Just Another Girl.

The day you first met Dante, you were already at your wits' end.

You'd been tracking a shadow demon for weeks, and every time you got close, it would slip right through your fingers. The slippery little devil could quite literally melt into the shadows and hop from one to the next. Tracking it at night was next to impossible, so you'd need to look for the signs during the day. Little flickers at the edges of an otherwise unmoving shadow. Wisps and tendrils trailing at the feet of a passerby. An ominous presence in darker corners. If you didn't catch it before nightfall, then you'd have to start from scratch the next morning.

It was a huge pain in the ass.

Finally, after you were just about ready to tear your hair out, you managed to corner it in an abandoned warehouse. Abandoned, yes, but someone was still paying the electricity bill. With a flip of the switch, the giant halogen bulbs fixed to the ceiling flickered to life, illuminating the entire space.

The demon screeched like it was in pain, and changed from a formless shadow into a hideous reptilian-like creature with razor-sharp fangs, wicked-looking claws, and a tail whipping back and forth.

You'd smirked at it while pulling the sword off your back. "Let there be light, fucker."

You were just about to dart forward and engage the demon in battle when a blur of red and broken glass came raining down from one of the skylights. He landed directly on top of the demon, sword piercing through its skull and embedding into the flood beneath its chin. With just one blow, he'd killed the thing that took you weeks just to get to this point.

"What the hell?!" You'd cried out, rage making your blood hot.

He pulled his sword out of its mangled corpse and hopped off its back. "Don't worry, baby. I got this. No need to thank your rescuer." He'd flashed a cocky grin, hiking the sword up on his shoulder.

You dashed forward, the very picture of an avenging angel, all fire and retribution.

His grin wavered, brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you d-”

He didn’t get to finish his question, because suddenly you were in the air in front of him, jamming your knee up against the bottom of his chin. His mouth clamped shut, teeth biting into his tongue, while his head whipped back from the impact. You landed, graceful as a cat, back on your feet. “I didn’t need any rescuing!” You returned your sword to the holster on your back and crossed your arms, glaring harshly. “And I’m not your baby.”

“Ow, thuck!” Dante cried out, mouth filling with blood. “Thoo madthe me bithe my thung!”

You didn’t apologize, instead choosing to sharpen your glare and give him a full once-over. His bare chest was on full display under the opening of his red coat, save for the brown leather strap running across his pecs. You scoffed and cocked out your hip. “Is it laundry day, or did you spend too much money on that ridiculous coat that you couldn’t afford to also buy a shirt?”

He spat out the mouthful of blood and ran the back of his hand over his lips. “Babe, when you’ve got abs like these, it’d be a shame not to share ‘em with the world.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. Not at his words, but at the missing lisp. In a flash, you’d redrawn your sword and aimed it at his neck. “What the hell are you?”

He held his hands up in surrender, leaning slightly away from the blade. “Whoa, take it easy. I’m just a demon hunter. Like you.”

You’d tightened your grip on the hilt and pushed the blade closer. “Not like me.”

That cocky smirk was back on his face. “True.” He’d then opened his mouth and stuck his perfectly healed tongue out at you. “Still stings like a bitch. Nothing a little strawberry sundae won’t fix. You in?”

“What?” Your eyebrow twitched.

He placed his fingers on the flat of your blade and pushed it away from his neck. “I’ll buy. Consider it an apology for taking your kill. Didn’t realize someone was already tailing this sucker, but they can be a real pain to track down if you don’t get ‘em quick.”

For some unexplainable reason, you let him push the sword away. “Yes, I’m aware…”

“Alright, let’s go. Our ice cream awaits.” He began to stalk off like this was the most normal conversation in the world.

Confused and a little intrigued, you’d decided to follow him. Before you knew it, you were sitting at the counter inside Freddy’s Diner, with a towering vanilla ice cream and strawberry syrup sundae pushed in front of you.

Your companion, who’d introduced himself as Dante, dug into his immediately. “So,” he started while chewing on a strawberry slice. “What’s your traumatic backstory?”

You gave him a side-eye, then swiped at the whipped cream on the top of your sundae with your spoon. “What makes you think I have a traumatic backstory?”

He smirked knowingly. “You don’t get into our line of business if you grew up with all rainbows and ponies.”

You put the spoon in your mouth to give yourself time to think about how to respond. “You first,” you deflected.

He eyed you like he knew what you were doing, but relented anyway. “You’ve probably noticed that I’m half demon. Dad was a demon, Mom was human. After he was out of the picture, demons came for the rest of us. They killed my mom, and for the longest time, I thought they killed my brother too…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes lost their focus.

“Where is he now?” you questioned softly, trying to pull him back.

His eyes, a fierce crystal blue, snapped back to yours, nearly startling you. “Oh, he’s in Hell,” he stated a little too nonchalantly, like it was forced. “Turns out Vergil had an easier time connecting with his demon side than I did.”

Your eyes widened in shock. “He went willingly?”

“Yep,” he gave the ‘p’ a definitive pop, indicating the end of the conversation. He then shoved another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth and knocked his knee against yours. “Your turn.”

You glanced down at your ice cream, unable to look into his eyes while you talked about your past. “I used to be a witch. Or at least, I was raised by witches.” You then scoffed dryly, your hand tightening on your spoon. “To be honest, it was more like a cult of demon worshipers than a true coven. I was born and raised to be their brood mare; to be the vessel of the future heir to the coven. Once I turned of age, there was a ritual. They summoned a demon so that I could be fertilized with its spawn, but it broke out of the containment circle. It killed half of the members who were present, while the other half ran for their lives. I was left behind.” You finally lifted your gaze to find Dante watching you intensely. “I don’t remember much of what happened after that. Just a lot of blood and screaming. But I killed it. I killed that demon, and I’ve been killing them ever since.”

He released a low whistle once you finished, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “Damn, and I thought my childhood was rough. I think you have me beat this round.”

You scoffed again and rolled your eyes. “Childhood trauma isn’t a competition, Dante. It’s all horrible.”

“Well, maybe it should be. They should have to give out awards for some of the shit we had to go through.” He waved his spoon around like it emphasized his point.

You smiled in amusement. “The award is knowing you survived it. Knowing you walked through Hell and came out the other side. It’s what you do after the trauma that’s the real test. Do you allow yourself to be consumed by the darkness, or do you try to find beauty in the things you may not have noticed before? If you have the strength to keep going, eventually you’ll find the light.”

He hummed thoughtfully while tapping his spoon against his chin, taking in your words. “Your trauma has made you very profound.”

You laughed and knocked your shoulder against his. “Thanks for the ice cream and the trauma bonding.” You licked your spoon clean and dropped it into the empty sundae glass. “See you around, Dante.” You stood up from the barstool.

“Hey, wait a sec.” He reached out and grabbed your hand, causing you to turn back with a raised brow. “I’ve been thinking about bringing in a partner. What d'you say we team up?”

It was now your turn to smirk. You raked your eyes from his pretty boy face, down his shirtless torso, to his cargo pants and unlaced boots. Your eyes then snapped back up to his. “Ask me again in a few years.” This guy had heartbreak written all over him, and you couldn’t afford to be distracted right now. But maybe after you’d both done some maturing, you could revisit whatever this spark was…

You slipped your hand from his, fingers brushing until the last moment of contact. Then you’d turned and walked out the diner, feeling his gaze on your ass the whole time.

“Hey, you still with me?” Dante’s voice pulls you out of the fog of memory. You blink several times before meeting his crystalline gaze. “Where’d you go?” he questions.

The hazy vision of a much younger Dante fades away the longer you look at the current one. “I was thinking about the day we met. When you first brought me here,” you tell him with a fond smile. You’re both sitting in the same spot you’d been in back then, perched on barstools that had been replaced at one point or another. There’s a strawberry sundae in front of each of you, though Dante’s is nearly finished.

Dante releases a dramatic sigh. “Oh yes. Nothing quite says young love like trauma bonding over your respective childhoods.”

You laugh and take another spoonful of ice cream.

Dante then grins wickedly. "Bet you're glad now that my tongue healed so quick." He flicks said tongue out of his mouth in a vulgar gesture meant to remind you of what he does with it when he's between your legs.

You roll your eyes and punch his shoulder.

He chuckles heartily and steals a scoop of ice cream from your sundae.

You glare at his audacity and tilt your head dangerously before noticing the bit of whipped cream at the corner of his mouth. Reaching up, you pinch his chin between your thumb and forefinger and tilt his face toward yours. He eyes you curiously before his shoulders stiffen when your tongue darts out and licks the whipped cream off his skin. You release his chin and straighten back in your seat, looking rather smug.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, for a moment, and then laughs. "Hell, babe. How can you expect me to behave in public when you're doing shit like that?" He shifts on his barstool against the growing tightness in his pants.

"You started it." With a cheeky grin, you lick your spoon suggestively.

His rapidly darkening gaze is laser-focused on your mouth. You feel his hand pressed to your lower back as he leans into your space. "Wanna go home and fuck on the couch?"

You very nearly choke on a strawberry slice. While attempting to cough it out of your lungs, you glance back at the family of four sitting in the booth behind the two of you. They luckily appear to be blissfully unaware of the crass remark that just came out of your partner's mouth. You turn back to Dante and push his face away from yours. "Can you at least pretend to have a romantic bone in your body?"

"You mean this one?" He grabs your wrist before you can pull your hand from his face and places your fingers over the bulge in his pants.

You really should have seen that one coming, and you're too amused to be mad about it. "Not that one." You squeeze his length teasingly and pull your hand away, returning back to your sundae.

Dante observes the side of your face while you attempt to pointedly ignore him. His heart pounds in his chest when he realizes the opening you've unknowingly provided him. He slips his hand into the pocket of his coat. "How's this for a romantic gesture?"

You eye him curiously with your spoon in your mouth before you look down at the small velvet box he places on the counter between the two of you. Your heart stops. You stare at it for a few seconds and then flick your gaze back to Dante's.

His expression tells you exactly what's inside that box. It's filled with a mix of hope, trepidation, longing, and fear. "Open it," he encourages softly.

You move like you're in slow motion, setting the spoon down and pulling the box closer. You give Dante one last side glance before flipping open the top of the box. All the air in your lungs leaves you at once. Inside the box is a gorgeous, Victorian-style engagement ring, with delicate filigree along the band and a beautiful gemstone that seems to shift between sparkling white and pale blue depending on how the light hits it. The gem reminds you of his eyes. Like a snowstorm and the skies after rain combined.

Just when you're beginning to wonder how he could possibly have afforded this, he speaks, "It was my mother's."

Any breath you may have been trying to pull in gets caught in your throat. You lift your eyes back to his face to find him staring down at the ring.

"That's the ring my dad proposed to her with. He later got her a bigger one when they married. I remembered her showing it to me once. She kept it in a hidden safe in their bedroom. I went back to look for it." He finally looks up, meeting your eyes, and gives you a soft smile. "You went back to the place that ruined your childhood for me... Figured it wouldn't be right if I wasn't willing to do the same."

"Dante..." Your eyes sting with emotion, throat tightening.

He looks away and scratches the back of his head, trying to wrestle his own emotions. "I asked Vergil if he was cool with me giving it to you. He kind of just grunted, which I took to mean yes, but don't be surprised if he tries to cut off your finger to take it back. We all know his track record on pulling limbs off of family members..."

You huff out a short laugh and push the open box back toward him. "Stop ruining the moment and put this on me already."

His smirk is too relieved to be considered cocky. He pulls the ring out of the box, hands uncharacteristically and adorably shaking as he reaches for yours, and slips the ring onto your third finger. He runs his thumb over it once it's in place. "No backing out now. You're locked in," he jokes.

