Voices carry faintly from the living room—irritated, confused, restless.

He steps inside and all of them turn at once.

Cass's head perks up first, she nudges Duke who stops talking

“Bruce?” Dick says immediately. “What the hell is going on?”

Jason pushes off the wall. “You disappear and drop that line about Y/N like it’s nothing—”

Steph and Tim are already standing, eyes sharp, scanning Bruce’s face. “Is this about the Watchtower alert?”

Bruce turns his head because how did he have Watchtower alerts?

Damian is quiet.

Elizabeth Taylor sits at his feet, tail thumping nervously, like she knows what's up. “Father,” he says. “Explain.”

Bruce closes the door behind him.

He doesn’t take off his coat.

He walks to the couch and sits.

That alone shuts them up.

“I need you all to listen,” Bruce says. “And not interrupt.”

That earns him a few looks, but no one speaks.

He swallows.

“Y/N is alive.”

The room explodes.

“What?” Steph blurts.

Tim stumbles forward a step. “That’s not—don’t do that.”

Jason laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s sick, man.”

Damian’s breath hitches. “Father—”

Bruce raises a hand. “She is alive. But not our Y/N.”

Dead silence.

Dick’s voice is barely audible. “…What?”

Bruce exhales. “She’s from another universe. In her world, I died. Same mission. Same explosion. They covered it up as a suicide.”

Tim pales. “Like we did to her here.”

“Yes.”

Cass steps closer to Steph instinctively. Duke’s hands curl into fists.

“So she just—what—shows up?” Jason demands. “Wearing her face?”

Bruce’s voice breaks despite himself. “She called me dad.”

Damian’s composure fractures. “You saw her?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she?” Damian asks immediately.

“They're on their way to the Watchtower, her, Dinah and Ollie. They were the ones who found her.” Bruce says. “She’s unstable. Barry’s working on something to stop the dimensional decay.”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. “You didn’t bring her here.”

“It’s not safe yet.”

“For who?” Jason snaps.

Bruce looks at all of them. “For her. And for all of you.”

No one has an answer to that.

Only Elizabeth, who whines softly.

"Can we see her?" Duke asks,

"Eventually, I promise, let them get to the Watchtower, then we'll go." Bruce replies.

The Zeta-tube opens with a sound like the universe holding its breath.

Cold hits you first.

Not wind—there’s no air moving like that—but the kind of sterile, metallic chill that seeps straight through bone and settles behind your eyes.

The Watchtower always felt distant, even when you belonged here. Now it feels… vast. Hollow. Like a cathedral built for gods who forgot how to pray.

Below the transparent curve of the station, Earth hangs in silence.

Blue. Whole. Untouched by the fact that you died on it.

You take a step forward and your boots echo too loudly. Ollie’s already scanning the corridor, hand loose near his bow. Dinah walks just ahead of you, deliberate, protective without being obvious.

“You good?” Ollie asks, glancing back.

You nod, even though the static under your skin prickles in warning.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just… colder than I remember.”

Dinah hums. “It’s always like that your first time back.”

Back. You swallow.

The corridor stretches long and white and impossibly clean. As you walk, doors slide open. Heads turn.

John Stewart—freezes mid-conversation, eyes widening as they land on you.

Hal stares like he’s seen a ghost. Because he has.

Zatanna’s hand flies to her mouth.

Shayera stiffens, her wings twitching.

Martian Manhunter’s gaze sharpens instantly, unreadable but heavy with recognition.

You catch Victor Stone’s reflection in the glass—Cyborg’s systems visibly lag for half a second as he recalibrates what he’s seeing. Even Aquaman, regal and unshakable, pauses.

Every step forward feels like walking through your own funeral. Whispers ripple behind you.

“That’s—” “Didn't Bruce's kid pass?” “Wait what-.” “Is this some kind of—”

Ollie clears his throat loudly. “Eyes forward, folks. Multiverse emergency. Nothing to see here except your own business.”

That gets a few embarrassed looks, but the staring doesn’t stop.

You don’t really blame them.

At the end of the hall, the doors to the Flash’s lab slide open.

Barry’s voice spills out first. “—telling you, the math doesn’t lie, if she destabilises again—”

He stops mid-sentence. Clark turns. Diana looks up.

For half a second, none of them move.

Clark is the first to break.

He tries. You can tell he tries.

His shoulders square. His expression smooths into something neutral, professional. Justice League Superman.

“Nightingale. Y/N,” he says carefully. “It’s… great to see you.”

"Hi Uncle Clark" You reply softly

You barely have time to smile before he fails spectacularly.

In two strides he’s in front of you, pulling you into a hug so careful it almost hurts more than if he’d crushed you.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Oh, kid.”

Your arms come up automatically, pressing into his chest.

He smells the same. Sun-warm and familiar and devastating.

“Jonathan really misses you,” he says softly into your hair. “He keeps asking how your doing, forgetting that your uh-.”

Your throat closes, you cut him off. “I miss him too.”

Diana steps forward next, hands gentle as she cups your face, searching you with ancient eyes.

“You are weary,” she says quietly. “More than you should be.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. That tracks, thanks Aunt Di.”

