#consent issues

Her fingers clenched in the blanket at her chest.

Not to pull it away.

Not to push him back.

Just to hold on.

His gaze stayed on her face now—watching. Reading. As if the answer he wanted wasn’t in her mouth, but in the way her throat worked, the way her pulse jumped beneath her skin.

“You’re shaking, sweetheart” he said quietly.

Not an accusation.

An observation.

Her body betrayed her again, a faint tremor running through her limbs like a fault line giving way. She hated that he noticed. Hated that he always did.

“What are you doing here,” she managed, the words barely scraping out.

Something unreadable crossed his face—too fast to name. Shame, maybe. Or something darker.

“I wanted to see you,” he said.

So simple.

So bare.

So infuriating.

The words landed like a blow—because of course he said it like that. Like it was obvious. Like wanting her now erased every way he’d ripped her apart to force her away.

Her chest burned. Her throat thickened.

You wanted to see me?

Then why did you aim a gun at my heart?

Why did you tell me to run?

Why did you watch me drown?

Her fingers curled tighter in the blanket.

“Don't,” she whispered, choking on the heat in her chest. “You can’t just... say that.“

He looked away, jaw tight—like her words had brushed a nerve he thought he'd ripped out long ago. Then he leaned back just enough to give her space—an inch, maybe two. Not retreat. Just allowance. And still, everything in the room leaned toward him.

Outside, lightning flashed—white‑hot and brief—catching his face in stark relief: the sharp line of his cheekbone, the hollow beneath it, the rain beading on his lashes… and the scars, raised and jagged, catching light like something raw and unfinished.

When darkness slid back in, he was still there.

Unchanged.

Unmoved.

He let the quiet settle—slow and heavy—like ash after a fire.

Then finally, low:

“I know what an asshole I sound like. Believe me.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, almost a scoff—at himself, maybe. At the sheer stupidity of it all.

“I tried to leave things where I dropped them,” he said. “Walk away. Don’t look back. That’s usually the trick.”

A small shrug.

“Didn't take.”

“Then I saw you on my TV...”

His voice went quieter, not softer.

“And staying gone stopped being an option.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fingers knotting in the blanket until her knuckles went white.

Something warm slipped past her lip—she only realized she was crying when she tasted salt.

No sobbing. No sound. Just a few tears she hadn’t meant to give him.

Jack went very still. He didn’t smile. Didn’t mock. He only watched her quietly come apart, like he knew he had no right to touch it.

Then, slowly—as if approaching something wild, something fragile—he shifted closer.

The mattress dipped. His coat brushed her knee.

“Don't,” she whispered hoarsely. “Just... don't.”

He stilled instantly.

Her breath hitched hard, shuddering loose in her chest.

“You don’t get to do this,” she whispered. “You don’t get to just… show up… and say things like that—after everything you did.”

Lightning split the sky. Thunder devoured the next second.

Her voice sharpened.

“You made me beg. You broke me on purpose. You walked me out like I was a problem to dispose of.”

A shaky breath.

“And then you just—you watched Gotham tear me apart like I was some goddamn joke on a talk show. And now you come here? You come here like—like I should just… absorb it. Like I should be glad you remembered I exist.”

It hit in waves.

Anger. Grief. Heat.

Her voice cracked. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Silence. Heavy. Relentless.

Then he swallowed—hard—and when he finally spoke, there was nothing in his voice to hide behind.

“I know.”

Two small words. So painfully unornamented.

No trick or excuse—

Just acceptance. Like a verdict he’d already sentenced himself with.

Her breath shook. “That’s not enough.”

“I know,” he said again, softer.

Her jaw clenched. Her shoulders trembled.

“Then why are you here?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you just stay gone?”

His gaze skated away, posture tightening like he wanted to shrug it off, make it a joke, turn it into something easier than it was.

He didn’t.

His fingers curled into the sheets instead, knuckles stark. His thumb pressed down into the mattress—slow, deliberate—as if he had to brace to say it.

“I tried, doll.”

Bare.

Human.

And the softness of it hurt more than anything cruel he’d ever said.

He looked back at her—really looked—and her chest caved beneath the weight of it.

“I really thought I could,” he said quietly. “Thought if I cut you loose, I’d remember who I was—that things would… settle.”

Thunder rolled slow and heavy outside, further off now than before.

“But they didn’t,” he finished, voice rough.

“Everything just got... worse.”

Silence spread between them, tender like a wound.

“I dreamt about you,” he said. “Every damn night. Woke up pissed because you weren’t there. Spent the day convincing myself it didn’t matter and—”

A humorless breath.

“—that didn’t take either.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

“I’m used to life being empty. Always have been—”

A pause.

“But without you?”

His eyes didn’t blink.

“It didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt—unlivable.”

The words seeped into her. Slow. Inevitable. Like water finding every fracture she’d tried to seal shut.

Something inside her pulled tight—then tore open.

Her throat burned. Her vision blurred. Heat flooded her face and there was no stopping it—no discipline strong enough, no willpower vicious enough to hold it back.

Because he wasn’t apologizing. Wasn’t promising better. Wasn’t pretending he deserved her.

He was just telling the truth.

And somehow—that hurt worse.

Her breath stuttered out of her, sharp and shamed. Tears spilled fast, before she could stop them—silent and furious—tracking hot down her cheeks.

She pressed her hands over her face, as if she could stuff it all back in.

It didn’t matter.

Her body folded. Not toward him. Not reaching. Just… collapsing. Shoulders curling inward, spine caving as if something vital had finally given out.

