#mean reader

credits to the gif owner

The acrid scent of sulfur hung heavy in the air, mingling with the distant rumble of volcanic activity that defined the Ash Clan's territory. Cracked obsidian paths wound through steaming vents and jagged lava formations, the ground warm under your bare feet as you perched high on a shadowed ledge overlooking the clan's central gathering ground. Your grey skin, dusted with fine ash particles that caught the dim, reddish light filtering through the perpetual haze, blended seamlessly with the volcanic landscape.

But it was your hair that set you apart, pure white, an anomaly among the Mangkwan People and has not been found an explanation as to why your hair is coloured like that, falling in thick, untamed waves down your back, the front sections meticulously braided and adorned with jeweled beads of volcanic glass and obsidian shards that clinked softly with the slightest movement. Those braids framed your face, trailing down to brush just above the swell of your plump ass, barely concealed by the scant wrappings of your attire consisted of thin strips of heat-treated hide that crossed over your full, heavy breasts, leaving the undersides exposed and your nipples pebbling against the rough material from the humid warmth. A low-slung loincloth of woven ash-fibers hugged your wide hips, riding high enough to reveal the powerful curve of your thighs and the subtle flex of your calves as you shifted, silver eyes narrowing in curiosity.

You spotted him first, a Na'vi striding into the clan's ground with purposeful steps, his deeper blue skin marked by the faint stripes of forest dwellers, but altered, bulkier, clad in strange sky people garments with fitted pants of some synthetic material that hugged his muscular thighs and a tactical vest that accentuated his broad shoulders and chiseled chest. He moved like a predator, yellow eyes scanning the surroundings with cold calculation, tail flicking behind him in wary tension.

Handsome, you thought, a demanding heat stirring low in your belly as you took in his sharp jawline, the confident set of his ears, and the way his bioluminescent markings glowed faintly against his skin. But you remained hidden, ears twitching forward, body still as stone. Let him enter your domain unaware, your meaner instincts preferred the thrill of the ambush.

The murmurs of your people rose like steam from the vents, warriors gripping spears, their ash covered forms tense and ready, eyes locked on the intruder.

From her marui perched on a elevated obsidian platform, your sister, Varang emerged, the Tsahìk of the Ash Clan sauntering down the carved steps with regal poise.

Her dark braids, streaked with ritualistic ash, swung against her back, her grey skin gleaming with a subtle sheen of sweat that highlighted the sharp angles of her lithe body. She wore ceremonial wrappings of blackened leather that crossed her modest breasts and cinched at her waist, emphasizing her angular hips and the predatory sway of her steps. Her face was hauntingly beautiful, high severe cheekbones, silver eyes that burned with unyielding ambition, lips pulled into a calculating smile that bordered on scary, fangs peeking just enough to warn of her turned-back allegiance to Eywa.

Quaritch halted at the center of the gathering ground, his yellow eyes flicking over the assembled Ash People, assessing threats with military precision.

This is the one, he thought, a smirk tugging at his lips beneath the recom facade. Varang, leader of the Eywa-rejecting clan. Perfect pawn. Seduce her, make her fall hard, and she'll hand me Sully on a platter, her warriors, her resources, all mine.

His enhanced senses picked up the hostility radiating from the clan, spears leveled at his chest, but he ignored it, focusing on Varang as she approached, her tail curling possessively.

Varang's gaze raked over him, her haunting features twisting into intrigue.

A sky-touched Na'vi, she mused inwardly, voice a silken whisper in her mind. Strong, foreign. He reeks of their fire, weapons that could burn the other clans to ash. Use him, bind him, and the Ash People rise supreme.

She stopped before him, arms crossing under her breasts, lifting them slightly as she tilted her head, ears perking with feigned curiosity.

He dropped to one knee then, the motion fluid despite the strange clothes restricting him slightly, his broad shoulders hunching in a show of respect that didn't reach his eyes. '

"Great Tsahìk Varang." He rumbled, voice deep and laced with engineered charm, yellow eyes locking onto hers. "I come seeking alliance. My... knowledge of the sky people's ways could benefit your clan against common enemies."

The spears pressed closer, tips glinting in the haze, but Varang raised a hand, silencing the warriors with a sharp gesture. Her silver eyes narrowed, lips curling into a demanding sneer.

"Alliance requires loyalty, sky demon." She hissed, voice low and commanding, stepping forward until her scent, smoke and bitter herbs, wafted over him. "Eywa has forsaken us, we forge our own bonds."

Without warning, she reached for his kuru queue, the neural tendrils uncoiling from the braid at the base of his skull with a soft, insistent slither. Her fingers gripped it firmly, pulling it toward her own, intent on forcing the tsaheylu, binding him irrevocably to her will before he could utter another word.

But you were done observing.

With a fluid leap from your perch, you descended into the gathering ground, landing with a soft thud that sent ash puffing around your feet. Your white hair cascaded like a banner of defiance, jeweled braids clinking as you straightened, hips swaying with inherent dominance.

The clan reacted instantly, warriors dropping their spears to kneel, foreheads pressing to the warm earth, tails stilling in reverence. Whispers of your name rippled through them like heat waves. You were no Tsahìk, but your presence commanded equal fear and awe, your personality a sharper, more demanding echo of Varang's fire. You were deemed sacred for your white hair and that gives you leverage over anyone here, even your sister.

Quaritch's head snapped up, yellow eyes widening as they drank you in.

You were like the Ash Clan, yes, skin ashen and resilient but different, strikingly so. That pure white hair, unprecedented among your people, framed a face of undeniable beauty, full lips curved in natural allure, cheekbones flushed with subtle heat, and silver eyes that sparkled with predatory intelligence. No haunting scariness like Varang's severe lines, yours were soft, inviting yet fierce, drawing him in like a moth to flame.

Your body, scantily wrapped, was a vision, full breasts straining against the hide strips, nipple peaks visible through the sheer edges, your waist nipped in before flaring to wide hips and that perky ass, the loincloth barely covering the cleft as you moved. The braids flowed down, teasing the swell of your curves, and he felt an unwelcome stir in his groin, his cock twitching despite the hate coiled in his core.

Varang froze, her grip on his queue tightening in irritation, but you strode forward without pause, your thighs flexing with each step, tail lashing sharply behind you.

In one swift motion, you snatched the kuru from her hands, the tendrils brushing your fingers with a spark of potential connection that made your skin tingle. You hissed at her, fangs bared in a venomous warning, eyes flashing with mean triumph.

"Tsmuke." You snarled, voice husky and demanding, ears pinning back. "This one's fire is not yours to claim."

She recoiled slightly, her haunting face twisting in bitterness, but held her tongue.

Your gaze dropped to Quaritch, still kneeling amid the bowed clan, his muscular frame tense, yellow eyes flicking up to meet yours with a mix of defiance and hidden awe. You smirked down at him, leaning slightly so your breasts heaved with the motion, the scent of volcanic blooms and your natural musk drifting toward him.

"Hear me, all of you." You declared, voice ringing clear and commanding over the haze, tail curling possessively. "This sky demon's loyalty belongs to me alone. His strength, his secrets, they are mine."

Without hesitation, you uncoiled your own queue, the tendrils writhing eagerly as you connected it to his. The tsaheylu snapped into place with a surge of electric intimacy, a flood of sensations crashing between you, his calculated rage, the undercurrent of mission-driven hunger, now twisting with an forced pull toward you, binding his will to yours in an unbreakable neural bond.

He gasped, body shuddering violently, yellow eyes dilating as the mate-link seared into his core, his cock hardening fully beneath his pants from the invasive rush of your demanding essence.

You pulled back slowly, savoring his dazed expression, the way his ears flicked erratically.

Straightening, you addressed your people, voice brooking no argument. "Prepare a marui for him, high on the eastern spire, overlooking the vents. Bring him there once it's ready."

Warriors nodded from their knees, scrambling to obey, their movements swift and deferential.

Turning to Varang, you stepped closer, your perky bum brushing the air as you pivoted, eyes locking onto her with coy amusement.

"You may speak with him, tsmuke. Plan your fires, discuss the sky people's weapons. Guns, explosives, all their destructive toys." Your pouty lips curved wickedly, voice dropping to a possessive purr. "But he is mine to command. Mine to touch. Remember that."

She hissed back at you, fangs flashing in fury, her tail whipping the ground, but you only smirked, tossing your white hair over one shoulder, the jeweled braids catching the light as you sauntered away, hips rolling with confident allure.

The newly prepared marui was a sturdy structure of woven volcanic fibers and reinforced obsidian panels, perched precariously on the eastern spire where the warm updrafts carried the perpetual rumble of lava flows. You entered without knocking, the hide flap parting under your fingers as you ducked inside, the dim interior lit by glowing fungi embedded in the walls.

Quaritch sat on the woven sleeping mat, his strange sky people clothes partially shed, vest removed, revealing the rippling muscles of his blue chest, pants still clinging to his powerful legs. He looked up sharply as you entered, yellow eyes narrowing then widening again, the bond humming faintly between you, amplifying the pull of his gaze on your form.

You tilted your head, white braids shifting to frame your beautiful face, golden eyes appraising him with demanding curiosity.

"I am (Y/N)." You said, voice smooth and husky, stepping closer so the sway of your hips drew his attention to the scant wrappings hugging your curves. "What are you called, sky demon?"

He straightened slightly, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest, surprised, almost genuine, as he met your stare.

"Miles Quaritch." He replied, voice gravelly, ears perking forward despite himself. "But you can call me whatever you want now, darlin'."

The bond tugged at him, making the endearment feel less mocking, more instinctive.

Your silver eyes drifted to his hand resting on his knee, noting the five fingers where Na'vi had four, the subtle difference in his recom form. You tilted your head further, lips parting in intrigue as you commented. "Strange... five claws where there should be four. Sky people mark you even in this skin."

Your tone was demanding yet laced with genuine fascination, ears twitching as you observed him.

He chuckled again, deeper this time, the sound vibrating through the tsaheylu and sending a shiver up your spine.

"Engineered for precision." He said, flexing his fingers slightly, yellow eyes glinting with amusement. "Comes in handy."

Drawn by your curiosity, you closed the distance, your bare feet padding softly on the marui floor until you stood before him, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from your grey skin. You reached out, grasping his hand in yours, your four-fingered grip firm and exploratory, turning it palm up to inspect the extra digit, tracing the blue veins with a light touch that made his breath hitch. Your full breasts rose and fell with your focused breaths, nipples pressing against the hide as you leaned in, white hair cascading forward, jeweled braids brushing his arm. The scent of you enveloped him, ash-kissed wildflowers, a hint of sulfur, and something uniquely demanding, intoxicating.

Quaritch gazed down at you, entranced despite the war raging in his mind.

He took in every detail, the undeniable beauty of your face, those silver eyes sparkling with mean intensity, your different features, the pure white hair like fresh snow on volcanic rock, your body, all curves and power, breasts heaving gently, the swell of your perky ass visible as you shifted weight.

He hated Na'vi, hated being one, but as you inspected his hand so curiously, fingers interlacing briefly, he smirked to himself, the bond flooding him with your demanding essence.

Sully traded it all for this huh, went native. For her kind of pussy. Wouldn't blame him.

His cock throbbed in his pants, the bond making the obsession already take root as he continues to watch you silently who’s entranced with his hands.

~

The days blurred into a haze of volcanic steam and flickering bioluminescent glows, the Mangkwan Clan's territory alive with the constant undercurrent of rumbling earth and sulfurous winds.

You moved through it all with a deliberate grace, your grey skin glistening under the perpetual crimson light, the pure white strands of your hair catching flecks of ash like stars in a stormy sky. Those front braids, heavy with jeweled obsidian and volcanic gems, swayed against your back, brushing the upper curve of your perky ass with each step, the scant hide strips clinging to your full breasts and wide hips doing little to hide the sway of your body.

The bond thrummed constantly in the back of your mind, a living pulse that connected you to Miles, drawing you to him like the pull of lava flows toward the sea. You enticed him without mercy, your silver eyes locking onto his yellow ones whenever you could, your tail curling invitingly as you brushed past him in the clan's winding paths, letting your fingers trail along his arm just long enough to spark the neural link with shared heat.