Barry doesn’t even pretend to be calm. He darts in, hugging you quick and tight, then pulling back just as fast, hands already hovering like you might fall apart if he blinks.

“Okay,” he says, voice wobbling. “Wow. You look—wow.”

“Bad wow?” you ask.

“Tired wow,” he corrects immediately. “Like you’ve been carrying grief in a backpack with no straps.”

That hits harder than anything else.

Clark frowns. “She’s dimmer.”

You blink. “Dimmer?”

Barry nods. “Not in a bad way. Just… less light. Our Y/N was—” He gestures vaguely. “Sharper. Louder. You feel like… aftermath.”

You smile thinly. “Yeah no shit. I watched my dad die.”

That does it.

The static spikes.

It starts in your fingers—white noise crawling up your hands, your vision stuttering like a corrupted video file. The floor feels too far away, then too close.

Dinah swears. “She’s glitching.”

Your body flickers. Once. Twice.

“Hey—hey—hey,” Barry says quickly, hands on your shoulders. “Stay with me. Don’t fight it.”

You try to breathe and fail spectacularly as the world fractures.

Your arm phases through itself.

You gasp.

Clark’s hands hover uselessly. Diana’s jaw tightens.

“I need time,” Barry says sharply. “I can build something, but I need her stable now.”

“I’m trying,” you choke, and then your knees buckle.

The room dissolves into static

When sensation comes back, it’s softer.

There’s a band around your wrist—warm, humming faintly, like it’s alive. The static is still there, but muted. Padded.

Barry sits in front of you, goggles pushed up into his hair, eyes red-rimmed but bright with relief.

“Particle stabiliser,” he says proudly. “Temporary, but it’ll hold you together.”

You flex your fingers. They stay solid.

“Oh,” you whisper. “That’s… better.”

He grins, exhausted. “Yeah. Thought you’d like that.”

Dinah squeezes your shoulder. Ollie lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding for a while.

Across space, a notification lights up on Batman's display.

GLITCHING STABILISED. SUBJECT SAFE.

His hands tremble.

Wayne Manor is silent in the way only grief makes things silent. Bruce stands in the Cave, staring at the message like it might disappear if he looks away.

“She’s stable,” he says finally.

Every head snaps up.

Dick’s breath catches. Tim and Cass are already moving. Jason swears under his breath. Damian looks at Duke and Steph, his eyes shine with something dangerous and hopeful.

“We’re going,” Bruce says, voice ironed flat. “Suit up.”

And somewhere, kilometres away, your laughter rings down a Watchtower corridor—

and the silence that follows it is so loud it hurts.

A/N: Praying that this doesn't flop (it probably will ngl) , it def needs a part 3 sorry guys, i was actually gonna include a scene where AU!Batsis meets the batfam of this universe, but i couldn't be bothered i was cracked out while writing this. also does anybody want a fic of batsis with uncle ollie and aunt dinah, also ik this shit is so ass but I'm so proud of myself for conjuring up 10000 words

Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

“D’you wanna talk about it? Might help.” Even though he rarely does, you always offer, hoping that maybe this is the time he opens up and shares the load. 

“You died.” You startle a little at his declaration, pulse quickening at the accusation despite yourself. Blood in your mouth, in your lungs, you’re drowning, you’re— “In my dream. You died, just like mother and father. You died and left me all alone.”

Right, that’s what he’d meant. The nightmare, of course. 

“I didn’t. I’m right here, see?” You tighten your grip on him, pressing a kiss on his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” He sounds so small, terrified in a way he’d soon refuse to let you see. 

“Promise.”

Despite your words, the declaration tastes of rust, hot and viscous, sliding down your throat and pooling on the pristine floor beneath your cooling corpse. Because you had left him all alone. You had died, hadn’t you?

Phantom hands pressing down on your delicate neck as your eyes flicker closed, and a vision of Bruce’s tears etched on the backs of your eyelids, concludes that yes, whatever you were now, you had been exceedingly dead before. 

Time travel? A divine boon? Some fucked up mechanism of a dying brain that felt like eternity but was in actuality a few seconds? 

Whatever it is, you’re unsure whether to be grateful or spiteful that you’ve been spat out on the tail end of your parents' murders. Maybe if it had been a few weeks earlier, you could have—

Could have what? The sardonic voice in your head chimes. Saved them? Not likely. You might have come from a family of heroes, but you weren’t one of them. Sure, you’d been drilled in the basics for your own safety, fat lot of good that did you, but you weren’t like Bruce or any of the horde of children you’d welcomed into your home. 

You weren’t a hero. You weren’t the kind of person who deserved the cosmic do-over you’d seemingly been granted. You weren’t anything special, so why you?

The insistent call of your name pulls you from your self-imposed trance. Looking up, you fight the urge to sneer at the sight of a boy you’ve said maybe two sentences to in your entire life, perched on the edge of your desk. 

“So, Wayne.” He starts, like his very presence is doing you a favour, “doing anything for Valentine’s day?”

Valentines? You startle a little. January had only just started, what did—unless, had you really lost that much time?