Jack didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare.

If he’d smiled, she would have hit him. If he’d mocked, she would have screamed. If he’d said anything glib or playful or Joker—

She almost wished he would.

Instead he only watched—quiet, steady—as if even he understood there was nothing to laugh at here.

No victory. No power. Just ruin.

His fingers twitched in the sheets.

Slowly—carefully—he leaned in just a fraction.

Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Not quite comforting. Not quite coaxing.

Just… helpless.

She saw it in his eyes. Felt it in the air. That terrible, aching urge in him to do something—to wipe tears, to steady her, to take back every bruise he’d ever carved into her.

His fingers twitched again, then went still, like even his hands didn’t trust themselves.

He stayed where he was.

Not because he didn’t want to close the space.

But because he finally seemed to understand he had no right to.

And somehow, God, that broke her worse than anything else had.

Her shoulders trembled harder. A wet, broken sound slipped against her palms before she could swallow it back. She tried to steady herself, to pull everything in again, to be small, contained, untouched—

It didn’t hold.

“I hate you,” she gasped into her hands, voice tearing raw through her throat. “I hate you so much.”

A truth and a lie—twisted together so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“I know,” he murmured.

Not offended.

Not wounded.

Just… accepting it like another scar he’d earned.

Lightning flickered again, gentler now. Rain softened against the glass. The storm outside was moving on.

The one inside her wasn't.

She dragged in a shaky breath, trying to force herself back together and failing—tears still sliding between her fingers no matter how tightly she pressed them there.

And finally—

finally—

that terrible stillness he’d been clinging to broke.

Jack leaned forward.

Slowly. Carefully.

His hand lifted—hovering beside her cheek like a question.

He hesitated—

And for one suspended heartbeat, she had a choice.

—

But she didn't push him away.

And when his fingers finally met her skin—knuckles gliding gently down her jaw, his thumb catching a tear he had no right to—

Something inside her buckled.

She leaned into it.

Into him.

He exhaled like it hurt.

Then he drew her in.

Not aggressively. Not possessively.

Carefully.

Like the most dangerous thing in the room wasn’t him.

It was her.

Her forehead hit his chest. A quiet, broken sound escaped her before she could smother it.

His coat was cold. His shirt was damp. He smelled like rain and smoke and something painfully familiar.

His arms wrapped more fully around her—tentative at first. Then tighter. He tucked his chin into her hair like a man who didn’t trust his voice.

And they stayed like that for a while—the softening thunder breathing for both of them when they couldn’t.

Eventually, he shifted. Slow. Careful.

“Lie down,” he whispered—tentative, as if he wasn’t sure he deserved to ask.

She didn’t have the strength to argue.

He leaned back slowly, taking her with him—not by force. Just a quiet insistence that left no room for thought.

She went.

Because she was so tired. Because her bones hurt. Because some pathetic, treacherous part of her had missed the way her body fit against his like memory.

She turned onto her side without thinking.

He followed.

An arm slipped beneath her neck.

Another settled at her waist.

He curved around her like he’d always been meant to live there.

No conquest. No claim.

Just quiet closeness. Just breath. Just warmth.

The storm was quieter now, gentled—rain softened to a lulling hush against the glass, thunder fading into distant grumbles like the sky had finally worn itself out.

Her body betrayed her in increments.

Her breathing slowed first. Then her pulse. Her muscles softened against him—each beat of calm a cruel contradiction.

Because the man who let her drown was now the one holding her above water.

And worse—she didn't have the strength to care.

He shifted—barely.

Just enough for his chest to press more fully to her back.

Just enough for his breath to brush her ear—gentle as a ghost, warm where he used to kiss her.

That old current hummed awake beneath her skin before she could even think—a deep, warm ache unfurling where she had sworn she would never feel him again.

Her hips tensed in reflexive denial, even as heat pulsed low—stubborn and alive.

No.

God, no.

Not this.

Not now.

Not him.

Her eyes squeezed shut, breath catching as fury tangled helplessly with need—self-loathing and longing clawing against each other inside her ribs.

Her thighs pressed together on instinct, desperate and ashamed, as if she could cage the feeling there—crush it before it owned her.

She hated it.

Hated how easily her body gave him this.

Hated that some deep, ungovernable part of her still recognized him as safety. As gravity. As something dangerously close to home.

She swallowed—tight and trembling.

And then she felt it—

The unmistakable press of him against her lower back.

Hard.

Undeniable.

Her heart lurched.

Oh God she thought, humiliation flooding hot beneath her skin.

She felt him go still.

Utterly.

Like an animal catching scent.

Like restraint tightening around bone.

He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Didn’t take.

He simply… stilled.

Understanding her.

Feeling her.

And for once—choosing not to touch what he clearly wanted.

It should have helped. It almost did—

But fear rarely listens to logic.

“Please,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “Please don’t… do anything.”

There was a beat of silence, thick enough to drown in.

Then his voice—low, steady, almost careful—for once not something sharp enough to bleed on.

“I won’t.”

His arm tightened around her—not dragging closer. Not grinding in.

Just anchoring.

His breath shook once against her hair.

But he did nothing.

Nothing but hold her.

Nothing but stay.

Thunder rolled far away. Rain softened. The heat relented, slipping away like a fever breaking in the dark.

Eventually, her breathing slowed, syncing with the steady rhythm against her spine.

She hated him.

She needed him.

She didn’t know how to survive either truth.

But for the first time since he left—

She slept.

And he didn’t let go.

Not once.

---

She woke alone.