You smile and lean closer to his face. "That already wasn't an option." You place a chaste kiss against his mouth.

"I really fucking love you." His words taste as sweet as the sundae.

You hum against his lips and place your hand on his upper thigh. "Okay, now I wanna go home and fuck on the couch."

He's off the barstool before you can even blink. He shoves the empty ring box back into his coat pocket and whisks you toward the exit. “You can add those to my tab,” he calls to the waitress carrying a tray of freshly made pancakes and eggs benedict, gesturing to the empty sundae glasses on the countertop. She doesn’t look surprised, just nods and keeps moving. Dante’s saved this diner from demon attacks more times than you could count. The whole waitstaff knew the drill.

The two of you stumble back into Devil May Cry like a pair of giddy teenagers who can’t keep their hands off each other. Dante shrugs out of his coat before the front door has even latched shut. You yank off your boots and shove your pants down your legs. He smirks, walking backward toward the couch, hands loosening his belt buckle. You stalk after him, shoving his chest when the backs of his knees hit the couch, and then you’re crawling onto his lap. His hands grip your thighs just below the curve of your ass while your knees bracket his hips.

His stubble prickles your palms when you place them against his jaw and tilt his face up toward yours. His lips are parted, eyes heavy with want. You ghost your lips over his in the barest hint of a kiss. His chin raises, chasing after you, but you’re just a hairsbreadth too far. You shift and kiss the edge of his mouth on the side that always lifts first when he smirks. Then you kiss the apple of his cheek, then his temple, and then his brow.

His hands tighten against the backs of your thighs before moving up and delving under your shirt to splay across your lower back. “You ever think about how we both spent so long running from our destinies, only to end up right there anyway?” he asks you, voice barely above a whisper.

Your head tilts, and you begin to kiss the other side of his face. “How do you mean?”

His hands flex against your skin. “Well, for the longest time, I refused to embrace my inner demon. I clung to my humanity so tightly that I fooled myself into believing my demonic half didn’t even exist.” You kiss the tip of his nose and then pull back, waiting patiently for him to continue, recognizing the importance of what he’s trying to say. “The first time I devil triggered, I was terrified. I thought unlocking that part of myself and letting it out into the world meant that I had to give up the humanity I fought so desperately to keep within my grasp.” He looks deep into your eyes, his face lacking the usual humor that’s lined there. “I thought embracing it meant I’d have to live the rest of my life alone, just to protect everyone else from the ugliness inside me. That no one would ever accept someone with a monster living under their skin. But then I met you and…” His voice trails off, and his arms tighten around your waist, like if he doesn’t keep you close, you’ll vanish into wisps of smoke.

“I think you were made for me,” he whispers as if speaking it too loudly will shatter the fragile air between you both. “I think that summoning ritual when you were young didn’t work because I wasn’t ready yet, and so they pulled the wrong demon through. I think it was always supposed to be you and me. No one but you could ever fully understand and love every part of me. And I never would have gotten this far without you.”

“Dante…” Your smile feels like sunshine on his face; your eyes filled with so much love for him that it makes his heart pound. Your thumbs trace over his cheeks in a gentle caress. “You don’t need to sweet-talk me out of my pants, I’ve already taken them off,” you joke and lean in for a short, affectionate kiss.

He hums against your lips. “Don’t ruin my attempt at romance. I’m trying my best.”

You laugh and pull away to look down at him again. “You’re doing amazingly well, actually.” You push his bangs to the side to make it easier to look into his eyes. “I think a part of me knew that first day we met. Knew what you were going to mean to me. Knew that I’d end up running straight toward all the things I was running away from if I let you in.” You lean back down and brush your nose against the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t ready for you back then, and even if I could go back, knowing what I know now, I don’t think I’d change any of it. Our pasts have made us who we are today, and I love this version of us. You’re my everything, Dante.”

You feel his hand brush the back of your neck to pull your lips down to meet his. The kiss is more reverent than hungry, but it steals your breath all the same. This is the man who pierced and clawed and burned his way through Hell for you. The man who drives you crazy and makes you feel safe. The man that’s burrowed so deep into your soul, you wouldn’t be able to extract him without ripping out parts of yourself as well. You love every cocky remark, dirty joke, idiotic decision-making part of him.

Your hands leave his face and slip under the bottom hem of his shirt. Fingers tracing up tightening abs, and trailing silver hair. His mouth leaves yours as he reaches to grab the collar of his shirt and yanks it off. Your hands continue their northward explorations while your lips start an expedition of their own down his neck. Dante’s head falls against the back of the couch, giving you even more room to run your mouth over him. You kiss his Adam’s apple and the hollow of his throat. You nip at his collarbone, too playful to hurt, but it makes his hips jerk under you. His racing heart feels like butterfly wings against your lips before you suck his nipple into your mouth. He groans and writhes under you like he’s at his breaking point.

You feel his hand at the back of your neck, and he gives it a warning squeeze. “Babe, we’re about to have a sticky situation if you keep doing that.”

Your eyes flash with mischief, which is dangerous considering where your mouth currently is. Your tongue circles him. “Would you really cum in your pants from this?”

All the blood in his body rushes south. “Fuck, probably.” He grinds up, trying to find even a fraction of relief against the constricting material. He really should stop wearing leather pants around you.

You grin savagely and rake your teeth over the peaked bud. “What if I want to see you cum in your pants?”

He moans and realizes he’s so close that you might just get your wish. Mercifully, you release him from the hot, wet temptation of your mouth, and he can finally breathe. He chuckles a little blearily, “Damn, I’m so fucking pussy whipped.”

You look extremely proud of yourself as you settle more firmly into his lap. You bunch the bottom of your own shirt between clenching fingers and yank it off in one fluid movement, leaving you in your matching emerald green lace panties and brassiere. He’d watched you put them on this morning. Knew exactly what you were hiding under your clothes when he’d taken you out for sundaes with an engagement ring burning a hole in his pocket. And now here you were, kneeling over him like a goddess looking down at her worshipper, the ring that once embodied the devotion between his parents now firmly settled on your finger. You were his future. You were his hope. You were the reason he jumped into Hell, because he knew he had to do everything he could to protect the only world that had you in it.

He pulls your face back to his in a raw, open-mouthed kiss. His other arm bands around your waist, holding your body tight against his. You moan into his mouth, nails scratching at his scalp as you run your fingers through his hair. He nips at your bottom lip, sinking his teeth into the supple flesh. He then starts a blazing trail of kisses and bites across the underside of your chin and down your neck.

“Dante!” You gasp and moan his name so sweetly.

He kisses the hollow of your throat and nips at your collarbone, exactly how you’d done it to him. Your hands tighten in his hair as his prickly cheeks brush against the tops of your breasts. He licks the seam where the cups of your bra meet your skin. It takes all your effort not to unravel.

“I need you,” you plead, grinding the wet patch of your panties against his bulge.

He nips at the skin between your breasts. “You have me.” It’s not a tease, it’s a fact.

You make an adorably frustrated noise from the back of your throat. “I need you in me!” you clarify.

You feel his wicked grin against your skin. “Take it easy, my dick’s not going anywhere.” He laughs before his face moves away from your breasts, and he’s leaning back against the couch again. He looks at you through lidded, lust-filled eyes. “Would you like to do the honors?”

You’re unbuttoning the front of his pants before your next breath. You yank open his fly and shove them down just enough to free his aching cock. It bounces up and hits the bottom of his abs, smearing precum against his skin. You’re impatient and desperate as you fist his base and line him up. Your other hand peels your wet panties to the side moments before you’re sinking down on his fat cock.

“Fuck,” he curses, hands flying to your waist and squeezing urgently. “Thought you’d at least get me wet first,” he huffs, the muscles in his neck straining.

“Couldn’t wait,” your voice is already wrecked, all needy and eager. As soon as he’s halfway in, you let go of his base. You pulse your hips shallowly like you’re testing the waters, and then all too suddenly, you’re lifting your hips up and then slamming back down until he fills you to completion in one long stroke. Both of your moans fill the room as his cock settles into the deepest parts of you.

“Fuck me,” he squeezes his eye shut, head falling against the back of the couch.

“That’s what I’m trying to do.” You swirl your hips, and Dante swears his soul is about to leave his body.

“Babe, I love that you’re just as desperate for me as I am for you, but you’re literally killing me here.”

Your laugh is pure sex, all sultry and low. “You’re not going to die.” You rock your hips against him and clench around his length.

He grunts deep in his chest and you feel his cock twitch inside you. “You sure about that? What if my heart stops?”

Your fingers dive back into his hair. “I know CPR.”

He shivers when your nails run over his scalp again. If he were a cat, he’d definitely be purring. “What if my heart explodes?”

Your face leans down and nips at the edge of his chin. “I’ll give you a vitality potion.”

His hands move down to grip your ass. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Despite his words, his hands encourage the way you’re moving against him.

Your breathless giggle fans across his face like petals on the wind. “Always.”

You kiss him right as you begin to bounce on his cock. It’s sloppy and wet, tongues tangling between shared breaths and cries of pleasure. He kisses different when he’s buried inside you. He’s more feral, like the joining of your bodies unlocks the savage beast he tries to keep caged up. He’s wild, untamed, raw. Like he wants to devour you more than he wants to savor you. He’s unrestrained and brutal. He makes you feel like a glass of water in the desert or the first meal given to a starving man.

You have to rip your mouth away when the need to breathe becomes too strong to ignore. His lips very quickly make their way back down to your heaving breasts. He nips and sucks at the skin above your bra. Your head falls back; eyes closed in rapture. You keep one hand steadied on his shoulder while the other cups the back of his neck. His mouth moves once more and clamps over your nipple through the lacy material of your bra. You release a mewling sound of pleasure and a stuttering breath. He suckles your breast in the way he knows drives you crazy.

The measured pace of your hips grows a little more frantic. “Ah!” Both gravity and momentum work to your advantage, making him hit you so deliciously deep every time you slam down on his thighs. He feels so good, filling you just right, and it’s easy to see why he’d say you were made for each other. Every time you both come together, it’s like sparks igniting oil. Instantaneous, hot, unavoidable. Like a lock and key that only work with each other. He’s the breath in your lungs and the fire in your veins. “Dante!” you call out to him desperately, feeling the muscles in your legs burn from exertion.

In an instant, he’s moving. He doesn’t need an explanation; he just knows. Your back hits the soft leather seat of the couch. There’s barely enough room for the two of you, so he pushes your knees to your shoulders in a mating press. He has one knee shoved between your body and the back of the couch, while his other leg is stretched out, foot still planted on the floor. He doesn’t miss a beat, continuing to fuck into you during the shift in positions. You moan at both the relief of being off your legs and at the new angle he’s now plunging into you. Your hands reach above your head, gripping the armrest of the couch.

“So fucking pretty.” His eyes burn with desire as he looks down at you. He loves watching your face as you get closer to your release. When the pleasure becomes too great that all your walls come down and you bare your soul to him. You allow yourself to be defenseless, vulnerable, to let him see the deepest and darkest parts of you. To be broken apart and trust that he’ll remake you every time.

Your back arches, head thrown back as you vocalize your pleasure. “Dante, please!” He shifts the angle of his hips once more, just enough to allow him to grind into your clit with every thrust. Your body tenses beneath him, and he knows you’re close.

“Come for me. Let me feel you unravel on my cock. Squeezing me so tight while you milk me dry,” he encourages. “This pretty pussy has been taking me so good. So wet and tight and eager for a thorough pounding. I could smell your arousal, even when we were at the diner. You’ve been begging for this all day.”

