literary in love

He just blinks, but doesn’t sigh, doesn’t complain, just does as you say, and shifts it slightly. “What about there–?“

“Not that much,” you cut him off gently, waving your hand in the air. “You were almost perfect, move it back to the left just an inch.” 

Johnny pauses, taking a deep breath to cling to the last thread of his patience. He turns to look over his shoulder at you, his brow arched in amusement. 

“Please?” You say, batting your lashes with an innocent smile. 

It doesn’t seem to work the way you expected. 

“You’re messing with me.” He says, straightening up with a smirk on his face. “I think you’re taking advantage of my strength.”

“…Maybe.” You hum, completely unbothered. “But it’s the least you can do after throwing it across the room like a lunatic and bleeding all over my spellbooks.”

He scoffs, turning fully to look at you in disbelief. “In all fairness, I was dying. Remember?” 

“Big deal.” You retort, shrugging playfully. “My sacred space was getting wrecked, so really, who suffered more?” 

That’s when his grin grows wider, shifting to lean one hand on the edge of the shelf smugly. “If I recall correctly, you were too busy crying all over me to care about your rugs that night, love.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the heat rising to your cheeks or the smile tugging at your lips. 

“Well,” you say, softening your voice. “Then you still owe me for scaring me to death that day. So you better put that strength to good use and move the bookshelf more to the left.”

Wrong choice of words. 

“Oh?”

Johnny perks up immediately. His expression shifts with a glint of mischief, not really thinking about the bookcase’s arrangement anymore.

“If that’s how it is, I can think of better ways to put my strength to good use, then.” He steps away from the shelves in slow steps, black pupils already taking over his blue irises, using that familiar allure he knows works too well on you. 

“Johnny…” You warn, even though your voice doesn’t have much bite, because you love the way he stalks toward you. 

Like a hunter to its prey. 

“Angel...” He stops in front of you, and his hand slides to your waist to pull you tight against him. Your hands go instinctively to his firm, sculpted chest, as the warmth of his body–your gift–becomes one with yours. 

“This is your idea of an apology?” You tease. 

He leans down with a smirk, mouth brushing the exposed skin of your collarbone teasingly. “Mm hm,” he mumbles against your skin, before lifting those impossible starry eyes to meet yours. “Unless you want me to go back to lifting furniture…?”

You shake your head giggling, lifting your hands to mess his hair even more, then tugging him just a little closer by the back of his neck. 

“No,” you whisper. “You can stay right here.”

Johnny lets out a hum of contempt, diving into the crook of your neck. “Remind me…why didn’t I throw myself through your window sooner?” 

You chuckle, pretending you’re thinking for a second. “Because I would’ve set you on fire?”

He nods profusely, placing maddening soft little kisses on your skin. “Maybe you should’ve done it when you could...” 

You don’t even realize how close your back is to the desk until he slips his large hands under your robe, sliding up your thighs and making you squeal when he lifts you out of nowhere. 

“Johnny!” you gasp, laughing as he props you up on the edge of the desk, shoving away the books and vials you’d been working on that morning. 

He just grins wider, ocean eyes screaming trouble. “What? You said I had to make it up to you. I’m just getting started.” 

He doesn’t even give you time to reply. He gets lost down your neck again, placing open mouthed kisses, his fangs grazing the skin just enough to give you goosebumps. You tilt your head instinctively, letting out a soft whimper of pleasure, and Gods, that’s his favorite sound in the world.

“Maybe we could rearrange your desk,” he says against your collarbone. 

You let out a breathless little laugh, “My desk is fine where it is–”

“Disagree,” he says, nipping your skin before his hand dips lower, parting your robe to squeeze your thighs. “I think it could use a little shake up...”

You try to keep a straight face. You really do. But it’s impossible with Johnny Storm. His mouth is devastating and his hands keep wandering. Your next breath stutters when his fingers brush a little too close to a place that’s already aching for him. A moan escapes your lips then, and he chuckles, absolutely thriving off the delightful sound. He glances up with that unfair devilish grin that should be illegal on any creature, undead or otherwise.

“After this, we could move to the rug near the fireplace downstairs. Very romantic. Quite spacious. We could fix that layout too.”

“Yes?” You moan again, tugging his hair. “Where else, my love?” 

“I like the way you’re thinking now,” He chuckles. “After that…the kitchen table. Obviously.” His lips trail back up, teeth scraping against your jaw now. “Then…perhaps the gardens…”

You gasp. He laughs again, before he finally kisses your lips, only the way he knows how to. Hard, breathless, claiming. Burning off that need that’s been crawling under his skin since he first saw you, and now he’s finally, finally getting his fix. 

You both chuckle when the old wood of the desk creaks under the weight of your hunger. 

His hands settle on your hips, pressing hard. You moan into his mouth, fingers still curled around the nape of his neck, and he doesn’t miss how your legs wrap around his waist. He makes you tilt your head back, and your breath hitches as his lips go from your jaw, to your throat, to your chest, to your soul. His wandering hands find the sash of your robe to undo it the way he undoes you, slipping it easily off your shoulders, making you gasp another sound that drives him insane. 

“See?” he grins, already breathless. “Much better than furniture duty.”

It’s about to be the sleepless night you’ve been dreaming off…

Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated 🤍

Lovely dividers by @saradika-graphics

Because golden blood wasn’t just rare. It was salvation. 

It could give them what they’d lost the right to: the taste of what being alive felt like again. One single drop could warm their cold bodies, wake their long dead hearts, flush their pale skin with heat and color. They could feel again, breathe again, and sleep peacefully again. But there was only one thing even your blood couldn’t grant: being in the sun without blistering. Because vampires belonged only to the night, because even a devil dressed like an angel still couldn’t enter heaven. 

It was enough for them, though. Pretending to be human while keeping their immortality intact. 

But the gift of life wouldn’t last long. A drop was barely enough for an hour of borrowing a warmth their kind was not meant to remember. The glow would eventually fade…and they would only want more. 

They became addicted quickly. The memory of warmth was worse than the cold. It clung to them like obsession, like starvation. 

Witches like you wouldn’t survive long once a vampire found them. 

Most were hunted. Tasted. Drained. 

Because the truth was cruel…vampires couldn’t stop once they started. The gift that made them feel again also stripped away their last shred of control. 

Witches were supposed to live for centuries, but one bite too long, and the fountain of life would be emptied too fast. 

So you had to be wise. You’d grown up surrounded by warnings from your coven, learning the rules young. You never let your guard down, because the one time you did, it almost cost you your precious life. 

It all happened the day you decided to stay outside a little later than usual. You knew they came when the sun came down; the village wasn’t safe anymore but you’d already been reckless with time, and you found yourself making your way back home in the dark. 

That was when the first vampire came for you. 

It was like he hit the jackpot, really, a little golden witch strolling around carrying heaven in her veins. You thought that was it, giving a vampire their life back while they drained it from you. 

Until Sue Storm found you. 

A vampire from the Baxter coven. An unlikely savior, but she was part of a family that called themselves “the good ones.” She saved you right before it was too late, killed the vampire whose heart had just started beating again, and brought you to their tower in the woods. You were scared at first, thinking she’d just grabbed you to be her family’s own fountain of life, but she was the only one home. All you knew was her husband was out on a mission and her brother, the infamous Johnny Storm, traveled too much. 

She put you in a room, ignored the drops of blood on your neck, even when her own fangs begged her to taste, and took care of you for weeks until you were fully healed and the color returned to your face. 

The day you were supposed to return to your house in the village, her husband Reed, arrived greatly injured from a fight with another coven, damaged by the sun as he made his way back. Sue never asked anything of you, but you owed her your life. Without giving it a second thought, you poured your golden blood into a goblet, and offered it to him. 

You could say you were even, but they had to express their eternal gratitude somehow, and a truce was born then. 

They gave you a castle from their land in the middle of the woods, where you could live safely. Where  they’d only ever reach you if they needed healing, and they would keep the bad ones away for you. 

It was a strange deal, because you weren’t supposed to trust creatures like them, but it was the only way you could finally live in peace. You perfected your protection spells, learned to grow your own food and herbs, and only went out to town in daylight when it was absolutely necessary. 

And now, after forty years of no contact, she's not asking you for a bit of your blood. She’s asking you to let one of her kind into the gates of your safe world. 

You stare at the parchment letter again. It arrived before sunset, dropped by an owl in your garden, sealed in blue wax with her family’s crest carved on it. 

The Four Emblem. 

My dear, I wouldn’t ask this of you if I had any other choice.

Her careful handwriting detailed the unraveling state of a conflict between her kind. A rogue group from the east, led by the Hydra coven, was not held back by boundaries anymore, and Sue was worried. 

They’re gathering faster than expected. Our allies are falling and we keep losing land to them. The Belova family lost their castle last night, and they are the closest to our side of the valley. We cannot afford to lose your border too, or have them find you. You’re too important, so you must remain hidden. 

Which is why I’m sending you Johnny. 

Please welcome him into the castle, all he needs is a place to stay during the day. He’ll protect your border, and keep your grounds safe at night. 

I do have to warn you about him, he’s…a lot. He’s loud, he flirts as easily as he breathes, and takes nothing seriously until he does. You’ll hate him at first, I know. But he’s the only one I trust to be near you. 

I don’t know exactly when he’ll arrive. He has a flair for the dramatic and never lets us know when he’ll show up, but it should be soon. 

Please don’t hex him, and don’t let him seduce you.

With love, Sue.

“With love,” you scoff, crumpling the parchment before throwing it to the stone ground. 

She says he’s the only one she trusts to be around you, to protect you. But any vampire near you is dangerous, even the “good ones”. Sue was the exception, not the rule. 

And Johnny Storm? Seduce me? Seriously? 

Of course you’ve heard about him. Gossip runs like water, especially between witches. Back when you lived with your coven, you’d hear stories about him. About your sisters who let themselves believe a man like that could care for more than just a wild night of pleasure. Still, they’d return with stupid smiles and a neck tattooed with hickeys. 

No fang marks, though. The Baxter coven didn’t feed from humans, at least.  

Does that mean you can trust him? Of course not. 

Your blood is not like humans, and you didn’t even know how long this arrangement would last. Even someone like him could lose his mind eventually. 

But still…you know you cannot fight whatever is coming alone. And maybe they are worse than just him. 

All you can do is take a deep breath, and prepare yourself for his arrival. 

You storm up the spiral stairs of the east wing, muttering fire charms to ignite the hallway sconces. The room at the end had been sealed for as long as you’d been there, dusty, unused, and dark enough for any creature of the night to brood in peace. 

Perfect for him. 

You flick your hand at the door, the golden spark from your fingers pushing it open, and you take a deep breath as you cross the threshold. 

The place is dark, and it smells like mold. You turn to the big arched windows, covered by heavy burgundy blackout curtains, and wave your hand for them to roll open. Dust flies everywhere, but the last rays of daylight seep through the glass, enough for you to see what you’re working with. 

Stone walls, a round bed front and center, a faded rug, a velvet settee and a fireplace that hadn’t seen flame in centuries. 

“If he wants shelter, he can have shelter,” you mutter. 

You peel the old bedsheets away, and replace them with the plainest ones you have. Dark blue, of course. You wouldn’t want to ruin his aesthetic. 

“Silk sheets,” you huff, crossing your arms as the bed builds itself in a glimmer of gold. “He’s going to expect silk sheets, isn’t he?”

I don’t even think he sleeps. 

Reluctantly, you add a second pillow. Whatever. 

After a couple more spells, the room smells better, feels warmer, and looks decent enough for your new guest. Though you considered adding a garlic charm just to test his limits.

You press your hand to the window, watching the ember sky turning the color of dying roses. The sign that you had to lock your castle for the night…and wait. 

Let him come, you think bitterly. Let him try.

You’ll burn him down before he touches your light.

I swore my loyalty to me, myself, and I Right before you lit my sky up

You should be nervous. Instead, you’re annoyed. 

Annoyed that you’ve been waiting for his arrival every night until the lamp beside you burns, as if you are expecting a long lost lover to return home. 

Sue’s letter was clear, of course. That he’d arrive “when he felt like it.” That he had a flair for entrances and you should be ready. And you had been. But days passed, and nothing happened. 

So tonight, when you sit in your bed to call it a day, grabbing a book and intending to enjoy the rest of your evening alone, you’re not expecting the sharp, impatient knocks on the ancient front door of your castle. The firelight in your bedroom flickers, the wards you’ve casted around warning you of his presence. 

You groan, shutting down your book and covering your silk nightgown with a velvet cloak. Your pulse betrays you as you run down the stairs and arrive at the door, where the thick wood echoes with his impatient knocking. 

Like you’re wasting his time. 

You roll your eyes, and finally open it slowly. No flourish, no smile, just your stern face showing the annoyance brewing in your body since you got the letter. 

It only got worse when you find him leaning against the archway, with infuriating nonchalance like he wasn’t just banging on your door seconds ago. 

But that’s not the worst part, no. It’s his looks. 

He is devilishly handsome, just like the stories you’ve heard. Blonde, of course, with the bluest of eyes to match. His almost silver hair catches the torchlight, and his pale skin glows in the moonlight. 

A long burgundy coat wraps his body, tailored to perfection in rich velvet. The collar is high, the lapels are sharp, the hem brushes against his polished boots. Beneath it, he wears a white blouse, tied at the throat with a cravat that makes him look like a prince instead of a bloodsucking freak. A black vest hugs his chest tightly, buttons fighting for their life from the apparent muscle under all that fabric. And his pants, God help you, his pants were black leather, smooth and sinfully tight, clinging to his legs like they were painted on. Next to him, lies a trunk, one you can only guess is filled with tighter pants. 

You stare at him. Actually, you gawk at him, but you have the good sense to do it silently. 

Because what the hell kind of vampire shows up looking like that?

Focus. You’re annoyed. You’re annoyed. You’re–

“You know, we can stand here all night, if you like. But I’m getting the feeling you want to know what happens once you let me come inside.”

His voice is just what you expected, as full of sin as his eyes. 

Your head snaps up, only to meet his stupid, knowing grin, completely delighting in the way your eyes just took him all in. And it makes your spine straighten just out of spite. 

“I’m Johnny,” he says, flashing a hand in greeting. “Storm. Sue sent me.” 

He’s not subtle about the way his eyes drop to your neck, to the sliver of skin of your collarbone the cloak doesn’t cover, his lips curving to the delicate lace trim of your nightgown peeking under, before meeting your gaze again.

“I know who you are,” you finally speak, arms crossing over your chest like a barrier against his prying eyes. 

“Oh good. Saves me a dramatic monologue,” he shrugs, “Did she tell you I was charming?” 

“She told me you were trouble.” 

He presses a hand over his unbeating heart. “Ouch. Four seconds in and I’m already being slandered.” 

You roll your eyes, and he finally straightens up from the archway, stepping closer to the entryway he can’t go through yet. No vampire can cross a threshold uninvited. Even if the castle had once belonged to his family, because now it’s yours.

Still, he grins. 

God, that grin. 

“You're gonna invite me in, love? Or are we doing this whole thing from the porch?” He glances behind you. 

“You seem very eager to come inside,” you accuse, but his smile doesn’t falter when his eyes meet yours again. 

“Technically, I was assigned to stay here. But I could camp outside like a wild animal if that’s what gets you going. I might die when the sun comes out, though, and then my family will come for you.” 

“Theatening me is not exactly the way to “get me going”, Storm,” you say flatly. 

“Oof, not the last name.” He pretends to stumble back, as if you’d pushed him with your indifference alone. 

Before you can say anything else, the wind picks up. Your cloak flutters slightly, the scent of what runs through your veins hits him, and the moment it does, he inhales.

Just a breath. Just one is enough. 

His pupils dilate. His fangs threaten to come out. You’ve seen it before. Right before they attack. You catch the way his throat moves. The way his body shifts getting ready to lunge. 

But only for a second. 

Because he’s quick to cover the hunger up, to mask it, you’ll give him that. Makes it fade into another smile. Another stupid remark already waiting behind his teeth. 

But his darkened eyes can never lie. 

“Sue warned me about your blood. Didn’t realize she was underselling it.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest, so loud he can hear it. You know he can. And gods, he likes it. 

“Never thought I’d meet one, yet here you are...”

“And what exactly does that mean to you?” You ask. 

“That you’re walking around with sunlight in your veins and still dare me not to look,” he says. “That makes you forbidden to me.” 

“Good. I want that to be clear.” You answer, deadpan. “If you need to feed you don’t do it in my home.”

“I don’t feed from humans,” he shakes his head. 

“I don’t care. I just don’t want blood on my carpets.”

His smirk fades just slightly, because he wants you to hesitate in your firmness. Because he wants to play. Because he knows he’s a monster and he doesn’t want to trick you into forgetting even if he’s a “good one” and you’re forbidden. 

“I don’t trust you,” you say. 

“Good.”

“And you won’t drink from me.” 

“Wasn’t planning to,” he shrugs. 

“You will not drink from me,” you repeat, harsher this time. 

“If I ever wanted to, I was thinking we could perhaps have dinner first, at least,” he teases. 

“Storm, if you ever even think about it–”

“You’ll burn me alive or drag a stake across my heart. Heard those ones before,” he cuts you off, chuckling under his breath. 

You narrow your eyes. “But I mean it.”

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “I can tell.” 

For a long moment, you say nothing. Just stare at him, the magic in your bloodstream, golden and pulsing alive beneath your skin, warns you not to say the words. Because once you say them, there’s no going back. 

He just waits, because he’s got plenty of time before the sun comes out, or before you freeze. 

You sigh. “You may enter.”

He grins, wide and bright when you step away from the door to keep your distance. He lowers himself to lift his heavy leather trunk like it’s featherlight, and steps forward. One boot over the threshold, then the next, the burgundy coat fluttering behind him, and just like that he’s sharing the same space as you. Every candle in the room flares as the air changes. The heat shifts from the cold his dead body emits. 

“See?” he teases. “Was that so hard?”

“God, you’re impossible,” 

“Yet here I am…invited in.”

You sigh. You hate him.

You hate how good he looks in your lighting. You hate how suffocating he makes the room feel just by existing in it. You hate the stupid grin tugging at his lips from knowing how fast your heart’s beating.

He walks past you slowly, eyes drinking in the place he plans to misbehave in. The candlelight washes over the carved arches, the floral tapestries, the art on the stone walls, the shelves lined with ancient books. And he catches the faint, flying golden specks from your runes carved in the room. 

“Last time I was here I think I hadn’t even turned yet. I like what you’ve done with the place,” he whistles low, walking around impressed. “Charming. Feels expensive. Bit cold for me, though.” 

“I’d say the same about you,” you mutter, crossing your arms. 

He pretends not to hear, vampire hearing and all, and turns to you again with a smile. He lifts his arms up with a flourish, standing in the center of your entry hall.

“Well, love, where do you want me?” He asks excitedly. “I prefer towers, of course. But I’ll take a crypt if it’s nicely decorated.” 

You rub your temple, before snapping. “God, do you ever stop?” 

He doesn’t. 

“Uhm. Aggressive. I like that flavor,” he just wiggles his eyebrows, and you fight the urge to not just stab him right now. “But really, I need to get my beauty sleep.”

You exhale. Again. 

“Follow me.” 

You walk through the grand stone hallways as he insists on walking next to you instead of behind, which in some way helps your nerves because at least you’d be able to see if he decides to try anything. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t. 

Soon you arrive in the room you’d prepared for him earlier this week. He stops just by the door, bowing too low and extending his hand for you to cross first. You roll your eyes, but do it anyway. 

You hear the loud thud of his trunk hit the floor, and all you have to do is give him your back for five seconds, for a cold gush of wind to ruffle your hair. 

Damn vampire speed. 

You turn around, only to see him already lounging across the velvet settee, looking like a damn painting. He’s half laying on his side, elbow propped up and holding his head, one knee bent and the other slung over the armrest. Boots still on, burgundy coat off, cravat undone at the throat, and his shirt open just enough to flash his pale carved chest. 

Damn vampire everything. 

“The room is…tolerable, at best–wait, are those silk bedsheets I see? In blue? Wow, you really went all out for me!” He praises mockingly, clapping slowly. “You know what? I’ll take ‘tolerable’ back, we’ll leave it at…decent.”

You blink a few times. 

“What else you got for me?” 

You take a deep breath.

“Listen. This is the east wing, you’ll be staying here. I’ve sealed all the windows on this side so you can be safe during the day. That is all I got for you. West Wing is mine. I’m very busy during the day and I like to keep my curtains open, so you’re not to wander, got that?” you say firmly. 

“But what if I get bored?” He pouts. 

Two thousand year old man and he fucking pouts.  

“Read a book,” you shrug, pointing at the shelves. “You’ve got plenty here.”

“And what if I want company?” He pushes. “I don’t see plenty of that.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you know where to find the showgirls in town.” You flashed him a condescending smile, already making your way out. 

“Hey, wait!” He called out, just as you were about to cross the door. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You stop, and turn frowning. “For what?”

“Not biting you the moment I walked in.” 

You look at him, still lounging, still pretending nonchalance. But there’s a flicker of something else beneath the smugness, and you see it. A very real, very sharp restraint even someone who’s been feeding from animals for centuries has a hard time keeping around someone like you. 

Your stance falters only for a moment, before you decide to turn on your heel and leave without stopping this time. 

“Goodnight to you too, angel!” He shouts, but all he gets is you slamming his door shut with a wave of your hand. 

His smile grows.

“God, I love a challenge.”

As legend has it you are quite the pyro

You light the match to watch it blow

Johnny is gone most nights.

You don’t ask where. It isn’t your business anyway. He’s here for protection, for patrolling the land, for keeping the border safe from what has started crawling up from the vale. 

You never step on his side of the castle. Not even in daylight, because the entire wing has been shut to darkness. Your side is the opposite, your spellroom is the only place in the castle that always glows. It’s your sanctuary. You’ve warded it with layers of light, and always kept the curtains open so moonlight and morning could always reach you.

Even if you were clear about him not stepping foot in it, you still expected him to test that boundary. To try to get near, tease you, get close enough just to prove he wasn’t afraid of a little sun.

And, as expected, he does.

He lingers by the door often. You feel him when you’re working, prying eyes on your back from the hallway. And he doesn't even care if you catch him there, if you get startled by his presence and turn around to find him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, crooked smile. You don’t even have to ask why he’s there. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he watches you.

God, does he watch.

The way your fingers move when you cast. The way you tilt your head when you read. Every time he looks at you like he’s memorizing the length of your throat. Which is why you avoided passing him in the hall that connected both wings. But sometimes you’d stay up until late perfecting a spell or studying your herbs, so even when you didn’t mean to, you’d cross paths when he returned. 

The first few nights, he’d slip back just before dawn, eyes red and fangs still visible if you caught him off guard. The first time it happened, you’d frozen in the hall, caught mid step as you exited the spellroom. He stopped too, inhaled like he always did around you, veins under his eyes barely popping, before he shook his head and ducked into the east wing like a shadow fleeing sunrise…and the golden-blooded girl in the heart of sunlight that has him just one misstep away from ruin.

So most nights he settled for…distraction. 

The town isn’t far. Vampires don’t need permission once they’ve been invited to a place. And the girls down there? They’re eager for foreigners. But not just any. Those they’ve only heard about in whispers. 

You’ll never forget the night he passed by your spellroom with his shirt all wrinkled, hem untucked, collar and lips decorated with smudged red lipstick. 

“Rough night?” you asked casually, trying to mask an annoyance you couldn’t understand. 

“Wanted some company,” he shrugged, smirking smugly. 

This time you were the one who bolted like a shadow to run away from…whatever it was that you felt when you saw those stains. 

You leave the laundry basket for one second.

One. Single. Second.

It’s your own fault, really. You’ve lived too long alone in this castle. Too long without having to worry about wandering hands or vampire eyes peeking where they don’t belong. 

You’d become comfortable. Careless in your own company. 

So you don’t realize it’s a mistake to leave your freshly washed garments on the grand corridor table, just for a moment, just while you fetch the kettle to make some tea for bed while you take your clothes back to your quarters. 

Where they’re supposed to belong. 

Instead, you feel that familiar swoosh of speeding cold air around you. Startled, you drop the kettle on the counter, and whip around with hurried steps to the hallway, only to stop in your tracks when you find him there. 

Johnny. 

Leaning against a round column. No coat this time, just a white blouse half open, of course, with its loose sleeves pushed to his elbows, and an infuriating smirk that tells you he just came across the most interesting artifact in the world. One of your delicate lace corsets dangles in his fingers, freshly snatched from the pile of soft silks of your basket. He gives it a playful little swing, the silk ribbon flutters, and your soul leaves your body.

“So,” his cheerful voice echoes against the stonewalls, “just out of curiosity…are you trying to seduce the ghosts?”

“Put that down.”

“I mean–I’m not judging,” he continues, unwavering, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Maybe there are some lonely spirits floating around here. Had I known this is what you wore under those robes I’d become one myself.”

“Put it down, Storm!” You snap, marching toward him. 

But he straightens on the spot, still holding your corset in one hand as he lifts the other to stop you mid step. 

“No–wait, hold on. Talking about lonely spirits, now I have to ask...” He lifts the corset higher when you try to take it, away from your reach. “Do you ever bring anyone over? You know…company. Men? Women?” He tilts his head, mischief tucked under those lashes. “…Werewolves?”

“That–” you hiss, stepping on your tiptoes to finally snatch the corset from his ice-cold hands, “is none of your business!”

You shouldn’t have done that, because now you’re stumbling over your own gown in your rush to grab it. He quickly wraps his arm around your waist to stabilize you, and your hand flies instinctively to his chest. Once you realize what happened, you glare at him. Hard. But unfortunately for your dignity, you're now tangled way too close, while he stares down at you with the smuggest look known to man. 

“Let go of me,” you speak firmly, in an attempt to mask the erratic beat of your heart he certainly can hear. He doesn’t falter. “You really want to be hexed today.”

He only grins wider, adjusting his grip on you. “You really want to hex me while I’m imagining what you’d look like wearing that?”

“It’s just a corset. You’ve seen plenty.” 

“I have,” he nods. “But this is your corset. How can I not think about it?”

The silence that follows is unbearable. The hallway feels smaller. Chests almost colliding together, only separated by a scandalous piece of lingerie you’re still clutching to your chest. 

“You’re tense,” he whispers.

You’re not.

But gods, maybe you are.

“I’m just saying, if you ever need to take some tension off…I’m around.” His eyes flick lower to your lips only for a second, then, he shrugs innocently when his gaze meets yours again. “We could drink some wine…have a little fun...” 

Your breath hitches. He leans closer.

“We don't even need a bed–I’m a very versatile companion. And that little piece of lace tells me you know how to get your freak on too...”

That’s when you shove him off. 

By a mere miracle you don’t scream in his face. You just turn around, cheeks heated, heart pounding as you cross the corridor in sharp steps to shove the corset back into the laundry basket and snatch it to the safety of your hold. 

