#poor reader

The first time you walked through the grand, echoing entrance hall of Wayne Manor, your entire world telescoped down to the sensation of your worn-out sneakers sinking into a Persian rug that probably cost more than your entire childhood apartment building. You’d seen wealth on TV, in the glossy magazines you’d sometimes find in the trash, but this was different. This was a silence that felt expensive, a space so vast it seemed to swallow sound itself.

Bruce Wayne’s hand was a steady, warm pressure on your shoulder, a grounding point in the sensory overload. He’d been quiet on the car ride from the orphanage, his presence not overwhelming but… constant. Like a mountain. He’d knelt down to your eye level back at the institution, his voice low and devoid of the playboy charm you’d seen on newsstands. "It's going to be okay," he'd said, and for the first time in a long time, a part of you, a very small, hidden part, dared to believe it.

An elderly, kind-faced man named Alfred Pennyworth appeared as if from a dream, his back ramrod straight, his smile gentle around the eyes. "Welcome home, Master/Mistress Y/N" he said, his British accent crisp and soothing. You’d never been called "Master/Mistress" anything in your life. It felt like a title for someone in a storybook.

"Alfred will show you to your room," Bruce said, his voice pulling your attention back. "It's yours. Do whatever you like with it. If you don't like it, we'll change it."

You just nodded, words stuck in your throat like a bone.

Following Alfred up the grand, sweeping staircase, your fingers trailed along the polished mahogany banister. You half-expected him to swat your hand away for leaving smudges, but he merely continued, describing the history of a particular ugly vase with fondness. The hallway seemed to stretch for a mile, lined with doors and portraits of severe-looking people from another century.

Then Alfred stopped, turned a brass handle, and pushed a heavy oak door inward.

Your breath caught.

It wasn't just a room. It was a suite. The far wall was dominated by a large bay window, offering a view of the sprawling, manicured grounds and the dark, gothic silhouette of Gotham City in the distance. The afternoon sun streamed in, catching dust motes dancing in the air like gold leaf. In the center of the room stood a bed that looked like a cloud, a massive four-poster with a deep blue duvet and a small mountain of pillows.

But your eyes, wide and disbelieving, darted to the periphery. To the things that were just… there.

Against one wall was a desk, and on it sat a top-of-the-line laptop, its screen sleek and dark. Next to it, a brand-new smartphone, still in its box, the charger lying coiled beside it. You’d shared a single, cracked tablet with three other kids at the group home, fighting for thirty minutes of laggy internet.

In the corner, a closet with its doors open, revealing not empty hangers, but rows of clothes. Jeans, sweaters, shirts, a leather jacket. All in your size. You recognized the logos from store windows you’d never dared enter. They weren't garish or flashy, but simple, well-made, and devastatingly expensive.

Tentatively, you walked to the closet. You reached out and touched the sleeve of a deep green hoodie. The fabric was impossibly soft, the kind of soft you only felt in your dreams. You pulled your hand back, your own frayed, too-tight sweater cuff suddenly feeling like sandpaper against your skin.

You turned to Alfred, your voice a whisper. "Is this… all for me?"

"Indeed," Alfred said softly. "Master Bruce provided a list of general sizes and preferences. If anything is not to your liking, we can have it replaced by tomorrow."

Replaced. The concept was alien. Your entire life, you'd made do. You'd worn shoes until the soles flapped open, slept on mattresses stained with the histories of other forgotten children. You’d learned to want for nothing, because wanting was a pain that had no cure.

Your gaze fell on the bed again, and you noticed two more things. On the nightstand was a simple ceramic mug, steam gently rising from it. The rich, sweet scent of hot chocolate with marshmallows filled the air. And lying across the foot of the bed was a single, thick, wool blanket in a pattern of stars and constellations. It wasn't like the sterile, scratchy blankets you were used to. It looked heavy, warm, and deeply comforting.

Something broke inside you then. It wasn't the laptop or the phone, the symbols of a wealth you couldn't comprehend. It was the hot chocolate. It was the blanket. It was the quiet, unspoken understanding that someone had thought not just of your needs, but of your comfort. Of a small, secret wish for warmth and sweetness you hadn't voiced to a single soul.

A single, hot tear traced a path through the grime on your cheek, then another. You didn't sob; you stood perfectly still in the center of that vast, beautiful room, and cried silent, cleansing tears. You cried for the child who’d gone to bed cold, for the child who’d been hungry, for the child who had learned to be invisible.

Alfred didn't move to hug you or shush you. He simply stood as a respectful sentinel, allowing you the dignity of your moment. "There are fresh towels in the ensuite bathroom," he said, his tone impossibly normal. "The water pressure in the shower is quite excellent. I shall leave you to settle in. Dinner will be at seven. We are having roast beef and Yorkshire pudding."

He gave a slight, formal nod and withdrew, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.

You were alone. Truly, completely alone, for the first time in years, in a space that was yours. You walked to the bed and sat on the edge, the mattress sighing under your negligible weight. You picked up the blanket and pulled it around your shoulders, the weight of it a profound solace. You sipped the hot chocolate, the sweetness blooming on your tongue, a taste of a kindness you had never known.

Looking out the window at the darkening sky, the first lights of Gotham beginning to glitter like stolen diamonds, you felt the hard, sharp edges of your past begin to soften, just a little. You were in a castle. You were wrapped in stars. And for the first time, the future wasn't a terrifying, gray expanse. It was a room full of quiet, impossible gifts, and the low, steady hum of a promise that you were, finally, safe.

The phone Bruce gave you was a sleek, black slate of obsidian and glass, cool and impossibly weighty in your palm. Bruce had simply produced it from his jacket pocket after dinner, sliding it across the polished surface of his study's desk as casually as another person might offer a stick of gum.

"Here," he'd said, his voice a low rumble. "So you can reach myself or Alfred. Or anyone. For anything."

You'd taken it, murmuring a thanks, thinking it was just the phone itself that was the gift. A staggering enough concept. But then he'd nodded at the screen. "Go on."

You pressed the side button. The screen glowed to life, not with a setup screen, but directly to a home screen displaying a dramatic, professional photo of the Gotham cityscape at night. Confused, you swiped up. No passcode was required. Your thumb, almost of its own volition, tapped the icon for the banking app that was already installed.

It opened instantly. No login. No security questions.

And you stared.

The screen displayed a single account summary. The account name read: Y/N TRUST.

And the balance.

Your brain short-circuited. It didn't compute. The numbers on the screen were a sequence you associated with national debt, with corporate buyouts, with the kind of money you saw scrolling in ticker tapes on financial news channels. It was $2,500,000. Two million, five hundred thousand dollars. The decimal point seemed to mock you, a tiny, black speck of punctuation holding up a universe of zeroes.

You looked up at Bruce, who was watching you with that quiet, unnervingly focused gaze of his, the fire in the hearth casting dancing shadows across his face. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You looked back down at the screen, half-expecting the numbers to have vanished, to have been a trick of the light or your own desperate imagination.

They were still there.

"This is… there's been a mistake," you finally managed to choke out, your voice thin and reedy. "This… this can't be right. This is too much."

Bruce leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. "It's right," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "It's for you. For whatever you need. Clothes, books, music, games. A car, when you're older. Tuition. Anything."

"Anything?" you repeated, the word feeling foreign and dangerous. With that amount of money, "anything" could mean buying a house. It could mean never working a day in your life. It could mean… anything.

He then reached into a drawer and produced a simple, black leather card holder. He opened it. Inside, nestled in their slots, were three credit cards. Your name was embossed on each one in sharp, silver lettering.

"These are linked to the account," he explained, as if he were explaining how to use a microwave. "The black one is for everyday purchases. The silver one has a higher limit for larger items. The platinum is… for emergencies." You didn't want to know what constituted an "emergency" in Bruce Wayne's world that required a separate platinum card.

You just stared at the little rectangle of plastic and metal in your hand. You'd never held a credit card before. You'd watched your parents count out wrinkled bills and handfuls of change at the grocery store, their faces tight with anxiety. You'd learned to gauge the price of everything, the weight of a single dollar. This card felt like it had no weight at all, and yet it was the heaviest thing you'd ever held.

The sheer, absurd magnitude of it all pressed down on you. The room, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the faint scent of old paper and rich leather, seemed to tilt. This wasn't just being given a warm bed and new clothes. This was being handed the keys to a kingdom you never knew existed. It was power. Pure, liquid, terrifying power.

Bruce saw the overwhelmed panic on your face. He stood, came around the desk, and knelt in front of your chair, putting himself at your eye level again, just as he had at the orphanage.

"Y/N," he said, his voice softer now, the Batman-gravel replaced by something that was just Bruce. "This isn't a test. There are no conditions. It's just… a tool. To make your life easier. To give you choices you never had before." He paused, his blue eyes serious. "I know this is a lot. But you don't have to be afraid of it. Alfred and I will help you. We're here. We're not going anywhere."

You looked from his earnest, steady face down to the phone, the insane string of numbers still glowing up from the screen, and then to the credit cards in your lap. The whiplash was total. From a life of calculated scarcity to this… this infinite, dizzying abundance.

Slowly, you closed your fingers around the phone, the glass warm from your grip. You weren't sure if you were holding a key to a new life or a live grenade. All you knew was that the ground beneath your feet had not just shifted; it had been replaced entirely with a foundation of solid gold, and you had no idea how to walk on it.

The the first time you had dinner with the family, you entered the dining room and it was a cathedral of polished silver and whispered history. A chandelier, a constellation of a thousand crystal teardrops, hung above a table so long it seemed to recede into the distance. You felt microscopic, dwarfed by the sheer scale of it all. Alfred had gently guided you to a specific chair, one of a matching set of twelve that looked like thrones.

You were sitting there, hands clenched in your lap, when the others began to filter in. It wasn't a grand, orchestrated entrance, but a casual, almost chaotic trickle that completely dismantled the formal atmosphere you'd been dreading.

First was Dick Grayson—Nightwing—who gave you a brilliant, easy-going smile that seemed to genuinely warm the room. "Hey, you must be Y/N. Great to finally meet you," he said, sliding into the chair next to you with a natural grace that spoke of a lifetime in the circus and on Gotham's rooftops. He didn't treat the chair like a precious antique, but like a piece of furniture, and the simple act was strangely comforting.

Then came Tim Drake, the current Robin, who offered a quieter, more analytical smile as he sat across from you. He had a tablet tucked under his arm, which he set beside his plate with a faint click. "Hey," he said, his eyes sharp and observant, but not unkind.