You can’t deny him, because it’s true.

“And what kind of man would I be if I didn’t give you exactly what you wanted? My breathtakingly gorgeous wife.”

That does it. He calls you his wife, and you’re done for. It feels like two celestial bodies coming together and colliding, shattering into a million stars. Like the creation of life and existence itself. Like the fabric of your reality has been pulled out to a single thread and then stitched into something new. Pleasure clouds every one of your senses. It licks up your spine and fills your veins. It makes everything in the world except for Dante seem hazy and distant. For this one moment, it’s just the two of you and nothing else. No danger, no responsibilities, no expectations. Just you and the man you love with your entire being.

The rhythm of his hips starts to falter and then you feel the first spurt of cum coating your walls. You clench and squeeze around him, moaning as he fucks his cum deeper into you. He doesn’t stop until his cock is completely spent, and even then, he gives a few more thrusts for good measure. By the time he’s coming down from his high, you’re practically a puddle of goo underneath him. He gathers your body up in his arms and moves so that he’s sitting properly on the couch once more, with you collapsed against his chest. He tucks your head under his chin and holds you close while he tries to catch his breath.

“Sundaes and sex… This is the best day of my life,” he huffs out a tired laugh, head tilting back against the couch.

“Um, forgetting something?” you question, wiggling your fingers in front of his face.

He grabs your hand and kisses the knuckle of your ring finger. “That, too.” He pretends it’s an afterthought, but the way he threads his fingers between yours and holds your hand says otherwise. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this.” He releases a contented sigh and pulls you in a little closer. “Not even when we’re old and gray.”

You smile against his neck. “You’re already old and gray.”

He pinches your side, which causes you to yelp and jerk against his touch. “Now that’s just mean,” he pouts.

You giggle and kiss the underside of his chin. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” You don’t sound very sorry.

“I should make you sleep on the couch for that comment,” he mumbles.

“No!” you protest through your laughter. “I need my Dante-shaped body pillow!” You cling to him like a starfish clings to a rock in the tidal zone.

He cracks a smile and kisses the top of your head. The moment turns softer, quiet. Not awkward or uncomfortable. Just peaceful. Your cheek rubs against his sternum, breaths scattering over his chest like downy feathers. You melt against him, muscles going lax, heartbeat slowing. His fingers trace up and down your spine, lulling you even further. “You falling asleep on me?” he asks, voice serenely amused.

“No…” You deny, but you’re drifting off, and soon your breaths have evened out.

He chuckles quietly and holds you like you’re the most precious cargo in the world when he stands and takes you up to the bedroom. He pulls back the top sheet and sets you down on the bed, then moves to the bathroom and wets a washcloth with warm water. You don’t stir when he removes your soaked panties and presses the cloth between your legs. Your body fully trusts him to take care of you, even when you’re most vulnerable. He removes your bra next, then pulls the covers up, and tucks you in.

He sits on the edge of the bed and watches over you. Like a stone sentinel built to guard a holy temple. You are the best thing he thought he’d never get to have. For years, he’d built walls, and barriers, and defenses, not to keep you out, but to keep you safe. Safe from him. Safe from the dangers that clung to him like shadows in darkness. Safe from the heartbreak of losing him to either the demons outside or the one within. But he’d underestimated you. Misjudged your strength, your tenacity, your ability to wiggle your way past every single one of his defenses like they weren’t even there.

When he looks at you, he sees a future full of laughter, devotion, and a love so deep it makes his chest tight, like there’s not enough room in there for the overwhelming feeling bubbling out of his heart. He sees soft, morning smiles, and passionate, eager touches. He sees teasing laughter and honest guidance. He sees the two of you, back-to-back, blades drawn, ready to take on whatever force comes your way.

He sees a future that he wants to come true so desperately that he’s willing to risk everything for it. You’ve seen him at his worst. You faced the monster lurking under the surface, and you stayed. You looked past the cocky, flippant attitude and saw the broken, terrified, lonely man underneath, and then you reached out your hands. You took his cracked and jagged edges and you made him soft. Not weak, but malleable. You filled the empty spaces just by being constant and reliable. You did it so naturally, like there couldn’t have been any other way to go about it.

You accepted every part of him, and now he’d get to spend the rest of his life proving to you that it was worth it. To prove that he was worth it. Because he already knew that you were.

The smile I practiced holds. Pride stings my tongue.

“And I,” I say, “will be your Fire Lady?”

“By title,” he answers. “Not by heart.”

My flames stay leashed in my lungs. I bow once more, exquisitely, like Azula taught me—like I taught myself after she vanished behind gently closed doors and the world pretended it was for the best.

“Very well, my lord. I accept.”

He watches me too long, as if there’s a map under my skin he’s trying to read. When he nods, I feel the bars of a cage lock quietly around my ribs.

As I turn to leave, footsteps drum the hall. The doors burst open without so much as a courtesy knock. Toph strides in—no, stomps in—like the palace belongs to the earth. Bare feet, scuffed knuckles, a grin sharp as obsidian. “You told her?” she asks, tilting her head toward me without looking.

“She knows,” Zuko says.

Toph’s blind gaze fixes somewhere near my throat, and I feel the weight of her attention like a hand on my pulse. “Good. Secrets taste like bad rocks.” She smirks. “Welcome to the circus, Princess-Not-Princess.”

“I was never a princess,” I say. “Just good at acting.”

Toph barks a laugh. “We’ll see.” She flicks her wrist. The floor under my feet hums. “I can feel when people lie.”

“Then you’ll feel very little from me,” I answer softly. “I’ve been trained to make the truth do tricks.”

Zuko shifts, uncomfortable. “Enough. We have a council session.” He half-turns to me. “We’ll announce the engagement at dusk.”

“And the lover?” I ask brightly. “Where does she stand?”

“Wherever I want,” Toph says, planting both feet like punctuation.

I smile. “Then I suppose we’re all honest.”

Toph grins wider. “Honesty’s a good start.”

“But never enough,” I murmur.

That night, the torches turn the courtyard to gold. Zuko’s hand hovers near mine, never quite touching. Toph leans like a rumor against a far pillar, dressed in formal green that bristles against the red.

The Gaang filters along the edges—Katara’s watchful calm, Sokka’s too-loud jokes, Aang’s careful joy like a lantern cupped in wind, Suki’s carved composure. They are here to bless stability. To witness. To measure me.

When Zuko announces our betrothal, the nobility applauds like rain on a tiled roof: a polite storm hiding fractured roofs beneath.

Later, alone in the hall of painted dragons, I conjure a small, steady blue flame in my palm and let it flicker across my knuckles. It throws strange shadows on silk.

I make a promise to the fire and to myself: if I am to live inside a cage, I will decorate the bars with gold.

From far down the corridor, stone nudges stone: a small, warning sound. Toph’s voice floats to me, casual as a cut. “Careful with that temper, Fire Lady-to-be. The palace doesn’t like being singed.”

“I don’t like being handled,” I say without turning.

“Good,” she answers. “Because I don’t handle. I stand.”

Zuko’s footsteps join hers, heavier, restrained. He stops an arm’s length away. “There are rules for both of us,” he says softly. “No one has to like them.”

“I don’t,” I say, and close my hand over the flame until it vanishes. “But I know how to follow rules. I was raised on them.” I look between them, the line pulling tight. “I wonder which of us breaks first.”

Toph grins, relish in her mouth like pepper. “That’s the fun, isn’t it?”

The drums begin to call the guests back for the final toast. Zuko glances toward the light, then back at me, and for the first time I think I see something like pity. It makes me want to spit.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “we draft the marriage terms.”

“Wonderful,” I say. “I adore paperwork.”

“Try not to burn it,” Toph adds.

“I’ll consider it,” I say sweetly.

A herald’s (messanger) cry echoes. Zuko extends his arm, an invitation polished by duty.

I take it. I have always been good at taking what is offered and pretending it was what I wanted.

We step into the torchlight together, and the world sharpens around us like a blade.

As the toast rises, a runner bursts through the crowd and drops to one knee, gasping. “Your Majesty—news from the sanitarium. Princess Azula is lucid—and she’s demanding an audience with your bride.”

hope you liked itt

You didn’t realize how much you missed the sound of a wooden spoon clacking against a pot until Alexandria made it possible to cook again—not just boil, but cook. Real food. Garlic sautéed in oil. Dough rising in bowls. Crackling butter, eggs cracked into hot pans. You had spices now. Not many, but enough. Enough to make you feel human again.

You stirred the soup gently, humming to yourself, bare feet cold against the tiled kitchen floor. The windows were open, and somewhere down the street, Judith was laughing. That kind of laughter—the kind that didn’t sound like it came from someone holding their breath—was new. A rare luxury. You soaked in the sound.

Your little house wasn’t much. It had peeling baseboards and that one light in the hallway that flickered if you stepped too hard. But it was clean. Yours. You’d hung mismatched rugs, lit candles with no scent left in them, fluffed pillows that didn’t quite match, and named the little houseplant on the windowsill “Martha” just to remind yourself to water her.

And for some reason, lately, Daryl Dixon kept showing up.

“Got ya wrench,” he said gruffly from your doorway, holding up a rusted tool with one gloved hand.

You looked over your shoulder. “Did I… ask for a wrench?”

“Nah. Figured y’might need one eventually,” he muttered.

You quirked a brow. “You sure that wasn’t just an excuse to show up during dinner?”

He shrugged like it was possible. “Smelled somethin’ good from down the street.”

You pointed your wooden spoon at him. “Boots off.”

Daryl glanced down, pretending not to notice the trail of mud he’d already left behind. “Shit. Sorry.”

The next time he came by—two days later—he left his boots on the porch without a word.

It became a routine neither of you acknowledged. You cooked. He showed up with something—an old book, a fixed knife, once even a box of instant pudding mix he’d found “for later.” You stopped asking why. You just made enough food for two.

“Soup again?” he asked one night, eyeing the steaming bowls on your table.

You handed him a spoon. “Be grateful. It’s chicken this time.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “Damn near gourmet.”

“You ever cook, Dixon?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking far too comfortable for someone who never officially moved in. “Cooked squirrel once over a campfire. Burnt the ears off.”

You choked on your drink. “They have ears?”

“Yeah. Cute little ones. Not anymore.”

You laughed so hard you snorted, and Daryl grinned at the sound—barely, but enough.

Sometimes you’d catch him watching you. Not in a weird way. In a way that felt… reverent. Like he wasn’t quite sure how you were real. You’d be folding laundry on the couch, sleeves inside out, warm fabric tucked under your chin. You didn’t look your best—your hair was tied up in a half-falling bun, you had a smudge of flour on your cheek, and your socks didn’t match.

Still, his eyes lingered. Especially on your hands.

He didn’t know why he kept imagining them folding something smaller. Softer. Baby-sized.

Didn’t know why the thought made his heart twist like that.

One afternoon, you were putting away canned goods when you realized your shelf was suspiciously full. You stared at the neat row of tomatoes, peas, beans.

You turned toward the man fixing your porch light without being asked.

“You been sneaking in food again?”

He didn’t look back. “Ain’t sneakin’. Just settin’ it down.”

“Daryl.”

“Y’run low on stuff. I notice.”

You crossed your arms, trying to hide your smile. “You know, if you wanted an excuse to move in, there are more subtle ways.”

That made him finally glance at you. His ears went pink. “Ain’t movin’ in.”

“Sure,” you teased. “You’ve only eaten here five nights this week.”