“Don’t you have something to kill?” You snap.

“Still early, I’m off duty.” 

“Then go haunt the cellar.”

“I prefer haunting you instead,” he shrugs playfully. 

“You’re in serious need of boundaries.”

“Never heard of her.”

There he is. Again. Flashing that stupid, maddening grin when his rage baiting gets the desired effect on you. 

You give him one last glare before storming back into the kitchen, basket hung on your hip, slamming the heavy tall door behind you.  

Before you can even breathe, from the other side, you hear a muffled: “You didn’t say no to the werewolf thing!” 

You mutter a spell to soundproof the room. 

You’re going to need something stronger than tea now. 

You light three candles just to blow them out again with a wave of your hand, then pace another lap around your quarters. 

Seething. That’s what you are. 

Because you had to give up the peace you’ve found, and your lovely days of solitude have turned into babysitting a vampire with boundary issues.

At least you’re alone now. He’s gone–finally off to do whatever cryptic vampire duty Sue sent him here for. 

That’s good. That means you can breathe again.

Except you’re not breathing. You’re pacing like a mad woman. Robe sleeves rolled to your elbows, jaw clenched, the stupid laundry spread on your bed as a reminder of what just happened. 

“Do you bring anyone over?” you mock under your breath, stalking across the room. “Werewolves??”

I mean, not that you haven’t–but that’s not the point! 

“Wine and fun, my ass.”

Your hands are shaking, and you tell yourself it’s the rage. Not the heat. Not the flustering. Not the way his eyes had darkened right before you’d shoved him. Not the way your pulse had skyrocketed when he suggested company. When he leaned in. When–

Stop it. 

You haven’t felt like this in a while. As a half immortal it's not like your dating pool is too big anyway. Sorcerers aren't that easy to come by, werewolves are too temperamental, and vampires…yeah they want to ravish you. And not in a sexy way. So feeling this way is like throwing yourself down a cliff. 

Okay. Maybe you’re being too dramatic. But still. 

You halt in your steps, and lean on one of the bedposts. You take one deep breath, then exhale slowly, in an attempt to calm yourself down. 

“He’s a vampire, for God’s sake,” you say aloud. “He is undead. He is not–damn it–he’s not allowed to look like that and sound like that and make me feel like–”

You cut yourself off with a groan, burying your face in your hands, as if that would help you hide from the real reason why you feel so frustrated. 

You let out a sigh, grabbing the bedpost again to let your forehead fall against the dark wood. And there, in the quiet of the night, with the moon slipping through the high windows and the golden runes pulsing gently across your ceiling, you finally let the truth sink in.

You liked it.

The teasing. The impossible nearness. The way he looked at you like…temptation.

And you hate that you liked it. 

Because no matter what Sue says, no matter how charming he acts, he’s still dangerous for you. So you vow to hex yourself next time you react like this. 

You will not think about his cold hands again. You will not think about his wide blue eyes. You will not think about how his voice sounds against your skin. 

And you will most certainly not fall for him.

You kneel at the edge of your moonlit garden, where herbs curl out of the soil. Your fingers brush over the violet petals of the lavandula blooms, a woven basket still empty next to you, because you're not just here for harvesting. 

You need air, and the calming fresh scent of lavender. 

After last night’s fiasco, you’d slammed every door you could find and kept yourself from hexing his smug face into stone when you crossed paths this morning, which you deserved a medal for. The least you could do is escape for a moment and pretend he doesn’t exist.

So you close your eyes, breathing in, enjoying the quiet of the castle grounds, and the soft buzzing of nocturnal insects. The full moon is out, so of course you hear the occasional howl in the distance. 

You managed to find a moment of that peace you used to have. 

At least until you feel that god awful cold gush of air as a blur of burgundy brushes past, making your cloak and the herb wall flutter. 

Of course he had to ruin it. 

“Are you out of your mind??” He shouts, standing a few feet away from you with his hands on his hips, but you don’t even budge.

“Oh good,” you say, without looking up. “The bat is back.”

“What in Dracula’s name are you doing outside the damn castle??” 

You don’t turn yet, but your hand stills over the blooms, because something about his tone catches your attention. He’s slightly out of breath, like he ran like hell to get here.

And it’s…interesting.

You finally clip a lavender bloom and hum as you place it in your little basket. “I’m just gathering herbs,” you say sweetly. “Technically the garden is still inside the castle grounds, and as far I know you’re the only one invited in. You’d be wise to calm down.”

He blinks bewildered. Scandalized.  

“Calm down? Calm–?” He blurts in disbelief. “Do you have any idea how far your scent travels when you're out here–at night–like a walking feast?” He flails his hands in the air dramatically. “If I can smell you from the edge of the valley, so can they. Even if they can’t get inside, they’ll still know you live here. You are being reckless.”

You shrug amused, absentmindedly clipping another batch. “Hmm. Well, I thought that’s what you were here for. Watching the border. Protecting your little golden witch from the mean vampires...” You chuckle softly. 

“This isn’t a joke!” He snaps. 

“I’m sorry, I thought everything was to you." You finally turn your head and tilt it at him with feigned innocence. 

Well, well, well. Look how the tables have turned. Look who’s the one seething now. 

Any second now he’s gonna start stomping his Italian leather boots on the stone path like an infant. And the look on his face? Even better. His hair is a little messy, nostrils flared, arms crossed. His frustration almost makes your lips curve into a smile. Almost. 

“Why don’t you just get back out there and do your job? I need quiet to do mine,” you say, waving your hand in a dismissive way as you turn your gaze back to the herbs. 

He actually stomps his boot on the ground this time. “Make me.”

You sigh. “For the love of Merlin, are you a child?” You cut another stem with a little bit more force. “You shouldn’t even be here, by the way, this isn’t your side of the castle.”

“Oh, pardon me. Didn’t realize I needed a special permit to touch grass.”

Okay, he’s getting on your nerves again. Your hand lifts instinctively, golden energy curling around your fingers before you can even think about it. 

“Oh no. Not your scary little glow,” he says, stumbling back mocking fear. “You’re gonna zap me, love?”

And…that’s how quickly the tables turned again. 

A part of you says you should probably do that. “Zap him” to oblivion so he could shut up at least once. But the thing is…you don’t want to. Fighting with him never gets you anywhere, anyway. 

The golden magic between your fingertips flickers from your doubt, until it fades away. You exhale in defeat, lowering your hand to fiddle with the flowers you’d picked. 

“I just…needed some air. That’s it.” You explain softly, bringing a small piece to your nose, closing your eyes and smiling into it. 

He watches the tension of your shoulders ease by the calming herb. He doesn’t say anything at first, but the smirk softens, and for a moment he tries to enjoy it too. He really does, but even the strong scent of lavender gets tainted by your own.

He takes a deep breath before breaking the silence. “I know, it’s just…you don’t understand what your scent does out here, you don’t know how strong it is…and I can’t focus if I don’t know that you’re safe, inside the wards,” he confesses, quieter now. 

That gets your attention. 

He hesitates, only for a moment, before he finds himself pleading, “Please just…go back inside.”

Slowly, you finally straighten up from your crouching position, and turn toward him, the basket forgotten on the ground as your gaze focuses on him. He’s not smirking anymore. He’s not teasing. He’s just standing there, looking tense, haunted, chest still heaving because he hasn’t quite been able to catch his breath.

Your cloak sways with the wind as you step toward him, boots crunching softly against the moss growing on the stone path. The breeze shifts again, and your scent reaches him one more time.

And he almost folds.

His eyelids flutter closed, his lips part as his fangs threaten to come out, and he exhales like it hurts to breathe. To contain himself with you so close to his reach. 

“God,” he whispers. “That’s not fair.”

You stop in your tracks, keeping your distance, but still close enough. Enough to see the way his throat tightens, the way his fingers curl into fists like he’s bracing himself for the unbearable storm of restraint he battles everyday. 

You tilt your head, studying him curiously. 

You’ve always known what the magic in your blood does. You know how tempting it is for his kind. Been warned about it for as long as you can remember. You know that part very well, and you know what follows. The hiding, the protecting yourself, or you’d end up like less lucky sisters who’d fallen at the hands of vampires who never cared to restrain themselves. 

And Johnny?

You tell yourself you’re not thinking about it often. Not wondering when he’ll break. Not imagining his fangs behind the tight press of his jaw, or how often his eyes always linger, not just on your throat, but your wrists, your collarbones, your mouth.

He doesn’t feed from humans, he made that decision himself long ago, when he still had something left to prove. But animals don’t give him what he needs. Not really. Not the heat. Not the rush. Not the thing your blood promises with every step you take near him.

Yet here he is. Telling you to go inside. Living within the same walls of your sacred home. Letting you live every day. 

Seeing someone like him, an undead, someone who is supposed to just take unapologetically until there’s nothing left, holding himself back that way, makes you feel something more powerful than the magic running through your veins. 

And it intrigues you. 

“What does it feel like?” you ask quietly. 

His eyes snap open. 

You don’t see the crimson glow you were expecting, not the danger, just those impossible blue eyes searing into yours. 

“It’s…everything,” he says, helpless. “Human blood doesn’t tempt me. Hasn’t in a long time–but yours? God…yours is like a promise of life. Of everything I don’t have anymore. And the warmth? I didn’t even know I could feel warmth anymore. Not really. But ever since I stepped in…I can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to sink my fangs into your pretty neck and taste what the sun feels like.”

He chuckles bitterly. Pacing in his spot because that keeps him distracted from lunching forward to your throat like a fucking animal. 

“And it’s not just your blood, it’s you. Your skin, your magic, your light. I don’t even have to bite you to feel it–but I want to. God I want to.”

You watch him in silence. You should probably step back. Walk away before he decides to forget the restraint and take that promise of life. But he’s standing there so open, talking like a fantasy romance book, looking so stupidly beautiful while telling you all about how he wants to end you. 

It should be offensive. 

But the full moon has you reckless tonight. 

So it’s thrilling. 

Against every advice from your bloodline, against every warning your ancestors are whispering in your ear, you step even closer to him, until you’re nothing but a breath away, until he’s close enough to kill…or kiss. 

His breath hitches as he looks down at you, but he doesn’t step back. He puts both hands behind his back, careful not to touch, not to listen to the demons in his head telling him to hold you down and take take take. 

“Then why haven’t you?” You whisper, firm, daring. “If you want it so badly. Why haven’t you done it yet?” 

You’re not afraid when you look at him. Not when red waves start leaking over the blue of his irises. Not when the veins under his eyes darken. Not even when his fangs peek through his parted lips. You don’t understand why, but you’re not afraid. 

Even if he could do it any moment now, take take take. He should. He's got you right there. 

“Because I don’t want to feel alive…at the cost of you,” he blurts, and maybe he’s trying to convince himself more than you, because his face begins to tilt downward. 

You close your eyes, granting him the choice. 

Kiss or kill. 

He stops right over your face, hovering for a few seconds, cold breath clashing against your heated skin, and whispers, “Please go back inside, love.” 

And just like the wind, he’s gone in an instant. 

You open your eyes, and there’s nothing more than the moonlight, the lavender, the distant howls, and your heart threatening to come out of your chest. 

He doesn’t remember running that fast. 

One second, he’s standing in front of you, so close to your neck. The next, he’s crouched next to a thick tree beyond the valley, where he can’t smell you anymore, shivering, remembering he’s a monster who wants to steal the light from the sun.

Your light. 

He leans forward, holding himself on the trunk, he’s out of breath and his pulse–wait…what pulse? 

You twisted demon. Of course there’s no heartbeat. There never is. 

He presses one fist to his cold chest, right over his cravat, just to remind himself there’s nothing there but death. No thump. No warmth. No reason for the way he aches anyway.

He’d been so close. 

So close to doing what he was supposed to protect you from. He could blame it all on you. On the way you snapped back with your sharp tongue and carelessness, but he was just as reckless as you tonight. 

And he saw it, the flicker in your eyes, the curiosity that led you to stand just a breath away from him, unflinching. 

He shouldn’t have gone to you. Should’ve turned back the second he saw your silhouette in the garden. Should’ve stayed on patrol. Stayed away from the scent. From the heat. From you. 

He always knew this was a mistake. 

Sue warned him many times. Told him not to get close, not to touch, not to taste. Not to even think about it. But she doesn’t know what it’s like to sleep so close to you. Even through thick stone walls he can hear your calm heartbeat, sleeping soundly in the night even when you share a home with a monster. The same one you’d trusted enough to close your eyes and let him choose. 

Kiss or kill. 

But he was wise, and chose none, because both would result in the end of him. 

Never in his two millennia of life has he wished to not be what he is. He loves immortality. The things it allows him to do. The rush of never having to answer to anyone but himself. 

But tonight? When his dead heart is yearning to be close to yours, like a fool begging the fire to burn his sins clean, he stares up to the stars, and whispers a helpless plea. 

“Just one heartbeat,” he whispers. “That’s all I want. One heartbeat to match hers.”

You wrap around me like a chain, a crown, a vine Pulling me into the fire

You don’t dream often.

Witches are taught how to protect the mind, how to shield it with salt and sigils and spells. But some nights...some nights, the past breaks through anyway.

You're deep in sleep when it begins, the curse of remembering the worst night of your life. 

The vampire pressing you into stone, fangs deep in your throat. Your precious golden blood leaving you, your power draining, thread by thread, until the world goes dark with the weight of death sinking in, and the terror that no one’s coming to save you.

You relive it all with excruciating detail, so vividly it might as well be happening to you in real life. Your scream is so loud, so painful, that the walls of your room can’t hold it, ripping through the quiet of the castle into the dead of the night. 

Johnny hadn’t even made it back yet, when he heard it. Piercing across the trees, a scream of pure agony. 

Your agony. 

He’s moving before his brain catches up, across the woods, through the west corridors, every vampire sense screaming danger danger danger as he approaches your room. He can only think about the worst. 

Someone found her. Someone got to her. Please, no no–

He gets there in seconds that felt like an eternity. Your door slams open with a crack of wind and panic, and his eyes land on your bed. 

But it’s just you. Alone. No one’s hurting you. 

At least not in this realm. 

You’re still writhing in your bed, chest heaving, breath coming in broken sobs. The sheets are tangled around your legs like restraints and your hands claw at your neck, at your skin, trying to push something off, still trapped in the unforgiving claws of your nightmare. 

He crosses the room in a blink, reaching for your body in an attempt to calm you down. 

“Hey–hey, it’s okay, you’re okay–” His hands are cold on your wrists, trying to stop them from clawing at your neck, trying to ground you.

But that only makes it worse.

Because in the dream, in that cruel memory, it was cold hands that held you down. Cold fangs. Cold breath. Cold death closing in as your light drained drop by drop–

Your eyes fly open. 

Your gaze lands on his face, the sharp cheekbones, pale skin, inhuman eyes, and your breath stops because your body doesn’t know where the nightmare ends. 

And you don’t see Johnny. 

You see the other one. The vampire who almost left you limp and bloodless on a forest floor decades ago. The one Sue had barely saved you from.

You scream again. 

And before Johnny can say a word, a golden glow bursts from your palm, slamming into his chest and launching him across the room into the wall hard enough to crack the stone.

He groans on the floor, stunned, the hit knocking the air out of his chest. He pushes past the sting, and he’s up again in seconds, but he freezes when he sees the terror in your eyes. 

Because that fear is not just from the ghosts of your past, but for him. 

He lifts his hands in the air as a peace offering. “It’s just me,” he blurts in the silence, softer now. “It’s Johnny.”

You’re shaking, pressed against the headboard, eyes blurring with tears. Your hand still glows faintly, ready to strike again.

“You’re dreaming. Or…you were–but it's over now. I’m here,” he coaxes. 

He just stands there, letting you see him, and not once does he flinch at your magic still crackling like fireflies on your skin.

“You’re safe, love. It’s not real. Not anymore.”

His silhouette blurs in your vision; you recognize that nickname somewhere in the haze of your mind, but your body hasn’t caught up yet. You’ve been prey before and your blood remembers. It races and pulses and tries to get you to run, even when his voice is telling you that you're safe.

He notices, so he doesn’t take another step, and his hands stay raised, palms open to show you he won’t touch you–unless you ask. 

“I’d never hurt you,” he says again. “Not even in your nightmares.”

You blink the tears away, and the shadows finally start to soften. This time, the outline of his dark coat registers. The shimmer of his hair in the moonlight. The fact that he’s not baring fangs or red eyes. That he’s not even trying to get closer. 

You want to say something, but your voice gets stuck in your sore throat, a feeling of shame invades your chest. Because now you remember. 

This vampire has never hurt you. This vampire held himself back the other night. He left you hanging rather than risk taking what wasn’t his. 

You glance down at your hands. Still shaking. Still shimmering. But you’re safe now, so your magic fades away as you look up to meet his worried blue eyes. 

“Johnny…?” You ask, hesitant, his name is foreign in your lips, but you’re too far gone to care about formalities now. 

He exhales in relief. “Yeah,” he nods, stepping closer to your bed. “Yeah, it’s me. Johnny. You’re safe.”

You let out a shaky breath that sounds like a sob. “I thought– I thought you were–”

“I know,” he says quickly, cutting you off before you spiral again. “I know. I shouldn’t’ve touched you like that, I just–I panicked. I heard you screaming and I thought someone was…”

He can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence without his voice wavering too. So he lowers his gaze instead, and clears his throat, before doing what he does best to lighten the mood. 

“It nearly stopped my heart, you know? Which, considering…” 

He jokes, as the ghost of a nervous chuckle leaves his lips. This time he’s not doing it to get on your nerves. It’s the opposite, and it almost makes you smile. Almost. 

“You’re not there anymore. No one’s hurting you now. You’re in your room, in your warded castle. You got a mean swing, sent me flying back like it was nothing, left me like a kicked puppy on the floor while you held a lightning bolt in your hand,” he tries again, and this time he does get a sniffly laugh. 

It’s not loud, or exaggerated, but it’s the first time he’s able to get that heavenly sound from you, and he’s going to cling to it like oxygen. 

But it dies as soon as it appears, a furrowed brow taking place instead. 

“I–I’m sorry,” you rasp, barely louder than your laugh. 

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize, love.”

“I screamed like a maniac,” you say, gaze lowering to your lap. 

“You screamed like someone who’s been hunted,” he mumbles. “That’s not mania.”

You look up. His eyes are soft and…sad. He wishes he could erase the memory from your mind entirely.

“Still,” you whisper, “I looked at you like–like–“

“Like I was going to hurt you,” he finishes for you.

You nod. “I barely made it that day, if it wasn’t for your sister…” you pause, drying the new tears falling down. “I don’t actually remember when Sue got there. I woke up days later in your tower, wrapped in blankets, with her looking after me.”

You hiccup a little sob, and Johnny looks like he might shatter.

“That’s why I trust her. Not just because she took me in. But because when my light was leaking out into the dirt, she chose not to take it for herself. Not even when her husband arrived almost dead. She never looked at me like a source, she looked at me like a soul,” you smile sadly. “Which is why we have a deal. And why when she asked me to take you in, I said yes…even if it terrified me.”

“Even after what they did to you,” he whispers, and you nod. “Thank you,” he says.

He doesn’t remember the last time he said that unironically. Genuinely. But with you suddenly everything seems easier. And he means it. 

You fall into a comfortable silence after that. He can still hear your heart pounding in your chest, but at least you are not crying anymore, which means he can breathe right again. 

After a while he thinks you’re okay. He’s done what he came to do, coaxed you back and heard your story, and now it’s time to give you space. He turns to leave, and you watch him with wide eyes, still pressed against your headboard. 

When he steps back, something in your chest aches. You’ll be left alone again. And you don’t want to be alone. You don’t want the cold return of silence or past shadows creeping onto your bed. You don’t want to close your eyes and see fangs again.

Your voice slips out before you can stop it. “Wait.”

He pauses mid step. Turns back, brows raised.

You shift in your bed. The fear is fading, but your skin still crawls with old memories. You’re not even thinking clearly, you know that. But you are thinking there’s only one vampire who can cross the threshold of your room without hurting you, and he’s standing right there, half out the door.

“Stay,” you plead in a whisper, swallowing your pride. “Please, Johnny.”

He doesn’t make remarks, he doesn’t smirk or make you feel bad about it. He just nods.

Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walks back to your bed. But he doesn’t climb in, doesn’t crowd, doesn’t assume what you haven’t offered. He rounds it instead, and lowers himself to the floor right beside you, his back against the stone wall, knees drawn up, velvet coat pooling around him in a circle. 

He reaches up, lifts one hand almost to the edge of the mattress, and looks up at you with a soft grin.

“You can hold it,” he says. “I mean, it’s a little cold–okay, very cold. Dead cold. But it’s all yours if you want it.”

Your gaze flickers to his palm, and you bite back a smile, but you still hesitate. You’ve always hesitated around cold hands. Cold hands almost took everything from you once.

But cold hands also pulled you out of the dark tonight.

You look at his eyes, so wide and so blue and so heartbreakingly earnest. And you choose to trust them. So you reach down, and lace your fingers through his.

He’s freezing, his hand is stiff, but you don’t let go. Instead, you tug his hand higher, just enough to pull it onto the mattress, to keep it close to you as your eyes start to close again. 

“It is cold,” you mumble. “Let me warm it up,” you add, barely audible.

Your eyelids get heavier, your heartbeat softer, and you don’t remember drifting off. But you do remember the weight of his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. 

And for the rest of the night, Johnny stays right there. Stiff on the floor beside your bed, his fingers curled into yours, your golden warmth pulsing through his skin where your hands meet.

A vampire guarding the only light he’s ever wanted.

And he’s never felt more comfortable. 

And if you'd never come for me

I might've drowned in the melancholy

Something shifted in Johnny after that night. 

It wasn’t the hyperfixation on you, because that had already been brewing for a long time before that. If anything, it just got worse. 

Maybe it was the hours spent next to you, with the pulse of your skin right under his. Maybe it was the high he got from your scent lingering so close to him, so close to his unforgiving sharp teeth. 

Maybe it was the fact that you trusted him despite all that. 

He kept you safe that night, yes, and as long as the dark of the morning allowed him to. But his mind kept wandering places it shouldn’t. And it’s only worse now. 

He doesn’t sleep, hasn’t since he turned, but lately? He doesn’t rest either.

The town is no longer a distraction. The night sky offers no peace. The wind carries nothing but the memory of your touch. He goes through the borders quicker. Further than necessary. As if sheer distance might scrape you from his mind. As if he could outrun the feelings. But it never works. Because the moment he stops moving, you’re still there.

In his lungs. In his teeth. In that aching hollow spot behind his ribs where a heartbeat used to be.

He tells himself it’s normal. That vampires get tempted. That you’re powerful and soft and intoxicating in every way. That anyone would crave you. That it goes beyond reasoning, and it’s simply his animal instinct kicking in that always tells him to take take take, until there's nothing left. 

But how could he do that after hearing you scream so loud? So scared in the middle of the night? How could he even think about you that way after everything you said to him? 

After you opened up about the night you almost…God, he can’t even think about it, yet here he is, battling the demons in his head that tell him to finish what the other vampire couldn’t. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? Why does Sue trust him? Why do you? 

He doesn't even trust himself, because his dilemma goes deeper than just thirst. Because your blood is not the only thing he craves.

He craves your laugh. That soft, heavenly sound you gave him that night even when you were terrified. 

He craves the way you said his name at sunrise. That terrifying, exquisite part of you that drew your curtains closed to shelter him from the light like he is something worth saving.

He craves your mouth. The way your lips move when you talk, even when you are telling him off–especially when you’re telling him off. He wonders what it would feel like to kiss them. To know if they’re as soft as they look. If they’d press against his like a saving grace or burn him alive. 

But what if that is not enough to calm his hunger? What if all he need is–

“Just one drop,” he whispers into the quiet of the night.

Kiss or kill, all over again.

What would it feel like?

To press his lips to your skin–not your mouth, not yet, but the delicate thrum of the pulse beneath your collarbone. Just once. Just enough to taste what’s been driving him mad.

Would it quiet the noise? Would it stop the ache? Would it finally let him breathe? Would he even be able to stop?

He doesn’t know. But the thought won’t leave.

You thought sharing your vulnerability with him that night would draw you closer somehow. Maybe you could finally put your differences aside and start living like two mature magical creatures sharing a castle for the greater good. 

But he is acting…different. 

You can feel it in the castle walls. It’s subtle, but magic is tuned to things like hunger. Like desperation. You feel it in the way the air shifts when he walks through a corridor. The way the candlelight stutters when he passes. The way your wards, the ones warning you from danger, start to shiver when he lingers too long in one place.

You probably would’ve preferred him to go back to his snarky remarks and inappropriate comments; those you could ignore, but not this. He’s moody, restless, quieter than usual. Like a storm gathering. 

And even if you try to deny it, it stings. 

Because that night your pain fit in the palm of his freezing hand, and the time spent apart only makes you crave what it’s like to be held like that even more. 

But he doesn’t speak to you. Just lingers in the corridor outside your spellroom like he’s pretending to stretch or study the stonework. You caught him once, eyes flicking away when you glanced in his direction. He does that more often lately.

Like he’s ashamed of something. Or trying not to look at you for too long. 

Tonight is no different. You don’t even look up when the pacing starts.

Again.

It’s past midnight. He's supposed to be patrolling already, but he's outside your spellroom instead, footsteps dragging across the old stone corridor wearing the floor down to dust. You’d ignored it for the first half hour, thinking maybe he’d give up and leave. But he doesn’t. Because he’s Johnny.

Restless. Annoying. Unbearably loud, even when he isn’t saying a word.

“Get in here already,” you snap toward the hallway. You stay with your back to the door, organizing vials on your desk that don’t actually need organizing. “You’re driving me insane.”

You hear him stop just over the threshold, lingering. You glance over your shoulder and find him leaning lazily against the frame, half in shadow, half in the golden glow of your runes suspended in the air like constellations. He’s dressed in all black. Not wearing a coat this time, just a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of pants threatening to rip at the seams right in the center of his–

Not that you would know. 

You turn back to the desk. “Is there a reason you're pacing like a lunatic?” You ask, fiddling with the glass containers. 

“I got lonely.” Is all he says. 

You scoff under your breath. “And suddenly I’m the cure for that?”

“No,” he chuckles. Lie. “But you’re good company.”

You finally turn to face him when the runes on your ceiling flicker, alerting you, and he’s closer than you thought. Just at the edge of the rug under your desk, standing with his hands in his pockets trying to look casual. But his eyes are fixed on you. 

“What are you doing?” You ask firmly, trying your best not to sound panicked. 

Yes, you’d trusted him enough to spend the night next to you. But this is different. He feels different. He steps closer, slowly, like a hunter to its prey. Golden light paints soft edges across his chest, his hands, the line of his jaw. 

“You’re getting too close,” you say, but he doesn’t stop, just keeps taking deliberate steps toward you. “Johnny–” 

“Shhh,” he cuts you off, bringing one finger to his lips, just as he stops a breath short in front of you. 