Sheets warm, tangled. The air still heavy with storm-scent and sleep. Her pulse was slow, sluggish. For a moment, she didn’t move—barely breathed—afraid it would all vanish if she did.

Her hand reached instinctively behind her.

Nothing.

Just cotton. Just empty space.

Her chest pulled tight.

She rolled slowly to her back, blinked up at the ceiling, the faint murmur of the rain now little more than background noise.

Her heart sank with each second that passed.

Of course, she thought.

Of course he was gone.

A dry, humorless sound scraped up her throat and died before it could become a laugh—that hollow ache returning like punishment.

This was what he did.

He came with storms and left with silence.

Cracked her open. Softened the parts she’d fought like hell to harden.

Made her forget how to protect herself.

And then he vanished.

Again.

Her chest didn’t break this time. It just… folded.

God, how could she be this fucking stupid.

How many times did he have to do this?

How many times would she let him?

She dragged her hands over her face, pressing until her vision pricked, as if sheer force could cage the grief before it found a way out.

But it did.

It always did.

She swallowed hard against the burn in her throat, ashamed at how deep it went.

Unless—

Her breath caught.

Her gaze flicked to the corner of the room.

What if…

What if he hadn’t been here at all?

What if none of it had happened?

No restraint.

No warmth.

No breath against her hair.

No arms around her in the dark.

What if the one night since he left that she hadn’t felt alone—

—had been nothing but her brain lying to her so she could survive a little longer?

Her heart jolted, sharp and violent, like someone had reached inside her chest and twisted.

Because that—

That hurt worse.

Worse than betrayal—

Worse than abandonment—

Worse than him leaving was the idea that he hadn’t come at all.

That the comfort had been conjured.

That the tenderness had been imagined.

That there wasn’t a version of him who’d stayed, even for a single night.

Heat stung the back of her eyes. Her throat burned.

God.

What kind of pathetic creature grieved harder over losing a dream than losing the real man who ruined her?

She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth, swallowing down a sob that didn’t make it past her chest.

It shouldn’t hurt like this.

It shouldn’t hurt more.

But it did.

Because at least if he’d held her and left… it meant it had existed.

At least then the tenderness had been real before it shattered.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Stupid. Stupid. STOP.

Her breath came sharp. Uneven.

She forced herself upright, hands trembling against the mattress. The room swayed in the quiet after-storm hush, heat still clinging to the air like breath on glass.

She dragged a shaky hand through her hair—

And froze.

There.

On the floor.

A dark shape.

Crumpled. Heavy.

Hem soaked through.

Rain-wet.

His coat.

Her pulse stuttered like the world had shifted under her feet.

It hadn’t been a dream.

He’d been here.

He’d touched her.

He’d held her.

A sound broke the silence.

A soft clink—metal brushing ceramic. And beneath it… the low murmur of a television.

She blinked, heart thudding, suddenly breathless for an entirely different reason.

He was still here.

---

She crept toward the door, barefoot, heart hammering.

Every step felt fragile. Breakable. Like the floor might fall out from beneath her at any second.

Fingers trembling, she turned the knob.

The door gave with a soft creak.

She slipped into the hallway, breath shallow, pulse hammering as she crept toward the living room.

Turned the corner.

And—

There he was.

Sprawled sideways across the couch like it was a throne.

Legs kicked up over the armrest, boots on. Hair still damp from a shower. Shirtless. Just a pair of dark jeans—wrinkled, half-buttoned—as if he’d gotten bored halfway through the act of dressing.

Scars mapped his chest in sharp, unapologetic lines, catching the morning light. One hand dug absently through the Tupperware container of Emma’s leftover muffins. The other cradled a mug, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.

The television played quietly in front of him.

An old cartoon. Black-and-white. A little character with big eyes running in frantic circles while the background looped endlessly.

Alina stood frozen in the doorway.

He didn’t look at her.

He just picked a crumb from his lip, then tilted the muffin container toward her like an offering.

“Blueberry’s decent,” he said around a mouthful. “Banana nut’s kinda shit.”

She said nothing.

Couldn’t.

Her brain short-circuited trying to make it make sense. The storm. The warmth. The solid weight of his chest pressed to her spine. The way he stayed.

And now—this.

The Joker. In her living room. Watching cartoons and eating muffins like it was Saturday fucking morning.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he added after a beat, glancing at her over his shoulder with an infuriating, lazy grin. “You sleep okay?”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Rage bloomed hot behind her ribs.

She stalked forward and clicked off the TV.

He blinked at her. “I was watching that...”

Alina stared at him, vibrating with disbelief.

“You break into my apartment—terrify me—turn my life inside out,“ she said slowly, voice shaking with the sheer absurdity of it. “And now you’re just… eating muffins and watching cartoons?”

He nodded once, solemn. “I like cartoons.”

She stared at him.

For a heartbeat, there weren’t even words—just disbelief and fury flooding her veins in one unbearable rush.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hissed.

“Define wrong,” he said, licking a bit of muffin from his thumb. “In the moral sense, or more of a psychiatric framework?”

She stared.

He stared back.

Then—shrugged.

“I was hungry. Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Alina’s jaw clenched.

“I’m not talking about the fucking muffins!”

He blinked. Tilted his head. “You’re not?”

“No!” Her voice cracked. “I’m talking about you—being here! Sitting there like nothing ever happened. Like we’re just… like we’re—”

She couldn’t say it.

She didn’t even know what she was trying to say.

He waited.

Patient.

Silent.