The last to arrive was Damian Wayne, the current Robin. He strode in with a posture that screamed arrogance, his gaze sweeping over you with a look of pure, unadulterated assessment. He didn't speak, merely taking a seat farther down the table with a dismissive sniff. You felt a prickle of anxiety under his scrutiny.

Bruce entered last, having shed his suit jacket. He took the seat at the head of the table, directly to your right. His presence was a calming anchor in the sudden, strange dynamic of the room.

And then Alfred began to serve.

It wasn't a procession of silent, stern-faced waiters. It was just Alfred, moving with an effortless efficiency, placing before you a plate that was a work of art. A medallion of seared beef, glistening with a red wine reduction, rested atop a cloud of garlic-whipped potatoes. Beside it were spears of asparagus so vibrant they looked Photoshopped, and a single, perfectly roasted cherry tomato. The aromas that rose from it—rich meat, earthy herbs, the sharp tang of the sauce—made your stomach clench with a hunger that was more than physical.

You stared at the array of silverware flanking your plate. There were three forks, two knives, and two spoons, all polished to a mirror shine. A silent panic began to rise in your throat. Which one was for what? You'd eaten most of your meals with a single, multi-purpose spork. This was a minefield of etiquette you had no map for.

You froze, your hands staying in your lap. You watched Dick effortlessly pick up the correct fork and begin cutting his meat. Tim was already taking a sip of water from the correct glass. Damian was watching you, you realized, a faint, knowing smirk on his lips.

Bruce noticed your paralysis. He didn't say a word. Instead, he slowly, deliberately, picked up his own fork—the outer left one—and used his knife to cut a piece of beef. He caught your eye for a brief second, his gaze steady, and then began to eat. It was a silent lesson, delivered with a grace that saved you from any humiliation.

Emboldened, you mimicked him. The first bite of the beef was a revelation. It was so tender it practically dissolved on your tongue, the sauce a complex symphony of deep, savory flavor. The potatoes were light and fluffy, the asparagus crisp and bright. It was, without question, the most delicious thing you had ever put in your mouth. A small, involuntary sound of pleasure escaped you, a soft sigh.

Dick grinned. "Alfred's cooking will ruin you for all other food. It's a known hazard of living here."

"It is adequate," Damian stated, though he was cleaning his own plate with a swift, precise efficiency that belied his dismissive tone.

Tim nodded in agreement with Dick. "He made tres leches cake for dessert. You'll need to be rolled out of here."

The conversation wasn't forced or overly focused on you. They bickered lightly about casework, using vague terms you knew were code for patrol and criminals. Dick teased Tim about a hacking program that had backfired. Tim retorted by bringing up a "acrobatic miscalculation" in Bludhaven. Even Damian interjected with a sharp critique of someone's "lax form." Bruce listened, a faint, almost invisible smile playing on his lips, adding a quiet, grounding word now and then.

You were on the periphery, but you didn't feel excluded. You were observing a family. A strange, chaotic, and deeply powerful family. You took a sip of water from the crystal goblet, the water itself tasting purer, colder.

Halfway through the meal, you reached for your roll, your elbow accidentally nudging the delicate, antique salt cellar. It teetered on the edge of the table, a priceless-looking piece of cut crystal about to shatter on the hardwood floor.

Your heart shot into your throat. In your old life, breaking something like this would have been a catastrophe. A screaming match. A punishment that lasted for weeks.

But before your panic could even fully form, a blur of motion shot out. Dick's hand, moving with that impossible acrobat's speed, snapped out and caught the cellar an inch from the floor. He didn't make a show of it. He simply placed it back in the center of the table, gave you a quick, reassuring wink, and went back to his story about a "weird night at the circus."

No yelling. No scolding. Not even a sharp word from Alfred, who was quietly refilling Bruce's water glass. The potential disaster was averted and instantly forgotten by everyone but you.

That was the moment you truly understood. The money, the phone, the clothes—they were just things. This, the casual display of superhuman reflexes to save a salt shaker, the easy acceptance of a new, awkward presence at their table, the silent protection from your own mistakes… this was the real spoiling. This was the wealth you had never dreamed of. It wasn't the credit card balance. It was the safety net, woven from batarangs and unwavering loyalty, that had just caught you without a single person at the table ever acknowledging the fall.

The car that dropped you off wasn't a flashy Lamborghini, but a sleek, black sedan so nondescript it was practically invisible. Bruce, in a masterstroke of understanding, knew that arriving in a vehicle worth more than the school's endowment would have been a different kind of sentence. "It's up to you what you tell them," he'd said that morning over a breakfast of blueberry pancakes Alfred had made just because you'd mentioned you liked them. "You can be a Wayne, or you can just be you. The paperwork is under whichever name you choose."

You'd chosen your own name. It felt like a tether to the person you'd been, a small act of defiance against the tidal wave of change.

Gotham Academy stood before you, a sprawling complex of gothic arches and manicured ivy that looked less like a school and more like a university for young aristocrats. The students flowing through the wrought-iron gates wore a uniform of crisp blazers, knee-high socks, and plaid skirts, or tailored trousers and striped ties. But you saw the subtle tells—the designer backpacks, the casually expensive watches, the way they carried themselves with an unshakable sense of belonging.

You, in your new, impossibly soft jeans and the simple but exquisitely cut sweater Alfred had laid out, felt like a ghost. You clutched the strap of your own high-end backpack, your palms sweating. The schedule in your hand felt like a map to a foreign country.

Your first class was Advanced European History. The classroom was all dark wood and portraits of dead philosophers. The teacher, a man with a meticulously trimmed beard named Dr. Cavendish, introduced you with a bland, "Class, we have a new student. Y/N. Please find a seat."

Every pair of eyes in the room was a laser of assessment. You slid into an empty desk near the back, the wooden chair groaning under your weight. The girl next to you, her blonde hair pulled into a perfect, effortless ponytail, gave you a slow, head-to-toe glance. Her eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on your shoes—brand new, but you hadn't realized the brand was a quiet, devastatingly expensive one favored by European designers. Her eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.

Dr. Cavendish began his lecture on the geopolitical landscape of pre-World War I Europe. It was dense, complex, and assumed a base level of knowledge you simply didn't have. Your old school had been more concerned with keeping the lights on than teaching the intricacies of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. A cold dread began to pool in your stomach. You were going to fail. Spectacularly.

Then Cavendish paused, adjusting his glasses. "Now, can anyone tell me the primary reason the Schlieffen Plan ultimately collapsed? Beyond the obvious logistical overextension?"

The room was silent. The ponytailed girl looked down at her manicured nails.

A memory, unbidden, surfaced. A late-night conversation with Bruce two days prior. You'd found him in the library, a massive historical atlas open on the table. He'd been tracing troop movements with his finger. He'd looked up, seen your curiosity, and spent the next hour not just telling you, but *showing* you, drawing parallels to modern tactical maneuvers you somehow understood intuitively. He'd explained the arrogance of the German high command, the critical failure in their assumptions about Belgian resistance and the speed of Russian mobilization. He'd made it feel like a story, a heist that went wrong.

Your hand, almost of its own volition, went up.

Dr. Cavendish looked surprised. "Yes? Y/N?"

You cleared your throat, your voice quieter than you intended. "It was the assumption of a slow Russian mobilization, sir. The plan relied on a six-week window to defeat France before turning east. But the Russians mobilized in ten days. It threw the entire German timetable into disarray, forcing von Moltke to divert troops from the crucial right flank, which weakened their advance through Belgium and… sealed the stalemate."

The silence in the room was different now. It wasn't the silence of ignorance, but of shock. The ponytailed girl was staring at you, her mouth slightly agape. Dr. Cavendish's eyes widened behind his glasses.

"That is… a remarkably nuanced understanding," he said, a note of genuine respect in his voice. "Exactly correct."

You sank back in your chair, your heart hammering against your ribs. You hadn't just recited a fact. You had articulated a complex, causal chain of events. Bruce hadn't just given you answers; he'd given you the framework to understand the question.

The rest of the day unfolded in a similar, surreal pattern. In Chemistry, when the teacher asked about catalytic converters, you found yourself explaining the surface reaction of platinum and rhodium, a factoid you'd absorbed when Bruce was tinkering with the Batmobile's emissions system in the cave. In English, a discussion on Gothic symbolism in Wuthering Heights felt eerily familiar after a week of living in Wayne Manor and listening to Alfred point out the architectural allegories in the gargoyles.

You weren't just keeping up. You were, in these strange, specific bursts, excelling.

At lunch, you carried your tray—laden with food that looked like it belonged in a restaurant—to an empty table by the window. You expected to eat alone. But within minutes, a boy with floppy brown hair and glasses sat down across from you.

"That was insane in Cavendish's class," he said, a friendly grin on his face. "No one ever gets his trick questions. I'm Lucas."

He was followed by a girl named Maya, who complimented your sweater. They asked where you were from, what you were into. The conversation was normal, easy. They didn't treat you like an oddity or a charity case. They treated you like a person who had interesting things to say.

Sitting there, with the autumn sun streaming through the stained-glass window, laughing at a stupid joke, you had a sudden, jarring realization. This wasn't just about the money or the clothes. Bruce Wayne hadn't just enrolled you in a school. He had, in the quiet, relentless way he did everything, given you the tools to belong there. He hadn't just handed you a new life; he had equipped you to conquer it. The greatest luxury wasn't the wealth itself, but the absolute confidence that you were, for the first time, prepared.

The easy laughter with Lucas and Maya died in your throat as a shadow fell over the table. Damian Wayne stood there, his Gotham Academy blazer worn with the severe crispness of a military uniform, his expression one of pure, unadulterated disdain. He didn't look at you. His focus was entirely on Lucas.

"Your presence is no longer required," Damian stated, his voice flat and carrying a tone of absolute finality. It wasn't a request. It was a decree.

Lucas, to his credit, didn't back down immediately. He blinked, a confused smile playing on his lips. "Uh, hey, Damian. We're just—"

"I am aware of what you are 'just' doing," Damian cut him off, his green eyes narrowing. "You are occupying a seat that is not yours. Move."

The air at the table went cold. Maya looked down at her tray, her face flushed. Lucas's smile vanished, replaced by a mix of indignation and fear. He knew who Damian was, of course. Everyone did. The blood son of Bruce Wayne. The rumors that swirled around him—that he was unnaturally strong, that he’d been trained by international assassins, that he’d once decapitated a vampire—made him less a classmate and more a force of nature to be avoided.

Lucas's courage visibly deflated. He muttered a quiet, "Yeah, okay, man. No problem," and gathered his tray, shooting you an apologetic, slightly bewildered look before retreating to another table. Maya quickly followed, not making eye contact.