Your breath hitches, and you wait for the terror to invade your body, but just as his gaze sets on yours, something flickers under your skin. Instead of reacting, your magic eases without your permission. 

Your fear eases. 

You blink a few times, getting a similar feeling like that night in the garden. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid of him. 

And you listen to it. 

It takes you a moment to realize it’s his eyes that are doing it. They go soft first, heavy lashes adorning half lowered lids, as black pupils swallow color. 

Suddenly it clicks. Of course. You’ve read about this before. 

How vampires seduce, how their gaze, how their looks lure you in, and make you forget you were ever meant to run. You think he was already handsome before he turned, but now? Now that beauty is inhuman. Unfair. Made to make you trust. 

And gods, it feels so real. You can’t think straight when he’s looking at you like that. You forget about the warnings, the spells, you forget it all.

Still, you accuse, “It’s your allure…you’re using it on me.”

He doesn’t deny it. Not when the blue of his eyes is nearly swallowed whole.  

“You know you can fight it,” he tilts his head, the hint of a smile appearing on his face. “But it’s easier if you don’t.”

Your body tries. Your magic tries. But he’s pushing…and for one breathless second, you let it in. You let him in.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, barely in a whisper because you don’t trust your voice right now. 

His grin widens, he closes his eyes as he breathes in slowly. Breathes you in. “Just a little bit.”

“A little bit of what?”

“The warmth,” he mumbles. “The way it feels to be near you. I don’t even need to taste you, I just–I need to remember what it was like to feel alive.”

He reaches out, his hand hovering inches from your wrist. He doesn’t touch it, doesn’t grab it like that night. But it’s close enough that you feel the heat shift between your skin and his.

“One second, please,” he whispers. “Just let me be close.”

He looks at you, because he knows you can’t say no when he does. But the truth is deep inside, past the allure, past the logic, there’s a part of you that trusts him enough, so you don’t move. His hand is closer now. Close enough that your pulse skips, once, twice, and he hears it. You see the way his eyelids flutter at the sound.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“I’m not…”

You are.

His fingers finally graze your wrist. Just a faint brush of his knuckles makes your skin shiver. You flinch slightly, not from fear but from the temperature. He’s freezing like always.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to” he breathes. “God–you don’t know the way you feel this close.”

His fingers slide gently along the inside of your wrist. Just enough pressure to feel your pulse thudding against his touch. His eyes fell closed again, focused there. Focused on the blood beneath your skin.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. Just silence and the sound of both your hearts. Yours pounding, his absent. 

“You can trust me,” he says, as if convincing himself more than you. “I won’t hurt you.”

“But you’re trying something…”

He grins. “I’m trying everything.”

Johnny’s hand is still at your wrist, thumb pressed to your pulse, hypnotized by the rhythm of it. But then his other hand moves, lower, and lower, ghosting along the curve of your thigh until his fingers curl around the back of it, and then he lifts. He pulls your leg up, settles it against his hip, and in one fluid motion, he sits you on the desk. Your hips push the vials away as your dress pools on the table.

“Johnny–” Your voice is breathless on his name, letting out the faintest sound. A gasp, a moan almost. 

And it ruins him.

“Fuck,” he rasps. His hands tighten, one on your thigh, the other bracing your waist, steadying you as he settles between your legs. “Don’t make that sound again.”

“What sound?” you breathe, blinking up at him, dazed.

“That one,” he growls. “Like you want me.”

You don’t answer. Because maybe you do.

Because maybe his hand on your thigh is searing into you in the most perfect way. Maybe the pressure of his cold palm at your waist has you tilting forward without realizing. Maybe you’re too caught up in his voice, in the ruin etched into every inch of his beautiful face, to remember you should be afraid.

“I’m not even thinking clearly,” you admit.

“I am,” he says, almost ashamed. “And that’s the worst part.”

“Why? What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about how soft your lips look...”

His cold fingers dig into your thigh, just slightly. Enough to make your heart skip again. Enough to draw another sound from you that he feels everywhere. His lips hover a whisper from yours. Close enough to steal your next inhale.

“You asked me earlier…” he whispers against your skin, “...if I was pacing for a reason.”

You nod.

“This is the reason,” he says.

He leans in, hands going from your waist to cradle your face, and his mouth barely brushes yours. Just a tease. Just enough to make your entire body light up like a flare. Just enough to make you chase a kiss that hasn’t happened yet. You grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. He chuckles under his breath, his thumb brushes your cheek, and you close your eyes. 

Your heart flutters when he shifts, but it's not forward, it’s sideways. And before your brain can register what’s happening, before your magic can react–

His fangs sink into your neck.

The searing pain is instant. A burst of fire runs under your skin as he drinks from you, his fangs feel sharp and deep and wrong. You let out a choked scream, your hands fly to his shoulders to push him back, but he’s too strong, gripping your waist tighter. Your instincts kick in, magic bursting in a golden wave right into his chest to throw him off you.

Johnny collapses to the floor as the blast hits him, his body slams hard against the cold stone, and it’s a sharp contrast against the warmth invading his veins from the effects of your blood. He holds himself up with his palms, his chest rises and falls in desperate heaves as he feels his body become alive again. 

There’s a smear of blood on his lips, barely a drop of crimson red, but enough proof of his sin. He presses a trembling finger to his mouth, wiping it off carefully, and holds it up to watch it shine under the candlelight.

You’re still catching your breath, pressing a hand to your neck, sparkling blood trickling hot between your fingers. Every nerve in your body is screaming, not from the pain but from the betrayal. 

Johnny can’t even look at you, so for a moment there’s just silence. Except for your heartbeat, it’s loud in his ears, but there’s something louder in his chest. 

His own.

He brings a hand up to cradle it, because the thump is so foreign that it hurts, and he gasps when he feels the unmistakable beat under his palm. 

It’s there. It’s real. All it took were just a few stolen drops.

You look at him, and it hits you, he feels warm again…and you feel cold. A muffled cry escapes your lips before you can stop it, and his head snaps up, red eyes going wide in horror when he realizes what he’d done.

“No,” he blurts, already scrambling upright. He stays on his knees, and lifts his hands in surrender, “No please, don’t–don’t cry. I’m sorry–”

“You bit me,” you snap, and he winces at your sharp tone. “You fucking bit me.”

“I know, I know–fuck. I didn’t mean to–” He tries to reach you from his position, but you stumble back to the desk behind you. Your bloody hand slaps against it for balance, and his eyes go straight to the stains. 

“You didn’t mean to?” You laugh bitterly in disbelief. “You waited until I closed my eyes. You–you made me think…you made me think you were going to kiss me.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” he says quickly. “God, I really wanted to–I was going to. But then I was just too close…and I could smell it, I could almost taste it, and…I–I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

You shake your head. “Yes, you were. You knew exactly what you were doing. You chose it.”

He lowers his gaze, but doesn’t deny it. He can’t. Because the worst part is you’re right. 

Between kissing or killing, he made the wrong choice. 

He can still feel your blood. That impossible golden clinging to the corner of his mouth, the leftovers still burning in his throat. And he aches for more. For the dried smears on your neck next to his marks. For the stains on the desk. For every single last drop.

Even now, even after seeing you broken, his body is screaming to finish what he started. And you know it, because his eyes hadn't gone back to blue, because he hadn't drawn his fangs back yet.

“You said I could trust you,” you whisper. 

“I know.”

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I KNOW.” His shout echoes in the walls of your spellroom. He lowers his voice to curse under his breath, then slams a fist into the stone floor.

He looks like he’s shattered. Like the fresh bruise on your neck hurts him more than it hurts you. For a second you want to believe it, but how can you? His allure is not working anymore. You don’t see the Johnny that offered you his cold hand like a saving grace that night. All you see is the monster. 

“Please, don’t look at me like that,” he whispers. “I just needed to feel something–just a second, just a taste. I wasn’t going to take it all–”

“Why do you keep lying to me?” You cut him off, groaning. “You just wanted to drain me like the rest of them.”

He shakes his head, rising to his feet. “Don’t put words in my mouth."

“Then stop being a coward and say it yourself,” you say coldly, not flinching away this time.

He shuts his mouth. He’d rather be a coward than admit what the monster in him is telling him to do. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything else, the look in your eyes is enough to let him know this will stay with him for the rest of his immortal life.

His heartbeat–the one you gave him–hurts inside his chest. He is warm again, yes, but the real warmth slips out of his fingers every step he takes away from you. He stops right by the door, and gathers the courage to look at you one more time. 

He doesn't ask for forgiveness this time, just whispers, “I should’ve never come here.” Then turns away, and walks out the threshold. 

You’re alone again.

Johnny Storm is gone. 

And it’s worse than you thought it would be.

You miss him. God, you hate that you miss him, but you can't lie to yourself, you just…do. 

You miss the sound of his boots pacing at night when he thought you couldn’t hear. You miss the lazy, infuriating way he leaned in doorframes like the castle was his. You miss the terrible jokes, the compliments, the glances that lingered too long, the way he always said something just wrong enough to make your face heat before walking away like it didn’t matter.

You miss the things that used to drive you crazy before. 

His voice. His presence. Him. 

And it’s hard to wrap your head around it. Because if you’d lived alone in your castle for so long, completely fine with your own company, why does his absence feel like drowning? 

He was never light, but somehow it feels like it’s been taken away from you. The castle feels colder now. The golden candlelight doesn’t seem to stretch as far. The warmth you once swore to protect feels like it’s retreating from your own skin.

That night he’d taken his stupid trunk with his stupid tight clothes and disappeared from your life like it was nothing. 

Which, fair, you were hurt. He hurt you. 

So why the hell does it bother you that he left? 

Even his bruise was gone by now. Your fingers graze your neck one morning, half awake, half dreaming, only to feel your skin had finished healing. 

His twin puncture marks, the evidence of betrayal on your neck, faded to nothing as time went by. Like he never touched you. You sit up in bed, pressing your fingertips there again, harder this time. As if pushing hard enough will make the ghost of his pain come back.

Because somehow, focusing on the pain is easier than the emptiness. Because somehow, healing feels like forgetting.

And you can’t will yourself to forget. 

Because even though he’s been gone for weeks, even though there’s been no sign of him…you know he could come back.

Anytime. Any night.

He’s been invited in. The castle doesn’t forget that.

So now every time the wind gushes cold around you, your breath hitches. Every time the candles flicker too fast, your heart skips. Every creak, every shadow, every whisper of footsteps you might have imagined…it all feels like it could be him.

But love was a cold bed full of scorpions, the venom stole her sanity

A crashing sound wakes you up in the middle of the night.

A deafening noise of glass shattering and wood splitting, followed by the deep, harsh thud of something heavy hitting the floor in your spellroom.

Your heart rushes inside your chest as you throw the silk covers back, bare feet hitting the cold stone before you’ve even fully opened your eyes. A second hit follows, what you can only guess is your ancient bookshelf tumbling down, heavy tomes falling echoing on the floor, and more glass shattering.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t even cover your nightgown. You just run barefoot toward the noise.

The cold hits you first when you reach the door. The tall window’s half gone, there’s glass everywhere, the shards glinting under the flickering candles. But that’s not the only thing on the floor. 

You stop breathing when you make out the figure laying there. 

Johnny.

He’s slumped on his side, groaning, hands clutching his chest. There, a jagged piece of wood sticks out, threatening to stop his heart, and there’s blood everywhere. A deep red, almost black liquid pools under his body, soaking into the old rug, reaching across the fallen tomes scattered around him. His eyes squint in agony, and he’s paler than you’ve ever seen him. 

You don’t remember running to him. Only dropping to your knees beside him. The exposed skin of your legs scrapes across the floor, nightgown getting soaked with his blood, but you don’t care. Your hands reach out for him but they hover uselessly over his chest, wanting to help, but you don’t know where it’s safe to touch. He’s got wounds everywhere, his clothes are torn, his skin bruised and leaking.

“Johnny–oh gods, Johnny–”

His eyes flutter open at your desperate voice, and he forces a smile. “Hi, love…” he chokes through the blood in his mouth. “Miss me?”

You look at him with frantic eyes. “What the fuck happened??”

“It’s alright,” he chuckles. “Wouldn’t recommend the tavern, though–” He tries to prop himself up, but his body doesn’t obey. A groan comes out instead, one he tries to mask with another attempt of a grin. “Are those tears for me?” 

You don’t even realize you’re crying until his face blurs with your tears. “Johnny, this isn’t funny. You’re–” You look down at the shard, at how close it is above his heart. “You’re going to die if I don’t get this out.”

You try to reach for the stake.

“No–” His weak hand catches yours, firm enough to hold it in place. “Don’t touch that. It’s poisoned or cursed or...something.” 

“Cursed? Let me see it then.” You fight his grasp to reach it again, but he tightens it.

“No–stop it. It’s not safe. Even for you,” he insists.

And it’s his eyes that do it. Again. It’s always his eyes that won’t let you fight back. 

“Johnny,” you sigh, finally lowering your hand. He still doesn't let go. “Who did this to you?”

He hesitates, but your glare doesn’t falter. “It was an ambush. This vampire had a witch on his side. They were too close to the border…I–I couldn't let them find you, so I tried to get rid of them both, but she granted me this little gift before I could stop her,” he points at the stake, “I probably shouldn’t have come but–I needed to hear your voice one more time…”

He winces again, a sound escaping his throat that you’ve never heard from him. Pure agony. 

“It burns,” he breathes. “Feels like fire in my lungs. And not the good kind–not like yours.” He tries to laugh again, but it turns into a cough that makes more blood seep from the corner of his mouth. 

You blink through the tears, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak without breaking. Your nightgown is soaked at the hem, stained deep red and clinging to your knees. You have to do something.

“I won’t touch it. Just–Just let me try with my magic, okay? Let me.” You plead, and he nods. 

So you try.

Gods, you try. You mutter every counter curse, every healing incantation you know, Latin words wobbling on your lips as your hands shake over him. They spark. They glow. But nothing works. The spells bounce back. 

It’s dark magic you can’t fight with your light. 

“Why isn’t it working?” You sob between chants. “Why isn’t it–”

“Told you,” he rasps, barely audible now. “It’s cursed...like me.”

He shifts slightly and groans again, and that sound–that sound, it guts you. His whole body shivers from the effort, but he’s still trying to laugh it off. Still trying to keep it light while you feel like you’re losing yours. 

“Maybe this is it,” he whispers. “I’ll finally get to rest. You’ll miss me, right?”

“Shut up,” you choke out. “Don’t say that. Just–shut up and let me think!”

You decide to press your hands over the wounds, trying to slow the bleeding while you come up with something. You try again with the spells, you try it all, but he’s simply not healing. You have to get it out.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and before he can stop you, you reach for it and pull.

He screams when it rips out. The piece burns your skin instantly, you shove it aside quickly, hoping your blood protects you from it. 

“Okay, okay–there. It’s out. You’re supposed to heal now, Johnny.”

You look down and realize the wound it’s not closing. Not even a little. His chest is still wide open, the wound still deep and fatal. You cast again, harder, spells sparking from your fingertips but it does nothing.

“No. No, no,no.” You panic, eyes wide. “You’re supposed to heal.”

“Wish I could,” he slurs, blinking slowly. “You look beautiful like this, you know. All worried. In that cute little bloody nightgown...”

“Stop talking!” You’re sobbing now. You don’t even care. “What am I supposed to do, Johnny? Watch you die in my spellroom while I look cute?”

“I’m already dead, love.” He closes his eyes with a stupid little smile. “You are the last piece of heaven I’ll see before I get sent to hell.”

“Shut up! You’re such an idiot,” you snap. “Such a fucking idiot.”

You can’t stop thinking about how angry you were at him. How much you wanted him gone. How this is what it feels like to lose him for real. 

And how you’re still fucking angry at him for dying.

Your body feels cold from all the blood pooling around you, and your knees hurt from where the shards of glass poke at your skin, your blood mixing with his. 

That’s it. Your blood mixing with his.

You stare at your wrist, at the little pulse jumping beneath your skin. You don’t know if it fights curses, but it’s the only thing you have left.

You bite your wrist before you can think twice about it. The sharp pain stings fast, your skin splits and glistening blood pours out. The gold in it catches the candlelight. Johnny’s eyes snap open, looking straight at it.

His body reacts immediately. You see his body twitch, eyes getting darker, fangs dropping before he can stop them.

“No–” He turns his face away, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body screaming restraint.

“Johnny–”

“No!” He pushes himself farther from you, wincing from the pain.

“You need it–”

“I can’t–“

“You’ll die if you don’t take it!” You insist.

“I can’t stop!” He snaps. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what that drop did to me last time. I can still feel it in my bones. If I taste you again, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And I won’t hurt you–not again.”

You reach forward and grab his face to turn him toward you.

“You won’t hurt me. I trust you,” you whisper, “Please–just take it.”

He shakes his head violently. “Don’t say that. You can’t trust me. I’ll lose myself–” 

“You won’t. I’m not letting you die here.”

You hold your bleeding wrist to him. Hovering right over his lips. “Please, Johnny,” you plead. “Take it.”

Your eyes meet, and now it’s yours he can’t say no to. He leans in slowly to take your wrist in both hands, fingers shaking as they close around your skin, and pulls it gently to his mouth.

He presses a kiss to your pulse first. A feather light touch with his eyes closed. Cold lips to warm skin. 

“Forgive me, love,” he whispers.

Then he bites, not sudden, gently, right over the mark of your teeth. 

You feel the brush of his lips first, and the faint ache where his fangs sink in. Your mouth parts in a soundless gasp as warmth floods his mouth, as your magic pours gold inside him.

Johnny groans against your skin. He tries to keep it soft, tries to drink slowly, but it’s not long before his body is telling him to take more.

So he latches. His fangs sink deeper. 

It’s not delicate anymore, his hands locking around your wrist, holding you in place even if you weren’t planning on pulling back this time. 

Tears cloud your vision again.

Because it hurts. Because it doesn’t. Because something about this feels too intimate. Too much like being chosen. Like being needed by him.

You whisper his name once, “Johnny…”

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he pulls you closer. His fangs sink even deeper. He lets out another desperate groan, low, wrecked, addicted, as he drinks again and again.

You place your hands on his chest for support as you feel yourself getting weaker, and you can see his whole body coming back to life. His skin warming, color rushing back to his skin, chest’s wounds closing. His heart starts to beat again. You feel it right under your palm, wildly thumping against his ribcage with every drop he takes.

But your vision starts to blur. The light feels deemer, colder. Your limbs get heavy. Your breath slows.

“Johnny,” you whisper again, weaker now. 

He doesn’t hear you. Or maybe he does, but he’s too far gone. Too high on the warmth, on the taste of life, on the taste of you. 

Your body sways, but before you can call his name one more time, he rips himself away with a gasp, panting. His head jerks back, fangs dragging away from your wrist, lips stained deep red, adorned with flickers of gold. He’s groaning, red eyes blinking quickly, chest rising in stronger, steadier breaths.

“Oh my god,” he pants. “You taste like–”

He doesn’t even finish before your body gives out and you fall on his chest. He catches you just in time, cradling your head as he rises to sit against the stonewall, scooping your limp body into his arms.

“Hey–no, no, no. Open your eyes, love,” he gently nudges your cheek with his hand, but your head lolls against his shoulder and your breathing becomes faint. “Fuck. Fuck. Did I take too much? I told you I didn’t want to–dammit.”

His new heart is pounding. Yours is barely there.

He presses you close to his chest, sheltering you with the newfound warmth you gave to him. His wounds have already closed. The blood has stopped. But the guilt just started.

Because you let him take take take. Because you trusted him. Again. And now you’re unconscious in his arms, body cold, color gone from your cheeks.

“What did I do…” he whispers, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. “What the fuck did I do...”

But you can’t answer. So he just holds you tighter, and prays the warmth comes back.

He carries you carefully through the castle, and lays you down softly on your bed and tucks the silk covers around your cold body. 

He rakes both hands through his hair, but it does nothing to calm him. The room feels suffocating, he can’t stay still, so he starts pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Wearing the floor down because that’s what he does best. Ruin things. He glances at you every few seconds, still expecting you to stir, terrified that you won’t.

He regrets coming back. 

He wishes he could undo what happened last night. Force his body to spit your blood back out, rip open his wounds again, die cursed if he had to…all in exchange for your safety. 

But he can’t. 

You gave it willingly. You trusted him. And he sank his fangs into that trust like a monster. Now he feels alive, while you lie there, looking like the one who’s dead. 

He drops to his knees beside the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress to keep himself from touching you. The room is dark except for the faint light spilling in through the cracks in the curtains. Morning is coming. And so is the sun.

Your breathing is uneven, but it’s there. He fixates on it, counting each rise and fall until time starts to blur. 

“I should’ve stayed away. I should’ve stayed dead,” he whispers. 

And for all the warmth running through his veins, Johnny Storm has never felt so cold.

The warmth on your face is what pulls you back.

Just a faint, soft brush of sunlight coming through the high arched windows of your bedroom. You feel it spreading across your skin, and it wakes you from the darkness of your sleep. 

Your eyes flutter open, and the silk canopy above your bed comes into view, painted golden by the morning light. It’s peacefully quiet, except for the few birds chirping in the distance, almost tricking you into thinking this is just another morning.

But then you remember.

Johnny. 

Dying. 

Is he okay? Did it work? Did he leave again? 

You snap upright too fast, hands instantly going to your head. A wave of throbbing pain hits you, threatening to drag you back down, but you move your hand to the bedpost to steady yourself. Your eyes search through the room, squinting, until you catch a glimpse of something...or someone. 

Johnny is in the farthest corner of the room, sitting on the floor behind the only space of shadow left by a sliver of drawn curtain. The rest of the room is bathed in sunlight, because he let the light in for you, drew open every curtain, except the one he needed to survive. 

He’s pressed against the wall, knees pulled up, arms settled on top of them. His head is thrown back, pressed to the cold stone behind him and his eyes closed. His shirt is torn all over, with dark patches of dried blood scattered across his chest and sleeves, but the wounds are closed. 

He’s fully healed. 

And more than that. Color has returned to his face. His silver skin now looks sun touched. He’d look even more alive, if it wasn’t for the look of torment in his face. You shift forward slightly, and his head snaps up when he hears the faint creak of your bed, his eyes finally meeting yours. 

And oh Gods, he’s been crying. 

“You’re awake,” he whispers, unable to hide the relief on his face. 

You smile softly. “You stayed.”

He shrugs, then his eyes lower with guilt. “You think I could leave you like that?” 

Your gaze lowers too, fingers inevitably tracing the fresh twin scars on your wrist, deep and dark compared to the faint marks of your own teeth. There’s a bruise forming around it, reminding you how he’d latched onto it. There’s also a mark where the cursed stake burned the palm of your hand. 

You glance toward the window, the sunlight creeping closer across the floor as the morning unfolds, nearing his feet, but he doesn’t move. 

“You’re going to catch fire,” you say. 

He shakes his head. He’s already burning inside. “It’s fine. Better that than…whatever last night was.”

You shift slowly, sliding your legs off the bed.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he says. “You should rest.”

With a shake of your head, you still get off the bed. The stone floor is cold under your bare feet. You only manage to give a few steps in his direction when your legs wobble, and the floor tilts under you. 

Johnny’s halfway across the room before he can think about it, and breaks your fall just in time. The sunlight catches the edges of his torn shirt and burns in a bright flare against his arm and neck. He hisses, recoiling with a curse, but he doesn’t go back into the corner because he’s still holding you. Smoke rises quickly from his sleeve, his jaw clenches hard but his hands are firm on you. 

You act as quickly as him. You raise your hand and mutter a spell. A protective honey shimmer blooms around you immediately, shielding the entire room from the sunlight without extinguishing it. Enough to still enjoy it. Enough for him to be safe. 

You reach for him, cupping his face in your hands. “Are you okay?”

He chuckles, looking in disbelief at the sun grazing his skin without hurting. It’s been so long. “I should be asking you that.”

You shake your head. “I’m okay.“

Your hand hovers over his fresh burns, muttering the healing chants that didn’t work last night.

“You’re not recovered enough to cast more–”

“Shut up and let me fix you.” You cut him off, glaring at him with the same intensity as the first days of knowing him. 

Except this time that intensity came from a different place. 

He just looks at you, as your soft, careful hands grant him more of your magic. Your light. As you heal him…again. As you make the world stop burning…again. 

Gods, he’d break himself for a lifetime just to feel your gentle touch over and over again. 

He realizes it’s the first time he can see you so up close during the day, and the words escape his mouth before he can stop himself. 

“You look delightful in the sunlight,” he whispers, reaching to push a strand away from your face. 

Your eyes snap up, his warm hand grazing your cheek makes heat crawl up your face. You realize this is what he must’ve looked like before the turning. Rosy cheeks, tanned skin, glistening baby blue eyes. 

The beautiful bastard. 

“You…you too,” you whisper back. “As much as I love the pale moonlight, I think life suits you better.”

“Ah,” he grins. “I know the whole corpse thing I’ve got going on it’s not for everyone. I’m trying a different shade today, though.”

You laugh softly. Not bitter, not sarcastic. Genuine. And he clings to the little sound like oxygen. 

“I’ve always wanted to ask you something–and don’t be mad at me–it’s a pretty standard question in our line of work,” he jokes. 

You just nod, curious. 

“How old are you?” He narrows his eyes playfully. 

You blink a little surprised. “Pushing my second millennia,” you shrug. “And you?” 

“Wow. Around the same. We must’ve gone together in kindergarten," he jokes again, and it makes you laugh a bit louder this time. 

Oh he could get used to it. 

If only. 

He sighs. “This is not gonna work,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

You nod. “Probably not.”

He frowns, and tries to sound serious. “I’m dangerous.”

Another nod. “You are.”

“I’m starving every second I’m near you,” he says more dramatically, settling his hands on your waist. 

You giggle under his touch, and shrug playfully. “I know.”

He leans forward, and stops barely a breath away. “I’m not gonna magically stop wanting you.” 

That one hits different. You can’t fight your smile at this point. 

“Me neither,” you whisper against his lips. “Kiss or kill me, Johnny. I don’t care–“ 

He cuts you off with a kiss. One that kills you. 

Because he kisses you like he’s starving. But not for blood. For you. For every bit he’s been aching to have since the day he saw you. He kisses like he’s running out of time, memorizing every second, every little sound you make. As if you don’t have the rest of your lives to do just that. 

You moan into it. Can’t help it. His hands glide under your thighs and you let him guide you, shifting until you’re straddling him, pressed tightly against him, knees braced on either side of his thighs. His warmth, borrowed from you, wraps you entirely, and suddenly your whole body is on fire. 

And you can feel the restraint in him. Every uneven breath, every move of his lips full of desperation he’s taming by the second. Not because he doesn’t want you. But because he wants you too much. 

You’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be kissed like this. You’ve had ones you forgot, and ones you remembered for a week.

But this?

This one is for a lifetime. 