Then slowly, almost gently:

“Yeah.” Something flickered across his face— amusement, maybe. Or something darker. “That’s the bit you’re stuck on, huh?”

Silence stretched. He set the mug down with a quiet, deliberate clink.

Then—calm as if discussing the weather—

“Well. You’d better pack a bag.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He rose from the couch like he had all the time in the world. Unbothered. Certain. Dangerous in that quiet, maddening way that made the air feel too thin.

He tossed the muffin container onto the coffee table and stretched—long, slow, unhurried. Muscle rolled beneath pale skin in fluid, powerful lines; not posing—just existing.

Which somehow made it worse.

That maddening calm never left his eyes—like he owned the room.

Like he owned her.

Her gaze dropped—traitorous—to the sharp line of his stomach, where his jeans clung low over his hips.

The stark cut of hip bone.

That arrowed groove disappearing beneath denim—a path she knew too well.

Heat flickered through her as her mind filled in the rest from memory—shamefully, vividly—before she could choke it down.

He smirked.

Fuck. He’d seen her look.

Her heart skipped—

Because he knew.

He stepped toward her.

One slow stride. Then another.

Not touching her.

He didn’t need to. The air between them was already electric.

She hated how her pulse stumbled. How her body reacted like it remembered him better than she wanted to admit.

Then, he leaned in—just enough to make her lungs forget how to work. His voice dropped low.

“Why would you go anywhere with me?” he repeated her question back to her, like a joke.

Then, with that quiet, predatory confidence that made the room feel smaller:

“Because I came back for you.”

A pause. His gaze dipped to her mouth. Then back up to her eyes.

“And you never stopped wanting me to.”

---

His eyes held hers for a beat longer.

Then they dragged down her body—slow, deliberate.

No shame. No hurry.

Like an artist studying a ruined canvas he still found beautiful.

When his gaze returned to hers, something dark flickered there. Not quite a smirk.

Just that same terrifying certainty.

And then—

He turned.

No parting glance.

No explanation.

Just an ending, like her voice had never mattered.

His footsteps receded down the hall, slow and maddeningly calm.

For a stretched, unbearable moment, Alina didn’t move. She only stared at the hollow he left behind, rage and confusion twisting tight inside her… tangled with something she refused to name.

Then she followed.

Bare feet whispering over the floor.

Pulled by fury.

Pulled by gravity.

She reached Emma's bedroom and stopped in doorway.

He was already there—like he belonged.

He stood in front of Emma’s dresser, shrugging lazily into his black shirt as if this were his room and this were his morning. He buttoned it one-handed with obscene ease, the collar left open, that pale line of throat and collarbone unapologetically visible.

Like this wasn’t madness.

Like she wasn’t burning.

Then—Emma’s comb.

He picked it up without pause, without thought.

Drew it through his damp curls in languid, practiced strokes. A tiny frown of concentration tugged at his brow as he smoothed back a rebellious strand. He looked absurdly domestic. Infuriatingly casual.

Violently intrusive.

Like he had a right to touch things here—

A right to anything.

To take breath.

To take space.

To take her.

Her fingers curled into fists.

She stood there in the doorway, still in nothing but her bralette and underwear, pulse hammering, limbs rigid with fury.

He caught her reflection casually in the mirror.

Glanced at her.

Unfazed.

“Better put something on, sweetheart,” he drawled, casual as if he were stating something that had been decided hours ago. “Can’t exactly take you home dressed like that.”

That did it.

Not visibly.

Not dramatically.

But something deep and buried and exhausted snapped inside her.

She stepped into the room.

Slow

Controlled.

Each step quiet but filled to the brim.

He didn’t move or turn.

Just watched her from the mirror as she stopped behind him, fury simmering in her eyes like heat off asphalt.

“You really must think I’m pathetic,” she said softly.

Calm.

Precise.

The comb paused mid-stroke.

He met her gaze in the mirror again—eyes darker now,

Alert...

Interested.

“Hmm,” he hummed softly, lowering the comb with deliberate slowness, setting it gently back on the dresser.

He turned to face her. No smirk. No mask. Just that quiet, coiled focus that always meant something was coming.

One step.

Then another.

Measured.

Soundless.

Like a man walking toward something he already owned.

Alina's bare shoulders rose and fell with the effort of holding herself together, but she didn’t move. Didn’t back away.

Her spine stayed straight. Chin high.

"You think I’m pathetic,” she repeated—low, but stronger now. “Because I let you come back. Because I let you touch me. Because I didn’t throw you out. Because I—”

Her voice cracked.

She swallowed hard.

“Because every time you rip my life apart and leave me bleeding, I still… I still want—”

She couldn’t finish.

The truth lodged in her throat like glass.

She turned her face away, as if not facing him might undo it. As if silence could cauterize the wound.

But his gaze didn’t waver. She felt it—anchored, merciless.

“And after everything—” she whispered.

She looked up. Met his eyes.

“After you broke me. Aimed a gun at my chest. Told me I was just another game. Threw me away like trash...”

Her hands curled into fists. Her voice grew louder.

“After months of silence. After I had to crawl my way back into something like a life.”

Her brow furrowed. Her tone sharpened.

“After you humiliated me on live TV. Called in like you still had any right to speak to me.”

A breath. Trembling. Controlled.

“And then you show up here. Eat muffins. Watch cartoons. Stand in my best friend’s bedroom, combing your hair like you live here. Like I’m yours. Like you didn’t walk away and let me drown and only came back when it suited you again.”

Her jaw clenched.

“And you honestly—honestly—think I’d just… go with you?”