Damian slid into the vacated seat with a fluid, predatory grace. He placed his own tray—his food arranged with geometric precision—on the table and finally deigned to look at you. His gaze was a physical weight.

"You were attracting attention," he said, as if diagnosing a disease. "Frivolous socializing with the student body is a strategic error. It creates vulnerabilities. It invites questions we are not prepared to answer."

You just stared at him, the grilled chicken on your tray suddenly looking like ash. The brief, glorious feeling of normalcy you'd been cultivating shattered into a million pieces. "He was just being nice," you managed, your voice tight.

"‘Nice’ is a meaningless social construct used by the weak to forge alliances of convenience," Damian retorted, spearing a green bean with his fork. "His family owns a chain of mediocre coffee shops. He has nothing to offer you. His proximity was an attempt to elevate his own status by association with the Wayne name."

The cold, brutal logic of it was like a slap. This wasn't the protective, if awkward, solidarity from the family dinner. This was a territorial claim, an assertion of control wrapped in the language of tactical superiority. He wasn't sitting with you to be friendly; he was sitting with you to establish a perimeter.

"You can't just… scare away anyone who talks to me," you whispered, a hot flush of anger and embarrassment creeping up your neck.

"I can, and I will," he said, taking a bite of his food and chewing with methodical precision. "It is my responsibility. Father is… indulgent. He believes in allowing you to find your own path. I believe in ensuring that path is not littered with distractions and potential threats." He looked at you, and for a fleeting second, you saw something else in his eyes—not just arrogance, but a fierce, twisted sense of duty. "You are part of this family now. That means you are my responsibility. And I do not fail my responsibilities."

He went back to his lunch as if the conversation was over. The entire cafeteria seemed to be giving your table a wide berth, conversations hushed. You were no longer the intriguing new student. You were Damian Wayne's project. His charge. His problem.

The rest of the lunch period passed in a suffocating silence. You picked at your food, the taste gone. The confidence Bruce had so carefully built in you felt fragile and small under Damian's scorching scrutiny. You had been given the world, but it seemed one of your new brothers had just drawn a very small, very heavily guarded circle around you, and you had no idea how to step outside of it.

The apology, if it could be called that, came two days later. You were in the library, trying to lose yourself in a book, when Damian appeared soundlessly beside your armchair.

"Your wardrobe, while adequate for basic camouflage, lacks strategic versatility for all social terrains of this institution," he stated, his hands clasped behind his back. He fixed you with that unnervingly direct gaze. "We are rectifying this deficiency. The car is waiting."

You stared at him, the words not quite computing. "We're... what?"

"Shopping," he said, as if announcing a tactical incursion. "This is a... conciliatory gesture." The words seemed foreign and uncomfortable on his tongue. "For my... excessive intervention during the midday sustenance period."

It was the closest you would ever get to an "I'm sorry" from Damian Wayne. Stunned, you simply nodded and followed him out to the same black sedan. The ride was silent. He spent the entire trip scrutinizing the city through tinted windows, his body coiled with a restless energy that felt entirely out of place for a trip to the mall.

But he didn't take you to a mall. The car pulled up to a discreet, unmarked building in the fashion district. Inside, it was not a store but a pristine, minimalist atelier. A woman with a severe black bob and a tape measure draped around her neck greeted Damian with a respectful nod. "Master Wayne. Everything is prepared."

For the next three hours, you were the subject of the most intense, analytical shopping experience of your life. Damian was not a shopper; he was a strategist.

"Fabric composition," he'd command, and the consultant would immediately list the blend. Damian would feel the material between his thumb and forefinger. "Acceptable. Durability and comfort are balanced."

He dismissed an entire rack of cashmere sweaters as "tactically unsound due to high maintenance." He approved of a specific brand of dark-wash jeans because "the reinforced stitching mirrors the Kevlar weave pattern in our standard-issue trousers."

He didn't ask you what you liked. He assessed what would work. He held up a charcoal gray hoodie. "This color is neutral, projecting neither aggression nor submission. The cut allows for a full range of upper-body motion." It was like being outfitted by a tiny, terrifying military general who was obsessed with fabric softness.

You were baffled, exhausted, and a little intimidated. But then, something shifted.

He picked up a long-sleeved shirt in a deep, forest green. He looked from the shirt to your face, his head tilted. "This hue complements your skin tone and eye color. It provides an aesthetic advantage in social interactions." He thrust it at the consultant. "We'll take this."

Later, he pointed to a pair of boots. "The sole has superior grip. The ankle support is adequate for most urban environments." It was still a tactical assessment, but the underlying intention—your safety, your stability—was suddenly, glaringly obvious.

The pinnacle of his bizarre, heartfelt apology came when he led you to a section with formal wear. He stopped before a display of tailored blazers. His usual confidence seemed to falter for a fraction of a second.

"Grayson informs me that the Winter Gala is a significant social event here," he said, not looking at you, his gaze fixed on a navy-blue blazer with subtle silver threading. "Appearing without appropriate armor... attire... would be a strategic disadvantage. It would invite scrutiny."

He had the consultant help you try it on. It fit perfectly, as everything that day had. As you looked at your reflection—the sharp, confident lines of the jacket transforming your silhouette—Damian came to stand beside you. He surveyed your reflection with a critical eye.

"It is... suitable," he pronounced. Then, his voice lowered, almost to a mumble. "You will not be... embarrassed. No one in this family will be embarrassed."

And in that moment, the bafflement evaporated. This wasn't just about clothes. This was Damian's language. He wasn't giving you a credit card and telling you to have fun. He was personally, meticulously, curating a set of tools for you to survive and dominate the world he found so frivolous and threatening. He was building your armor. He was ensuring you were equipped, that you were strong, that you belonged. His apology wasn't in the words he couldn't say. It was in the reinforced stitching, the grippy soles, and the forest-green shirt chosen to give you an "aesthetic advantage."

As you left the atelier, bags carried by a discreet assistant to the car, Damian looked at you, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

And for the first time, you thought you did. "Yes," you said, your voice quiet but sure. "I understand."

He gave a single, sharp nod of satisfaction. The mission was complete.

The morning of your birthday dawned, and for the first few moments of consciousness, it was just another day. The ingrained habit of years—to keep your head down, to expect nothing, to treat it as a date on a calendar that held no special power—was a hard one to break. You dressed and went down to breakfast, the Manor quiet and still.

You entered the dining room to find it empty. A flicker of that old, familiar resignation passed through you. Of course. They were busy people. It was a weekday. It made sense.

Then Alfred stepped in, a small, knowing smile on his face. "Good morning, Master/Mistress Y/N. A very happy birthday to you." He placed your usual plate of pancakes before you, but this time, the stack was crowned with a single, lit candle, its flame dancing cheerfully in the morning light. "A small tradition to start the day," he explained.

The simple gesture felt monumental. Someone had remembered. Someone had lit a candle.

"Thank you, Alfred," you whispered, your throat tight. You blew it out, making a silent wish that felt, for the first time, possible.

The day proceeded with a strange, quiet normalcy. Bruce was in his study, on a call. Tim was tinkering with something on his laptop. Damian was nowhere to be seen. The low-level anxiety that maybe the candle was it began to creep in. You pushed it down, telling yourself it was more than enough.

That evening, Alfred directed you to a part of the Manor you rarely visited—a grand solarium with a glass ceiling that now showed a tapestry of early evening stars. You pushed the door open and stopped dead.

The entire family was there. Dick, Tim, Cass, Stephanie, even a grumpy-looking Jason Todd leaning against a far column. A banner that read "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" in bold, slightly lopsided letters was strung across the room. In the center was a table laden not with a perfectly sculpted, professional cake, but with a chaotic, clearly homemade one. It was lopsided, frosted in a riot of blue and green, and decorated with what looked like an attempt at a bat-symbol that had melted into a vaguely blob-like shape.

Bruce stood beside it, a rare, unguarded, almost sheepish smile on his face. "We, uh… we tried," he said, gesturing to the cake. "Alfred was under strict orders not to intervene."

"It was a tactical disaster," Damian announced, his arms crossed. He was wearing an apron dusted with flour. "Todd attempted to 'wing' the egg separation process. It was unacceptable."

"Hey, it adds character!" Jason retorted, but he was grinning.

It hit you then. Damian's flour-dusted apron. Jason's complaint. Bruce's sheepishness. They had all been in here. Together. Making this… this glorious, messy, terrible-looking cake. For you.

Dick came over and slung an arm around your shoulders. "Hope you like food coloring, kid. We might have gone overboard."

The presents weren't wrapped in perfect, store-bought paper. They were haphazard, taped together with a chaotic enthusiasm. Dick got you a set of high-grade, noise-canceling headphones. "For when the Cave gets too loud," he winked. Tim gave you a first-edition copy of a sci-fi novel you'd mentioned liking weeks ago. Cass handed you a small, beautifully carved wooden bird, her smile saying everything her words didn't.

Then Bruce stepped forward. He didn't hand you a box. He handed you a single, old-fashioned key.

"It's for the library," he said. "The *whole* library. There's a section behind the rolling ladder, third shelf from the top. There are some… specialized texts there. I thought you might be ready for them."

He was giving you access to the Batman's personal library. It was a gesture of trust so profound it left you breathless.

Finally, Damian approached. He looked intensely serious, holding a long, narrow box. "I deemed the traditional offerings of material goods to be lacking in practical value," he stated. He opened the box. Nestled inside on a bed of black velvet was a beautifully crafted, collapsible steel baton. "It is a non-lethal defensive tool. The balance is perfect. I will begin your training with it tomorrow at 0500. Do not be late."

It was the most Damian gift imaginable—a weapon, a training regimen, and an expectation, all wrapped into one. It was, you realized, his version of a hug.

You stood there, surrounded by the chaotic, loving, overwhelming evidence of your new life, the lopsided cake, the poorly wrapped gifts, the key to a world of secrets, and a collapsible baton. The candle at breakfast had been a promise. This was the fulfillment.

Your vision blurred with tears. You weren't crying for the child who had never had a birthday. You were crying for the person who now did, for the sheer, staggering, wonderful weight of being known, of being seen, of being included in this strange, magnificent, and fiercely loyal family.

"Thank you," you managed, your voice cracking. "Thank you, all of you."

Thatch led you to the dining room, a massive room that looked like it could fit hundreds if needed but was currently only set for about twenty. There was a massive chair at the head of the table, that must be for Newgate himself. 

“Sit here,” Thatch said, pulling out a chair for you like the gentleman he was. You thanked him and sat down, pouring yourself a cup of water.