Each morning, as the first vents hissed awake, you sought him out near the eastern spire where his marui perched.

"Come." You'd say, voice a husky command laced with playful demand, extending your hand, four-fingered and callused from handling heated rocks, to pull him from his woven mat.

He'd rise, his deeper blue skin marked by faint scars from his sky people days, the tactical pants hugging his thick thighs and the vest straining over his broad chest, but you'd coax him out of those confines bit by bit, insisting he adapt to Na'vi ways.

Today, you led him to a cluster of steaming pools ringed by black basalt, the water bubbling with mineral-rich heat that mimicked the clan's fiery essence.

"Watch." You instructed, crouching at the pool's edge, your thighs parting slightly as you dipped your fingers into the scalding liquid, demonstrating how the Ash People drew strength from Pandora's wrath.

Your perky ass flexed under the thin loincloth, the fabric riding up to reveal the smooth grey expanse of your skin, and you felt his gaze burn through you, hot, conflicted, but undeniably drawn.

He knelt beside you, his muscular frame casting a shadow, yellow eyes narrowing in focus as you explained the rituals, how to anoint the skin with ash-mud to honor the volcano's fury, how to listen to the earth's growls for warnings of eruptions.

"We are born of fire." You murmured, your lips curving into a smirk as you smeared a streak of warm mud across his chest, your palm flat against the hard planes of his pectorals, feeling his heart thud beneath.

The touch sent a ripple through him, his breath catching, ears flicking back in surprise.

Miles absorbed it slowly, his initial stiffness melting as the days wore on.

At first, he'd grunt responses, his military posture rigid, but you saw the shift, how his tail would loosen, curling toward yours in subconscious sync, how he'd linger longer in the clan's obsidian forges, watching warriors shape blades from cooled lava with a grudging respect.

Pandora's wild beauty seeped into him through you, the way you'd climb jagged spires with him trailing, your white hair whipping in the hot gusts, pointing out the hidden glow-vines that pulsed like veins in the rock, or how you'd dive into ash-choked streams, emerging with water sluicing down your curves, breasts heaving as you laughed, challenging him to follow.

"See?" You'd tease, silver eyes sparkling with mean delight as he surfaced sputtering, his blue hair plastered to his sharp features. "Eywa's children thrive here. Even you, sky demon."

And he'd smirk back, the bond forcing honesty, admitting in low rumbles how the planet's raw power stirred something in him he'd long suppressed.

Your fascination with his hands became a ritual, a quiet intimacy woven into these lessons. Whenever conversation lulled, you'd reach for one, your slender fingers, topped with blunt claws, tracing the outline of his five digits, marveling at the extra length, the way his palm dwarfed yours.

"So precise." You'd murmur, voice soft yet demanding, turning his hand over to study the faint lines etched by years of gripping triggers and controls.

Your touch was light, exploratory, nails grazing his knuckles, and you'd lean in close, your full breasts brushing his arm accidentally-on-purpose, the scent of volcanic blooms clinging to your skin mingling with his sharper, metallic tang.

He'd watch you, yellow eyes softening at the edges, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest, genuine, almost affectionate as your ears perked in concentration.

"You're like a kid with a new toy, darlin'." He'd say, voice gravelly with amusement, flexing his fingers to curl around yours briefly, the bond you have amplifying the warmth into something electric.

It was cute to him, this Na'vi queen reduced to wide-eyed curiosity over something so mundane, and you'd huff in mock offense, squeezing his hand harder before releasing it with a coy tilt of your head, white braids clinking softly.

Yet you didn't hoard him entirely.

You allowed him time with Varang, watching from afar as they huddled in her marui, the air thick with scheming whispers and the acrid bite of planning.

She'd saunter in her blackened leathers, her hauntingly beautiful face set in severe lines, high cheekbones sharp as obsidian, golden eyes burning with bitterness that twisted her full lips into a perpetual scowl. Her dark braids swung as she gestured animatedly, laying out maps of clan territories on woven mats, her lithe body leaning forward to point at weak points in the forest Na'vi defenses.

Miles sat across from her, his posture commanding, yellow eyes calculating as he described the sky people's arsenal, the cold precision of guns that spat metal death, explosives that could shatter rock faces, the drones that hummed like angry insects overhead.

"These will burn your enemies to cinders." He'd explain, voice steady and tactical, demonstrating a mimed reload that made Varang's ears twitch with eager hunger.

She nodded, her tail lashing occasionally, but you caught the undercurrent, the way her gaze lingered on him too long, possessive and resentful, fangs peeking in subtle hisses when she thought no one watched.

Varang's bitterness was a palpable fog, especially when you'd pass her marui on your way to collect Miles. She'd emerge sometimes, arms crossed under her modest breasts, lifting them in a subtle challenge, her scary-beautiful features hardening as she spotted you.

"He shares more than plans with me, tsmuke." She'd spit once, voice low and venomous, ears pinned flat.

But you'd only scoff, a amused puff of air escaping your pouty lips, silver eyes rolling skyward as you tossed your white hair, the jeweled braids catching the haze-light.

"Dream on, oh so Great Tsahìk." You'd retort, voice dripping with coy superiority, hips swaying as you walked away without a backward glance.

Her fury was entertaining, a petty spark against the deeper fire you stoked with Miles, and through the bond, you felt his divided attention sharpen toward you every time.

Evenings became yours alone.

You'd wait for him outside Varang's domain, perched on a warm boulder, legs crossed so your loincloth hiked up your thighs, exposing the powerful muscle there, your perky ass shifting comfortably against the stone. When he emerged, shoulders slightly slumped from the intensity of strategy sessions, blue skin dusted with ash from the day's lessons, you'd rise fluidly, tail curling in greeting, and lead him to secluded vents where the steam veiled your conversations.

"Tell me of the sky people." You'd demand one dusk, settling beside him on a flat ledge, your body pressing close enough that your thigh brushed his, the heat of your grey skin seeping through his pants.

Your silver eyes fixed on his face, tracing the sharp jaw, the faint scars, as he spoke haltingly at first, describing the metal hives they built in the sky, the endless grind of orders and drills, how he commanded soldiers who viewed Pandora as just another battlefield to strip bare.

You listened intently, head tilted, white hair cascading over one shoulder to pool against your breast, the hide strip straining as you breathed. Your hand found his again, tracing those five fingers absentmindedly, claws scraping lightly over his palm, drawing a soft exhale from him.

"And you?" He'd counter, voice rough, yellow eyes dropping to your lips, then lower to the swell of your curves. "What drives a beauty like you to claim a demon like me?"

But you'd steer him back, probing deeper, his ranks, the weapons he'd wielded, the cold calculations of their wars. He opened up gradually, the tsaheylu easing the barriers, his chuckles turning to thoughtful pauses as Pandora's allure, through your enticing presence chipped at his resolve.

One night, under a sky choked with ash clouds, you pushed further, your body angled toward him, knees drawn up so your breasts rested atop them, nipples dark peaks tenting the hide from the chill wind.

"Why chase this Na'vi who mirrors you?" You asked, voice a demanding whisper, silver eyes searching his. "You've fallen, heart and queue bound to me. Is loving a Na’vi such a crime?"

You leaned in, your scent enveloping him, smoky wildflowers and untamed heat, your pouty lips parting slightly, breath warm against his ear.

He paused, yellow eyes darkening with internal war, his hand tightening around yours where you traced his fingers. The bond flooded you with his turmoil, duty clashing against the growing obsession you ignited.

"Yeah." He admitted finally, voice gravelly and reluctant, ears drooping slightly. "It's a crime to humanity. Betrayal, plain and simple. That Sully bastard chose this world over us, over everything."

You held his gaze then, silver eyes locking with unyielding intensity, your free hand rising to cup his jaw, thumb stroking the blue skin there, feeling the faint stubble from his recom form. Your perky ass shifted as you leaned closer, breasts nearly brushing his chest, the air humming with shared vulnerability.

"And is it a crime you're willing to take... with me?" Your words hung heavy, demanding yet laced with a vulnerable edge, your tail wrapping loosely around his leg in instinctive claim.

Before he could respond, his lips parting, yellow eyes widening with the weight of it, you giggled, a light, mean-spirited trill that broke the tension, your shoulders shaking as you pulled back slightly, white braids dancing.

The sound was infectious, easing the moment, and he huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the bond relaying his reluctant amusement at your timing.

As the nights deepened, he revealed more of his mission, the RDA's iron grip, the orders to hunt Jake Sully and reclaim the planet's riches, how he was rebuilt, recombinant they called it, to infiltrate and destroy from within.

You absorbed it all, your body language open, legs unfolding to stretch out beside him, thigh pressing firmly against his, hand still entwined with his as you traced patterns on his skin.

But inwardly, conclusions formed like cooling lava, the RDA saw him as a tool, expendable once Sully was dust or the unobtanium flowed again. They'd discard him like a spent cartridge, his loyalty bought with false promises.

You kept it locked away, a secret amusement flickering in your silver eyes, not wanting to shatter the fragile appreciation blooming in him. And the folly of it all struck you, hunting a man for surrendering to the intoxicating pull of Na'vi flesh, for letting alien curves and neural bonds rewrite his soul.

Fools, you thought, scoffing silently as you watched him gaze at the volcanic horizon, his profile softening under Pandora's influence, chasing ghosts while the fire claims him.

Through it all, you continue to entice him relentlessly, a brush of your tail against his back during lessons, your laughter ringing as you wrestled him playfully in the ash fields to teach balance, your body pinning his momentarily, breasts heaving against his chest, grey skin slick with sweat.

He'd growl in response, hands gripping your hips, five fingers splaying possessively, yellow eyes blazing with the bond's fire.

Pandora wasn't just surviving in him, it was thriving, all because of you, and the tsaheylu whispered promises of deeper entanglements to come.

~

The days stretched onward like the slow creep of lava across blackened stone, each one pulling you deeper into an unfamiliar warmth that chipped away at the icy walls around your heart.

What began as a game, a sky demon to toy with, to bind and bend to your will had shifted into something perilously real.

Miles Quaritch, with his sharp yellow eyes and unyielding frame, was no longer just an amusement, he was threading himself into the fabric of your thoughts, his presence a constant hum through the tsaheylu bond that made your tail twitch in anticipation whenever he was near. Your grey skin prickled with it, your white braids swaying heavier as you moved through the clan's steaming paths, the jeweled obsidian clinking softly against your back, brushing the curve of your perky ass with every step.

One afternoon, as the volcanic haze thickened the air, you found him practicing with a obsidian spear near the eastern vents, his deeper blue muscles flexing under the strain of thrusts and parries. Sweat beaded on his broad chest, trickling down the ridges of his abs, and you watched from a shadowed ledge, your golden eyes narrowing with a mix of pride and something softer.

He moved with a soldier's precision, but you'd taught him the Na'vi flow, fluid, grounded and now he adapted it seamlessly, tail lashing for balance.

"You're getting it." You called out, voice husky with approval as you dropped down beside him, your full breasts bouncing slightly under the scant hide strips, nipples hardening against the fabric from the hot wind.

You snatched the spear from his grip mid-swing, your four-fingered hand wrapping around the shaft, and demonstrated a twist of your hips that sent the tip slicing through a hovering ash-mote.

He straightened, yellow eyes locking onto yours, a smirk tugging at his lips as he wiped sweat from his brow.

"All thanks to my teacher." He rumbled, voice low and gravelly, stepping closer until his chest nearly brushed yours.

The bond pulsed with his admiration, warm and insistent, and you felt your cold heart stutter, fondness blooming like a rare volcanic flower. You handed the spear back, your fingers lingering on his, tracing those five digits with a gentleness you hadn't intended.

"Don't get cocky, sky demon." You teased, but your lips curved into a genuine smile, ears perking forward as you bumped your shoulder against his arm. "Though... you look good wielding our ways."

He chuckled, deep and resonant, his hand covering yours fully, thumb stroking your knuckles.