Taking your stunned silence as flustered shock, the boy, whose name you could not for the life of you recall, leaned in close even as you scooted your chair back to avoid the assault of your personal space. “Lucky for you, neither am I, so what do you say we—”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Rude, yes, the past you would undoubtedly be horrified at the breach in social decorum, but these days you find yourself running short of the seemingly endless patience you must have previously possessed. 

Distantly, you realise that all surrounding chatter has died down, a few people outright bursting into snickers at the free schadenfreude suddenly on offer for their viewing pleasure. The boy, because that’s what he is, a little boy who’ll spend his entire life in daddy’s shadow, colours red at an impressive rate, genial mask dropping to reveal the true form beneath. 

“Excuse me, you uppity bitch? I was doing you a favour since you have no friends—”

“A favour? I doubt that.” You drawl, too tired to deal with little boys and their fragile egos. You’ve already done this song and dance more times than you could ever possibly count; it’s not particularly new or original material. 

“You—You bitch! My dad’s going to hear all about this!”

That’s enough to elicit a snicker of your own. Now that you think about it, the boy did bear a remarkable resemblance to a certain character from a once-beloved childhood series. Not that the reference would mean much to this crowd, had the books even been written yet?

And there’s a thought, what if you wrote it first? What then, Joanne? What popularity would she use to stand on her shitty soapbox to spread her shitter opinions? What then indeed?

Unfortunately, the ethical quandaries of plagiarism via intimate future knowledge are placed on hold when Not-Malfoy (future nickname pending) opens his mouth to squeak some more, and your fist rears back, and you sock him in the nose without conscious decision. 

Ah hell. 

Then again, staring at the boy’s sprawled form on the linoleum floor as he cupped his impressively bleeding nose with a shriek that was nearly high enough in pitch to be undetectable to human ears, a tendril of satisfaction unfurls in your chest. 

Perhaps there was something to this whole punching people thing after all. 

Predictably, you are swiftly dealt a detention. It would have been worse, but pulling the ‘recently murdered parents’ card apparently does wonders for one's prospective punishment options. 

You’ve never had a detention in your life, and your knuckles sting unpleasantly where you’d cracked the skin unexpectedly, but suddenly you suspect it won’t be your last.

Despite the record of infractions, detentions and that one minor stint behind bars (really, it was only a few minutes, Bruce, calm down), college is a lot easier the second time around. Gone is the studious, conscientious media darling this world would never know, but your grades are exceptional, and your family’s wealth guarantees a spot in whichever course your heart desires. 

Medicine is different to law, but you’ve danced the college freshmen steps before, and you’ve got experience most of your cohort will never come close to experiencing. 

The warmth of Bruce’s blood lingers on your fingertips, nitrile gloves cling as if they perpetually belong on your hands, and stitches could practically be done with your eyes closed. 

The board members of Wayne Enterprises respect you a lot less because of your lack of accredited business acumen, but you’ve got insider information, cheat codes, and it leaves you confident enough in your position to pursue the medical degree you’ll need to aid Bruce’s future crusade instead. 

Though try as you might to steer him away from the inevitable nightlife of capes and bat gadgets, you fear your near “delinquency” this time around has only encouraged him, if anything. 

And sure enough, Bruce leaves Gotham, just as previously scheduled, and though you’ve done this before, you still clutch him tightly, tears lining your lashline as you struggle to let him go. He lets you, ever indulgent of your affection, as he promises to write. 

You know he won’t, but you wave him off with a strained smile regardless, ever the indulgent big sister. 

Perhaps you should have put more thought into it, what would happen if (when) you ever encountered Harvey Dent again, but like many things from your first life, you’d refused to think about it. About him. About the love you’d shared, the pain he’d caused.

Not the healthiest approach, but what could you tell a therapist? So you’d simply subscribed to the time-honoured Wayne family tradition: intense repression, and called it a day. 

Standing next to him now, however, you abruptly realise you really should have given it more thought. Because it’s Harvey, the man you’d fallen in love with, the man who still held your heart despite it all, the man who wasn’t the monster yet, and you can’t help but wonder, could you save him? Call him yours again? Hold him in your arms just one more time?

Different roommate, different social circle, different party and yet, somehow, someway, you end up on the same damn beer pong team. As if fate herself had intervened, inevitably pushing you toward the man you’d once called husband, and when you’d tripped on the carpet, into his arms. 

You wonder what he must think of you, the Wayne heiress, awkward and unable to tear your gaze away from him, as if you’d never seen a boy before. How your breath hitches a little when his arm brushes yours, and your heart clenches painfully when he throws you that boyish grin you’d always been doomed to fall for. 

Somehow, you pull it together enough to win the game, but there’s no elated victory hug this time. You don’t dare to jump into his arms for the fear you’ll never let go, or worse, break down in front of the massive audience you’ve accrued. Instead, you simply shoot him what you hope is a dazzling smile, thanking him for the game before promptly turning tail and all but running away. 

Like the coward you always have been. 

Greedily, you drink in the cool night air that hits your skin as you stumble outside, stepping over discarded plastic cups as you walk down a few steps before taking a seat. The thrum of the bass rattles the door frame, the music muffled but still legible as you close your eyes, resting your forehead on your knees as you fight to stave off the impending panic attack. 