“Just keep your hands out of range of their mouths and you’ll be fine,” Thatch said with a smile. 

Thatch had set the table with massive plates of food before he rang the bell. There was no way twenty guys could eat this much, right? He must have been making enough for leftovers.He walked over near the window where there was an honest to god triangle mounted on the wall. Picking up the hammer, Thatch rang the triangle loudly several times, calling out “SUPPER!”

You thought the ranchers would trickle in a few at a time, finishing their tasks and coming in for the evening meal. Instead, you watched experienced farmhands and ranchers move like greased pigs, scrambling in through the doors and even the window to sit down at the table. Your facial filter must have failed because Thatch laughed as he came to stand next to you. He picked up your plate and gave a death stare as a large man with bantu knots reached for some still steaming buns.

“Guests first, Jozu,” he hissed through his teeth, clacking the tongs in his hands. Whoa, you hadn’t seen that authoritative side of him before. You kind of liked it. Who were you kidding? You loved it. 

“It’s not always like this, only when Ace is around,” Thatch explained, filling your plate with food from the various dishes. It looked better than anything you’d eaten in years, except for the time that Law’s weird rich uncle took you all out to dinner. But that had been cut short by Cora catching his black coat on fire, and you didn’t have time to finish your food before the sprinklers went off. Still a nice guy, though.

“Wait - Ace?” you asked, scrunching your nose. How many people with that name could there be in your smaller city? “Does he work for the park-”

“Hiya, Doc! Never seen you outta scrubs before! Barely recognized you looking so pretty,” a familiar voice rang out, the man himself climbing through the window. You closed your eyes and rubbed your forehead, already anticipating a headache. 

“You two know each other?” Thatch asked, setting your plate down in front of you. The rest of the ranchers started serving themselves, breaking out into smaller conversations. You looked around, there weren’t any other women there. It was a little strange but you’d been in sausage fests before, you weren’t intimidated. Hell, most of medical school had been you in rooms with mostly male doctors. Kaya was the only other female resident in your class, something you’d bonded about early in your friendship.

“Yep! See each other all the time,” he said with a cocky grin as Thatch bristled. You rolled your eyes at him and set your napkin in your lap. What a little shit head, trying to stir up trouble where there was none. As Ace piled his plate high with food, you understood some of the rush to get at it before he did. 

“Unwillingly. I see him at work. He comes to the clinic at least once a week,” you muttered. You’d had a lot of time with Ace this week and you didn’t really want any more, especially when you were trying to get in with Thatch. 

“And who has my son brought in for supper?” a deep, sonorous called out as heavy steps thudded through the hall. Thatch smiled and stood up, preparing a plate for the clear 

“Pops!” came a chorus of happy sounding men. Aw, that was nice, at least they all liked the old rancher. He had a massive white mustache, worn jeans, a plaid that looked like it was cozy and black cowboy boots. You’d heard stories about Edward Newgate, everyone in town had. But hearing about him and staring into his wrinkled, tanned face was another thing. You wiped your face with your napkin and half stood, preparing to shake his hand.

“Hello Mr. Newgate, I’m -” he waved a massive, calloused hand at you, dismissing you from standing. All right then.

“Jenny’s brat,” he said with finality, sitting down heavily in the massive chair. Jenny? Jenny?! To your knowledge, no one called Dr. Kureha by her first name. You only knew it because her official mail came bearing her full government name. You wanted to ask Newgate how long he’d known Kureha for but you’d long learned that satisfying your curiosity wasn’t always worth it when it came to your great aunt. 

“Yeah, Dr. Kureha’s great niece. I’m staying at her house right now. Thank you for having me for supper,” you said, trying to remember your manners. Newgate grunted, picking up his fork to stab at a massive steak. 

“I see you’ve met some of my sons,” he boomed as Thatch set the plate in front of him. Newgate acknowledged him with a quiet thanks and a nod of his head. Thatch beamed at his father, his pride on full display. Thatch sat back down and put his hand on the back of your chair casually, like he was just stretching. You didn’t say anything but some of the brothers gave each other “ooh la la” looks. You didn’t mind, you were hoping things went that way yourself.

“Yeah, we met in town,” you said evasively, looking around at the various ranchers you’d seen at the clinic just the day prior. Fossa and Jiru weren’t meeting your gaze, just chowing down. You narrowed your eyes at Fossa, who really shouldn’t be eating that much potato salad with his recent labs. You gave him The Look, but he just smiled and continued heaping the salad on his plate. Blenheim gave you a thumbs up while Rakuyo waved. You also saw Haruta, Atmos, Namur, and Kingdew, sitting father down the long table. All had been in the week prior, and a few weeks before then as well. Based on the look of it, you had treated nearly every person in the room with the exception of Thatch and Newgate himself. 

“I think I’ve met just about everyone here, actually,” you said dryly, cutting up some of the juicy steak on your plate. It was thick and fatty and you couldn’t wait to eat something that delicious.

“Is that so? GURARARA, just as popular as your Aunt,” he said with a grin that crinkled his face. You didn’t know if he was complimenting your medical skills or saying you got around. Either way suited you fine, you'd heard worse about your character.

“They’re all your sons?” you asked, trying to get a better feel for the dynamic between all the grizzled men.

“Ah, well. We’re not all blood related but we’re all brothers. We’ve all been workin’ and livin’ together for so long - Ace is our newest brother, he joined a little over a year ago,” Thatch explained. Ah, like a found family or whatever. Cute.

Brothers? But that would mean-

“Wait, Ace - I thought you said Sabo was your brother?” you asked, finally biting into a buttered roll. Holy hell, you’d break your car every day if it meant you got to eat this food. 

“ ‘E is,” Ace said through a mouth of food. “ ‘E’s my brother like Luffy is. Also brothers but different brothers. They’re not brothers here though,” he said, practically unhinging his mouth to shove more food in. That didn’t explain anything -- and who was Luffy? -- but you wanted to stop seeing the inside of Ace’s mouth filled with half chewed food.

“You’re gonna choke. And if you do, I’m not reviving you this time,” you said, pushing some creamed spinach on your fork. You wanted to moan as you tasted it, the gentle flavor of the spinach brought out by the creamy baked sauce. Thatch was an amazing cook, you'd marry him on the spot for his cooking alone. Ace swallowed and picked up another steak off his plate with his hands. Who raised this kid? Wolves?

“Ha! I don’t need you here,” Ace said with glee, shoving the steak into his mouth. “I do like going to your urgent care though. I told all my brothers about you, they like you too. We figured out when you work, we only go then,” he said with a happy smile.

“Oh, is that the reason I’m so busy?” you asked, stabbing your fork through a potato and clenching your jaw with a tight smile. You wished it was through his hand instead, but then you’d have to treat him for that too. 

“Yah, we all like you a lot. You’re no bullshit and we don’t have to listen to Marco’s lectures,” he continued, undeterred by your growing irritation. 

“Marco?” you asked, gripping your fork tight enough that you were sure you were going to warp the metal. It was a common name, right? There had to be more than one Marco in the city, the fates wouldn’t do something so terrible as to bring a hot cowboy into your life only to have his brother be-

“Sorry I’m late yoi. I got stuck at the hospital.” You thought you were going to bend the fork in your hand as Marco Fushichou entered, graceful and handsome as ever. He spotted you next to Thatch, his eyebrows hiking in interest.

“Oh! I didn’t…know you’d be here. I thought it was your golden weekend?” Marco said easily, throwing his lab coat over the back of a chair before sitting down. You thought you were going to crack a tooth with how hard you were clenching your jaw. Who the fuck had you pissed off in a previous life to earn such bad luck?

Everything made sense now. Marco’s father was Edward Newgate, the wealthy cattle rancher who’d found an immense oil field under his property. No wonder everyone knew and liked him - Marco was practically royalty. Of course, of course, of fucking course. Why would something as wonderful as a handsome, helpful cowboy fall into your lap without the universe taking a huge shit on you in return.

“It is my golden weekend. Thatch invited me,” you explained, trying to keep your conversation as brief as possible. Marco’s eyebrow hiked even higher. You tried to keep your irritation and anger off your face but weren’t sure you quite achieved it because Thatch reached under the table to put a hand over your knee. You gave him a smile smile, it was nice to think someone would be in your corner.

“You really do know everyone,” Thatch said with a smile. You were guessing he was trying to lighten the mood a little. You unclenched your jaw and lowered your shoulders. Marco lived here, it wasn’t his fault he was Newgate’s son. You needed to be chill if you didn’t want to fumble things with Thatch. 

“Marco and I work together at the hospital. We’re both residents in the Emergency Medicine program,” you explained. “Including this month. We’re together on Dr. Crocus’ service.” Newgate huffed into his beer bottle.

“That old fuck’s still alive? Marco, kick his ass on my behalf,” Newgate said before taking another big swig. Marco laughed but it made you wonder - was the ass kicking metaphorical or…?

“Actually, I work with Marco more than anyone else. Practically every month it seems,” you said, aiming for polite conversation.

“Well, of course yoi. I request to rotate with you,” he said, filling his own plate. 

“Excuse me?” you asked, blinking your eyes rapidly as your hand curled into a fist. You were trying your hardest not to fling your plate at him.

“There’s a spot on the forms where you can request other residents you would like to work with. I always write your name yoi,” Marco explained, sitting back down with his plate piled high. You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or cry - what the fuck was happening in your life? 

“Well. That explains a lot,” you said, clenching your jaw. You noticed Rakuyo nudging Blenheim and motioning to you. The other conversations were also quieting down. What a bunch of old biddies, you thought, trying to listen in on your conversation with Marco.

“You’re smart and keep me on my toes. I like working with you,” Marco explained with a smile and a tilt of his head. You smiled tightly back as the number of “discreet” glances your way increased. Oh sure, it was a great idea to have this conversation in front of his entire family. You liked Thatch, you did, but this was too much. You wanted a night of booze and fun, not to have to see the same assholes you did all week and especially not Dr. Marco Fushichou.

“And how…fortunate that we’re neighbors too. All this time and we could have been carpooling,” you said with a fake laugh.

“I mean, we could yoi. I’ve seen your car before-” Oh no the fuck he didn’t. It was one thing to ask for help from Thatch but it was another to be offered pity rides from Marco. You already spent enough time with him during the day and you were not adding another 40 minutes to that number.

“I’m good, my car’s fine-”

“We’re fixing it tomorrow,” Thatch added, scooping more corn on your plate before settling his hand on your knee once more. You reached down and put your own on top of his, giving him a small squeeze. 