“Six,” he corrected under his breath.

The next day, you caught him sniffing your laundry.

Not, like, creepily. He didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He’d picked up a folded shirt to move it and paused, his brow furrowing.

“Daryl?”

“Huh?” He looked up, startled, the shirt still in his hands.

You smirked. “That mine or yours?”

He glanced at it like he couldn’t tell. “Yours, I think.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat. “What soap d’you use?”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“Smells… real nice.”

Your lips curved up slowly. “You mean I smell real nice.”

He went bright red. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He dropped the shirt and muttered, “Ain’t askin’ no more favors.”

“Yes you are,” you said, grinning. “You’ll be back tomorrow.”

He tried to hide the way the corner of his mouth lifted. “Tch.”

One evening, while you were both on the porch—he was fixing your railing, you were drinking lukewarm tea—you caught him saying it.

“So,” you started casually, “you just go around fixing everybody’s house?”

“Just yours,” he said. Too quick. Too natural.

You blinked. He didn’t seem to notice.

He finished hammering in a nail and leaned back on his heels. “Was thinkin’… ya might wanna repaint this part of—” He paused, then frowned. “—your house.”

You gave him a look.

“What?” he asked, suddenly cautious.

“You were about to say home.”

“No I wasn’t.”

You grinned. “You were! ‘Your home.’ Admit it.”

He stood up, scowling. “Ain’t gotta admit shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

He muttered something under his breath about “smartass women” and stalked back inside—barefoot.

You followed him in, cheeks warm.

That night, when he left, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual.

You leaned on the frame beside him. “Y’know, you never knock.”

“Door’s always open.”

“Only for you.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Eyes soft beneath the rough edges.

“I ain’t used to this,” he murmured.

“To what?”

“This,” he said, nodding at the warm kitchen, the folded laundry, the candles melted low on the table. “Quiet. Bein’… wanted.”

You rested your hand on his arm. “Get used to it, Dixon.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

When you shut the door behind him, you could still smell the flannel he’d left on your couch.

You picked it up, held it close, and whispered into the empty room, “You already live here, dumbass.”

From the street, Daryl glanced back once before walking home.

Or, maybe—just maybe—not home.

Not yet.

But close.

So damn close.

It started with sandwiches.

At first, just plain ones—peanut butter, or if you were feeling generous, ham with a thin slice of tomato. Then they got fancier. Little notes tucked in foil. An extra fruit wrapped in cloth. One time, you even snuck in a brownie and drew a tiny, lopsided squirrel on the napkin.

You didn’t expect him to bring anything back. But he did.

A bottle of honey. A tiny carved bear he claimed “just showed up.” A beat-up paperback with half the pages intact.

“Found this in a glovebox,” he said one afternoon, tossing the book onto your kitchen counter.

You turned it over, lips twitching. “A Beginner’s Guide to Making Soap. Is this a hint?”

“Nah,” he said, though you caught the way his eyes darted toward you. “Jus’ thought ya liked that kinda shit. Feels… homey.”

You pressed your mouth to hide a smile. “Thanks, Dixon. I’ll be sure to whip up some lavender body wash next time you stomp in here smelling like smoke and bear traps.”

He chuckled—low and gravelly. “Ain’t my fault. Nature likes me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nature wants you to shower.”

The rhythm between you and Daryl wasn’t something you planned. It just… settled. Like dust on windowsills, or the way the kettle always whistled five minutes before he knocked.

He never asked for food. Never requested anything. He just showed up, sat down, and quietly accepted whatever you handed him.

And in return, he gave.

Little repairs around the house. Odd tools left on your porch. And one particularly cloudy morning, a shelf.

He was on his knees, screwing the last bit of wood in place beneath your window when you padded in with a mug of coffee.

“You building me furniture now?” you asked, sipping slowly.

He didn’t look up. “Ya said ya ain’t got no place for them cookbooks. Figured this’d work.”

You stared at the sturdy thing. Real wood. Sanded edges. No frills, just strong and clean.

“You made this?”

“Didn’t steal it, if that’s what yer askin’.”

You bumped your hip against his shoulder, grinning. “We’re practically married at this point.”

That made him freeze.

Just for a second.

Then he cleared his throat and rose to his feet, brushing sawdust off his jeans. “Yeah, well… ya bake good.”

The wound was stupid.

Barely a scratch, really—just a scrape along his upper arm from a rusted fence post. But it bled, and he grunted about tetanus, and you rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache.

“Sit still,” you said, holding the wet cloth to his skin.

He flinched.

“Drama queen.”

“Ain’t dramatic,” he muttered. “Y’just heavy-handed.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

You sat on the edge of the kitchen table, close enough to smell the pine on his clothes, the sweat on his collar. His shirt was half-pulled down around his arm, bunched up awkwardly against his chest. Every time he moved, the fabric lifted just enough to show a line of taut stomach, scarred and sun-kissed.

Your fingers slowed.

His eyes flicked up—watching you, not the cloth.

“Y’almost done?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded, but your hand didn’t move. “Yeah. Just…”

The room felt quieter than it had a moment ago. Like something was leaning in. Like the walls knew.

You looked up, and he was already looking down—at your mouth.

And there it was.

That pause. That almost.

Your breath caught.

But then he blinked, and the spell broke, and you shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “Stop fidgeting, Dixon, you’ll get blood on my floor.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Ain’t the first time, probably won’t be the last.”

Later that week, while folding your laundry, you found his flannel again.

Still draped across the arm of your couch. Still worn and warm.

You held it up, burying your nose into the fabric. It smelled like firewood and wind. Him.

You didn’t ask if he left it on purpose.

You just folded it and left it on your bed.

“Here,” he said one evening, holding something small and metal between his fingers.

You looked up from your stew. “What’s that?”

“Knife. Cleaned it. Sharpened, too.” He pressed it into your palm. “Just in case.”

Your throat caught. “Daryl…”

“Don’t mean nothin’,” he mumbled quickly, backing off. “Y’know. Jus’ in case I ain’t around sometime.”

You closed your hand around it, blade snug in the leather sheath. It was small, light, but deadly. Like him.

“I feel safer already,” you said quietly.

He shrugged, but his ears turned red.

That night, you stood together in your tiny kitchen, washing dishes side by side.

You handed him a plate. He dried it.

You reached for a cup. He bumped your hand with his elbow.

“Careful,” you teased. “I’ll sue.”

He snorted. “For what? My crossbow?”

“Damn right. I’ll mount it above my new bookshelf. Like a trophy.”

He smirked. “Still think we’re married?”

You paused, fingers submerged in soapy water. “What, you think we’re not?”

He didn’t answer.

You turned, dish towel in hand, ready to tease him again—but he was already looking at you.

That same stare. Soft, wide-eyed, awestruck.

The towel slipped from your fingers.

Your shoulders brushed. His hand was on the counter, fingers just inches from yours.

You were close enough to kiss.

You were close enough to want.

Your lips parted slightly—but then he blinked, looked away, and rubbed his jaw with a muttered, “S’gettin’ late.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He left a few minutes later without taking his flannel.

And this time, you didn’t move it.

You curled up with it on the couch, heart fluttering against your ribs like it wanted out.

He didn’t say much the next morning. Just nodded when you handed him a sandwich, tucked it into his bag, and slung his crossbow over his shoulder.

“You comin’ by for dinner?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

He hesitated at the door.

Then, real soft: “Yeah. Reckon I am.”

He stepped out, but didn’t quite shut the door behind him. You could still hear his boots on the porch.

And just before they faded, you caught it—quiet and rough, like a secret spilled from his chest:

“Ain’t that somethin’…”

You stood frozen, dish towel still in your hand, heat rushing to your cheeks.

You didn’t know if he meant the sandwich. The shelf. The almost-kiss.

Or you.

Maybe all three.

But yeah.

It was somethin’.

It started with a vision he couldn’t shake.

You, barefoot in the kitchen. The morning light soft and golden, filtering through linen curtains you hung just to make the place “feel less apocalypse-y.” A coffee mug in your hand. One of his old button-downs barely buttoned over your chest, hanging loose over your thighs.

Your belly round, swollen, alive.

The image hit him like a punch to the gut. Not because it was hot—though it was—but because it felt like something sacred. Something he had no right touching.

He blinked hard and looked away, jaw tight.

You were just standing there. Coffee in hand. Bedhead. Sleepy eyes.

Messy and real.

And his, if he ever dared to claim it.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Didn’t mean he didn’t think about it.

Didn’t mean he didn’t ache for it.

“You okay?” you asked, voice raspy from sleep.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Jus’… starin’ off.”

You moved toward the stove, yawning into your shoulder. “You want eggs or oatmeal?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the way your shirt dipped at the collar. The way your hip swayed as you reached for a pan.

God help him, he wanted to walk over, wrap his arms around you from behind, and press his hands to the curve of your belly—his baby under your skin, your soft sigh in his ear.

He hated himself for it.

But he wanted it anyway.

The rain started around noon.

By four, the power cut out.

You lit candles like it was second nature, placing them carefully in jars, tea lights on the counter. Daryl stood in the doorway watching you, arms crossed like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Cozy, right?” you said, holding a match to a stubby wick.

He grunted. “S’quiet.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Ain’t bad. Just… loud.”

You tilted your head. “That sentence made no sense.”

“Did to me,” he mumbled.

You handed him a candle in a chipped ceramic mug. “There. You get ambiance.”

He took it, blinking at the tiny flame. “Ain’t this a fire hazard?”

You smirked. “So is your attitude.”

The storm outside turned from steady rain to thunderous sheets, rattling the windows and howling through the gaps in the frame. The wind shoved hard against the house. You pulled a blanket around your shoulders, sitting on the couch cross-legged. Daryl paced once, then settled across from you in the armchair.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Just candlelight and stormlight and the quiet.

Until you said it.

“Why do you keep coming back?”

His head snapped up.

You didn’t say it with malice. Just curiosity. Just soft and warm and real.

“You’re here almost every day,” you continued. “You fix things. You eat here. You sleep on my couch when you think I don’t notice. But you never say why.”

Daryl stared into the candle like it owed him answers.

“Dunno,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Bullshit.”

He shrugged. “Ain’t got nowhere better to be.”

“Liar.”

“I ain’t.”

You raised your brows. “So you just happen to bring me coffee filters and screws and dried lavender you found in someone’s abandoned sock drawer for no reason?”

His lip twitched. “Weren’t a sock drawer. Was a glove box.”

You smiled, but it faded quick. “Daryl. Just say it.”

“I don’t know,” he said again, voice harder now. “I jus’… it’s quiet here. Y’don’t talk too much. Smells good. You make real food. And I—shit—I like it, alright?”

You sat back, blinking at him.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and muttered, “Ain’t mean t’get loud.”

You didn’t flinch. You just said, “You’re already a part of this place. Of me.”

He looked up.

You gave him a little shrug. “Whether you realize it or not.”

The candle flickered between you.

You reached forward to adjust the glass jar around it, and your fingers brushed his.

He didn’t pull back.

You didn’t either.

His hand turned under yours, rough palm meeting your skin.

Warm. Solid. Familiar.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You let your gaze drift up to his—those stormy, uncertain eyes, like he was at war with something inside himself.

“Daryl,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to want something good.”

He inhaled through his nose, shaky.

“Ain’t used to it,” he said. “Wantin’ somethin’.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause if I want it, that means I can lose it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full—so full it felt like the room was pulsing with it.

You didn’t let go of his hand. “Maybe it’s time to stop thinking you don’t deserve it.”

He didn’t answer.

But his fingers curled around yours.