Her chest rose and fell like she’d run a mile.

He watched her.

Still.

Quiet.

Unbothered.

Like she was weather. Something to stand in. Something that would pass—if he just waited.

Then he did the worst possible thing.

He smiled.

Soft. Confident. Certain.

Like he already knew how this ended.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

No hesitation.

No doubt.

Just certainty.

Because in his world, she would come. Because she always had. Because gravity didn’t ask permission—it pulled.

Something broke.

Not like before.

Not collapse. Not sobbing. Not begging.

Something detonated.

Her breath shuddered—

Then she screamed.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Her hand grabbed the nearest thing—Emma’s brush—and she hurled it across the room. It hit the wall, splintered plaster raining.

His brows flicked up, not in fear.

In interest.

She was already moving.

“YOU DON’T GET TO DO THIS!” she shouted, voice cracking open into something raw and feral.

“You don’t get to tear me apart and LEAVE—and then come back and act like none of it mattered—like my feelings mean NOTHING.”

A frame on the dresser went next. Then a candle. Then a pillow she slammed into his chest hard enough that he actually staggered a half-step back.

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t mock.

Just looked at her.

Like she was fury made flesh.

Like he’d waited his whole goddamn life for this moment—her voice sharp with fire, eyes wild, chest heaving with the weight of her own defiance.

He looked at her like a man seeing God.

And she hated it.

Hated the way his gaze shimmered with awe and something sick and tender. Like her rage was beautiful. Like it turned him on. Like it made her his all over again.

And worse—worse—was the way her pulse kicked under her skin.

The way her spine buzzed with the twisted thrill of being seen like that.

Wanted like that.

Worshipped like that.

Her fists clenched. She wanted to scream. To claw the look off his face.

Because it made her feel powerful—

and powerless—

All at once.

His scars shifted with the faint curl of his mouth, eyes dragging over her like a tide pulling at the shore—like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

“Jesus doll,” he said. Quiet. Like it was a compliment.

His pupils blew wide, swallowing the color of his eyes.

She stared, breath caught in her chest.

“I love you like this,” he murmured. “When you quit pretending. When you stop being good.”

A breath.

“When it finally breaks through… all that fire you keep bolted down.”

Something inside her recoiled.

Because he wasn’t joking.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel.

He meant it.

“You don’t know what you look like right now,” he whispered. “Shaking. Burning. Ready to tear the world apart.”

He swallowed hard, like he could taste her fury on the air—like it fed him.

“You’re—God—you’re beautiful when you lose control.”

And that was it.

The moment the final thread tore loose.

Her hand moved before she could think.

—without planning, without mercy—

She slapped him hard across his face.

It landed with a sound like splitting wood—raw and final.

His head snapped to the side. His eyes went wide—not angry.

Shocked.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stood there. Breathing hard. Like the contact had rewired him.

Then—Goddammit—there it was.

That slow, crooked, reverent almost-smile trying to claw its way onto his face.

Admiring her.

Worshipping her.

But she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t regret it.

“You think this is hot?” she hissed.

“You think I'm doing this for you?”

He touched his cheek. That near-smirk hovered there, but faint now. Unsure.

“This isn’t foreplay,” she said. “I’m not awakening for you. I am not coming alive. I’m just trying to fucking breathe—and you—” her voice broke, then sharpened, “you think that’s sexy?”

He stared at her.

The smile finally died, his face went blank.

“I am not your entertainment,” she said.

Something shifted behind his eyes.

Not fear. Not anger.

Maybe shame.

Maybe.

“You think you can just snap your fingers and I'll just follow you like some loyal pet?”

His jaw twitched.

A flicker of expression—maybe regret—but he didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t deny it.

She shook her head, breath leaving her in a tremor she couldn’t mask. God, she was so tired. Tired of bleeding for him. Tired of wanting something that didn’t know how to stay. Tired of feeling like property around him instead of a person.

She stepped closer.

Close enough to see the exact point where his breath caught.

Close enough that if he reached for her, she wasn’t sure she’d survive it.

“Don’t you get it?” she whispered

Her chest rose hard once. Then again. Tears burned and held—suspended—refusing to fall because if they did, she wouldn’t stop.

“I’m not yours anymore,” she said.

It wasn’t a declaration.

It was grief.

A burial.

Something fragile and precious laid down and left to die between them.

Silence.

The room seemed to pause with her, as if even the air understood what it cost to say it—

and then his gaze lowered.

Just for a heartbeat.

Down.

To the place above her hipbone.

Where his mark still lingered.

Her stomach twisted. She braced for it—for the smirk, the cruel retort she knew he was capable of.

If you’re not mine… why is my name still on your skin?

But nothing came.

He didn’t grin.

Didn’t speak.

He just looked at her.

Not amused.

Not Joker.

Just Jack.

And for a suspended, fragile heartbeat…

he looked wrecked.

Jaw tight. Breath unsteady. Like the world had tilted and he hadn’t caught his balance yet.

Then it vanished.

All of it.

The tenderness. The hurt. The crack in the armor.

His face closed. His gaze emptied.

Clean. Efficient.

The way a light goes out.

He stepped forward.

Slow. Controlled.

And when he spoke, it wasn’t a whisper. It was something lower.

Raw. Certain. Unshakable.

“Yes,” he said.

No hesitation. No mercy.

“You are.”

He reached for her wrist.

“Come on—we're going home.”

She yanked away like he’d burned her.

“NO!”

Then she lunged.

Shoved him—hard. So hard he actually stumbled.

He caught himself against the wall.

