I Love Dangerously

For Bruce, that meant a simple promise written beneath his skin.

When it reached zero, he would meet the person destined for him.

As a boy, he had imagined it the same way every child did.

His soulmate would appear one day. They would laugh together. Grow old together. Build a life together.

A future.

The sort of future his parents had possessed.

The sort of future that had died alongside them in an alley behind the Monarch Theater.

After that night, the timer became little more than background noise.

The glowing numbers continued their steady descent while Bruce attended funerals, inherited a fortune he never wanted, and watched Gotham consume itself one crime at a time. They ticked downward while Alfred patiently pieced together the shattered remains of a grieving child. They ticked downward while Bruce buried himself in studies, martial arts, criminology, forensics, and every discipline that might one day help him wage war against the city that had taken everything from him.

Years passed.

The timer remained a constant. Unchanging. Always moving. Always counting.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at it during long flights between countries. During sleepless nights spent training until his knuckles split. During lonely evenings in unfamiliar cities where he could almost pretend he was just another wealthy young man wandering the world in search of purpose.

The numbers never stopped.

And despite everything, a small part of him still wondered.

Who were they?

Who was waiting at the end of that countdown?

The thought felt dangerous.

Hope always did.

By the time he returned to Gotham and donned the cowl for the first time, Bruce had long since convinced himself that soulmates were a luxury he could not afford.

Batman had no place for dreams. No room for futures. And he certainly had no room for someone he might one day love.

The city came first.

It always would.

Gotham demanded sacrifice, and Bruce had made his choice years ago.

If his soulmate existed, then they deserved better than what remained of him.

So he stopped thinking about it.

Or at least he tried to.

The timer continued to count.

Days.

Months.

Years.

Seconds.

Its steady descent accompanied him through every chapter of his life.

It was there when Dick Grayson crashed into his world beneath a circus tent, a furious and heartbroken child whose pain mirrored Bruce’s own in ways neither of them fully understood. It remained when Dick became Robin, when he became family, and when Bruce made the selfish decision to love someone enough to let them stay.

The numbers continued falling.

They were there when Jason Todd stole the tires off the Batmobile, and somehow stole a place in Bruce’s heart soon afterward. They ticked downward through every argument, every proud moment, every hard-earned smile.

And they’d kept counting when Jason died.

Bruce remembered that night with painful clarity.

The rage. The guilt. Helplessness. The suffocating certainty that he had failed.

Even then, amidst grief so profound it threatened to hollow him out completely, the timer continued. As though fate cared little for the tragedies of ordinary men.

Years later came Tim.

Then Damian.

A family assembled from broken pieces and impossible odds. One that Bruce never intended to build and could not imagine living without.

The countdown remained through it all. A quiet presence beneath his skin. Easy to ignore, impossible to forget. Even whilst hidden from sight beneath the bulky steel of his jaeger-lecoultre reverso.

Sometimes, on particularly difficult nights, he found himself fiddling with the watch strap just enough to see the edges of it.

Not because he expected anything or believed he deserved whatever waited at the end, but because the idea lingered. A tiny, stubborn thing buried beneath decades of grief and responsibility.

The possibility that somewhere out there existed a person uniquely his.

Someone who might understand. Who might see every ugly, fractured piece of him and choose to stay.

Someone who might look beyond Batman.

Beyond the billionaire mask. Beyond the failures. And simply see Bruce.

It was a foolish thought. An indulgent one, really. The sort of fantasy he rarely allowed himself to entertain.

Yet it persisted all the same.

Perhaps because he had spent so much of his life alone. Not physically. Never physically. The Manor was full. The Batcave was full. His life overflowed with people he loved.

But loneliness and solitude were not the same thing.

Bruce had learned that lesson long ago.

For most of his life, every meaningful relationship had begun with loss.

Dick had lost his parents. Jason had lost everything. Tim had nearly lost himself trying to save Batman from his own grief. Damian had been raised as a weapon before he was ever allowed to be a child.

Every person Bruce ever loved carried scars.

All because they had stepped into his world.

And if fate truly intended to place another person in his life… What then? What kind of future could he possibly offer them?

Late nights spent waiting for him to return home alive? Hospital visits? Funerals? The constant threat of becoming a target simply because they mattered to Bruce Wayne?

No.

His soulmate deserved better.

Deserved normal.

Far away from Gotham and everything it touched.

A sensible conclusion. A logical conclusion. One he repeated to himself countless times.

The problem was that logic had never succeeded in silencing the small traitorous part of him that still watched the countdown.

Nobody truly knew him. Not completely. Not the way a soulmate supposedly could. The way destiny promised.

So the timer remained tucked away in the back of his mind.

A breath caught before it could fully form. A dream he never allowed himself to finish imagining.

And still it counted.

Drawing closer with every passing day to a future Bruce Wayne had stopped believing would ever matter.

Until the day it finally reached zero.

The countdown on your wrist had never inspired the same fascination it seemed to in everyone else.

As a child, you remembered classmates comparing bruises during recess, eagerly conspiring about how old they’d be when they finally met the person fate had chosen for them. Entire conversations revolved around it. Predictions. Theories. Daydreams.

You had participated, of course.

Mostly because everyone else did.

But even then, you never quite understood the obsession.

Perhaps it was because your bond felt so distant.

Unlike those who shared pain with their soulmates or dreamed through another person’s eyes, your countdown offered nothing tangible. No connection. No glimpses into another life. No indication of who your soulmate might be beyond the vague promise that one day, eventually, you would meet them.

It was difficult to become attached to someone who felt entirely theoretical.

The numbers counted downward. Life continued.

School became university. University became work. Friendships came and went. Apartments changed. Jobs changed. Entire years disappeared before you even noticed them passing.

The timer remained, steadily ticking away in the background.

Yet strangely unimportant.

Not because you disliked the idea of soulmates. Quite the opposite.

You supposed it was comforting to think there was someone out there destined specifically for you. Someone whose life would one day intersect with your own in a way no one else’s ever could.

But you had never been particularly fond of building your future around things you couldn’t control.

If your soulmate appeared tomorrow, wonderful. If they appeared twenty years from now, that was fine too.

Either way, life would continue.

You had plans. Goals. Responsibilities. A future that existed independently of whoever happened to be waiting at the end of that countdown.

Which was probably why you never developed the habit of checking it.

Weeks sometimes passed without you looking at the numbers.

Months, if life became particularly busy.

Your friends found that strange.

Most people tracked their bonds religiously.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had cared enough to calculate how much time remained.

Not that it mattered. Fate would arrive whether you watched the clock or not.

The thought made you smile slightly as you adjusted the sleeve of your outfit.

The invitation resting on your kitchen counter immediately drew your attention once more. Embossed gold lettering gleamed beneath the overhead light.

You had considered declining several times already.

Charity galas were not your thing.

Neither were crowds of wealthy socialites, politicians, celebrities, and Gotham’s elite pretending to enjoy one another’s company while discussing donations over champagne.

Unfortunately, declining wasn’t really an option. Your company had spent the past month preparing for the event.

Attendance was expected. Mandatory, according to your supervisor.

The memory earned a quiet sigh.

Tomorrow evening.

Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.

You stared at the familiar name printed across the card. Wayne.

One of the most recognisable names in the country. Perhaps even the world.

Bruce Wayne’s name seemed to exist everywhere in Gotham. On buildings, hospitals, scholarships, charities.

A billionaire philanthropist.

A notorious playboy.

A man whose face appeared so frequently in magazines that most of Gotham could probably identify him from memory.

You had never met him. Never expected to. Tomorrow would likely be no different.

You would attend the gala, smile politely, make small talk, and stay for the required amount of time.

Then return home and forget the entire evening ever happened.

The gala was exactly as exhausting as you had expected.

By the end of the first hour, your cheeks already ached from smiling.

The grand ballroom of Wayne Tower glittered beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, every surface polished to a shine so perfect it almost felt artificial. Waiters drifted through the crowd carrying silver trays loaded with champagne flutes and carefully arranged hors d’oeuvres. Laughter rose and fell throughout the room, blending into the soft music drifting from somewhere near the stage.

The entire event felt less like a fundraiser and more like a carefully choreographed performance.

Not that anyone seemed to mind.

Around you, Gotham’s elite mingled effortlessly. Politicians exchanged handshakes. Business executives traded stories. Reporters circulated like sharks scenting blood in the water.

You had spent most of the evening attached to a cluster of coworkers, nodding politely through conversations that ranged from quarterly profits to real estate investments and subjects you suspected nobody genuinely cared about.

You smiled. Shook hands. Made pleasant conversation. Repeated the process.

By the time you escaped toward the refreshment table, you were fairly certain your social battery had died an hour ago.

“Not enjoying yourself?”

You glanced toward the voice. One of your coworkers smirked knowingly.

You laughed. “I think I’ve had enough networking to last the rest of my life.”

“Careful. That’s practically blasphemy at events like this.”

“Then pretend I said something about synergy and market growth.”

The resulting laugh eased some of the tension in your shoulders.

Around you, the crowd continued to swell as more guests arrived. And inevitably, conversation shifted toward the man hosting the event.

Bruce Wayne.

The name surfaced repeatedly throughout the evening. Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes amusement. Occasionally frustration.

Everyone seemed to have a story.

A charitable donation. An embarrassing tabloid headline. A disastrous date. A surprise act of generosity.

The more stories you heard, the more curious you became. You had never met Bruce Wayne before.

Nobody in your social circles had.

People like him existed in an entirely different world.

The sort of world most people only glimpsed through magazine covers and news broadcasts.

Yet somehow, despite his wealth, despite his status, despite his reputation for arriving late and disappearing early, people genuinely seemed to like him.

It was strange. Most billionaires inspired resentment. Bruce Wayne inspired affection.

You found yourself wondering what he was actually like. The real version. Not the carefully polished public image. Not the headlines. Just the man.

Your gaze drifted toward the entrance more than once throughout the evening.

The subtle change spread through the crowd like a ripple through water. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Attention redirected.

You didn’t need anyone to tell you why.

Bruce Wayne had arrived.

The realisation swept through the ballroom almost instantly.

You found yourself looking too. Just like everyone else.

Oh. For a moment, you understood the fascination.

Photos had never quite captured him properly. Perhaps because photographs couldn’t capture presence.

Bruce moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, greeting donors and board members with easy smiles. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair.

The sort of face people built careers around. One that belonged on magazine covers. Yet none of that was what held your attention.

It was the way he carried himself. Comfortable. Natural. As though the attention of hundreds of people barely registered.

You felt oddly nervous.

Which was ridiculous. You weren’t even planning on speaking to him.

You simply found yourself watching from across the room.

Then your hand drifted unconsciously toward your wrist. Your thumb brushed the skin hidden beneath your sleeve. The countdown.

A habit more than anything.

You weren’t even sure why you checked.

Maybe because events like this always sparked conversations about soulmates. Or because seeing Gotham’s most famous bachelor had stirred old childhood fantasies you’d long since outgrown.

Whatever the reason, your fingers lingered there.

Tracing the familiar shape beneath the fabric. Feeling the steady pulse of your own heartbeat.

You smiled faintly to yourself. Foolish.

Then Bruce Wayne turned, and looked directly at you.

Everything stopped.

Your breath caught. Heart stumbled. Because beneath your fingertips.. The countdown had reached its end. 00:00:00:00.

The familiar sensation disappeared so suddenly that for a terrifying second you thought you had imagined it.

Your eyes widened.

Across the ballroom, Bruce Wayne was still looking in your direction.

No. Not your direction.

At you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The countdown had stopped.

Your fingers remained pressed against your wrist, your pulse hammering so violently that you could barely feel the skin beneath them.

And for one impossible, terrifying second, the rest of the gala disappeared.

The music faded. The conversations blurred. Everything narrowed to those blue eyes. To the man standing twenty feet away. To the realization crashing through your chest with enough force to steal the air from your lungs.

Him.

Every second. Every minute. Every year. All of it had led here.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

A laugh escaped before you could catch it.

You felt ridiculous.

You felt ecstatic.

You felt fourteen years old again, lying awake at night and wondering who waited at the end of your countdown.

Your soulmate.

Bruce Wayne was your soulmate.

The thought was absurd.

Wonderful.

Terrifying.

And before you could think better of it, your feet were already carrying you forward.

You barely remembered crossing the ballroom. Only that one moment he was across the room.

The next you were standing in front of him. Close enough to speak. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to finally meet the person fate had spent your entire life leading you toward.

“Mr Wayne-” You stopped yourself. God, that sounded stupid.

You laughed nervously. “Sorry. Bruce. I just-”

The words tangled together. There were too many of them. How exactly were you supposed to tell someone they’d just become the most important person in your life?

How did anyone start a conversation like this?

“Hi. We belong together.”

“Hi. Fate says you’re mine.”

“Hi. I’ve waited my entire life to meet you.”

The absurdity almost made you laugh again. Instead, you found yourself smiling. A genuine one. The kind that slipped free before you could stop it.

“I think-”

Bruce looked at you. His eyes flickering over your face, your clothes, the event badge hanging around your neck.

Recognition never appeared.

Nothing softened.

Nothing changed.

It was the look people gave strangers who had interrupted them in public. Nothing more.

His gaze shifted immediately beyond your shoulder. Toward someone else.

Someone important.

Someone he actually wanted to speak to.

“I’m sorry.” The words were automatic. Polite. The sort of apology people gave when they weren’t sorry at all.

“I don’t have time right now.”

For a second you simply stared.

Still smiling.

Still trying to catch up.

“Oh.”

Bruce nodded once. Already moving.

Already done.

“If you’ll excuse me.” And then he brushed past you.

There was no cruelty. No emotion whatsoever. You hadn’t mattered enough for that.

The crowd swallowed him almost immediately.

One moment he was there and the next he was gone. Laughing with donors. Shaking hands. Moving through the room as though nothing had happened.

As though you had never existed.

As though the most important moment of your life had been a forgettable inconvenience in his evening.

You remained where you were. Frozen. The smile slowly slipping from your face.

Around you, the gala continued.

A waiter passed carrying champagne. Someone laughed nearby. Music drifted through the ballroom. Normal. Everything was painfully, horribly normal.

Your stomach twisted.

The excitement that had filled your chest moments ago curdled into something ugly. Something embarrassing.

Heat crept up your neck.

God. How stupid. How unbelievably fucking stupid.

Your hand rose to your wrist again. To the skin where the countdown had sat for your entire life.

Where it no longer moved.

You stared at it, waiting for the joy to return. For the excitement. For the certainty that this meant something.

Instead you felt sick. Because for one awful moment, you’d believed it.

You had looked at Bruce Wayne and allowed yourself to hope. Allowed yourself to think fate had chosen you.

That maybe all those stories people told were true.

Instead you’d received the same polite dismissal he would have given any stranger who got in his way.

Your throat tightened. Fuck, you felt like you were about to cry.

The hurt wasn’t coming from Bruce. Not really.

It was coming from yourself.

From the realisation that some small part of you had still believed after all these years, after all your indifference, all your insistence that fate didn’t matter, a part of you had still secretly hoped there would be magic in this moment. Something special. Worth waiting for.

And now that part of you was dying. Right there in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

The countdown had reached zero.

And for the first time in your life, you wished it hadn’t.

Two and a half months later.

The night had offered nothing unusual.

The Batcave settled into its familiar rhythm as everyone returned. Dick had claimed a corner of Tim's workstation and was ignoring increasingly pointed requests to move. Jason, having appeared midway through patrol without warning or invitation, was drinking Alfred's coffee. Damian sat nearby with a stack of reports, making notes in the margins.

Bruce stood near the medical station, removing the Batsuit piece by piece. The cowl came first, then the cape. He set the gauntlets aside and reached for the fastening at his wrist.

"Father."

Bruce glanced up.

Damian was looking at him with a faint frown. “You never informed us that your countdown had ended.”

He’d barely reacted. “What are you talking about?”

Damian looked mildly annoyed, like Bruce had forgotten something obvious.

“Your soulmate.”

Dick straightened immediately. Tim turned away from his monitor. Jason gave a short laugh.

"Wait. Seriously? You found them?”

Their Dad frowned. “What?”

Damian pointed.

Bruce followed the gesture to the inside of his wrist. The timer had stopped.

For a second, he simply stared.

Beside him, Dick grinned. “So that’s why you’ve been weirdly private.”

Jason scoffed. “Please. Like he’d tell us.”

“I assumed you were waiting until the relationship became serious,” Damian said matter-of-factly.

Tim nodded. “I figured you already had a file on them.”

A few years ago, Bruce might have responded. Might have denied it. Instead, he continued staring at his wrist.

00:00:00:00

The timer wasn’t moving.

It should have been.

For as long as he could remember, it had always been moving. Always counting. Now it sat completely still.

A strange feeling settled low in his stomach.

“When did this happen?” The words escaped before he could stop them.

The cave went silent.

Bruce looked up. Every member of his family was staring at him.

Dick’s smile vanished first.

Tim slowly lowered his tablet.

Jason blinked.

Damian narrowed his eyes.

A long moment passed. Then, “what do you mean, when did it happen?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped back to the timer. “When did it reach zero?”

Nobody answered immediately. Because the question itself was wrong.

Dick stared at him blankly. “…You don’t know?”

Tim sat up, picking at the cuticles on his hands. “When was the last time you checked it?”

Bruce opened his mouth. The answer should have come easily.

Instead, nothing.

Weeks? Months? Years?

A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t remember. At some point, the countdown had become part of the scenery. Like a scar. Like an old piece of furniture. Something so familiar that he no longer saw it.

Damian rose from his chair. "How is that possible?"

There wasn’t accusation in the question. Only bewilderment.

Bruce understood it.

If anyone else had presented him with a mystery this significant and admitted they had ignored it for years, he would have found it equally incomprehensible.

A soulmate was information.

Information mattered.

Yet somehow he had allowed this particular fact to drift past unnoticed.

Dick dragged a hand through his hair. "Okay. So if it's been at zero for a while..." He trailed off.

Nobody finished the thought. Bruce didn't need them to.

The timer had stopped.

Which meant they had already met.

Somewhere, buried beneath years of galas, investigations, crime scenes, interviews, witnesses, victims, allies, and strangers, there was a person connected to him in a way he had never bothered to investigate.

The thought irritated him immediately. Annoyed by his own oversight.

Bruce Wayne missed very little. Batman missed even less.

And yet he had apparently overlooked something that had been written on his own skin.

His gaze returned to the frozen digits.

Who?

The question settled into place with uncomfortable ease.

Who had it been?

A civilian? A witness? Someone from a charity board? A doctor? A journalist? A stranger he had passed on the street and forgotten by the next morning?

His mind was already moving through possibilities, assembling timelines, searching for patterns.

The investigation had begun before he consciously decided to start it.

And long after the others had gone upstairs, long after the cave had emptied, he’d remained alone before the Batcomputer.

His wrist rested against the desk, the countdown sat motionless beneath the glow of the monitor.

For decades, he had convinced himself the timer didn’t matter. That soulmates were irrelevant. That whatever waited at the end of the countdown belonged to a future he would never allow himself to have.

Now, for the first time in his life, the future wasn’t theoretical. It was real. It had been real for years. And somehow, impossibly, he’d missed it.

He stared at the timer, jaw clenched. Then opened a new search window and began looking.

Bruce had always believed that every mystery possessed an answer.

The answer might be buried beneath layers of deception. It might require months of investigation, thousands of hours of work, or sacrifices most people would never willingly make. But it existed.

Every crime scene told a story.

Every missing person left traces.

Every lie fractured under enough pressure.

Answers existed. The challenge was finding them.

Which was why the frozen numbers on the inside of his wrist irritated him more than they should have.

A lifetime reduced to eight zeroes.

For decades it had been counting.

Now it wasn’t.

Entire criminal organisations had collapsed because of details other people overlooked. Murders had been solved because Bruce noticed a footprint half a millimeter deeper than it should have been. He built contingency plans for gods.

And yet somehow he had allowed this to happen.

Somewhere, at some point, his soulmate had entered his life. And he had failed to notice.

The oversight bothered him in a way he struggled to articulate. Not because he had spent years longing for his soulmate. He hadn’t. Or because he suddenly believed fate held some profound importance. He didn’t.

But because he had missed something.

Something connected to him. That should have been obvious.

His gaze drifted back toward the timer. A person.

For most of his life, the soulmate waiting at the end of the countdown had existed as an abstraction. A hypothetical future. A distant possibility.

Now they existed beyond the realm of his mind on particularly needy nights.