And that was something.

You stood a little while later, candle in hand, heading to the kitchen to check on the rainwater leak above the sink. You were halfway there when you felt him behind you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just lifted a hand, brushing your hair from your cheek.

Calloused fingertips against soft skin. Barely a touch. But it made you shiver.

You turned to look at him, and the candlelight caught his face just right—softened him. His brow furrowed in thought, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

You said it for him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhaled. Shaky. Relieved.

“You promise?” he asked, voice almost broken.

You nodded, stepping in just enough that your foreheads almost touched. “You already have me, Daryl. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Outside, the thunder rolled.

Inside, you stayed quiet.

But your hands stayed locked together until the candle burned low.

Your lips hovered over his, waiting for him to make the next move—wanting for him to make the next move. He stared up into your eyes, hesitating.

You closed the gap for him, pressing your lips into his. Dry and unmoving, you tried getting him to open up. Parting your lips, you lap at his lower lip once, twice—until he's parting his lips and taking your tongue in his.

Your tongues dance for dominance, Daryl's hands crawling lower and lower until they're rested on your hips. You suck on his lips, arching uour back to press your breasts against his hard chest. This action has the bowman grunting into the kiss, hands squeezing at your hips.

Your hands find themselves cupping his cheek and jaw as your greedily take and take and he just lays there and lets you.

As the pleasure builds inside you, so does the desperation. You're breathing harshly, your sex growing wet and hot, demanding for any kind of friction. So you give yourself exactly that.

You move your hips slowly, grinding down on Daryl's growing member. Heavy breathing fill the room as you grind harder onto him, the hard material of his jeans accentuating the feeling of bliss.

Your head starts growing light as you throw your head back, hips quickly moving back and forth as you chase after your high.

Daryl grunts and pants underneath you, eyes trained on your moving hips. His eyes shift up at yours as he looks at you through his lashes.

You smirk down at his desperate expression, planting your hand on his chest as your hips move faster. "Could you—" Daryl grits out, holding your hips down. Unable to move, you tilt your head to the right, waiting for his next move.

With his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands stay glued to your hips. The tension is thick and buzzing in the air—waiting for something, someone to move.

Then Daryl's hands move to hook your panties to the side, exposing your needy cunt. He presses his thumb onto your sensitive clit, making you roll your eyes back. He starts drawing circles, making you roll your hips.

"God, yes." You breathe out, pushing Daryl to add two more fingers, pressing onto your sex. He looks up at your for permission, only to be met with desperate eyes.

Daryl smirks, pushing his digits easily through your slick walls. A low moan leaves your chest as your hips slowly move back and forth, gringing onto his open palm.

Your fingers move nimbly to undo the last buttons of your shirt, exposing your bare breasts underneath. You can feel the way Daryl's hand hardens as soon as his gaze lay on your breasts.

Hand on his nape, you pull at him. "Open your mouth." You mutter, pulling him closer. He immediately follows your order, taking your nipple into his mouth. You let out a satisfied breath as his warm tongue circles your hardened bud.

He takes your other breast in his free hand, playing and tugging at your nipple. The stimulation from both the bottom and the top has your euphoria quickly rushing over at you.

Your moans quickly become louder as you grab and claw at the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. Your digits curl and tug as your orgasm washes over you, making your back arch and your pussy walls flutter around Daryl's digits.

You lift and lower yourself as you ride out your ecstasy. It quickly washes off, bringing you back to the present.

Looking back down at Daryl, you can't help but giggle at how desperate he looks. "Mmmm, your fingers are amazing." You move your hips into a slow circle, lifting them up.

Daryl's digits easily slip out of your cunt as you move into him, closing the gap between the both of you. You taste him once more, notes of cigarettes and musk filling your tongue.

Daryl's hips move on their own, pressing against your dripping cunt. His lips slowly move toward your neck, biting and nipping and leaving small marks until he reaches where your shoulder and neck meet.

His hands move quickly, undoing his belt and pants. His breathing is ragged and quick, but you don't point out his neediness.

"Condom?" You whisper, making him freeze.

He slowly looks up at you, eyes searching your face. You can practically see the wheels in his head turning as he thinks of another way through this.

"No..." He whispers back, still thinking of a different solution. You smile, pressing your lips into his. "Good." You watch as his eyes grow wide with your unexpected response. "Had to make sure."

"What do you—" You cut him off by taking his cock in your hand, pumping it a few times before lowering yourself on it until his head is pushing up against your ready folds.

You cradle his head, looking into his eyes before you continue lowering yourself. His size isn't something new to you, but you could never get used to his overall size. He was thick, filling you up completely, so much that it's hard to breathe.

When he's completely inside you, he stalls for a moment, holding you in his arms. He loves staying still inside you, just feeling the way your cunt pilses and grips around him.

He pulls back, only to roughly thrust in again. That first act pulls a surprised moan out of you until he's ramming his length in and out of you, his cock has the right curve to hit that bundle of nerves you love.

His hips snap at you roughly, forcing your tits to bounce and your moans to become more high-pitched, more whiny. And God knows Daryl loves hearing you come apart because of him.

With a new-found motivation, Daryl flips the both of you, pinning you to the couch. He grabs at your thighs, parting them even more to give himself more space to work with.

"God, yeah." He breathes out, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his jaw grows slack. His eyes arebshut as his hips move mechanically, as if he isn't thinking about anything else, anything at all, really.

With his head thrown back, his hips move selfishly for his own pleasure. You love how he uses your body greedily, but you don't dare tell him so he doesn't overthink his actions.

His thrusts become faster, more shallow; like he's moving less to feel you and more because he's—

"Close," He grunts, "I'm so fucking close." He's almost slurring his words as he thrusts into you, obviously nearing his release.

You gather your breasts together, looking up at him with wide eyes and scrunched brows. "Daryl?" You call out, his head snapping in attention to you. "Put a baby in me?"

The second he drinks in your lewd look, you immediately feel his release coating your walls. "Is—Is that what you want?" He hiccups, hips going still as he finishes releasing inside you.

"Want me to put a baby in ya?" He breathes into your neck, hand wrapping around your neck. Squeezing lightly, a grin stretches across your lips.

You love bringing this side out of him.

He straightens himself out, his hips resuming to deeper and slower thrusts as he regains his composure. "Hmm? That what the lil' lady want?" He mocks, tilting his head to the side.

His gaze digs into yours, moans spilling from your chest as he slowly reels upur own high in. His movements are slow but languid, building up the tension until you're ready to snap.

"Please, please!" You whine, digging your nails onto his shoulders as he squeezes your left breast. He stares at your nude body, legs eagerly open for him.

"You look ready to be a mommy." He chuckles, grunting as he feels his own release quickly approaching. "Tell ya what—" He breathes out, "Come with me," He looks into your eyes, "And I'll make sure you won't have to worry 'bout no period cramps for nine months."

The thought of him so willing to impregnate you is what pushes you over the edge. Unprepared and incredibly sensitive, your walls clamp down at his dick. Daryl groans as he releases inside you for a second time, your walls milking him dry as you pull him closer.

You can't get him close enough.

He keeps you plugged full until you've completely ridden out your orgasm, slowly pulling himself out. You feel his release slowly dripping out of you.

"Need ya pregnant by tomorrow." He mumbles into your neck, making you giggle.

"That's not how it works, Dare!" You squeal, his fingers tickling you as he slowly wraps his arms around your waist. He flips the both of you once more, settling you on top of him.

You yawn, the sense of home and peace overcoming you. It's like a big, warm hug. It's Daryl.

You look up at him one last time, studying his features, memorizing your favorite ones before letting your lids fall shut.

He woke up before you did. He usually did.

Even in Alexandria, with safety stitched into the walls and comfort stacked in jars on the shelves, Daryl’s instincts still buzzed before dawn. But for once, he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for a weapon. Didn’t sit up and scan the corners.

He just lay there.

Watching you.

You were curled up under the quilt you insisted on keeping even when the nights were warm, one leg poking out, hair a wild mess against his arm. Your breath was steady. Soft. There was a crease by your mouth from the pillow, and you had this stubborn little frown, like even in sleep you were fighting something.

He reached up and gently ran a finger across your cheek.

Didn’t know why, but the sight of you—real, messy, completely unguarded—made his chest feel too tight and too full at the same time.

He’d never had this before. Never thought he could.

Peace.

Warmth.

You.

He could’ve laid there forever.

But then you stirred, mumbling something unintelligible and blinking up at him.

“Mornin’,” he said, voice low and scratchy.

“God,” you rasped, stretching with a dramatic groan, “do you always look this good at sunrise, or is that just my dumb luck?”

He snorted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Pretty sure it’s the other way ‘round, sunshine.”

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Come on. Let’s make something that doesn’t come out of a can.”

You cooked like it was therapy. Barefoot, hair up, music humming from the old record player someone scavenged last month. Daryl didn’t know the song—it had twang and heartbreak and something about wildflowers—but it made you sway around the kitchen like you were dancing just for yourself.

Or for him.

He stood behind you, cutting up potatoes. Clumsy but focused.

“So,” he said slowly, like the words might spook you, “what would ya name a kid if ya had one?”

You dropped the spatula with a clatter.

“Jesus, Daryl.”

“What?” he shrugged, defensive but not really. “Just askin’. Ain’t like I’m handin’ ya a ring or nothin’.”

You gave him a look. “Uh-huh. That a proposal in disguise?”

He flushed, ears turning pink. “Ain’t what I meant.”

You grinned. “You’re blushing.”

“Ain’t.”

“You so are.”

He turned back to the potatoes, grumbling, “Well, you didn’t answer.”

You bit your lip, stirred the eggs. “I dunno. Something sweet. Maybe something old-fashioned. Nora, if it’s a girl. Eli for a boy.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Nora Dixon. Got a nice ring to it.”

You turned, arching a brow. “You just assigned your last name without even blinking.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, smirking, “ain’t givin’ ‘em anyone else’s.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flutter.

Later that day, you were on a supply run near the edge of town—clearing a half-looted baby store you’d always skipped, assuming there wasn’t much worth salvaging. Most shelves were dust and crumbled boxes, long since picked over.

But Daryl stopped dead in the middle of an aisle.

You turned to find him staring at something.

A crib.

Wooden, pale. A little dusty but intact. A tiny mobile still hung from one corner, faded stars and clouds gently turning.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked up to it, gave it a little push, and watched it creak back and forth.

Then—without a word—he bent down, lifted it, and carried it to the cart.

You blinked. “What… are you doing?”

He didn’t look at you. Just said, “Ain’t gonna be here next time. Someone else’ll take it.”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “You think we’ll need it?”

He paused. Just long enough to say everything without saying a word.

Then: “Hope so.”

That night, the crib sat in the corner of your bedroom, not built yet—just leaning against the wall like a promise waiting to be made.

You lay beside him in the low light, one hand on his chest, the other tracing lazy patterns across the thin scar just above his collarbone.

He was quiet. Tense in that way that meant his brain was working overtime.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded once. Then again. Then finally spoke.

“Ain’t never had a real home,” he said, voice soft. “Not one where I felt like I belonged. Always someone else’s rules. Someone else’s roof. Got used to leavin’. Got good at packin’ light.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just let your hand rest over his heart.

“But you,” he continued, “you make me wanna build one. Y’know? With walls I picked. With shit on the shelves. With meals that ain’t cold. With you in it.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, heart full to the point of aching.

“Daryl,” you whispered.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable.

You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his stubble.

“We already are.”

Then you kissed him—slow, deep, like sealing a vow you hadn’t even needed to speak aloud.