“Do you need to stay the night yoi? We have plenty of rooms-”

“No, it’s fine. It’s fine,” you said, wiping your mouth with the napkin. “Actually, on that note, thank you for the meal, I think I’m going to head out. I’m pretty tired,” you lied, starting to push back your chair. You could see Thatch another time, you needed away from Moby Dick Ranch and all the trouble the Newgate family brought you. Your golden weekend was not going to be spent with Marco.

“I can take you-” Thatch started to say before getting interrupted by a still eating Ace.

“Maybe she’s tired from her other clinic,” Ace yelled across the table. Marco whipped his head from Ace to you.

“Other clinic? What other clinic yoi? We’re not allowed to work anywhere else besides the hospital, it’s in our contract," Marco asked.

“Oh, uh. I moonlight at the Urgent Care. The one closest to here, actually. I got approval, it’s all above board,” you said, putting your napkin on the table. 

“Yeah, s’where she knows us from. We all go there, she fixes us up really good. She’s a smart doc, Marco,” Ace said, vouching for you. You didn’t need his support, but at least he had a high opinion of your medical knowledge.

“You guys go to Urgent Care?” Marco asked Ace, his voice quieter than it had been before. You huffed, you were more than happy to send them back on their way to their brother. After a moment, Marco turned to face you again.

“That can’t be healthy, our hours are already so long. I barely have time to sleep or eat -”

“Right, some of us need money, Marco. I don’t have a family like yours,” you snapped a little too loudly. The table went quiet as you licked your lips and took a deep breath. You hadn’t meant their material wealth, not really. You could tell by their ease and general camaraderie that they were close. In fact, dinner almost felt like intruding on a private event. You’d kill for something like that in your life, even without the vast riches and influence. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking-” Marco’s hands were up in supplication but you’d hit your limit.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s fine, it’s fine, I’m fine,” you said, standing up from your chair. “Thank you Mr. Newgate for supper, it was lovely.” Newgate tipped his beer at you, unperturbed by the shift in vibes at supper.  

“Would you mind driving me back?” you asked Thatch quietly.

“Not at all,” he said, his eyes looking over your face. He didn’t need to be worried about you, you thought, you’d been to more awkward dinners before. Actually, now that you thought about it, you hadn’t. But still, you could handle yourself. 

“And Jiru,” you called out as he was scooping another heaping serving of banana pudding on his plate. He looked up and gave you a smile. You didn’t return it.

“Do you know what happens if you have uncontrolled diabetes over a prolonged period of time?” He chuckled as the pudding hit his plate.

“Yeah yeah, Marco tells me all the time. My eyes’r gonna fail, my foot’s gonna fall off’r some shit-”

“Your dick stops working,” you deadpanned. “So if you wanna show the ladies a good time, I suggest you don’t eat that pudding.” Whatever, it wasn’t like they were going to turn you in for sharing medical information. Newgate was practically an outlaw, but had too much influence and power to ever be brought in. Jiru gulped and handed his plate over to Ace as his brothers laughed. 

“Nice to meet everyone. See you on Monday, Marco,” you said with the smile and wave you gave when saying goodbye to patients you didn’t like. A round of goodbyes hit your ears but you wanted to be gone. You pushed your chair back into place and grabbed your purse, intending to leave quickly. Thatch stood up and put his hand on the small of your back, guiding you out the dining hall.

“I’ll be back, but clear the table when you’re done,” he ordered as the two of you left. You walked in silence to Thatch’s truck, finally remembering to unclench your jaw. You rubbed your temples, that supper was a lot more than you were planning on.

“So, what was all that?” Thatch asked gently as he opened your car door. You slid in and leaned your head against the headrest. Maybe you were more tired than you thought.

“Oh, the fact that I know all your brothers and have seen most of them shirtless? And treated them all for various illnesses that they should really be seeing a primary care doctor for?” you asked, rubbing your temples.

“I knew those shitheads were up to something,” Thatch said without malice while starting the car. “Marco thought they were being safer and more responsible but that’s not…likely.”

“Yeah, well. It’s alright,” you said, deflating from your earlier anger. “It’s my job and they’re my patients so I’ll see ‘em. I’m worried about some of them, though,” you said, watching the fencing go by in the near dark. The sun had set while you were eating supper and dusk had crept in.

“Marco is too,” Thatch replied, leaning an arm over the back of the bench. There weren’t seats exactly, the truck was too old for that. Instead there was one long bench with space enough for three people. You were on one end and Thatch in front of the wheel but his fingers were just grazing your shoulder. The two of you drove in silence for a while while you enjoyed the quiet after the raucous dinner.

“Oh shit! The lightbulbs!” you said, striking the middle of your forehead gently with the heel of your hand as you remembered the items you left in your trunk.

“The lightbulbs?” Thatch asked, amusement in his tone.

“Yeah, a bunch of the lightbulbs at my house are out. I bought more but they’re in my car. It’s gonna be dark in there,” you said, biting your lip.  “There’s a few left. I can use the light in the bathroom-”

“‘S alright. I’ll replace ‘em tomorrow after we get your car workin’ again,” he responded easily, his fingertips grazing the top of your shoulder.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” you said, twisting the fabric of your dress in your hands.

“Do what?” Thatch asked, genuine confusion in his tone.

“Fix all my stuff. I can do it myself,” you said, feeling vaguely embarrassed that he wanted to help you with yet another task you should be able to do independently.

“I know you can. But ‘s easy for me, so why wouldn’t I? We’ll be bringing back your car anyway, might as well stick around and put ‘em in. Besides, you’re a little-”

“A little what?” you asked, crossing your arms. You’d heard a lot of things about yourself over the years, and none of them particularly good. You braced for yet another comment about how you were useless, or bitchy, or worthless, or bristly, or whatever else was wrong with you. 

“Short.” You huffed in fake outrage, glad he hadn’t told you anything to trigger bad memories.

“I am not short! You’re just really tall!” He chuckled and slid his hand a little further down the bench to practically rest on your shoulder. You pretended not to notice but your heart beat faster than ever. You shifted a little on the bench, close enough for his hand to rest across your shoulders. It was corny but you didn’t care. His arm was warm and his shirt soft, and you wanted to nuzzle where his bicep was bulging. Maybe bite it, see what he did. All too soon, Thatch pulled into Kureha’s driveway. 

He turned off the ignition but kept the lights on.

“This is you, Sugar,” he said, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “We can raincheck for the bar or-”

“You can - would you like to come in? I’ve got beer in the fridge if you’d like,” you said quickly, glad for the cover the night gave your face. You really weren’t in the mood for Shakky’s, but you did want to see more of Thatch. Even after that stressful dinner, you didn’t feel drained by being around him and his calming presence. And maybe your luck would hold out and you’d get some action. 

“I’d love to,” Thatch said, flashing you a grin. Your heart flipped, you hadn’t had anyone over to your place in years. You thanked whatever god was out there that you’d cleaned a little and done your laundry earlier. 

“Great! Gimme a minute and I’ll go grab some beers - it’s nicest to sit on the porch,” you explained, opening your door and practically sprinting for the house. You quickly used your phone light to navigate to the kitchen and grabbed just about the only thing in there - two long neck beers. Beer was just about the only luxury you allowed yourself - even you sometimes needed to unwind at the end of a long day. 

You brought them back out onto the porch, admiring the shimmering night sky. Thatch was already sitting on the porch swing, swaying the chair with his feet. You hopped up next to him and handed him the glass.

“You don’t lock the door?” Thatch asked as you handed him a bottle. 

“Nah, of course not. Who does around here? Now lemme go get a-” you were about to go get a bottle opener but Thatch fished his keys out of his pocket and used them to open his bottle. 

“Gimme yours, Sugar,” he said, his hand outstretched. You handed it over wordlessly and watched him repeat the process. He gave it back to you, putting the caps in his shirt pocket.

“Neat trick,” you said, taking a swig from your beer.

“Got a few of ‘em,” he replied, taking a drink of his own.

“Sorry about dinner,” you said quietly, running your hands over the water condensation on the bottle.

“Nah, don’t be. ‘S alright, you couldn’t have known. We all have different last names, all of us’r adopted,” Thatch said, his long legs rocking the bench. 

“Oh. Um, that would make sense,” you replied, unsure what to say. As a kid, you had often dreamed of being adopted but life didn’t work that way.

“Mmm. Been with Pops over twenty years now. Saved me from a short, shitty life,” Thatch continued. 

“That’s great. To have such a big family. You all seem close, too,” you added, trying not to say something awkward. Thatch hummed easily, letting the conversation drop. The creaking of the chains connecting the bench to the porch the only sound besides the crickets and frogs.

“You gonna stay out here? After your residency’s over?” Thatch asked, tipping his hat back. You’d been mulling the same thing over lately. 

“I’m not sure. I have at least a year left to decide. There’s not really anything here for me, but I don’t have anywhere else that’s calling me either,” you explained, tucking your legs under you.

“No family?” Thatch asked, his arm now resting behind your back again. 

“None I’d like to see again,” you grumbled. Your family had given you unending problems until you finally cut ties and changed your phone number. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re here for another year at least,” Thatch said, shifting so he was half facing you.

“Oh yeah? How come?” you asked, turning to face him in return. You scooted closer, resting a hand on his shoulder now. 

“Now I know how much time I have to convince ya to go out with me,” he husked, leaning closer to you, his eyes half lidded.

“Oh yeah? How you gonna convince me?” you asked, tilting your head up to look into his eyes. You placed your other hand on his chest, your fingers lightly prodding at the muscle underneath. 

“More of my neat tricks,” he supplied.

“You’re gonna have to show me.”

“Gladly, Sugar,” Thatch said. He leaned down and closed the gap between you. He let his lips ghost over yours, teasing you with his nearness. You smiled, gripped his shirt in your fingers, and pulled him closer, your lips finally meeting. 

You kissed sweetly for a moment before Thatch cupped your neck with his rough hand, changing the angle of your head. He deepened the kiss, his tongue entering your mouth and rolling against your own. It had been so long – so long – since you were kissing someone you liked, and even longer since they were actually good at it.

And oh, he was good. 

You felt Thatch’s stubble against your skin as you continued kissing, neither one of you wanting to break away from the other. Thatch leaned over, caging you against the bench with his large body. You could feel your panties getting damp as your hips rolled of their own volition. You moaned as he tangled his hand in your hair, his other wrapping around your waist. He pulled you tight against his chest, and you wrapped one arm around his thick neck as he started kissing your neck. He was biting too, sucking on your tender skin in a way you knew you’d have hickeys tomorrow. 

“You w-wanna come inside?” you asked, a little sheepish despite having his tongue down your throat moments before. Thatch looked up and gave you a wolfish grin.