Living somewhere in Gotham. Or perhaps outside it. Going to work. Paying bills. Existing. Breathing.

Perhaps completely unaware that Bruce Wayne had finally noticed them.

The idea settled heavily in his chest.

Because that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

If the countdown had stopped, then they already knew.

The moment one timer reached zero, so did the other. Meaning somewhere out there was a person who had already experienced that moment. A person who had looked at their wrist and realised they had found the person fate intended for them.

Bruce’s fingers stilled against the keyboard. A strange feeling moved through him. Difficult to define.

Because unlike him, that person would have noticed.

Normal people would have probably watched their countdowns. Would have known exactly how much time remained. Anticipated the day it would finally happen.

He imagined someone checking their wrist. Watching the final seconds disappear. Feeling the weight of a lifetime’s anticipation finally come to an end. And then what?

Had they looked around for him?

Had they searched the crowd?

Had they recognised him immediately?

The questions arrived uninvited. More troublingly, they refused to leave.

Bruce leaned back in his chair. The cave hummed softly around him. Banks of monitors cast pale light across the stone walls.

Above him, thousands of tons of earth separated the cave from the sleeping Manor. None of it held his attention.

For perhaps the first time since Damian had pointed out the frozen timer, Bruce found himself thinking not about the investigation. But about the person.

Who were they? What kind of life did they live? What had they thought when they realised? Had they been happy? Afraid? Disappointed?

The last possibility lingered.

Bruce frowned. Disappointed. The word shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did.

Because he knew exactly what the public thought of Bruce Wayne. The billionaire. The celebrity. The perpetual tabloid fixture.

To some people, finding out Bruce was their soulmate would be exciting. To others it would be a nightmare.

A lifetime of reporters. Paparazzi. Public scrutiny. Danger. Every enemy Batman had ever made.

Bruce knew better than anyone that proximity to him carried consequences.

The evidence sat framed across the Manor.

The thought darkened his expression. Whoever they were, they deserved better than that.

And then Bruce paused. His eyes slowly narrowed. Because that thought implied something else. Something he hadn’t consciously acknowledged until now.

It didn't matter.

That lie was what kept you going after the gala. It wasn’t grief. Grief implied loss, implied that you had possessed something to begin with.

You hadn't. Bruce Wayne had never been yours.

And yet, something inside of you had still died that night.

You still went to work. Still paid your bills. Still answered texts. Still laughed when friends made jokes.

From the outside, nothing had changed.

Inside, however, there was a deep hole where something important used to live.

Hope, perhaps.

Or whatever foolish thing had survived all those years beneath your indifference.

You had spent your entire life insisting that the countdown didn't matter. That fate didn't matter. That your soulmate was merely a possibility waiting somewhere in the distance and not the center of your universe.

Then the timer reached zero.

And you discovered exactly how much you had been lying to yourself.

Because if it truly hadn't mattered, then seeing Bruce Wayne across that ballroom wouldn't have hurt the way it did.

If it truly hadn't mattered, then his face wouldn't still appear in your nightmares. The sight of his name wouldn't make your stomach twist like someone had reached into your chest and grabbed hold of your ribs.

Yet it did. Every time, without fail.

Three days after the gala, you stopped in front of a coffee shop on your way to work.

A newspaper sat in the display window.

BRUCE WAYNE ANNOUNCES THE EXPANSION OF FOUNDATION PROGRAMMES.

The headline wasn't even particularly large, just another article among dozens. A perfectly ordinary thing.

Yet the moment your eyes landed on it, nausea rolled through you so violently that you nearly turned aroun and walked home.

You stood frozen on the sidewalk, just staring blankly. You hated yourself for pausing.

Because there he was.

Photographed beneath bright camera flashes. Smiling. Beautiful.

Shit, he was beautiful.

It would have been easier if he wasn't. Easier if fate had chosen some ordinary man. Someone forgettable, whose face wouldn't follow you everywhere.

But Bruce looked like something sculpted rather than born.

Like whoever had created him had started with every impossible standard of beauty and decided they still weren't enough.

Even frozen in grainy newsprint, he seemed unreal.

Dark hair falling perfectly despite the cameras. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, those impossible blue eyes. The kind of watercolour people wrote poetry about. The kind that belonged to summer skies and oceans and things too beautiful to touch.

You remembered looking into those eyes across the ballroom. Remembered your heart stopping. Thinking, absurdly, that of course fate had chosen someone beautiful.

Soulmates were supposed to be extraordinary. And Bruce Wayne was sure as hell extraordinary.

Broad shoulders beneath perfectly tailored suits. Strong hands. Easy smiles. A laugh that seemed capable of convincing entire rooms to laugh with him. Not merely attractive. Handsome. Beautiful in the way ancient gods were described. The sort of beauty that made people stare before they realised they were staring.

He carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life being admired. Someone who had never needed to wonder if people found him desirable because the answer had always been obvious.

And somehow fate had looked at him, then looked at you, and declared that you belonged together.

You left the coffee shop without buying anything.

After that, you started noticing him everywhere.

It felt cruel. As though the universe had developed a sense of humor specifically to torment you.

Wayne Enterprises logos decorated entire buildings. Wayne Foundation advertisements appeared on buses. Charity campaigns featured his photograph. Magazine covers displayed his face near checkout counters. Televisions in waiting rooms played interviews. Articles appeared online. Photographs surfaced endlessly. Everywhere you looked, Bruce Wayne existed.

You couldn't escape him. Couldn't erase him.

The worst part was that everyone else saw those images and reacted normally.

Nobody understood what you saw. Nobody knew what it felt like.

Your coworkers saw Gotham's favourite billionaire. Your friends saw a celebrity. Strangers saw a philanthropist. You saw your soulmate.

You saw the man whose timer had stopped when yours did. The man who had looked directly at you, then dismissed you.

Sometimes you found yourself staring at the pics longer than you meant to.

Your eyes refused to look away. Despite everything, some awful traitorous primal part of you still recognise d him. Still instinctually saw him as yours.

The slight curve of his smile. The shadows beneath his eyes. The way his expensive suits felt designed to emphasise the width of his shoulders. The way his presence somehow dominated photographs even when surrounded by dozens of other people.

You hated that you noticed. Hated that your heart still reacted. That attraction remained long after hope had died.

Because Bruce Wayne was beautiful. Painfully, unfairly, devastatingly beautiful.

The kind that made the stinging rejection feel worse.

If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had mocked you, anger could have replaced the hurt. But he hadn't done either.

He’d made living unbearable.

Bruce hadn't rejected you because he disliked you. He hadn't rejected you because you were unworthy. He hadn't even rejected you at all.

To reject someone required acknowledgment.

Bruce Wayne simply hadn't cared enough to notice. You had been forgettable. An interruption. A stranger in a crowded room.

It was fucking humiliating.

To everyone else, your countdown had finally reached zero. A happy occasion. A miracle. A dream-come-true.

People congratulated you. Asked questions. Smiled knowingly.

You learned to lie.

"Oh, I haven't met them yet." "Maybe we crossed paths without realizing." "I'm not really focused on it."

Easy answers. No one ever suspected the truth.

Didn’t know that every mention of soulmates felt like someone digging a knife into an already sore bruise.

That fate itself had started feeling so incredibly cruel.

No one knew that your countdown had ended beside crystal chandeliers and champagne glasses and the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.

Hw could you explain to anyone that he had walked away?

How could you describe the experience of finding the person the universe created specifically for you, only to discover that your existence wasn’t even important enough to remember?

There weren't words for that.

Every morning you woke up, and every day Bruce Wayne's name appeared somewhere.

On buildings. Headlines. TVscreens. Charity banners. A constant reminder. A monument to something you desperately wished you could forget.

You never admitted how much it affected you. Not even to yourself.

Instead you learned to look away. To change channels. To scroll past articles. To cross the street rather than walk beneath buildings bearing his name.

Small, pathetic things.

Yet necessary.

Because every glimpse felt like reopening a wound that refused to heal.

And somewhere deep down, beneath the humiliation and hurt and anger and disappointment, existed a truth you hated even more.

You still thought he was so disgustingly beautiful. Remembered the moment he looked at you. Could still feel the countdown reaching zero.

And no matter how hard you tried, some part of you still mourned the future that had died before it ever had the chance to begin.

Finding you should have taken longer.

Bruce expected months. Years, maybe. The list of possibilities was absurd.

A countdown bond narrowed the search considerably compared to shared pain or dreams, but it was still thousands of people. Tens of thousands, depending on the timeframe. Every person he'd spoken to. Every person he'd stood beside. Every handshake. Every conversation. Every fleeting interaction that had seemed insignificant at the time.

Ordinarily, that would have made the investigation difficult.

Instead, it became embarrassingly simple.

Because unlike other soul bonds, a countdown created a very specific moment. A beginning.

Bruce only needed to determine when his timer had stopped. Then identify everyone he'd interacted with during that period. The rest was elimination.

He discovered quickly that he had a significant advantage.

Over the past five months, Bruce had only personally interacted with nine people who possessed countdown bonds.

Nine.

One was a long-time business partner whose timer still had three years remaining.

Two were married.

Another had met their soulmate publicly several weeks prior.

The remaining names disappeared one by one beneath scrutiny.

Until only one remained.

You.

The file sat open on the Batcomputer. Bruce stared at it for a long time.

Name.

Age.

Employment history.

Education.

Address.

Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should have caused his pulse to stumble the way it did. Yet it did.

Because beside your photograph sat a timestamp. Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.

Two and a half months ago.

Bruce went still. The gala.

He couldn’t remember you at all.

He remembered the event. The schedule. The donor meetings. The practiced speeches. The endless boring conversations. The uncomfortable sensation that accompanied the recollection made his stomach tighten.

Because if the countdown had ended that night, then you had been there. Somewhere inside that ballroom.

His soulmate had stood within arm's reach, and he hadn't known.

Bruce leaned back slowly.

The photograph remained illuminated on the monitor.

You looked ordinary. Not in a bad way. Just real. A person.

His person.

The thought appeared uninvited.

His gaze lingered longer than necessary. Memorising details.

The shape of your smile in the employee photograph attached to the company website. The slight tilt of your head. The way your eyes seemed brighter in candid images than posed ones.

Ridiculous, meaningless observations.

Yet he continued looking.

Eventually, Bruce opened the gala guest registry. Cross-referenced attendance records.

Security footage. Photographs. Anything.

Everything.

He found you four hours later.

Camera seventeen. Ballroom east entrance. Timestamped twelve minutes before the countdown likely reached zero.

The footage was silent.

You stood speaking with coworkers. Laughing at something. So… bright.

Unaware that he even existed beyond headlines and magazine covers.

He watched the clip so many times that domething uncomfortable settled beneath his ribs.

He knew what was about to happen.

Your timer was about to reach zero. His timer was about to reach zero.

You found him.

You’d crossed the room.

And he walked away.

Hell, he hadn’t even properly looked at you.

Bruce stared at the paused frame.

For the first time since beginning the investigation, a deep nausea rolled through him.

He remembered that interaction vaguely now.

A stranger approaching. A voice trying to get his attention. A laugh. An interruption between meetings.

Nothing important or memorable. Nothing-

His jaw clenenched.

No.

Not nothing.

You.

It had been you.

His soulmate.

The person fate had spent decades leading toward him.

The person whose existence he had secretly imagined during sleepless nights and lonely flights and moments of weakness he never admitted to anyone.

Bruce rose from his chair.

The cave remained silent around him. Cold. Empty without his boys.

The monitor focused on your face. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.

For two and a half months, you had known.

You'd known exactly who he was.

And if Bruce understood people half as well as he believed he did, then you had probably interpreted that encounter exactly the way anyone would.

You thought he'd rejected you.

Bruce found himself imagining it despite having no desire to.

You walking across that ballroom. Excited. Hopeful. Nervous. Only to be brushed aside.

His stomach twisted.

You had spent your entire life moving toward him. And he'd made you feel unwanted.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. No. Unacceptable.

You belonged to him.

Bruce had spent most of his life convincing himself he could survive without a soulmate.

Now he found himself staring at your photograph at three in the morning, unable to look away. Unable to stop imagining your reaction when you learned the truth. To stop thinking about the hurt he had unknowingly caused. And most concerning of all, unable to stop wanting.

Not merely to meet you.

To keep you close.

Safe.

Where nothing could take you away before he had the chance to make this right.

You were halfway through answering emails when your manager appeared beside your desk.

"Got a minute?"

You looked up. "Sure."

"We've had a request come through."

That wasn't unusual. The company received requests constantly.

You nodded for them to continue.

"They specifically asked for you."

That was unusual.

Your brow furrowed. "Me?"

"Apparently." Your manager sounded just as confused.

You accepted the folder they handed over, then immediately wished you hadn't. The logo printed across the front was impossible to miss.

Wayne Foundation.

Your stomach dropped.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Your manager misread your expression immediately. "Good news, actually."

Good. Right.

You’d almost forgotten that normal people didn't feel like they were on the verge of breaking down every time they saw that name.

You forced a smile. "What's the project?"

"A community outreach initiative. They've been reviewing applicants from several companies."

It was like the name seemed determined to follow you everywhere.

"Apparently someone on their end requested you specifically."

The confusion in your manager's voice mirrored your own.

"Have you worked with them before?"

"No." The answer came too quickly. You cleared your throat. "Not personally."

Your manager nodded. "Well, whoever reviewed your profile liked something."

Maybe. Or maybe fate simply wasn't finished laughing at you yet.

You waited until they left before opening the folder.

The proposal itself looked normal. Professional. Routine. Yet a strange feeling settled low in your stomach.

Because your name appeared throughout the documentation.

You stared at the pages for several seconds then shook your head. Paranoia. Nothing more.

Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were. The Wayne Foundation employed thousands of people. This was coincidence. It had to be.

Yet later that evening, as you prepared to leave work, you found yourself looking at the folder again.

Reading your name.

And wondering why the uneasy feeling refused to disappear.

←↓→↑

The project itself was harmless. Boring, even.

Several meetings. A handful of planning sessions. Far too many emails. Just.. normal stuff.

And yet you found yourself running into the same problem repeatedly.

People always seemed to know who you were.

Not coworkers or clients, it would probably hurt your feelings if they didn’t know your name.

But Wayne employees.

The first time it happened, you ignored it. The second time, you thought about it for a bit before shaking it off. The third time, it became impossible not to think about.

A woman stood beside the refreshments table wearing a Wayne Foundation identification badge, smiling like she knew you as she called out your name.

You glanced up from your coffee, offering a polite smile. "Yeah?"

Her expression brightened immediately. "Oh good."

Good?

You waited.

Instead, she simply smiled. "Sorry. I've heard nice things."

Before you could ask from whom, someone called her name from across the room.

The conversation ended there. Leaving you standing alone holding a paper cup and feeling vaguely unsettled.

She'd heard nice things.

From who?

About what?

Then you’d received an email. Then another. And another.

Nothing inappropriate or personal. Just opportunities. Projects. Invitations. Networking events. Requests.

All connected to Wayne Enterprises or one of its countless subsidiaries.

The attention made no sense. You weren't exceptionally qualified. You weren't particularly influential. There were hundreds of people with better resumes. Thousands.

Yet somehow your name kept appearing.

Each coincidence felt harmless on its own.

Together, they felt deliberate.

There was only one explanation your brain kept returning to, and it was ridiculous.

Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were.

Bruce Wayne had never known who you were.

The memory still hurt. Less than before, but enough.

You shoved the thought away and focused on work. Unfortunately, work wasn't cooperating.

"There's a gala next month."

You nearly choked on your drink.

Your coworker blinked. "...You okay?"

"No."

You set the glass down.

"Sorry. What?"

"A gala."

Absolutely not.

The immediate response rose so quickly that you nearly said it aloud.

Your coworker laughed.

"That's about the reaction I expected."

"No."

"That's not even what I asked."

"No anyway."

The laugh grew louder. "It's mandatory."

Of course it was. You dropped your forehead onto the table.

Somewhere above you, your coworker continued speaking.

Words blurred together.

You caught Wayne Foundation. Charity initiative. Attendance expected.

Absolutely wonderful.

You closed your eyes. The universe hated you. That was the only reasonable explanation.

Because apparently surviving one Wayne gala hadn't been enough.

Now fate had scheduled a sequel.

That should have been funny. Instead, dread settled heavily in your chest.

Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't even be there.

And if he was?

He wouldn't recognise you. Wouldn't remember you. You would simply become another face in another crowd. Again.

The familiar ache returned. Duller now. Older, but still present.

You hated that even after everything, some pathetic part of you still cared.

Wondering about what could have happened if things had gone differently.

If he had looked at you. If he'd smiled. If he'd given fate even a single chance.

The thought followed you all the way home. Followed you into the shower. Followed you into bed.

And somewhere across Gotham, entirely unaware of the damage he was causing, Bruce Wayne was doing exactly the same thing.

Thinking about you.

Constantly.

Obsessively.

Unable to stop.

While you lay awake staring at the ceiling, Bruce sat alone in his study surrounded by photographs, reports, schedules, and information he absolutely should not possess.

The file on his desk had grown significantly over the past two weeks.

The silence of the study was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of Bruce’s own heartbeat. It was a sound he usually controlled with meditative precision, but tonight, his pulse was erratic, driven by a hunger that felt less like desire and more like a fever.

His fingers, scarred and calloused from years of a life lived in the shadows, trembled slightly as they hovered over the glossy surface of the most recebt photograph.

In the light of the single desk lamp, your laughter looked almost tactile. He wanted to reach through the paper, to catch the warmth of your skin, to feel the vibration of that laugh against his own chest.

He didn't just want to see you. He wanted to own the air you breathed.

A low, jagged exhale escaped his throat as he reached for the fastening of his trousers. The silk of his shirt felt abrasive against his skin. He wasn't a man of whims, he was a man of purpose.

As he freed himself, his gaze never left your eyes in the photo.

He began to move, his hand wrapping around his length with a grip almost a little too tight, a little too desperate. He wasn't looking for a gentle release, he was looking for a way to drown out the ache of your absence. He hadn’t even met you properly yet.

Every slide of his palm was a silent prayer, a demand whispered into the empty room.

You, he thought, his eyes darkening until the blue was almost black. Only you.

He closed his eyes for a second, and the darkness behind his eyelids was filled with the phantom sensation of you. He imagined your hands replacing his own.

He imagined the way you would look at him if you knew. If you knew that he had mapped out your entire existence, that he knew the number of alarms you needed to wake up, the drinks you preferred, the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy.

A groan, deep and primal, tore from his throat as he increased the pace. The friction was intense, bordering on a delicious sort of pain. He pictured you in this very room, stripped of your defences, looking at him with that same devastating smile. He imagined pinning you to this very desk, marking you so thoroughly that the world would know you belonged to the Batman, to Bruce, to him.

"Mine," he rasped, the word a vow and a command. "You have to be mine."

He was spiraling, losing his composure to the sheer, unadulterated need to possess the person in the photograph.

As the tension coiled in his gut, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the edge of the desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. He wasn't just chasing a climax, he was chasing the ghost of you. And as he finally broke, his body shuddering with a violent, lonely release, the only thing he could think about was how much longer he could stand being a stranger to the only person outside of his family who truly mattered.

He stared at the splotches of his own mess, his eyes settling back on your frozen, laughing face.

His patience was running out. And soon, he wouldn't just be looking at pictures. He would be looking at you.

The morning of the gala arrived faster than expected.

You spent most of it trying not to think about where you were going later. Work helped.

Emails needed answering. Reports needed reviewing. Deadlines continued existing regardless of personal problems.

By six o'clock, however, distractions became harder to find.

The Foundation building stood illuminated against Gotham's skyline when your taxi pulled up outside.

For a moment you remained seated. Watching people enter through the front doors. Watching security direct arrivals. Watching expensive cars arrive one after another.

The driver glanced at you through the mirror.

"You getting out?"

You sighed. "Unfortunately."

The lobby was already busy.

Employees moved through the space carrying folders, tablets, and the sort of purposeful expressions people adopted when responsible for coordinating large events.

You followed the signs toward registration.

The man at the desk smiled immediately.

"Good evening."

"Hi."

You offered your name.

Something flickered across his expression. "There you are." The words slipped out so naturally that he didn't seem to realise he'd said them.

Your brow furrowed. "What?"

His smile widened. "Nothing. Sorry."

He handed over your badge.

"Conference hall B. Someone will show you where to go."

The interaction lingered in your mind as you crossed the lobby.

There wasn't anything strange about it.

You reached the elevators just as a man wearing a Foundation lanyard stepped out.