"Means a lot, coming from you." He said softly, yellow eyes searching your face, and through his eyes, you sensed his sincerity, no games, just him seeing you, truly.

Your tail curled toward his instinctively, and for a moment, you let the silence stretch, your body leaning into the heat radiating from his skin, the scent of him, metallic edge softened by Pandora's earth, filling your lungs.

Evenings brought quieter moments, where fondness wrapped around you like steam from the pools.

You'd pull him to a secluded basalt outcrop overlooking the glowing fissures, your thighs parting as you sat cross-legged, loincloth riding up to expose the smooth grey of your inner thighs.

He'd settle beside you, his thick leg pressing against yours, and you'd talk, not of plans or wars, but of small things.

"Tell me of your sky world." You'd murmur one night, head tilting to rest lightly on his shoulder, white hair spilling across his blue skin like fresh ash on stone.

Your hand found his again, interlacing fingers, marveling at how his extra one fit perfectly against your palm. He hesitated, then spoke of cold metal ships and endless stars, his voice rumbling through his chest into yours.

"Sounds lonely." You whispered, silver eyes lifting to meet his, and he nodded, free hand coming up to tuck a loose braid behind your ear, claws gentle.

"Was. Until now."

The words hit you like a warm gust, thawing another layer of your reserve, and you nuzzled closer, your perky ass shifting on the rock as you pressed your breast against his arm.

"Stay that way." You said, voice demanding yet laced with vulnerability, and he squeezed your hand, the bond flooding with his growing devotion.

"For you? Always."

But as the plans with Varang finalized, worry gnawed at you like acid rain on stone.

You'd overheard fragments, raids on the reef clans, ambushes using sky people guns to ignite the fire Varang craved.

Miles was central to it, his tactical mind sharpening their schemes, and the thought of him charging into that chaos, bound by old loyalties, twisted your gut. He was yours now, woven into your heart, and the idea of losing him to bullets or Na'vi arrows, or worse, to the RDA's betrayal, made your fangs ache.

You couldn't voice it yet, not without shattering the fragile trust, but it drove you to her marui that evening, the woven walls pulsing with inner light from bioluminescent fungi.

The air inside was thick with tension and the sharp tang of strategy inks on hides.

Varang leaned over a map, her hauntingly beautiful face illuminated, high cheekbones casting shadows that made her golden eyes gleam with hunger. Her dark braids cascaded down her back, swaying as she shifted closer to Miles, who sat rigid on a mat, yellow eyes focused on the markings.

But she was done with plans, her hand trailed up his arm, claws scraping lightly over his bicep, her lithe body arching to press her modest breasts against his side.

"We've earned a break, warrior." She purred, voice low and seductive, tail curling toward his as she leaned in, pouty lips parting to brush his ear. "Let me show you how the Tsahìk reward her allies."

Her free hand slid toward his thigh, fingers inching under the edge of his pants.

You watched from the entrance, a laugh bubbling up unbidden, sharp and amused, echoing off the walls.

She was persistent, your sister, but futile, the bond marked him as yours, and his body language screamed it, stiffening not in desire but restraint.

Varang froze, ears pinning back as you stepped inside, your grey skin glowing in the dim light, white braids clinking like warnings. You placed yourself squarely in front of Miles, hips cocked, perky ass flexing under the loincloth as you loomed over her, silver eyes narrowing down with mean delight. Your full breasts heaved with the laugh's aftershocks, hide strips straining, and you crossed your arms under them, lifting the curves higher.

"Keep touching ma’muntxa, tsmuke." You hissed, voice a commanding snarl laced with amusement, tail lashing sharply. "And I'll cut your braids off and make you eat them. Braid by filthy braid."

Varang recoiled, fangs baring in a hiss, her scary-beautiful features twisting in fury, but she dropped her hand, her own silver eyes flashing resentment.

Miles, behind you, shifted, his breath quickening, hot and aroused. He was turned on, obsessed with your dominance, the way your grey skin flushed with authority, your white hair framing your prettiest face like a crown, the sway of your wide hips and perky ass as you asserted claim. His cock twitched in his pants, the bond between you amplifying his hunger, yellow eyes devouring you from behind, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your thighs.

You didn't spare her another glance, you turned slightly glancing over your shoulder at Miles, your smirk wicked, before sauntering out the marui with a scoff, white hair swaying, confident in the pull of the bond.

He would come.

And he did.

The volcanic night air cooled your heated skin, but the bond thrummed with his approach, footsteps heavy and urgent.

He caught up near a steaming vent, grabbing your arm gently to spin you around. You tilted your head to the side, silver eyes glinting up at him, pouty lips curving into a coy smile as you studied his flushed face, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched with need.

"Will you do anything for me, Miles?" You asked, voice a husky demand, stepping closer so your breasts brushed his chest, nipples peaking against him.

"Yes." He rasped immediately, yellow eyes darkening, hand sliding to your waist, five fingers splaying possessively over your hip, thumb digging into the soft grey flesh.

You smiled wider, amusement sparkling with that dangerous glint, leaning in until your breath mingled with his. "Even abandon everything you've ever known and trained to do?"

Your words hung heavy, challenging, as your hand rose to cup his neck, claws pricking lightly. Then, without warning, you touched his chest, palm flat over his pounding heart, and leaned up to lick his lips, slow, deliberate, your tongue tracing the seam, tasting salt and desire.

He groaned deep in his throat, body shuddering, cock hardening fully against your thigh as he gripped your ass, squeezing the perky flesh.

"Yes." He rasped again, voice breaking with obsession, pulling you flush against him.

The bond ignited like dry tinder, and you pushed him back against the vent's warm rock, your hands yanking at his pants, freeing his thick cock, blue-veined and throbbing, tip already leaking pre-cum.

He was obsessed, hands roaming your body with frantic need, palming your full breasts, thumbs circling your dark nipples until they ached, pinching hard enough to make you gasp.

"Fuck, you're perfect." He muttered, voice rough as he shoved your loincloth aside, fingers plunging into your wet pussy, curling to stroke your inner walls.

You moaned, grinding down on his hand, your grey skin slick with sweat, white braids whipping as you arched. The thrill made every touch electric, his obsession flooding you, the way he worshipped your curves, your perky ass in his rough grip as he lifted you, pinning you to the rock.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, guiding his cock to your entrance, and he thrust in hard, stretching your pussy with his girth, the bond amplifying the burn into bliss.

"Mine." You hissed, nails raking his back, drawing blue welts as he fucked you relentlessly in deep pounding strokes that made your breasts bounce, your ass slapping against the stone with each snap of his hips.

He sucked on your neck, fangs grazing, then captured your pouty lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling, saliva mixing as he groaned into your mouth.

"Hadn’t even been long and I’m already obsessed with this pretty pussy." He panted, one hand sliding between you to rub your clit, the other kneading your ass, fingers teasing your hole.

You clenched around him, walls fluttering, and he growled, thrusting faster, the bulge of his cock visible in your tummy with each plunge.

He flipped you suddenly, bending you over the rock, your perky ass presented as he slammed back in from behind, hand fisting your white hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. You pushed back, meeting his thrusts, pussy dripping down your thighs, the wet sounds echoing with your moans.

"Harder." You demanded, silver eyes glazing over, and he obeyed, pounding until you came, walls spasming, milking his cock as you cried out, body shaking.

He followed, groaning your name, cock pulsing as he filled your pussy with hot cum, spilling out around him, dripping down your legs. Panting, he pulled you into his arms, bodies slick and joined still, his lips brushing your ear.

You turned, silver eyes locking on his, heart finally thawing fully.

"Run away with me, Miles." You whispered, voice soft now, hand tracing his jaw. "Leave this all behind, the plans, the wars, your old life."

He stiffened for a while but softened as you continue to gaze at him, he cupped your face, yellow eyes fierce with devotion, the bond sealing his truth.

He can’t deny himself anymore. He wouldn’t.

He chuckes to himself at the irony as he pulled you closer.

He’s just like Sully now, a bastard whipped for a Na’vi woman and her pretty pussy.

Her manicured nails trail up his abs, bunching the fabric of his shirt and scratching up to his broad shoulders. He gulps in anticipation with the tip of his tongue touching the ends of his teeth, watching her hands find their path. His ears bloom red with heat and lust. He’s blushing hard and she sees it.

She inches up his neck, dragging soft red lines across the sides and earning a hum of appreciation he instinctively lets out. She presses her thumb to his pink lips, and his big blue eyes suddenly widen.

“What are you—” he starts but she shoves past the first knuckle into his mouth, and his lips immediately wrap themselves around it.

“I said shut up, didn’t I, Barnes?”

Like the respectful man he is, he listens.

She hums in approval as he stays silent and pushes her thumb further into his mouth, letting him slobber over it before pulling it back out—just to prove a point.

"You're so much cuter when you get what you want, you know that?"

Dumbfounded, he stares up at her like he wasn’t sure if this was really happening, trying to recall how he’d gotten himself into this situation— how she’d gotten him bound for her. But truth be told, he liked this. He wanted this. This big beefy man was dying to be touched by her, manhandled by her into submission even if his pride wouldn’t let him admit it. Bucky always had a soft spot for her, even if they’d fight like hell. The devilish grin on her face when she saw the gears turning in his brain made him so much harder.

“I see the way you look at me, Barnes,” inching herself even closer to him, a leg on either side of his thick thighs.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes.

She nods in amusement like she’s listening to his thoughts, seating herself firmly on his beefy thighs.

"F-fuck,” he groans, growing even harder at the contact.

He was always down bad for her and she could tell just from the way his eyes would wander. She pretends not to notice but tonight, she has him all to herself. No responsibilities, no work, no distractions. Just them.

Giggling at his reaction, she gleams. Her lip is caught between her lips in a seductive smirk.

“You’re so fucking easy, you know that,” ghosting her breath over his cheek as she deliberately shifts her hips on him. He chokes on his spit, straining his hands against the ropes that were just barely keeping him bound.

If he wanted out of them, he could’ve done it.

But he waits and her curiosity gets the better of her. She grinds slowly against the bulge in his pants.

“S—stop that,” he chokes out again. Pulling himself together and glaring at her, lust and embarrassment in his eyes, “god, I hate you,” he’s lying through his teeth. His boner is literally pressing against her core.

“no, you don’t,” she teases, “you hate how much you like me, don’t you, Bucky?” licking a stripe up his jaw and biting at the sharp edge.

“Y-yes, I mean no,” he tries but they both know he doesn’t mean it. She twists her hips in his lap, leaning her head back to stare his flushed appearance. He groans again like it hurts, huffing at her. “Okay—fuck—please,” she smiles at his silent submission.

But still, it wasn't enough.

“Oh, come on now. You can beg better than that,” her voice dripping in honey-tongued seduction.

Seating herself harder against him, his rock-hard length creating the most delicious friction through his jeans. Bucky throws his head back, and she grins down at him like she knows something he doesn’t, leaning into his ear.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you what you can’t seem to say you want,” his lips part as she says it, his eyes gleaming with joy. But she’s stilling her hips against his, and he whimpers in protest, “if you admit it first,”

His breath hitches, brows furrowing, “Admit what?” practically whining the words out of frustration.

“Admit you belong to me. Hmm?”

A heavy gulp pollutes the air as soon as the words come out. His lips are pink and plump from biting them too hard at her mean ministrations. She stretches out her arms behind him, rubbing him just right again.

“D-don’t do that—ah—I’ll—”

She giggles, interrupting him, “You’ll what, Bucky?” dragging her lips over his neck now, hips giving him the slightest contact with a subtle shift.

Everything was building for months, the stares, his lingering touches, the way he would stop himself from saying something and bite back his real desires.

The way she would do the same.

But not anymore.

“You’re so fucking annoying, shit,” He’s practically shaking beneath her, hips bucking back up into her.

She stops her movements and hovers over him. Desperately, he gasps, thrusting his hips upward again but finding no friction to suffice it with.

"Why did you stop?" whining the words in a way she'd never heard him before, and god, was it glorious, “move.”