“And that’s the neat trick,” he said, standing up. You squealed as he tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. His hand was on your ass as he walked inside, your giggling overpowering the creak of the screen door.

“Lemme show you another, Sugar.”

Taglist: @radiantnico@mfreedomstuff

Reader gets freaked out, for good reason, and can’t stop twitching whenever the principal comes near. The sheriff notices and decides to cut the interview short, getting up so he can stand between you and the principal.

“If you have any troubles, with anything, just let us know ok? And I mean anything.” He says that with a wary glance toward the principal who’s no longer paying attention to them. You nod, quickly making your escape and trying to shake off the lingering nerves of the encounter.

Lunch comes around and you’re with the group, a little spaced out cause you just can’t shake off the icky feeling the principal had left on you. A gentle hand on your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts, looking up to see Stu looking at you with worried eyes.

“Are you ok?” You can tell the smile you pull on isn’t at all convincing, Stu’s growing concern evidence enough. Billy’s the next to reach out, closer now that Sidney’s gone off somewhere.

“Did something happen in your interview?” You can’t help but tense immediately, something the boys clock immediately. They look toward each other, expressions darkening before they look at you.

“Hey. You can tell us, what happened?” Tatum is the one to speak up this time, Randy leaning around her to nod along.

It takes you another moment, taking a few deep breaths before you’re telling them what happened during your interview. You stutter your way through it, sniffling in a useless bid to stop the tears threatening to spill.

When you finish Tatum looks horrified, Randy looking wildly uncomfortable. Stu and Billy look absolutely livid, the latter glaring at nothing in particular while the former tries to mask it somewhat, opting to try and look comforting for you instead.

“Mommy this one is you!”

Your eyes traveled to the picture she was rapidly tapping, “An African Wildcat, huh?” You smirked down at the little girl in amusement, “Why did you pick that one for me?”

“Because it looks just like you!”

You chuckled at her enthusiasm, “It looks like me? How so?”

“It has marks just like you do!”

Her innocuous words sent a chill up your spine. Eying the stripes that crossed the cat’s legs, you felt a great unease begin to overtake your body. Her reasoning was not lost on you, the cats coat did quite resemble the jagged scars that covered nearly every inch of your body, and just like the feline in her book, your limbs were the most prominent location of said ‘markings’. You quickly shook your head, not wanting to dwell on it further. In hopes of moving on from the subject, the outpouring of words that flew from your mouth were jumbled and messy.

“O-oh, I see,” you stuttered, clearing your throat to steady your voice, “well you certainly picked a cute animal for me! Thank you baby, it was a good choice.”

She smiled at you innocently, a gesture that usually made your heart melt with affection. But as her tiny hands moved from the book to your arms, that smile did nothing but fill you with dread, the realization that you wouldn’t be getting out of this sticky situation hitting you like a brick to the face. 

“Yeah mommy, the kitty’s marks are just like these ones,” her stubby fingers gently traced the old wounds, a look of reverence reflected on her cherubic features. “They make you look like that kitty mommy,” her little voice cooed, “I like them a lot!”

Your muscles constricted at her words, a slight tremor coursing through you as you involuntarily tightened your grip on her. She took note of this, looking up at your strained features with a puzzled expression on her face.

“Don’t be sad mommy,” she spoke assuredly, “I really do like them! I think they are pretty!”

Her words burned you, scorching the inside of your frozen shell of a body, leaving you feeling sickly and discombobulated. The room around you started to spin in a hazy blur, a wave of nausea making you nearly wretch. Your breathing grew erratic as you tried to calm yourself, inwardly repeating that your daughter was just a child, a little girl barely four years of age who had an incredibly limited view of the world. Her words were not meant to upset you. Her opinions were coming from a place of total naivety.

Yet still, the mental assurance did little to help with the extremely uncomfortable position you now founds yourself in. It wasn’t as if this was her first time noticing your scars. She had mentioned them before, her curious mind trying to piece together the reason that her arms appeared different from your own. Each time she brought your old wounds up you couldn’t help but feel flustered, responding with weak explanations and misdirection to try and quickly brush off her questioning.

The marks came from a silly mistake, or a childhood accident, or from a careless moment when mommy should have been paying more attention. It was always excuses on repeat. How many lies had you told her on this topic alone?

But even if they were lies, it beat telling her the truth. You didn’t want to have to explain where the scars on your body actually came from to anyone, let alone a child, and especially not to your own daughter. How could you possibly word it gently, or in a way that she would understand, when you barely understood why you had them yourself? How could you look her in the eye and tell her that these markings were a permanent sign that you had been very, very hurt and that it was her own fathers hands that inflicted the pain?

Reliving the horrific moments that left your body in such a state was overwhelming enough on its own, but to also have to lay bare her father’s sins, relay to her the unsavory proclivities of a man who she idolized and adored, was not something you were keen on doing.

She didn’t know her daddy like you knew him. She was ignorant to the constant state of concern you lived in, unaware of the worries that plagued your mind and kept you up each night. All the troubles of the hell she had been born into were completely lost on the small, carefree girl.

But honestly that was for the best. You had made an unspoken promise the moment she entered your life that you would protect her no matter what. From the day of her birth onward it became your mission to keep her as happy and healthy as possible.

Ren had broken you, but she did not have to suffer the same fate.

At this point in her life, your daughter knew nothing of her daddy’s profession or ‘hobbies’, and you wanted it to remain that way for as long as possible, if not for the rest of her life. You dreaded each time Ren came home from an auction, terrified he may let casually slip too many details about his ‘lively client’ or that he would carelessly step through the door with the stains of his liaisons still littering his clothes. Your daughter was at an age where she was brimming with questions, and she was relentless in getting answers to each question she asked. Everything had to be explained in complete detail for her to be satisfied, drop the subject, and move on. She was a smart little thing, possibly too smart for her own good. You highly doubted a silly joke or wave of the hand would assuage her whirring mind should Ren grow too impetuous in her presence.

And should her questioning become too pesky, you fretted over what Ren’s reaction to it may be. The more you tried to avoid thinking about it the more you seemed to fixate on the topic, pondering just how much goading it would take from your daughter before his temper would rear its ugly head.  You, above anyone, had firsthand experience in just how volatile the man could be, the scars that littered your body a testament to his turbulent emotions and violent outbursts.

Looking back on it now, it’s a wonder you survived any of it at all.

Ren often told you he loved you, each confession spoken through honeyed words that spilled from his lips easily and often.  And while you didn’t doubt those words (you knew better than to, at this point), you also knew his sweet nothings weren’t merely a term of endearment, they also served as your curse. He loved you, but he also loved your fealty to him, your adoration and worship of him and only him. Should you not reciprocate his feelings as quickly or ardently as he expected, the mere thought of whatever punishment he would concoct was enough to send you into a debilitating panic attack.

There were few things he loathed more than when you flinched from his affection or if you exhibited any sign of distress towards his presence, especially after he had spent so many years going above and beyond to provide for you, devote himself to you. You had learned early on to keel any feelings of aversion you had to his advances, several of your more prominent scars a brutal reminder of that misstep alone.

 If your daughter uncovered the truth and saw her father for who he truly was, if she began to fear him the way you feared him, how would he respond?  If not only his partner, but his own daughter started shying away from him, what length would he go to to correct this behavior?

Dwelling on it made your skin crawl.

But perhaps all of your worries were asinine. Despite his inclination for cruelty, Ren had never so much as raised a hand towards your daughter, even when she did act up. If anything, he was overprotective of her, barely letting her move faster than a brisk jog lest she fall and hurt herself. He hated seeing his little girl experience even a modicum of physical pain, mentioning to you previously that were he able, he’d keep her locked up in a padded room all day and night to prevent any foreseeable accidents or injuries. Surely it was just his idea of a joke, but the insinuation still made you cringe.

It was almost comical, just how greatly the manifestation of his affection for her differed from how he showed his love for you.

His domineering nature shielded her from experiencing any true pain. Every scrape, bruise, and cut she ever received was superficial, nothing that caused major bleeding or left a lasting impression. She had no way of knowing what had been done to you to cause the scars that marred your form, the torment and hell you experienced with each slash, smack, burn. Hell, she probably didn’t even really understand what a scar actually was. All she knew was that her mommy and daddy had strange marks on their skin that didn’t follow any kind of set pattern, weird jagged lines and indents that her soft skin was curiously free from. The mystery of it all was as puzzling to her young mind as it was enticing.

However, some mysteries were best left unsolved, and just as with each other time she brought up this hot topic, you found yourself unable to look into her clear, bright eyes and tell her any semblance of the truth. She may have been forced upon you, but she was your daughter. You loved her, and you refused to be the one to shatter her innocence. You would keep her ignorant for as long as possible, shielding her to the endless nightmare of your daily lives, even if it cost you your sanity.

“Mommy,” her voice jarred you, dragging you from your thoughts, “mommy did you hear me? I said I think they are pretty!”

“T-that’s… I…” You stuttered, struggling to find the right words to say, your voice coming out much smaller than you intended it to. The room felt like it had dropped thirty degrees, your body twitching in response to the sudden chill.

“Daddy told me he gave some of them to you, like this one,” her pudgy, cold finger pressed into the faded heart that resided on your chest, the first of many indelible sins he had etched onto your form. Only the top half of the carved symbol was viewable above the collar of your shirt, so she tugged at the loose hem until she could see it in its horrible entirety.

“Daddy said he gave you this one because he loves you so much,” her voice grew quiet, a thoughtful look in her eye as they drank in wounds you wished you could forget, “Daddy loves me too, right mommy? You think he’ll give me a cute heart someday too?”

You felt as if you had been hit by a train.

“S-top,” the words were forced from your throat, airy and breathless, as if someone was wringing your neck to make them come out, “p-please, just stop talking.”

“What did you say mama,” your daughters sing-song voice responded as her fingers continued to trace and prod your scars, “You are whispering, is it a secret?”

“I told you to SHUT UP!”

As if following your command, your booming voice instantly silenced the small girl. Unused to such a violent outburst from her mother, her happy-go-lucky nature quickly shifted to one of alert, her tiny body going rigid as she stared up at you with fearful eyes.

Seeing her in such a state and knowing that you were the cause of it would normally have killed you inside, making you fall to your knees to beg for the child’s forgiveness. But right now, the thin thread that had been holding you together had snapped, and your words rushed out in a torrent you couldn’t begin to quell.

“Shut up, shut up, shut UP!” You seethed, clasping your hands to your ears to try and block out your own intrusive voice, “Just STOP TALKING about it! What are you even saying? Why would you ever want to look like this?!”