His eyes landed on your badge. Muttering your name under his breath.

You stopped. "Yeah?"

His expression brightened. "Right this way."

You stared at him.

The conference hall was directly ahead. Visible from where you stood. So was the sign. So was every other person entering without assistance. Apparently, you were the only one receiving a personal escort. The thought made you irrationally suspicious.

"Thanks."

The man spent the walk making polite conversation.

The conference hall occupied most of the floor.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked downtown Gotham. Round tables filled the space beneath hanging lights. Staff moved between displays making final adjustments while attendees gradually filtered inside.

You recognise d a few people from previous meetings and wandered over.

Conversation came easily enough.

Work topics. Office gossip. Complaints about deadlines. The familiar rhythm settled some of your nerves.

Eventually, someone handed you a drink. Someone else told a story about the mate documentary they were watching the night before. Laughter spread around the table.

For the first time all evening, you found yourself relaxing.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

You could survive a few hours, shake a few hands, then disappear before anything unpleasant happened.

A movement near the entrance drew your attention.

The change happened gradually. A few heads turned. Then a few more.

You knew who it was before you looked.

For a brief moment, you considered keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the table.

But curiosity won.

It always did.

Bruce Wayne stood near the entrance speaking with several board members.

The sight of him harder than expected.

Four months had passed, yet he remained exactly as you remembered.

Tall. Confident. Effortlessly composed. The kind of person who never seemed out of place regardless of where he happened to be standing.

You watched him laugh at something one of the board members said. Watched him rest a hand briefly against someone's shoulder. Watched him move through the crowd with practiced ease.

The memory arrived before you could stop it.

Crystal chandeliers. Champagne glasses. The countdown reaching zero beneath your fingertips.

Your gaze dropped immediately. Heat crawled uncomfortably up the back of your neck.

This had been a mistake.

All you could think about was how little had changed for him.

Somewhere between the gala and now, Bruce Wayne had probably attended dozens of events just like this one.

Met hundreds of people.

Forgotten hundreds more.

Meanwhile, you still couldn't walk into a Foundation building without remembering the worst conversation of your life.

The thought was embarrassing enough to make you take a long drink.

Across the room, entirely unaware that you had already looked away, Bruce Wayne finally spotted you.

↑→↓←

You forced yourself to look anywhere else.

The city beyond the windows. The drink in your hand. The conversation happening beside you. Anything except him.

It felt childish.

Embarrassing, honestly.

You were an adult. Bruce Wayne wasn't some ex you were desperately trying to avoid at a party. He was a stranger.

A stranger who happened to be your soulmate.

Someone who happened to have accidentally shattered every stupid childhood fantasy you'd ever had about fate.

"So then the guy spends hours explaining how the patterns along his wrist connected-"

"What?"

Your coworker laughed. "The documentary."

"Oh." You blinked.

Right. The documentary.

Apparently the conversation had continued without you.

You offered what you hoped looked like a convincing smile.

No one seemed to notice.

People drifted between groups. More guests arrived. Staff circulated carrying trays of drinks and appetizers.

The event settled into a comfortable rhythm.

Exactly the sort of evening you'd expected.

Which was probably why it took you a moment to notice something was wrong.

The conversation around your table had started stuttering. Small pauses appearing where they hadn't before. People glancing toward something behind you.

You ignored it initially.

Then someone stopped speaking halfway through a sentence.

"...Oh."

You frowned. "What?"

Nobody answered immediately. Slowly, unease crept up your spine.

You knew that feeling.

The awful certainty that something embarrassing was happening and you simply hadn't caught up yet.

Your grip tightened around the glass.

Please don't be me.

Please don't somehow be me.

Carefully, you turned. And nearly dropped your drink.

Bruce Wayne was walking toward your table.

The room seemed to tilt.

No. That wasn't right. There were other people here. Important people. Board members. Executives. Foundation staff.

Bruce Wayne had absolutely no reason to be approaching you.

Yet each step brought him closer, your pulse hammered painfully. Maybe he wasn't.. Maybe-

Then Bruce smiled. Carefully. Almost hesitant.

"Hi."

→←↑↓

Your pulse thundered traitorously.

After spotting him near the entrance, you had gone out of your way to avoid him. And apparently, he'd made no effort to stop you.

He talked briefly with the accountant at your table before passing.

You felt stupid all over again.

You knew better than to expect anything.

No shit he wasn’t coming over to talk to you.

By the time the evening finally began winding down, your social battery had been thoroughly exhausted. Guests filtered toward the exits in small groups while staff quietly began dismantling displays around the edges of the room.

You offered your goodbyes, accepted a few last-minute business cards you would probably never use, and escaped.

Or tried to.

Halfway down the hallway toward the elevators, you changed direction.

Bathroom first.

Then home.

The corridor was blissfully empty compared to the crowded ballroom behind you. Soft lighting reflected off polished marble floors. The distant murmur of conversation faded with every step.

You were almost done. Almost free.

"Leaving already?"

You stopped so abruptly your feet nearly slipped against the floor.

The voice came from behind you. Low and warm.

Dangerously familiar.

Your stomach dropped.

Slowly, you turned.

Bruce Wayne stood at the opposite end of the hallway. Alone.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Gone was the effortless social charm he'd worn all evening. Without the crowd surrounding him, he seemed larger somehow. Broader. More imposing.

His eyes were fixed entirely on you. Watching. Like he'd finally found something he'd been searching for.

A strange tension settled between your shoulders.

"Mr. Wayne."

His expression tightened immediately.

"Bruce," he corrected softly.

The familiarity felt inappropriate.

You swallowed. "Bruce."

Something in his gaze darkened at the sound of his name on your lips.

Satisfaction.

The hallway suddenly felt much smaller.

You forced a polite smile. "I didn't realise you were still here."

"I was looking for someone."

Your heart stumbled. The answer came too quickly. Too directly. And for one awful second, hope tried to rear its ugly head again.

You crushed it immediately. "You found them then?"

The words were meant as a joke.

Bruce didn't laugh. Instead, his gaze softened.

"Yes."

The answer landed with uncomfortable weight.

The air felt thick.

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of every inch separating you. Or rather, how little distance there actually was.

"You wanted something?" you asked carefully.

Bruce stared at you.

It was unnerving. Most people glanced away eventually. They blinked. Looked around. Got distracted.

Bruce seemed incapable of doing any of those things.

His eyes moved slowly across your face as if committing every detail to memory.

Four months ago, he couldn't spare you two seconds. Now he was looking at you like he couldn't bear to look away. It didn't make sense.

Nothing about this made sense.

"I owe you an apology." The words caught you completely off guard.

You blinked. "What?"

"The first gala."

Your breath stopped. Every muscle in your body locked.

Bruce's jaw tightened. "You approached me."

The memory flashed through your mind with brutal clarity.

The countdown.

The humiliation.

"I remember." It was a lie.

You knew it was a lie. You could hear it. He hadn't remembered. You'd seen his face that night. Seen the complete absence of recognition.

But he looked genuinely upset now.

"I handled it badly."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Bitter.

Bruce's eyes narrowed.

"You don't need to apologize."

"Yes." His answer was immediate. "I do."

Something sharp flickered across his expression. Self-directed anger. Regret. Maybe even guilt.

You didn't understand it at all.

"You didn't know me." Your voice came out quieter than intended. The admission hurt. Even now.

"You didn't owe me anything."

Bruce went completely still. The silence that followed felt wrong. Dangerous.

His gaze dropped briefly to your wrist before returning to your face. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Then he took a step forward.

Yet your pulse reacted like he'd crossed the entire hallway.

"I should have known you." The words came out rough. Almost painful.

Something shifted beneath the surface of his composure. You could feel it. Like cracks forming beneath ice.

And for the first time all evening, genuine unease curled through your stomach.

Because suddenly it felt less like Bruce Wayne had happened to stop you in a hallway. And more like Bruce Wayne had been waiting there. Waiting specifically for you. Waiting for the moment you would be alone. When there would be no audience. No escape.

A shiver ran down your spine.

Bruce's eyes immediately tracked the movement.

His expression softened. Like even that tiny movement meant something precious to him.

And somehow that frightened you far more than if he'd looked angry.

"Can I walk you to your car?" he asked quietly.

The question sounded harmless. Polite.

But there was something underneath it. Something hungry. Something that made it feel less like a request and more like a man trying very, very hard not to demand.

When you hesitated, Bruce's gaze darkened harshly.

You got the overwhelming impression that Bruce Wayne was not accustomed to hearing no.

And that whatever was looking at you from behind those impossibly blue eyes had already decided how this interaction would end.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You looked at him, searching for the playboy you had seen on the news, but he wasn't there. In his place stood a man whose very presence felt like a gravitational pull, heavy and inescapable.

Your heart was a frantic thing in your chest, caught between the instinct to run and the soulmate bond that hummed under your skin, screaming that this was where you were supposed to be.

"I... I can manage, Bruce," you said, trying to inject a note of independence into your voice. You didn't want to be another person he was simply 'handling' or 'managing.' You wanted to be seen as an equal, not a charity project or a fleeting interest.

"It’s a long walk to the valet, and you have guests to attend to."

You made a move to step around him, but you didn't get far.

Before you could even clear his shadow, Bruce’s hand shot out. He didn't grab you roughly, but his fingers curled around your upper arm with a terrifying, singular purpose. It wasn't a casual touch, it was a tether. His palm was hot, even through the fabric of your clothes, and the sheer strength in his grip made your breath hitch.

"The guests are gone," he said. His voice had lost its social lilt. It was now a low, gravelly command that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of your bones.

"They don't matter. Nothing in that room matters but this."

He stepped into your space, forcing you to tilt your head to maintain eye contact. The hallway felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in until the only thing left in the universe was the scent of him, like the coming of a storm.

"You think you can just walk away?" he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that bordered on the frantic.

You frowned, your confusion overriding your unease. "After everything? Bruce, we haven't even spoken for more than five minutes.”

You let out a quiet broken laugh. “You don't even know me."

A dark, humorless sound escaped his throat, one that sounded more like a growl. "That is where you are wrong."

His grip tightened, making it clear he wasn't letting go.

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his pupils blown wide until the blue was just a thin, electric ring.

"I know the way you tilt your head when you're thinking," he whispered, leaning so his breath fanned across your cheek.

"I know the exact shade your eyes turn when you're startled. I know the schedule of your life better than you do. I have spent every waking moment since that night trying to find a way to apologise for a sin I didn't even know I had committed."

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

How? How could he know these things? The sheer impossibility of his words should have made you laugh, or call for security, but the soulmate bond was reacting to his intensity, pulling you toward him like a moth to a flame.

It was a terrifying, beautiful pull.

A part of you wanted to demand answers, to push him away for his madness, but another part, the part that had been lonely and aching for months, wanted to collapse into him and let him devour you.

"You... you're obsessed," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could think them through.

Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned closer, his forehead touching yours, his expression one of raw, unadulterated devotion.

"I am," he confessed, the admission sounding like a vow.

"I am completely, utterly undone by you. And if you walk out of this hallway tonight without letting me make it right, I think the world might actually end."

He looked at you then, not as a billionaire looking at a guest, but as a man looking at his entire world, his eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful hunger.

"Please," he pleaded, the word a jagged edge of vulnerability.

"Don't make me watch you walk away again. Let me take you home. Let me show you that you were never just a face in a crowd. You are the only thing that has ever been real."

He wasn't asking anymore. He was begging, and as he stood there, looming against you with a possessiveness that felt like a honeyed trap, you realised with a jolt of both fear and exhilaration that you didn't want to say no.

In the months that followed that night at the gala, the "coincidences" had stopped being coincidences and had become a reality.

You no longer had to wonder why a certain restaurant always had your favourite table reserved, or why your career seemed to accelerate with a sudden, inexplicable momentum.

You knew. You knew that every promotion, every unexpected gift, and every "chance" encounter was a thread in the web Bruce had woven around you.

And the most frightening part was how easily you had let yourself be caught.

The initial shock of his obsession, the way he looked at you as if you were a miracle he was afraid might vanish if he blinked hard enough, had slowly melted into a deep, intoxicating security. You were no longer a face in the crowd. You were the center of his universe.

You sat on the edge of the massive, silk draped bed in the master suite of Wayne Manor, watching the moonlight spill across the floor.

The room was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic sound of the Gotham rain against the glass.

A door clicked shut. Heavy, purposeful footsteps crossed the rug.

You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel him. The soulmate bond, once a source of lonely longing, was now a constant, thrumming connection that acted like a second pulse.

Bruce stepped into the light. He had shed the armor of his tuxedo, wearing only a dark shirt left partially unbuttoned.

He looked less like a billionaire and more like the man you had met in the hallway.

He approached you, his presence filling the room until there was no air left that didn't belong to him.

He sank onto the bed behind you, his large, warm hands sliding around your waist to pull you back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. A low, contented sound vibrating against your skin.

"You're thinking again," he murmured, his voice a deep, velvet caress. "I can feel it."

"Just thinking about how much has changed," you whispered, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

You reached up, lacing your fingers with his. "How much you've changed."

Bruce tightened his hold, his arms circling you like a fortress. "I haven't changed. I've simply finally found the right reason to exist."

He turned you in his arms, forcing you to face him. His eyes were dark, swirling with that familiar, beautiful madness. Devotion so absolute it felt like a physical weight.

"Do you still feel like you're in a trap?"

You looked up at him, searching the face of the man who had studied your every breath, the man who had turned his entire life into a pursuit of you.

You thought of the fear you had felt, the unease at his intensity, and the way he had practically begged for a chance to belong to you.

Then, you thought of the way he held you now as if you were the most precious thing in existence, as if your very survival depended on his touch.

A slow, knowing smile touched your lips. You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his lip.

"No," you admitted softly, the truth settling comfortably in your chest. "It feels like home."

Bruce’s expression broke, a flash of pure, unadulterated relief crossing his features before it was replaced by a hunger that made your breath hitch.

He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction from yours.

"Good," he rasped, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Because there is no going back. You are mine. And I am never, ever letting you go again."

As he pulled you into a kiss that tasted of desperation and promise, you realised that the universe hadn't hated you after all.

It had simply been waiting for the moment that you finally stopped running and let the storm claim you.

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11K+ Words, 69K+ Characters, 1K+ Sentences, 900+ Paragraphs, 42 Minute average reading time, 1 hour and 6 minute average speaking time.

Read Dick Grayson’s part here.

Read Jason Todd’s part here.

Read Tim Drake’s part here.

How did things come to this? You have no idea. Having the "Wayne" surname is a blessing to say the least. Then how are you this in debt? Now that you realize... maybe you do remember. It's just too embarrassing to remember why. No, that feeling isn't embarrassment down in the pit of your stomach. Its something much more twisted. "Funny isn't it? Such a wealthy family yet you have not a single cent yet owe others what little you own." It hurts. It really does hearing such whispers. Growing up you never stopped hearing them. They didn't stop in a game of death either. Just for some petty change 455...455 lives are going to be lost. Last time you remember you didn't even know Gotham had that many people. Half of them are criminals. Of course they are. Gotham is filled with these people in every nook and cranny it can fit. No matter how much Batman works to keep it clean and free of bloodshed.

Your head looks up as a familiar group of pink guards come in. How did you get in here again? What is your name again? how long has it been? Does Bruce even remember you? Is anyone looking for you? So many thoughts so little time. Lets rewind it back a few years shall we? Before everything went off the rail? good. Because you need to remember. Why and How you are here.

Everything was...perfect before that happened. Your siblings were kind and loving and you had two caring and kind parents. A princess the media called. "The Cinderella of Waynes." Little miss perfect. However the word "Perfect" never truly stands forever no matter the context. Something will make it come crashing down. That is what you remind yourself every time you think about your family before the incident.

Your mother was (M/N). A powerful beautiful and lovely woman, and your father? The Bruce Wayne. Gotham founder and CEO of Wayne enterprise. But with money comes greed. You saw your mother with that man way before anyone else did. However you were only 8. How would you know what the context of cheating was? You just believed your mother. Unfortunately Gotham isn't a city where the word "believe" holds its meaning. Soon your elder brother Jason found out. Knowing him it was surprising how he didn't shoot his gun at her. Of course your mother made a run for it. Taking her man and a lot of money. Though that "a lot" was only felt by you since Bruce had an abundance of money. Though that didn't fix his broken heart. You remember the day clearly.

"Bruce you have to listen to me he is lying I have no other man!" your mother yelled out to him but Bruce just stood still. Even if his back was facing you, your child self could still understand he was seething with rage. "Get her out of here." There it was. His first words after 10 minutes of pure silence. "B, think calmly fi-" Your eldest brother Dick called out to your father just to get cut off. "I am calm. Alfred. Make her leave by sunrise." "Yes master wayne." The butler said before everything in your memory faded to black. What went after that? How did it go again? its hard to remember.

You look up to see its your turn to get the food taking the sandwich and milk you make your way to your bed trying your hardest to avoid unnecessary conflict. Sitting down on your bed shaken by the memory burnt in your brain never to leave any time soon. Some blood is still on your crisp white shoe they made every one wear. A few specks can be seen on the edge of your pants too. You look up at the counter. Around 80 people died in that game. You take the sandwich out of its wrap biting into it. It was chicken. Not that bad. Almost like a classic sandwich. You sigh at the memory of the game replaying in your head. You must look like a mad man with how close you are. But it doesn't matter. You can't afford enemies or allies in these games until you know what will happen next.

Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Your brain only musters enough courage to remember that. But you still force yourself too. You need to remember if what you saw was real or fake. It was that doll. It looked harmless but being with a family of people who want to keep you on check you knew that those eyes were cameras. And when the game was revealed to be "Red light Green light" you knew it wasn't just any camera. It was motion detectors. And your pathetic little guess was right. the little sniper heads poking out of the wall also did not help lessen the pressure on your chest. That is when the PA system called out. "1, 2, 3, start!" and the doll turned around. Singing with that childish voice too small for a size that big "Red light Green light 123!". The doll turned around the plastic face looking straight ahead as always but the eyes moving around. There was a woman who moved after 'it' turned. Because of a bee. And that is when everyone figured out what this truly was.

BANG!

that annoying PA system called out again. "Player 196 is eliminated". And there forth started the screams. People ran and begged for the door to be opened for the snipers in the wall to just shoot and kill off a quarter of the players. Bodies placed on each other. Blood on the doors. Blood on the floor for the people unlucky enough to not even make it to the door. Safe to say...You were scared. You don't remember much from what else happened. Everything went by in a blur. The shots the blood the bodies. Nothing you can remember. Why were you this unlucky? Why couldn't you just live normally once? those questions raced in your head like a horse in a betting game as you reached the finish line standing near the doll. Fuck that doll. You thought to yourself as you sat down to rest as the timer ticked. The doll was going faster and staying in red light for a long time. The people in the back will die. And seeing their face you know they know they will die.

You shake your head as a man calls you. 001 huh?...wait what did he say again? "I am sorry may you repeat that...?" He just chuckled and sat down beside you. "I asked why are you here. They showed you were only in like 20k debt compare to the millions here." His voice was smooth for a man that looked old as him. "I can't earn enough money for my college and university. My dad isn't going to pay me a cent I know that." "Aren't you a Wayne?" You almost wanted to laugh at how many times you heard that. If you got a cent for every time you heard that phrase. "No. I am (y/n) (l/n)." "(y/n) huh? well nice to meet you." He gave his hand out to me. You looked him up and down once before taking his hand and giving a shake. "It's going to become cold." 001 said out of nowhere. "Pardon?" You said looking at him "Your food. It's going to become cold." "oh" you only said that much before finishing your sandwich. The whispers around you grew quieter as the PA system came again "Lights out in 30." The big screen changed to a timer. 001 stood up before looking at you "If you need anything or want to be allies we can be a team together." He didn't say anymore and left. You threw away the plastic wrapping before laying on the bed. How long has it been since you laid on a bed with good mattress instead of a cheap sleep bundle? It was warm... and you had a blanket that was actually of good quality. You drift off to your sleep the small ring on your hand reminding you that you aren't completely out of the Wayne's grasps yet. This might have been the first time in a long while you slept a good night of rest.