She stares down at him, “You just called me annoying, so no.” She’s batting her pretty lashes like she could do no wrong, like she were the most innocent woman, just sitting in his lap with no intention of getting him off through his jeans.

He grunts in that way he always does, bucking his hips up when she inches away, “come on, I was joking,” whining the words so gorgeously. He breathes out her name, before biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. She doesn’t move, crossing her arms and he almost cries, at how badly he wanted her on him again, "Please, okay fine, please, let me fuck you.”

She hums, pretending to think to hear him whine again, "That's not what I was looking for," seating herself back on his lap, earning a beautiful moan out of him, "but it sure was pretty, so I'll sit for you,” he gasps in relief as she’s planted back down, “how's that?"

His hips move in circles to coax her, "No, no, wait please, I want you, okay?" he pants, straining against his ties, the chair groaning beneath him as he leans as far as he can into her, "You own me, alright? I belong to you," he watches her face begin to unravel as he grinds perfectly against the seam of her pants, teasing her scrumptiously.

Everything about him screamed power and authority, but beneath her, he was singing like a fucking canary, telling on himself and how desperately he was chasing his pleasure. His perfect, plump lips fall open, and she can't help but lean towards them. He makes contact first, kissing her soft and purposeful as though he's been waiting for this moment for years.

The intrusion is immediate, and he bites her bottom lip to make her open wider, causing her to gasp and moan while he tangles his tongue with hers. The muscles fighting for dominance as all semblance of control and sanity leave both of their minds, and her hips shift in tandem with his. It felt like being drunk for the first time; it felt electric, it felt like fireworks, and they were dry-humping like teenagers.

She had him wrapped around her finger.

She pulls away enough to whisper against his lips, in the sexiest, raspiest voice, knowingly teasing him, “wanna do it raw, pretty boy?"

Fuck, she was gonna kill him. Like something out of a wet dream, her words dawned on him and he was entirely ruined.

Suddenly, he moans her name, stilling his hips as his face falls into the crook of her neck. She freezes, eyes widening as she runs her fingers soothingly through his hair and pulls his head back to face her. He shudders and groans, his skin flushed. A warm, wet spot was pooling just beneath where she sat on his crotch.

“Did you just—?” their faces inches apart.

There was no embarrassment anymore, despite him literally cumming in his pants; now he was past that. He barely pulls at the ropes keeping his arms back, vibranium arm yanking it off with ease. The tearing sound fills the air as she gasps and hops off of him.

“I told you to stop fucking teasing me,” his voice sharp with a newfound anger beneath the edge.

He’s standing now, towering over her, fury evident on his flushed face. Even in anger, he looked like a snack she wanted to unwrap slowly, and lick the wrapper clean like she just couldn’t get enough. His eyes trail down her form and his metal arm wraps around her wrist, pulling her into his embrace before she can get too far.

He crashes his lips into hers and his restraint is entirely gone. Kissing her hard like he had no time to waste, his tongue tangles with hers and she couldn’t do anything about it this time. His fingers firm and purposeful as they snake up the nape of her neck, gripping enough to coax a sharp gasp out of her.

He leans down, whispering in an authoritative and deliciously rough voice that made her shiver exactly as she imagined it would, lips ghosting over hers.

“Now you're really gonna get it.”

#happyfreakysundayeverybodygetlit

You woke up with the taste of copper in your mouth and rain sliding down your cheek, your body sprawled across the slanted roof of a house you’d never seen before. For a few seconds, all you could focus on was the throbbing in your ribs and the sharp sting in your shoulder. Your breath shook when you tried to move.

Great. Injured, disoriented, and apparently trespassing.

You pushed yourself upright with a groan, blinking through the rain.

Gotham’s skyline stared back at you—familiar, but… not.

You couldn’t explain it, only that something felt off, shifted by a single degree that your exhausted brain couldn’t pin down.

But you needed help.

And there was only one place you knew your legs could carry you to: the Manor.

Not because it was home—God, no—but because it had med supplies, heat, and people who at least recognized you, even if they didn’t really care.

So you climbed down the roof, cursing under your breath every time pain darted through your side, and started the long walk toward the only beacon you had. By the time you reached the gates of Wayne Manor, your clothes were soaked, your hands shaking from cold and blood loss.

You didn’t even bother knocking.

You shoved the Manor door open and stepped inside, dripping rainwater onto the polished floor, ignoring the way the entire family went silent the moment they saw you.

They froze—absolutely frozen—like someone had cut the world’s audio.

“…What,” you said flatly, irritation dripping from every word as you limped past them. You didn’t slow down or even bother acknowledging how completely silent they’d gone. “Where’s the damn first aid kit? Are you all blind? There’s a person bleeding right in front of you.”

Jason actually flinched at your tone, his shoulders jerking like he’d been struck. Dick’s lips parted in shock, but no sound came out. Tim went stiff as a board, and Damian stared at you as if you’d slapped him. Bruce’s jaw tightened, his eyes scanning every inch of you like he needed to confirm you were real.

"Tch". You didn’t care about any of it. Their shock didn’t matter to you, not when your arm felt like it was on fire and you were dripping rain all over their expensive floor.

You lifted your injured arm and waved it at them, annoyance rising with every second they kept staring. “Hello? Injured person here,” you snapped, glaring at the entire frozen lineup. “Don’t just stand there like taxidermy, point me to the meds.”

Alfred stood frozen like the others, his eyes wide and strained in a way you had never seen before. It took him several seconds to gather himself and step toward the cabinet. When he finally picked up the first aid kit, his hands were steady, but the faint tremor in his fingers gave him away.

He approached you slowly, almost cautiously. You didn’t wait for him to speak. The moment the box was within reach, you snatched it from his hands without hesitation.

You muttered a short, rough “Thanks,” more out of habit than anything else. Then you turned away and dropped onto the closest chair with a wince. Rainwater slid off your clothes in thin streams, pooling at your feet.

You flipped the kit open and dug through the supplies with sharp, practiced motions. It was the kind of efficiency that came from necessity, not choice. Every movement said you’d done this alone too many times.

Bruce stepped forward instinctively, but you shut him down before he could speak. “Don’t,” you snapped, not even glancing at him. “I don’t need help. I can do it myself. I always do.”

The words hit the room like a crack in ice. Dick flinched at the tone, shoulders pulling tight. Tim’s hands hovered uncertainly at his sides, itching to move but too afraid to try.

Jason looked away, jaw clenched as if the sentence physically hurt him. Damian’s posture stiffened, his expression guarded and unreadable. None of them said a word, but the air grew heavy with emotions you couldn’t name.

You pressed an alcohol pad to your wound and inhaled as the sting tore through your skin. The pain was sharp but familiar—something you understood. Their eyes on you, however, were not.

Every one of them watched you with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. Awe, fear, disbelief, and something heavier simmered beneath the surface. You kept your gaze down, pretending you didn’t feel it.

Alfred tried again, his voice soft and trembling. “You do not have to treat yourself, Master—Reader. We can—”

“I said I got it,” you cut in, sharper this time. Your eyes flicked up just long enough to give him a warning. “Don’t hover. I’m fine.”

But they didn’t move. None of them backed away or even pretended to act normal. They stayed rooted to the floor, staring at you like you were something impossible.

You focused on wrapping your bandages with rough precision, trying to shut out the weight of their silence. But the longer you sat there, the more it pressed against your spine.

You felt their stares drilling into your back before you even looked up. It was the kind of silence that made your skin crawl, too heavy, too emotional for your liking. You slammed the alcohol pad back into the kit, fed up with the tension choking the room. Then you lifted your head, irritation already burning in your eyes.

They were still staring—unmoving, unblinking, like statues carved out of shock. Dick looked ready to cry, Tim looked ready to faint, Jason looked like he’d seen a ghost, and Bruce… Bruce looked like he’d been gutted from the inside out. Damian’s eyes were wide, sharp, and too damn intense. It made your blood boil.

Your voice came out like a snap of thunder. “Okay, what the hell is wrong with all of you?” You jabbed a finger at them, scowling. “Why are you all looking at me like that? Spit it out.”

Bruce took a single breath, slow and shaky, but even he couldn’t get a word out. They just kept staring—like you were some miracle they weren’t supposed to touch. It only pissed you off more.

You scoffed loudly, rolling your eyes. “For fuck’s sake, I asked a question, not recited a curse.” You threw your hands up in frustration. “If you’re gonna stare, at least explain why. Or is everyone here suddenly mute?”

Jason actually winced at how sharp your voice turned. Dick stepped back half an inch, overwhelmed by the force of your tone. Tim’s eyes glossed over, and he looked away like he couldn’t take it. Even Damian lowered his gaze.

The silence dragged again, suffocating and infuriating in a way that made your teeth clench. You pushed yourself to your feet despite the sharp scream of pain tearing through your ribs. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, but no one even flinched. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, glaring at all of them. “You all look like you’ve seen a corpse.”

The words hung in the air like a slap, and none of them dared to react. That alone made your skin crawl—this wasn’t how they behaved, not even on their worst days. The silence stretched long enough to feel wrong, thick and out of place in a house usually buzzing with tension and noise. You exhaled sharply and scanned their faces again, this time paying attention.

Something twisted uncomfortably in your stomach as you took them in. They were acting wrong—too emotional, too shaken, too… careful with you. They looked like they were afraid you might vanish if they blinked too hard. Nothing about this matched the everyone you knew, not even close.

Bruce was the first to make your skin crawl. He stood there stiff, but not with anger or disappointment like usual. There was fear in his eyes—real, raw fear—and Bruce Wayne didn’t fear anything. Not where you came from.

Dick’s expression wasn’t the gentle optimism you hated—this Dick looked like he was fighting tears. His smile never faltered where you came from, no matter how messed up the situation was, yet now he couldn’t even look at you without shaking. That alone made your pulse spike.

Jason didn’t snap back at your attitude, didn’t grumble or throw sarcasm like he always did. Instead, he stared at you like the world might collapse if he blinked, his jaw clenched but silent. Jason Todd, quiet—now that was a red flag.

Tim wasn’t analyzing you, wasn’t lecturing, wasn’t calculating ten different conclusions. He looked… lost. Not tired—shaken. As if whatever he saw in you had ripped the logic straight out of him.

And Damian—he didn’t scoff, didn’t insult you, didn’t roll his eyes the way he normally did. He just watched you, posture rigid and unsure. The kid who usually acted like you were an inconvenience suddenly looked like he was afraid to breathe too close to you.

Your heartbeat spiked, cold and sharp. “Okay,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. “You guys are acting weird. Like, weirder than usual.”

No one responded. Not even a sarcastic Jason comment. That scared you more than the silence itself.

You stepped back slightly, gaze shifting between them. “What’s wrong with you?” you demanded, voice colder now. “Wait.. did someone died?.”

The words tasted strange coming out of your mouth, but the reaction was worse. Shock flickered first—sharp and immediate—followed by something deeper, something that looked too much like grief. None of them spoke, not one. And that alone told you it wasn’t a stupid question.

You clicked your tongue in irritation, not liking the way the air shifted. “No? Great. Whatever,” you muttered, already turning away from them. “I’m going to my room then.”

Not a single one stopped you.

Not with words, at least.

Their eyes clung to you like invisible chains, tracking your every move.

Something here wasn’t right; you could feel it sinking beneath your skin like ice water. The air, the tension, the way they looked at you—it didn’t belong to your life, to your world. Everything felt off by just enough to make your stomach twist.

You paused in the hallway and shot them a sharp glare over your shoulder. “Y’all acting weird,” you said flatly, annoyance cutting through your voice. “It’s creeping me the fuck out.”

______________________________________________

You stormed down the hallway without waiting for permission, ignoring the way their footsteps hesitated behind you. Every step made your ribs throb, but annoyance pushed you forward more than pain did. The Manor looked the same as you remembered—same walls, same paintings, same stupidly long corridors. But something about the atmosphere felt… tilted.

When you reached “your” door, your irritation spiked. It was already cracked open, as if someone had been waiting for you to walk through it. You pushed it wider with your foot, not bothering to be gentle. “Seriously, did nobody here learn how to knock?” you grumbled.