Tears started to flood your eyes, blurring the image of the girl who had quickly jumped from your lap and was now cowering before you. Through your bleary vision, you could see tears were brimming her eyes as well.

“You… You have no idea,” your voice warbled, shaking in equal parts grief and frustration, “You have no clue what you are saying, so just STOP IT. KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT AND DON’T YOU DARE SPEAK OF IT AGAIN!”

You slunk from the chair down to the floor, burying your face in your cold, stiff hands. The soft blubbering of your daughter could be heard through your own sobbing.

“I-I’m sorry mommy. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Hearing her broken voice began to shatter the spell you had been under, instant regret jerking you roughly back to reality. Your head sunk lower, your body scrunching itself up as tightly as possible to hide from this cruel reality.

Your screams were born from deeply buried feelings of hatred, tucked far, far away as a means of self-preservation. For a moment, you felt as if you despised your daughter, her existence tethering you to this wretched excuse of a life, binding you irrevocably to Ren. But as you lifted your heavy head, glancing up to stare into her young face, a face so very similar to your own, a face contorted in panic and sadness over her mother’s abrupt descent into madness… you realized it wasn’t her that you hated.

It was yourself.

Your daughter didn’t deserve this. She deserved normalcy. She deserved a father that didn’t pose a threat to her. She deserved a mother that wasn’t ruined by his hands. She deserved a happy and untroubled life, not to be stuck being raised in a barbed cage, navigating her way through life with nothing but the shattered remains of a battered woman to guide her.

“I’m so sorry,” you choked under the weight of your overwhelming emotions, snot and tears running freely down your ruddy cheeks and chin, “I’m so, so sorry baby…”

“What the hell is going on?”

You hadn’t heard the front door open, nor had you heard Ren’s jubilant greeting as he entered your home. He had no doubt been upset by the lack of welcome-it was one thing to be ignored by a child, but his doting wife? That was not something he was not apt to look past.

But surely any feelings of annoyance or frustration fled from his mind the moment he entered the room, his eyes falling upon your crumpled, messy form collapsed on the floor. You cursed his arrival, upset that he entered the scene at such a compromising time, right as you were struggling to regain an ounce of composure and properly apologize to the little girl who had done nothing wrong.

“D-daddy,” your daughter’s voice warbled as she barreled towards him, colliding into his waiting embrace. You wiped at your face in a desperate attempt to hide your previous outpouring of emotions, doing your best to avoid eye contact with Ren as his sharp gaze quickly flicked from you, to his daughter.

This had already become enough of a scene without Ren’s interference, it was best to try and begin damage control now. 

“Daddy I-I made mommy cry!” Tears continued to pour from your daughter’s eyes, her face twisting into a look of pure dismay. Her misguided admission of guilt made you recoil, knowing full well it would grant her no favors with the person she seeking comfort from. “I’m really sorry daddy! I didn’t mean to!”

After several endless seconds of silence, Ren spoke.

“… You made her cry?”

His voice was far sharper than it needed to be, further agitating the precarious state of affairs. In most cases he would have offered your daughter leniency, letting her get away with far more than she probably should. However that leniency was null and void if you ended up suffering in the process.  Ren could not forgive anyone that caused you any duress (himself, of course, being the exemption) even if that person was his own flesh and blood.

“What do you mean you made her cry? What the hell did you do to her?”

“I-I don’t know,” she wailed, a fresh wave of tears spurred on by the accusatory tone of her father’s voice, “I just told mommy I thought her marks were pretty and then she started crying! I wasn’t lying daddy, I like them! I think they make mommy look really pretty!”

“Her marks…?” Ren’s look of vexation began to dissipate as the meaning of her words donned on him. He lifted his arm, rolling up his sleeve to reveal his own scars to the little girl. Pointing a clawed finger to them, he leaned down until he was looking her in the eye, “You mean like these?”

As she nodded her head vigorously in confirmation, Ren tutted, “That’s the reason for all the water works? An innocent compliment started all this fussing?” He scoffed, shaking his head, “Isn’t that a little bit… silly?

You tensed at the sound of his barking laugh, your frown deepening as an amused grin spread wider across his lips. You wished that you could say it was shocking for him to have such disregard after finding the two of you in such an agitated state, but it was painfully in character of him to shrug off your misery and suffering as inconsequential.  How he could so nonchalantly normalize this hellish situation he kept you and your child ensnared in, you would never understand.

Your daughter was apparently sharing similar thoughts, as her face began to once more morph into a pre-sobbing scowl. She was no doubt wounded that her father was not offering her the comfort she was seeking, her emotional state already greatly weakened by her mother’s venomous tantrum.

To help quell another round of tears, Ren pulled the child closer, wrapping her up in his arms so that her tiny form was nearly enveloped by him.  “Shhh, no more tears angel,” he cooed sweetly, patting her head gently to appease her, “There isn’t any reason to cry, especially because… Well, you’re right! Mommy’s whole body is pretty, isn’t it? Her marks just compliment the beauty that’s already there.”

Slowly but surely, her tears began to dissipate. Hunched over shoulders loosened, and sniffles and hiccups gave way to even breathing. Like clockwork, her father’s gentle handling soothed her, the same touch that destroyed you offering her salvation.

As if under a spell, the turmoil that had overcome your daughter quickly began to vanish, her sobbing fading into quiet sniffles. Once she was fully calmed, Ren continued speaking, “That’s all you meant to say to mommy, right angel? I’m sorry she took it the wrong way, she’s probably just tired or hungry, you know how mommy gets. She’ll get over it in no time flat!”

Heat spread through your body at his flippant dismissal of your feelings, an indignant blush lighting your cheeks as you gripped your hands tightly at your side. Your previous emotional episode left you all but drained, but your will to fight back against his callous commentary could never truly be contained.

“In fact, I bet she is already over it now,” Ren’s voice took on a jovial tone as he directed his focus solely on you, “Aren’t you, pumpkin?”

With the ball suddenly in your court, you flinched as both sets of expectant eyes fell on you. Your own eyes darted from Ren’s piercing glare, down to your daughter’s wide-eyed look of unbridled hope. You felt much like the rabbit that had been caught by the fox, stuck in a lose-lose situation. Seeing him hunched over her small body as she clutched to him as a life line, openly concerned that her mother may once more reject her while her father remained a bastion of strength and understanding, left you reeling. Either you would get heated again and stay the villain, but possibly hold on to an ounce of your dignity, or concede to Ren and have yet another piece of your soul wither away and die-the price to pay so that your daughter could remain in blissful ignorance for another day.

“Aren’t you, pumpkin?” He repeated himself slowly, enunciating each word. The kindness in his voice serving only as a mask for the threat buried beneath.

“Y-yes,” you responded quickly, shooting them both a smile you hoped was convincing, “I am very sorry, baby. Daddy is right. Mommy is just… tired.”

A serene smile lit her face, your words placating her. Seeing her happy once more helped relieve a bit of the ache in your own heart, making the lie worth it.

“Good, good,” Ren affirmed with a nod, carefully detaching himself from your daughter as he stood, “but you know little one, mommy deserves some love too, don’t you think? She may have been in the wrong, but it’s not nice to make her cry like that. Why don’t you go give her a hug, hm?”

With no further persuading necessary, she quickly padded over to you, hopping on your lap with so much enthusiasm that it nearly knocked the wind from you. Her arms tightly latched around your torso as she smushed her face into your chest, rubbing it back and forth like she was trying to burrow beneath your skin.

“I love you mommy,” her voice spoke clearly, any hint of previous sadness long gone. You sighed, relieved that this dramatic chapter was over as you pulled your daughter closer to you.

“I love you too.”

During this show of affection, Ren had made his way behind you, slinking so deftly you hadn’t even known he had moved until you heard him chuckle softly behind you.

“This is what I like to see,” he spoke with a sickeningly dreamy sigh, “nothing makes me happier than when my two girls are happy.”

He placed his hands gingerly atop your shoulders, trailing them down until they rested on your arms. His thumbs pressed gently against the marred skin, rubbing in a small circular motion in an attempt to subdue you. His claws grazed your flesh, uncomfortably scratching against you as they snagged against your skin.

He planted a firm and lingering kiss to the side of your head, pulling away just enough that his lips grazed the shell of your ear. “There really was nothing to cry about,” he whispered breathily, his words quiet enough that despite your daughters’ proximity, she would have no chance of hearing them. “It’s almost unfair how gorgeous you are, scars and all. But you must know that, right my sweet pet? I tell you all the time.”

Ren took in a deep breath, releasing it in a shaky sigh, “Seeing these scars reminds me of all we have been through, all that we share. They are a symbol of our bond.”

One of his claws pressed down sharply, a small bead of blood pooling around the piercing. Leisurely he began to drag his finger up your arm, a thin red line following in its wake. You shivered at the burning sensation, but deigned to give him any reaction further than that.

hii again thank you for all of the love on the original post i was not expecting that!! unfortunately this part of the story is going to take a much darker turn and there will be a lot of sensitive topics. i mentioned them in the warnings and i will be putting a warning before the passage and sentence with that topic so if it might trigger you please just skip it. this chapter will be just following you the reader but dont worry because after this itll be just a whole lot of charles and then charles and reader! also please note that this follows the mission blessed are the peacemakers so i will be following and using some dialogue from that mission but besides that its my writing. other then that thank you again and enjoy reading <3

present,

insects hummed as tree leaves brushed together. gravel and red dirt crunching under hooves. it was a long ride to get to where that damn colm o'driscoll wanted to meet up.

as always there was some talking going on. micah was using his natural "charm" to flip things around in his favor, trying to make this whole plan seem like a good idea. and like a mouse in a trap, dutch agreed. so arthur voiced his doubts.

and as always, micah turned the tables.

"look, we ain't even going to be in danger" he snided "we'll get on over there.. find a nice perch for our marksman to settle into"

he turned his attention back towards you.

"you got that rifle don't you?"

you scoffed, shaking your head at his schematics.

"yeah."

you replied with a bite to your tone.

"then me, you, and dutch walk right into the lions den, with her to cover us."

micah explained to arthur, a smirk on his thin lips like he had just won with simply words alone.

"okay, just keep calm. unless i give you a reason not to."

arthur sighed inwardly, you could tell he was tired of reasoning. suddenly dutch decided to speak up, as he always does.

"oh, we'll be fine. we've got her."

dutch praised, with a winning smile on his face. like all of this was going according to plan.

"i'll do my best."

you chimed in, trying to put an end to this conversation.