The next morning, you found his crossbow mounted on the wall.

You hadn’t heard him do it.

But there it was—above the fireplace, neat and proud and deliberate. Not tucked by the door like he was waiting to leave.

You touched the edge of it, smiling.

A silent signature.

This is where I stay.

The sun was setting when you brought two mugs of tea out to the porch. The air was warm and sticky, the sky painted in shades of honey and fire.

Daryl was already sitting there, legs stretched out, eyes on the horizon.

You handed him his mug and sat beside him, your thigh pressed to his, head resting on his shoulder.

For a while, you just breathed together.

No words.

No pressure.

Just that quiet kind of peace that only shows up when you’ve got nothing left to prove.

“So what now?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you when he answered, but his fingers laced with yours.

“Now?” he said, voice low and sure.

Your husband was happy to be back in Gotham too - being in the same city made it much easier to bother his siblings. Although he visited very often, extended stays like this one were few and far between so he wanted to make the most of the opportunity to be an irritant in his sibling’s lives. Case in point - Dick was currently suspended upside down on the trapeze in the Batcave, swinging mindlessly back and forth whilst heckling his little brother below him. 

“Jason. Jaybird. Jaaaaaaaay!”

Jason, to his credit, had been doing his utmost to ignore Dick’s existence since he’d stomped into the cave a few minutes prior, muttering something about ‘needing to borrow B’s shit to upgrade his gun’. He’d taken one glance at the mischievous gleam in Dick’s eyes and rolled his eyes, focusing on dismantling his gun instead of his older brother’s valiant attempts at getting on his nerves. That didn’t deter your husband though.

“Y/nnnnn” he whined, changing tactics.

“Yes, Dickie?” you respond, bemused. You love watching your husband like this - carefree and childish, doing what he loves surrounded by people that he loves - so you’d never hesitate to humour him.

“Jason’s so mean! I’m just gonna cry myself to sleep! He’s just ignoring me, its like he doesn’t even lo-”

“Am I gonna have to shoot you to get you to actually shut up?” Jason interrupted with no real heat behind his words, trying to disguise the touch of fondness in his voice with fake anger. Dick grinned in victory.

“Oh yeah? With what gun? What are you gonna do, throw a little spring at me?” he taunts, gesturing at the gun pieces scattered on the table. Jason snorts in response.

“You think I’ve only got one? I’ve got plenty to choose from, Dickface. I’d be happy to give you a demonstration."

Just as Jason started to reach for his duffel bag, the brothers’ bickering was interrupted by an alert from Oracle. The message was simple and to the point: ‘Arkham break out. All hands on deck.’

Jason cursed and turned to gather up his gear, meanwhile your husband scrambled to get down and suit up. Whilst you longed to do the same, Alfred still hadn’t cleared you to be back in the field as your leg wasn’t fully healed yet. Instead, you sighed and headed towards the Batcomputer, intending to join Alfred there and lend a hand. As your husband sped by, you quickly reached out to him.

“Be careful out there, love. Stay safe.” 

“Always am, honey!” he responded with a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.” he said, more sincere this time. And with one last peck on the lips, he headed towards the locker room to suit up and join the fray.

You sat down at the secondary Batcomputer - a contingency for this exact situation - and placed your comms in your in, switching it on. You were greeted by Oracle’s familiar voice, sounding harried.

“Gale you’re online, good. There’s 3 major players out tonight - we’ve got the Joker in Amusement Mile, Scarecrow in the Bowery and the Riddler down in the Kubrick District. B and Robin ran into the Joker on patrol so they’ve engaged, but B has requested extraction for R. It's too dangerous for him. Scarecrow has released his toxin in a dangerous location - high population density, lots of weapons in the area, minimal gas masks available. Spoiler and Red Hood are en route. I’ve got N and Red Robin coming in from opposite ends of the city to get to the Riddler as well.”

“Ok. I assume Agent A is supporting B?” you asked. As you turned to see him nod, you spotted a lithe figure in black, followed by a bleary-eyed, sleep-ruffled Duke. The poor guy always seemed to get his sleep interrupted, especially when there was an all-hands call. “Signal and Black Bat are incoming. Black Bat can support B and Signal can head to the Bowery, but we need more hands there.”

“Agreed. Black Bat can lighten the pressure on B and allow Robin to slip away. Can you get him to the Bowery?”

“Yes. Can you get GCPD support as well? I can coordinate over there so you can focus on the Riddler.”

“On it.” Oracle responded.

For the next half hour you focused in on your job: getting Damian out of the clown’s line of fire, tracking down Scarecrow and sending Duke and Jason over to deal with him, coordinating Damian, Steph and the GCPD to get civilians to safety and passing on information to minimise the impact of the fear gas as much as you could. Everything was going well, with Jason and Duke in active combat with Scarecrow and Steph and Damian taking over coordination of the GCPD on the ground. It seemed like there wasn’t much left for you to do. 

You had just switched over to open comms, ready to see if anyone else needed your support, when you heard a curse from Oracle. 

“What happened?” you asked with urgency. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“It seems like the Riddler’s been out for longer than we thought. He’s got bombs planted across the city.”

“Shit. They planned this.” you whisper, realisation sinking in. “How many are there?”

“4 - in Burnley, Coventry, the Fashion District and Chinatown.” Oracle lets out a huff of annoyance as she continues. “I’ve got the general areas down but there’s some kind of interference in the areas so I can’t pinpoint the locations. I need eyes on the ground.”

“The GCPD?”

“They’re stretched too thin. They won’t be able to cover all 4 locations and assist in the Bowery.”

You hummed in consideration. Although things were going relatively smoothly in the Bowery, that was heavily reliant on the manpower lent by the GCPD. Damian and Steph were great vigilantes, but they couldn’t be everywhere at once. While there were other officers in the city, a majority of the forces had been directed towards the Bowery, and those that weren’t were mostly around the GCPD headquarters.

“Tell them to focus on downtown. I’ll pull a couple officers from the Bowery and send them over to Burnley. As for Coventry, I’ll handle it.” you said, sending a quick message to Steph before you stood up to get changed.

“Miss Y/N!” Alfred said sharply in protest. “What about your leg?”

“Don’t worry Alfie.” You shot your pseudo grandfather figure a comforting smile. “I might not be ready for combat yet, but there won’t be any of that. People’s lives are at stake. I can still walk and run, I’ll be fine.” You appreciated his concern but you couldn’t stand idly by while civilians were in danger - that was why you became a vigilante in the first place. You were determined to go out there. Alfred must’ve seen it too, as he met your eyes and simply sighed.

“Be careful, Miss Y/N.” 

“Always am, Alfie!” you respond, echoing your husband’s earlier words before heading to suit up. 

Once you got to Coventry, it was relatively easy to locate the bomb. Although the interference was frustrating for Oracle, it acted almost a honing beacon for you, leading you straight there. By the time you had found the right building, your comms were useless, unable to get signal from the outside world.

The bomb was located in the basement of a large apartment complex, clearly having been placed there to maximise the number of civilian lives at risk. Although you would’ve preferred to deal with it right away, you knew your priority had to be evacuating and getting everyone in the building to safety. Without Oracle in your ear to warn you, you had no way of knowing when the building was about to come down and you couldn’t put lives at risk like that.

Instead, you ran back up to the building lobby and yanked down the nearest fire alarm you could find. A shrill piercing noise filled your ears and, although the sound was headache-inducing, you breathed a sigh of relief - people would start evacuating.

You watched as residents began to trickle out - slower than you would have liked, but this was Gotham so it was probably the third fire alarm they’d had that week. Even so, when they spotted you in the lobby, they began to move with more urgency. Although you were a Bludhaven vigilante, you started out in Gotham and still helped out there often enough that your costume and status as a Bat was well-known. If a Bat was here, it was serious.

You began directing them further away from the building, making sure that they were safely outside of any potential blast radius. You asked a couple of them to try and get in touch with the GCPD as soon as they were out of range of the interference. Although they wouldn’t be able to provide any assistance, they would at least be able to let Babs know that the evacuation was underway.

Eventually the flow of people slowed to a stop, but you knew your job was far from over. There was no telling how many people were still in the building, unwilling or unable to respond to the alarm. You had to go door to door to make sure that every last person was out.

Your suspicions were quickly proven to be correct as you wound your way up the building, coming across a number of individuals and families who were shocked to see you. Whether it was shock at the fire alarm being real or shock at having a Bat on their doorstep, you weren’t sure. Either way, they all quickly understood the gravity of the situation and made their way out of the building as fast as they could. 

Since the fire alarm had automatically deactivated the elevator, there were a couple of residents with mobility issues whom you had to help get down the stairs as well. Usually this would be a simple task for any Bat-trained vigilante, but the combination of the extra weight and the stairs caused your leg to scream in protest. Even so, you were able to deliver them to a safe area outside where other residents were able to assist them, before turning back to continue the evacuation.

Eventually you made it to the top floor, escorting the last family struggling with their young children out with a request that they inform the GCPD that the building was clear. However, even having checked the building meticulously to make sure that every last person was out, you decided to do one last sweep of the building just in case. While it might not have been necessary, you would never forgive yourself if you left anyone behind. 

Your leg was beginning to bother you more than you would have liked, so you ended up limping more than running through the hallways, shouting to alert any possible stragglers. Nevertheless, you were still hopeful that you could get the final sweep done quickly. Perhaps when you were done, you could go out and check on the civilians, try to get in touch with Oracle, and then head back in to finally disarm the bomb.

While you were limping your way down the hallway, making your way out as your check was complete, you were abruptly overcome with a sense of dread. Something was wrong. Something was-

A deafening, thunderous crash echoed out as vibrations shook through the entire building, sending you reeling. The whole world appeared to shake around you as your ears began to ring. Panic seized your chest as you lost your orientation, being thrown around like nothing more than a ragdoll. You were rendered completely powerless as the forces pushed through your body, tossing you in the air before gravity brought you right back down again. 

Your body hit the cold concrete for a split second, before you felt the floor crumble beneath you. You watched as the ceiling above you began to cave in as well, raining down thick chunks of concrete and debris all around you.

Instinctually you reached out, scrabbling to find purchase anywhere as you hurtled through the air. Your fingers met cold metal and you quickly wrapped your fingers around it, closing your eyes and praying that it would be enough. You cried out as your arm was wrenched out of its socket, pain lacing through your body. But even still, you endured, desperately holding on to the piece of rebar that had become your salvation.

Unfortunately, your relief was short-lived. You shifted, attempting to pull yourself up to a more stable position, when a crack rang out above you. With a low groan and screech of metal scraping metal, the piece of concrete above you gave way, taking the piece of rebar with it. Within the blink of an eye, you found yourself falling once again. Your head collided with something mid-air, causing you to see stars as blood trickled down your temple. You almost wished it hit you harder so you would at least be unconscious for what was to come, but the universe was rarely so merciful.

Instead you felt it moment by agonising moment as something pierced through your abdomen, ripping through muscle and sinew, uncaring of the organs in its path as it tore through your body. For a second, there was nothing but your own heartbeat ringing in your ears as you reeled from the impact. You just hung there for a moment, held up by the piece of metal impaled through you, dimly aware of the thick, sticky liquid beginning to drip onto the floor. 

You released a shaky exhale as reality began to sink in, and that’s when it hit you. A searing, white-hot pain erupted from your stomach as a scream tore from your throat. Fire crawled up every nerve ending in your body, eating you alive from the inside out. You writhed in agony, only worsening your injury, sobbing as your ears filled with static and black dots invaded your vision.