Then you stepped inside,

and stopped cold.

The room was spotless. Too spotless.

Your room was never like this.

The bed was neatly made with sheets you’d never picked out. The shelves were full—decorations, framed photos, small items you’d never owned in your life. Clothes hung in the closet, organized and folded like someone had spent hours making them perfect. None of it screamed you not the you who lived, survived, and stitched yourself together alone.

Your breath hitched in your throat. “What the hell…” you whispered, more unsettled than you wanted to admit. You stepped further in, eyes scanning every detail with growing disbelief. “This… isn’t my room.”

Behind you, someone inhaled sharply.

You spun around, glare sharp. Bruce stood in the doorway with the others hovering behind him, all of them looking painfully fragile. Their shoulders tense, their throats tight, as if they were afraid you’d break something simply by being there.

You jabbed a finger at the room accusingly. “Explain,” you snapped. “Because none of this is mine. Not the sheets, not the crap on the shelves, not the goddamn closet. So whose room is this supposed to be?”

They flinched—every single one of them.

And suddenly, you understood something without needing the words.

This room wasn’t prepared for you.

It was prepared for someone else who looked like you.

A chill crawled down your spine as the truth punched the air from your lungs.

“This isn’t my world…” you murmured, stunned. “This isn’t even my life.”

The moment you said it wasn’t your world, something inside Bruce snapped quietly—so quietly you almost missed it. His shoulders dropped, his breath hitched, and then he stepped into the room with a look you had never seen on him before. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t shock.

It was desperation.

Before you could back away, Bruce closed the distance and hauled you into his chest, arms locking around you like steel bars. The air was knocked out of your lungs as he crushed you against him, breath shaky and uneven against your hair. “You’re here,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re really here.”

Your eyes widened in horror—you had never seen Bruce Wayne like this. The Bruce you knew was distant, cold, composed to a fault; he didn’t cling, didn’t shake, didn’t hold onto people like they were oxygen. This version of him felt wrong. Too warm. Too emotional.

Too hungry for you to stay.

“Let go,” you snarled, trying to shove at his arms, but he only tightened his grip until your ribs screamed. Panic flared through your chest as the pressure stole your breath. “I said LET GO—Bruce, what the hell is wrong with you?!”

He didn’t flinch at your yelling; if anything, he held you closer. His voice cracked when he spoke again, soft and frantic. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. I won’t lose you again. I won’t.”

Each apology only made your skin crawl more.

You twisted hard, trying to break free, but his hold didn’t budge. It felt nothing like a hug—more like a capture, a restraint wrapped in affection you never asked for. “You’re suffocating me, you psycho,” you spat, kicking at his leg, elbowing his ribs, anything to get space. “Bruce, I swear to God—LET. ME. GO.”

Bruce didn’t react to your anger. He only buried his face into your shoulder, voice shaking with a grief you didn’t understand. “It’s okay,” he whispered, delusional comfort dripping from every word. “You’re here now. Everything will be alright. I’ll make it alright.”

Your heart pounded in your throat, this wasn’t Bruce. This wasn’t your Bruce. Something inside you snapped in return, survival instinct kicking in as your breath thinned painfully. You reached for the small concealed weapon at your belt, fingers trembling from lack of air.

You warned him once more, voice hoarse. “Bruce… I’m serious… let go.”

But he didn’t. He held tighter, arms shaking as if terrified you’d vanish.

So you did the only thing left.

You shoved the weapon into his side, non-lethal, but sharp enough to shock him. Bruce’s body jolted, a choked gasp escaping him as his grip finally loosened. You staggered back, sucking in air like you’d been drowning.

Bruce fell to one knee, clutching the spot with trembling fingers, not in pain, but in heartbreak. His eyes lifted to you, wide and wet, overflowing with something terrifyingly devoted.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered. “Just stay. Please… stay.”

And behind him, the rest of the Batfam watched—

shocked, trembling, and now fully aware that if Bruce couldn’t keep you still…

they would have to.

Bruce was still kneeling on the floor, one hand pressed over the wound you gave him. His breathing was ragged, but his eyes, his eyes—never left you for a second. That stare alone felt like chains around your wrists. It made your skin crawl worse than the blood staining his glove.

You tried to back away, but the moment you moved, Jason stepped in front of you, blocking the doorway with a look that was way too calm for the situation. Tim stood at your side almost immediately, eyes frantic but body firm. Damian positioned himself behind you like a silent guard dog.

It hit you then: you weren’t getting out of this room on your own terms.

Dick approached slowly, palms raised, voice trembling but sickeningly gentle. “Let’s move to the living room, okay? It’s safer there. We can talk.” He sounded like someone coaxing a wild animal—soft, careful, terrified of pushing too hard.

You snarled at him, but the four of them were already guiding—no, herding—you out of the bedroom. Jason’s hand brushed your shoulder, not grabbing but close enough to be a warning. Damian stayed so close you could feel his breath on your back. Every instinct told you to run.

But there was nowhere to run to.

They forced the distance closed around you, steering you down the hallway like you were some precious, fragile thing—

or a prisoner they refused to lose again.

When you entered the living room, Bruce was already there. He’d dragged himself down the stairs despite the wound, sitting heavily on the couch with his hand still pressed to his side. Any normal man would be furious or at least in pain, but he looked at you with relief—pure, twisted relief.

Like being stabbed by you meant nothing as long as you stayed.

You stood in the center of the room, surrounded. Their eyes burned into your back, into your skin, into your bones. It felt suffocating, too heavy, too desperate, and your patience finally snapped clean in half.

You glared at Bruce first, then at all of them, jaw tight and chest heaving. “I gave you a warning,” you growled, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “You didn’t listen.”

Your expression twisted into a harsh, cold sneer—

one they’d never seen from their version of you.

“So congratulations,” you spat, shifting your weight defiantly.

“Mampus ko situ.”

The room went dead silent—

and that was when their obsession sharpened into something far more dangerous.

The moment the curse left your mouth, something in the room shifted sharply, like you’d cracked the ground beneath them. Bruce’s expression collapsed first, his eyes darkening with a mix of heartbreak and disbelief. Dick covered his mouth as if the words physically hurt him. Jason muttered a quiet "God.." under his breath, genuinely stunned.

Tim stepped forward, almost pleading, his voice shaking. “This… this isn’t you,” he whispered. “Not the you we know.” Damian stiffened at his side, his posture rigid as he studied your face. Even he looked shaken, his usual arrogance replaced with something raw.

You scoffed loud enough to slice through the silence. “Of course it’s not me,” you snapped, raising your brows in disbelief. “Beda universe beda orang, boyy.” You waved your hand at them like the answer was obvious. “Use your braincells, what’s left of them.”

Your words hit them like a slap.

Dick flinched hard, his breath catching in his throat. “But you sound like them… your voice” he whispered, voice cracking. Jason stared at you in a mixture of anger and pain, his fists clenching as if holding himself back. Tim swallowed, unable to look away, as if the idea of ‘another you’ broke something inside him.

Bruce slowly rose from the couch, ignoring the sting at his side. There was something dangerous in the softness of his voice—too gentle, too fragile, too full of longing. “Different universe or not… you’re still you to us,” he murmured, like a confession he couldn’t hold back.

Your face twisted in disgust. “That’s the creepiest shit I’ve heard today,” you snapped, taking a step away from him. “And I woke up bleeding on someone’s damn roof, so that’s saying something.”

They all froze again.

Tim’s eyes shimmered with a quiet panic. “Please don’t say it like that,” he whispered. “Hearing you talk like this—like a stranger—hurts.”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring not at you, but at the ground. “This version’s got teeth,” he muttered, half impressed, half devastated. Damian stepped forward just a hair, voice low. “You are different. Sharper. Colder.”

You shrugged harshly. “Deal with it.”

Every one of them flinched again.

And for the first time since you arrived, they looked at you not like a miracle—

but like something they’d have to hold onto even harder

before you slipped out of their grasp forever.

______________________________________________

You let out a long, frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. The weight of the room, their stares, their weird behavior—everything makes your head spint. “Alright,” you muttered, voice cutting through the tension. “Listen. Let me make something clear before one of you has a melodramatic breakdown.”

You crossed your arms, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “I woke up on some random rooftop. Bleeding. Cold. Confused as hell.” You pointed at them accusingly. “And then I walked here because—shocking—I thought I’d get normal medical help. Not… whatever this is.”

Jason looked like he wanted to say something, but you raised your hand sharply to shut him up. “I don’t know how I got there,” you continued, jaw tight. “One minute I’m minding my business, the next I’m waking up on tiles that don’t belong to me.” You clenched your fist. “So yeah, if anyone’s confused, it’s me.”

Their eyes softened in a way that made you want to punch a wall. Dick stepped forward, voice trembling. “You must have been terrified…”

You shot him a dead glare. “I’m terrified now, genius. Not then.”

A painful silence fell again, thicker this time, like they were waiting for something. You exhaled sharply and looked at each of them. “Fine. Since everyone here is acting like I’m their dead goldfish reincarnated, I’ll ask.”

You straightened, expression hardening, voice dropping into something colder—almost deadly calm. “What happened to the Reader of this universe?” The question sliced through the room like a blade.

Their faces went pale—every single one of them.

You didn’t let them breathe before adding the second one. “And… what was their version of me like?” Your voice was sharp, steady, refusing to shake. “Tell me what they were to you.”

The room felt like it had stopped breathing the moment you asked the question. No one moved. No one spoke. They all looked at each other first, as if silently begging someone else to take responsibility for answering you.

Dick was the first to open his mouth, though his voice cracked halfway through the first word. “You… you were kind,” he said, eyes softening painfully. “Gentle. Always worried about us.” His throat bobbed as if the memory choked him. “You never raised your voice.”

Tim nodded weakly, unable to meet your gaze. “You helped everyone,” he whispered. “Even when you were exhausted. Even when no one asked.” He shifted like the floor was unsteady beneath him. “You were the glue that kept us together.”

Jason looked away sharply, jaw tightening. “Yeah… you were good,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Too good. Annoyingly good.” He clenched his fist before adding, quieter, “You didn’t deserve what you got.”

Bruce’s voice was softer than all of theirs—dangerously soft. “You were the heart of this house,” he murmured, like the words cracked him open. “The warmth we didn’t deserve.”

Then Damian stepped forward, small and trembling, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “You were my sibling,” he said, staring at you like he was seeing a ghost. “My… treasured one.”

The word “treasured” hung in the air like something fragile.

You stared at them, unimpressed and irritated. You blinked once, slowly, like processing a joke that wasn’t funny. Then your lips curled into an acidic half-smile.

“Oh,” you said dryly. “So they were naïve.” You lifted a brow, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sweet, soft, helpful, never raised their voice—yeah, that sounds like the opposite of me.”

Their faces tightened with discomfort, confusion, hurt—like they couldn’t reconcile the difference between you and the ghost of someone they once knew.

You folded your arms, expression sharpening. “Now tell me,” you said, cold and direct, “where is that version of me now?”

The silence that followed wasn’t normal—it was heavy, suffocating, final. No one answered.

And the look in their eyes told you the truth they couldn’t bring themselves to speak.

The silence stretched far too long, heavy enough to make the air feel thick in your lungs. Bruce looked away first, jaw tightening as if the muscles themselves were trying to hold back the truth. Dick’s eyes darted to the floor, tears collecting but refusing to fall. Jason scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly fascinated by the far wall.

Tim swallowed hard and stepped back a little, like the question physically pushed him away. Damian’s fists curled at his sides, shoulders trembling with something he couldn’t name. None of them tried to speak. None of them even pretended to think of an answer.

You felt your patience snap like a brittle bone. “Why aren’t you answering me?” you barked, your glare sharp enough to cut. “It’s a simple question. Where. Are. They?” Your tone struck the room like a hammer.

Dick winced, actually winced, and shook his head desperately. “We… we don’t talk about that,” he whispered, voice cracking. His breath hitched like he was holding back a sob. “Please don’t force us to.”