"with you watching over me, i would walk into hell itself."

dutch stated firmly.

there it was, that charismatic leader you followed with your life on the line. dutch had raised you, taught you how to shoot that rifle you were to protect them with. he had no reason to doubt you.

but then, micah had to chide.

"as would i."

losing any meaning of the damned conversation, it finally went silent. you could hear your own thoughts again, along with the birds and dry grass.

movement had caught your eye as you all made your way out of the riverbed, four men, four horses. o'driscolls. with colm at the very head of them.

"up there, men on the ridge."

you spoke. bringing everyone's attention. the tension was palpable as both of the groups just passed by eachother.

"o'driscolls by the looks of them."

dutch spoke with a obvious edge of disdain in his voice. everyone watched as they disappeared behind the ridge.

"i don't like having eyes on us."

arthur muttered, again his voice holding uncertainty. he always said what you thought. this just doesn't seem right.

"we're close, little miss will be the eyes soon enough."

micah shut him down again. not without jeering towards you. you just rolled your eyes and continued trudging along behind everyone.

micah began talking again, but you were uninterested. not paying attention to a word he was saying because you knew it was most likely just another way to grovel at dutch's shoes.

and once again dutch fell into it. and arthur called them both out on it. leading dutch to ramble on about some speech he must've made up on the spot.

finally it got quiet again, and you could see past the ridge and onwards towards the rest of the heartlands. it was beautiful country.

but, it was time to set the plan into motion.

"alright, little miss. you're gonna peel off up ahead." micah spoke loudly, "we'll be meeting down on the plane. find a spot just above us where you can keep an eye on things."

you looked up the hill, it was a high vantage point. this seemed to be going well so far.

"alright."

you nodded your head, looking over at arthur as he spoke.

"however this shakes out, let's aim to meet at the fork in the road afterwards."

everyone hummed their agreements and then separated. leaving you to slither up the hill and out of sight from the anyone.

you made your way up to the point of the cliff. dismounting your horse you took your rolling block rifle and binoculars with you then got her out of sight.

you crouched down as you walked up to the ledge, taking in your surroundings with the binoculars. watching as dutch, micah, and arthur went out onto the plane.

immediately bringing your attention you heard more pairs of hooves thundering down the narrow hilltop. colm o'driscoll and his scum. four–no. three men. three horses. where was the fourth?

your eyes scanned the plateau, or anywhere else but you couldn't find them. you didn't have time to worry about it either. you were to watch over them so that's what you did.

picking up the rolling block rifle you checked the chamber to see if it was loaded and then peered through the scope. hands steady as you followed colm o'driscoll as he dismounted his horse with the sight of your rifle.

pointed directly at his head, if anything were to happen. if anything seemed wrong. it would mean a bullet would go straight through his skull.

you watched as both parties walked closer to eachother. almost looked like a standoff if anything. three against three.

you still couldn't pry your mind off where the fourth one had went. but that wasn't your priority right now.

you observed carefully as colm and dutch conversed. although you couldn't hear a word they were saying, you could tell there was apprehension.

words were spoken, steps were taken closer, everything set your nerves off. this all seemed too quiet, too easy.

you had settled into the quiet around you, focusing in on your inner thoughts. trying to stay on the task at hand. but something interrupted that normal buzz of nature around you.

footsteps. fast footsteps. towards you.

you whipped around, rolling over on your back as you saw the stock of a gun going straight towards you. you used your rolling block rifle to counter it. knocking the gun away from you.

the aggressors gun along with yours clattered on the ground next to you. you looked up. an o'driscoll. that fourth one that had turned up missing. this was a god damn set up.

you didn't have time to think about it as the man threw himself onto you, hands wrapping around your neck and legs pinning you down on either side. you gagged at the lack of airflow, panic causing blood to rush to your head.

your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you fought to get your hand under you and in your back pocket. the throwing knifes.

you managed to slip one out and quickly drove it into the man's cheekbone, ripping it forward and through to his lip. he screamed as it tore through his flesh.

warm, sticky blood spattered all over your face. but you didn't care. you had to get this man off of you. now.

you drove your knee into his crotch as he clutched his face in agony. causing him to roll over and onto the ground in a groan.

the knife slipped out of your hand as you scooted away quickly once he was off of you, heaving air back into your lungs. trying to get a hold of yourself.

but the man was quicker, adrenaline must've kicked in. he grabbed whichever gun he had rolled on and smacked the end of it straight into your face.

and everything went black.

MENTIONS OF SA/IMPLIED SA IN THIS PASSAGE

you awoke with a startle, opening your eyes you immediately panicked by the sight of multiple men above you. all chattering and chuckling at the sight of you.

you tried to move your hands but they were bound together, you struggled against the binds.

"look at this pretty one. what's colm gonna do with her?"

a man spoke as he poked the barrel of his revolver against your cheek, caressing it with the cold metal. you turned away from the touch as if it burned you, hissing through your teeth.

"probably gonna fuck 'er then give her right to the pinkertons."

another man spoke, and the rest of them immediately whooped with laughter. your blood ran cold as you even thought of that outcome. of any of them doing that to you. you had to get out of here.

your hands struggled against the rope again, trying to find some way to slip out.

"nuh uh, girlie. you're not going anywhere."

the same man that put the revolver to your face pressed your head to the side with it. you growled as he forced your head over.

"go fuck yourself."

you spat out, voice shaking with rage and fear. you had no idea what to do, surrounded, tied up. feeling like a cornered animal with your hackles raised. you fought.

the man dipped his head down, face close to yours. the acrid alcoholic tang of his breath hitting your face making your nose scrunch up.

as he opened his mouth to speak you brought your head up. driving your forehead straight into his nose, it made an awful crunch. but it only brought you satisfaction as he shouted in pain.

everyone else ooo'd as they waited for him to do something about it. spitting out blood before he spoke

"can't wait to have some fun with this one."

he sneered before slapping the revolver across your face. knocking you out cold.

waking up again with a groan, your body felt heavy. as if you had ran across the entirety of new hanover. you wiped at your face, eyes widening when you saw blood

looking down at yourself, trying to figure out what had happened. your shirt was barely on, and your jeans and belt were undone. cold realization chilled you to the bone.

your mind went reeling, remembering everything that had happened. but what happened to arthur? to dutch? could i not protect them?

you couldn't think about that right now. your hands were untied. and you could hear faint laughter. you had the chance to escape.

bile raised in your throat as you thought about what had happened. but besides that feeling you clawed your fingers into the ground and dragged yourself up. ignoring the way every muscle in your body screamed against it

breaking into a run in the opposite direction of the o'driscolls throwing up of a flurry of dirt and breaking through bushes.

"shit! look at her! shes runnin!"

one of the o'driscolls yelled towards your direction. you panicked and tried to run faster.

"don't worry, i got her."

another one spoke. before you could even react a sharp, shooting pain went straight into your shoulder. you crumbled to the ground in a heap, letting out a cry of pain.

you writhed on the ground in agony as your head spun. trying to will your body to move, to get away, to do anything. but you couldn't.

the entirety of your body just felt bogged down, and your ears like they were filled with cotton. you could feel the vibrations of approaching footsteps but you couldn't hear much of anything.

the last thing you felt was the barrel of a gun pressing harshly against your wounded shoulder. ripping a scream out of your throat before everything went black with an ear splitting bang.

flickers of water, trails, and trees creeped into your consciousness. but it was faint, and quiet. painful even.

you finally opened your eyes to darkness, pain gnawing at your shoulder like a parasite. the metallic tang of your own blood and something sour making you nauseous as you brought your head up.

looking around you could slightly see the room you were in, an oil lamp flickered in the corner illuminating the small space. the walls were just stacked stone, and smelled of mildew. a table sat to your left, old and rotting.

curling your legs towards your chest as you sat in the corner, ankles and wrists tied again. you felt exhausted, and anxious.

how much time has passed? is everyone okay? is anyone looking for me?

you were dragged out of your thoughts as your shoulder throbbed again, pain wracking through your whole arm making you wince. looking under at your bloodstained shirt you could see the wound clearly.

your skin was red, bruising, and angry. blood still slowly oozing out of the infected laceration. you had to look away from it as bile rose in your throat again, burning your gullet.

a slow creaking filled the room, like a door opening. your head snapped up at the sound, entire body tensing up. fists clenching as if you could defend yourself in this state.

your eyes burned with hatred as your eyes laid upon the person coming into the room, colm o'driscoll.

"aah.." he chuckled, "eagle eye."

he sneered as he set down the oil lamp that he was carrying, a bowl in the other hand. a disgusting, wicked smile on his face.

"it's good to see ya."

he spoke and you snickered, putting up a front. hiding whatever weakness or fragility to make yourself seem okay. like a threat.

"colm."

you hissed, watching him like a hawk as he sauntered around you. or as he said, an eagle.

"how're ya feeling? not to good with that wound there huh?"

he prodded, his voice harsh and grating. it hurt your ears to even conversate with him.

"just fine." you muttered, then remembered something, "how's your boy doing?"

you chuckled to yourself, shit you might be losing it.

"left a big, nasty cut down his face."

a satisfied, smug smile pulled at your lips. and you could see the way colm's demeanor dropped slightly, instead replaced with a smidge of anger.

"tell me, what's a fine gun like you doing running around with old dutch."

colm deflected, taking a bite of whatever he had in his bowl. like he was comfortable, in control.

"could be riding with me, making real money."

he sniggered, looking back at you. your face scrunched up at just the offer.

"money has nothing to do with it."

you scoffed, watching his every move. trying to cover the strain in your voice by sitting up taller.

"oh, no, no, you're loyal to dutch, ain't ya." he set down his bowl, turning to you. "just his little pet."

he crouched down, looking down at you like you were pitiful. your head turned away, repulsed by how close he was to you. teeth grit while anger boiled deep in your gut. so you did what you thought was the best thing to do in this moment.

you spat right in his godamn face.

watching as his expression contorted into disgust then rage as he wiped his face. that same creepy, wicked smile spread across his face.

quick as a snake he pulled out his revolver and smacked you across the face with it. you sputtered as blood began to drip from your nose again.

"fuck you."

you muttered, voice gravelly as you wiped the blood off your lips. he brought the revolver back up and slapped you across the face with it again.

you coughed as your head hit the ground with a thud. everything going blurry. suddenly his boot made contact straight with your stomach, knocking the wind out of you. it was agonizing as he continued, each kick just ebbing more energy out of you.

eventually he stopped, murmuring something that fell on deaf ears. and walked away. leaving you there, alone on the ground, and shaking with pain. trying to fight to stay conscious. but eventually, everything faded away again.