It takes a few minutes, but you manage to calm your breathing just as the door creaks open. Assuming it’s someone leaving, you shuffle sideways to create space but don’t otherwise look up. That is, until a warm body sits beside you, and it’s Harvey’s voice that greets you. 

Jolting upward, you're unsure exactly what your face is doing, but you hope you’re not gaping like a wide-eyed idiot. Whatever your expression, your response is a very inelegant, “huh?”

He blinks, concern in his furrowed brows, and you want nothing more than for the Earth to swallow you whole, “Are you okay? You ran off pretty quickly, didn’t even get your name.” 

“What? Oh—No, I’m—I’m good, just needed some air. It’s crowded, is all.” You lamely answer, hardly close to convincing. 

It takes a few beats before you realise he’s waiting patiently, and you jolt, introducing yourself and hoping he doesn’t further worry about your mental capacity. 

Harvey’s smile is blinding, and it takes biting the inside of your cheek bloody to distract from the tears threatening to form. 

You feel untethered, off balance, nothing of the previously composed ice queen who’d headed Wayne industries for over a decade. 

It’s pathetic—you’re pathetic—and yet, Harvey’s still smiling like the sun, and suddenly nothing else matters. 

“Something on my face?” 

“Not at all.” You shake your head, chin resting on your palm as you stare softly, desperately trying to immortalise this moment in your memory, “It’s just—you have a beautiful smile.” 

It’s Harvey’s turn to flush, pink rushing to his cheeks as a hand reaches to cup the back of his neck, a nervous tick he’d grow out of. 

“Pretty sure I’m the one who should be saying that.” 

“Wha? That you’re beautiful?” You tease, nudging his knee with yours and easily falling into an old rhythm long thought lost. 

“Yeah—Wait, no, I mean, you’re beautiful—Gorgeous even. When you disappeared like that I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t find you again.” 

“You—charmer.” You huff, heart pounding in your throat as you try to remember how to breathe, “bet you say that to all the pretty girls.”

“Never.” His skin pinkens again, “I’m not usually this forward, especially not with women clearly so far out of my league, but—”

“Coffee.” You interrupt, even though you know it’s a terrible idea, but by dictating the terms, you’re allowing yourself the illusion of control: “Buy me a coffee, and we’ll go from there.” 

“Really? I mean—coffee, absolutely!” Harvey grins like he’s won the lottery, and you think you never stood a chance. 

You shouldn’t entertain it. Shouldn’t give him the time of day, should protect your pathetic, weak heart from the inevitable. 

But if you’re being truthful with yourself, you were doomed the moment you laid eyes on Harvey Dent. 

Because deep down, you’re a coward, but more than that, you’re selfish. 

Coffee comes and goes, and you know you should nip this in the bud, but coffee turns to lunch, turns to dinners, turns to half a year of dating, and you know as surely as you breathe that Harvey Dent is a part of you. 

He’s burrowed beneath your skin and taken up residence in your heart to rest there forever. You lie awake in his arms, torn between cursing gods you refuse to put your faith in and deluding yourself into believing that it’s meant to be.

Why else would you be granted this opportunity? This gift? If not to right past wrongs and miserable failures. 

And if sometimes Harvey comes home in a foul mood from work, just a twinge of something darker lining his gaze before it disappears at your touch? Well, denial’s a hell of a drug. 

You take all the necessary precautions, spending nights trawling through your memories and cursing yourself for being so forgetful. 

You convince Harvey to move into the manor with you, warn Alfred of potential surprises in the mail, leave anonymous tips for Gordon and if some scumbag or gang member ends up on your table under the knife? Well, nobody’s going to accuse you of being the reason they never wake up. 

It scares you a little at first, the sudden and unexpected lengths you’ll go for your now fiancé, but then Harvey will smile at you, lavish you in the love you’ve been so starved for, and you find you’ll do whatever it takes to keep him. 

Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham in the early twilight hours of a random Thursday morning, hoping to avoid the bother of the paparazzi. Alfred’s not there to greet him at the door, but it’s only the sudden thought of waiting to see his sister that has him slightly regretting his decision. 

The manor is quiet. Both you and Alfred are no doubt asleep, so Bruce thinks he can be forgiven for not expecting to see anyone else in his kitchen at the ripe hour of 3 am, let alone a shirtless man he’s never clapped eyes on in his life. 

His eyes trail over the litany of bruises and bite marks decorating the man’s neck as the two silently size each other up, and he’s overcome with the urge to break this fucker’s nose. 

“Bruce. You’re back.” The man raises his brows, glass of water forgotten on the kitchen island as Bruce fights to maintain a genial mask. Then he spots the golden band on the man’s ring finger, and all sense of decorum is lost. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?” He channels all rich boy snobbery as he stares down the interloper, trying not to frown as the man chuckles because that look is all you.

“Harvey Dent, your sister's fiancé. Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Charmed.” Bruce wrinkles his nose; he hates this guy already. 

To Bruce’s dismay, you and Harvey are married within the month, as you’ve no further reason to delay. He tries not to frown during your vows and can’t help but wonder if he should have stayed away longer or never left in the first place. 