Eventually, you managed to battle back the black from your vision as you forced yourself to recall your training from Bruce - training you and your husband had gone over a thousand times. First - remain calm. You could feel your chest heaving as you drew in panting breaths, shaking hands pressed to your abdomen. Calm. You had to remain calm. 

You closed your eyes and thought of your husband holding you tight, gently rocking you back and forth as he softly whispered in your ear, remaining steadfast in his support even on the worst nights of your life. You thought of your father-in-law Bruce, with his blunt words but oh-so-comforting hugs. Of Alfred and his cookies. Of Babs and her knowing smiles. Of Cass and her kind eyes. Of Jason and Tim and Steph and Duke and Damian - of every single member of the crazy vigilante family that had welcomed you and loved you as one of their own.

Unbidden, a tear slipped down your face. Unable to summon the strength to lift your hand and wipe it, you felt it drip down off your jaw, trailing across your body and onto the cold concrete below. You watched it mingle with the blood pooled below you with a detached sense of calm. On the bright side, at least your breathing was under control.

Oh. That’s right. Remaining calm - that was the first step. What was it that was next?

Observation - that was it. You had to take stock of the situation around you. Although you felt seconds away from floating away, from checking out of your brain completely and just leaving your body to deal with the pain, you wrestled back control of your limbs and forced yourself to focus on the next step. What could you see around you?

Looking at your surroundings, you could tell that you were largely encompassed by rubble on all sides. The space you were in was fairly big - about the size of a room in the manor - but was largely shrouded in darkness, making the details hard to see. However, cracks and gaps in the rubble above you did allow small streams of light to flow in, thankfully saving you from being in pitch darkness. 

For a second, you were tempted to shout - to scream as loudly as your aching vocal chords would allow. Gaps meant sound could escape, that someone could hear you. But then you realised, nobody knew you were in here. Nobody was looking for you, searching to hear a voice calling out. Nobody was stupid enough to enter an empty, collapsing building on the off chance someone hadn’t got out. You were on your own. You were better off saving what little energy you had left to deal with the situation you were in. 

Speaking of the ‘situation’, the first thing you saw when you looked down was the object that had punched straight through your body - it was a piece of rebar. How ironic. What you thought would be your saving grace had turned out to be your doom. Still, in a way you were lucky. The piece of rebar had arrested some of the momentum of falling, simply causing you to sink down further on the blood-slicked steel rather than become a smear on the floor. That hadn’t saved you from the falling debris though, as you could see that you were pinned down by a chunk of concrete over your left leg.

Looking at the metal again, you could tell that it wasn’t pointed straight up from the ground, pointing at a 50 or 60 degree angle instead. Rather than a simple puncture wound, the piece of steel had created a messy tear, leaving a gaping hole in your stomach. Ah. So that’s why you were bleeding so much.

Your mind started reeling as you began to comprehend the full extent of the situation you were in. You gave yourself a second to panic - to despair as you recognised how low your odds of survival were, before forcing yourself to set your emotions aside and think logically. How could you even begin to get out of this? That was the next thing you needed to do: make a plan.

Since nobody knew to look for you, you had to make yourself visible to someone who could help you. You had to get out of there. 

The first thing you had to do was pull yourself off the piece of metal that was skewered through you. With the angle of the steel leaving no clean entry or exit wound, there was no point in keeping the object in the wound anyway. You were going to bleed out either way, especially with no guarantee of help on the way. To be honest, at the rate you were losing blood, you weren’t sure if you were even going to make it that far, but you didn’t allow yourself to think about that. You could only allow yourself to focus on the next step, the task right in front of you.

What you needed to focus on was freeing your leg from the piece of concrete that was pinning you down, trapping you in place. You gave the chunk a rough kick with your good leg, causing sparks of pain to shoot from your leg and your stomach in unison. Bile rose up in your throat as stars danced in your vision. 

You steeled yourself for what was to come. You needed to do this, it was the only way out. You closed your eyes tightly and kicked out again, putting as much power behind it as you could muster. This time when the kick connected, you felt the chunk shift, allowing you to pull your leg free despite the excruciating feeling of the rebar being driven further into your body. You breathed and breathed and breathed, praying for the pain to pass. 

Eventually, you had recovered enough to realise that you could barely feel your leg at all. That should have been alarming, but honestly it was a welcome change since fiery hot pain was emanating from every other part of your body. Your head felt heavy and dizziness set in as you shifted in an attempt to get a better look at it. It was purpling and swollen, bleeding from a deep gash, with numerous smaller cuts littered across it. At your ankle there was a large lump, and where the skin had split you could see a hint of silvery white underneath. Your whole leg looked like a mess, and honestly you doubted that you would be able to stand on it at all. 

Even still, you gritted your teeth and forced it to bear your weight for even just a second. It was just enough for you to wrap your hands around the sticky, crimson-dyed steel and haul yourself forwards, pulling yourself off the piece of metal that had pierced through you. You stood upright for just an instant before you felt yourself listing, tipping forward to meet the ground. Black filled your vision as you crumpled into a heap, concrete and dust pressed against your face as your blood dripped between the fingers of your hand that was tightly pressed against your abdomen. 

You didn’t know how long it had been - long enough for blood to have begun pooling on the floor - before your vision returned and you finally found the strength to lift your head. 

Amongst the darkness, you were able to see a bright spot of light in front of you - a way out! It wasn’t far - maybe about 10 metres - but in your state it may as well have been 10 miles. You attempted to push yourself up onto your feet, but your leg gave way beneath you almost instantly. You had no hope of getting out of there like that. Finding yourself on the floor once again, you resigned yourself to crawling over instead. 

You moved slowly on your stomach, half crawling, half dragging yourself across the concrete, nails of the hand on your good arm scraping across the floor with a primal desperation to drive yourself forwards. Your body was singing in agony as you felt each movement scrape dust and debris into the open wound of your stomach and grind your arm bone against its empty socket. Despite the pain tormenting your body, you were still able to continue on, moving inch by torturous inch, ever closer to your escape.

Eventually, after what felt like hours, you were able to reach the gap in the rubble. You had just started to pull yourself through when the ringing in your skull got more insistent, black invading the edges of your vision. Despite your best efforts to push on, you found that your body refused to listen, refused to move another inch. It had finally become all too much and your body had begun to shut down, just close enough to salvation for the adrenaline to wear off. 

You prayed that your efforts would be enough as you finally surrendered to the darkness.

—-

Dick was frustrated. 

It was a mistake - a calculated risk that hadn’t worked out in their favour, that had allowed the Riddler to slip out of their grasp just long enough to detonate the bombs he had planted. Although they had got him back under their custody quickly, it was just a moment too late, so he and Tim were left waiting with bated breath to hear what their mistake had cost Gotham. Last they’d heard, the bombs had been located and evacuation efforts were underway. That had been a while ago, so they were cautiously optimistic, but you never know in Gotham.

“N. RR. We’ve heard back from the GCPD about the extent of the damage”. Babs’ voice rung out through their comms, putting them out of their misery. “3 of the 4 bombs were successfully disarmed. The 4th was located in an apartment complex that was confirmed to be clear of civilians.”

While it was upsetting that so many people lost their homes because of him, he was thankful to hear that the evacuation was complete. Dick wanted so badly to breathe a sigh of relief at the news, but something in the way she spoke made him hesitate. It was cold and toneless, focused on delivering facts only. It was the voice she used when she was forced to compartmentalise.

“O?” he asked, prompting her to go on.

“Nightingale was the one evacuating the building” she started, as distress began to leak into her voice. “We don’t know if she was clear of the explosion. She hasn’t checked in yet. There was-”

Dick stopped listening at this point, sucking in a sharp breath to try and clear the buzzing in his ears, to try and focus on anything but the dread that filled his body from head to toe. Why were you even there? You should have been resting in the manor with Alfred instead of bearing the consequences of his own stupidity. His mind spiralled with worst case scenarios and what ifs, as a pit settled in his stomach. 

No! Catastrophising wouldn’t help the situation. You were a vigilante, you were a Bat - you’d faced worse odds than this before. He had to pull himself together and focus on the next step in front of him.

He took a restrained Riddler and shoved him towards Red Robin, trusting his little brother to deal with the villain while he took quick strides towards his motorcycle. He had to get to the bomb site. If he was lucky, you’d greet him with a smile and he could help lighten your load in dealing with the aftermath. If not… If not, then he had to find you. 

When he finally pulled up to the site, having broken multiple traffic laws to get there as soon as possible, he began searching the crowd for you. He looked around desperately for the flash of blue of your costume, but couldn’t spot it in the packed crowd. Damn the whole family for prioritising stealth. He was about to continue weaving his way through the crowd when he was stopped by a young woman surrounded by a gaggle of children. It was times like this that he regretted his reputation as the friendly, approachable Bat, but he knew that you’d want him to stop and help. 

He did his best to hide his desperation to get back to his search and plastered on a fake smile, greeting the woman.

“How can I help?”

“Nightwing!” the woman responded. “I think Nightingale might still be in the building! She helped us all get out but I haven’t seen her since and I think she might have headed back inside. I wanted to tell someone but there was no one to talk to and I left my phone inside but now you’re here and you can find her. Thank god!” the woman started rambling, panic lacing her voice.

Nightwing, for his part, had closed his eyes, fighting to regulate his breathing. There it was. The worst case scenario he had been steadfastly ignoring, all spelled out in front of him. Terror filled his body, sunk into his bones and left his knees weak. He wished he didn’t have to be strong right now. He wished he could fall apart like he so desperately wanted to, that you would be there to hold him close and help him pick up the pieces like you always did. 

But he couldn’t afford to do that, not with your life on the line. Instead, he offers the woman a curt nod of thanks - too preoccupied to be more polite - before spinning on his heel and breaking into a run in the direction of the destroyed building. His eyes scanned the wreckage from afar, looking for any sign of you. He braced himself for the worst, but focused on the flicker of hope in his chest that was the only thing still driving him onwards in that moment. Either way, he promised himself that he would bring you home. 

With no sign of you visible as he came to a stop in front of the pile of rubble, he began wading in to search more thoroughly, careful not to shift the piles of rubble too much just in case. 

Eventually, after what felt like hours (but was probably more like a couple of minutes) of being alone with nothing but piles of concrete and his own anxious thoughts, he saw it. Peeking out through a gap in the rubble, there was a gloved hand with a stripe of blue running up the fingers. An homage to one of his worst looks, you had joked when you first revealed your new suit to him. Although he had acted offended at the time, he was now astonishingly grateful for the pop of colour allowing you to be visible amongst the wreckage.

He raced over and dropped down to his knees in front of you, forcing himself to compartmentalise his own anguish and assess the situation. You were laid out on your front, arm outstretched into the light while your body remained bathed in darkness from the rubble. From where he stood, he couldn’t see much but he did manage to make out enough to tell that you were breathing. Laboured, shallow breathing, but breathing nonetheless. 

The relief was dizzying. His eyes drank in your beautiful features, thankful beyond measure to just be seeing you once again. Although some of your face was covered by your domino, he could see that it was twisted in pain. Right. He had to focus on the task at hand. 

His first priority was to get you out of there. Despite beginning to crawl through the gap in the rubble, almost all of your body was still under concrete. If anything shifted or gave way above you then you would be in serious danger. Luckily, it seemed like there was enough space to pull you through without any trouble. Dick managed to hook his hands underneath your armpits and began pulling you out. 