You split apart gasping for air. One of his large hands goes behind your neck, and the other cradles your cheek, but it’s his eyes that make you melt. Gods, those damn eyes.

They’ve gone soft again. Large lashes half lowered, pupils blown wide, irises barely blue. But this time, it doesn’t feel like a trick. This isn’t vain hunger. This is yearning. Want.

“You’re doing it again,” you whisper, biting back a smile. “Your face thing…the lure.”

He laughs, shaking his head softly. “I’m not trying to. It’s not that…”

“Then what is it?” You tilt your head, wrapping your arms over his shoulders.

“It’s you.”

He takes one of your hands, and guides it to press it tightly against his chest. His heart–your gift–beats rapidly under your palm. 

“You’re made of magic,” he praises. “All of you. And I’ve never felt more alive than I do with you on top of me.” 

He only takes your hand away to place a kiss on your palm. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but grind your hips forward. Testing. His grip on your hand tightens as his head drops back with a groan against your skin.

“Fuck,” he exhales. “That–okay. You’re unfair.”

You giggle. Then lean forward to press a kiss to his jaw, dragging your teeth lightly across his skin.

“Feel like biting?” You tease, going down his neck with faint kisses. “Is the vampire hungry?”

He lifts his head. “Oh love, you know I’m starving…but not for your veins,” he groans. His fingers pinch your chin, holding your face close to him. “I’ve wanted you since the second you opened that door…and every second since has been torture.”

“Then let’s stop wasting time–“

Before you can say anything else he kisses you again. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his head dips lower. You gasp when his open mouth drags across your jaw and down your throat. His sharp fangs poke you, but they’re not biting, never biting again. 

Unless you ask, of course. 

You can barely breathe when he splits apart just enough to look at you. Your hair is still wild from sleep, skin regaining color and glowing under the honey shimmer, the damn silk nightgown already slipping from your shoulder, stained with his blood and you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

A literal fantasy.

“You’re unreal,” he mutters, “Let me…”

He places his hands on the lace trim and tears the nightgown off your body, scraps of soft fabric pool on your legs, until you’re wearing nothing but panties and the sun before him.

“Even better now...” He goes straight down to the swell of your bare chest, pinching the delicate skin with his sharp teeth. “Sorry,” he mutters, when he draws a whimper from your lips.

“Johnny,” you moan, and as much as it hurts so good, you pull his head apart. “Stop apologizing and take off your clothes.” You whisper, breathless. 

He laughs against your nipple, giving it a soothing kiss before releasing it with a ‘pop’ sound. With one pull, the remnants of his torn shirt fall from his shoulders. You can’t help the gasp that escapes your lips. Because fuck, of course he’s sculpted like a god. Marble muscles, tanned and freckled, and that broad chest heaving for you. 

You reach for him. Your hands roam all over his abs, his biceps, every inch of warm skin.

And he reaches for you. One of his hands goes between your thighs, the other anchors your hips down just right, making you grind against his bulge. You start rocking back and forth, desperate for the friction of his pants against your core. His hand keeps you spread, working open the last of the fabric covering you. You moan into his mouth the second his fingers brush your heat.

“Fuck,” he growls, fingers making you shake under his touch. “You’re soaked, love.”

Your laugh is breathless. “What did you expect? Pinching my nipples like that–”

He chuckles against your mouth, as he lifts you higher with one arm under your thighs, angling your hips until he’s got enough space to tear his pants apart. Once they’re off he settles you on his lap again, your wetness pooling on his thigh, as his thick, throbbing cock slaps your stomach. 

Your eyes go wide when you look down to see him. When you realize what you’re about to take. He just laughs under his breath, tilting your chin up to meet his hungry gaze.

“Are you ready, love?” He asks.

You’re breathless at this point, so you just nod and bite your lip in anticipation.

He grins, guiding your hands to rest on his shoulders and lifting you once again to align himself. And when he finally slides into you? You gasp softly into his mouth, and he swears against your lips. 

Oh, gods.

You cry out when he bottoms out, nails clawing into his shoulders, into his firm back. He’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way. He hisses through his teeth, head falling to your neck, to breathe you in, to find a way to last.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he groans, “You’re–fuck…”

You clench around him, and he curses again, hips jerking up as you go up and slam down to meet him. The rhythm finds itself, fast and filthy, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off stone walls.

“Gods…yes…ride me just like that,” His fingers dig into your skin with every thrust, helping you lift and guide you. “Take all you want, love.”

You rock down onto him, again, and again. Riding him as every moment of anger he ever gave you crashes down in the form of pleasure. His head falls back against the stone with a thud, but with his eyes still locked on you.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Look at you.”

He’s watching like he’s starved for it. The sight of you above him, sweating and wild and whimpering, could keep his dead heart beating alone for decades. His hands slide up your sides, fingers tracing your waist, your ribs, your breasts. He cups one as you bounce, desperate, moaning with every thrust.

“You feel so good, Johnny.” You’re a mess above him, moaning his name, kissing his mouth, his jaw, his everything. 

You feel that lightheadedness again. But you don’t care. 

And Johnny? He can’t get enough of your sounds, your moans, your gasps. The way you say his name makes his hands grip your ass, to guide your rhythm. Deeper. Faster. Your hands scramble to his chest as he slams into you harder. The pants, the gasps, the low groans that fall from his mouth every time you clench around him, become overwhelming and soon your thrusts become sloppy.

“Johnny–“

He notices, of course he does.

“I know,” he groans, holding you up when he notices you can’t do it anymore. “Come on me, my love. Let me feel it.” He coaxes, lifting your head just enough to watch you unravel above him. 

Your eyes flutter shut, lips parting in a silent cry, and it almost undoes him. His hand closes around your jaw, thumb brushing over your lower lip as you choke back whimpers of pleasure. 

But he can’t stay like that. Not when you’re falling apart above him, breasts bouncing with every grind of your hips as you ride your high out with everything you got, and that fucking look in your eyes that lures him in. 

Before you can think–before you can stop to breathe–he wraps his arm around your body, hauling you up with a groan, still inside you. He spins you around, pressing your back to the rough wall, your legs still wrapped around his waist as he continues to fuck you in a brutal, perfect rhythm, chasing his own high. 

“Johnny–” You gasp, biting his shoulder. 

You’re soaked. He’s deep. The stretch of him drives you mad, as he slides in and out easily. The stonewall is cold against your back, but he isn’t.

He’s on fire.

Hot hands in a rough grip around your skin. He moans into your throat, and you feel him twitch inside you. Once. Twice. You clench around him.

“Come on, Johnny,” you pant. “Fill me up, baby…”

That’s all it takes.

Johnny breaks with a growl straight from his soul, spilling into you as his hips stutter and his fingers dig deeper into your skin. He slumps into the wall, panting, holding you up. His eyes are barely open, lips swollen, hair an absolute wreck. He looks…wrecked.

“Fuck–you…you are like heaven.” He says breathlessly against your lips, barely grazing them. 

“I’m just using my lure.” You laugh softly, then whisper. “You know you can fight it…but it’s easier if you don’t.” 

He laughs back, then shakes his head. “I can’t fight it. I’m just a man.”

You chuckle. “I can tell…your eyes are still red.” You chase his lips for a quick peck, before teasing. “ I have to say, I thought vampires had a lot more stamina…” 

“Excuse me?” He huffs. “Now that’s unfair, love. I had a pretty rough night. Almost walked to the light...”

“Me too. Thank you for that, by the way.”

He rolls his eyes playfully. "Okay. Fair, but–you wanna talk about stamina?” He says, making you yelp when he hauls you towards the bed, hovering over you. “Give me five minutes, love. I’ll show you how many centuries I’ve had to practice.”

All that time I sat alone in my tower You were just honing your powers, now I can see it all Late one night, you dug me out of my grave And saved my heart from the fate of Ophelia 🤍

PART TWO: Pledge allegiance to your hands 🖤

Thank you so much for reading! feedback is always appreciated 🫶🏼

Jason could already imagine it—polished marble floors, Diana’s patient, diplomatic smile, Donna cracking jokes to keep the peace, Cass pretending not to laugh, and Bruce sitting at the head of the table like he was running a board meeting instead of a family dinner. Dick would show up five minutes early with a bottle of wine he didn’t even drink. Tim would have brushed up on Themysciran customs just to avoid offending anyone. Damian would probably arrive in full formalwear like the miniature assassin he was.

Bruce is tense like he has taken a punch, thirty minutes before Diana’s expected arrival and the rest of the boys, already present by the time Jason gets there, look as concerned as him. 

No questions are asked, not even if Artemis would be there, if you would be there, or if both of you would be there at the same time– a disaster, truly, but with Alfred’s playful banter and everyone helping with setting up the dining table, the weird tension in Jason’s chest mellows down for a soothing second too long.

It’s half past nine when the doorbell rings and the second it does Bruce starts acting like a mess again. Any composure he had gathered a while ago is thrown into thin air and the only confirmation Jason needs for that is his gaze that’s set directly on him

“Behave.”

He hadn’t even needed to look at Jason for a moment longer—just that single word, heavy and pointed, rolling off his tongue like a warning shot. Still, when Bruce’s eyes flicked toward Dick, all calm and composed, Jason caught the shift. The kind that said you especially.

And well, truthfully, if you’d ask him by the end of the night Jason would say he did try his very best to behave and if there’s a reason as to why he’s acting the way he is now, the blame is all yours.

Diana and the girls are visibly upset when Alfred opens the door, yet still they’re all grace and composure in their greetings, while they’re waiting for you to catch up with them to enter the manor.  You seem too preoccupied with juggling your bag, your phone, and a bottle of wine you’d promised to bring. 

“Hello Alfred” you say, bluntly, no expression on your face as you stand hidden behind Diana.

“Well long time no see dear”

“We’re terribly sorry we’re late Bruce. But we were stalled by a lash extension appointment” Diana says gently, though there is something almost regal in the way she adjusts the tray with goodies in her arms. “A warrior never rushes to the battlefield unprepared it seems.”

“Right,” you mumble, dabbing at the wine with a napkin. “Next time I’ll bring a sword instead.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut glass. Bruce buries his face in his palms and mutters that “it’s alright”

Jason swears he isn’t laughing. Not out loud, anyway.

But the slight arch of Diana’s brow, the subtle look exchanged between Donna and Cassie—yeah, that is when the whole night starts going off-script.

You stand there in the doorway like you’ve just walked off the wrong movie set — perfume sharp enough to make Bruce blink, your heels clicking against the marble as you finally step into the manor. The coat you’re wearing is half-slid off one shoulder, your lip gloss catching every drop of light in the foyer. The dress you’re wearing, black, skin tight and short, turtleneck but arms out makes Jason gulp. You look like trouble dressed as —very questionably— good manners.

Jason catches the way Bruce’s jaw tightens. The way Dick shifts uncomfortably beside him, like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion and can’t look away.

Diana greets Alfred again, her voice soft but clipped — that tone she uses when she’s balancing diplomacy and disappointment. “I hope what you made hasn’t grown cold. We weren’t informed about how late we’d be either” she tells him, but she’s looking directly at you.

You just smile, small and defiant. “Didn’t want to track mud on your battlefield.”

There it is again— that crack in the air, that beat of silence where everyone pretends not to react. Alfred clears his throat. Tim coughs into his sleeve.

Jason’s biting the inside of his cheek just to keep from grinning.

You glance past the room, eyes skimming over everyone without lingering. Not even a flicker of recognition when they land on Jason. Not a hello, not a smirk, not even that teasing spark you used to have when you saw him —just blank, plain right indifference as you hand the bottle of wine to Alfred with a careless, “It’s Merlot. Don’t spill it, it stains.”

“Of course, miss,” Alfred replies smoothly, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes that only Jason catches.

Diana’s patience thins by the second, her smile all grace, her eyes all azul steel. “Perhaps you’d like to join us in the dining room now?”

You shrug, finally tucking your phone into your bag. “Sure. I’m starving.”

And that’s how you walk in — chin high, hip cocked, completely unbothered —while Bruce looks like he’s aged five years in thirty seconds and Diana’s aura of divine calm starts to crack just a little around the edges.

Jason watches it all unfold, hands shoved in his pockets, heart doing that stupid thing where it beats too fast for no reason. He tells himself it’s just the tension in the room, but it’s not. It’s you.

Because somehow, in a room full of gods and heroes, you’re the only one who looks untouchable, changed.

Dinner is the kind of formal that only Bruce can host—crystal glasses, polished silver, a centerpiece that looks like it costs more than Jason’s bike. Everyone’s sitting in their assigned civility, pretending this isn’t already a disaster waiting to happen.

You take the seat Diana gestures toward, right across from Jason. Perfect. Of course it’s across from Jason.

He’s in his usual black crewneck shirt, sleeves rolled, trying way too hard to look relaxed. You don’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance as you drink some of your wine.

“Jason,” Diana says pleasantly, “I heard you’ve been keeping busy with the Outlaws.”

Great. Maybe downing the whole glass is going to taste better than the thought of that.

“Something like that,” he answers, but his eyes are already on you. You’re pretending to scroll through your phone under the table, your glossed nails tapping idly on the screen.

“Phones away, please,” Diana adds without looking at you.

You give a slow, sarcastic but syrupy smile. “Oh, sorry. Force of habit. I usually get bored faster.”

That earns a cough from Dick that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Bruce sends him a look sharp enough to wound.

Diana breathes through her nose, serene as a saint. “We value presence here,” she says, tone gentle but carrying the weight of an Amazonian blade.

“Right,” you reply, folding your hands neatly, still not looking at Jason. “Wouldn’t want to disrespect the battlefield.”

Jason nearly chokes on his drink. You don’t look up.

Alfred intervenes, ever the savior. “Miss, would you care for more wine?”

“Please. It’s the only way I’ll behave.”

That line lands like a live grenade. Bruce stares down at his plate. Cassie hides a smile. Diana’s lips tighten.

Jason’s staring at you now, openly, trying to read what’s underneath the act—whether you’re just being difficult or if this is about him. Probably both. You can feel it, his gaze; it prickles against your skin like static. But you keep your chin high, voice light, eyes fixed anywhere but him.

You swirl the last of your second glass of wine in seconds, eyes unfocused, the soft chatter around the table barely reaching you. Alfred is saying something polite about the roast; Dick laughs too loud at something Tim mutters under his breath. Everything sounds muffled, like you’re underwater.

And then Diana sets her glass down.

The crystal barely touches the table, but the silence that follows is deafening.

“So, Bruce,” she begins, voice steady but pulsing with restrained fury, “how exactly did Lex Luthor obtain your anti-superpower injectables, and why did he target my sister specifically?”

Jason’s hand stills halfway to his mouth.

Bruce doesn’t flinch, but something sharp flickers in his eyes. “We’re still tracing the breach,” he says evenly. “Nothing leaves the cave without my authorization.”

Diana leans forward, that Amazonian calm starting to splinter. “Then explain how she ended up in a hospital bed two weeks ago with your tech in her bloodstream.”

You feel the air in the room thicken, every eye sliding toward you.

You smile —that glossy, careless, wrong kind of smile. Lips pressed together in a thin line, tucked tightly underneath your teeth. You look at Alfred with absolute plea in your eyes for more alcohol before speaking “Oh, we’re doing this now?”

“Enough,” Diana warns quietly. “You should rest, not play dress-up and pour wine like nothing happened.”

“I’m fine,” you say, your tone flat, brittle around the edges. “You don’t need to keep telling people I almost died. It’s getting old.”

Diana’s voice lowers, almost trembling with control. “You lost your powers.”

You laugh, too loud. “And? Maybe I want a vacation from divine expectations and saving the world”

That’s when Jason looks up. His gaze catches yours. Hard, searching, a little haunted.

You meet it for half a second, then look right past him, the way someone does when they’ve memorized a face too well to trust themselves with it.

Bruce exhales, rubbing his temples. “Let’s not do this here.”

Diana doesn’t move. “No, Bruce. Let’s. Because my sister was targeted because of your weaponized paranoia against the league—”

“Because of Luthor,” Bruce cuts in sharply. “And because she made herself visible when she shouldn’t have.”

The table jolts. You set your glass down, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me? I made myself visible while tracking down a whole ass human trafficking gang between him and Penguin? With Jason?”

Jason mutters under his breath, “Shit.”

Diana turns to Bruce, horrified. “Don’t you dare blame her for your mistakes.” But Bruce doesn’t answer. The silence that follows feels nuclear.

You push your chair back with a scrape of wood. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to come.”

Diana stands too. “You can’t keep running from accountability.”

“And you can’t keep running my life!”

The words hit the room like a slap.

You grab your coat, ignoring the stunned faces of Donna, Cassie and the boys, and walk out of the dining room— head high, eyes stinging, your throat burns with a lump that’s stuck inside it, pumping white hot pain every time you take a breath.

Jason’s up a second later, mumbling something about “getting air” but everyone knows he’s going after you.

Bruce doesn’t stop him and even gestures to a half standing Dick to sit down. He just looks tired— like he’s seen this exact kind of disaster before. Like He's been expecting this exact moment all night long. Even if he’s never been responsible for a slip up like this. Even if he was the one who allowed you and Jason to work together on this case almost a month ago.

Outside, Jason finds you on the balcony, the night pressing close, your breath fogging the air. You don’t turn when you hear him, but you know it’s him —you can feel that quiet weight of his stare everywhere, heavy as regret. Jason has a way of filling a space even when he doesn’t speak.

The night air bites against your skin, sharp enough to sober you. You press your palms to the cold railing, staring down at the glittering sprawl of Gotham on the far edge. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades.

The door closes behind you, hinges whispering.  For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches thin. Then,

“You didn’t tell me you lost your powers. I thought you dropped the case”

“Why would I tell you anything?” You hiss “I have other people to parent me”

“Diana’s just worried,” he finally mutters, voice rough. “She doesn’t know how else to show it.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, she can show it without trying to parent me in front of a dinner table full of bats.”

“She’s not wrong, though,” he says quietly. “You should be mad at Bruce, you shouldn’t even be standing out here, not after—”

“After I got lucky?”  You glance back at him, lip gloss catching the light. “You don’t get to lecture me. Not when you lied to me about Artemis..”

That lands. He looks away, jaw flexing. “That wasn’t—she and I were done before—”

“Before I woke up in a med bay without powers? Sure. Such convenient timing.”

You turn back to the view of the garden. The wind lifts your hair, carrying the faint smell of smoke and winter.

He takes a step closer; you can feel the heat of him on your shoulder. “You’re angry. I get it. But acting like you don’t give a damn about anyone isn’t helping you or them.”

You laugh softly, bitter. “Says the king of pretending not to care.”

He exhales through his nose, defeated. “Yeah. I’m not exactly the guy who should be giving advice.”

The quiet returns. Just the hum of Gotham in the background and the ache of things neither of you know how to say.

Jason’s voice drops lower.  “For what it’s worth, I didn’t come out here to fight.”

“Then why did you?” you ask without turning.

“Because you looked like you were about to disappear,” he says. “And I’ve seen enough people do that.”

Something in you stirs—an old warmth, or maybe a bruise that never healed. You tighten your grip on the railing. “Don’t worry. I’m not running off to die dramatically. That’s your thing.”

Your words sting; a meticulous weave to weaponise anything against him. What hurts him the most, used against him. There’s shame streaming inside your whole body when you mouth them. Immediate regret.

Jason almost laughs, then doesn’t. “Yeah, well. Guess we both have bad habits.”

You finally look at him, the city lights flickering across his face. There’s exhaustion there, and guilt, and something else—something that used to be yours to read.

For a second, you let the silence hold the both of you. Then you say, softer, “You should go back inside. Bruce probably thinks we’re breaking the no-violence rule.”

Jason shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue. He just leans beside you on the railing, close enough that his sleeve and your shoulder brush. Neither of you speak for a second, but the atmosphere between you feels suffocating, heavier than words could describe.

Then, he breaks the silence “If you’re mad about Artemis I should be mad about Dick”

As if, he has a right to be mad about who you dated while mourning him. While he was dead.

You look at him and then, bitterly, you look away. “Then I should be mad about both you and him confessing to Barbara and abandoning me for her?”

Jason flinches, a quick, involuntary jerk of his head. The name Barbara hangs in the air, sharp and painful. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of panic. “I—”

“Save it.” The words peel off your tongue, thick with acid. You turn, and your eyes aren't just angry anymore—they’re glowing with a searing, white-hot envy that feels corrosive. “I'm not going to be your second to last choice. I’m not your rebound when the better Amazonian warrior leaves, or the safe distraction when the original Batgirl won't choose you.”

“But you're not, i—“

“And I'm not gonna help finish the Penguin and Lex mission. You're on your own”

The wind carries your final words away, leaving a vacuumed hollowness where the tension had been. It isn't a threat, just a flat statement of fact. You are done. Done with the mission, done with the dinner, and done being a secondary consideration in the messy, complicated world of Jason Todd.

Jason doesn't flinch, but the faint light of the city catches the moment his expression fractures. The small, guarded defenses he's put up—the rough voice, the casual lean against the railing—collapse. He knows what it’s like to be powerless, rejected, humiliated. He is very well acquainted with the horrendously green ogre of jealousy. He has come second to last before, hell, he has even come last. And he’s the reason you feel that way now.

Jason hates himself in more ways than you can think of.

He should shut up. Let you go. Rethink of any choice he’s taken that’s condemned you cold and disheartened. But it’s you. 

You who he met in the Tower all those years ago when Bruce saw fit Robin accompanied him to a meeting with the league, both looking like fish out of water, even if you surpassed him by two years of age. You who feared Superman just as much as he did. You who let him hide behind your body when the big ‘S’ came to meet you. When he first noticed your bangles were too big for your arms, while his suit fit him perfectly.

A troubled child turned into a soldier. Just like him.

He should shut up. But he simply can't.

“Don’t say that,” he says, his voice dropping from a rough murmur to something quiet and raw, barely loud enough to carry over the city hum. He straightens, turning to face you fully. “You can be mad at me. You should be mad at me. But you can’t walk away from the case because of this, not after what we saw. They’re trafficking. I can’t do this alone”

This time, in his eyes, it’s your first time in the cave and you’re even more scared than you were when meeting Superman. For a kid, your facade of bravery makes you look like an adult.

“Then your little girlfriends should help you”

You meet his gaze, and for the first time since you walk into the manor, the indifference is gone. Only hurt and simmering anger remain. Jason knows what jealousy is— an obsessive notion of care, love. But it’s still you. To let you walk away now, so broken, would be a second death— a final, self-inflicted execution of the best part of a self of his that died once already. That terrified, armored kid he met in the Tower? He’d promised himself he’d always have her six like she did for him. And he shouldn’t be using the mission as a reason to keep you in his life. 

“The mission is what gets me stuck here, Jason. It’s what Luthor uses to put a target on my back and it’s what allows Bruce to watch while Diana and my sisters tear me down. I’m not playing Batfamily field agent anymore, especially when I’m just the collateral damage. No one cares about the forgotten Wonder Girl.”

“You’re not collateral damage,” he insists, taking a step closer. His hand lifts, a hesitant, familiar movement, but he drops it before he can touch your arm. He looks so visibly upset “You’re the one who finds the warehouse. You’re the one who gets me the intel on the smuggling routes. We catch them together. If you walk away now, they get off clean. Is that what you want?”

“I want a break from this life,” you retort, your chin lifting stubbornly. “I’m de-powered, Jason. I’m a liability now, not an asset. You don’t need me; you have Dick and Tim and Damian, and Bruce will step in. He always does.”

He laughs, a single, harsh sound devoid of humor. “I don’t want them. I want you.”

The words hang between you—simple, heavy, and too late.

“Well, you should have thought about that before you, what was it, confess your undying love to Barbara?” you shoot back, the bitterness sharp in your tone. “Or before Dick decides to join in. I hear the whole thing. Do you really think I don’t know? You all treat me like an emotional pit stop, somewhere you stop when the main road is closed.”

Jason runs a hand over his jaw, the sound of the stubble rough under his palm. “It’s a mistake. A massive, stupid, cowardly mistake to not just be honest with you. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you. It’s… I’m trying to avoid this exact conversation. Because I know if I say it out loud, I lose you.”

He is looking at you with that open, unguarded intensity that has always been your undoing.

“You’ve already lost me,” you say quietly, your voice cracking only slightly as you turn back to the cityscape. “And you lost the Artemis you loved so much. Right? You try to hedge your bets and end up with nothing. Now I need to figure out how to live a normal life with an Amazonian mom and a god complex sister watching my every move.”

Jason sighs, the sound heavy and tired. He doesn’t try to argue about Artemis, or about Dick, or about Barbara—not anymore.

“Okay,” he finally concedes, his voice barely a breath. “Fine. You want a break? Take it. I’ll finish the case myself. But I’m not going back inside while you’re out here. And I’m not letting you walk out of my life because I mess up. Not when you need me.”

“I don’t need you,” you whisper, but the lie feels flimsy, like spun sugar in the cold air. “I never needed you”

Lies—you needed him every time Diana would get mad at you. When her anger would turn into silence, he was always one phone call away. You needed him to convince Bruce to tell Diana that you should study at Gotham Academy. You needed him on your first day of the last class of middle school. You needed his help with math. You needed him more times than you’ll ever admit.

He moves again, one last step, until he is right behind you. His presence is a solid, undeniable heat against your back. He doesn’t touch you, but the closeness is an invasion.

“Don’t push me away,” he pleads, the low, gravelly sound a ghost of the growl you hear from Bruce earlier. This one is different, though—it’s all need and very little threat. “I’m sorry, goddammit. I’m sorry I’m a selfish idiot. I’m sorry I put my foot down on this case and get you hurt. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings and I’m sorry about Artemis. But right now, you’re in a wonderbat intervention with no powers, talking about abandoning your life’s work. You can be mad at me, but you can’t be reckless.”

“I wanna leave”

He pauses, letting the silence hang.

“Let me take you home. Or at least somewhere warm. We can figure the rest out tomorrow. Just… let’s get you warm. Please.”

“No Jason,” you say, turning sharply, the chill air catching the skin of your biceps, making you wrap your arms around yourself.

You don't get far. His hand flashes out, his grip firm on your forearm—not hurting you, but absolutely stopping you. The heat of his fingers is a shocking contrast to the cold air and your exposed skin.

You whirl back around, your eyes blazing with the same furious defiance you showed Diana inside. “Let go of me.”

His jaw is set, his eyes dark and unwavering. “I told you, I’m not letting you walk out there alone right now.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore!” you hiss, pulling against his grip. The black dress is no match for the Gotham wind, and a sudden shiver races through you, which only infuriates you more. You hate that he can still affect you, that he's still right about you needing warmth. “I can take care of myself. I’ve done it before, and I can sure as hell do it now that I don’t have an arrow and a bow breathing down my neck.”

“You are wearing seven-inch heels, you've had too much wine, and you are radiating fury,” Jason counters, his voice low and dangerous, holding an echo of Bruce’s own protective growl. He doesn't budge. “Let me drive you. Or let Alfred call a car. But you are not walking out the front door and into the city while you’re like this.”