Bruce’s return starts the countdown, and you desperately try not to let the tension lining your being show, because it all comes down to these upcoming months. 

Ultimately, nothing you do will matter if Sal Maroni throws that acid. 

Briefly, you contemplate taking him out of the equation altogether, tabling the idea only when you realise it would leave the future open, too unpredictable. 

The first night you contemplate outright murder, you don’t sleep, staring at the ceiling in horror as Harvey nuzzles into your neck, wondering just when you’d become so callous.

The bodies pile up as Holiday remains at large, and you can feel Harvey slipping away from you. His frustration is slowly morphing into something darker you’ve been trying to deny. 

You don’t sleep, dark circles beneath your eyes barely hidden with even the best makeup, it’s a testament to how far you’ve strayed from Harvey and Bruce that neither comments. 

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, hideous resentment burning beneath your ribcage, and sometimes you think you hate them both. 

Tears always follow such thoughts, accompanied by a bottle of wine, as you wonder what you’ve done to deserve this. Even then, you know you’d do it all again in a heartbeat. 

Months pass by in an anxious fog until the moment Harvey comes home early, the first time you can recall since Holiday, with a huge grin and your favourite flowers. 

Sal Maroni’s going to testify. 

You swallow back the bile and return Harvey’s smile, allowing yourself to relish in his sudden affection; you’ve always been a good actor. 

The day of the trial arrives after a sleepless night, and though Harvey’s a little surprised at your insistence on accompanying him to the courthouse, he doesn’t question it. 

Excusing yourself to the bathroom with a kiss on Harvey’s cheek, you hurriedly make your way to the courthouse basement, heart hammering rapidly. 

It’s not until you arrive and realise Maroni’s already been moved, likely already has the acid, that you realise you’ve gravely miscalculated. There’s no plan, just sheer panic flowing through your veins as you run, heels echoing off the stone floors as you ignore the odd looks thrown your way. 

You don’t recall things happening this quickly the first time. How long had it taken you to get to the cells? How much time had you wasted already? Bursting through the closed courtroom doors, all eyes turn to you, but yours are on Maroni. 

The judge scowls, opening his mouth, but you don’t hear the reprimand, feet already moving as you sprint down the aisle. A security guard attempts to catch you, but you easily duck beneath his arms, Harvey’s staring at you in bewilderment, stepping closer as Maroni’s hand slides out of his jacket, flask in hand as Harvey remains painfully unaware. 

Your hand latches around his wrist, tugging him forward and making him stumble. The momentum you’ve gathered carries you forward, straight into the path of Sal’s moving arm. It’s all you can do to turn your face to the side, throwing your arm up as a measly manner of protection. 

A horrid, blood-curdling screech pierces the air, and it’s not until you look up to see Harvey’s terrified face that you realise you're on the floor. The pain is agonising, an all-encompassing burn that lights your nerves on fire. Harvey’s hands cup your face, trying to keep you still as his mouth moves, forming words you can’t hope to hear over the high-pitched ringing in your ears. Your vision blurs, a mess of tears and black spots dancing across your eyes until, blessedly, you pass out.

You come to in a hospital bed, pink-tinged bandages hugging your torso, jaw, and left arm. Harvey is absent from your bedside, a silent, damning message that feels like mockery. 

You’ve failed. 

You don’t want to ask Bruce where he is; the tightness in the corner of his eyes is evidence enough, and yet your mouth moves without your permission, asking the placid question anyway. If this life has taught you anything, it’s that you’re a glutton for punishment. 

Bruce’s already weak smile dims, fingers flexing and clenching, and you can already tell he’s going to try to dissuade you, but you’re just as stubborn as he is. And Bruce has always struggled to deny you. 

“Harvey, he—when you passed out—in the chaos, he somehow got hold of one of the officer's guns.” Bruce sighs, running a hand down his face, barely managing to meet your gaze, “Sal Maroni’s dead.”

“So he’s in jail then?” Even as you say it, you know it’s a futile hope. How many times had he broken out of Arkham again?

Bruce throws you an odd glance, and belatedly, you realise maybe you should have freaked out a little more, cried, thrown out steadfast denials that Harvey would never do such a thing, but you’re not sure you have the energy to pretend anymore. 

“...no.”

It’s just a single word, and yet you hadn’t realised how much power ot held, not until you’re throwing your head back in hysterical laughter. Truly, your existence is nothing more than a cruel joke. 

Your fingers and toes have long since lost sensation, you're not dressed appropriately for the frigid Gotham Winter, and yet you barely notice, barely remember how you even got to the park. 

It’s nothing short of a miracle. Ever since you’d been discharged from the hospital, you couldn’t move an inch without Bruce fussing over you. It’s a testament to how exhausted he must be, that you’ve slipped out of the manor unnoticed. 

You’re not sure how long you sit, withering in the cold, nor do you recall your reasoning for stopping in the first place, when a jacket is suddenly dropped around your shoulders. 

Absent-mindedly, your fingers reach up to clutch the lapels, only to freeze at the familiar scent you somehow manage to pick up through the frigid cold. Gazing at the ground, you see his shoes first, a pair you remember buying for him. 