That only made your suspicion burn hotter. “Oh, I’m forcing,” you snapped, taking a step closer. “I didn’t almost die on a rooftop just to walk into a circus of emotional breakdowns without a damn explanation.” Your voice rose, sharp and furious. “So start talking.”

Jason stepped between you and the others—not aggressively, but protectively. His jaw clenched as he met your eyes. “Drop it,” he muttered. “It’s not something you need to dig into.” But the tightness in his voice told you he was barely holding himself together.

You scoffed, pushing his shoulder aside. “Oh, now you care about what I need?” The bitterness in your tone made him flinch, but you didn’t slow down. “You won’t answer because you know exactly what I’m thinking—and you don’t want me to confirm it.”

Tim’s voice cracked when he finally spoke. “Reader—please…” He looked at you with a mixture of dread and hope. “Just leave it alone.”

“No,” you snapped instantly, eyes narrowing. “I’m done with the cryptic grief parade.” You took another step forward, cornering them with your rage. “Where’s your Reader? What happened to them? Why are you looking at me like I crawled out of their grave?”

The word grave made the entire room freeze like ice.

Damian whispered, voice breaking, “Don’t say that.” His eyes flashed with something sharp—pain, anger, fear, devotion all at once. “Please. Don’t.”

You stared at him, then at all of them—trembling, terrified, hopeful.

And you realized something horrifying:

They weren’t avoiding your question because they didn’t want to talk.

They were avoiding it

because they couldn’t handle the answer.

You stepped closer, forcing each of them into your line of fire. Their eyes darted away, but you grabbed the silence and ripped it open. “I’m going to ask one last time,” you said, voice low and venomous. “Where. Is. Your. Reader?”

Bruce inhaled sharply as if the question punched him. Dick’s face crumpled in a way you’d never seen—raw, helpless, terrified. Tim covered his mouth with a trembling hand, his shoulders shaking. Jason looked like he wanted to yell, punch something, or run—maybe all three.

Damian whispered, barely audible, “Please stop.” His voice broke on the plea, eyes shining with something too emotional to look at directly. “It hurts.”

But you didn’t back off—not even a step. “Good,” you snapped coldly. “Maybe pain will finally get you people talking.” You jabbed a finger at them, expression hardening. “Tell me what happened to your Reader.”

Jason cracked first. “They’re gone, alright?!” he yelled, voice breaking mid-sentence. The room went dead still, the single word gone hanging like smoke. He looked away immediately, jaw clenched as if he’d said too much.

Dick staggered one step forward, hands raised helplessly. “Please don’t make us say more,” he whispered, trembling. “We can’t do this again.” His voice wavered near breaking point.

Tim shook his head hard, his breath unsteady. “Don’t force it,” he whispered. “We barely survived losing you the first time.” His eyes glistened with a panic you’d never seen in him.

Bruce finally lifted his gaze to yours, and the desperation inside it made your stomach turn. “It doesn’t matter what happened,” he said softly, though the softness felt dangerous. “What matters is that you’re here now.”

You scoffed, harsh and cold. “I’m not them.” The words cut the room in half. Every single one of them flinched.

Damian stepped forward, voice barely steady. “You don’t have to be,” he murmured. “You can be different. You can be harsh. It doesn’t matter.” He swallowed hard. “Just… stay.”

Dick nodded instantly, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Please. We’ll adjust to you,” he promised desperately. “Just don’t leave. Not again.”

Tim’s voice cracked completely. “You don’t understand what losing you did to us,” he whispered. “We can’t survive that twice.”

Jason’s shoulders slumped, his voice rough and pleading. “Stay. Please. We’ll do better.”

And Bruce stepped closer, close enough that you felt the heat of his breath. “You don’t have to be ours,” he murmured. “Just don’t disappear. Please...”

You stared at them—all shaking, begging, breaking—and the truth sank in with cold clarity.

They weren’t asking for answers.

They were asking for you.

You stared at them for a few seconds, letting the silence rot between you. Their desperate, broken eyes only made your sarcasm sharpen like a blade. You lifted your brows slowly, as if mocking their grief. “Oh—so they’re gone, huh?” you said, voice dripping with fake surprise. “How’d that happen? Did one of you screw up?”

Dick flinched like you’d slapped him. Jason’s jaw tightened, anger and guilt slamming through his expression. Tim’s breath hitched, the accusation slicing straight into him. Damian’s eyes widened in shock.

You clicked your tongue loudly, shaking your head as if disappointed in a child. “Figures,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “Your Reader was kind, soft, trusting… and what happened? Dead.” You shrugged harshly. “Honestly? Sounds like you guys killed them with your bullshit.”

No one defended themselves.

Dick’s eyes shimmered, Jason looked furious with himself, and Tim looked shattered. Bruce stared at the ground, shoulders tense with guilt. Damian’s lips trembled.

You scoffed again, harsher this time. “They were sweet and naïve, right? Polite? Helpful?” You leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And they still ended up in the ground.” The disgust in your voice made them all freeze. “Means you’re the problem. Not them.”

Bruce took a shaky breath, visibly wounded, but didn’t defend himself.

You threw your hands up in an exaggerated gesture of disbelief. “God, you guys are something else,” you said with a bitter laugh. “And now you want me to stay here?” Your eyes narrowed into knives. “Why? So you can fuck up twice?”

You stepped back, crossing your arms tightly. “Why the hell would I stay here then?” you snapped, gaze sweeping across their terrified faces. “The one who was here before me? They didn’t even make it.” Your voice dropped into a mocking sneer. "And you want me to stick around as the replacement?”

The bitterness in your voice made them flinch.

Their reactions crumbled—fear, heartbreak, desperation pulling them apart from the inside. Damian whispered something under his breath, Dick wiped at his face, Tim took a shaky step toward you, and Jason froze in place like he didn’t dare speak.

But you cut them off with a raised hand. “I’m not staying in a place that couldn’t even keep their precious little sunshine alive,” you said flatly. “I’m not stupid.”

Jason instinctively moved toward you, but you shot him a deadly look that stopped him instantly. Your voice dropped lower, colder, dangerous enough to freeze the air. “And if any of you try to stop me like earlier,” you warned, “I swear I’ll put you down.”

You pointed at them one by one, steady and unwavering. “All of you. Don’t test me.”

The entire room went silent—terrified, breathless, trembling.

And for the first time since you arrived, they finally understood:

This version of you wasn’t theirs.

This version of you wasn’t soft.

This version of you

would fight back.

The room stayed frozen after your threat, every member of the Batfam too scared to breathe wrong. Their panic rippled through the air—raw, silent, and desperate. You didn’t soften. If anything, their fear only made you more determined to walk out.

Then, quietly, someone moved.

It wasn’t Bruce or Jason.

It wasn’t any of the shaking disasters in front of you.

Alfred stepped forward with the same calm dignity he always carried, though his eyes flicked to your wounds with unmistakable concern. His posture was steady, composed, almost painfully gentle against all the chaos in the room. “Young Master,” he said softly. “Your injuries are still fresh.”

He raised his chin slightly, the calm authority of a man who had held this house together for decades. “The bandages have not even settled,” he continued. “It would be unwise to move any further.”

You glared sharply. “I can walk,” you snapped. “I can leave.” But pain shot through your ribs the moment you shifted, forcing your jaw to clench hard to hide the wince.

Alfred noticed—of course he did—and his expression softened with quiet sorrow rather than pity. “I do not doubt your capability,” he said gently. “But capability is not the same as safety.” His gaze held yours firmly. “Please. Allow us to care for you until your wounds are no longer bleeding.”

Behind him, everyone went still again—hope and fear tangling in their eyes.

You clicked your tongue, hating how cornered you felt. “Don’t ‘please’ me,” you muttered coldly. “I’m not staying because you—or they—want it.”

Alfred didn’t flinch at your harsh tone. “Then stay because I ask it,” he replied quietly. “Just for tonight. Until the bleeding stops.” His voice softened even more. “After that, the choice is yours.”

The Batfam visibly tensed at the idea of giving you a choice—but Alfred held firm.

You narrowed your eyes, the throbbing pain pulsing under your skin. You hated that he was making sense. You hated even more that your body was too injured to argue properly.

Alfred took one respectful step closer. “Rest,” he murmured. “Only for tonight.”

He paused, voice sincere. “Surely you deserve at least that much.”

You exhaled sharply, irritation simmering beneath your skin. The pain in your ribs pulsed again, cruel and insistent, reminding you that leaving right now would be stupid. You hated that Alfred could see it—hated even more that he was right. Finally, with a clenched jaw, you gave the smallest nod.

“Fine,” you muttered, voice edged with anger. “I’ll stay.”

A breath of relief swept through the room—quiet, shaky, terrified of shattering the moment. Bruce’s shoulders slumped, and Tim nearly collapsed from tension. Even Jason visibly loosened his fists.

But you lifted a hand sharply, slicing through their relief before it grew too bold. “But not in that room.”

Instantly, all of them stiffened again.

You pointed back toward the room you had just left. “That place is creepy as hell,” you snapped. “It’s not mine. It’ll never be mine.” Your glare hardened. “I’m not sleeping in a shrine for some dead version of me.”

Dick winced, his breath catching. Jason looked away as if your words stabbed him in the gut. Tim’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Damian lowered his gaze again.

Bruce swallowed, visibly hurting at your rejection of the room—but he didn’t argue.

Alfred stepped in before anyone else could speak. “Of course,” he said gently. “Another room can be prepared immediately.” His tone was calm, but even he couldn’t hide the faint tremor of emotion in his voice. “You will not be placed where you feel… uncomfortable.”

You clicked your tongue. “Good. Because if any of you try to drag me back in there—”

Your eyes narrowed in warning. “I won’t hold back.”

They all flinched.

Even Bruce.

Alfred bowed his head slightly. “Understood.”

The Batfam hovered around you—too close, too attentive—but none dared touch you this time. Their emotions were a tangled mess: relief that you were staying, terror that you might still leave, and something deeper, darker, clinging to every breath they took.

You turned away from them, ignoring how their eyes followed your every movement. “Just show me the damn room,” you muttered. “And nobody talks. I’m tired.”

But as you walked down the hall with the entire everyone trailing behind you like shadows, you couldn’t shake the feeling that staying—even just for one night—

didn’t make you safer.

It made them hope.

And that was far more dangerous.

______________________________________________

Your plan had been simple: survive the night, let the bleeding stop, and get the hell out the moment your legs could hold you. But morning turned into afternoon, and afternoon bled into the next night. Every attempt to leave was met with the same suffocating vigilance—too many eyes, too many footsteps behind you, too many hands ready to grab if you stumbled.

They didn’t say it out loud, but they weren’t letting you go.

They hovered.

They lingered.

They watched you like you were made of glass—or worse, like you might vanish if they blinked.

Bruce checked on you every hour, under the excuse of “monitoring your recovery.” Dick brought you meals you never asked for, sitting too close each time. Tim shadowed you quietly, ready to “help” the moment you reached for anything. Jason blocked doorways without even realizing it. Damian trailed behind you like a silent shadow.

It was annoying. It was claustrophobic.

It was manipulative.

It didn’t take long for their clinginess to get under your skin again. They hovered too close, breathed too loud, watched you like you were some fragile relic. Every time you shifted, half of them moved with you—too eager, too protective, too much.

And you had absolutely no patience for it.

Bruce tried gently insisting that you rest more, placing a hand near your shoulder like you might collapse any second. You shot him a cold, cutting glare that stopped him mid-motion. “You keep this up,” you muttered, voice dripping poison, “and I swear—your Reader would’ve slapped you for being this clingy.”

He froze instantly, breath faltering.

When Dick tried to take your cup before you were even done drinking, you yanked it back with a sharp jerk. “Relax,” you snapped, eyes narrowing. “The other me wasn’t this babied, right? Maybe if you treated them like this, they’d still be alive.”

The cup nearly slipped from his shaking hands.

Tim hovered at your door again, offering help you absolutely didn’t need. You didn’t even bother looking at him this time. “All this effort now?” you scoffed. “Bit late, isn’t it? Too bad the one before me didn’t get this version of you.”