Stared at her.

Like she was a bomb.

Because she was.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”

They stood there—

Him, like she was the only thing in the world that could hurt him.

Her, like he was the only thing she’d ever wanted to erase from existence.

The air between them crackled.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then—

His expression shifted.

Twisted.

Like this was the moment he realized he might actually lose her.

Like he felt it.

Like he knew he couldn’t stop it.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet—almost desperate.

“You think I don’t know what I’ve done?”

The words scraped out of him, rough and splitting at the edges.

“You think I like this part?”

He took a step forward—but it wasn’t calculated.

It was helpless.

A hand lifted, then dropped.

“I came back for you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

A breath. A tremor. His eyes searched hers like they might offer a way back.

“I came back, Alina. I—fuck. I couldn't stop thinking about you.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

He swallowed hard.

Then murmured—almost to himself:

“You said I broke you.”

He nodded once, slow.

“Fine. Maybe I did.”

His jaw clenched.

“But you broke me too, doll.”

She stared at him.

Her heart didn’t soften.

It splintered.

And then—it ignited.

“No.” 

Her voice came low—terribly calm, like something that had burned past screaming and found something colder.

No tremor.

Not fear.

A rage distilled down to something lethal.

“Don’t you dare try to make this romantic.”

“It’s not romantic,” he growled. “It’s a curse. You live in me. You’ve infected me. I came back because not having you was killing me.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” she whispered.

Soft. Precise. Final.

And somehow the whisper landed worse than shouting.

“Don’t you dare.”

He blinked—stunned, like for a moment he’d glimpsed himself through her eyes and didn’t recognize the thing he saw.

She stepped toward him, fists heavy at her sides.

“You don’t get to come back now,” she snarled.

“You don’t get to crawl into my life again because you were lonely. Because your head got loud. Because your bed felt cold. Because—suddenly—you decided you couldn’t live without me.”

Her hands shook.

Her entire body shook.

Not with fear.

With rage.

With grief.

With power.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “Alright, you’re mad—”

“Mad?” She laughed—sharp, breathless, broken.

"You destroyed me in that courtyard, Jack. You told me I was nothing. Pathetic. A joke.”

His eyes flickered—sharp, involuntary—like she’d dragged him straight back there.

“You aimed a gun at me and said it was all fake. That you used me. And I believed it. I still see it when I close my eyes.”

“I was lying Alina...just trying to get you to—”

“No, see, that’s the lie,” she hissed, stepping toward him now. “The lie is that you let me go for me. Like you were doing me some goddamn favor.”

Her voice broke—then came back stronger.

“But it wasn’t mercy, was it?”

He went still.

“It was cowardice.”

He said nothing. Just stood there, like the words had stripped him bare.

“You were going to kill me,” she whispered. “Don’t fucking lie.”

“Alina—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “You aimed that gun at me with full intention. But you couldn’t pull the trigger, not because you cared—but because it would make you feel something.”

He looked away, jaw flexing.

“You couldn’t live with that. With feeling something human for once. So you ran from it. Like a fucking coward.”

“Doll—”

“No. Don’t try to rewrite it. You ran. Like you always do. The minute something cuts deeper than you planned, you vanish.”

She saw it—just once. A glimmer of something ugly and wounded crossing his expression. As if her words had drawn to the surface the very thing he'd tried so hard to drown.

He moved toward her.

She flinched—recoiled. Like the air between them had turned toxic. Like letting him near would split her open all over again.

He stopped mid step. Fists clenched, then flexed—as if he didn’t know whether he needed to hit something or fall apart.

His voice came fast. Unsteady. Like the words had been building in his chest too long and finally broke loose.

“I know I fucked up. Jesus, doll, I know.”

She stared.

He dragged a hand down his face.

Took in a shallow breath.

“You’re right, Alina. I ran. Like a coward. Like a goddamn idiot.”

He laughed—low, bitter. The sound of someone who finally understood the joke was on him.

“I’ve walked through kill zones without breaking a sweat. Rigged cities to blow and slept like a saint. Made mob bosses crawl. Outsmarted Gotham PD at every turn. Vanished from the goddamn world without leaving a shadow...”

He shook his head—slow, disbelieving.

“But you?”

His voice dropped. Rough, low, real.

“You walk into a room and I forget how doors work.”

A pause.

He met her eyes. Held them.

“You make me stupid. You make me—human. And I couldn’t fucking stand it. So I ran.”

He took in a shallow breath.

“I’m not built for this shit, Alina. I don’t do feelings. I don’t do—whatever the hell this is.”

His eyes flicked to hers—naked and ashamed.

“But I came back.”

His voice frayed at the edges.

"And for a guy like me… doll, you gotta know what that means.”

She said nothing.

Her chest tightened. Just barely.

A twitch of breath. A splinter of something old and aching. One awful heartbeat stuttered—warm and stupid, flaring behind her ribs.

But she crushed it.

“You came back because you couldn’t sleep.”

Her gaze pinned him.

“Because the silence got too loud. Because you missed the way I looked at you—like you were something more than the wreck you are.”

He froze.

“And now you want what? Forgiveness? Redemption? Another hit?”

Silence stretched between them—until finally, he said it. Quiet. Unsteady.

Honest in a way that hurt.

“I want you.”

It landed like a wound.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at him.

Her lashes fluttered once.

And then—

She felt them.

Tears gathering. Slow. Treacherous. Her body breaking ranks without permission.

He stepped forward.

She flinched.

He stopped.

“I hate that I need you,” he said quietly. “But I do.”