"Dad?..." You call out to your dad who looks disheveled as ever after your mother cheating and running away came up. "Leave" His words were harsh the anger simmering for your mother's action going onto the person closest to that woman. You. "but dad-" "Don't call me that." Oh poor little you just never understood why everyone was like this. You walked around the halls watching how everyone who you tried to talk to would always snap or just tell you to leave if they had a inch of humanity for you left in them. You were a good child no? You got good grades you were always good while being out in public...then why are they treating you like this out of nowhere? This isn't fair...is it? And that is how the seed of insecurity was planted on your head. Ever little time you were brushed aside like a peice of furniture like you were another dusty souvenir on a shelf it jut made the plant grow. Roots started to form first making it unable to shake that thought out of your head. Slowly but surely the fruit was starting to grow in that plant of insecurity. Then the fruit ripped at the arrival of Damian Wayne. Your half brother. Of course you tried to talk to him only for the freshly out of assassination life child to pull out one of his swords and slash it across your face. He missed of course as you turned instead hitting your arm as his blade was long the wound was deep. A scar at least. And noticing this Dick instantly took me aside with Alfred cleaning my wound practiced precision like the ones Bruce has fighting as batman.

Dick's inner want to be a father type of character for his siblings came out as he spoke. Yet that wasn't for you. It was for Damian. "He is just a child. I was a child too. He had a tough childhood. I just want to be loved. Please forgive him. Won't you? for me?" You didn't know what happened. Your memory a blur but you still remember Dick's warm hand petting your head. Maybe you just nodded. Maybe you said yes. How long has it been since you were loved? Where you that touch starved that you don't remember a single thing except him petting your head? "I will come back to check on you soon" lies. You looked up at him as he left. Your head turns to Alfred as he finished treating your wound. "Are you alright ms.(y/n)?" "yes." You wanted to hug Alfred. He was...and still is the best of the best. The only person in the house you can call family. The only one that treats you like you are alive.

Before the last game.

You wake up to alarms as a shadow of a large figure with a yellow Bat on its chest. Batman. or better known your father. Bruce Wayne. He walks up to you the screen behind him showing the number of players left "1". Your blood runs cold You...won? You look at the bed of the other guy seeing him dead a knife at his throat. Right. He came for his wife and a few minutes ago news came that she died. A pathetic way to win. After all you can just never get glory. Your eyes land on Batman's. Red robin, Nightwing and Red hood not far behind looking around the room and checking it. Orphan and signal can be heard in the comms as they search the guards quarters with Spoiler and Oracle not far behind. Bruce's cold eyes looks down at you a shaky breathe leaves his lips keeping it slightly parted as he realized that I was safe. I was safe. I was safe. I was safe... "Why did you come here?" His voice was cold yet a hit of care can be heard if you listen closely. You wanted to laugh at how concerned he looked. Almost like he finally realized he has a daughter. "You left me with no money and no way to survive." You replied. Voice harsh. The same harshness that used to be used towards you while you were a kid from those you call family. "You could have called I would have lend you money!" Bruce raised his voice his eyes widened ever so slightly almost like he was scared he came to late. "You never answered." So many things in your head yet none come out. "You are coming home with me. Now. Oracle get all the information about this place and the people that run it. Fast. Nightwing go with (y/n). Take her back to manor." "Batman. I don't need your help." Your voice came out stiff yet your goal was the same as it was for all these years. To be heard for once. "This isn't help. I am bringing my daughter back to where she is supposed to be. And you aren't leaving the manor for a long while. Until I figure out that you are safe." "Now you remember I am your daughter? right...If I was missing then the Wayne name will be tarnished. That is why you are here." "No you got it wrong-" "Save it. You left me in the dirt while you walk in silk. Don't you dare act like you deserve the right to be like my family when only Alfred took care of me." "Sis, calm down lets go back home." "Stay out of this Nightwing. I don't need your help. Ever since that day... I was treated nothing more than a dusty picture in a frame. I was thrown away by you all. The people that the media calls my family." "(n/n) come home with us please. We realized our mistakes we want to start new." Jason's voice cut through. Soon the lights came back knowing time was running out and the fact that they didn't want me to die in a place where they won't ever see me again. They did their last ditch effort to take me back to where it's 'safe' or safe to them. "Tim, blue pineapple." Damian called out with Tim giving a slight nod before you felt a sharp pain on your neck.... A syringe. You looked at Tim who was behind you as everything faded to black.... You wanted to go home. Its cold. It hurts. Will you ever find your mother again?

Your first life had become a shitshow that was kicked off by a car crash. The car crash killed your mother and injured you. However, it also lead to a mess when your father was asked to donate blood.

You see, your parents had a drunk threesome with Bruce Wayne, and turned out you were bruises biological child. This led to being shipped off to live with him.

You try not to think about how your father, the man who raised you, didn’t fight for custody. You try not to think about how he didn’t even speak to you after the funeral and how no matter how many times you called, he never picked up.

Bruce didn’t raise you. You were 13 when your mother died and you knew from the beginning that he did not want you around. He mostly had his butler Alfred look after you, even picking you up from the airport when you first arrived. Your impression of him was that he was closed off with everyone.(that was only partially true. He was closed off, but he was a lot more open with the people he considered his kids.)

None of your siblings tried or even thought about having a relationship with you. You tried reaching out, desperate in your grief for some sort of connection, but they weren’t there. They were like ghosts watching you, drown in a sea of loneliness and grief.

You didn’t chase after them. Your mother had taught you better than to beg for love.

You search for validation in school, but you would never be the popular type. Besides, moving to Gotham, had put you at a disadvantage as you were surrounded by children who had grown up together, most of which were rich kids raised rich. You felt utterly alone, and it was very hard, not to sink into the depression that you could feel at the back of your mind. The only kindness came from your math, teacher, Mr. Jamison, who would let you sit in his classroom during lunch and was always willing to listen to you.

It wasn’t until years later that you’d understand he was grooming you. He never got far, since he died in a scarecrow attack two years after you arrived, but as you got older, you recognized how odd it was for a teacher to be that touchy or How weird it was for a teacher to offer for student to stay at their house

You left home at 17 with the suitcase that you had had at 13 when you arrived and a positive pregnancy test that you took after a one night stand. Alfred was the only one who said goodbye to you.

Out of all of the people in that house, Alfred was one of the only people you could forgive. He tried at least. You recognized that.

After you moved, you got into magic, which eventually led to your patron, a goddess whose name was lost to time who had been trapped for centuries in a statue, you found at an old Wayne property that hadn’t been visited in decades. Your patron taught you to harvest the magic that was already in you, giving you a feeling of being alive that you’ve never truly experienced before.

You had two beautiful months with your twins and your patron. Two months of bliss and happiness and feeling truly loved for the first time in a long time.

Two months of true joy until the day your son was killed during a battle between the justice league and a sorcerer

Your patron had taught you about magic and how your type of magic could call on other pees and tell your emotions amplified your magic. You would only realize too late that the magic user had its own patron, a being of insanity and chaos that saw your grief and tried to funnel magic into you to cause problems. They didn’t realize the madness that they had given to the sorcerer would funnel into you (then again, you had never been the most stable)

You became like a supernova, destroying the world with your grief. You took over the world and coded it in blood with only your rage as a guide. Most of the world was rubble by the time you started to calm down, but the madness in your mind and in your heart never ended.

You spent almost 18 years ruling over the world in your hatred and madness. The survivors who you did not take as yours formed or rebellion that you often sent your servants to fight. You preferred to look for ways to bring back your son or to spend time making sure your daughter was safe. You wanted to shield her from all of the monsters outside. (Shield her from the monster you became)

She did know, though. She knew about the madness that consumed you and the atrocities that you had done. She saw the flickers behind your eyes, the constant fear in your gaze. She saw your pain. She never saw you as a monster, always seen you as her mother, but she knew you were not Good for the rest of the world. You were a good mother, but you were not a good person

You never realized her friendship with the rebellion. You never heard about how she would sneak down to the dungeons where your servants kept rebels. You didn’t know about her friendship with Bart Allen. Didn’t know about how she confided in him about your tragedy, even if her version of events was distorted. Your daughter never truly knew everything that happened to you. She didn’t know anything about her father. (a one night stand that had been more of an act to reclaim your power and independence than it had been about any real desire or love.) she didn’t know how her brother had died, only that it had been sudden and that the justice league had been involved (She knew your grudge against them for her brothers death. She just didn’t know that her brother had been collateral damage.)

Your daughter died during one of the only fights against the rebellion that you ever joined in. She died from a ricocheted bullet bleeding out in your arms as you tried desperately to help her. Your magic ran wild, energy swirling in the air. (Unknowingly fueling the Time Machine the rebels built to send Bart back)

You didn’t feel the tug on your magic as the machine activated, but you did feel when your madness was ripped from you, and you could finally see everything you had done with clear eyes. You screamed and grief and pain, unaware of the red haired boy with tears in his eyes watching you before he turned and ran through the portal the machine made. You were unaware of the machine, getting ready to explode, but your patron, who had become so weak after spending so long tugging at your madness, gathered the last of her magic and attached your soul to the machine.

You felt a light kiss on your forehead and a whisper of “Stay safe my priestess. Find peace and happiness in this new life.” Before the world shattered and everything went white.

You wake up abruptly, your skin against cold linoleum and itchy fabric that you remembered oh so well pressed tightly against your skin. Your eyelids fluttered open, and you see a dead man’s face looking down at you with concern.

When everything hits you as to what happened, you barely manage to get out a choked “Bathroom” before pushing yourself up and sprinting to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before puking.

You heave over the toilet for a few minutes before you are done. You spend a moment just sitting sprawled on the floor before pulling yourself up, gripping the top of the toilet paper container like a lifeline.

You stumble over to the mirror, and gaze into it. You look the exact same as you did when you were fourteen, right down to the fading freckles. Your lungs squeezed as you breathed, and you’re reminded how out of shape you were at this age. It took you moving out and having two energetic children for you to start moving around and exercising more, and after causing the apocalypse, it was even easier to lose weight. It was something oddly comforting (even if you know you will have to deal with it earlier)

You can’t stop looking at your reflection. Intellectually, you had always known you looked very similar to your daughter, but now all you could see in your reflection was hers. You have to choke back a round of sobs

It takes ten minutes before you are willing to leave the bathroom. You stumble towards Mr. Jamison’s room, relying on muscle memory to guide you. Seeing his face brought forth another wave of nausea, but you force it down.

“I think I’m sick.” You croak out. Now that you know to look for it, you see the barely veiled anger and frustration in his eyes before he masks it with fake concern, and you barely manage to disguise your disgust as holding back vomit.

Luckily, he seems to buy it, though he insists on bringing you to the nurse. You try to hide your discomfort at his touch. Luckily, it’s easier to pretend you are sick when someone is making you feel physically ill at their touch.

The nurse doesn’t even bother taking your temperature and just lays you down on a cot, insisting you lay down since “you look like you can barely stand”.

She tries to call Bruce twice, but he doesn’t pick up (you feel a pinch of old bitterness in your heart, but you’ve long given up on that man ever being there for you.) She calls Alfred next, who picks up on the second ring.

You doze as they talk, feeling the weight of everything starting to settle over you like heavy smoke. You don’t really know if you truly fall asleep, or for how long you sat there, but the next thing you know, the nurse is helping you up and guiding you out to the sidewalk in front of the building, where the car waits.

You vaguely notice the worry in Alfred’s eyes, and remember how this would be the first time you had been picked up early due to sickness. In your time with the Wayne Family, you had gone to school sick too many times to count, hoping that your perfect attendance would gain some semblance of approval or acknowledgment. (It never did, and you felt both sorry and embarrassed by your younger self now. Mostly embarrassed about how many times you must have infected other people)

The nurse helps you into the backseat, and you just slump into it, feeling your exhaustion hit you like a freight train. You knew Alfred would panic at your silence, since you never could stand silence in the past and would constantly try to fill it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You were still reeling from seeing your daughter die, and from coming to the past. You had no energy to give to trying to act like your old self.

The drive was quiet as you thought. You could vaguely remember your patron’s words, but the exact wording was becoming harder to remember. The madness was gone now, but now you were left with the guilt of all the innocent people you had killed, all the things you had destroyed (all the mothers you had forced to feel the same grief as you). Your heart ached and you had to choke back a quiet sob.

You barely noticed when you arrived back at the manor, too wrapped up in your memories of what had been but never would be. Alfred opened your door and helped you up, his movements gentle. His warmth brings you back to the present, making you cling to him like he was a lifeline. (He was real. You could feel the warmth of his skin. He was real and you really were in the past)

Alfred was rarely caught off guard, but you were certainly making him feel off balance. The call itself had been a shock, since he knew you were well that morning, not to mention how much you prided yourself on your perfect attendance.

He also knew you had a test today, one you had excited rambled about on the way to school. The thought of you faking it was easily dismissed. You cared too much for your academics for you to do that

He was shocked to see the nurse supporting you as you walked to the car. She had told him you were unwell, but you looked as if you had been in a warzone. Your eyes had the same shell shocked look of many soldiers, and your body shook slightly as he assisted the nurse into helping you into your seat. (The nurse informed him how you had no fever, but you had vomited and been shaking.)

The biggest sign of something being horribly wrong was the silence. You were never quiet, always tapping or humming or rambling on about something, if you weren’t asking him to play something on the radio. The silence was almost suffocating, and when he glances back at you at a red light, you look like a shell of yourself, your eyes glazed over and your body completely still. (He turned on the radio when the light turned green. You didn’t seem to notice.)

He helps you out of the car and could see how you react to the touch, leaning into it as if it was a drug and you were hooked. (Were you touch starved? He couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged you, and it was unlikely anyone else in the manor had. It wouldn’t explain all of your symptoms, but it explained why you leaned so deeply into his touch)

He supports you on the way to your room, practically carrying you up the stairs (you couldn’t focus on your surroundings or how heavy you must have been to him, relishing the feeling of being held.) He tucks you into your bed like a child, smoothing a hand over your forehead, noting how you leaned into it (and how cold it was). He moves to leave, but you grab his hand. (You know your being selfish but fuck it, you saw both of your children die and are now a child again, you deserve to be selfish)

“Stay, please.” Your voice is fragile, but it’s the first thing you have said since he dropped you off this morning. Alfred knows he won’t be needed for another few hours. Usually, he spends this time cleaning, prepping for dinner, or doing the mountains of laundry that came from the Wayne Family. He should be doing those things.

Instead, he pulls over your desk chair next to your bed.

“Of course, my dear.” The endearment slips out, but you don’t seem to mind it. He stays by your bedside, reading a book on your nightstand and running his fingers softly through your hair as you fall asleep.

He sits by your side for almost three hours before he has to leave to pick up Master Damian from school. (During that time, Alfred does his best to soothe you as you mumble pleas of mercy and forgiveness in your sleep. He mentally notes the names you let out, promising to do his own private research on them later. For now, he can only soothe you until you sink into a dreamless sleep.)

(Neither of you are aware of the magic spark in your belly. Your patron may have sent you back, but your own magic had dragged two souls back with you. You missed your children too much for your magic to leave them behind)

Edit: I hope you all enjoy this! I’m not sure when the next part of any of my series will be out, but I promise I will work on them eventually. Hope you all are having an amazing day.

The next few days are absolute hell. Alfred was constantly worried about you. He barely let you out of bed the first day after you came back, and it took him three days to agree to let you go back to school. (To be fair, you knew you weren’t acting like your old self. You did try, but it had been almost 20 years since you last saw him, and the majority of that time you were cursed and/or mourning, so you were a little rusty.)

Luckily, your lack of fever helped convince him, as well as promising to call him if you needed to go home early. The fact that it was a Friday also helped.(You couldn’t miss anymore days. You didn’t want to risk changing things before you were ready to deal with the consequences.)

School was much louder and much more crowded than you remembered. Then again, after the apocalypse started, you had gotten used to being alone or with only a few people. While your body is still 14, your mind

It was only after you arrived at school that you remembered a fact that had been very important to your younger self. Mr. Jamison taught two of your classes. One class was on Monday and Wednesday right after lunch. The other, however, was your last class of the day on Fridays.

You knew he noticed when you didn’t go to his classroom for lunch. You tried to hype yourself up for it, but you ended up just spending that time in the library. You couldn’t make yourself face him right now. (It was almost ironic. You, the person who had destroyed the world and killed most of the heroes, were afraid of a thirty year old man who taught math.)

You slid into your seat just before the bell rang, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his eyes on you, and it made your skin crawl. Throughout the class, you only answered questions when he called on you and didn’t raise your hand at all. You didn’t want attention.

In hindsight, trying to avoid him probably wasn’t the best idea, since at the end of class he asked you to speak to him privately for a moment. You nearly puked when he put his hand on your shoulder and asked how are you were doing. Your mouth moved, and you could vaguely hear yourself explaining that you were feeling a bit better, but still nauseous, but it was distant, almost like another person was saying it.

You carried a short conversation with him, but your mind didn’t focus. You went on auto pilot, keeping all of your focus on not punching him or puking or screaming. (you may have underestimated how much of an effect he had on you at the time.)

Finally, you managed to excuse yourself, claiming your ride needed you, and you raced to the school gate. However, when you got in Alfred‘s car, you weren’t alone. Tim was sitting next to you, typing on his phone and not paying attention. You barely heard Alfred explain that Tim needed a lift to Wayne Enterprises over the blood pounding in your ears.

It took a few minutes for you to calm down. No one seemed to notice your panic thankfully, with Alfred more focused on driving and Tim focused on his phone. Your breathing slowed and you allowed yourself a moment of rest,

Then, you heard the screaming and something changed.

(you never forgot the screaming the day your son died. You had left them with the babysitter for the first time, since you were interviewing for a job and you didn’t want to bring them to the interview. You were on your way home and had just gotten a text from the nanny about how she had taken the kids to the park when you started hearing the screams. It always seemed like the screams followed you as you ran.)

(The screams didn’t stop when you found your dead nanny, when you searched the rubble and found your crying daughter and your lifeless son. The Screams didn’t stop as you looked up to see the battle still raging, and Superman brushing rubble off of him from being thrown. They only stopped when you made it stop.)

(you made the screaming stop by becoming stronger. He became stronger to protect the only one left. You needed to protect her.)

Tim never really thought much of you. You had only joined home a year and a half ago, and while you seemed like an OK person, you weren’t very interesting. You didn’t even know about their vigilante identities, and Bruce had told him not to tell you.

Tim had never really thought that much of you. Until today.

He heard the screaming a split second before you grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the car. He would’ve protested if he’d have the time, but instead, he just watched as you also hauled Alfred out of the car. Alfred was clearly confused, but followed along a lot easier than tempted. You dragged the two of them as if you were on auto pilot looking for shelter. Your grip was like iron.

Tim looked back after hearing something only to realize that the car had been demolished by a building. Even if they had driven at their fastest speed, if they had still in the car, it would have been damaged or even crushed by the building.

You pulled them over to a shoulder. Screaming wrong in your ears, overlapping with the old screens, but you’re desperately focused on what you could. You remember this attack. You had been in this attack before. Scarecrow would be attacking the surrounding buildings for another 15 minutes before Signal distracted him.

Then, you realized where he was attacking in something inside of your mind snapped. He was attacking a playground, one where you could still see some children who were trying to breathe through the fear toxin. In a split second, your mind cleared.

You remembered your breathing mask in your bag and immediately took it out. You could tell that Alfred and Tim were trying to talk to you, but their voices were like static. You got your mask on and double checked that you had things that could work as masks for the other others. And then you ran in.

It became methodical almost. You ran into the gas, grabbing the children two at a time and bringing them back out of the cloud. You handed most of them off to either Tim or Alfred or the other people who slowly started gathering at your part. You didn’t know how long it took scarecrow to notice. But the next time you went into the gas, he approached you.

His words were like static in your ears. Your vision tunnel and all you can think about was how much of a threat he was. You weren’t sure if your mask was failing or if it was just your own mind, but scarecrow started looking like the sorcerer that day. Your mind kept flashing between the two and the blood rushed in your ears.

Duke didn’t know what he had been expecting when he arrived on the scene, but it was not seeing Tim frantically cradling two children, while a gaggle of civilians, surrounded them, talking to the kids and directing them. Alfred himself looked torn between soothing the child in his lap and going into the gas. You could also hear scarecrow screaming, but it wasn’t his usual laugh that sounded like a scream. It was real screams of pain.

He went into three after putting his mask on. He didn’t know what he expected, maybe that red hood or Nightwing had gotten there before him, but he definitely didn’t expect to see you, the only civilian in their family, beating scarecrow with a metal bar that looks like it been taken from a swingset. Scarecrow looked rough, and for a moment he thought you were under fear toxin, but when he got closer, he noticed your mask.