To his horror, the drag of your body left behind a wet, red smear on the ground. As you were pulled further into the light, the true extent of your injuries became clear. He paled as he observed the mess of your abdomen, cursing as he flipped you over to reveal the exit wound. He was able to spot a number of other injuries as well - a gash on the leg with signs of a crush injury, as well as a dislocated shoulder that his pulling had probably aggravated - but the most pressing issue was the gaping hole in your abdomen.

He began to apply pressure on the wound, desperate to keep as much of your precious lifeblood inside your body as he possibly could, while propping your legs up on a piece of concrete to elevate them. He tried desperately to control the jackrabbit of his heart as he reached his trembling fingers into his pouch, with one hand still applying pressure on the wound. 

He quickly found the supplies he needed and pulled out his emergency trauma dressings, ripping the packet open with his teeth before pressing them to your abdomen. He applied heavy pressure, only distantly registering concern that you were completely unresponsive, despite the fact that it must’ve been extremely painful for you. 

After a few minutes of applying pressure and more dressings, he was finally able to get the bleeding under control enough to be able to bring out the trauma compression bandages. He wrapped them around you briskly, pulling them tight to ensure that they were applying enough pressure on the injury. 

With your wound finally somewhat stabilised, he was able to pull back and assess your other injuries. Something felt off to him as he mentally triaged your injuries. Your shoulder and leg needed treatment, but that could wait until you were back in the Batcave. He mentally winced in sympathy, remembering how you were sick of being benched and couldn’t wait to get back in the field - that certainly wouldn’t be happening any time soon after this.

It was only then as his eyes raked over your body methodically, cataloguing every detail in his mind, that he realised what was wrong. Your chest was no longer rising and falling. His blood ran cold as he rushed to press two fingers to your neck. Nothing. No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening! He cursed his own stupidity and lack of observation - how long had you been like this? What if he was too late? Why was he always too late….

In that moment, he felt like he was moving through molasses, each second stretching out to an agonising eternity as he struggled to move, to act. He crashed to his knees at your side, placing the heel of his clasped hands at your breastbone and pressing down firmly with his body weight. He had to get your heart pumping, had to do something to resuscitate you. Desperation filled his body - he was so close to getting you out of there. So close to wrapping you up in his arms and whisking you back to the manor. But instead here he was on a cold Gotham night, hands covered in your blood as he prayed to whatever deities that would listen for the chance to see your beautiful eyes open once again. 

As he continued on with his chest compressions at a steady pace, he felt the sickening crack of something giving way beneath him. Fuck. He had never hated himself more than in that moment. This was all his fault. He wished beyond anything that he could swap places with you right now - that he could take all of your pain and suffering on himself and save you from it. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t do anything. And now he can’t even do the one thing he needed to do to keep you alive without hurting you! 

He pushed down the wave of nausea that threatened to swallow him whole and instead tilted your head back, pinched your nose and blew firmly into your mouth. He had to focus and keep going. He can’t allow himself to fail. He won’t. It will destroy him utterly if he does.

“-t’ll be ok. I’m on my way. I’m 3 minutes out. You’re doing so well. Just keep doing what you’re doing. It’ll be ok. I’m on my way. I’m 2 minutes-” 

Just as he was beginning to falter, as doubt began to creep into his mind, he tuned in to a voice over his comms, low, steady and soothing. He didn’t know how long he’d been blocking out the voices for, but from the rasp of the voice it was clear that Batman had been repeating the same words for a while now, trying his best to provide meagre comfort as his son's life fell apart on the other end of the line. 

Clearly, whatever had been blocking Oracle’s signal earlier had been destroyed in the blast, and she had been providing updates to the other Bats, even as Nightwing failed to respond to her words. The idea of her being witness to all of his failures tonight - failures that could cost you your life - made bile rise up in his throat. Maybe if he had actually been listening, he could have got to you sooner. 

He shook his head and refocused on his chest compressions, even as his strength faltered. He couldn’t afford to be distracted or tired. He had to hold out a little bit longer - just 2 minutes, Batman had said. He could do that. With your life on the line, he would do it a thousand times over if he had to.

Even still, when the lights of the Batmobile pulled up beside him, he almost broke down in relief. Holding back a sob, he called out for Batman and when the black cloaked figure made it to your side, he finally allowed himself to collapse and shatter completely. His dad was here. His dad would save the day.

—-

You rose to awareness slowly, reaching through the fuzzy haze to pull yourself to consciousness. The first thing you registered was a faint monotonous beep followed by the woosh of pumping air. Feeling the weight of an oxygen mask on your face, you heaved in a deep breath - what felt like the first one you’d been able to take since the explosion - and finally eased your eyes open. 

You stared up at cold, damp rock which stretched far above your head. You were in the Batcave then - in the medical area, presumably. Glancing down, you saw the extent of it all.

Tubes came out of your hands, your arms, your thighs, seemingly everywhere. Down on your leg you saw a row of neat stitches, caged in by metal pins which snaked around your entire lower leg. You were covered in more bandages than you thought were possible - stark white criss-crossed across your entire centre and yet more white was wrapped around your arm, while a sling held your shoulder securely in place. You reached your good arm up to feel the stitches on the side of your head, wincing as they felt tender under your touch.

At the first sign of movement, Dick bolted upright from where he was sat, hunched over at your bedside. He drank in your presence greedily, as if trying to convince himself that you were real, and not simply a cruel trick of his mind. 

“You’re awake! How are you feeling, love?”

You paused to take stock of your body for a moment. By all means, you felt better than you had any right to feel. Sure, it hurt like a bitch, but it was nothing like the chorus of agony that you expected to be met with. It was probably because Bruce kept the Batcave stocked with the good stuff - that would explain the faint floaty feeling that you couldn’t shake off. 

You unstuck your tongue from the roof of your mouth, wetting your lips before responding.

“Feelin’ great! How’re you doin’ tho?” You asked, offering him a smile as best you could behind the oxygen mask. Although your words slurred, the sentiment behind them was sincere.

Dick looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days - perhaps he hadn’t. Even when he knew he would be in the way, he found it difficult to tear himself from your bedside from the moment you had got back to the Batcave, he couldn’t bear it. Thank god for the Batcave being just as stocked as Gotham General - there would be no way to ensure your identity was safe in the hospital so he was thankful you could be treated at home. That also had the added bonus of him being able to stay by your side the whole time, rather than being constrained to visiting hours. However, that naturally meant that he hadn’t got much sleep over the last few days, aside from a couple naps in the chair he was currently sat in.

Instead, he watched on anxiously as Alfred, Leslie and Bruce had worked tirelessly to save you. They had burned through their entire stock of blood in the Batcave trying to get your heart pumping again, and even then it wasn’t enough. Luckily, Dick was a compatible blood type and, desperate to help in some way, he had jumped at the opportunity to give up his blood for you.

Whilst the two of you were hooked up together through an iv, the eldest three continued their work to get your stabilised. At one point, you had even needed intubation as your lungs failed you. The three of them worked hard to examine and stitch and mend until they were finally able to pull you back together in one piece. 

Dick let out a shaky exhale as he finally received irrefutable proof that you were alive, that you were going to recover. 

The tension that had him wound up like a spring the last few days, had him replaying every last moment in his head, had finally released and he collapsed back into his chair like a puppet with its strings cut. Your blood had haunted him these past few days. It clung to his skin even as he scrubbed himself clean over and over. But finally, seeing you whole and on the road to recovery, he felt his sins wash away in the wake of your smile

“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” he said quickly, before wincing at how short he was being with you. He never wanted to take his turmoil out on you. “Careful-”

At his tone, you began to ease yourself upright in bed to get a better look at him, suppressing a gasp of pain as your abdomen tugged in protest.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, your eyes searching his for any hint of how he’s feeling.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?!” he started, a note of hysteria creeping into his tone as he fought without success to reign his emotions back in. “You’re here, stuck in a hospital bed and it’s all my fault! You’ve been out for days - we weren’t sure if you would ever wake up. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bury another loved one - couldn’t bury you. I just- I almost lost you, and it’s all because of me! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry” he sobbed.

“Shh Dickie, love, it’s ok. I’m alive.” you cooed comfortingly. “Why on earth would you think that it’s your fault?”

“I was in charge of dealing with the Riddler - it was my responsibility. I was the one who took the risk that let him escape and detonate the bombs. And when I came to find you, I was almost too late - your heart stopped and you could’ve died all because of me. I screwed up, and you got hurt because of it.” he muttered miserably. 

Instead of responding, you shifted over to the side and patted the space next to you, knowing that your husband needed more than just words to snap out of his spiral.

“C’mere.” You invited your husband up on the bed, and watched as yearning and concern warred over his features. Your husband had always been a tactile person, and you knew that it was exactly what he was in desperate need of in that moment.

“I can’t! You’re hurt! I don’t want-”

“It’ll hurt me more if I can’t hold you right now. Just get over here.” You cut him off, knowing that it was something he so desperately wanted and needed, despite his protests. 

At your insistence he sighed, recognising a losing battle when he saw it, and carefully clambered up onto the bed. You wasted no time in wrapping your arm around him cautiously, making sure that none of the tubes or wires were tugged. You wished you could lay his head on your chest, but with your other arm in the way you simply settled for making sure that the pulse point at your wrist was free for him if he needed reassurance. You did your best to one-handedly wipe his tears as he sobbed into you.

“Shhh, listen to me for a second, ok honey?

The Riddler did this to me, not you. He is responsible for his own actions and the consequences of them. You don’t need to martyr yourself - and I know you were doing that - over this. Let the blame sit with the person who is responsible, no-one else. You did your best with the information available to you. 

More importantly, you saved my life. You came when no-one else knew to. You looked after me and got me back here and kept me alive. That is worth so much more than whatever mistake you blame yourself for. None of us blame you for that mistake, but I am so incredibly thankful for everything that you’ve done to save me. I just need you to know that.” 

You desperately hoped that he would take your words to heart - that he would stop taking on the weight of the world on his own two shoulders. At his wet sniffle you continued:

“The last few days must’ve been so hard for you, right? Thank you for saving me, for pushing through even though it must’ve been horrible for you. You don’t have to be strong anymore, you can let it all out. I’m here.” 

You knew your husband’s tendency to set aside his emotional needs in the face of any mission or duty, and you needed him to know that it was ok to fall apart - that you would be there to catch him. Something anxious in your chest loosened just a fraction when you felt him lean into your shoulder, tears dampening your neck as shudders wracked his body. The thought of him bearing that burden all on his own for so long made your heart ache. You wished you could wrap yourself around him and rock him back and forth, but you settled on nuzzling your head into his and whispering soft reassurances whenever you could.

Dick, for his part, was clinging onto you like you were his lifeline. Even when facing the storm of his emotions, you were his anchor - the lighthouse to guide him home. He was so immensely grateful that you were here, whole and in one piece. But he was also so, so tired - filled with a bone-deep weariness from trying desperately to hold himself together for so long, for his family’s sake, your sake and his own sake. Finally given the chance for catharsis, he felt himself fully fall apart under your watchful protection.

As his tears slowed to a stop, he was filled with a rush of affection and gratefulness. He would never stop being in awe of you. Even though you were the one in the hospital bed, the one with your life clinging to your lips just days before, still hopped up on all manner of painkillers, you still found the strength to be there for him and comfort him. He didn’t know what he did to deserve you but he was immeasurably thankful to have you in his life.

He shifted to wrap his own arms around you - careful not to disturb your injuries - and kissed the side of your head, whispering into your ear. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much for being alive. Thank you for always being there for me and looking after me, even though you must be hurting as well. I love you so so much.”

“I love you too.” you replied, heart feeling so full that it could burst, before snuggling down deeper into his arms.