“Harvey.” It’s a croaked whisper, an unintended acknowledgment. 

A gloved pair of hands cup your face, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Darling, it’s freezing, what are you doing out here?”

It’s absurd, the genuine love and concern shining through his gaze, that for the first time since that night in hospital, you can’t help but laugh. 

“I’ve not seen you in months, and that’s the first thing you say?”

He has the decency to wince at least, thumbs still tracing gentle circles on your cheekbones. “I deserve that, but can you blame me for being concerned, love? you’re still my wife.”

Harvey drops to his knees before you, a manic sort of desperation colouring his features as he hips your hands tightly, “can’t you see, this is all for you!”

“I didn’t ask for this.” You murmur weakly, trying not to cry.

“What would you have had me do? Let Maroni get away with it?” He snarls, jaw clenched as his eyes trail down your scarred jaw and neck.

“I would’ve had my husband by my side, not on the run and wanted for murder.” You hiss, trying to pull your hands free, only for Harvey to tighten his grip. 

“You’ll still have me.” He insists. “I’ll finish my work here and then we can go anywhere you want, just us.” 

You stare disbelievingly, wondering how he’d spiralled so rapidly. At your lack of response, his fingers twitch in your grip, face turned to the side as he starts to mumble to himself, and just like that, the last vestiges of hope you hadn’t realised you’d still been holding onto, shatter. 

“Dent!” You startle at the angry address, throwing a look behind you to find Batman barreling toward you. 

Cursing, Harvey presses a quick kiss to your forehead, murmuring that you’d be together soon before taking off into the night. 

Predictably, your brother lets him escape in favour of fretting over you, failing miserably in his attempt to act simply as a concerned citizen.

“Bruce.” If it weren’t for the situation, you may have laughed at the way he stills. 

“Miss, I—”

“Don’t.” And then in an echo of the words you’d once spoken, “I know you, Bruce. You stopped being able to hide things from me long ago.”

Despite this, you feel no conviction in the words. You feel like an impostor, because what once was true was no longer. How could it be? Your hardly spoken to Bruce since his return to Gotham, too wrapped up in your own anxieties and Harvey. 

“You should have gone after him.” 

“We’ll find him. You’re more important.” Bruce refutes, and you have to bite back the remark that no, he won’t, not until it’s far too late. You were suspicious enough after the acid incident; it was just your luck that nobody wanted to question you too much after the tragic outcome. 

(You’d thought the acid was the punchline, but no, that comes months later when Batman pulls Harvey Dent free from the fire, that consumes the remaining Falcone family members, half his body ravaged by the flames.)

You’d not gone to see Haly’s circus the first time. You don’t even remember the significance of the event Bruce’s dragged you to in a desperate bid to cheer you up. It’s not until you’re staring down at the bodies of Mary and John Grayson as an inconsolable Richard wails into the night air that you realise you’ve failed yet another person. 

It’s easy enough to slip through the screaming crowd, ignoring Bruce’s quiet order to stay put as you locate a hysterical Dick Grayson. He sits in the back of an open ambulance, legs dangling and shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders and hiccuping through unrelenting sobs—alone.

Silently, you slide in next to him, an open palm facing upward on your thigh in quiet invitation. He hesitates briefly, staring at you with wide untrusting eyes, before ultimately clutching your fingers in an unrelenting grip. 

“They weren’t—They didn’t just fall. They were murdered, I swear!” You’re a little startled when he manages to speak through the sobs, glancing down at him for the first time since you’d sat, only to find him staring up at you pleadingly. 

Slowly, you wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him to rest against your chest, “I believe you.”

He’s tiny, smaller than you can ever recall him being and your heart clenches painfully at the thought of the boy who’d brought so much joy into your life suffering. 

Suffering because you’d known. You’d known his parents were going to fall. You’d known and you’d let it happen anyway. 

Bile burns in your esophagus, hand trembling as you gently stroke Dick’s hair, as if you had the right to offer such comfort. 

It’s not Bruce who brings home a tiny, traumtised ward this time and it’s not Bruce who’ll have the final say when it comes to his vigilante life. 

It it were up to you, then none of the kids would ever don bright colours and take to throwing themselves head first into danger. 

Alas, on his fourteenth birthday, Bruce takes an excited Dick on his first patrol of many. 

(You insist on the pants, though)

Though it’s not as a result of an explosive argument between Bruce and Dick, the boy still moves out, taking up the Nightwing mantle and a large part of your heart with him. 

Perhaps it’s this loneliness, perhaps it’s simply fate that sees you stumbling across a young Jason Todd mid tyre theft. 

You weren’t supposed to be out, not with Harvey’s recent Arkham escape, and seeing the Batmobile should’ve had you fleeing in the opposite direction lest Bruce find you and have a conniption. 

But then you see him, hood drawn up and face not visible but you know in your bones it’s Jason. 

You approach slowly, footsteps audible and what you hope is an easy going smile plastered across your face, “hey kid, you hungry?” 

He startles, gripping the tyre iron with white knuckles and you have to fight the tears that threaten to drown your vision at the sight of his young, unmarried face. 