Still, he put his hand on your shoulder, trying to talk to you. When you turn to him, he froze. Your eyes were flashing, cycling through colors like a pinwheel. Your face wasn’t angry, or scared, just grim determination.

You didn’t know how long you’ve been hitting him. You didn’t know how long you had even had the metal bar. The only thing you knew was that everything went great for a brief moment or what felt like a brief moment, before there was a hand on your shoulder vigilante talking to you.

You let signal lead you out of the gas in a days, feeling numb. You barely noticed that he was carrying scarecrow behind you or that scarecrow was unconscious and bloody.

You only really came back to yourself when you felt a small tug on your shirt. You looked down to see a child who looked barely two, smiling at you. You slowly pick the kid up, your hands automatically going to the correct places to hold the kid. You listened to the kid gush about how cool you were and how he had been so scared but you found him and were you a hero?

The childish voice grounded you. You held the toddler (whose name was Liam) as the paramedics, who had apparently arrived just after Signal, started treating the adults. (Liam explained how the paramedics had checked on the kids first due to Tim insisting and showed off his Batman bandaid from where he had been injected with the antidote.)

You only let go of him when a paramedic came over with Liam’s father who took his son in shaking arms. The paramedic checked you over and gave you a shock blanket.

You were guided over to Alfred, whose hand was big and skinny but unquestionably real. You ignore Tim staring at you with bewilderment and Alfred’s lecture that quickly died when he realized you were holding his hand like a life raft. Instead, he pulled you into his arms and you breathed.

(Tim gave his statement to the police while you stayed tucked in Alfred’s grasp. The police wanted to interview you, but Tim wasn’t afraid to use the Wayne name to get them to leave you alone. He couldn’t stop looking at you. You were so small in Alfred’s embrace, looking nothing like the person who had stumbled after Signal. Your blank face had been terrifying, and had felt something twist in his gut when Signal told him that you didn’t seem to react to any sounds, even though he had figured as much after you started going into the noxious gas without responding to Alfred’s yells or his own shouts.)

(He would never admit how relieved he felt when you picked up that kid, or how his breath had caught when you smiled at the child in your arms. (He wanted you to smile like that at him) He tried to ignore his jealousy as you practically collapsed into Alfred’s arms. There were more important matters right now, like making sure the cops left you alone and getting his little sister home.)

(He didn’t even realize this was the first time he had thought of you as his little sister. He was so wrapped up in his concern that he didn’t even realize how you had stopped just being Bruce’s daughter in his mind to being his little sister.)

Edit: I hope you enjoy! This is getting darker a lot faster than I thought it would, but I’m not complaining. Let me know in the comments what you think!

You don’t know how you got home without the police questioning you, since most of your memories are very distant. You vaguely remember Alfred calling someone, and a very quiet car ride, but after handing over Liam, you had zoned out for a bit.

You had had episodes like this in your first life, mostly after the apocalypse started. You would lose time, nothing would feel real and you’d come back to yourself later. (Once, your daughter was injured by a survivor you had let in. It took you a day to come back to yourself, but when you did, the traitor’s dead body was hanging from the gates and your daughter was asleep in your bed, with the door barricaded.)

You came back to yourself back in one of the manor’s many parlor rooms, your back against a very plush cushion, and holding a warm doll. You opened your eyes (you didn’t remember closing them) only to hear a clicked tongue way too close to you. You immediately let go of the doll boy you had been holding onto. You immediately brace yourself for some scathing critique of your actions, but all Damian does is click his tongue again and leave the room, returning a few moments later with Duke, Tim, and Alfred, who was holding a tray of food.

You can tell they all have questions. Tim looks like he has so many questions that he could burst, Duke looks wary, Alfred looks concerned and vaguely sad, and you weren’t even going to try and read Damian’s expression. You awkwardly reach for the tray, leading to Alfred putting it down on a small table he pulls in front of you.

Thankfully, you manage to get through eating with minimal questions and lying. Alfred reassured you that all the children are safe and the Wayne Foundation had covered all expenses for their medical care. (All of the kids were given checkups and treatment for exposure to Fear Gas.) Thankfully, everyone thought Signal was the one who beat up Scarecrow, and none of the witnesses told the cops anything different.

When you asked about giving a statement to the police, Tim told you he had used the Wayne family name to get you out of it. (You didn’t bother to remind him you had always been Y/N L/N, not Y/N Wayne)

Tim did ask about how you knew to get out, but you just stayed quiet, and he oddly didn’t push, though that might have been due to the Look Alfred was giving him. Alfred quietly tells you that you were not going into school on Monday, and that he’d decide if you could go back on Tuesday or Wednesday. You started to protest (what if the timeline was further fucked up?) but you didn’t have enough energy to argue for too long.

The rest of the night was oddly quiet and you barely had to spend longer than a few minutes in the parlor before you were able to excuse yourself to your room to get ready for bed. (You don’t notice the microscopic camera Tim planted in your bag.) It doesn’t take you long to finally fall asleep,

You wake up silently screaming, bile rising up your throat as you stagger to a bathroom and let your guts out. The images of your daughter’s broken body next to your son’s, one tiny and one bigger but still too small, is burnt into your retinas, and you can already tell you aren’t going back to sleep for a bit.

You don’t even bother trying to go back to your room, knowing that the white walls will only make you feel worse. Instead, you let your muscle memory guide you to Damian’s art room.

You had started painting in the future-that-won’t, as a way to bond with your daughter, but you had found genuine enjoyment in making abstract paintings, and had used it as a way to cope on the nights that your mind screamed for blood.

It’s 2 o’clock in the morning when you break into Damian’s art studio, holding only your phone and headphones. You ignore the paintings Damian has hung along his walls in favor of grabbing three blank canvases and several paint pallets. You turn on your headphone and within minutes you have a playlist of songs that remind you of the days before the apocalypse, back when you had toddlers who insisted on dance parties in the living room and lullabies at night. You put your phone down, and face your canvas

Damian doesn’t know how to treat you. Before tonight, you were an unremarkable person who was unjustly gifted his father’s blood. You were a blip on his radar, a minor inconvenience to plan around, and he rarely (if ever) truly thought of you. (he had noticed Pennyworth’s distraction as of late, and his concern about you, but had dismissed it…. Until tonight.)

He had already been home when Signal radioed the Batcave, and had been in the foyer when Pennyworth and Drake brought you home. (Your eyes were too empty. Your body was too stiff. You looked like a soldier, but your eyes…. They were like Father’s; dark, empty and hollow.)

When you came back to yourself, he focused on you for once. While he is not as gifted in reading people as Cain, he still noticed the tension in your shoulders, the slight flinch when Drake asked how you knew of the danger, and the momentary turmoil in your eyes when Pennyworth told you you would not be going back on Monday.

He remained silent after you went to bed. While father was in space on a mission, he had forbidden Damian to patrol alone. Drake was working on a case with Gordon. Todd, Brown and Cain were patrolling, while Grayson was still in Bludhaven. While Pennyworth had insisted that he try to sleep early, he felt too restless to sleep.

It’s 4:35 in the morning when he hears a small sound from his art studio. He immediately retrieves his sword and approaches it, preparing to use his phone to inform Pennyworth of the situation when he hears the humming.

He looks in and sees you. Your back is to him as you paint and hum. He spots your headphones, and briefly wonders if he should alert you to his presence. Instead, he silently closes the door, sits in a chair by the door, grabs a sketchbook, and starts sketching absentmindedly as he watches you.

Your painting style seems both abstract, patterned and emotional. You constantly switch between standing or sitting, even occasionally moving your chair to a different angle. However, what he finds most interesting is how you switch between two canvases.

The first canvas is a chaotic splatter of blacks and reds and greys. At one point, he sees you just flick your paint brush, letting the red splatter across the canvas. (He notices that red is the only one you splatter like that, while the greys and blacks seem more layered.)

The second canvas is more orderly but bizarre. You were seemingly using two of his smallest paint brushes and were painting two small symbols he didn’t recognize over and over again in different shades of the same four colors.

It’s 5:12 when you finally stop painting. By then, both pieces are fully colored, and you can tell you will be throwing away the first painting. (It looked too much like the first days after your son died, the blood and ash and dust clouding your sight.)

You turn and freeze when you see Damian sitting by the door. He looks annoyingly calm, clearly using his charcoals to create something.

Your emotions are twisted, the combination of your recent dream, your haunting memories, and how looking at him right now reminded you too much of how much you both looked like Bruce (and how his appearance was too similar to your son) led to you doing something you wouldn’t usually do.

You approach him quietly and hand him the abstract painting before just going to your room, clutching the painting of the runes close to you. (Y/D/N loved purple and yellow, while Y/S/N loved green and blue more. You hadn’t realized it at the time, but you painted the runes you had carved onto their doors as children in their favorite colors.)

You hang the second painting on the back of your door (a reminder of your best creations). You sit and stare at it for a while before you finally lay back down, but it’s the last image you see in your mind before drifting off into a dreamless sleep)

Y/D/N means Your Daughter’s Name

Y/S/N means Your Son’s Name

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They thought fighting criminals and solve world-shaking conspiracies was hard enough, but turns out nothing prepared them for these kind of battles. The ones fought with carefully calculated words and perfectly rehearsed smiles behind cups of expensive drinks or fans. There's no "villain" or henchmen to defeat, only a horde of venomenous snakes trying their hardest to bite them when they least suspect it. The weapons are rumours and the shields the amount of money in the bank accounts.

Imagine Bruce's daughter having to teach Cass and Steph how to dress, how to talk and how to move, because members of high society will look at them through magnifying glass and the slighest detail they spot that's out of norm can and will be turned into their downfall, so every single detail about their appareance has to be measured and chosen with purpose, down to the colors to the brand of make up to the lenght of their eyelashes.

"These people don't miss anything. They'll use any opportunity to take you down, so there's no room for mistakes. If the high-heels hurt your feet or the dress itches you, bite your tongue and smile."

"By the way, everything we're doing is possibly being recorded. Just because you can't spot them, doesn't mean there aren't any cameras.

Imagine Mrs Wayne having to keep a firm grip on Damian's shoulders the whole time because the boy keeps trying to sneak out for air (aka, ditch the event and probably fight some criminals) and she can't have her husband's son to run off like that because it would tarnish their hard-won reputation and "Damian, be a dear and leave that knife where you found it. If you stab someone it's going to be a PR nightmare to deal with."

(It's not like she cares whether he stabs someone or not during the event. Won't be the first time things get bloody on these things, because rich people can't handle their liquor. She just doesn't think the headache that follows afterwards is worth it)

Imagine having to teach all these emotionally stunted, some even socially awkward young crime fighters, to deal with the annoying press, dodge knives (both metaphorical and literal ones), read the room, say the right things at the right moments, dress up accordingly to every possible situation, avoid certain people and stick to others regardless of your personal feelings about them, keep a graceful facade the whole damn time, and the most important:

No. Sharp. Things.

You want to fight someone? Insult their entire lineage or pour your drink over them, that's the standard. You can also plot their downfall from afar. But pulling out weapons is considered "too low" and "unproper".

(Jason wasn't very happy about it)

Speaking of Jason, he rarely comes to the events because he's "legally" not part of the family anymore (he's dead lol), but Mrs Wayne forces him to come to a few and only a suicidal fool would say no to that woman, so Jason Todd shows up in a tuxedo she specifically chose for him and with his hair done by her too. Bruce's daughter finds him incredibly useful to scare off annoying suitors.

Dick used to do plenty of these as a kid, but he's lost a lot of experience through the years. And he's very dissapointed when he learns that "no, you can't make acrobatic tricks on the chandelier, Richard. That thing costs more than the catering already. Keep your feet on the ground."

By the end of these things, they're all forced to admit that, well, maybe being the civilian ones of the family and mingling with high society isn't all sunshine and rainbows...and maybe these poor girls have more merit for enduring it all than they were given.

Damian: "I must say, your self-control is impressive. How do you manage to mingle with these clowns every other day without strangling them is beyond me. Perhaps...you aren't quite as useless as I originally believed."

Mrs Wayne: "Why thank you, dear. It actually becomes easier once you learn that there are better ways to make someone pay than by strangling them."

Damian: "What do you mean?"

Mrs Wayne: "Oh, nothing you need to know, sweetie. By the way, if you see Mr Harrison turn blue all of a sudden, don't say anything. It's a normal thing in these parties ❤."

Daughter: "And remember, when in doubt, follow the Triple G rule."

Cass: "What's that?"

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

see?

he knew it.

he could make it all easier; he wanted to do so.

he could take the tiredness, the stress, the sadness…

earth was such a scary place to live in, but it didn't have to be.

he didn't want it to be for you.

and he knew you would try to live all by yourself, he knew you were persistent and would try to fight and keep going, because that pretty head of yours was so stubborn.

but he told you, he told you he was there for you, and he was always one step ahead, planning how to fix everything for you, how to turn things your way.

and still, that wasn't enough.

of course it wouldn't be, because you insisted on being away from him, living in a small and dull apartment.

he knew it wouldn't be good for you; being independent and intending to deal with so much stress by yourself.

so he prepared everything in advance, waiting for the moment you finally realized life would be so much happier and lovelier if you ran to his already outstretched arms.

when he heard your voice on the phone one day, that oh so lovely and pleading voice, asking if he could come see you, he was there in a heartbeat.

because, again… he knew this moment would come eventually.

there you were; his poor baby, crying non-stop and clinging to him as soon as he entered the door.

you looked tired, drained, exhausted.

you just had to push it, didn't you?

you had to push it until you eventually faced the consequences of your actions.

and god, did he hate seeing you so broken, even when you had to learn your lesson one way or another.

“oh, sweet baby…”

he softly cooed, caressing your hair and pulling you closer.

he kissed your forehead tenderly, and then he looked into your eyes with the softest, most loving gaze ever.

“i'm here. i'm finally here.”

you truly felt tired, you didn't know what to do anymore, and he just… he got you. he always knew what you needed.

he kissed the tip of your nose, and then cradled the back of your head so you could rest it on his chest.

“hm, there, baby. i'm here for you, i'll take care of everything.”

how could you turn down that tempting offer?

you nodded, looking up at him. even when you didn't fully understand what that implied, you trusted your long-time friend to take care of you, as he'd been asking for all of these years.

“good…” he whispered, kissing your forehead afterwards. “let's go, yeah?”

and the life you knew before was swept away in less than twenty-four hours.

it only took one shaky “yes” on your end, and he took you with him.

no clothes, no belongings.

you wouldn't need them, anyway.

the drive was quiet and a little bit blurry.

you had fallen asleep in the back of the car, after caleb gently brushed the bridge of your nose to help you relax, just like when the two of you were little.

you woke up in a strange place, but it felt familiar, warm, homey.

your favorite scented candle was lit, the couches had the prettiest pink cushions, your childhood plushies were carefully placed all over…

you explored the kitchen, and the cabinets were full of your favorite snacks, the ones you used to sneakily eat as a kid, and those cookies you thought they'd stopped making.

the bathroom had your usual body wash, your favorite flowers to keep the space fresh and fragrant, as well as two toothbrushes.

for him, and for you.

he watched your reaction intently, trying to avoid panic, discomfort or any negative reaction out of you.

however, you were taking everything in with wonder and curiosity, mostly because your current state of mind didn't allow you to further analyze the situation.

his hand hovered over your lower back, and he guided you to the main bedroom.

“you can rest here, baby pips. no one is going to hurt you, no one is going to rush you, no one is going to demand anythin' from you. not anymore.”

he promised, gently caressing your head.

and as he helped you lay down, he took your phone out of your pocket.

you turned your head around, clearly wanting to ask what he was doing, and he smiled.

that boyish smile that always managed to comfort you.

“you don't need it, pips. not here. i'll handle everything, like always.”

and you remembered all of the times he had handled everything. from the bullies, to the fights with friends, and even to those nights when you called him, saying how the world felt too big, too harsh, too dangerous and cruel.

his eyes warmed upon seeing how you gave in without noticing.

“you've always been mine to take care of, baby.”

and he knew better.

he always knew better.

you closed your eyes, the weight finally slipping from your shoulders, and you finally fell into a peaceful slumber.

“...and i'll make sure you always are.”

caleb whispered —swore— still with his hand on your head.

always gentle, always reverent.

always there for you.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

he was constantly lurking, constantly appearing, constantly watching.

whenever you weren't looking, he would stare.

and he would notice every single thing.

if your eyes looked a little bit more tired, if your skin looked dull…

he would mentally trace your features with so much intensity yet so much gentleness that not even being on high alert would let you notice his gaze.

recently, though, he noticed all the small changes.

one would say it is extremely difficult to see someone's appearance change from one day to the next.

but he could.

he studied you as if you were his favorite masterpiece.

as if he had to study each stroke, each shadow, each color used, and even those tiny details that only a skilled artist would add to such a beautiful piece.

you were perfect, absolutely perfect.

however, he could pinpoint exactly what part of you seemed different.

not only physically speaking; also in your demeanor.

and he knew you also noticed those changes in yourself.

but you were too tired and defeated to do something about it.

yet he couldn't blame you nor complain.

you were such a sweetheart, always worrying about everyone else and putting yourself last… but he wouldn't let you, not anymore.

when you went to his house, looking quite different; consumed, downcast, out of your usual sweet self, he smiled.

not because your current state was humorous to him.

but because enough was enough, and you would finally, finally see it and understand what he'd been trying to tell you all this time.

“my pearl, look at you…” he whispered, outstretching his arms to hold you. “you’re fading.”

you wanted to speak, to justify yourself, but he shushed you so, so sweetly, almost as if dealing with an injured and small creature.

“no, no, don't, cutie. you'll convince me that you're fine, but are you? hm?”

he lifted your chin and tilted his head, looking into your tired eyes with worry.

you felt like crumbling under his loving attention, and obviously, you couldn't lie to him any longer.

he kissed your forehead, and after holding your cheeks as if you were a delicate, precious seashell, he took you to his bedroom.

on his bed lay a half-opened suitcase with scattered clothes, some of which you could recognize as yours.

it seemed like he was caught mid-preparation.

but in reality, he had this ready months ago.

he guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling between your legs to gently undo your shoelaces.

“there we go. can't have you walking around when you're so tired, can i?”

he took your shoes away and gently caressed your legs, kissing your knees and up to your thighs reverently.

when you tried to speak again, he softly nibbled on your skin, looking up with those pretty eyes.

his long eyelashes fluttered slowly, as if it pained him to stop looking at you, even for microseconds.

for you, his gaze was genuine and pleading.

for him, it was coaxing and urgent.

extremely so.

“you’ve done enough, my pearl. you've given enough, too. now just… allow me.”

he reached for the suitcase and pulled out one of your favorite fuzzy, pastel-colored sweaters.

one you thought had gotten lost during one of your trips with him.

he slipped it over your head, as if you were too fragile to dress yourself.

“so much better.”

the soft color made you look better already; brightening up your features.

even when you felt dizzy and overwhelmed by everything, you couldn't find the strength to speak up and show him you were still self-sufficient.

not when he was fixing your hair, the collar of the sweater, the sleeves…

and when you finally felt some peace after having a chaotic, stormy mind for a long time.

“we’re going home, my pearl.”

he smiled, and soon stood up to close the suitcase.

you had never heard him refer to anything other than his own house as “home”, so you felt confused.

but when he pulled the suitcase with one hand and used his other arm to swoop you up and carry you away from everything, that doubt became blurry.

just like the drive here.

you woke up to the deep scent of salt and the gentle waves singing a lullaby, even in the coldest of nights.

the place was surrounded by nothing but rocks. big, algae-covered rocks, and an endless ocean no matter where you looked.

everything was beautiful, undoubtedly.

the high roofs carried the most gorgeous chandeliers, and the white curtains flowed softly as the gentle breeze sneaked through the french windows.

and even then, in every room, you could find yourself.

your comfy pillows, your favorite slippers, glass jars with all the seashells you found pretty yet always returned —too sweet to steal them from hermit crabs.

portraits of you adorned the place.

some of them you knew about; you had even seen the sketches.

but the ones you'd never seen before? they looked real —almost like photographs— as if he had caught your soul in them.

his devotion was clear, and every corner carried your likeness and essence.

his lips brushed against your ear, his voice as gentle as the ocean's pulse outside.