Tim’s breath faltered completely—broken.

Jason “accidentally” blocked your path again, trying to guide you back without making it obvious. Your patience snapped like a dry twig. “Move,” you growled, voice low and dangerous. “Unless you wanna admit you weren’t half this protective when the real one was alive.”

Jason stepped back as if you’d punched him straight in the gut.

Damian approached hesitantly, voice softer than you’d ever heard from him. He asked if you needed anything—hopeful, trembling, desperate. You didn’t soften even a little. “You’re treating me like I’m going to die any second,” you said flatly. “Shame you didn’t treat them like that.”

Damian’s expression collapsed—quietly, painfully.

And finally, when they gathered around you in the living room the second night—hovering again, suffocating again—you decided you’d had enough. Their eyes clung to you like chains, every one of them waiting for your words to save them or destroy them. You leaned back with a bitter scoff and let the knife drop. “Honestly? If you all acted like this with them—the Reader from this world—they’d still be alive.”

Your voice dropped, sharp and cold as steel. “Miracle how regret makes people try.”

Silence crashed into the room—heavy, suffocating, unbearable.

You didn’t apologize.

You didn’t comfort them.

You didn’t soften the blow.

Their grief wasn’t your responsibility.

And their obsession sure as hell wasn’t your problem.

draf: ketika kau merasa mereka annoying atau terlalu memaksa kau akan menyebut 'kau' yang dari univerme reka yang telah mati. "andai dulu kalian kayak gini ke dia.. pasti masih hidup. miris." dan mereka akhirnya terdiam, tak sanggup menyela ucapanmu.

______________________________________________

You didn’t expect anything worthwhile in the storage room—just dust and forgotten boxes. But then you found it: a worn photo album, a stack of tapes labeled with your name, and a camcorder sitting like a relic on an altar. You stopped, staring at the items for a long moment. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across your face.

You sat on the floor and opened the album, flipping through the pages. Every photo showed a version of you that didn’t feel real—bright-eyed, soft, painfully hopeful. The smiles were gentle, almost fragile. It was pathetic…and hilarious.

The tapes were even worse. Their Reader’s voice poured through the speakers—warm, shy, overly kind, apologizing for things that didn’t matter. They laughed softly, they spoke gently, they sounded like someone who believed the world loved them.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, dark and amused.

By the time you stood, you had already memorized everything: their speech patterns, the soft tone, the little stutters, the gentle posture. You practiced their hopeful smile until it looked disturbingly perfect on your face. And when you put on their old clothes, the transformation was complete.

You looked in the mirror and mimicked their bright, innocent smile. It felt wrong on your face—wrong in the best possible way.

This is going to be so fun...

You practiced the voice next.

The timid “hi,” the shaky “I missed you,” the quiet “Dad, are you there?”

Each time, it became smoother, sweeter, closer to the dead version of you. Until finally, even you had trouble telling the difference.

And then you visited them.

One by one. Quietly.

Like a haunting.

You started with Bruce, because he was the easiest to break without raising your voice. He was alone in his study, hunched over paperwork he wasn’t actually reading, when you slipped into the doorway and whispered in the soft, trembling tone from the tapes, “Dad… are you there? I was looking for you. I’ve been waiting.”

His entire body locked, breath stuttering violently, and you slipped away before he could even turn, leaving him staring at an empty doorway that felt colder than death.

Dick was next. He walked the hallway with that brittle smile he used when he was trying too hard, so you gave him something to crack it open. A gentle laugh—the exact same one from the videos—floated behind him, and he spun around instantly, eyes wet, whispering a shaky, “Reader?” to the empty hall.

You leaned against the corner out of sight, watching his hands tremble as he tried to convince himself he wasn’t hearing ghosts.

Tim was the easiest to corner emotionally. He practically lived outside your door, hoping for any scrap of attention, any sign that you needed him. You waited until he was alone in the library, then breathed, soft and wavering, “Tim… I waited all night… why didn’t you come?” The book slid from his fingers as if you’d cut the strings holding him upright, and he scanned the shelves with panic rising in his eyes, searching for someone who had already walked away.

Jason was different—quieter, heavier, all sharp edges barely holding together. You found him in the dark corridor and hummed the tune you heard on one of the tapes, the one their Reader used to comfort him after nightmares. His shoulders snapped tight, breath catching, and the gun slipped from his hand as he whispered, “Not again… please don’t do this.” You didn’t need to stay; the sound alone stabbed straight through him.

Damian was the one who broke the cleanest. He was in the training room, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white, whispering apologies to no one at all. You stood in the doorway and said, with that perfect imitation of the old Reader’s fragile voice, “Dami… I was scared. Why didn’t you come?” His head jerked up, eyes wide and bright with pain, and you watched the cracks run straight through him before stepping back into the hallway.

By the time you returned to your own room, the entire manor felt like it was holding its breath. Every wall carried the echo of a voice they thought they’d lost forever, and every doorway looked like a place where a ghost had just stood. You peeled off the dead Reader’s smile, tugged at their sweater, and let laughter spill quietly into the silence—low, satisfied, cruel.

Then dinner came.

You sat at the table as if nothing had happened, eating calmly while the others tried not to shake. Bruce could barely look up, Dick’s hands wouldn’t stay still, Tim stayed pale and rigid, Jason kept rubbing his face, and Damian stared at his plate like it might speak. You took another bite, lifted your drink, and asked in the most casual tone imaginable, “Why’s everyone acting so tense?”

No one answered.

No one could.

And you leaned back in your chair, satisfied, because the truth was painfully simple:

You had become the ghost they couldn’t escape—

and every second of their unraveling was entertainment to you.

Someone at the end of the table saw you for what you truly were. Their eyes locked onto you with a horror that needed no words—recognizing not a ghost, not a victim, but something far worse.

Something carved sharper than any demon.

______________________________________________

For a while, tormenting them was effortless entertainment. You wore their Reader’s clothes, copied their voice, and watched them splinter like glass under heat. Their reactions were delicious—fear, anger, disgust twisting their faces every time you slipped into that dead tone. Watching them unravel was the easiest fun you’d ever had.

But then something in their expressions shifted—less horror, more calculation. It crept in quietly, like a draft slipping through cracks in the manor walls. The disgust they once felt began to fold inward, thinning into an eerie sort of fascination. It wasn’t that they stopped fearing you—only that their fear was changing shape.

Bruce lingered too long whenever you used that gentle cadence, as if memorizing the exact sound. Dick stared at your hopeful smile like he wanted to sew it back onto you permanently. Tim absorbed every syllable, tracking patterns in the way you changed your voice. Jason watched your posture soften, and Damian’s eyes followed you as if searching for someone else inside your skin.

They still flinched at your mockery, recoiling like your voice itself was sacrilege. They stiffened every time you mimicked the dead Reader, breath stuttering as if you’d dragged a corpse through the room. But slowly, that horror bled into something colder, steadier, far more disturbing.

Because the more they watched you…

the more they saw possibility.

The possibility of keeping the parts of you they liked.

The possibility of stripping away the ones they despised.

The possibility of turning your mockery into progress.

Your games no longer terrified them.

They inspired them.

They weren’t recoiling from your performance anymore.

They were dissecting it.

Because in their fractured, grieving minds, your impersonation meant something else entirely. It meant you could change. It meant you could slip into the shape of the Reader they lost—even if only to hurt them. It meant softness existed somewhere inside you, whether real or manufactured.

And if you could shift once, they could make you shift again.

They began rewriting their own narratives just to justify it.

Your cruelty became “trauma.”

Your mockery became “a cry for help.”

Your sharpness became “a defense mechanism.”

You weren’t dangerous anymore—you were simply lost.

Confused.

Waiting to be guided back into who you “really” were.

Their voices softened around you; their movements slowed. They watched you with a pitying, hopeful tenderness that made your skin crawl. They no longer saw the nightmare tormenting them—they saw the broken, salvageable ghost of the person they missed.

To them, your performance wasn’t cruelty—it was proof.

Proof that you could be molded.

Proof that you could be brought back.

Proof that with enough pressure, patience, and manipulation…

You could become theirs.

Become who they lost.

Become the Reader they mourned.

And that realization—

that quiet, horrifying shift in their eyes—

was the exact moment your fun died.

Because they no longer cared about enduring you.

They wanted to change you.

And everything in their gaze whispered the same chilling promise:

'If you can pretend, then we can make it real.'

______________________________________________

Your fun ended the moment you saw that shift in their eyes—quiet, slow, and far too intentional. They weren’t horrified by you anymore. They weren’t disgusted or shaken the way they had been at first. They looked at you like you were something they could shape.

The realization hit you like a blade pressed too close to the skin. It wasn’t slow, and it wasn’t gentle—it was a sudden, violent clarity that made your stomach twist in disgust. They weren’t just watching you anymore. They were trying something.

The shift came in small, quiet ways. A cup of tea left too close to your hand, sweetened exactly like the version of you who died. A pill sitting on the counter with a name you didn’t recognize, explained away with a clumsy smile. A hand resting on your shoulder for a heartbeat too long.

It didn’t matter how subtle or stupid the attempt was—you saw it immediately.

And then came the words.

Soft, gentle, suffocating.

Whenever you swore, whenever your voice sharpened, whenever you acted the way you did, one of them would whisper, “Reader… are you alright?” or “You shouldn’t behave like that, sweetheart.” Bruce spoke like he was soothing a frightened child. Dick’s voice trembled with forced affection. Tim tried to correct your tone like you were broken. Damian whispered as if he could coax softness back into you.

Jason avoided meeting your eyes like he couldn’t stand knowing you weren’t the one he remembered.

It was brainwashing dressed as kindness—

sweet poison in a warm cup.

They weren’t talking to you.

They were talking to a ghost they wanted to resurrect inside your skin.

Every soft correction, every gentle pet name, every attempt to steer your reactions slowly, carefully, into something smaller and sweeter…

it was all an effort to erase you.

To pull that dead version of you out of your mouth, even if they had to dig for it.

And the moment you realized they were trying to tame you—

to mold your mind into someone else’s—

something inside you snapped hard enough to shake your vision.

You shoved the cup away so violently the tea burst across the counter. Their heads jerked toward you, eyes wide with guilt and fear and something uglier—hope. You felt their delusion choking the air around you like smoke.

That was when the rage finally spilled over.

“Oh, that’s your plan?” you hissed, your voice dropping into something low and murderous. “Trying to fix me? Soften me? Turn me into your dead little angel?”

Your lip curled, disgust burning hotter than any fear they could offer.

“Tell me,” you spat, stepping forward, “how stupid do you think I am?”

“You trying to poison me?” you snarled, stepping in like you were daring them to breathe wrong. “Trying to soften me up so I turn into that dead little puppet you’re all obsessed with?” Bruce opened his mouth—barely—but you shut him down with a single look.

The whole room froze like you’d slapped them silent.

You moved closer, slow and deliberate, eyes cutting through them like shards. “Do I look stupid enough to fall for that?” you barked out, the anger crackling off you. “You think I haven’t seen people like you? Please.” You laughed—low, ugly, and entertained by their terror.

“what do you think the versions of yourself look like in my universe? Try using your damn brains for once.”

Their faces fell apart instantly—fear twisting with guilt, desperation bleeding into panic. They looked like they wanted to reach for you and run from you at the same time. You didn’t give them the satisfaction of either.

“Pathetic,” you spat. "Cut the act. That fake-ass concern makes me want to puke." you said, voice dripping with disgust.

And just like that, everything shifted again.

Your amusement evaporated, leaving only a cold, burning clarity.

They had crossed a line.

And your patience was gone.

Your fun was over.

And now it was their turn to suffer.

______________________________________________

You had to go.

The manor no longer felt like the playground you’d twisted it into; it felt like a mouth slowly closing around you. The air grew heavier, the walls sharper, and every hallway whispered warnings you could finally hear.

This place wasn’t fun anymore—

it was becoming dangerous.