She turned her face slightly away, swallowing hard.

It hurt. Because he meant it. Because she’d wanted him to mean it.

And because it didn’t matter anymore.

When her voice finally came, it was threadbare.

“So what happens now?”

No fire. No fight left.

“You put me back in your bed?”

Her eyes lifted to his. Tired. Hollow.

“On a leash this time?”

He flinched.

His jaw tensed. Something flickered in his gaze—shame, hunger, grief.

Then, quiet. Ragged.

“No leash.”

A pause.

“Unless you wanted one.”

His voice shook—just a little.

“I wouldn’t touch you unless you asked me to.”

Another breath. Almost a whisper now.

“But God, Alina… I’d wait forever, hoping you would.”

Her vision blurred, not from the tears—but from the sudden, brutal weight of it.

Like the floor had shifted beneath her.

Like his voice had cracked something loose she’d barely kept buried.

He looked at her then—really looked—and something broke in his eyes.

“I don’t want your fear, Alina. Not anymore.”

A beat. Shame flickered.

“I just want… you. However you’ll let me.”

And that was it.

The moment the wall gave out—and everything inside her surged to meet it.

Tears spilled—hot, unwanted—cutting down her cheeks like salt in an open wound.

But they didn’t drown her.

They lit the fuse.

Grief and fury collided—violent, blinding—fusing beneath her ribs until her chest felt like it might split.

Because how dare he say it like that.

Like he was the wounded one.

Like she held the power now.

Like he hadn’t already torn her open and called it devotion.

Her breath hitched—but not from tenderness.

Not from hope.

She shook her head, once. Slow.

Because where had this been?

Where had it been when she was on her knees in the dark, begging for scraps of warmth?

Where had it been when she would’ve followed him into fire?

Her voice broke through the quiet.

Low. Furious.

“You don’t get to destroy my life and then make me comfort you about it.”

And his look—God, his look—he knew it. Knew he’d crossed every line that mattered.

But still, he dared.

“Doll, I didn’t come for comfort—I came because—” He faltered. “Fuck—I thought... maybe I could fix it. Us. Start over. No games this time. Just—"

“SHUT UP!”

She snatched his coat from the floor and shoved it into his chest.

He didn’t move.

She slammed it into him again, harder this time, until he finally caught it—like reflex more than will.

Her face was soaked. Not the kind of crying that begged for comfort.

The kind that warned you not to touch.

“You don’t get to be here,” she said, each word a fracture.

“Not in this apartment. Not in my bed. Not in my FUCKING LIFE—Not after what you did in that courtyard.”

He swallowed.

She stepped closer.

Deadly calm now.

“And I swear to God, Jack—If you try to stay—If you try to laugh it off—If you try to reduce this to some kind of game again—”

Her voice dropped to a knife.

“I will make you bleed.”

Silence followed—thick, absolute.

Wind rattled the old windows. A siren screamed somewhere far away. The world seemed to tilt toward them and wait.

Something dark flickered in his eyes—instinct, raw and violent and achingly familiar.

The kind that grabbed.

That pinned.

That took what it wanted and dealt with the fallout later.

His hand twitched at his side—then stilled, fingers curling into a fist like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for her.

She felt it in the air—like a wire tightening.

He could force this. He’d done worse. He’d taken more.

For one awful, charged heartbeat, she truly believed he would.

Then she watched it hit him.

Watched something raw and jagged flare across his face—then burn out.

He exhaled slowly.

Painfully.

Like a man setting down a loaded gun aimed straight at his own heart.

“Dammit,” he muttered, low and rough—not amused, not mocking. Just lost.

He looked down at the floor between them, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. When he lifted his gaze again, there was no Joker in it.

Just Jack.

Bare. Exposed.

He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff he’d never planned to fall from—only now realizing he already had.

Then something in his face shifted.

Acceptance.

Maybe respect.

Definitely pain.

He exhaled again—slow, steady—like folding a blade back into its sheath.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

He shrugged into his coat with movements that were too careful—like he didn’t trust his own body not to betray him. Adjusted the collar like it was armor.

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t play the clown.

He just looked at her—soft, devastated.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “you’re right. You should hate me.”

He turned and walked toward the door.

Stopped once—hand braced against the frame, knuckles white.

He didn’t look back.

“You’re not pathetic, Alina,” he said.

“You never were.”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut.

Silence swallowed everything.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

A/N:

Oooof. I’m so sorry for offering hope and then ripping it away so ruthlessly—but I couldn’t live with myself unless I gave Alina the space to finally put this man in his place!

This was her Jane leaving Rochester moment—the “I love you, but I won’t erase myself for you“ reckoning. And wow, did some of those lines hurt to write.

Our man is so catastrophically down bad and still utterly incapable of saying “I love you” like a functional human being. Not that it would save him right now anyway—he torched that possibility the day he pointed a gun at her and told her all those cruel lies. Sir really said “let me emotionally self-sabotage in the most unforgivable way possible.” What a stupid, emotionally constipated wreck of a man...😑

As for where this goes next—I do have several scenes planned and a loose concept of the ending, but I’m very much flying by feel at the moment. I’m just as excited (and maybe a little terrified) as you are to see how I manage to pull this all together 😅

I'll also be fully honest and say this is actively driving me a little insane. I want them, back together desperately, but my need for everything to be psychologically honest will always come first. After everything Alina’s been through, she deserves growth. She deserves agency. She deserves to choose him, not collapse back into him.