“rest, my pearl. you're home.”

his warmth engulfed you entirely, and at least for a few seconds, you felt safe enough to forget there was nowhere else to go.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

sylus was letting you play around.

or at least, he did for a while.

cats were independent and adventurous, and he wouldn't want to take that away from his lovely kitten.

so he just watched as you went on with your life at your own place, still happily visiting and spending some time with him every day, and allowing him to stay some nights with you.

but it wasn't enough.

never enough.

and now that he's seen how stressed out you are?

how you stay awake, unable to quiet down your mind or relax, for at least a few hours?

do you have any idea how much it pained him to see you struggling?

to see you sulk, cry, or temporarily avoid your hobbies because you couldn't find the energy or motivation to do them?

it broke him.

him; the seemingly unbreakable and indestructible man, found himself shattering when he saw you anything but happy.

yet, he stayed quiet.

it wasn't because he wanted to ignore you, far less to diminish your pain.

oh, no.

he was controlling everything, very, very carefully.

every sob, every tear, it was almost as if he kept them, counted them, all until they overflowed…

and, inevitably, you'd come looking for him.

he knew it would take too long, because you were so optimistic and hardworking despite the awful circumstances.

but he also knew how fragile your sweet soul was, and he wanted to lure you in.

almost like catching a stray kitten and bringing it home.

to a safe, warm, and loving home.

so, every time you went over to his place, he waited with your favorite warm drink and your favorite blanket.

he had all the time in the world for you, so you never had to beg or wait for his attention.

when you were happy, he would give you even more reasons to be, by giving you different gifts, engaging with you in whatever you asked him to do, and kissing you until you were a giggly mess.

when you were feeling down, however, he would listen to you attentively, caressing your knuckles and holding you against his chest.

until his heartbeat became everything you needed to calm down.

and slowly, without even realizing it, you began to tie every warm, safe feeling to him.

he knew exactly when you were going to finally break down and come to him, and you did.

you appeared at his doorstep, with those pretty eyes reddened and puffy.

you automatically sought him out, clinging to his chest as soon as his eyes landed on yours.

“kitten…”

his deep, comforting voice rumbled against your trembling form, and he held you instantly, picking you up and guiding you to the privacy of his bedroom.

casually, everything was ready and waiting for you.

the pastel pink pajama set you had left at his place, a comforting snack, your favorite movie playing in the background.

if it wasn't because you felt so weak and broken, you would've questioned why everything looked so… staged.

but right now? everything was exactly what you needed; what you knew he would provide for you.

and he held you, of course. he fed you, changed you into your pajamas, reassured you, kissing away your tears and making you see just how warm and safe your world could be if you let him help.

and since you've been struggling for a long time to find a solution that just… made everything bad disappear, hearing his words gave you hope.

because he would never lie to you, and he had shown time and time again how capable he was of providing a safe space for you.

“you do not have to go back there, sweetie,” he whispered, and the cold tip of his nose met yours. “unless you want to?”

you quickly shook your head.

the idea of leaving his embrace and facing once again the coldness and hardships outside sounded like hell right now.

he smiled, but you couldn't catch it.

“then i will keep you right here, kitten.”

and he doesn't mean here, in his bedroom.

he means here, as in his arms.

because he'd take you away as many times as he had to, but you would always be protected under his wing.

when you finally fell asleep, floating on the dreamiest clouds while he whispered sweet nothings to you, he quietly stood up and carried you away.

when you stirred, you noticed the air around you was warm and eerily still.

different.

the bed was softer, and it was wrapped in the coziest, prettiest patterned blankets which smelled like him.

you were surrounded by some of your belongings, most of which shouldn't even be here —yet were.

trinkets, snapshots, clothes, plushies he'd won for you…

there were no city sounds, no windows either; at least not in the bedroom.

when you walked outside, however, you noticed the place was stunning.

and the only thing keeping you from panicking was sylus' scent and trace in every single room.

his footsteps approached with a steady rhythm, and his shadow fell on your back.

“go back to bed, kitten,” you quickly turned around, and his intense gaze found yours before he cupped one of your cheeks. “you're right where you belong now.”

and as his thumb brushed your cheek, you found yourself believing it.

because how could you not believe your safe person?

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

the situation had been manageable for a few months.

he lived close, he was always visiting you or crashing at your place, under the pretense of needing something, or wanting your help.

but most of the time, he liked it when you came over to his place instead.

there, he could keep you within reach, know exactly where you were, and be absolutely sure that no other person could even look at you.

furthermore, he could ensure your well-being and know exactly what you needed, watching you in a domestic setting where you usually let your guard down and allowed yourself to be needy and honest.

he would act clueless, naturally.

he would ask vague questions, look at you in silence, pretend to be resting just so you could fully be yourself and show how you truly felt by crying or writing your feelings down —which he would later read.

and recently, now that you've been feeling different, he's been “resting” more.

obviously, he did this because the last thing he wanted to do was drive you away by asking lots of questions.

and knowing you, he knew you would lie to him and say everything was fine.

so he just observed.

when you thought he was just peacefully resting under your covers, without a care in the world, he was observing.

when you came home and found him there unexpectedly, sitting on your sofa, you thought he had fallen asleep waiting for you.

but he hadn't.

he wanted to see how many times you came back home looking defeated.

how many times you sighed, how many times you threw your bag away as if it carried all of your heavy burdens.

and when you least expected it, he was already taking matters into his own hands.

he was sneaky, he could surprise you, he could appear out of nowhere and startle you every single time.

but tonight?

he made himself known.

his footsteps echoed as he entered your apartment.

he already knew where to find you, and when he did, he approached.

you couldn't read his expression, nor did you question why he suddenly burst in.

after all, he'd been like this for quite some time, so you were used to it.

“my starlight.”

before you knew it, his coat was wrapped around your shoulders.

his hands were steady —as steady and gentle as his voice.

“no more.”

is all he says.

what does he mean by it?

why is he quiet now?

he brushes his thumb under your eye, and he confirms what he already suspected.

you'd been crying.

“xavi…”

“shh.”

he quietly tapped your lips once, as if trying to shut them down.

“you've carried enough. no more.”

he nods subtly, as if reassuring his statement.

because he was certain, and he meant it. he wouldn't allow it anymore.

he pulled his coat tighter around you, as if wanting to surround your space with him.

with his love, his scent, his peacefulness.

“come.”

he stood up and outstretched his hand for you, almost like a prince inviting you to dance.

a never-ending dance.

you stared at his hand, and then up at him.

it was a gentle command.

subtle, because he knew you wouldn't refuse.

and you obviously didn't, as you took his hand in yours and your eyes became watery.

“you trust me.”

no, he wasn't asking.

he was stating.

he knew that you would question him, that you would question your loyalty if he gave you the chance to think about it, so he assured you.

and he was so convincing that you agreed, nodding weakly.

he pulled you up and carefully lifted you into his arms, carrying you away.

where? you didn't know.

he took you to the roof, where he helped you decompress under the moon, with soft caresses and longing kisses on your lips.

your skin was glowing thanks to the moonlight, and he made sure you were loved enough to finally fall asleep, totally worn out and blissful.

when you woke up, it wasn't to the city noises, as when you two usually napped in this same spot.

you woke up to a dim artificial light, to the warmth of the coziest quilts, the snuggliest pillows, all of your plushies arranged against the wall.

close; but not enough to replace xavier as your sleep companion.

he was waiting, sitting on a comfy armchair in the corner as he read a book.

when you stirred, he glanced up before putting the thick book away, approaching you with a soft smile.

your mind was hazy, almost as if you were dreaming.

the place smelled familiar, the room had pretty and shiny trinkets, as well as luminous star stickers on the roof.

they were carefully arranged, though; each one creating a constellation, like the ones he had taught you about.

you were in your own little galaxy, yet the walls felt… suffocating .

it was safe, but cramped.

he laid down and curled up behind you, pulling you close.

“you've been under the wrong sky for too long, my star.”

and despite just waking up from a long, much-needed sleep, you felt drowsy again.

“this one is better,” he murmured against your ear, noticing how your eyes fluttered closed.

“xavi, where are we…?”

he tangled his legs with yours before kissing your nape.

“far enough,” he closed his eyes too. “yet close enough to never let you go.”

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

he had it easy.

you were just so sweet and loving, so understanding and attentive…

he could keep an eye on you, but never really intervene unless he deemed it necessary.

after all, he just needed to use his knowledge and unlimited love for you to understand his point of view and get away from harm's way.

he truly had it easy.

until you started to crumble right in front of his eyes.

no sleep, no lunch, no smile.

just a lost expression and constant naps during the day —and never out of tiredness; always out of fear.

fear of facing your problems.

fear of your burdens getting stronger, or worse.

fear of them increasing.

you listened to him at first.

when he told you to talk it out, when he told you to come over so you could properly eat, when he offered you to stay the night so you two could sleep together…

but you distanced yourself more and more, and now you only visited his office before going straight back to your home.

you wouldn't listen now, not even when he talked to you as your primary care physician.

that's when he got scared —because if you didn't listen to him, who would you listen to?

he decided to start visiting you instead.

he went to your house, cooked for you, brought pastries, stayed until you fell asleep.

yes, he had offered all of those things before.

but now he just went over and did them, no questions asked.

“zaynie, i don't—”

“it is in your best interest.”

“but—”

he just needed to turn around and look at you.

his piercing eyes were always gentle for you, but you also knew that his word was law, so you'd usually quiet down and let him pamper you.

on the low, though, zayne was meticulously arranging his detailed plan.

he was a man of action, and he needed to ensure everything went smoothly upon your realization.

he was always right; and you just needed —as always— a bit of guidance, because you weren't dumb.

at all.

you were just naive and persistent.

unable to recognize when the situation had spiraled out of your control, until you fell in too deep.

and you really did fall quickly —and during the week he was the busiest.

it was very late, and he drove to your place.

he walked to you, looking mindlessly out the window; the food he made was left untouched, and tears streamed down your face, one after the other.

sleep deprived, again.

his breath hitched, and you turned around.

“zayne…”

you weren't in the mood for lectures.

yet he didn't want to lecture you.

he walked up to you and cupped your face.

his fingertips felt cold against your skin, but his eyes?

oh, his eyes had this warm intensity, as well as a doctor's precision, as if he were evaluating every detail of your current state.

“you are dehydrated,” he noted when he brushed your skin with his thumbs. “how long have you been crying for?”

you looked down.

hours; he knew it already.

“how much more are you going to take?”

you didn't know how to answer.

his questions were making you think, and the more you did, the more you… realized.

good.

he tilted your chin up and kissed your eyelids, tasting your tears without intending to, yet not complaining either.

he nuzzled your head with his cheek, and held your nape to pull you closer, until your arms shakily fisted his dark coat.

his arms tightened around you, and you felt grounded after floating aimlessly for a while.

“i let you make your own decisions,” he spoke again, and you looked up. your cheek was squished against his chest, and he looked down at you with tenderness, but also seriousness about the situation. “and look where that has brought you.”

you wanted to say that it wasn't that simple; that you didn't choose to feel like this.

but he is a doctor.

he knows; you know he does, so what he is telling you must be meaningful and true, right?

“i let you try to prove me wrong, but you did not. you could not.”

you swallowed the shame, knowing he was right.

“right now, you are not capable of making the choices that will keep you safe,” he continued, his voice now quieter. “so i will be taking them for you.”

he pulled back and took your hand, walking with so much familiarity around your place as he headed to your bedroom.

he pulled out your favorite bag and packed some of your pretty sweaters and cozy pajamas; the ones he couldn't retrieve secretly before, as he knew you would notice.

you, oh so sweetly, followed and sniffled.

“where are we going…?”

he carefully folded everything, and then he looked up at you.

“on a trip.”

he took your hand gently, and you tensed up while you two exited your home.

it wasn't apprehension; it was a mix of relief at not having to decide anymore, and fear of not feeling better even after doing something you loved —like traveling with zayne.

during the drive, you asked some questions, and he made sure to answer, even if vaguely.

he purposely took the long road, knowing you'd fall asleep in no time.

and when you woke up, it was already daylight.

it was snowy outside, the windows were frosted, the wood panels creaked, and the warm fireplace cast an orange glow on your sleepy frame.

it smelt like jasmines; it felt cozy, and there were dozens upon dozens of bookshelves with books zayne had recommended to you before.

his arms were wrapped around your waist, and his lips remained pressed against your forehead, as if giving you a reverent kiss that he intended to last forever.

“slept well?”

he whispered, and you, thinking this was just another trip, nodded, already feeling better under his care.

“we will stay here for a while.”

forever, he wanted to say.

but that would never escape his lips.

“zaynie, what about your work…?”

he hummed and nuzzled your cheek.

“no thinking, my love. rest.”

and his warm voice made it sound easy, like he was offering you a vacation.

one with no return.

Rafayel:

“We’ll always be friends right?” You remembered the little human girl with pigtails asking as you and Rafayel stood around her. All of you were children back then, playing together on the beach as you always had that summer.

“Of course!” Rafayel barked enthusiastically. Meanwhile, you only nodded, quietly watching them both giggle together. 

You and Rafayel’s families have been close for generations. Your ancestors were always chosen as retainers for Rafayel’s noble family members. This is why you both were raised together. You were being primed to become his attendant. This fact made you believe you and Raf were bestfriends, but seeing how easily he and the human girl got along with each other, it made you question your belief. This tormented your 12 year old self, and you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling jealous. Why did Rafayel like her better than you? He only met her this summer, while you knew him your whole life!

“Y/N! Why are you standing there all grumpy! Come play!” Rafayel snarkily asked before approaching you and grabbing your hand. Your cheeks heated up from the contact, and you nodded and followed, like you always did. For the rest of that day, the three of you played for hours. Circling between swimming, making sculptures in the sand, playing tag, or playing make believe. As always, besides the ache from feeling like a third wheel, you had a fun time, laughing along with the other two.

By the end of the day, all three of you were out of breath. Sitting on the sand, watching the sunset, while enjoying the juice boxes MC brought. As you sipped on the tangy mango juice, you briefly looked to your side and saw MC and Rafayel leaning on each other. Speaking in hushed tones although they were in their own world. The pang in your chest returned, and all your young self could do was close herself off. Holding your knees to your chest, and looking at the sky, feeling alone and outside their orbit. After an hour passed, MC got up and wiped off the sand on her skin.

“It’s getting late. I have to go before they discover I left. I’ll see you both tomorrow, bye!” MC gave a wide grin before jogging away. You could see Rafayel pout as she left.

“I wish we could take her underwater with us. She’s my bride, we shouldn’t be separated.” You sighed before sitting right next to him and giving him an encouraging smile. Despite your feelings, he was your priority.

“I know, but we’ll see her tomorrow.” Rafayel whined before getting up and reaching out to you.

“Okay, let’s go home.”

…

Unfortunately, you were wrong. After that night, you both never saw that little girl again. You and Rafayel visited that beach several days straight after her disappearance, but she never came back. The longer she was gone, the more irritable Rafayel got. You tried to comfort him, and later to convince him to give up his waiting, but he remained stubborn and would lash out if you pushed too hard. You would both stay on that beach for hours, waiting for a girl that would never show up.

His stubbornness came to a head during a stormy day. Under the water, you could see the dark sky and the rapid waves. You knew it was too dangerous to go to the beach that day, but Rafayel wouldn’t listen. You begged and pleaded for him not to go, but he didn’t care. He had to see his bride no matter what. You saw his small form vanishing into the large waves, and your heart immediately dropped. You were afraid to chase after him, but you were his retainer. It was your job to protect him. So, you tried to follow behind him. Unfortunately, since you didn't possess the same godly powers he had, it was a lot more difficult, even with your tail. You were constantly pushed around by the swirling sea. 

Miraculously, the waves shoved you to shore, but you could barely walk. The dizziness and exhaustion made you barely able to move. All you could do was crawl on the sand, desperately calling Rafayel’s name while the harsh winds blew rain and hail onto your weakened and freezing body. It felt like hours before you finally found him, sitting below a palm tree, curled up. 

“Raf” You called before using your last ounce of strength to walk up to him and kneel next to him. He didn’t react to you, he sat there silently, while large pearls fell from his eyes.

“Raf, Raf, please we have to go home.” No response. You shook him aggressively. You were desperate to leave the beach. Since you’ve arrived, the sky has only darkened, the lightning was approaching, and the wind and rain had gotten too strong. “Raf, please! Look at me.” You grabbed his cheeks, forcing him to look directly into your panicked eyes.

“This is too dangerous, Raffie. We have to go home now, please.” You could feel the young sea god trembling in your hands.

“She promised me she would come back. Why would she abandon me?” You frowned and took a breath before hugging him as tightly as you could.

“I don’t know, but I’m here Raffie. I’ll always stay by your side.” Rafayel nodded slightly before returning your hug and nuzzling against you. Momentarily, you felt safe until you heard a monstrous cry. Both you and Raf quickly looked up. Appearing on the beach’s shore, blocking your exit was a beast covered in oceanic crystals. A creature you both recognized as a deluge wyrmlord. You looked at Raf and you could see his face go white. As part of your education, you both learned how to fight, and have defeated lower leveled wanderers before. However, nothing this strong. The monster seemed to be observing the two of you.

“What are we going to do Raf?” 

“Wyrmlords usually attack from far away. We can’t fight it, we can only run. We need to split up and not look back ok?” You could hear your heart drumming in your ears, yet you bobbed your head, and looked to the young man for his signal. The moment he nodded back, you ran as fast as your small legs could take you across the beach, which wasn’t far. Your previous exhaustion and the cold sand freezing the skin of your legs and feet were debilitating. Every step was a struggle. Your feet would constantly either get stuck or freeze, but you had no other option. You had to push through. That meant even when the monster roared and began throwing crystals in both your directions, you moved forward with your heart skipping a beat after every dodge. 

Towards the end, you were short of breath, but near the water, near to safety. You smiled at the prospect of being in the clear, when you heard a grunt from behind. You weren’t supposed to, but you glanced back and noticed Rafayel on the ground. He had slipped and was now stuck in the sand. You could see him desperately trying to free himself while the beast took notice. The wyrmlord twirled towards him, before sending another barrage of crystals in his direction. Your heart stopped. You had to make a quick choice. Abandon him and get help, or save him, disregarding yourself. The choice wasn’t hard.

With all the might you had left, you ran towards him and pushed him out of the way. Clearing him from the attack, but putting you directly in line with it. After hearing the whizzing of the crystals flying past you, you felt an excruciating pain. The last thing you recalled was squealing and Rafayel’s mortified face before blacking out.

…

The next time you woke up, you were back under the sea. Lying on your bed, all bandaged up with your parents, Rafayel’s parents, Rafayel himself, and your tutor around you. You sneaked a smile to Raf, but he only looked away ashamed. Your heart wrenched when you realized his eyes and nose were red and puffy from crying. You wanted to reach out and comfort him, but suddenly, your tutor started to speak.

“Y/N, Rafayel, you were extremely irresponsible.” He proclaimed looking down at you two with his arms crossed. You immediately felt a pit of shame in your stomach. “You both should know you aren’t supposed to be going to the land on your own. You are too young! It can be dangerous, and even worse, you both went during a storm! This is completely unacceptable.” Simultaneously, you and Rafayel bowed and apologized. Your parents all stayed silent, either fuming, or worried in the background. Meanwhile, your tutor glared and continued:

“And Y/N!” You flinched. “You are supposed to be Rafayel’s keeper. You should have known better and stopped him. How do you expect to be his retainer while being this reckless?” Rafayel furrowed his brow before standing up.

“It’s not her fault! I’m the one who pushed to go today, and the days before. She was just following my idea. I’m sorry, teacher, and I’m sorry Y/N.” Rafayel’s eyes were misty, as he bowed to you. You could feel your own eyes tearing up. You grabbed Rafayel’s hand and gave a reassuring squeeze.

After the storm, as children, you and Rafayel never went back to your beach again. Instead, you both left your childhoods behind and focused on the roles you were assigned. Spending day and night sharpening your minds and skills. You, being groomed to be Rafayel’s right hand and weapon with your new scars around your body being a reminder of your sacred duties. While, Rafayel was training to act as the remaining Lemurians’ Sea God. Everything was going to plan to the contentment of both your families, but your course in life changed when Rafayel’s parents died. You both were only 18. 

It was a tragic affair. Even as his retainer, you weren’t given privy of the exact details. All you knew was, like so many Lemurians, his parents were victims of human greed. Killed for their scales and blood. After their death, Rafayel was different. For the first year after his parent’s death, he was despondent. He did everything as he was instructed by his tutors, but he was lifeless. Following orders and completing his responsibilities like a robot. You missed him terribly during that time. He barely spoke, or laughed. You would try interacting with him, but it felt like you were talking to a wall. It was lonely, but you still remained by his side. Sitting next to him, even when he refused to talk back and acknowledge your presence. 