You lean in, your voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You think a ride home is going to fix a night where your whole family watches mine fall apart because of our screw-up?”

He releases your arm, the touch replaced by a sudden, heavy pressure of air as he steps even closer. His shadow engulfs you.

“No,” he admits, the word a weary exhale. “I know it won’t fix it. But it stops you from getting arrested for public intoxication or mugged, which would be a colossal pain in the ass to explain to Diana. Just one good decision, okay? Let me make one good decision tonight if you don’t want to do it yourself.”

He looks completely defeated, his earlier defiance gone, leaving behind only raw fatigue and a stubborn concern.

You yank your arm back completely, the lingering heat from his touch a sharp contrast to the biting cold. "Just because i don’t have my powers doesn’t mean I’m useless," you state flatly. "And I'm not calling anyone. Diana and the girls are leaving soon. I’ll wait."

You turn your back on him and head for the main exit, your heels clicking rapidly on the marble. You move past the foyer, bypassing the dining room where the heated fiction of dinner is still playing out, and walk straight toward the front doors.

Jason watches you go, his body frozen in defeat on the balcony. He doesn't move to follow. He can’t. He knows that line—I don’t need you—even if it was a lie, or something you drunkenly said, was the deepest cut. He stares out at the cold, unfeeling Gotham skyline, thinking he could actually burn the entire city down in what remains of tonight to match the ache in his chest.

You stand in the echoing expanse of the manor foyer, your exposed arms now, truly feeling the chill of the marble and the night seeping in from the heavy oak doors. Your coat, half-slid off your shoulder, feels more like a burden than a comfort. You focus on the glossy black of the wine stain on the rug where you spilled the Merlot, counting the seconds until you hear the dining room chairs scrape back.

A moment later, the dining room doors open, and Alfred emerges first. He sees you standing there, a defiant, shivering silhouette in a flimsy mini dress, and his expression softens, a flicker of true worry crossing his normally composed features. He carries a small, empty tray and no seemingly anger for the way you spoke to him earlier.

“Miss,” he says quietly, his voice a low hum that won't carry back to the room. “Perhaps a blanket, or a cup of warm tea while you wait?”

“No, Alfred. I’m fine,” you manage, your voice brittle. You hate that he can see the lie in your posture.

He nods, accepting your prideful refusal, but he pauses before retreating. He meets your gaze, and his eyes, so rarely judgmental, hold an unmistakable depth of compassion. “I believe I heard Miss Diana mention that they would require at least a quarter hour. She is still finishing a rather pointed conversation with Master Bruce.”

You simply nod, grateful for the honesty, but the knowledge that they are still inside, picking through the rotting carcass of your failure, makes your skin crawl.

The conversation eventually breaks. First, you hear the low rumble of Bruce’s voice, heavy with exhaustion. Then, the clear, crystalline authority of Diana’s voice, which cuts through the air like a knife.

Then, they appear.

Diana is first, her posture impeccable but her features drawn tight, the regal calm finally shattered. She doesn’t look at you. Donna and Cassie follow, their expressions mirroring a mixture of discomfort and concern. Donna gives you a brief, apologetic glance, while Cassie, ever perceptive, meets your eyes with a flicker of raw understanding before quickly looking away.

Bruce lags slightly behind Diana, looking exactly as Jason had imagined—like he’d aged five years, his tie loosened, his composure hanging by a thread. He meets your eyes, and his gaze is heavy with accusation, the silent affirmation of the disaster you caused.

Diana stops directly in front of you. Her blue eyes finally lock onto yours, not with anger, but with a profound, terrifying disappointment.

“We are leaving,” she states simply. She glances at your exposed arms, the full eyelash extensions, the nails you've manicured to the most extreme length you possibly could and the too-short dress, and puckers her lips. You look all but ready to entirely give up the hero life and commit to just being pretty.

“I will not discuss this here.” She sighs “You will return to Themyscira with us, immediately. This 'break from divine expectations' ends now. I will not have my sister vulnerable in Gotham.”

“I’m not going back,” you reply, your voice a determined whisper, unwilling to break under her stare. “I don’t belong there right now.”

Bruce finally steps forward, his voice a quiet command aimed squarely at Diana. “She can stay here, Diana. She’s just as protected here as she would be in Themiscyra”

Diana turns on him, her control snapping. “You have already proven your protection is worthless, Bruce! Her vulnerability is because of your paranoia, and your weapons!”

The silence that follows is absolute. The front door of the manor feels miles away, and you are trapped between two warring titans.

Bruce’s face is granite, his eyes heavy with the weight of her truth. He opens his mouth, undoubtedly to double down or apologize with the economy of a CEO, but before he can, another voice slices through the brute tension—bright, easy, and completely out of place.

“Hold up. Everyone take a breath.”

Dick emerges from the dining room, moving with the acrobatic grace of someone determined to prevent a diplomatic crisis. He’s all charm and composure –as usual–, though the strain around his eyes shows he’s ready for a fight. He places himself casually between Diana and Bruce, offering Diana a small, genuinely concerned smile.

“Diana, look, you’re right to be upset. Bruce, you’re… well, you’re Bruce. But this isn’t a divorce court on who gets the kid. Plus she’s cold” Dick says, his gaze sweeping quickly over you and your shivering form. He takes in your defiant posture and the cold marble floor. He seems to understand immediately that what you need least is another debate over your short term future.

He turns to you, his eyes gentle but firm. “You look like you’re about to catch a cold. And you’ve had a night, to put it mildly. I’ve got an extra guest room that is definitely not in a cave, and it’s miles away from any Amazonian or Wayne Enterprises boardroom. How about you crash at my place tonight? No questions, no arguments. Just a solid lock on the door and maybe some really bad takeout.”

Diana’s glare doesn't soften, yours does, at the expense of a friend that you trust. “Richard, she is not a child to be babysat. She needs to be secured.”

“She is family, Diana, and she’s not going to feel ‘secure’ in the middle of a war zone,” Dick counters smoothly, glancing pointedly from Bruce's rigid form to Diana’s tense one. “She needs space. A safe, neutral space. My apartment is the definition of neutral.”

Bruce finally speaks, his voice a low, heavy rumble of reluctant agreement. “It’s acceptable. I need to handle the situation with Luthor and the tech breach, and Dick’s apartment is monitored.”

You seize the lifeline immediately. It’s better than being trapped on Themyscira or in the Batcave. “Fine. I’ll go with Dick.”

Dick offers you a look that says, ‘thank you for not making me argue for another hour’. He turns to Diana. “I’ll bring her back to you when she’s calmed down, Diana. You can have your conversation then, in private, where no one else is listening in.” The final shot is subtle, but it's aimed at the core issue: the public dismantling of your dignity.

Diana stares at Dick, then at Bruce, then finally back at you. She knows when she’s been checkmated by bureaucracy and common sense. She gives a clipped, formal nod. “Very well, Richard. But I expect a full report, and she is to remain inside your sight.”

Donna steps forward and gently puts a hand on your arm. “We will call you tomorrow.” 

“I liked the lashes by the way” Cassie gives you a small, genuine smile before following Diana out.

Dick immediately turns and holds out his hand to you, his concern shifting from diplomacy to pure practicality. “Alright, let’s get you out of those heels and into the Nightwing mobile!”

You take his hand and a chuckle roams out of your throat. The touch on his skin is simple, a promise of escape. As you let him lead you out, you steal a glance toward the balcony where you last saw Jason. It’s empty.

As the front door closes behind you with a heavy, final thud, two younger voices drift from the hallway connecting the foyer to the den.

“Todd is gonna freak out,” Damian tells Tim.

“Oh yeah,” Tim agrees, already sounding exhausted by the impending drama. “He is absolutely going to freak out.”

“Wait- You support them together too?”

“Do I support her with Jason or Dick?” Tim asks, puzzled.

“Todd obviously”

“Oh yeah yeah, they’re literally made for eachother”

Jason is a gargoyle on the cold marble of the balcony, his jaw clenched so tight he feels a dull ache behind his teeth. He hasn't moved since you yanked your arm away and strode back inside. He watches the light of the foyer from the corner of his eye, listening to the muffled, escalating confrontation between Bruce and Diana.

When Dick’s voice cuts through the argument—calm, collected, and impossibly right—a fresh, horrible wave of possessive anger washes over Jason.

Dick, the golden boy. The one who always knows exactly what to say to disarm a god or diffuse a bomb. The one who knows how to make everything right, the one who is calm and collected, the one you dated after his death. Dick Grayson, the epitome of a big brother, who knows how to slip between cracks, steps in to be the savior once again, offering the neutral ground that Jason couldn't.

He watches Dick emerge, moving with that easy confidence, placing himself between the heavyweights. Jason doesn't hear the exact words, but he doesn't need to. He sees the gesture: Dick’s hand reaching out, not to restrain, but to guide.

He sees you take that hand.

The gesture is simple, but it feels like a punch to Jason's gut, twisting the knot of jealousy he already carried into the past into something sharp and new. Dick gets to be the hero, the protector, the temporary, safe sanctuary. Dick gets to take you home.

Safe, neutral space. That’s what Dick calls his apartment. Jason scoffs under his breath. It's a space free from expectations, free from the Batfamily baggage Jason is currently buried under. A space where you can both talk about shared trauma—the kind that brings people like Dick and Barbara and you closer—while Jason is left out here, alone, smelling the failure and cold air.

He watches until you and Dick are just two dark shapes moving toward the front doors.

"I don't want them. I want you," he'd said. It is too late. Dick is the better choice, the easier escape. The one who hasn't been juggling an Amazonian ex, after confessing love to Batgirl, and generally making a mess of your life– twice.

Jason finally pushes off the railing, the friction of the stone a pointless sensation against his ruined nerves. He doesn't go back toward the dining room. He turns and walks to the far end of the balcony, resting his head against the cold glass of the window, unable to watch anymore. The city lights blur into streaks of indifferent color.

He has just given Dick the ultimate victory: the one night where you will be vulnerable, safe, and most importantly, with him. And how can he be sure Dick and you have nothing going on anymore? That there aren’t any lingering feelings from a teenage love that ended just as fast as it begun?

Jason closes his eyes, the memory of your furiously fuming face the last thing he sees. He loses you not because he isn't strong enough or smart enough, but because he is a cowardly idiot who tries to hedge his bets and ends up with nothing.

Outside, the air bites sharper than you expect. Gotham’s winter creeps in through the seams of your dress as you follow Dick down the steps, heels clicking against the wet stone. The manor looms behind you, silent, ancient, and heavy with everything unsaid. You don’t look back.

Dick presses the key fob and his car chirps, headlights washing gold across his face. He opens the passenger door for you without comment—other than a side eye because he knows you hate men that do that—just a faint grin that’s meant to be comforting but lands somewhere closer to tired. You slide in, pulling your coat tighter, watching him circle to the driver’s side.

The city unfolds in streaks of sodium light as he drives. Gotham at night feels like it’s always mid-breath; never asleep, never alive. You rest your head against the cold window, eyes tracing the blurred reflection of your face in the glass. The silence stretches until Dick breaks it, soft but steady.

“I’m sure Jason didn’t mean it,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. “Whatever went down upstairs. He’s just…” He exhales through his nose, searching for the word. “Jason.”

You huff a faint, humorless sound. “You don’t even know what he said. And him being himself's not an excuse.”

“Didn’t say it was,” he replies, tone light but edged with something older. “I just need context.”

The car hums, steady. You don’t answer. You don’t want to talk about Jason—not when his shadow still feels like it’s pressed against your ribs.

Dick glances at you once before turning back to the windshield. “But you know,” he says, voice low, “you’re allowed to be the one who walks away for once.”

The words settle like static. You keep your gaze on the glass, on the city lights flickering like heartbeats.

Soon, Gotham’s black and white has been replaced by Blüdhaven’s blue and purple neon on almost every building.

Inside Dick’s small, aggressively cheerful Blüdhaven apartment, the tension finally begins to bleed away.

You are curled up on his couch, wrapped in one of his soft, oversized college hoodies, with a chunky knit blanket pulled up to your chin. Your elaborate dress and ridiculous heels are forgotten in a pile near the door. Dick sits in his favorite armchair, equally casual in sweats.

In an attempt to earn best friend kudos, he makes you a massive mug of tea—Earl Grey with milk and an obscene amount of honey—and puts on some terrible 90s action-comedy that demands exactly zero attention. The only light in the living room comes from the television and the orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. It feels like a sleepover, a decade too late, and you almost forget that outside this apartment, your entire life is in crisis.

He sips his own tea, the steam warming his hands, and watches the TV for another moment, letting the comfortable quiet settle. Then, he presses the mute button on the remote.

“Okayyyy, the silence is officially driving me crazy,” Dick chirps, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze is gentle but direct, his eyes batting with an annoyingly sweet blink-blink-blink, the big brother concern back in full force. “And I know you’re using that terrible movie to avoid the last three hours of your life.”

You exhale slowly, clutching the mug tighter. “It was a very good terrible movie.”

“It was not. It was just loud. Look, I’m not Bruce, and I’m definitely not Diana. I just want to make sure you’re okay, and maybe get a hint of what the hell happened out there on the balcony.” He pauses, then lowers his voice. “What did you say to Jason? Tim messaged me he’s trying to unscrew his whole bike and screw it back together.”

You look down at the swirling surface of your tea, the honey turning the golden liquid cloudy. “I told him the truth.”

“Which truth? The 'I’m de-powered and scared' truth, or the 'I hate being stuck between two dysfunctional hero families' truth?” Dick asks, hoping it’s at least one of the two.

You lift your head, meeting his eyes. The anger is mostly exhausted, leaving behind a deep, aching vulnerability. “The one about me knowing about Barbara.”

Dick winces, leaning back. The casual posture instantly dissolves. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Ah. He told you that?”

“You both did,” you correct, your voice flat. “I heard everything in the cave when I last visited. The kiss, the letter, the shared trauma, the whole ‘I wanted to be better for her’ mess.” You take a shaky breath. “I told him I’m done being the second choice, the emotional pit stop, or the convenient rebound when Artemis leaves or when you two are too scared to commit to Babs. I told him I’m done with the mission. I told him he lost me.”

Dick runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair. He doesn't try to defend himself or Jason; he simply accepts the accusation. A few years ago, he would have acted defensively regarding his stance when it comes to you. Now, when what’s left behind for him and you is friendship, he only says, “That’s… rough.”

“Well i don’t think he cares anyway”

“Don’t say that” Dick says, playfully shoving your side. You barely move when he nudges you, but the corner of your mouth twitches, betraying the tiniest crack in your armor.

“Come on. Don’t say thaaat,” He repeats, quieter this time. “You know he cares. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it.”

You stare at the muted television, where two badly CGI’d helicopters chase each other through an explosion. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem.”

He exhales, settling back in his chair. “Jason’s whole thing is pushing away the people he doesn’t want to lose. It’s his one consistent talent. That and brooding on rooftops.”

“That makes two of you,” you mutter.

He grins faintly. “Touché.” Then, after a beat, “You know, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you were ever a second choice.”

Dick speaks for himself first, then for Jason. Though it hurt once upon a time, he has accepted your tenderness lies with the latter. 

You scoff, half a laugh, half a defense. “Please. You all orbit Barbara like she’s the North Star. I’m just… what? A temporary moon?”

“More like the eclipse that screws up all our schedules,” he says, voice softer than the joke ever deserves. “You came in and changed everything, and Jason—he doesn’t know how to live in the light of that yet.”

Your response is simply a pout.

Dick studies you for a long moment, the playfulness slowly fading. He pauses, then his expression shifts, turning probing, his eyes squinting. “But you wouldn’t have thrown away the Luthor case just over that. Yeah you lost your powers but you’re not that reckless. This is about more than just Jason’s bad decisions, isn't it? You’re punishing him, aren’t you?”

You look away, but the words hit harder than you want to admit. “I’m not.”

He tilts his head. “Then why don’t you just tell him you love him instead of hiding up here and pretending you don’t care?”

“What!?”

His grin snaps back, too wide, too knowing. “Ha! You do love him. You loooove him.”

“Dick, are you five years old?”

He leans back, hands raised in mock defense. “Emotionally? On a good day.”

“Yeah well. I love him. What about it?”

He laughs at his own joke, but the sound fades quickly, leaving only the quiet hum of the city beyond the window. The smile slips. His tone levels out, steady, serious in that rare way he gets when he stops performing.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “I’m not trying to make fun of you. I just… know what it looks like when someone’s scared to admit how deep they’re in.”

You exhale through your nose, eyes fixed on the skyline. “I’m not scared.”

“Yeah, you are,” he says. “Because if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be sitting up here trying to convince yourself that pushing him away is strength. You’d be down there telling him he screwed up and figuring it out together.”

You press your lips together. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Dick agrees. “But the thing about Jason is—he’s a mess, sure, but he’s not a liar. If he’s showing up, it’s because he means it. You scare him, and that’s saying something. The guy died once and came back, and somehow you are what freaks him out.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re the first person he hasn’t been able to out-brood. The first one he’s had to actually face. And now you’re running from him the same way he runs from everyone else.”

You glance at him, sharp. “You think I don’t have a right to walk away?”

“I think you’ve earned the right to stop fighting people who want to love you,” he says quietly. “Especially the ones who don’t know how to say it right.”

Dammit, you hate that Dick knows you too well. He waits patiently, letting the silence hang and meddle about, warm and heavy in the dim apartment.

You stare at Dick, finally unable to sustain the protective indifference you’ve managed to upkeep for so long now. The tears come suddenly, hot and stinging against your cheeks, a shocking betrayal after hours of rigid control. You quickly raise the mug, using the steam to hide your face.

“Aw, hey, come on don't cry”

You lower the mug, your eyes red and glistening with fat, salty tears. "I hate it, Dick. I hate that I care what he does. I hate that the thought of him being happy with someone else, someone safer, makes me feel like I did when I was fourteen and Bruce wouldn't let him talk to me for a week because we tried to drive the batmobile on our own"

Dick slides out of the armchair and moves to sit beside you on the couch. He doesn't hug you; he simply rests his hand firmly on your shoulder, anchoring you.

“You love him,” Dick states like it’s a fact that stings him, not as a question, but as the unavoidable truth of the night.

You stay silent, letting the confession—Dick’s words and the unspoken truth behind them—settle over you like a weight you can’t shrug off. The mug in your hands grows cold, forgotten, steam curling into the dim light above.

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t speak again. Just the quiet press of his hand on your shoulder, steady, unyielding, reminding you that someone sees you, really sees you, and isn’t letting go.

Your tears slow, leaving streaks over flushed cheeks, your breath ragged from hours of holding in more than just frustration. You swallow hard, voice small and raw. “I… I don’t know how to stop myself from feeling like this.”

Dick tilts his head, eyes soft but sharp, tracking every tremor of your body. “You don’t have to stop,” he says. “Not yet. And not alone. You just… need to admit it to yourself first.”

The words prick at something you’ve been keeping buried. You glance at him, half-expecting a smirk, a joke, anything to shield you from the vulnerability. But he’s serious, impossibly steady, and it terrifies you more than you expected.

“I do love him,” you whisper finally, so quiet it almost disappears into the shadows of the apartment. Your chest tightens at the sound, as if saying it aloud makes it irrevocable.

Dick’s hand doesn’t move, but the pressure shifts subtly, just enough to say, I know. And it’s okay.

You bury your face in your hands, the confession shaking you, and Dick finally wraps an arm around you in hopes to hold you through this as tears stream down your eyes and into the palms of your hands. For the first time in hours, you allow yourself to breathe fully, knowing the truth is out—and that someone who understands is sitting right beside you, not judging, not teasing, just being there.

You look at Dick, tears still tracking through the dry anger on your face. "He just ran from me one too many times, Dick. And I am tired of waiting for the day he realizes the risk is worth it."

Dick squeezes your shoulder. “He knows the risk is worth it,” he says quietly, his eyes dark with regret. “He’s just an idiot. And a coward sometimes. And I think he was afraid of losing you by telling you he has feelings for you.”

He shifts, looking toward the hallway. “Look, I can’t fix Jason. I can barely fix my own relationships. But I can tell you this: the jealousy you’re feeling—don’t deny it— is the clearest indicator of where your heart is. And you just gave him the shock he needed to actually look at what he lost. Also… I think we should order burgers.”

“Jason’s favorite?” Your lip quivers. A tear escapes your wide, sadness blown eyes, streaking down your cheek, and you sniffle, trying to pull yourself together.

Dick stands, stretching exaggeratedly. “Shit– I’m going to make you some actual food. For tonight, you’re safe. You’re warm. The lashes are still killing it. The universe hasn’t collapsed. You focus on the fact that you still have a whole Amazonian sisterhood to help you figure out how to be an ass-kicker without the powers. And tomorrow, we figure out how to perhaps confess to Jason before the whole Batfamily ends up without vehicles.”

The weeks following the confrontation at the Manor have been a cold war. 

You and Jason exist in parallel universes, both working the Luthor and Penguin case—yes the one you dramatically declared you dropped out of—  but never, ever meeting. You've become a ghost, working from Dick's secure Blüdhaven apartment or remote safe houses, reporting only to Diana and Bruce. 

Jason, meanwhile, has been relentless on the streets, turning his guilt into destructive, high-impact patrols. Last week he sent a singular, unanswered text that just said, "Talk to me."

You ignore it, of course taking the much preferred route, to deal with it in an infinitely more childish way of coping which is whining incessantly to Dick about how utterly immature Jason is, and bubble about it for quite a few days. Something about you taking pride in Jason ‘breaking no contact first’ and being a ‘yearner’

The city feels smaller when you don’t have him on your radar. You can move through Gotham—or Blüdhaven, more often than not—without the pull of his gaze, without the low hum of his judgment lingering in your spine. You can pretend, for weeks at a time, that you don’t care that he’s out there, cracking skulls, raining down vengeance for your stupidity. Spoiler alert– you do care.

Jason won’t let Tim breathe about it. He talks about you non-stop, a continuous, high-volume drone, always, always making it explicitly clear that all the information he’s sharing is strictly confidential and shall not be shared with Grayson or anyone else. Said information usually consists of him absolutely going through the five stages of grief about you. One moment he’s angry, then he wonders where he went wrong, then he says he’s okay with it, that he’s gonna let it go. 

Damian happens to be caught in the fire when he finds you asleep before the batcomputer hugging a suspiciously looking, very well known edition of Pride and Prejudice. The one Todd lent him. When he rips it off your hands and wakes you up he swears your eyes well up with tears.

Naturally, the stress is too much for the younger generation and golden boy older brother to bear. So they decide to do something about it.

Thus Dick, Tim, and a begrudging Damian have been meeting covertly in the Manor Gym night after night, the only place where Bruce's eyes and ears can't easily follow them while he’s off with the League on some Darkseid intergalactic business.

After days of conspiring and many mid-day Alfred snacks, they come to a foolproof plan. The one that always works.

Their plan is simple, efficient; They're going to lock you down. Or well, in.

Tim calls you late Friday night. 

His voice is tight with engineered panic. "It's the final piece of data on the Luthor encryption key and it relates directly to the Penguin case you took on. It's stored locally in the Cave—Bruce never uploads this stuff. Pffft, This guy right? We need you to review it now before the scheduled scrub. Dick is tied up. Can you get here?" 

Knowing the Luthor and Penguin files overlap with your current focus, you reluctantly agree despite finding it very hard to believe the comment about Bruce.

A nationwide human trafficking scandal is on the stake anyway.

Dick texts Jason a single, non-descript message: "Warehouse 12. New weapons shipment. Big." 

Jason, already on patrol, takes the bait instantly. He speeds to the location only to find a single, cheap plastic toy gun inside. Frustrated, he receives Dick's follow-up text: "Psych. Now meet me at the Cave. Emergency Batcomputer update."

Damian is in charge of actually powering off facial recognition to get you out of the cave. And then, he is forced to fleet under Grayson’s order because the following events might not be very ‘PG-13’

You descend into the Batcave via the elevator, annoyed at Tim's urgency but focused on the screen of your phone.

You step out onto the smooth concrete floor and immediately spot Jason, standing near the main terminal. He's still in his Red Hood gear, helmet resting on the console, his posture coiled and furious.

“Dick? What the hell is going on?” Jason demands, his voice a low growl. "I just wasted an hour chasing a—"

Before he can finish, the heavy steel door of the elevator shaft clangs shut. Simultaneously, the airlock doors on the vehicle bay slide closed. The main power lights flicker, settling into the emergency red glow.

Then, Tim's voice crackles over the loud, unfiltered comms system, echoing throughout the massive cavern.

“Alright, the doors are sealed. Red Hood, she's not leaving until you talk” 

You shoot a panicked look at Jason before Tim continues by calling your name, “he's not getting out until he talks. We disabled the auxiliary controls. You have all night. Batman’s off with the League. Don't touch the Batwing.”

Jason whirls toward the Batcomputer, where Dick looks at him through the screen, leaning casually against a gargoyle on the other end of the city, giving a tight, unrepentant shrug. Damian is visible beside him, arms crossed in self-satisfaction. The little brat mocks him– going as far as to shove his tongue out of his mouth and give him a clowning expression.

“You little shits! Open this now, or I swear I will turn this whole cave into a grease fire!” Jason roars, taking a step toward the deck.

“You won't,” Dick counters, his voice calm and clear. "And we know you two are both too stubborn to call a truce on your own. Consider this a mandated therapy session. The only way out is through, Jay. And we're all very tired of the brooding."

The comms click silent. Dick gives you a tiny, apologetic wink before he and the others disappear behind the glitching screen.

“I’m gonna kill him” You mumble, heart stammering inside your chest. The panic is quickly being replaced by a surge of defiant anger—anger at Dick, at Tim, at Damian, and most of all, at the man standing ten feet away who just had to be the reason for this absurd, humiliating trap.

“Texting me is one thing” you say, raising your voice in his direction “But having your brothers trap me here with you? That’s a new low”

Jason turns from the now-silent Batcomputer screen, flipping his helmet off the deck and letting it fall with a deafening clatter onto the concrete floor. His eyes, raw and shadowed by weeks of anger and guilt, bore into yours.

“I ain’t done shit!”

Jason’s chest heaves with the force of it— a short, ugly sound that could be grief if it weren’t so close to anger. The concrete smells like dust and ozone and the cold from the night. He plants his boots, both a challenge and a plea.

“I ain’t done fucking shit!” he repeats, louder, and the words ricochet off steel and glass. 

You take a step closer despite everything, because you’re maddened and exhausted and the heat of him is a furnace you can’t help leaning toward. “Then why the hell—” you start, but stop midway when you see the way Jason’s jaw tightens.