And that restraint is currently my personal hell. 😭

Thank you all so much for the incredible comments on the last chapter! It genuinely means everything that you love these two as much as I do 🥹 I’m so glad you’re here with me on this feral, emotionally ruinous ride 🤗💜💚🖤

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)

@furisodespirit @blackholeofcreativity @readingafterdarkness @captivatinqg

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Zoro loves kissing him, loves hearing Luffy moan, loves the panting sound he makes. Zoro can kiss him forever. Can give up breathing to keep kissing him. Which makes the fact that Luffy is always the one to break the kiss first to breathe an annoyance.

He feels Luffy pull away. Grabbing the back of his head, Zoro pulls Luffy in closer. Deepening the kiss. Kissing Luffy like drinking, dulls his self control, leaves him craving more and more. He feels Luffy try to pull away again. A part of Zoro just wants to continue the kissing. Ignore Luffys hands trying to push his chest away. Theres a dark voice that whispers to Zoro he can keep going, keep taking pleasure, keep enjoying this moment. Zoro never listens to the voice though. He loves Luffy, he would never hurt him.

Zoro releases the death grip he has on the back of Luffy head. There’s a part of him that aches when Luffy pulls away panting. Zoro starts placing kisses against his cheek. Leaves bites on his neck. Zoro loves to hear Luffy gasp, loves the sound Luffy makes. Loves that Luffy pretends the bites hurt.

“I love you.”

In between the bites and the kisses, Zoro whispers the same promise over and over in Luffys ear. Because it is a promise. The kisses are a testament to that. The bite marks that go away by morning are proof of that. Zoro loves Luffy. Loves him with all his heart and soul.

Elijah would never stain Lucien when he was this flirty even when he had lost most of his senses, and after over week kept in this room to be used by all of the family while the ring and cage kept him from finishing, there was nothing of the Elijah the world knew.

If he was human, he would have died, but that was the fun of such durable toys.

If death was a mercy Elijah could reach, he would have claimed it hundred times since he became Lucien’s.

“Luc-sir-mas-please.” Elijah gasped and Lucien made the move himself to lift Elijah's face to meet his, with the tip of his shoe.

Wide teary eyes met his. His flushed cheeks and red swallow lips from his own teeth made a picture along with his hair, long like Lucien had him grow, hung limply around his face.

“What are you?” he asked flatly, refusing to let his enjoy of the other’s state be visible even if it seemed Elijah wouldn’t notice in his current state

“Yours.” Elijah breathed without hesitation, leaning closer as if was drawn to him. “Yours.” he repeated rocking slightly, rutting against the floor for the release he knew only Lucien would give him

Lucein allowed a smile to appear as he reached forward to catch Elijah by the throat, ELijah whined when he did nothing but hold him.

“Yes,” he nodded, the lack of hesitation and clear devotion was always nice but this once it wasn’t what he wanted. He had broken Elijah of his denial of that years ago, with the help of his siblings, this was another lesson he had decided to make final. ”but What are you?”

“A thing,” Elijah answered just as unhesitatingly, “A thing to be used.” He added, “A thing for pleasure, comfort or satisfaction of the family.”

Lucien leant forward to tease a brush of affection, by brushing his lips to Elijah’s hair, damp and filthy as it was. This was a far better reaction than the night he finally broke the last of Elijah’s resistance, and Lucien was a kind ruler to reward such.

“And isn’t that better than what you had before?” he asked, as he drew back “Doesn’t it make your life easier, no more doubt.”

Elijah nodded vigorously, almost choking himself on Lucien’s hand as he did.

“Th-thank you for teaching me my place. Thank you for showing me my purpose.”

“Good pet.” he praised, letting go and watching as Elijah’s eyes widened before crumpled to the floor without his hold.

“I’m not sure.” he drawled, listing as Elijah’s heartbeat jumped and sobs joined the tangle of pleas leaving the other’s mouth.

“Please,” Elijah begged, speaking to his shoes as he shifted against the floor, desperation growing “Please use me. please-”

No doubt, Elijah feared being left in the room for longer.

“pleasepleaseplease-”

“Up.” he ordered, cutting off the words with a curl of his finger, smiling softly as Elijah rose like a puppet. He swayed and like the puppet he followed Lucien’s hand as he gestured to the seat beside him, standing himself when Elijah sat.

Elijah flinched looking up at him in confusion, likely fearing being left more than any pain, made clear when Elijah relaxed as Lucien moved his hands to his belt and fly.

“Now you're going to be a good seat for me” he explained, freeing himself of his pants and underwear and reaching out to free Elijah’s cock from the cage, a plain metal thing compared to the silver and opal cock ring, that was just Elijah.

Elijah whimpered even if the ring still kept Elijah from release.

“and I'll finally let you come, is that what you want?” he finished as Elijah recovered.

“I’m-” Lucien watched as Elijah’s lips trembled and his tongue appeared to wet them. “yours to use how you wish.” he finished, brown eyes meeting his and mind so open Lucien barely had to look to find the truth in his words. “A thing doesn’t have wants.”

Excellent, he thought, straddling Elijah, feeling every shake under him.

He had no doubt Elijah could recover himself eventually if Lucien left him alone but Lucien would be ensuring this lesson settled deep, much like Kol’s on his mind uses for anything outside of sex.

Lucien did love turning the most intelligent of the Mikaelson’s boys into his personal empty head sex toys. 

He met Elijah’s open month with a deep kiss, swallowing Elijah’s moans as he sank down on him and keeping his own muffled at the burn, having prepared himself before he entered.

He was gentle as he used Elijah.