However, during that time, you noticed he started to pick up art, mostly painting. He did it briefly before, but he seemed more fascinated with it now. Multiple nights, you would watch him paint. Watching him paint strokes onto a canvas, feeling hypnotized by the angry movement. You admired the beautiful pieces he would create, but a part of you was disturbed as well. Initially, most of his pieces were realistic depictions of blood in the waves and sand, or bodies rotting in seawater. You watched cautiously, aware it was most likely a method to cope with the death around him, but it scared you. Had all his grief, abandonment, and responsibilities crushed and destroyed the boy you cared about?

Although it was bleak, you remained faithful and waited, until one day, you noticed his paintings transform. His paint strokes became less angry, instead more focussed and delicate. He stopped painting the sea in red, rather, they would be painted in beautiful hues of orange and pink. He even widened his subject scope. He started painting people, including you, different places like beautiful flower gardens, or cityscapes you’ve never seen in person. He would even answer when you asked him questions about his work while cracking a small smile. Your heart beamed with joy at his recovery, especially when he gave a quiet thank you for staying. You remembered the wobbly smile on your face, and tears building up in your eyes. Rafayel returned, but what you didn’t realize was that your Rafayel had a new goal in mind.

One day, out of the blue, he invited you to his study room that was converted to his personal studio. You entered the room, and it looked the same as usual. Messy, with paintbrushes and tools around the floor, and pieces scattered everywhere. In the middle of the room, you spotted Rafayel on a ladder working on his latest piece. You laughed to yourself, seeing his concentrated and scrunched up face, and moved to meet him while evading the clutter on the ground.

“Good Evening My Lord.” You bowed deeply while giggling as you saw Rafayel roll his eyes at your formalness. “How may I assist you today?” The man scoffed before climbing down the ladder.

“Can you please stop with the “my lord” address. We’ve known each other for 20 years, I thought we were past formalities at this point.” You chuckled again before leaning on the ladder. While relaxing, you glimpsed his new work. It was a beautiful slender, pale woman with warm hazelnut hair and eyes lying on the beach. She looked familiar. 

“Beautiful isn’t it?” “It is, who is that woman?” You asked, feeling suddenly irritated.

“You don’t recognize her?” You shook your head. “It’s my interpretation of what I believe MC looks like today. Actually, she’s why I wanted to speak to you.” You were hit with a wave of nausea as you sighed. Here he goes again with MC.

“What did you have in mind?” You asked robotically. Rafayel smirked before walking around the room, circling around you.

“I need your help with my current plan. I am leaving the sea, and going back to land.” Your eyes widened. Considering everything that’s happened, you couldn’t believe he would want to return there.

“Why? Isn’t it safer to stay here? You know how ruthless humans are with us Lemurians?” Rafayel’s lips pursed before continuing.

“I know, but I can’t stay underwater hiding away forever. I want to live, Y/N. I want to explore art further, not just by myself in this room. I need to be out there to help our people. Also, I need to find my bride, MC.” 

Guess I wasn’t enough.

Disheartened, all you could do was stare down at the ground.

“If that’s what you want. Who am I to stop you.” All you could feel was sorrow from the news. You finally had your best friend back and he was going to abandon you for the land, for MC? You had the urge to escape, you bowed and were about to take your leave, but suddenly, Rafayel grabbed your hand.

“Impatient are we? I haven’t even finished. I want you to come with me?” He said it nonchalantly, but he was staring at you intensely. 

“I don’t know Raf I-” His brow furrowed, and he had a small pout on his face. He looked absolutely adorable. You knew he was exploiting your weakness.

“Please, I need you Y/N. I won’t be able to do any of this without you. Please.” You sighed before firmly squeezing his hand. 

“Of course I will help you. I’ll always follow your lead.”

…

A month later, you both packed up your bare essentials and moved to the surface. It was nerve-wracking, but luckily, Rafayel had inherited some money, properties, and vehicles from his parents. So, you both were able to easily get by. Although you both were lucky, neither of you laid around. Rafayel started training under the best artists on land, while you focussed on the tasks your boss demanded. Besides helping any Lemurian you could, your other goal was to find MC. You needed to keep an eye on her, and make sure Rafayel was updated.

Finding her wasn’t as difficult as you assumed it should have been. Searching online, and hacking various databases, you were able to pinpoint her in Linkon city. Apparently, she was studying to become a hunter, which should have been obvious to you considering her former obsession with Lumiere. Once you found her, as often as you could, you would watch her. Writing down every detail about her and relaying the information back to her groom. 

Unfortunately, watching her made you more frustrated. When you both were younger, she was the cuter one with her rosy cheeks, large deer-like brown eyes and pigtails. Now, she was even more stunning. As Rafayel predicted, she was slender, tall, had porcelain perfect and unscarred white skin, long silky chocolate brown hair, and almond shaped eyes that matched. 

The worst part was what Rafayel didn’t guess. She was courageous, strong, kind to all around her, and hilarious. You knew by her spitfire personality, she would match perfectly with Rafayel, and that was the biggest problem. You tried to deny it over and over, but your heart wouldn’t listen. As you both grew up, Rafayel also became more handsome and charming. Especially, when he stopped following what everybody else wanted and pushed for his own desires, while still willingly helping your people. He grew into himself and it made you fall hard. However, although your crush on Rafayel completely absorbed you, you kept it all under wraps. You forced yourself to realize the cruel reality. You were at most his friend. You would never be his bride, or the woman he loves. In fact, you kept repeating to yourself, one day, he will move on from you and pursue MC. 

…

Unexpectedly, a few years passed and you were still waiting for your abandonment. Rafayel had stopped studying, and began his successful career. He was the new hottest artist in Linkon City. He was doing so well that he hired a manager, and had exhibits every month. You thought once his career took off, he would finally pursue MC, but even when she graduated and became a hunter, he refused. 

Instead, he started acting strangely. The change started slowly. Surprisingly, the first thing to go was MC. You noticed he asked you to keep an eye on MC less frequently, until he stopped inquiring about her completely. It seemed he was content playing house with you since he insisted you both remain living together at his beautiful mansion next to the beach. You justified it by his need for his retainer, but he started demanding your presence when you had free time. Even pouting when you refused. 

Another odd change was how he treated you. It was subtle. When you spoke to each other, he would be more flirty. Dropping in the occasional pet names. Joking around about “how you belonged to him”. He also always needed to be touching you. Either he would hold you in his arms, put his hand on your back when guiding you, or even just lay his head on you. You even caught him staring at you a few times. It all made you jittery. You loved the new attention, but you couldn’t deny the truth. You knew you were a temporary fix. Perhaps he believed he wasn’t good enough for MC, and decided to settle for you. You aren’t exactly sure why he wasn’t chasing her, but it hurt. You hated living in a fantasy, so you decided to push.

During the winter holidays, typically, it was just you and Rafayel, and sometimes Thomas’ or Talia’s family would join you. Otherwise, it would be you and Rafayel, huddling together, enjoying each other's company while drinking hot beverages. As your mind always did, as you had your head on his shoulder, watching the fireplace, you couldn’t stop wondering about MC. Your mind would spiral. Would Rafayel have enjoyed this moment more if it was his bride in his arms? The thought made you feel sick, and you couldn’t take it anymore.

You pushed yourself up from your seat on the couch and away from his hold. He looked at you quizzily.

“Someone looks sick, too much rum in your egg nog?” You crossed your arms as you stood in front of him.

“That’s not it, I just need to know. Why aren’t you pursuing MC?” Rafayel looked briefly at you shocked, before going back to his relaxed facade.

“Why? Are you that desperate to get rid of me?” You huffed.

“That’s not the point.” Strangely, he smiled more at your statement. “I’m just confused. You had me essentially stalking her for years. I gave you so much information on her, more than you actually need, so what gives? You aren’t scared are you?” Rafayel rolled his eyes.

“Puhlease! Do I seem the type to be easily intimidated? I just want to be sure before I try anything. You know us Lemurians don’t do things without complete dedication. I need to make sure I’m ready.” 

Not ready?

“Rafayel I don’t understand you?!” You began taping your feet erratically. “I’ve given you all you need to be ready. What are you so unsure about? Honestly, this is starting to get annoying and a bit pathetic.” Rafayel placed a hand on his chest, aghast. You knew you were going too far, but years of frustration wouldn’t allow you to stop now. 

“Excuse me Y/N?”

“You heard me.” You began to pace around the living room. “It’s pathetic. Playing house with a woman you don’t even love, while your true love, your bride is practically served to you on a plate! I’ve given you every advantage, every opportunity to chase her, but you refuse. I don’t understand, what are you so afraid of? Tell me so I can help you instead of pathetically accepting the bare minimum.” Rafayel glared at you, and you could see a tinge of light blue glowing in his eyes. You knew you pissed him off.

“Is that what you think of me? That I’m a pathetic loser, too scared to try?” Rafayel got off the couch, and standing much taller than you, looked down. “Fine, if I’m a pathetic loser, what does that make you?” He asked. You blanched and your throat dried up. You could feel your body cowering away.

“What-what do you mean?” You stuttered, backing away from his fiery presence.

He couldn’t have found out what I feel for him right?

“Come on, don’t act like you haven’t been holding yourself back too?” He jeered while cocking his head, analysing you as though you were an enemy. “I know you have feelings for me, yet you haven’t ever said anything either. Doesn’t that make you as pathetic as I am?” You suddenly felt dizzy, as though your world was turned to the wrong axis. You couldn’t breathe or think. All you thought of was escape. You started to hold yourself, and glared directly back, though intentional looking at his nose instead of his piercing sunset colored eyes.

“It’s different!”

“Really.” Rafayel scoffed with a predatory smirk. “How?” You could feel the years of resentment towards him, towards MC, and especially towards yourself finally coming loose. 

“Because I never had a chance!” You saw Rafayel’s smirk quickly fade and his face distort to contemplation. “I’ve always known my place in your life Raffie. I am nothing more than your scarred retainer. I’m not your bride, or the woman you love. Me expecting more is foolish. So maybe I am pathetic, but at least I’m not a coward like you! If I thought I had a 1% chance of you loving me instead of MC, I would have done anything to have you! But, I’m not delusional, so don’t you compare us, it isn’t the same.” Rafayel’s eyes and mouth opened wide. You could see guilt in his gaze. He was pitying you. Despite the years in his service, being his right hand, now that he knows how you feel, he is looking down at you. The shame was too agonizing.

“Don’t you dare look at me that way!” You pointed at his pitiful face. “You know I’m right, but you refuse to accept it.” Your vision was getting blurry. You were begging yourself not to cry in front of him. “You know what! I don’t need this.”

Leave, leave, leave, leave, leave, leave, leave.

Briskly, you turned and walked away. While turning, you briefly saw his face turn pale and heard him calling your name, but you couldn’t face him anymore. You just needed to get out.

…

It had been a week since you last saw Rafayel. Since your departure, you’ve been renting a hotel room, hiding away from everyone. Unfortunately, you couldn’t resist checking on him. Daily, you would check his latest posts on his personal and business moments pages. He seemed fine and happy. By the posts you couldn’t tell, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he seeked MC out. You hoped for the best for him, but you were too embarrassed to face him after your tantrum and especially after he found out your secret. 

For most of the week, all you did was lie down in your bed. You didn’t feel the need to eat or drink. You just lied there rotting away, unsure on what to do anymore. You had revolved your life so intrinsically into Rafayel’s. Without him you were lost. It was sad, but it’s how you were grown to be. You were like a parasite that lost its host. You knew he would prosper without you, but could you without him?

I really was the pathetic one huh?

On one such gloomy day, you were lying down. Feeling numb to everything around you and trying to think of what you should do next. You couldn’t stay in this hotel room forever. You thought about returning to the sea, but being the first retainer in your ancestry to abandon their master would make you a disgrace. You wouldn’t be accepted back by your family. You sighed while scrolling on your phone, when it began to ring. Thomas was calling you.

Why?

You wanted to ignore him, like every other call, but you had nothing better to do. You sighed and answered dully. 

“Hey Thomas, what’s up?” “Y/N, thank God you finally answered! Have you seen Rafayel?” This was a typical question, but you noticed panic in Thomas’ voice, which was unusual. Your heart began to race.

“I haven’t seen him in a week, why?”

“Y/N, he hasn’t been taking care of himself since you left. Now, he’s missing. I can’t find him anywhere!” Your body turned ice cold.

“Have you tried checking his location?” “I tried, but his location was turned off for me! Can you check your phone?” While your fingers shook, you quickly clicked your location app. His location was still on for you.

Maybe he forgot to turn off his location when I left.

You took a deeper look and realized his phone was in a ditch.

…

After sending the location to Thomas, you drove as fast as you could to where he was. You were closer to this location, so you knew you would make it before Thomas. Immediately, as you drove in, you found his red Porsche sunk in a pool of mud and water. The driver’s seat was completely immersed. Your heart sank. You knew he couldn’t drown, but what if he was hurt.

“Raf!” You were petrified as you ran towards the car. You were about to dive into the filth, when you heard someone quietly call your name. Spinning around, you saw Rafayel, drenched in mud, sitting on the dirt beside the body of water. You were annoyed, but mostly relieved. Besides a few visible scratches, he looked ok.

“Raf, you idiot!” You yelled while pearls fell from your eyes. “You worried everyone! Why didn’t you call for help?” Rafayel frowned and shrugged.

“I don’t know. It’s just another shitty thing to happen. Honestly, I needed a break.” You groaned before sitting beside him, not caring about the dirt. Momentarily, you studied him before asking.

“Are you alright?” Rafayel nodded and laid down on the ground. You were repulsed. 

He really shouldn’t be lying on the dirt like that.

Despite your disgust, you continued:

“Good, you scared me, you know that.”

“I thought you didn’t care about me anymore.” You sighed before turning towards him.

“I’m sorry for my outburst last time. You know I care about you, right? That’s the only reason I’m pushing you towards MC. Hell, do you think I would be willingly sitting in this mud if it wasn’t for the fact that I care.” Rafayel chuckled before turning to look at you as well. You could see his ears and cheeks turning pink.

“Y/N, you don’t know what it does to me when you say things like that. You are so clueless.” You pouted at the implication. He chuckled before gazing at you intently. “Do you want to know the truth, why I haven’t been pursuing MC?”

Did I really want to know?

You were dreading it, but you had to find out the truth. This is what you needed to snuff out any hope you had left.

“Why?”

“Because of you.” You raised your eyebrows.

“Me? What do I have to do with it? Did I do something wrong because if I did I-”

“No, you didn’t. I just hate waiting.” You cocked your head in confusion. “All this time, I feel like I’ve been constantly waiting for MC. Waiting for her to come back to me, but you never made me wait. You’re always there, beside me when I need you. Even now, you “left”, but you still came to my rescue. Also, you’re really hot, and kind, and loving, and smart, and you can kill someone in less than a minute. Which is also extremely hot.” You felt intense heat in your cheeks. He inched closer to you as he continued longingly. “What I am trying to say is that you are wonderful. I was so confused. I remember fragments of my past. I remember loving MC and her being my bride, but I don’t feel that way about her anymore. It’s you. I’m in love with you.” 

Your eyes began to tear up. You could hear the cacophony of thuds from the pearls falling from your eyes to the ground.

“Are you sure?” Rafayel gave you a crooked smile and stroked your cheek.

“Of course I am. I love you Y/N.” You smiled widely, planted a kiss on his lips, and wrapped your arms around him. As you held him, you closed your eyes to savor the ecstasy, and could still feel his smile as you moved your lips against his. While kissing him, in your core, you felt a pleasant warmth. As time went on, the kiss converted from delicate and hesitant to more vigorous and desperate. He kissed you as though he was making up for the time you were apart. It was deliciously intoxicating. You felt his soft slender hands going under your shirt, inching closer to your chest. You wanted to beg for more, when you heard an awkward cough behind you. Immediately, you let go of Rafayel (to his chagrin) as a displeased manager came into view.

“Sorry to interrupt whatever is going on here.” Thomas scolded. “but you both shouldn’t just be sitting in the mud.” Rafayel groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Thanks Thomas, you sure know when to show up.”

“Well, sorry, but I would recommend you both get up while I call a tow truck.” You both nodded simultaneously before trying to get off the ground. Rafayel was able to easily, but the moment you stood, you lost your balance. Before you could fall on your face, Rafayel grabbed you by the waist and smirked.

“Are you alright baby?” Your face turned beat red as you hurriedly told him you were fine. “Good,” he whispered in your ear. “I wouldn’t want you to be hurt. There’s still a lot more we need to do together” You shivered before desperately agreeing. It was going to be a fun night.

…

2 Years Later…

As every art exhibit dedicated to your boyfriend Rafayel, you stood next to him to greet guests. Tonight, you were wearing a dark mauve, satin mermaid style dress. Initially, after Rafayel bought and begged you to wear the gown, you refused to wear it since it showed too much of your scar littered shoulders. However, after he successfully convinced you, via kissing every scar to make you understand how beautiful they were, you agreed. That is why you were in the dress, politely smiling at the strangers around you. It was kind of boring, until you heard a familiar voice calling your names.

“Y/N? Rafayel?” You immediately paled. There she was, MC, standing in front of you both, like a main lead in a drama. Her hair messily tied in a ponytail, wearing her hunter uniform. Looking effortlessly radiant. You did your best and gave her a wobbly smile, but a wave of nausea was kicking in.

“MC, I didn’t think you would remember us.” 

Is this where it all ends?

“How could I forget you both? I missed you guys so much. Also may I add, I am so sorry I never returned to our beach. A lot happened during that time, but I always wondered about you two. So, what’s new?” You felt an aching pushing and pulling in your head. Should you tell her about your relationship with Rafayel? Would he want you to? Should you leave them alone together to talk? Your mind drew blank with what to say, so you just started talking:

“Nothing really muc-”

“Y/N and I are dating.” Rafayel declared proudly while squeezing your hand. Your eyes widened in shock, as MC’s brown eyes lit up at the news.

“Really?! Oh my gosh congratulations!” MC did a little hop, before giving you both a brief hug. “ I always knew you two were perfect for each other, even as kids.” You were flabbergasted. Years ago, you used to laugh bitterly anytime anyone said you and Rafayel were meant to be. Now, looking at how he claimed you so boldly with a humongous grin on his face, you don’t think you could deny it any longer. With a similarly large smile and heat in your cheeks you thanked her:

“Thank you MC. I guess we truly are perfect together, don’t you think Rafayel?” Rafayel laughed before placing a delicate kiss on your knuckle and looking deeply into your eyes.

“We really are.” He then turned back to MC. “Which is why we’ll be getting married soon.” You gasped.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

he built a house for you, out of a silly sketch you did a while ago; one you barely remembered making.

lines drawn absentmindedly with colored pencils while you daydreamed, imperfect proportions, lots of dumb, wild ideas overlapping…

the kitchen was the color you wanted, it had all the rooms you drew, it also had an underground, cozy space with all of your favorite things, so you wouldn't ever want to go out ever again.

everything was ready; the plan, the gentle, persuasive “kidnapping”, your future life by his side, forever and ever…

yet he still needed to get you to trust him even more.

he knew you had a small crush on him, that much was obvious to him.

the way your eyes lingered, the way your voice softened when you spoke to him.

that was why he was so certain you were destined to be together.

but you also got far too nervous whenever he was close, always fidgeting, always finding excuses to leave.

so he needed to lure you in slowly, carefully.

he invited you countless times to his house, only for you to panic and run away.

little did he know that his invitations made your heart beat furiously, and that you had to restrain yourself…

being inside his house?

with his scent enveloping you?

getting to… to touch his things?

my god, my god! it was too much!

you knew you wouldn't control your impulses to knock him down and take him with you, so you'd rather escape him and his puppy, pleading eyes.

however, enough was enough, and caleb couldn't bear being away from you much longer.

as you were sitting on your usual bench after a long day, he came to you, bringing your favorite snack and a happy smile on his handsome face.

he knew your routine, so you weren't surprised. if anything, you were so happy to see him that your entire demeanor brightened up.

his lips met your cheek as he kneeled between your legs, the sunset making him look even more dreamy.

your breath hitched, he grinned.

“you know, baby… i really want you to come over today. i won't try anythin' funny if that's what's worryin' that pretty head of yours.”

he was hopeful, anxious, willing to do anything for you to give in.

you were… also hopeful, anxious, willing to do anything for him.

in fact, you wanted him to try funny things.~

“lebbie, i don't know… what are we going to do there?”

he gently caressed your arms, bringing you that sense of security you so much needed and craved from him.