He runs a hand through his hair, then looks at you properly, something raw and ragged in his eyes. “Yeah. I texted you.” The admission is too quick to be prideful, too honest to be strategic. You blink in confusion “Said ‘talk to me.’” He swallows. “I didn’t— I didn’t set this up. I just talked to Tim about it”

“Don’t lie to me,” you spit. “Don’t make me the idiot who walked into a fucking playset you staged.” Fury is a blunt instrument and you wield it too well; it keeps the tremor from your hands steady. “If this was a ‘talk to me’ thing, then why the theatrics?”

“So I’m the liar again?”

“You know what? I had regretted calling you a liar during our talk in the balcony but after you not admitting you trapped me here with you, I’m glad I didn’t believe it when Dick said you’re not a liar”

In a quick moment of realisation Dick’s name dies on your tongue. Twice.

“What the hell?” Jason demands, his voice a low, rough growl, skipping past the immediate crisis to the source of his misery. "You've been ignoring me for three weeks. You won't answer my text. What did you tell Dick that convinced him to pull this kind of juvenile bullshit?"

“Me!?”

You cross your arms tighter, refusing to let the panic of him turning this on you show. Your pride—the pride in his single, unanswered text, the pride in being the 'winner' of the no-contact—is the only defense you have left.

You hold his stare, refusing to let him turn this into an attack on your character. The surge of anger, though, is mixed with a chilling, sudden confusion about what Jason is actually denying.

“Yeah you. If you wanna talk to me then answer my text. Don’t involve my brothers”

All the self restraint you’ve got is needed at this moment not to snap again. You look at Jason, really look and decide to believe he probably knows nothing about the fact that his brothers locked you in the cave. You can’t deny the desperate sincerity in his voice, and the possibility that Dick and the boys actually acted on their own initiative is a sudden, dizzying thought.

“Okay Jason,” you start “Let’s say you didn't orchestrate this” 

“I didn’t!” 

“I’m not blaming you,” you snap, stepping closer, heat crawling up your spine. “I’m just… I’m pissed that my whole life gets invaded by third parties. I don’t need this, Jay!”

His eyes soften, almost imperceptibly, and the fury bleeds into something taut, heavy. “You think I wanted this either?” he mutters, voice lower now, rougher with exhaustion and something closer to hurt. “I’ve been trying to reach you, okay? Three weeks! You vanish, you ghost me, and I’m left here—wondering if you’re okay, wondering if you even care!”

The words hit you harder than his anger. Your chest tightens, and for a moment, the only sound is the echo of your own ragged breathing. You want to argue, to push, to retreat behind the armor of pride, but it’s too raw, too real.

“I do care,” you whisper, almost ashamed of the vulnerability. “But you can’t just—just—fuck okay screw this. I can’t say it”

You push past him, walking towards the Batcomputer terminal, the red light glinting off the tears you refuse to shed.

You gesture vaguely towards the locked doors.

"You and I are locked in here for the night. You're the one with the reputation for solving impossible situations with pure, bloody-minded force.” You turn back to the Batcomputer, your fingers already flying across the keyboard, bringing up the Luthor/Penguin data. 

“If we’re going to fix anything. Let’s start with working. I'm fixing the mess we made. I'm not going to sit here and waste the night on your emotional cowardice." you finish, your voice cool and professional. 

Jason stands frozen, helmet on the ground, trapped between the walls, your work, and your unforgiving challenge. He has the words, but you’re demanding the action.

Jason’s hands clench into fists, his whole body taut with the impulse to smash something. He could still argue, yell, or simply walk away and find a quiet corner of the cave to brood. 

But your words of challenge and a devastating thought that you'd confessed your love to Dick first—have landed too clean. Like the sharp edge of a knife. You’ve taken his pain and turned it into a mission.

He looks at you, hunched over the Batcomputer terminal in the aggressive red light, already focused on the work, already moving on. He sees the flicker of tears in your eyes, but also the resolute set of your jaw. He knows you mean every word. He has to prove he can solve the problem.

He takes a deep breath, forcing the raw anger down, replacing it with a cold, almost detached focus.

“Fine,” he says, his voice low, gravelly, but controlled. He walks toward the Batcomputer, not toward you, but to the equipment bay. He grabs a spare headset and clips it on, accessing the private comms channel.

“You want to work? We work,” he mutters, pulling up a schematic on a secondary monitor. “You said the Luthor key overlaps with the Penguin location data. Let's see if we can find a back-end exploit that lets us override this lock without tripping an alert. Tim and Dick didn't think about the code redundancy loop in the original Batcave schematics.”

He glances at you, his eyes hard but focused entirely on the screen, accepting the truce of work. “But don’t think this means you win, either. You’re working out your pride on a crisis that could actually kill us. Now look at the timestamp on that data scrub. Is it the Penguin’s own timer, or Luthor’s contingency?”

Jason is working with an intense, surgical focus, navigating the complex Batcave network with practiced ease. He pulls up a series of nested code streams related to the Penguin’s use of Luthor’s encryption for shipping. For a few minutes, the only sound is the frantic tapping of keys and the quiet, technical murmur of Jason talking to himself through the headset.

You, meanwhile, are intensely trying to focus on the work, your adrenaline and hurt still raging under your professional exterior. You're analyzing a timestamp, trying to ignore the proximity of his shoulder inches from yours.

Jason hits a sequence of commands and the secondary monitor flashes with a section of compressed code.

"There," he mutters, leaning in, his voice slightly muffled by the headset mic. "See that signature? It's not Penguin. It's a derivative of the code Luthor used in the '09 banking raid. Old school. Why would Penguin use—fuck! Fuck this shit."

He cuts himself off, his frustration spilling over, and he rips the headset off, throwing it back onto the console with a sharp clatter. He turns, planting his hands on the console table, forcing his stare onto the opposite wall, but his anger is still laser-focused on you.

“You know what the worst part is?” he demands, his voice low and tight with venom, finally snapping the work truce. “The worst part of standing there on that stupid balcony, drowning in my own failure, wasn't Bruce’s face. It was Dick.”

You finally stop typing, your spine rigid. You knew, for better or for worse, that this was coming.

“You looked like you were about to collapse, and Dick—golden boy Dick—he just walks in, calm, collected, with his stupid, gentle grin, and plays the savior. And you just... you took his hand. You walked right out with him.”

His head snaps back to you, his eyes burning with accusation. He doesn't wait for your response. The floodgates are open, and the weeks of internalized humiliation and possessiveness pour out “He gets to be the easy choice, the easy way out. The hero pass”

“I’m the one who has to stand there and watch Bruce and Diana carve you up while I freeze, and Dick gets to be the reward for your pain. Dick gets to put the blanket on you. He gets to comfort you and listen to you confess all the things you won’t even say to me. It’s happened before, when I died.”

He pushes off the console, taking a menacing step toward you. “I knew you were safe, yeah. But you were safe with him. You’ve made your point clear about Artemis. I’ve spent the last three weeks on patrol picturing you in Dick’s apartment, wrapped in his clothes, talking about shared trauma while I was out here losing my mind because I didn’t know how to apologize.”

He finally looks at you, his eyes wide and burning with raw, agonizing jealousy. "Tell me you don't look at him and think, 'Why can't Jason be like this?' Tell me you don't feel a flicker of that old, easy history when he is sitting there, playing the perfect, uncomplicated friend!"

He stops, chest heaving. He has finally said the worst thing: he has admitted his deepest, terrified belief that you choose Dick's comfort over his own complex, frightening love.

You stare at him. The fire of your own anger—the pride, the defense, the calculated indifference—suddenly goes out, leaving behind a profound, aching realization. He isn't lashing out to hurt you; he is tearing himself apart because he truly believes Dick is a better man for you. Just like you thought Barbara and Artemis were better women for him.

This Jason is still the kid you hurled behind you when you first met Superman, muttering something about being discreet. The teenager that Joker tortured and killed and took away from you. The one you mourned before you even turned 18 years old.

The best friend who convinced Bruce to tell Diana to let you enroll at Gotham Academy. He listened to you cry when she would be mad at you because you were a reckless kid with newfound powers or when that girl from your Maths class tried to bully you.

Maybe, in the end, no Barbara, no Artemis, no Dick can come between you.

The frustration of his stupidity is too much. The pain in his eyes is too real. His self-loathing is too close to your own secret fear that he is right. You don't want the easy comfort; you want the hard, chaotic, terrifying truth of him.

You take the one step that closes the distance between you. Your hand, which was steady seconds ago, comes up and cups the side of his jaw, thumb resting gently on the sharp edge of his cheekbone. The other wiggles across your body and entangles your fingers with his, guiding his hand to the small curve of your lower back. His other hand follows respectfully.

“If you’re in love with Dick then give me back the Nirvana shirt I gave you in middle school!” He pouts, petty.

Your eyes widen, shock written all over your face in a matter of seconds. A hiccupy sound of surprise exits your throat "You're taking this too far.”

Jason’s eyes, burning with raw agony moments ago, narrow in genuine confusion. The intensity of his rant shatters. He leans into your touch, the heat of his skin familiar and grounding.

“Am I?” he asks, his voice thick with bewilderment, the earlier roar gone. “I gave it to you because I liked you. And you didn’t even get it”

The words reach an unhealed part of your past. The cut that always bleeds. At sixteen you didn’t want to date a fourteen year old. At eighteen, when Jason dies, Dick’s face is like an endless possibility of what Jason might have looked like when he’d turn twenty. You spend days locked up in Jason’s room, wearing his shirt until Dick convinces you to eat something, drink water. But you keep the shirt as the only relic of Jason you could ever have for the rest of your life.

You wouldn’t give him back that shirt, even if you had to write it off in your will.

Your breath hitches, the tears you’ve been holding back for weeks stinging your eyes. The absurdity of arguing over a moth-eaten tee shirt while trapped in the Batcave by his brothers is devastatingly close to home. 

“This is the only thing I’ve got from before you died. You're not taking it from me. I need it.”

A faint, broken smile touches Jason’s lips. It’s not a cruel smile, but one of relieved realization. He’s looking past the fight, straight at the raw, vulnerable heart of your attachment.

The shirt isn't just clothing; it's the physical relic of unrequited history and the tangible proof of your mourning. Your refusal to give it back is the first and most powerful clue that Jason’s fears about Dick are unfounded.

“Ha!” He chuckles, the sound raspy. “I knew you didn’t mean that you never needed me.”

The smile is too much. The relief in his voice is too much. You snap, the three-week dam of fear and anger finally bursting.

“I'm in love with you Jason!” You cry out, your voice echoing off the cavern walls. “Not Dick! I’m keeping the shi—” You clap a hand over your mouth, cutting off the confession too late, your eyes wide with the shocking betrayal of your own protective silence.

Jason freezes.

For once, the constant restless movement that defines him, the pacing, the half-steps, the clenched fists, stops dead. The words hang between you, fragile and burning, like a live wire neither of you can touch without getting hurt.

His eyes go wide, a thousand emotions crossing his face so fast they blur together: disbelief, shock, anger, and something far more dangerous that lies at the end of Pandora’s chest—hope.

He stares at you. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. All the rage, the jealousy, the self-pity—it all evaporates, leaving him stunned. His gaze is desperate, searching your face for any sign that the words weren’t just another angry lie.

He drops his hands from your waist, only to immediately raise them, framing your face with his palms. His thumbs gently wipe the tracks of your glossy tears.

“Say it again,” he demands, his voice a low, rough whisper, barely audible over the hum of the computers. His eyes are shining green now, dark like a forest under a crescent moon and impossibly open. “Look at me. Say you love me. Say it again.”

You shake your head quickly, heart hammering so hard it feels like your ribs might split apart and let the vital organ slime down the floor of the cave. 

“No,” you mutter, hand still over your mouth. “Forget it. I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t lie to me now,” he interrupts, surging forward, making you trip a step back towards the computer deck. His voice isn’t angry anymore. It’s raw, stripped of every defense he’s ever built. “You can call me every name in the book, you can hate me, you can ignore me for weeks, but don’t take that back.”

You lower your hand, your breath trembling. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

Jason huffs out a laugh that sounds like it hurts. The corner of his lip twitches “Yeah, well. You’re the one who yelled it.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then another. The kind that feels endless and your heart still wants to split your chest apart.

Jason does the least expected thing in the world at this given moment— he pulls you in. Hugs you. Right into his chest. Enormous biceps trap your back onto him, pressing you close, close, close until you feel like your lungs will collapse.

He’s not thinking in full sentences at that point. It's all static and pulse. Yours? His? He doesn’t even fucking know.

The hug isn’t even a decision that he takes; it’s instinct, a grab at proof that he’s real and that you didn’t mean to wound him and that he understands. The anger that’s been driving him burns out mid-motion, replaced by a kind of stunned quiet. The air in the cave still tastes like gun oil and adrenaline, but what he’s holding isn’t a fight anymore —it’s someone who said the one thing he’s wanted to hear since he crawled out of his own grave.

In his head, it’s chaos. But his body’s language is simpler: hold, breathe, anchor. His chin finds the top of your head, his heart is hammering like it’s still trying to outrun death. He smells the faint detergent on your shirt, your shampoo, the salt from your tears. It’s so small, so human, that it breaks something open in him.

His heart wants to crawl out of his chest too and if it’s a race between your vitals on which is going to give in to failure first, he’s definitely winning.

He pulls back just enough to lean his forehead against yours, both of you gasping for air, but his hands roam on your face, the back of your head, to hold you place. He wants you to look at him in the eyes when he says,

“I’m in love with you too. Have been, forever”

The words land and just… stay there. No thunderclap, no music cue. Just the thrum of the cave’s machines and his breath shaking against your temple.

You don’t move at first. You can’t. You feel the tremor in his chest before you hear it—the uneven rhythm of someone who hasn’t said I’m in love with you out loud in years. Someone who’s been holding it in. 

The warmth of his hands on your face doesn’t feel like possession; it feels like someone holding a miracle too tight, afraid it’ll vanish.

Your eyes trace the new softness in him, the way the fight has bled out but left him raw, eyes red-rimmed, mouth parted like he’s still bracing for you to take it all back.

So you don’t say a word. You just breathe, steady, until the static in your head fades enough to find his pulse beneath your fingers. Then you tilt your chin up, slow. His breath catches. 

You look at his lips, chapped, a fading powdery pink draft of skin, then that freckle on his left eyelid. The one on the eye bag underneath his right one. 

The whole world has shut off for one second.

And then, when you kiss him, the clocks start ticking again.

You’re not giving in to prove him wrong or to make a promise—just an answer.

The kiss doesn’t feel like triumph— it feels like recognition. He freezes for half a heartbeat, then exhales into it, the weight of you lifting just enough for him to kiss you back, slow and trembling. He doesn’t deepen it yet; he just stays there, lips pressed softly to yours like he’s afraid a bigger movement might ruin the fragile truth sitting between you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his breath warm on your skin. “I love you. I won't run. I swear I won’t run again. I promise.”

The way he kisses you next could only be described as blasphemy. A sin. Unholy.

It is not sweet or tender. It is a desperate, consuming plunge that feels like a violation of the sterile, rule-bound space you inhabit. It is the raw, unedited violence of his resurrection funneled into an act of love. It’s rough, lip-numbing.

You press into him, gasping, your fingers digging into the tough, corded muscles of his neck. This kiss is uneven, and tastes like the salt of old tears and the fierce, bitter copper of an adrenaline spike. It's too fast, too sloppy and too hungry—the emotional equivalent of the Batwing takeoff—and it shatters the last remaining piece of your composure.

It is blasphemy because it makes a mockery of all the 'clean' relationships you're supposed to have: the sisterly Amazonian bonds, the measured partnership of the Justice League kissing the outlaw that’s back from the dead. This is a covenant sealed in stolen moments and self-destruction.

It is a sin because it makes you crave the chaos. You feel the answering darkness in you rise up, matching his hunger, and for a terrifying second, you want nothing more than to burn down the entire world with him.

It is unholy because it feels like two people who have been fighting death finally choosing to fight for life—and choosing the most dangerous, unstable way to do it.

The second Robin. The second Wonder Girl. Pulled together by strings of fate.

He finally pulls away, the urgency of the moment—and the impending elevator doors—forcing him back to reality. His eyes are dark, blown wide with an intensity that matches the sheer, terrifying depth of what just passed between you. He is breathless, and his jaw is clenched.

“God,” he rasps, his voice a low vibration against your ear. He kisses your temple once, quick and hard, a possessive gesture. “We need to go upstairs. Now.”

Jason ignores the security system, using his own code for situations just like this one —getting out of the cave during emergency lockdown— and bypasses the main foyer, dragging you up the stairs to the manor and into his old childhood room.

The door slams shut behind you. The room is dark, lit only by the cold, indifferent glow of Gotham's lights filtering through the blinds. It’s barerer than you remember: a bed, a desk buried under old patrol maps, and a tactical rack where his Red Hood armor hangs like a silent, metal sentinel. His mini library that Bruce built.

You are leaning against the door, breath coming in ragged gasps, still shaken by the altitude, the escape, and the kiss. You are suddenly acutely aware of your figure that's trapped inside and in between both of his arms.

Jason fumbles with locking the deadbolt. The adrenaline has not burned out, but it has shifted. His movements are slower now, predatory. He parts from you and crosses the room in three strides, but stops just short of touching you.

He doesn’t ask for permission. He simply reaches you and unzips your compression jacket in one smooth, decisive movement. The fabric sighs open, pooling around your feet. His leather jacket shares the same fate hitting the floor with a soft, dull thud.

Your eyes meet his. In the dim light filtering through the blinds, his gaze is dark, searching, stripped bare of the anger and the excuses.

You could tell him you’re scared. 

You won’t.

Since he came back four years ago, you and Jason have had sex twice, maybe thrice if you decide that most recent the time you absolutely nuked each other dry through your clothes on top of his bike matters at all, or even counts. You didn’t look at him for weeks after, never risked seeing what it did to him, or to you.

Now he’s right here, close enough that every breath you take brushes against his. His hands are still on your face, steady but trembling at the edges. The hum in the air fades until it’s just that shared pulse, that quiet between heartbeats where you both realize no one’s running this time.

His eyes search yours, as if waiting for you to flinch, to joke, to find a way out. You don’t. You just hold his gaze until the fear blurs into something heavier.

When you finally move, it’s not a decision—it’s gravity. Your lips find his, slow and sure, and for once there’s no heat or mask to hide behind. Your hands wrap around his neck, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling him down.

The kiss is a blur of need and desperation, a claim staked in the only territory that matters now. Your lips. The patted space between them. He groans,  low, guttural, and the sound vibrates against your lips. He breaks the kiss, pulling away just an inch, his eyes locked on yours in the dim light. His pupils are wide, black pools swallowing the faint light of green around them.

“Bed, now” he dictates, his voice rough, heavy with the weight of the last three weeks and the unholy truth of their confession. It isn’t a question; it's a command.

You don’t need to say yes. You answer by hurriedly pulling your tank top over your head, letting it join the growing pile of forgotten clothing on the floor.

He tries to work on your jeans but his fingers tremble slightly as they brush against the button of them, hesitating before completely undoing it. 

The sound is loud in the tense silence between you both. He doesn’t look up at you—doesn’t meet your eyes—as he works on pulling down the zipper. He grins, leaning back just an inch, a breath of space, before yanking your pants off in a single motion.

Jason’s gaze burns over you, an inventory of everything he nearly lost. At the cost of it not happening again, he doesn't waste another second. He lifts you, not gently, but with a sudden, powerful surge, trapping your legs around his waist and grabbing the plush skin of your ass so violently that you know it’s going to bruise. 

He carries you toward the bed, stumbling slightly on his way—a reminder that he is not the golden, graceful crispy ironed duvet, shifting you so you are pinned beneath him. The cold metal of the buckles on his belt presses into your hip when he rolls his hips into yours experimentally, a tangible reminder that his cock is pulsing through his cargos, just for you.

His hands are everywhere—possessive, reassuring, demanding.

You lay there in your underwear, your body trembling slightly from the cold of the room, the adrenaline, and the consuming pull of his presence.

Just as the kiss deepens, just as the last barrier of composure threatens to shatter, Jason draws back. It’s a deliberate, agonizing retreat that leaves you suspended in need. He doesn't move off of you, though, even if you moan in protest; he just props himself up on his elbow above you, his chest heaving, his eyes heavy with a teasing, wicked hunger.

He pushes a strand of your bangs away from your forehead and lets you brush your lips to his before flinching his head back, denying you another kiss

“This reminds me,” he starts. An evil chuckle escapes his mouth “the other time, you said you never needed me”

“Jace”

“Uh-ah” he shushes you, bringing a finger to your lips that you threaten to suck into your mouth “I’m gonna need you to take it back. And beg.”

A soft, sudden growl escapes him. He grabs the back of your thighs, effortlessly pinning you to the bed beneath his body in one swift, fluid motion, your legs over his shoulders, locked.

He doesn't kiss you. He doesn't move. He simply lets out a slow, satisfied exhale that brushes your ear, a sound of absolute, predatory triumph.

You refuse to look away, the burning heat in his eyes mirroring the consuming need in your own chest. The position he’s put you in is undeniably worse than a headlock, leaving you entirely open, entirely his. He's asking you to admit defeat, but your pride is the last thing you have left.

You swallow, the tremor in your voice betraying your composure. “I won’t beg,” you whisper, the words an act of final, desperate resistance. You grab his wrist, your fingers digging into the strong pulse point there.

You dig your fingernails in, but he barely flinches. The pressure doesn't bother him; he just leans in closer, his smirk turning sharp.

You grit your teeth, the effort to hold back a sob making your jaw ache. His victory is palpable, the cruel warmth of his bulge pressing down on your cunt.

“Really?”

“I bet, you can't make me say please.”

He snorts, reaching down to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes hold a dangerous look of pure lust.

"Oh, trust me, princess. I haven't even begun, yet. I think I should play with you a little longer, hm? Until you're begging me to give you what you really want. Then, and only then, will I decide to give in. And when I do, it'll be so worth it."

A malevolent laugh escapes him. He leans in to nip at your sensitive throat, finally relenting with a smirk.

His hand leaves your thigh and rises, the movement slow and deliberate. You track it, helpless, as his fingers hook beneath the strap of your bra where it meets your shoulder.

He doesn't tug or rip. He simply pulls the strap down your arm, exposing the side of your breast to the cool air, leaving the fragile fabric bunched up at your elbow. His eyes never leave yours, waiting for the capitulation.

His free hand wiggles underneath your back—hot, too hot—and moves to the center of your back, his fingers deftly finding the clasp of your bra. A quiet, metallic click, and the garment goes slack. He slides the now unfastened fabric from beneath you, discarding it with a casual flick of his wrist onto the floor.

The predatory triumph in his eyes is back, intensified, and he finally lowers his head, not to kiss, but to claim.

He nips at your earlobe, a promise and a threat. "You have no idea what I've been imagining doing to you."

“Like what?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He growls, his voice dropping to a husky whisper right against your ear "Like teasing you until you’re begging me to cum. Like marking every inch of this perfect body as mine." 

He bites down gently on your shoulder, then continues in a darker tone "And like making sure that when I finally give in and let myself have what we both want so damn badly? You’ll never forget who owns you."

He bites at your earlobe again, his voice husky, hands groping your ass to adjust you better against him as he grinds against you. "Maybe I'll start with some of the, ah... less intense things, first. That way you won't be overwhelmed all at once. I know how sensitive you are." 

Jason doesn't wait. The second the admission is out, the second the bra is gone, his mouth descends.

He doesn't attack with fury, but with a calculated, devastating hunger. His lips and teeth find the tip of your exposed breast first, a harsh, possessive tug that makes your entire body arch up impossibly into his. A moan rips from your throat, swallowed instantly by the charged air between you.

He sucks hard, using his tongue and teeth to work a tight circle around the nipple, drawing the heat and blood to the surface. The deep, wet sound of his mouth against your skin is deafening in the silence of the room. Your hands tighten around his shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle, trying to anchor yourself as a wave of intense, focused sensation washes over you.

He pulls back to look at his handiwork—your breast is perked, the nipple rigid and glistening. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, burn with satisfaction. Your clit gives you a warning pulse when he grinds you against the seam of his pants again.

"God. You’re so damn beautiful." His eyes rake over you. "Seeing you all spread out beneath me like this... I could stare for hours." 

“Jason come on—”

“Sssht—Now let’s see,” Then he nips at your throat, his voice dropping to a low purr. "That pretty little spot on your hip... maybe I'll give that special attention. Or that sensitive bit on your inner thigh. I can’t tell you how many times I've imagined it."

You’re… speechless to say the least. The very few times the two of you have had sex have been normal. Almost talkless. The much needed foreplay and an exchange of words that could boil down to not even sweet nothings.

What’s happening now is feral. An instance that’s making you embarrassed and flustered in all the wrong ways. Telling him how much you want him, begging him—it feels stupid, embarrassing, it’s making you—

“You're making me—“

Jason growls against your skin, smirking as he feels the undeniable shiver that runs through you.

"Making you what, sweetheart? Finish your sentence. Tell me what I'm doing to you." His teeth graze your collarbone, a gravelly whisper.

“Nghhh” you moan

"Come on…Tell me how badly you want it, princess. Tell me just how badly you crave it— We both know it. You want it. It's just a matter of when you'll beg for me."

“You're making me wet, Jay.”

He laughs, immediately satisfied. His fingers trail down your side before suddenly gripping the inside of your thigh and squeezing possessively.

He presses open mouthed kisses down your body, trailing his tongue on every spot his lips wrap around and each kiss makes you jolt, cunt squeezing around nothing.

"Oh? Really now? Thought so,” He bites the soft skin of your hip with a smirk when he reaches the band of your cotton underwear. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear, babe. And we haven't even gotten started yet."

Then, with an abrupt change of focus, he begins to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses across your sternum, up the soft dip between your breasts, and up the other side. His tongue sweeps up to the second peak he left untouched before, and he takes it into his mouth with the same intensity, demanding the same raw, breathless response.

You stop fighting. Your body is a nerve pulled taut, trembling under his focus. The demanding pull, the wet heat—it’s too much. Your head falls back against the mattress, your defense completely shattered.

The second Jason brings his hand to your clothed slit, pressing two fat pads of his fingers right oover your aching clit, your whole body shivers.

“Ready to say please?” He waits, letting the silence and the proximity do the rest of the work.

You shake your head in denial and his fingers press onto your clit harder in one, two, three, four swirls before he shifts. He removes his hand entirely, sitting up slightly. He leans forward, right next to your ear 

“Maybe I could use my mouth on you,” Jason whispers.

The words are soft, a sudden break in the harsh tension. The quiet invitation—the shift from his aggressive challenge to a devastatingly intimate offer—slams through your last bit of composure.

He watches you, a smug triumph flashing in his dark gaze.

He trails his fingers back down your body, slowly, before his hand settles on the inside of your thigh. His head follows as he leans in close, his mouth hovering just over the inside of your thigh, claiming his generosity.

“See, I can be nice,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he begins to trace the sensitive skin near the edge of your underwear close to your center. "But nice doesn't mean patient. It just means I'll make sure you're damn near screaming for me before I even bother with those pretty little panties."