“Who’re you?” He eyes you warily and you force yourself to stay open and relaxed despite the heartache. 

“The lady who’ll get you dinner, if you let me.” 

“Why?” He scoffs, “what’s in it for you?”

“Nothing.” You lie easily with a shrug. Jason clearly doesn’t believe you, waiting and watching warily for the other shoe to drop even as the two of you step into the nearest open fast food chain. 

Emboldened by the presence of witnesses in the form of disgruntled employees, Jason orders an obscene amount of food, waiting for you to get annoyed or show your true colours, but you simply indulge him with a smile. 

Jason is skittish, distrustful and wary of adults in a way that makes you want to hunt down every person responsible, and you’re no Batman, don’t have that automatic trust inspiring authority. He won’t come home with a stranger after a single meeting, and though you worry relentlessly for him, you’re willing to take things at Jason’s pace, to build that trust. 

You spend many nights in the Bowery, bringing with you food and clothes for the heartbreakingly high population of unhoused children. (Coincidentally, Batman is now a near constant presence, much to the children’s delight.)

It’s nearing the end of your third week earning Jason’s trust when the sleek black car with tinted windows rolls up beside you, the passenger door flings open, blocking your path as you turn and push Jason behind you. “Mrs Dent,” a well dressed man in a two toned suit steps out, opening the car’s back door and gesturing for you to get in, “the boss would like a word.”

Though his expression is genial enough, you know it’s not a request you can deny, not when you spot the gun resting casually in his waistband. You doubt he’d harm you, Harvey would kill him for it, but it’s your doubt for Jason’s same immunity that has you agreeing easily enough. 

A small hand fists in the back of your shirt, halting your movement. Turning, your hands cup his cheeks, the touch far more familiar than anything you’d previously dared to dry, “Jay, you’ve got to let me go, sweetheart.” 

A trembling hand latches onto your coat again as he shakes his head, and you swallow back the panic at the thought of the man with the gun becoming too impatient. 

“You can’t.” Then softer, whispered with urgency, “those are Two Face’s goons!”

“I know, honey, but everything’s fine, I’ll be all right. H—he won’t hurt me.”

This shouldn’t be happening. It hadn’t happened before, but even completely blind as you are, Harvey had never hurt you. 

“You don’t know that, Two Face is—”

“My husband.” The words taste sour but it makes them no less true. Despite Bruce’s insistence you should file for divorce, let yourself move on, you could never bring yourself to do so. Not when you knew it would send Harvey into a spiral he’d never come back from. “I’ll be ok.”

Leaning down, you press a kiss to his forehead, forcing yourself to avoid looking at him again before you slide into the leather backseat. Just before your escort can close the door on you, Jason’s jumping in beside you, glaring at the driver who simply shrugs. 

“Jay, please—” Evidently, your escorts have had enough waiting, as the door slams closed and the car’s taking off before the man’s even settled back into his seat. You could throttle him for being so reckless, instead, you pull him close, clutching him like you can shield him from everything. 

The ride is completed in tense silence, your skin prickling with anxiety as you try to put on a brave face for Jason, who’s trying to put on a brave face for you. Too soon, the car is stopping, the driver siding out from his seat to open the door for you as you and Jason are ushered inside what you quickly realise is some sort of speakeasy. 

It’s devoid of patrons, and you’re a little surprised at the lack of armed guards, though you’re not so naive to think they don’t exist. Besides, the two men with guns behind you marching you forward into the establishment are enough to ensure you won’t even try anything, not with Jason glued to your side. 

Not when Harvey, seated at the bar, looks up at the noise of your entrance, drink halfway brought to his mouth forgotten in an instant as he stands, swiftly closing the distance. There’s a wild look in his mismatched eyes as he studies you head to toe, as if trying to fing a single hair out of place. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen him in person since he’s been burned, and Harvey, noticing your staring must mistake it for something else, “they’re unseemly, I know.”

Before you can think better of it, your own scarred hand lightly brushes against his cheek, throat tight and eyes stinging as you softly shake your head, “Not at all.” Realising what you’ve unintentionally done, you quickly try to pull your hand back, only for Harvey to grab your wrist, leaning into your touch for a few moments before he pulls you close, trapping you in an almost bruising hug. 

You yelp a little at the unexpected movement, causing Jason to bristle, and before he can open his mouth and potentially trigger the nasty temper you know Harvey’s capable of, you reach back and squeeze his hand as best you can. Desperately hoping to convey that you’re ok, and for Jason to keep quiet. 

“Missed you. Dreamed of this, dreamed of touching you again every night. Was the only thing that kept me going in that hellhole.” He murmurs fervently, pulling back just enough so he can cup your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him, “Tell me you missed me too, darlin.”

“I—I’ve missed you too, Harvey. More than anything.” You croak, guilt and shame burning heavy in your chest at the realisation your easy confession isn’t a lie. 

“Please don’t cry, my love, you know I hate it when you do.” His thumbs brush away the tears that had started to slide down your cheeks, but to your horror, they just won’t stop. “There’s no need to cry, we’re together again, just like I always said we’d be.”