That truth solidified the moment you finally met the eyes of the one person who never lied about what he saw in you. Alfred. He didn’t look at you like a miracle, a second chance, or the echo of someone he desperately wanted back.

He looked at you with something colder—recognition.

He’d been watching from the beginning, quietly and precisely, noticing every crack in your act the others were too delusional to see. Alfred had already understood what you were: not the Reader they lost, not a fragment of hope returned, but something twisted wearing the face of a corpse. And unlike the rest of them, he wasn’t blinded by grief or longing.

Alfred in your own universe was the same—razor-sharp where others were soft, ruthless where others hesitated. A man who would do anything to protect this family. Anything.

Even if the threat stood inside the manor wearing a familiar smile.

Even if the threat was you.

At first, he’d welcomed your arrival with a quiet, trembling hope. He thought maybe your presence would ease the boys’ grief, give them something to focus on besides the empty chair at the table and the silence in the hallways. He hoped you might be a reminder of the child they lost—a small spark of warmth in a house drowning in sorrow.

But hope died the moment he truly saw you.

You weren’t warmth.

You weren’t healing.

You weren’t even grief in a familiar shape.

You were a demon wearing their Reader’s skin—every gesture bent, every smile sharpened, every word venom-laced. The perfect opposite of the soul they cherished. And Alfred, more than anyone else in this house, understood exactly what that meant.

He didn’t look at you with longing.

He looked at you with judgment.

Because he knew one thing with brutal, unwavering clarity:

If you stayed, his family would suffer.

So one way or another—

you had to go.

“Took you long enough to want to go home,” he said quietly, as if he’d been waiting for this moment since the day you arrived.

You scoffed, sharp and bitter. “Oh, please. You just want me out of your house.” Your voice cut like broken glass, but Alfred didn’t flinch.

He studied you with that steel-edged gaze of his, calm in a way that only made your skin crawl. “What I want,” he murmured, “is what’s best for everyone.” His tone didn’t waver.

“Your family is waiting for you on the other side.”

So you returned to the place where everything had begun—the rooftop. The air there was colder, biting at your skin, as if the universe itself was bracing for what came next. Each step felt heavier, each shadow stretched long and watching. But you kept moving. Staying was no longer an option.

And then you saw him.

Standing at the edge of the rooftop, beyond the tear between universes, was your Bruce—your father, the one from your world. The man who, for as long as you could remember, had only ever been cold to you, harsh with you, unforgiving in every way that mattered. Yet the moment you saw him there—solid, familiar, real—something inside you caved in with a painful, unexpected jolt.

Your breath cracked.

“Father!”

The word tore out of you before you could stop it—raw, desperate, trembling with a longing you didn’t even know you still had. For a heartbeat, your chest tightened so sharply it felt like your ribs would snap.

You hated how much that single sight hurt.

Because compared to the obsession, delusion, and suffocating need in this universe…

you would choose his cruelty a thousand times over.

At least his cruelty was predictable.

At least his reality was real.

At least with him, you knew where the blade would fall.

You took a step toward him, and for the first time since arriving, your chest eased. Your world was right there, waiting. The way home, clear and simple.

But of course—nothing here was ever simple.

They were already there.

The insaner versions of your “family,” standing between you and the portal like a wall of desperate ghosts. Dick’s shoulders trembled. Tim’s eyes were wild. Jason’s jaw was set. Damian stood rigid, fury twisting his face. And Bruce—their Bruce—looked like a man about to lose his soul all over again.

They weren’t letting you go.

Your Father took a step forward, jaw tense, gaze locked onto you with the kind of intensity he never used back home. “Come here,” he said quietly, steadying himself against the tear between worlds. “Now.”

Before you could move, the other Bruce stepped in front of you—blocking your way like a cage snapping shut. The rest of them followed, forming a barrier of trembling hope and unhinged desperation.

They weren’t saving you.

They were trapping you.

And the worst part?

You could see it in their eyes—they genuinely believed this was love.

In the chaos on the rooftop—voices shouting, hands grabbing, Bruce and your father clashing like mirrored storms—you finally slipped past the frantic wall of bodies. Your Father caught your arm with a grip that felt like iron, pulling you through the tear between worlds before anyone from this universe could reach you.

The last thing you saw was their hands reaching for you, their faces twisted in panic and heartbreak.

Then the world snapped shut behind you.

Something clattered on the concrete as you left—a small camera, knocked from your pocket in the rush. They lunged for it like it was the last piece of you they could still hold. And when someone pressed the playback button, the rooftop fell silent.

Your voice spilled out of the tiny speaker, mocking and bright with cruel amusement.

“Honestly? As bad as the versions of you are in my universe, they’re still better than this.” You laughed—sharp, unhinged, delighted. “You’re all so pathetic. It makes me laugh every single time.”

Then the audio shifted—

The tape crackled as your laughter grew louder, wilder, almost musical in its cruelty.

“And you know what? I left a little ‘gift’ in there,” you said sweetly, dripping venom. “In that precious bedroom. Your beloved Reader’s room. Your child. Your sibling.

Your everything.”

not just noise, but violence.

A dresser slammed to the floor with a brutal thud, drawers ripping out and scattering like broken ribs. Glass shattered—picture frames, mirrors, anything reflective exploding under your boots. The sound of splintering wood followed, sharp and intimate, as the bedframe cracked in two like a spine.

Fabric tore in long, merciless rips—curtains, blankets, clothes shredded down the middle. Something heavy toppled and rolled, hitting the wall with a hollow, echoing bang. The walls shook with every impact, every kick, every swing. It was the unmistakable destruction of a room being murdered, piece by piece, until nothing soft remained.

A soft, half–delighted gasp escaped your throat on the recording.

Then your voice returned—light, innocent, almost affectionate.

“Hope you enjoy it,” you purred. “Bye-bye. Mwah.”

When the tape ended, the rooftop was dead silent.

They understood, finally, what you were.

Not a miracle.

Not a second chance.

Not a replacement.

A demon wearing their grief like a mask.

And you had escaped.

______________________________________________

draft:

"lah mati? kok bisa? kalian apa kan pulak dia?"

"dia baik hati, polos. mati pulak kalian buat. berarti kalian yang anjing, jahat kali kalian ah. "

"ogah aku tinggal disini, yang pernah ada aja udah mati. ngapain pulak aku tinggal disini?"

"apa? mau ko racunin aku? ko pikir tolol kali aku berdiri disini? ko pikir nggak pernah aku jumpa orang kayak kau?"

“Mau ko lembekkan aku biar bisa jadi boneka mati yang kalian rindukan itu?” "

"menurut kalian kek mana versi kalian di universe aku? pake otakmu bodat. najis kali ku rasa kalian sok peduli kayak gini"

"seburuk-buruknya versi kalian di universe ku, mereka sepertinya lebih baik dari ini. Kalian begitu menyedihkan.. itu membuatku tertawa setiap waktunya. aku sangat terhibur. WKWK" kau tertawa gila di tape itu, "dan kalia tau.. aku meninggalkan 'hadiah' di sana, di kamar anak itu, di kamar Reader, anak dan saudara terkasih kalian.. ku harap kalianmenyukainyaa. buh byeee muach" kau.. menghancurkan kamar itu.. menghancurkan sisa-sisa dari Reader yang mereka kenal.. kau iblis.

______________________________________________

The first splatter of Nolan's blood hit the cracked concrete like a misplaced brushstroke, too vivid, too alive against the gray wreckage of the training arena. He'd dodged too slow this time, your fist clipping his jaw with just enough force to split skin, not bone. Not yet.

His tongue darted out to catch the crimson dripping from his lip, eyes flashing something reckless beneath the sweat-slicked strands of his hair. "You're holding back," he taunted, spitting red onto your boots. "Or are you just weak when you’re distracted?"

You saw the flicker in his expression, the way his throat bobbed when your fingers flexed, the way his breath hitched just before you moved. He wanted this. Not the fight. The other thing. The thing neither of you named when you trained this late, alone.

Your next strike wasn't a feint. It was a hand around his throat, slamming him into the nearest pillar hard enough to crack the steel supports. Nolan gasped, but his legs were already wrapping around your waist, heels digging into the small of your back like an invitation.

"You talk too much," you growled, tightening your grip until his pulse hammered against your palm. His laugh came out ragged, choked, delighted. "Prove it," he dared, bucking up against you with all the grace of a feral thing caught in a trap it never wanted to escape. The heat of him was obscene through the torn fabric of his uniform. You could feel every hitch of his ribs, every stuttered exhale, proof that for all his bravado, he was just as ruined by this as you were.

With a snarl, you wrenched free of his legs and stepped back just long enough to tear your pants open, the fabric splitting like wet paper under Viltrumite strength. Nolan's eyes dropped instantly, dark with something that wasn't surrender. "On your knees," you ordered.

He hesitated, just to piss you off, just to make you work for it, before sinking down slow, dragging his nails down your thighs on the way. The scrape of his teeth against your hipbone was barely a warning before he bit down, hard enough to draw blood.

You yanked his head back by the hair, forcing him to meet your gaze. His mouth was smeared red again, but this time it wasn't from the fight. "That how you want to play?" you hissed. His grin was all sharp edges and hunger. "You tell me," he taunted, licking his lips clean. "Or are you scared I'll ruin you first?"

The punch landed before he could finish the sentence, snapping his head to the side with a wet crack. He reeled, caught himself on one hand, and laughed through the fresh blood dripping from his nose. "Finally," he gasped, spreading his thighs wider. "Now fuck me before I change my mind."

You didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. Just dragged him up by the hair and shoved him face-first into the pillar, the impact shuddering through his frame. His breath hitched when you kicked his legs apart, the rough grind of your cock against his ass drawing a ragged sound from his throat.

"You wanted this," you reminded him, spitting into your palm before slicking yourself up in one rough stroke. His answering groan was half pain, half something desperate as you shoved in without preamble, the tight clench of him almost enough to make you lose it right there.

Nolan's fingers scrabbled against the cracked concrete, his knuckles white with the effort of holding himself up as you set a brutal pace. Every snap of your hips drew another choked sound from him, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out whatever taunt he might've mustered. You leaned over him, biting down on the juncture of his neck and shoulder hard enough to taste copper. "Still talking shit?" you growled against his skin.

He tried to laugh, but it came out as a broken moan instead. "Fuck you," he managed, pushing back against you like he couldn't help himself. The way his body yielded to yours, the way he arched into every thrust like he was starving for it, you'd never seen anything more pathetic. Or more perfect.

Your hands found his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as you dragged him back onto your cock, deeper, rougher. The sharp gasp he let out was music, better than any praise, any surrender. You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "You're fucking shaking," you murmured, voice thick with something between disgust and awe.

His thighs trembled against yours, sweat and blood slick between your bodies. When you reached around to wrap a hand around his throat again, his pulse jumped wildly beneath your palm. You tightened your grip just enough to hear his breath stutter, just enough to feel the way his cock twitched against his stomach, leaking untouched.

"You're sick," you breathed, and Nolan's laugh was wet, ruined. "Yeah," he panted, rocking back onto you with a filthy grind. "And you're still inside me."

You dragged your free hand down his spine, feeling the muscles clench beneath your fingers as you dug nails into the ridges of his vertebrae. The sharp hiss he let out dissolved into a groan when you thumbed over the bite mark you'd left earlier, smearing blood across his skin like war paint.

His throat worked under your palm when you squeezed, just enough to make his vision blur, just enough to make his cock jerk against his stomach in a helpless spurt of precome. The choked noise he made wasn't a word, wasn't a protest, just raw, animal need.

You fucked him through it, relentless, until his legs gave out and his forehead hit the pillar with a dull thud. Nolan's fingers scrambled for purchase, blunt nails catching on cracks in the concrete like he was afraid you'd let him fall. You wouldn't. Not yet.

His blood smeared across your knuckles when you dragged your hand from his throat to his hair, twisting tight enough to make him whimper. "Look at you," you muttered, watching his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. "Fucking wrecked."

He bared his teeth in something that wasn't a smile, panting like a wounded thing. "Still—" he gasped, hips jerking weakly against yours, "— still standing."