He shifts, his eyes never leaving yours, watching for the exact moment the resistance breaks. You expect him to move slowly, to prolong the agony of the hover, but Jason is done with subtlety.

"Fine," he grits out, the word raw. "You want to know what I risk for a sound? Here."

He pushes your hips down, his leg weight heavy and commanding. He lowers his head, and the cold air is immediately displaced by his hot, broken breath against your soaking wet cotton.

His tongue is a sudden, scorching press against your inner thigh—a sharp, wet line drawn right up to the edge of your underwear. He doesn’t go over the fabric. Instead, he uses his teeth, tugging the damp cotton down just enough to expose the slick, sensitive skin beneath.

The pressure is agonizing. You gasp, arching your back against the mattress, your fingers sinking into the duvet.

"Don't you dare bite that pretty lip, princess," he dictates, his voice muffled, a low vibration against your hip bone. "I want to hear every sound I pull out of you."

Then, he commits. He sweeps his tongue over the pulsing, aching nub of your clit. It's a possessive demand, and the shock is so intense that your entire body snaps taut, your hips lifting into the air without conscious thought.

He pulls back an inch, his eyes flashing up to your face, triumph and a dark, raw need burning in his gaze. He smiles, a savage, satisfied curve of his lips.

The sound that tears from you—that high, desperate, broken whimper—is only half the admission he’d been waiting for. You didn't even know you were capable of making it.

The pleasure, the shame, the sheer overwhelming focus of it all snaps your control completely. You don't try to speak. You don't dare challenge him again.

Instead, your hands shoot out, gripping the sides of his head, your fingers burying themselves in the dark, damp strands of his hair. You pull him down—hard—a wordless, frantic plea for him to return, for him to finish what he started.

He groans, the low, guttural sound rattling against the mattress. The savagery in his eyes doesn't fade; it sharpens. He doesn't go back to your throbbing center, not yet. Instead, he settles his mouth against the wet heat he created on your inner thigh, taking a possessive, teeth-grazing bite of the sensitive skin.

"Beg for it, sweetheart," he dictates, his voice muffled against your flesh, heavy with the promise of more. "Tell me what you want me to do next."

"Take my panties off, Jason, please."

The demand is strained, not the begging whimper he wanted, but close enough to shatter the last barrier. He grunts, a raw sound of satisfaction tearing from his throat.

He pulls back an inch, his eyes flashing up to your face, triumph and a dark, raw need burning in his gaze. He smiles, a savage, satisfied curve of his lips.

"That was a damn good first attempt, but you’re gonna have to do better than that, sweetheart,” he says, his fingers already working on the cotton band of your underwear.

He doesn't bother with finesse. With a sharp, possessive yank, he tears the uselessly wet fabric down your thighs and kicks them off the end of the bed.

“I’ll still reward you” He doesn't pause, doesn't wait. He immediately replaces the cotton with his mouth. The cold air hits your slick skin for one agonizing second before his hot, wet tongue takes a slow lick from the bottom of your pussy to the tip of your clit. 

He starts with a devastating pressure right over the source of the ache, then uses the rough pad of his tongue to rake across your core.

A genuine scream—raw, broken, and utterly involuntary—tears from your lungs, muffled only by the worn duvet beneath your head. Your hips surge off the mattress, seeking the relentless pressure.

He stops, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with the finality of victory.

"There it is," he breathes, his voice thick with triumph. “Do we like?”

“Yes!”

“Mhhhm” He grunts in satisfied acknowledgment against your pussy, his eyes staring right into yours, still heavy with that raw, victorious lust. He doesn't pull back again. He dives back down, relentless, using his tongue, rubbing it in figure eights over and over on your puffy clit.

You’re only gasping and sobbing against the mattress. A slurry mess is what you’ve become, with fat tears gathering at the corners of your tightly shut eyes

The sounds you make are primal, unedited, and for better or for worse, belong only to Jason. You can only pray, amidst your mind that’s already turning into goo, that Alfred is not anywhere near this wing of the manor.

Jason doesn't move off your pussy, not wanting to shake the immense wave of pleasure he's creating. His tongue is suddenly everywhere—slick, insistent—pushing you past the final point of thought, past the edge of control. The rhythmic pressure of his groaning every time he dips his tongue into your syrupy hole, is forcing a continuous, broken whine from your throat.

You are completely lost to the sensation, clinging to the fabric of his duvet, your hips bucking instinctively. The world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the rough pad of his tongue, and the shocking sound of his satisfied moans against your clit. Every muscle in your body locks, tightening against the consuming force of his attention.

He shifts his head once, a slight movement that changes the angle and pressure, and the world shatters. Your chest heaves with short breaths and Jason bullies a thick finger inside you with vigilance.

He twists it once, thrice, twice –you don’t even know how words work and in which order right now– and your legs start shaking, locking around his neck, urging him to put his mouth on you immediately. 

And fuck, if that’s not the hottest thing Jason has ever seen. Fuck being told he has the best thighs in the world on the regular; It’s your thighs he wants to die in between of.

So he complies with you, only because he’s so close to actually breaking you; His lips find your clit again and suck subtly. Your fingers leave the duvet and claw uselessly at his hair. You can't breathe, can't think. Every muscle is pulled like a rope, your thighs trembling as you try to press yourself harder into his face. The pressure builds, a tight, coil of pure hedonism winding tighter and tighter in your core.

He uses his thumb—the same thumb that had been teasing you earlier—and presses down hard on your swollen, sensitive clit, even as his mouth continues its ruthless, focused assault.

The contrast is dizzying. The soft kitten licks of his combined with the mixture of wetness of you and his tongue versus the roughness of his thumb. He is just everywhere, missing nothing, taking everything.

You shutter. Or, you’re going to shutter. Very soon and very suddenly. And you can't even shut up about it. 

“It’s coming– I’m gonna come Jay– fuckfuckfuck” You repeat, over and over, like a mantra.

Jason pulls away in one swift move and at first you don’t realise he’s not just taking a breath. You try to push his head back onto you, hips bucking, missing the warmth of his mouth on you, his fingers not even anywhere close to being enough for you. 

You look at him, panicked, eyes surging to search his face for a reason as to why he’s not mouth to mouth with your pussy yet, only to see him smiling at you with his eyes squinted, wiping the string of wetness connecting him to you. 

He sniffles, then wipes his nose, lips parting with cockiness, despite the fucked out expression on his face, as he swipes his thumb over your clit one final time, only to trace a line of slickness up your thigh, his eyes locked on yours.

Your whine of his name could only be described as a scream, really. Not Jace or Jason, but a sound closer to a wounded animal's cry.

“I told you,” He rasps “Good things come to those who beg”

Your legs kick, your body bows. You’re only left wondering– Where the fuck did Jason learn how to eat pussy like this?

The rush of his words, the conceited, arrogant confidence of his claim, cuts through the haze of your pleasure. He leans back, expecting you to simply concede, to fall silent under the weight of his control. His fingers trap your chin, forcing your face into his.

“What do you say, pretty?”

“Fuck” You start mumbling “’m sorry, i need yah Jay, please– Please–”

He swallows the sound you both make ,with his lips on yours and only pulls back once the shudders begin to subside. He rises, his chest heaving. He looks down at you—limp, spent, glistening—and his eyes are dark with victory. 

“Please what ‘Jay’?” He asks, mockingly.

"Please, fuck me!" The word tears from your throat, raw and broken, a sound that finally holds the deep, true desperation he’s been hunting for. "Please, Jason. Don't stop. I need you inside me, now. Please. Please. Please, I need you."

You don't just say the word; you choke on it multiple times. Your hips are bucking again, frantically trying to bridge the small, agonizing distance between his body and yours. The sound is ragged, humiliating, and just perfect. Giving in feels so. fucking. good.

Jason goes utterly still.

His eyes widen, the triumphant smirk freezing on his face before it melts into an expression of pure, unadulterated shock and yearning. He stares at you, absorbing the sound of the word he earned.

"God," he growls, the sound thick and final. “Look at you.”

He doesn't waste another second. He yanks his boots off, kicking them carelessly onto the floor. With one fluid motion, he strips off his own cargos, the kevlar under armour and boxers, tossing them aside. The cold metal of his belt buckles finally clatters away, leaving him fully exposed, completely vulnerable, just like you.

His body is hot, hard of sculpted muscle and littered with scars that vary in size, and so very immediately pressed between your legs. He braces his hands on the mattress beside your head, leaning over you, his gaze intense as he slaps the eight of his dick on your pussy and finally, lines himself up with your entrance.

But instead of slipping inside, like he could have done sooo easily, he pushes himself to tease you a little more, even if his bulge is begging him not to.

He slugs his body over yours, his weight heavy and intoxicating. His cock drags, slowly, excruciatingly, from your throbbing, squelching hole to your clit, smearing slickness across your hypersensitive core. He goes to repeat the motion, twice, the rough texture of him drawing a sharp, frustrated gasp from your throat.

"Fuck," he rasps, his hips pushing into the friction again. “Can I put it in?”

You nod frantically in response, saying yes, yes, yes, yes, like it’s the only word you know how to say.

He moves once more, his cock sliding just past the swollen entrance, riding the delicate ridge of your sex. The friction is unbearable, building the pressure you thought had already peaked.

Your hand reaches over his tip, fast. Pressing it down against your clit in heated need, desperate for some more friction and Jason’s just taking it, shimming his hips back and forth until he slips, once, inside your velvety pussy.

Jason groans. A long, trembling broken whine of a sound that lasts as long as it takes for him to bottom out inside you. Your pussy splits around him, pulling him in tight, clenching impossibly. Nothing has ever felt this good in his entire life.

Your breath is punched out of your lungs. The other wise sound of an “ooof” escapes you once your walls stretch just enough to accommodate him.

The silence that follows Jason's groan is only broken by the frantic, heavy rhythm of his own pulse hammering where your bodies meet. The way his chest stutters by his broken breathing.

He waits, not moving, savoring the feeling of being completely sheathed inside your throbbing walls. His hands slide from the mattress to your waist, gripping you hard enough to bruise.

"Mine–ffffuck," he rasps, the word a vibration that starts deep in his chest and echoes through your core.

Then, he moves. It’s not a graceful rhythm, but a hard, punishing thrust that forces another gasp from your lips. He pulls back almost completely, then slams home again, deep and desperate, seeking friction where you are already raw and sensitive.

You can't do anything but cling to him, your back arching off the bed with every collision. The intensity is immediate, sharp, overriding the lingering exhaustion of how badly he’s teased you prior. You feel the familiar, dizzying spiral starting again—faster this time, rougher, fueled by the desperation of his entry and how snug every ridge of his cock fits inside you.

"Look at me," he commands, his hips pausing, his fingers digging into your flesh. “How long has it been since we did this?”

The pleading in his eyes could actually, irrevocably destroy you.

“One year. Four months” you slur the words strained, the numbers sounding immense and tragic as they exit your mouth.

He doesn't let the emotion interrupt the act. He takes your answer and weaponizes it.

"Too damn long," he growls, shoving his hips forward with bone-jarring force. He starts the relentless tempo again, faster, heavier, each deep thrust punishing the long separation.

He pulls back, his hips rotating sharply, then fucks forward with piston-like thrusts. The headboard behind you thuds against the wall, a heavy, rhythmic declaration of their collision.

He is all angles and power, driving into your core with extreme speed. Your arms wrap automatically around his torso, holding on for dear life.

Jason doesn't slow, even when your nails dig into the skin of his back –he only hisses– maintaining the depth and impact of fucking into you, aiming to smash the lingering haze of your previously ruined release and rebuild the climax with his sheer force.

Your hips rise to meet him, an involuntary response to the violence of his tempo. Your thighs lock around his waist, trying to anchor the sensation, but you are just along for the ride. Moaning his name over and over, trying to be louder than the wet sounds of skin on skin that fill the room a hundred times a second.

He shifts his grip, one hand flattening against your stomach, pushing down slightly, forcing him deeper into the curve of your body. The pressure is intense, focused entirely on the friction. And then, he leans his weight down, grinding his chest against your already sensitive breasts.

He pulls back, again his jaw tight with effort, and delivers three sharp, stuttering thrusts, so deep they make your vision swim.

He’s lost all his ability to speak. All of his cockiness and authority, gone, to the sound of his own moans. He leans down, taking your mouth with a bruising, desperate kiss that swallows your ragged gasps. It's a claim, meant to silence everything but the collision of your bodies, the drop drip drip watery sound of him fucking into you. His tongue sweeps inside your mouth, mirroring the invasion below, giving you not a spec of space to hide.

The way his hips rock you make your ass lift with each movement, each roll of his waist and hips inside you. Everything condemns him impossibly deeper– your sugary walls keep clamping around him so intensely that you feel every vein, every curve of his dick molding you to his shape completely.

The sensation is too much, too fast. Your lungs lock, your chest heavs in short, broken gasps “Please touch me” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper

“Where baby?”

“My p-pussy-”

He half-laughs, amused at your sudden stammering, but he doesn't even use the mocking princess title. He breaks the kiss, only to drop his head and press his mouth against your ear. At the same moment, his hips shift slightly, and he brings his free hand down. His thumb finds your swollen, sensitive clit, pressing down hard and working it in a tight, merciless circle while he drives deeper inside you.

The simultaneous pressure—the internal crushing force of his thrusts combined with the external, focused torture of his thumb—sends you spinning.

You feel the familiar tightening deep in your belly, the warning signs of a secondary peak that is rougher, more demanding than the first and find solace in the fact that this time, you’re going to get your release.

You try to move your hand to his shoulder, to slow him down, but he simply catches your wrist and pins it above your head with his other hand, maintaining the relentless drive.

He delivers a broken series of hard, long and shattering thrusts and the world dissolves into noise and pressure. Your climax is explosive, a violent, full-body surrender that makes your back bow and your legs lock around his waist with uncontrollable force. You scream his name, the sound muffled against his skin giving him the final victory he demanded.

Jason collapses on top of you for a moment heavy, spent, his breath sawing raggedly against your neck. The intensity of the climax still pulses all around him, and you're left limp and boneless beneath his weight.

He rocks mindlessly into you as you buck your hips against him too, riding your orgasm into a sweet prolonging that feels like eternity.

"On your knees," he commands, pulling out of your slick core in one agonizing, slow withdrawal. He gives your face a playful pat on the cheek.

He doesn't move far though, just rising enough to help you stand as you wobble and shuffle, to bring his pulsing length to your face, his gaze burning into your own. "I wanna cum in your mouth."

You open your mouth, looking up at him, wordless. Your body is still shaking and the sudden vertical shift makes your head swim, but the ingrained obedience to his command is absolute. You are too spent to argue, too raw to refuse.

Jason watches you for a beat, his expression a complicated mix of being utterly spent and yearning for what you’re about to do to him, and grabs his cock at the base to rub it back and forth onto your swollen lips.

The motion is slow, possessive, smearing the remnants of your own release across your mouth. The contact is an intimate claim, a shared secret between the two of you in the dark, quiet of his room.

You remain kneeling, your eyes locked on his, accepting the gesture entirely. The heat is intoxicating, the taste a visceral reminder of the pleasure he just surrendered in and the absolute dominance he exerted only moments ago.

You reach up, one hand circling his hard wrist, holding him steady, keeping the friction exactly where he put it. You use your tongue, flicking out to clean a path along the underside of his length.

He groans, a low sound pulled deep from his chest, and his eyes briefly slip shut.

He leans forward, gripping the back of your head firmly but ever so gently, guiding you to his rigid length. You tuck your lips over your teeth and suck, taking him fully into your mouth.

Your tongue dances over every vein, every single rigid of dick that you can reach without breaking the suction you’re creating.

The first buck of his hips into your face is slow, his hands tangling through your head to come and cup your jaw tenderly. The action alone sends you into frenzy— you bob your head and hollow your cheeks out until he fills your mouth completely.

You’re making sounds you never thought you could possibly make. Lewd slurping and the occasional smooching whenever he makes a move that slightly breaks the suction of your mouth around him.

Jason allows you to pull away for air just once, your hand coming to form a ring over the base of his cock and his balls. You let the weight of it slap your cheek as you take both balls onto your mouth and lick.

He hisses, utterly spent, but his eyes refuse to leave yours for a second.

Popping his balls of your mouth, you gather enough spit to pool it at the edge of your parted lips before rubbing his swollen tip over them again.

“Fucking hell,” he moans “You’re pure sin.”

Jason stops you from teasing him any more– He brings his hands up, gripping the back of your head with a sudden, powerful grip and thrusts forward, driving deep into your throat. The move is so forceful, it makes you choke. He sets a hard, desperate rhythm, pushing himself to the edge quick, quick, quickly.

His breathing turns into sharp, broken gasps. He is focused entirely on the explosive feeling building inside him, his eyes squeezed shut against the sensory overload.

"That's it, babe," he chokes out, his voice thick with struggle "I'm cumming—God!"

He empties into your mouth—a thick surge of hot white that lasts agonizingly long. You feel him shudder violently above you, his whole body locking as he spends himself completely, every muscle straining. You swallow, obediently, to the very last drop.

Jason finally leans back in an arch of his back, and you downright ogle at the way his abs flex. Then, he pulls out of your mouth with a thick, shuddering gasp. He doesn't move far, though, just standing there, spent, sweaty and out of breath, watching you. His eyes blink open, irises blown with exhausted satisfaction.

He holds you for a moment, his hand tight in your hair.

"Stay," he rasps.

Then, with a rough, sudden move, he shifts. He uses the hand gripping your hair to pivot your head sharply, then your hips, while his body weight executes a rapid turn. He manhandles you on your chest, moving you in one fluid motion so you are now pressed onto your stomach, flat on the mattress beneath him.

“I’m not done,” Jason rasps against your back, placing a kiss onto the middle of it.

You can only groan as you brace yourself against the mattress, heart hammering, your sex immediately slick and open for him.

Jason’s hands both land on your ass, making you hiss, then, he uses his thumbs to spread your cheeks open, making a loud hissing sound at the sight of your wet and already ruined pussy.

He grips your hips—hard—his fingers digging into your flesh to anchor you to the bed. He pulls back slightly, then plunges. 

His shimmies inside you, with a force that makes your knees slip slightly on the bed and an uncontrollable gasp is knocked out of you by the motion alone.

He drives into you, hard and fast. The angle is brutal, leveraging his full weight, and the sensation is a squelching friction, the peak you thought you could only reach once tonight starts coiling again deep and low inside your tummy.

Jason pulls your hair, this time to keep your neck arched and exposed, and repeatedly growls against your ear, "all mine." Each syllable punctuated by a deep, relentless thrust, your neck coated with saliva from his open mouthed is kissed on every spot he can latch onto.

“Jay..” you interrupt him with a slur 

“Yeah baby?” 

“Jay, pillow…ah— hips”

Jason gasps, too keen to follow the rhythm of his hips fucking into yours, too focused on how tight your pussy feels around him. He doesn’t even have the energy to tell you how solid his cock pumps with blood at the though of having already fucked you stupid. How much his chest shudders at the feeling.

He does the only thing he can— he shows you.

Instead of grabbing a pillow, he bends his back, lifts your hips and snuggles one thick forearm under your hips to support you, while the other drives your hips onto him repeatedly.

You claw at the covers underneath you, the fabric bunching in your fists. You're unable to maintain any thought outside of the explosion point, your mind finally a puddle of goo. The pressure of this new angle builds sharply, vibrating all focus at your core, right where his hips meet yours again and again.

He feels like heaven inside you. Too thick, too hard. Each thrust bruises your sugary walls and makes you scream almost exactly like a pornstar.

Then— he slides the hand from your hip, reaches forward, and finds your clit, pressing his middle finger down hard against the slick, sensitive nub. He keeps up his rhythm, achingly slow, trapping you between the mattress and himself.

The sensation is too much, too immediate. Too everywhere. Your hips buck backward, desperate to find the bottom of his thrusts, and a high, uncontrolled moan rips from your throat as his tip finds and violates that one spongy spot inside you that feels just right. 

He lets out a series of thick, guttural grunts as he unleashes a final, shattering barrage of strokes. He feels the inevitable clenching deep inside you, hits it over and over again.

He just loves how your pussy clamps around him when you come, how you just gush so perfectly for him. How slippery and hot you feel, just for him. How—

“Fuck, fucking shit I’m gonna cum again” JJason throws his head back, all muscles locking, his body pitching forward as he spends himself entirely inside your tight core.

The climax is almost simultaneous and that to him is devastating on its own.

You both scream, the sound swallowed by the mattress and the dark walls of his room. The world dissolves into white noise and pulsing, and his body collapses, heavy and spent, trapping you beneath his sweaty weight.

The only movement left now is the shaking release of his muscles and the pulsing aftermath in the form of sticky, white cum deep within you. He rests his head against the crook of your neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps. The silence is finally complete.

He places a kiss underneath your chin and groans when you start shaking. 

Fuck— As he watches you twitch, he realises, he completely forgot you don’t have the stamina that comes with your powers anymore.

“‘M sorry” he apologises, trying to make you turn your head to him, but you're limp, breathless. Shaking against him, like you’ve been hit by a tidal wave and barely survived.

“‘S‘Kay” you manage to say.

Jason shifts, his cock pulling out of you with a slow, gentle withdrawal that is the opposite of everything that just occurred. 

He rolls slightly to the side, his cum immediately dripping out of you when he pulls you close to him, spooning your exhausted body tightly against his chest.

His arms wrap securely around you, one hand coming up to stroke your hair, pushing the damp strands back from your face. His breathing is slowing, evening out. He doesn't speak; he just holds you, anchoring you to the present.

The only exchange between you that could be considered a conversation is the kiss you seek when you shove your face right into his.

He doesn’t deny it. He needs it as much as you.

He hasn’t felt this safe and sound with you in years.

You don’t know how long you sit there, laying in each other’s arms, but at one point you manage to get inside the covers. Eventually, the chill of the room on your sweaty skin forces the move. Jason shuffles, pulling the duvet up over your shoulders, his movements now slow and meticulously careful.

He lies there for a long moment, completely still, letting the moment settle around the ruins of where you both stood contrary to each other when the night started.

His breathing is slow, evened out. Yet— he wants to do the unfathomable right now. 

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice raw, finally breaking the silence. “Let’s go clean up”

In your sleepy state you protest. Your muscles ache all over in dull little spasms. You want to sleep and stay asleep in Jason’s arms for at least a week.

Your eyes keep shutting, sweet sleep enlacing you under his warm blanket. Jason’s chest is warm, his skin is soft like a feathery pillow and you sink deeper into him as your eyelids finally betray you and shut completely. Sure, cleaning up can wait. Right?

Just fiiiive more minutes. 

When your eyes open again Jason is leading you into the adjoined private bath of his bedroom and is already turning on the hot water in the shower. He doesn't bother with the harsh main light, in fear of ruining your sleepiness, relying instead on the soft, dim glow from the hall as steam fills the small space.

He guides you into the stall, stepping in behind you. He finds a bottle of body wash, one that smells so much like him, but is still better on his skin than inside the bottle, working it into a rich lather on a washcloth between his big hands. He takes a moment, simply running the scalding water over your back, letting the heat seep into your tight muscles, softening you up.

You sheepishly moan at the sensation 

He starts with your back, washing the sweat and tension from your shoulders and spine, his movements slow and mesmerizing. He works down your body, meticulously cleaning your legs, thighs, and finally, reaching between your legs. 

He cups you gently, even if you tremor through it, running the washcloth over the raw, sensitive skin he has so savagely claimed. His eyes are kind as he rinses the last remnants of hot, sweaty sex away from your body, meeting yours briefly—a moment of profound intimacy, acknowledging the space you just shared.

Your lips form a sleepy pout as you go to hold onto his beefy shoulders. A silent plea to get back under warm covers soon.

A dangerous thought crosses him— he loves ruining you on his cock, he’s sure now, but he absolutely hates seeing you this weak.

He takes care of himself quickly, then helps you step out, wrapping you in a thick and very very soft, fuzzy bath towel. He pulls on a pair of loose boxers, ignoring the rest of the discarded tactical gear littering the floor.

He dresses you accordingly. A pair of tighter boxers and a tee that’s just too big for you.

He doesn't let go of your hand until he's settled you back into the warmth of the bed. He climbs in beside you, pulling the covers up to your chin, and immediately gathers your shivering body back into his embrace, pulling you over his chest.

You settle into the familiar contours of his body. The scent of him—smoke, leather has vanished and is replaced now with clean, damp skin, and that ridiculously cheap axe cookie smelling body wash and deodorant—it’s the only anchor you need, really.

He runs his fingers along your spine, tracing lazy, possessive patterns, his movements mesmerizing. His lips find your forehead, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your skin.

You cling to him, burying your face against the hollow of his neck, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart beneath your ear. He is no longer the aggressive dom, but the man holding onto the one thing he feared losing most.

He squeezes you tight, then loosens his grip just enough to tilt your chin up with one finger. He kisses you again, soft this time, a slow exploration that holds all the tenderness the last hour lacked.

The light is the first thing that changes. Not the cold, indifferent glow of Gotham filtering through the blinds, but a weak, pale morning sun attempting to break through the perpetual glooming clouds that loom over the city.

You wake slowly, your exhaustion still deep. Your body is a map of all sensations—a dull ache in your hips, a lingering throb in your inner thighs, and the profound, comforting weight of Jason’s arm thrown intimately across your stomach. His head lays perfectly onto your chest, eyes closed still and you hold out a breath as not to wake him.

You shift slightly, testing the security of his hold. His arm tightens instinctively, a low, incoherent rumble vibrating from his chest.

He's not letting go.

You bow your head just enough to study his face. The tension and savage hunger that defined him last night are gone, replaced by a rare, almost startling softness. His expression is too peaceful, his upper lip, bunched and tucked underneath his lower one, his brows smooth, looking closer to the boy you remembered than the brutal man who drove you to your knees hours ago.

Your heart pulls at your chest.

You trace the sharp line of his jaw with one finger, then move to gently brush the hair back from his forehead. The duvet is tangled around your legs, and the cool air hits your bare skin, but the heat emanating from his body is that of a fireplace.

He stirs, his eyes fluttering open.

He doesn't smile, but his hand moves from your stomach to cup the side of your face. He pulls you gently forward and presses a long, slow, sleepy to your lips.

You slightly smile against his lips.

And Jason? Jason doesn't need words right now. No. He tightens his arm around you, burying his face deeper into your chest with a low, satisfied sound. He's clearly drifting back to sleep, content in the knowledge that you are pinned exactly where he wants you. And that he’s the small spoon.

The peace lasts all but thirty seconds.

Then, a loud, rhythmic knocking starts on the bedroom door—heavy, insistent, and totally unapologetic.

Jason’s body instantly tenses beneath you. The peace vanishes, replaced by the familiar, coiled alertness of a predator disturbed. His eyes snap open, cold and annoyed.

"Are you serious," he mutters, the sound is a low, murderous growl from the depths of his chest.

You shift, and Jason immediately tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you back against him.