If anything, his words make you want to cry harder. “You can’t be serious Harvey—”

“Why not? I’ll even let the boy stay, I know you’re fond of him.” At the acknowledgement of Jason you freeze, tugging him closer into your back like it’ll hide his presence. “You won’t go to the Bowery anymore.”

“Harvey—”

“No.” He hisses, a hysterical gleam in his eyes that fades just as quickly when he notices you tense. “What were you thinking? You know how dangerous it is, especially at night. What if someone had gotten to you before I did? Do you have any idea what that would have done to me? If anything happened to you, I’d burn this city, and everyone in it, to the ground.”

You blink, heart pounding rapidly in your chest as his thumbs still rub soothing circles across your cheekbones. The tender gesture in direct opposition to the terrifying certainty of his words. 

There’s a lump in your throat that won’t disappear, no matter how hard you swallow. Your tongue darts out, wetting suddenly dry lips as you try to formulate a response, missing the way Harvey’s eyes follow the movement, and suddenly, he’s swallowing your noise of surprise when he closes the distance, kissing you fervently.  

You’re frozen, knowing you shouldn’t give in, but so desperately wanting to. Your fingers clutch his suit jacket, neither pulling him closer nor pushing him away even as your brain screams at you to do so. 

The distinct sound of glass shattering forces Harvey to pull away, a furious sneer covering his face at the interruption as you try to turn and locate the source. Before you could even blink, the two men who’d practically kidnapped you were on the floor, unconscious, and a hulking form of muscle and shadow was pushing you and Jason behind him. 

“Batman, this doesn’t concern you.” Harvey snarls, gun already in hand, as the two men size each other up. 

Taking the opportunity, you hurriedly rush Jason to the exit, pulling out your phone and pulling up Gordon’s contact number as you press the device into his hand. “Jay, listen carefully to me ok. I need you to call this man, tell him what’s happening, he’s the police commissioner, but I trust him with my life.”

Slowly, he nods, clearly wary of the GCPD, but willing to trust your word. Exhaling a breath of relief, you press another kiss to his forehead, “and I need you to run, get somewhere safe, okay?”

Immediately, he frowns, shaking his head, “What about you?” and you want to curse his stubborn nature. 

“I’ll be fine. If I go with you, then H—Two Face will try to come after us. Everything will be alright, don’t you trust me?”

Jason stares at you searchingly, lips turned downward, and brows furrowed as he seemingly tries to come up with some reason to get you to come with him. “Please, Jay.” 

Hesitantly, he nods, and before you can react, he’s thrown his arms around you in a quick hug, pulling away far too quickly for your taste, phone raised to his ear as he takes off down the street. 

Sighing a breath of relief, you turn back to the fight, only to nearly scream at the sight of Harvey, nearly motionless on the ground as Bruce continues to lay into him. Closing the distance in record time, you latch onto his arm with a scream before he can bring his fist down again, “Batman! Batman stop! You'll kill him!”

Bruce is breathing heavily, muscles straining, and a nauseating amount of blood staining the knuckles of his suit. You can’t see his eyes through the white lenses, but you’re sure they’re wild and unfocused as you try not to sob for what feels like the tenth time in less than an hour, “I’m fine! I’m okay, he didn’t hurt me, please just stop.”

You watch as he fights to compose himself, no doubt studying your frame just as Harvey had done not so long ago in an attempt to find even an ounce of a lie. 

Harvey grunts, still somehow clinging to consciousness, and you turn in time to witness his fingers close around the handle of the gun Batman had knocked out of his grasp seconds ago. 

It’s like your body’s on autopilot, there’s no conscious thought as you step in front of your brother for what you distantly realise is the third time. Harvey’s eyes widen, a scream of denial on his lips as he tries to stop the sequence of events he’s unintentionally started, but it’s too late. His finger’s already curled around the trigger, and you’ve already shoved your little brother out of the way. 

Standing as close as you are, it happens in a fraction of a second, the bullet piercing your skin before either man can properly register what’s happened. 

Your knees buckle, hitting the lacquered floor as a hand instinctively clutches your chest, like it might somehow prevent the spreading bloom of red across your clothes. 

Between one blink and the next, you’re on the floor, head resting on Harvey’s lap as he hysterically screams at a frozen Batman to do something. You choke, ears ringing so fiercely you can’t hope to hear Harvey’s frantic pleas as he tries to stop the bleeding. 

Weakly you reach up, placing your bloody hands atop his, lips parting as you manage to wheeze out that it’s not his fault. 

His face drops, an eerie emptiness taking hold that you can’t bear to see. You still can’t hope to hear the commotion around you, even as Bruce’s hands tug at you, but somehow, through the blood swiftly filling your lung you manage to speak one last time, “Harv—Harvey. S’ok. Love you.”

Your eyes flicker closed before you can see his expression shatter, tears flooding down his cheeks and dropping onto your face. Distantly, you feel him lift you into his arms, ragged sobs wet against the cool skin of your neck. 

Harvey’s always been so warm, yet now with his body curled around yours, all you feel is unrelenting cold. 

The last coherent thought you manage to string together before the darkness pulls you under again is that, oh, you’ve lied to Jason.