“Five more minutes,” he growls into your skin, his voice heavy with sleep.

He ignores the knocking completely, settling his chin on you and pulling you even closer, his leg hooking over yours.

“Jayyyyybird”

A cheerful, far-too-loud voice calls through the thick wood of the door “We brought coffee and the good doughnut stuff—the raspberry jelly ones!"

That's Dick. 

Seriously, who lets him be in charge when Bruce is out of town?

Jason lets out a long, slow breath—the sight of someone contemplating homicide, while you run your nails in soothing lines across his scalp. He looks up at you, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and resigned apology. He is completely naked, you are completely naked –after a very sleepy, very five am round of sex that got you to remove all clothing he worked so hard to get you in last night– and two of his brothers are standing on the other side of the door.

This is exactly why he hates sleeping at the manor.

“Go away,” he growls, pressing himself further into your chest

“We’re not going away,” Tim speaks from the other side of the door.

"They're not going away," Jason confirms to you, rubbing his thumb along your jaw. He sniffles, pulling the duvet over your shoulders like a fortress wall. "Stay here. Don't move."

He throws himself out of bed, grabbing the first piece of messy, discarded fabric he finds—one of his own boxer briefs—and yanks them on with aggressive speed and a jump. He glances pointedly at the tactical rack where a spare Red Hood helmet hangs, looking like he wants to solve this problem with ballistic speed and force.

He stomps to the door, unlocking the heavy deadbolt with a dramatic, resentful thunk. He yanks the door open, blocking the entryway with his wide, muscular frame. He's shirtless, sweaty, one eye is still drifting with sleep and he’s radiating pure, lethal irritation. 

Dick is standing there, bright-eyed and entirely too cheerful, holding a tray with two large coffees and a box of pastries. Tim is beside him, looking perpetually tired and carrying a tablet.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Dick chirps, immediately trying to step sideways to peer past Jason’s hip.

"Don't," Jason growls, his voice low and dangerous. He plants his foot, making himself a solid, immovable barrier between the two idiots and the inside of his room. "The door stays open an inch, and you talk fast."

Tim, ever the detective, ignores the threat and leans around and under Dick's shoulder, eyes narrowed as he tries to scan the interior. He catches sight of the rumpled duvet and the pile of discarded tactical pants near the desk.

"Woah, wait a minute," Tim starts, a tired smirk playing on his lips. "The plan actually worked? Did we interrupt—"

Jason doesn't let him finish, although the confirmation that they set last night up is something he is going to circle back around later. He reaches out, grabs both brothers by the scruffs of their shirts, and physically shoves them back into the hallway.

"The coffee, the food, and then you get the hell out of this wing for the rest of the day" Jason snarls, snatching the tray from Dick's hands before the former Robin can even protest. He sets the tray just inside the doorframe, still blocking the view of the bed. "Take your damn selves away and go debrief Bruce."

“Whoah, a simple thank you wouldn’t hurt” Tim broods, fixing the collar of his shirt. “If Bruce comes back and finds his security protocols compromised and his cave locked, we’re dead. Be glad I set everything back to normal.”

“Fuck oooooffffffff” Jason whines.  

"Come on Dick, they had hate sex and are now dead from exhaustion!"

“Scram Drake. We’re busy doing it again.”

Dick laughs, utterly unapologetic. "Okay, okay! Message received! Just needed to confirm the trajectory of the mission!" He winks hugely at the obscured room.

Jason’s face darkens. He slams the door, the deadbolt locking with a decisive, final clack, cutting off the rest of their smug laughter.

He leans against the wood for a moment, letting out a heavy sigh that holds the weight of his irritating family lurking around the worst moments. He turns around, looking back at the safe harbor of the rumpled bed and your still resting form. Yeah, that sets him back on track.

He picks up the tray, grabbing both mugs of coffee but pointedly ignoring the box of jelly doughnuts. He stomps back to the bed and climbs under the covers, pulling the thick duvet covers back over both of you.

He shoves one mug into your hand, settling his large body comfortably against the pillows. He looks supremely annoyed, but the hand he rests on your hip is loose, possessive.

You kiss his collarbone in hopes of softening him a little.

He shrugs and you look at him with big, blown eyes, "At least we have breakfast."

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but comments are the fuel my heart needs to keep pumping fics like this

Y/N had thought it would be funny, that was the problem.

The entire prank had started because Mattheo had laughed and said, “You know what would be hilarious? Pretend to break up with Tom.”

In hindsight, taking relationship advice from Mattheo was always a terrible idea. Because now Y/N was standing in an empty classroom staring at her boyfriend.

Who was staring back. “…What?” Tom asked.

Y/N almost backed out immediately. Almost. Instead she crossed her arms and forced herself to continue. “I think we should break up.”

Silence.

Tom blinked, once, twice. Then, nothing. No anger, no argument, no reaction at all.

For about three seconds.

Then every door in the room slammed shut. The lock clicked. Several wards appeared across the walls.

And Tom stood up.

Y/N immediately regretted everything.“…Tom?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead he started pacing, one end of the room, then the other. Then back again.

Y/N watched him but he kept pacing. “…Tom.”

Still nothing

His hands were folded behind his back now, which somehow made everything worse because that was what he did when he was thinking.

And Tom Riddle thinking was always dangerous.

Finally he stopped. “No.”

Y/N blinked.“…No?”

“No.”

“Tom—”

“No.”

“Thomas.” That got his attention immediately.

He turned toward her, looking genuinely confused. Like she’d suggested something impossible. “My future self didn’t tell me this.”

Y/N froze.

Tom continued pacing.“You and I are supposed to be together forever.”

Y/N stared because Tom was serious. Entirely serious. “I’ve met our children.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped because he had.

Mattheo, Delphini, Marvolo, Albus, The twins and even Aurelia. All of them.

Tom stopped again, his expression tightened. “I’ve met all seven of them.”

Y/N winced as Tom looked genuinely offended by reality itself. “Not one of them mentioned this.”

“…Tom.”

“Not one.”

“Tom.”

“I specifically asked.”

“You specifically interrogated them.”

“Same thing.”

Y/N covered her face. This had gone so much worse than she’d expected.

Tom started pacing again.“You don’t leave.”

Y/N lowered her hands.“What?”

“You don’t.” His voice was firm, he voice was certain. Like he was reciting a fact, like gravity, saying like the sky being blue. “You stay.”

Y/N’s heart hurt a little. Because suddenly this wasn’t funny anymore. “My love, I didn’t mean to hurt you. “

Tom wasn’t angry. He was panicking, trying very hard not to, trying to solve it logically, trying to make reality fit what he’d already seen. “You didn’t hurt me,” he said immediately.

Which meant she absolutely had.

“You didn’t.”

“Tom—”

“I’ve simply identified an inconsistency.”

Y/N nearly laughed. Only Tom Riddle would call heartbreak an inconsistency.

Tom rubbed his forehead. “No.” There was that word again.

Then suddenly he stopped pacing, his eyes narrowed and Y/N watched the exact moment he convinced himself. “It’s a prank.”

“…”

Tom pointed at her. “It’s a prank.”

Y/N blinked.“…Tom.”

“It’s obviously a prank.”

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Tom ignored that. “It’s a prank.” Then he nodded, once. Like he’d solved a difficult equation. “That’s what this is.”

Y/N looked at him. Looked at the boy she loved. The boy who had accidentally seen enough of the future to know she never left.

The boy who looked far too relieved to have found an explanation and suddenly she felt awful.“…It is.”

Tom immediately relaxed, not fully, but enough. “There.”

Y/N laughed weakly. “There?”

“There.” Tom looked pleased with himself, like he’d solved the mystery. “You aren’t leaving.”

Y/N shook her head. “No.”

“Obviously.”

Y/N smiled.

“Obviously.”

Tom looked vindicated, then crossed the room in about three strides. Wrapped his arms around her and refused to let go.

Y/N laughed. “Tom.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“You are staying right here.”

“I’m literally in your arms.”

“Good.”

Y/N buried her face against his shoulder.

Tom tightened his hold slightly, as if making extra sure.

“You know,” she said quietly, “most people would’ve just been upset.”

“I was upset.”

“You locked the door.”

“I was thinking.”

“You warded the room.”

“Precautionary.”

“You paced for ten minutes.”

“I was processing.”

Y/N laughed harder.

Tom looked down at her, then sighed, “You are not allowed to do that again.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “You frightened me.” That made her pause because Tom rarely admitted things like that.

Y/N immediately reached up and cupped his face. “I’m sorry.”

Tom leaned into her hand automatically. “I know.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I know.” Y/N smiled.

Tom stared at her for another second then finally kissed her forehead, long and lingering.

Still holding her. Still refusing to let go and Y/N suspected he wasn’t planning to let go for several hours.

Just to be safe.

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Aurelia Riddle had one major advantage over all of her siblings. She never went looking for the portal.

Mattheo had, Delphini had and Marvolo definitely had. The twins had practically lived inside it. But Aurelia? Aurelia had grown up with it.

She'd seen every memory, every conversation, every ridiculous moment of her parents' relationship so many times she could probably perform the entire thing from memory.

Which was why she never bothered anymore.

Unfortunately, the portal apparently took that personally. Because one afternoon, while walking through Hogwarts with her nose buried in a book, Aurelia accidentally walked straight into it.

She didn't even notice at first, she turned a page and kept reading.

Turned another page, walked around a corner, then immediately walked into someone. "Sorry," Aurelia said automatically.

The other person said exactly the same thing.

Aurelia froze, slowly lowered her book and sighed. "...Of course."

Because standing in front of her was her mother. Except this Y/N looked seventeen, still in Hogwarts robes and just like her reading while walking.

Aurelia closed her eyes briefly. "Right."

Y/N blinked then tilted her head. "...Do I know you?"

Aurelia immediately recognised the expression. The same one she made whenever she was confused. "Oh, that's unfortunate."

"What is?"

Before Aurelia could answer, she backed up. Directly into someone else. A solid chest, hitting a prefect badge. And hearing a very familiar voice. "You've walked into two people in less than thirty seconds."

Aurelia looked up and sighed harder. "...Dad."

Young Tom Riddle blinked then frowned. Because apparently his genetics were stronger than expected.

Because the girl standing in front of him looked suspiciously familiar. Same eyes, same expression and same dramatic sigh.

And suddenly everything clicked, Tom closed his eyes. "...I can see that."

Aurelia pointed at him. "Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You figured it out."

"You called me Dad."

"Details."

From further down the corridor came another voice. "Love?"

Both Aurelia and Tom looked up as Y/N was walking toward them. One hand resting on her very pregnant stomach while the other balancing three books.

Aurelia immediately smiled because she'd seen this before. Many times.

Y/N stopped beside Tom, then looked at Aurelia. "...Aurelia?"

Aurelia groaned. "Seriously?"

Y/N stared. "You were five yesterday."

Aurelia rubbed her forehead. "That was six years ago."

"For you."

"Yes."

"For me it was yesterday."

"Unfortunately."

Y/N looked delighted while Tom looked resigned and Aurelia looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her. "I wasn't supposed to run into you."

Tom folded his arms. "I gathered that."

"I was trying to leave."

"You walked into us."

"I was reading."

Both parents immediately nodded. "Oh."

"That explains it."

Aurelia pointed. "See?"

Y/N laughed while Tom looked mildly offended pointing to his daughter. "You got that habit from her."

Y/N rolled her eyes, then looked at Aurelia again. Really looked and suddenly her expression softened. Because despite the age difference she knew this was her daughter.

Aurelia immediately recognised the look. The Mum Look, her emotional one. "No."

Y/N laughed. "I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was not."

"You absolutely were."

Tom looked between them, then nodded. "She was."

"Thank you."

"I regret helping."

Aurelia grinned while Y/N shook her head. Then reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Aurelia's ear like it was pure instinct.

Aurelia immediately melted, then remembered she was supposed to be leaving.

She stepped backward. "Well."

Y/N smiled. "Well."

"Nice seeing you again."

Again.

Y/N narrowed her eyes.

Tom sighed. "Don't ask."

"I wasn't going to."

"Good."

Aurelia leaned forward and kissed her mother on the cheek, then her father. Tom froze still new to all this, while Y/N looked emotional.

Aurelia immediately regretted it. "Right." Then she picked her book back up, turned around and started walking.

Still reading, straight toward the portal. Like none of this had happened.

Y/N watched her go. "That's definitely our daughter."

Tom looked incredibly pleased, unfortunately. "Obviously."

Y/N rubbed her stomach absentmindedly because Mattheo kicked.

And Immediately. Tom's attention snapped downward. His hand moved to her stomach. "You need to sit."

"I'm fine."

"You've been standing."

"I've been standing for five minutes."

"Five dangerous minutes."

Y/N laughed. "You fuss too much."

"You are carrying my child."

"Our child."

"My point stands."

Y/N smiled fondly, then glanced back.

Aurelia was almost at the portal now.

Tom followed her gaze, then quietly murmured, "About thirty years, I think."

Y/N frowned. "What?"

"Nothing." Tom immediately looked innocent.

Y/N narrowed her eyes.

Tom guided her forward. "No questions."

Aurelia was walking while reading again. She turned a page, atepped forward and immediately collided with someone.

The first-year bounced back with a startled yelp. “Oh! Sorry, Riddle.”

Aurelia blinked slowly over her book. “…You should be.”

The boy froze, then slowly looked past her because standing twenty feet away was the actual Y/N Riddle. Very pregnant and very much not Aurelia.

The first-year looked back at Aurelia, then back at Y/N. Then back at Aurelia and somehow became even more confused.

Because now his brain was trying to solve several impossible problems at once.

The girl in front of him looked exactly like Y/N. But she wasn't pregnant. And she wasn't wearing Slytherin robes.

The boy looked at Aurelia wearing the Ravenclaw uniform.

The boy pointed at Y/N. "Lily?"

And she definitely wasn't Lily because Lily was a Hufflepuff.

He squinted. "You're wearing Ravenclaw robes."

Aurelia closed her eyes, briefly. "I am."

His face went completely white. "...I don't get it?"

The first-year looked like he was questioning reality. His brain visibly stopped functioning. "...Wait."

Aurelia sighed.

The first-year suddenly stepped back. “I’m—sorry—I think I’m lost.”

“You are,” Y/N confirmed gently.

“Completely,” Tom added.

Tom turned to his daughter. “Try not to walk into anyone else.”

“I only walked into one person.”

“That’s one too many.”

Aurelia decided she was done, she didn't lower her book. Didn't explain, didn't even look up. She simply sighed and lifted one finger.

The air beside her immediately shimmered and a familiar glowing doorway appeared beside her. The portal.

The first-year screamed. A loud, horrified, absolutely panicked scream.

Y/N immediately doubled over laughing.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose.

The first-year pointed frantically at the portal, then at Aurelia, then at Y/N. Then at Tom.

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing came out.

Aurelia turned a page in her book, stepped through the portal and disappeared. The doorway vanished behind her.

Silence.

The first-year made a strangled noise, then another, then a third.

Tom sighed. Slowly withdrew his wand and before the boy could have what was clearly going to be a very unfortunate breakdown. "Obliviate."

The spell hit instantly, the first-year blinked. Looked around and then frowned."...Why am I standing here?"

"Wrong corridor," Tom said smoothly.

"Oh."

The boy nodded, just accepted that immediately and wandered off.

Y/N was still laughing.

Tom watched the student disappear around the corner before tucking his wand away. Then, without missing a beat, his attention returned exactly where it belonged.

To Y/N. more specifically to the hand resting on her stomach.

Mattheo kicked.

Tom immediately noticed. His expression softened instantly. "Did you feel that?"

Y/N smiled."Yes, love."

Tom moved closer automatically. One hand settling carefully against her stomach. The other hovering near her back. Just in case.

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly. "I'm fine."

"You were laughing."

"That's not dangerous."

"You nearly bent in half."

"I was laughing."

Tom looked unconvinced while Y/N laughed again. Which somehow made him more concerned. "Sit down."

"I'm not sitting down."

"You should."

"I'm perfectly fine." Tom was already guiding her toward the common room anyway.

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His hair is stuck to his sweaty forehead and you’re surprised his own grunts haven’t woken him, his hips bucking wildly off the bed as the orgasm finally subsides.

But his face doesn’t relax. While the steady stream of cum has eased, his dick hasn’t softened at all, his balls still painfully full. His metal hand had been fisted up in the duvet and before you know it, he’s rolled over onto his side, bundling the duvet up and humping it, slowly at first.

He can’t stifle his need, the pool of cum now spilling all over the clean duvet cover as he grinds shamelessly against the sheet. His moans are so sweet, dripping with desperation and longing. His hips rut even faster than you could’ve thought possible, chasing another high. After a moment, he reaches it with a little shout, presumably pumping another thick, excessive load of cum into the duvet.

The huge man is a wreck, still fucking the comforter, despite the fact you just saw him finish twice (and who knows how many times before you entered the room).

“Mhm fuck, ‘s good.” His eyes are screwed shut, sheer bliss on his face while he tries to drag himself closer to another release but you can’t let him. He can’t spill any more into the duvet. It’s not fair and it absolutely can’t be giving him the relief he needs. You want to help him and before you can even consider the implications it would have on your friendship, you’ve reached out, touching his back and calling his name to drag him from his sleep.

He looks so startled when he wakes up, rolling over and seeing your face, wondering if he’s still dreaming because he can’t ever admit it to you, but it was a dream about you that got him into this state.

But then he registers the shape he’s in. Naked, lying in a bed that’s flooded with his own cum. How long had you been there? Had he accidentally called your name? His only priority is to cover himself, hiding his shame and the fact he feels absolutely disgusting. He can’t even look at you, he’s so caught up in his own self hatred.

But you whisper his name and he drags his eyes up to yours and your face is so so soft. You’re not disgusted by him. You’re not embarrassed or ashamed like he is.

“I’m so sorry you had to, um…. I haven’t had a night this bad in weeks. Shit, I’m sorry.” His guilt is palpable but you stop him in his tracks.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about Bucky. It’s healthy, you need it and I’m happy to help. Any way I can.” He’s beyond shocked at your suggestion, your hand on his bare skin making him burn up.

“You can’t help me.” He whispers quietly. “The only way to make the ache stop is to cum until I can’t anymore.”

“That’s okay Bucky. If you’d like, I’ll help you take the ache away.” He can hardly believe his own ears, his cock almost answering for his brain. He’s wanted you for so long and now you’ve seen him like this and you’re making it clear that you want him too, despite what you’ve seen.

“Please. Only if you’re okay with it.” He’s nodding ever so slightly, but god, it takes everything in him not to cum again when you pull the sticky comforter back and take your little pyjamas off to straddle his throbbing length.

The moan that leaves his throat when you press your lips together is the sweetest you’ve heard yet, low and hoarse, showing just how badly he needs this.

You can’t tease him either. Neither of you need any foreplay whatsoever so why drag it out? You slide down on him with ease, a cry leaving him when he feels his oversensitive head rub against your velvety walls and he couldn’t even have dreamed you’d feel this good.

“O-oh, please tell me you’re on birth control.” He’s literally about to cum from this one smooth glide, his sweaty head buried in the crook of your neck.

“I am Bucky don’t worry. Can fill me as many times as you like.” It only takes two little rolls of your hips for him to explode with a whimper, his seed leaking from you, mingling with the mess already coating both of your bodies.

“G-god there’s so much cum. Fuck, you’re full already.” He flips you over onto your back to give you the slowest, sweetest thrusts. He does his very best to make sure that you cum as many times as he does after that and a few hours later when his cock finally softens, you have a tender shower together to clean each other up before both of you head up the hall to your room to sleep on some fresh sheets.

Bucky groaned at the loss of contact when you pulled back, pushing his sopping wet boxers down to free his still hard, aching cock.

Cum smeared everywhere as you started to jerk him slowly, eventually stopping so he could thrust into your hand. You couldn’t wait any longer so instead, you shifted your little spoiled panties to the side, angling him so he was lined up to your soaked entrance.

You’d never forget the groan that left him as he breached your little hole. “Mhm, gonna cum.” He whimpered in his sleep. “Oh, please let me cum.”

He was hardly even inside you and he was ready to cum again. Rather than drag it out though, you pressed your ass down, flush with his body and that finished him. His hips stuttered, a groan left him as he filled you up, eyes fluttering open at the feeling of sheer ecstasy.

“Oh-oh my god, oh no angel I’m so sorry.” Bucky was mortified, taking in the situation in front of him but he just couldn’t stop his hips rutting into you, filling you to the brim. He didn’t think he could possibly be any more embarrassed, cum splattered over you messily while he filled you with even more. The shame burned deep in him, his face buried in the crook of your neck, almost hiding from reality

“Don’t be sorry. Ah, s-so fucking hot.” His eyes went wide at your admission. But then, fuck, he noticed how you were rubbing yourself, playing with your own clit while his sleep addled brain let his body fuck you.

“Y-you’re okay with this?” He whispered, his high subsiding but his cock not softening in the slightest.

“You need this, Bucky. ‘M yours. Use me however you want.”

He thought he’d cum again just hearing that. He really did. But instead he took a second, removing your hand and reaching over your body to replace it with his.

His fingers skimmed over your clit so quickly and efficiently you were clamping down on him in no time, his thrusts never stopping, fucking your through your high.

“Dreamt of you, ya’know? Fuck, no wonder it felt so real. Could fuckin’ smell you. You were beggin’ me for it. S-shit, that’s good. You were b-beggin’ me to fuck you. Begged me for this cock, mhm, nothin’ compares to the real thing, does it baby? No feelin’ in the world as good as cummin’ ‘nside this little body.” It didn’t take long for his thrusts to get sloppy, grunts and breathy sighs letting you know he was so close again. He was holding back though, embarrassed at how little it took for him to cum in the state he was in.

“Oh god Bucky cum for me again.” Your voice gave away how wrecked you were but you didn’t care, sheer relief washing over Bucky because he knew he couldn’t have held on much longer

“Thank you angel. Fuck, made jus’ for me. Take me so well. F-fuck yes, oh god, thank you.” He couldn’t stop himself if he tried, whines leaving him as he pressed you down on his length, filling you with so much cum you knew it was dripping out of you, only adding to the mess between your bodies.

Slow. Deep. Possessive.

"Fuck- joel-"

"Shh. Shh, baby. I know."

His voice is all gravel and heat, right at your ear as he presses his palmdown over your belly. "Just one. Just need one."

But it's never just one with him.

He drives in again. And again.

Thick and hard and dripping wet, dragging the mess of himself lit of you, only to bury it back in with a bruising slap of skin. You're so full, streched wide and trembling as he fucks his cum deeper and deeper inside. "So fuckin' tight," Joel grits out, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your shouler. "You feel that, sweetheart? That's all me. All that mess dripping down your thighs. Fuckin- look at you." He fists your hair and makes you lift your head just enough to see the bulge in your stomach, his cock, thick and swollen, pushing up against the swell in your belly as he pistons inside you.

"Milkslut," He growls.

"That what you wanted? That why you were beggin' earlier, grindin' all needy on meoke some dumb little bitch in heat?"

You whimper, tears spilling. It's too much- but you crave every second of it. "Uh-huh," He smirks, breathing hot filth into your skin.

"You like being red, don't you? Like gettin' filled up, leaking all over the fuckin' sheets like a messy little whore." His voice drops, darker now. The pace is brutal. The sound of your soaked pussy clapping against his hips is loud in the room,arched only by your stuttering moans.

"Mine"

A hard thrust.

"Mine"

Another.

"Say it."

You can't even form the word, not when he's gripping your throat, not when your brain's short circuited from the pleasure, your cunt spasming around him from the fourth orgasm he's wrung our of you in the last hour.

He doesn't care.

"Say it."

"Y-Yours, Joel- oh fuck, I'm yours-"

"That's right, baby."

He slaps your ass, watching it jiggle. Watching you take it.

"Good fuckin' girl, such a good little cum dump for me. Gonna fuck a baby into you, keep you swollen all the fuckin' time."

You clench.

That breaks him.

His thrusts go sloppy as he empties into you again, groaning loud, hips grinding into the mess between your thighs, making sure mome of it leaks out. "Goddamn - take it, sweetheart. Don't spill a drop. You hear me?" Your thighs are shaking. His seed is leaking. And Joel just laughs, low and mean.

"Better get used to this, darlin'. 'Cause I ain't pullin' out ever again."

~~~

You've already lost count.

Maybe it was the third time he came- maybe the fifth. It's impossible to know anymore with how long he's kept you pinned, stuffed full of his cock, held there like a ragdoll while he fucks you into the mattress. His chest is slick with sweat, body heavy and burning against your back as he thrusts up into you, rutting slow and deep. Every movement makes your cunt squelch loud, messy, soaked in his cum and slick and spit and who the fuck knows what else.

"You hear that?"

Joel bites your earlobe as he pushes in to the hilt.

"You fucking hear that, baby? That's me pourin' into you again"

And he is.

You feel it.

Another thick gush floods you as he groans, hips grinding in tight, desperate circles, pumping rope after rope of heat so deep it makes your eyes flutter back. The pressure builds in your belly, a warmth that spreads slow, growing fuller, heavier, deeper.

"Shit- fuck," You whimper, voice shaking. "Its- joel- it's too much, I can't-"

"You can, sweetheart. You will."

He smirks into your neck, teeth grazing skin. "This cunt's made to take it. My messy little milkslut."

Your belly's swollen now, soft and rounded where his cock bulges up through your skin. His hand spreads wide over it, pressing down just enough to feel himself from the inside. "Fuckin' look at this," Be growls, voice dropping filth.

"Can feel my cock through your tummy. You're so fuckin' full, babygirl. Stuffed to the brim and still takin' it. "

He pulls back just an inch only to ram in again.

A squirt of cum spills from between your thighs. It's not the first time. Wont be the last.

"There it is. Can't even hold it anymore."

He watches it leak down your ass, pooling beneath you on the sheets.

"Made my own little cumdump. Look at that mess. So greedy for it. "

Another thrust. You sob into the pillow, overstimulated and burning. Your thighs are shaking, soaked with slick and sweat and his endless release.

"Gotta keep fuckin' it back in"

He shoves deeper, groaning.

"I ain't done. Not 'till I plug you ful. 'till there's no room left in that little pussy of yours."

You're whimpering, clawing weakly at the sheets.

"Say it," He grits out, slapping your plump red ass.

"Say what you are."

"I'm- I'm your- your milkslut," You gasp, breath hitching.

"Fuck Joel- I'm your filthy little milkslut-"

"Good fuckin' girl."

Another load floods you. Thick, hot, endless. Your belly streches a little more beneath his hand and Joel moans sl deep it rumbles against your back. "That's it. Take it. Take every last fuckin' drop." When he finally stops moving, cock still twitching inside you, you feel it. The sheer weight of him isndid. How soaked you are, how ruined.

But Joel just keeps you there. Plugged full, your cunt fluttering weakly around him.

You're shaking.

He laughs softly and strokes your belly.