“there's this new movie i've been wantin' to watch, but i think i'll enjoy it more with you by my side.”

you melted under his gaze and his bright eyes.

you couldn't possibly refuse, so you said yes after a few seconds of silence, making him hug you so, so sweetly.

today is the day, you thought… and so did he.

hand in hand, you headed to the lion's den, your poor, little heart thumping like never before.

you took in the fresh scent lingering around the furniture, his organized space, all the things his strong hands touched…

and as your eyes darted around, you looked for anything heavy that could knock him down.

caleb, on the other hand, was ready to convince you to follow him to what was going to be your new home, because his pretty baby had to be forever by his side, away from the dangerous outside world.

he gently pulled you by the waist, his warm eyes softening only for you.

but, before he could even start, you squeaked and stepped back, overwhelmed by his amazing, reassuring touch and his lips being… so, so dangerously close.

you wanted to devour him.

“i, uh… bathroom! can i use your bathroom, please?”

you mumbled, and he stepped back, giving you space.

anything for his baby.

“of course, angel. the last door on your right.”

and in no time, you rushed down the hallway, locking yourself inside the bathroom.

your skin felt hot to the touch, and you started to get dizzy, until you spotted his towels.

you approached with unsure steps, inhaling the lingering body wash and scent they carried, growing more and more flustered, but managing to ground yourself a little.

you couldn't carry on with your plan to get him all to yourself, not when you were being so clumsy and shy.

you had to wash your face and take a deep breath afterwards so you could finally exit the bathroom.

as you did, you noticed a door slightly ajar, and curiosity became bigger than your respect for someone's privacy.

you gently pushed the door open and stepped inside, eyes struggling to focus as it was way too dark.

with shaky hands, you turned on a switch, and…

you froze in place.

dozens upon dozens of pictures of you; sleeping, eating, walking.

at least fifty high-tech monitors that showed your location and the multiple rooms inside your house.

your missed panties carefully folded over a small desk full of other trinkets, most of which you recognized as items you had randomly lost.

stockings, hair ties, hand lotions, brushes…

the room smelled like your perfume, and it had your name spelled out over the walls, with various letter cutouts from magazines and newspapers.

in the middle, you saw the model of your “ideal home,” the one you made for funsies and that caleb asked to borrow as a reference for a work of his.

the very same he used to build your perfect and new forever house.

beside the model, there was a key with a pretty keychain of your favorite color.

that could only mean…

“got lost, angel? this isn't the livin' room.”

you jumped as his breath met your ear, turning around with a mix of adrenaline and shame.

his expression, however, was unreadable.

he didn't know how you were going to react, and he needed to be sure which step to take before everything got ruined.

silence ensued as you both locked intense gazes.

he stepped closer; you stepped back.

not out of fear, but out of self-control.

“you found my… special room. pretty, isn't it?”

you quickly nodded.

he smiled.

the tension became unbearable, you could barely breathe properly.

“you… you're obsessed,” you whispered, certain of said statement. there was no way to deny it.

“in love, angel. i'm in love,” he corrected, walking and walking forward, until your back hit the shrine behind you.

next to the wall behind him, you saw pictures of a house.

your ideal house, for that matter.

you gasped. the key, the model… he really built a house for you?

the one you always dreamed about?

like, he actually used your drawing?

he followed your gaze, his eyes darkening ever so slightly.

again, he wasn't sure if you were terrified, disgusted, or about to run away from him.

but when you approached the wall with wide, amazed eyes, he cocked his head to the side.

you were far too close to the door.

you could escape if you wanted to.

he approached to quietly close it, but just then, you turned around to face him, almost out of breath.

“take me there!” you asked —no, begged.

caleb barely had time to process your words before you started twirling around, taking in every careful, deliberate detail he had added to the walls.

your voice was bright, giddy, almost as cheerful as your attitude, which made him study you intently.

“you actually built my dream house… for me, for us!” you stopped right in front of him, hands finding his as if you were finally allowing yourself to touch something you considered divine and out of reach. “did you add the garden? and… oh! and the huge pool? does it have the two rooms for our future pets?”

he parted his lips to speak, but you kept jumping, unable to hide how thrilled you were.

“are we going to live there forever, and ever, and eeeever? just the two of us? yes?”

his lips finally curled up in a smile, full of disbelief but pure happiness.

“that's the plan, angel… though, i thought you were going to need more persuasion...”

you quickly shook your head, clinging to his torso.

“take me away! now! i don't want to worry about anything anymore, i just… i want to be yours and stay with you aaaall day long.”

his arms quickly pulled you closer, heart beating like crazy. you fit perfectly against his arms, now even more as you gladly accepted —or rather, begged for— your new shared home.

you nuzzled his chest, he kissed your head, and when you looked up, you found his eyes waiting for yours.

your cheek remained squished against his strong pectorals.

“and to think i was going to knock you out and drag you far, far away with me…” you faintly whispered.

his grip tightened around you, and his smile became amused; not surprised nor horrified like you expected.

“you were?”

you nodded quietly, closing your eyes and inhaling his delicious scent.

“mhm… but i like this plan better, lebbie. this is the best day ever.~”

right there, in the middle of the room that hid caleb's madness and obsessive love, his one and only baby held him for dear life.

it was like a dream come true.

the world was certainly going to be safer without the two maniacs in love roaming around…

and the two maniacs in love were going to be much safer inside a beautiful, secluded love nest, far away from anything and everything that could tear them apart.~

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

he was as excited as he was cautious.

his attitude remained charming, playful; not a single display or gesture out of place.

he had to be reliable and constant, so you wouldn't suspect a thing when he finally took you away from your mundane, tragically boring life.

behind some sea caves, securely placed where no one would find it, he hid your soon-to-be home, one with a beautiful sight of the sea, and the constant visit of little creatures like sea turtles and baby dolphins.

it was just the perfect retreat for both of you, and he would do anything to get you where he wanted.

during a lovely, summer day, he called you to come over so you could help him out with some stuff.

he didn't give out many details, but you accepted anyway, being the sweetheart that you are.

and, of course you would agree.

you would do anything for raffy; you were so happy to be around him, and even more so when he asked for your help and praised you afterwards.

you loved him so, so much, you would move mountains if he asked you to.

plus, being around his art and his creative work was a privilege not everyone was graced with.

he was truly a mastermind.

as you fidgeted with your hands, waiting for him to open the door for you, you heard his familiar footsteps and your heart started jumping like crazy.

he opened up with that soft, kind smile of his, his eyes crinkling slightly.

his skin was perfect, his eyes were perfect, his hair looked perfect, his hands looked—

“come on in, cutie.”

his melodic voice took you out of your trance and lured you inside.

you thanked him and stepped in, your eyes now reflecting your wonder and awe when you spotted his works in progress and random sketches.

however, you remembered why you were here, so you turned around to look at him expectantly.

“so… what do you need help with, raffy?”

he circled you, light as a feather, sharp as a panther; his eyes still gentle and inviting, but his lips curled up in a way you've never seen before.

he was no longer chasing you; he already had you right where he wanted.

“hm, i just needed some inspiration… and your presence happens to inspire me a lot.”

a soft giggle escaped from your lips; a very mild reaction compared to how shaky your legs had become, and how you wanted to bite him all over.

“can i at least help you by bringing you something? paints? uhm… water?”

he smiled at your eagerness, and with a soft nod of his head, he gestured inside a room where he usually kept his stuff —when it wasn't scattered around.

you walked that way immediately, humming a cheer tune to yourself.

you were going to help him create something magical. even if it wasn't going to be explicitly seen, his work would have something of yours, something only raffy and you would know about.

he would be inspired by you!

you wondered if he would tell the masses about his source of inspiration.

the thought alone made you tremble with excitement.

you gathered some pretty paints and bottles with pigments, as well as some water for his brushes in a cup.

however, as you walked back to him, you tripped over a misplaced, rolled up canvas of sorts that was hidden under a table.

thankfully, nothing fell from your hands, nor did you end up on the floor, but you did feel like placing the canvas better so he wouldn't trip either.

you put everything away and crouched down, gently moving the canvas which was way heavier than you anticipated.

as you dragged it away, it suddenly unrolled, revealing what seemed like a vision board of sorts, made with sketches, pretty trinkets glued on, and pictures.

lots of pictures.

it was huge too, so much so that you had to stand up and back away so you could focus on every little detail.

you were certainly intruding inside raffy's most private thoughts and dreams; vision boards usually show a collage of pictures, phrases and things that can motivate you to achieve your goals or visualize them.

yet all of the things you saw… were either yours, or related to you.

cute selfies, polaroid pictures you took together, cutesy things you gave him.

you were ecstatic.

he actually kept all of these things and treasured them so beautifully?

you kept looking, feeling your skin getting warmer and warmer. you couldn't believe your eyes!

the more and more you looked, however, the more your smile faded.

some pictures you didn't remember taking.

some others were a bit blurry, as if taken from a distance.

you didn't remember ever showing him your pajamas, and you certainly didn't remember letting him inside your bedroom.

your eyes focused on some pretty pictures of a gorgeous beach house, a bit secluded, but breathtaking nonetheless.

underneath, he added little notes.

“our house,” “our new kitchen,” “our new bedroom,” and even a date, which happened to be today.

you stepped back, a soft, breathless giggle coming out of your parted lips. you covered your mouth, eyes glimmering with a mix of adoration and shock.

he kept you…

he kept everything.

he's seen you; he's been in those private moments you thought yours, he's been capturing you and framing you so beautifully, like a work of art.

your giggles became almost manic as you kept looking, and said sound caught raffy's attention.

that, and the fact that you were taking far too long to bring paint buckets and a glass of water.

he stepped inside the room, frame leaning against the doorframe.

he took in the scene in front of him, yet he wasn't angry.

he was resigned.

his secret was right there; laid out and exposed.

“you weren't supposed to see that yet, cutie,” he said, his tone almost disappointed.

you jumped and looked up, eyes going wide.

“raffy…”

you needed to apologize… but you didn't want to. you discovered something gorgeous, something so fulfilling and perfect.

you didn't regret a thing.

he sighed, stepping closer.

“my, i wanted it to be a big surprise,” he raised his arms dramatically, walking behind you with light steps. “i wanted it framed and beautifully placed over our bedpost at our new home.”

his voice now warmed up your ear as he leaned down.

“i should've prevented certain… accidents from happening. my bad, cutie.”

you spun around to look at him, your heart skipping a beat with each word he spoke.

“our… our new home, raffy?”

the pictures you saw on his vision board made more sense now. the kitchen, the bedroom, the amenities and the location.

the date, however…?

he cornered you without you even noticing it, his hands securing you in place as your witty mind started to piece everything together.

he couldn't risk you getting cold feet, nor would he allow it.

“yes, our house, our little abode,” he whispered, eyes looking for yours. “i've been dreaming about this day, my pearl. but today? today things will become real.”

oh.

he was going to take you...

your eyes traveled all around the room as your mind raced.

sharing a house with him?

a house he built around your necessities?

getting away from everyone and everything?

being hidden, secluded, locked up and away from the real world?

…with him?

your eyes met his again.

he waited.

and you finally smiled, as bright as the sun itself.

hell yeah.

“can we go right now?”

you softly asked, and his eyes went wild with satisfaction.

oh, you sweet, perfect little thing.

out of all the possible scenarios he considered, this was the most perfect, ideal one.

you were already shaking with excitement; he could tell.

your eyes were lit up, your smile was genuine, and your expression had this glint; a glint he's seen in his own reflection whenever he thought about you.

obsession.

you craved to be forever by his side, as much as he did.

you were picturing peaceful, long days by his side, wearing his shirts as he worked on his masterpieces: masterpieces inspired by you.

you were also picturing not having to worry about a thing, except for taking care of baby turtles and letting them get to the sea safely.

no neighbors, no strangers, no expectations.

just love, daily kisses, and peace.

his forehead leaned against yours, and he closed his eyes, a shaky laugh coming out of his lips.

“i knew you'd understand, my pearl. don't you worry about a thing, i'll take care of everything,” he then kissed the tip of your nose. “you won't miss them, will you?”

you tilted your head softly as his gaze locked on you again.

“them? there's no one else but you in my mind, raffy.”

and that was it.

that was everything he needed to hear, what made him a hundred percent certain that you were choosing him without a doubt.

“let's go home then, cutie.”

hand in hand, you both walked away from everything without a second thought.

the normal world was dull, unnecessary…

but the world he was offering you?

full of color and never-ending love, built specifically for you, and as carefully planned as the vision board that finally made you see the beautiful truth.

neither of you were losing your freedom; you were meeting with the life you were meant to live.~

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

sylus handled these matters himself.

he didn't believe in sending people over to check on you, he also didn't believe in monitoring you through screens.

no.

he wanted to follow you, to check on you, to pry information out of your pretty lips with his own charm and efforts.

no one else could know you; no one else could invade your privacy, not even his loyal mephisto.

he would kill whoever got that close, first of all, so it was better for everyone if he got all the information himself.

with time, he gained your trust and affection, so things got surprisingly easier for him.

he didn't consider, however, that said proximity came tainted with something darker; with something just as obsessive.

something beneficial not only for him, but… also for you.

you were lurking after him as well.

but oh, the sweet irony, none of you were aware of how sickly in love you were with each other.

that would've saved weeks after weeks of stalking, asking, searching, especially since he lurked at night, and you did so during the day while he rested.

however, fate couldn't keep you away, so one sunny morning, as you “visited” his base, you took the liberty to explore and look around your soon-to-be husband's place.

every room, every piece of evidence of his good taste and his hard work…

his clothes, his bed, his sleeping figure and god-like body.

fuck.

you wanted him to wake up to a body full of your marks, your lips, your teeth.

you wanted to lock him up for yourself, to show him how loved he could be, to be the perfect spouse and fulfill his life with anything and everything money couldn't get him.

before you decided to tie him up and drag him across the floor, you decided to keep looking around for a few more minutes, until your eyes caught a pretty key, perfectly placed over his bedside table.

it had a crimson gem on top and an intricate pattern you traced with your index finger.

naturally, you had to find out which lock it would open, and as if fate itself was pushing you, you stepped over a loose tile under the rug, one that made you freeze.

with quiet movements, you pulled the rug up and found a lock over the tiles, which, much to your surprise, opened a trapdoor and revealed elegant stairs.

now, you wouldn't usually be so stupid as to go down to a secret basement by yourself; but it didn't look creepy nor dark.

in fact, a sweet scent lured you in, as well as pretty lights and a seemingly pristine environment, as if he cleaned it every day.

you went downstairs as carefully as possible, and what you found made you audibly gasp.

it wasn't a dungeon, it wasn't a secret prison nor a torture chamber, as one would think.

it was a whole room dedicated to you.

the walls had your favorite color, there were thousands of books carefully placed in gorgeous bookshelves, and your favorite scent lingered in every corner of the room.

the sofa seemed a little bit worn out, but still in excellent condition; seemingly because he spent a lot of time down here, sitting down and admiring the thousands of pictures he framed on the wall.

yes, framed.

each of them had a small plaque with a date and a small annotation of his, and when you looked closer, you realized most of the pictures weren't even compromising.

most of them were of you smiling, of you enjoying yourself at your favorite spot, or of you engaging in one of your hobbies.

they should feel invasive, but in your mind, they were appreciative.

he wasn't claiming those moments as his; he was admiring them as he would his favorite paintings.

you kept walking, and although curiosity always killed the cat, you knew cats would always be safe inside this man's house.

you stopped in front of a wardrobe, the doors slightly ajar. when you got your sneaky hands on it, your eyes lit up.

thousands of shopping bags, luxurious brands whose names you couldn't pronounce without sounding ridiculous, things you remembered looking at while you were shopping, but instantly stepping back when you saw the ludicrous price tag…

they were obviously for you, there was no doubt.

you smiled brightly, feeling like a kid on christmas morning, until your hands brushed against a rolled-up paper well hidden between the bags.

a contract.

was it a contract with the devil himself?

not quite, but pretty similar.

it was the purchase agreement of a house.

the price had so many zeros you had to squint your eyes in case you were seeing things.

the location was unknown, probably a safety precaution in case you found the contract earlier and wanted to snoop around.

which was exactly the case.

nonetheless, it was under your name. not his; yours.

and the only thing left to do was adding your signature, something he was probably waiting for.

where the hell did he keep the pens? you needed to sign right now.

this man was obsessed and enamored, so much so that he bought you a house, and the price alone let you know it had to be a masterpiece of a place.

“here, sweetheart,” he spoke, handing you his favorite sleek, black pen.

you thanked him out of habit, taking the pen gently, before squealing and looking up, heart jumping out of your chest.

“sylus!”

he was right there, standing by your side with an amused expression.

quiet as a predator, since you didn't hear him coming downstairs, but not intimidating in the slightest.

“are you sure you wish to sign the contract without reading the fine print first?”

you looked down at the paper between your hands, before meeting his gaze again.

what could he possibly have hidden that would make you back away from signing?

would he abduct you and lock you inside the house with him forever and ever?

would he make you sign a contract that would make you stay by his side for life, away from responsibilities?

would he make you stop working, studying and force you to be spoiled rotten?

sounded like paradise, honestly.

you tapped the pen against the paper as you read it again, not really bothering to understand it at all.

whatever was inside, you would take it like a champ.

“yeah, i'm sure,” you pressed the contract against the wardrobe, and just then, your brain clicked.

you realized what you were about to do; almost as if the previous excitement now cleared up, and you became conscious again.

you were about to have your own house.

you were about to sign inside a room the man you've been obsessing over had dedicated to you entirely.

had he planned this?

was the key left visible on purpose?

was he aware of how curious you were?

hell, what was he waiting for?

was he… willing to coax you or manipulate you into signing the contract?

that would've been so hot.

maybe he wanted to tie you up and take you there…?

you giggled manically, staring at the contract as your mind raced with more and more ideas.

sylus stepped closer, a bit curious as to why you weren't signing, but you quickly moved the pen. a few scratches later, and the house became yours.

a house you would bring him to.

your eyes found his with a new kind of intensity, as something passionate had been unleashed.

“you're coming to live with me, right?”

you stepped closer. something inside of you told you that it had been his plan all along, but you wanted to make sure.

you wanted him to say it; to admit he'd been wanting to take you away.

you took his hands, awaiting like a caged animal for him to speak, shaking from the anticipation.

he didn't answer right away; too busy studying you and this unexpected outcome.

“i was going to convince you, kitten,” he spoke, as direct as he could be.

you arched an eyebrow.

“come on, i need more than that. were you going to kidnap me? tie me up? lock me up somewhere?”

not an ounce of fear escaped your lips. if anything, he could sense your desperation and child-like wonder.

as if the idea… excited you.

“you thought i wouldn't agree to coming with you to a secluded house that is god knows where, for god knows how long? were you going to trick me by adding weird things on the contract that i wouldn't know of until it was too late?”

you stepped closer and closer, until his back hit the wall.

“you clearly needed to investigate further, sy. there's nothing i want more than to have you all to myself… and vice versa.”

he stared at you, at how close you were, how your chest rose and fell rapidly.

“you could've just asked, sylus… you can still tie me up if you want. please, take me,” you whispered, hands finding his chest. “take me away, forever away, yeah?”

you mewled desperately, afraid that he would backtrack, the same way he was afraid of you getting cold feet.

but there was no hesitation in your voice.

no fear, no disgust.

apparently, he could do anything to keep you by his side, and you would gladly accept it.

maybe because you were obsessed with him… or because you were capable of doing the same despicable things.

the little bit of restraint he had left disappeared, and he lifted you up in his arms with no struggle at all, firmly holding the contract as well, for it was the key to his new, promising future by your side.

sadly, there were no cages, no ties, no coaxing or dubious agreements.

just two predators that had been circling each other for way too long, who would finally enjoy each other's insane amount of love and devotion.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

xavier was growing restless.

he wanted to have you by his side, but it would kill him to drug you or drag you somewhere you didn't want to be.

you were his angel, his sweet starlight, the one he had been protecting and keeping safe from the world and its dangers.

he'd been plotting and struggling, night after night, and sleep, whom he considered to be his best friend, had abandoned his body.

it was easy for him to disappear and take your things to the new, safe place he'd built for you, but he was still battling with the plan.

it was also easy for him to simply take you until you understood his reasoning, but no.

he had to do it the right way.

but, how?

how would he convince you to go with him and never come back again?

would you give up your autonomy and independence for him?

would you understand how much he loves you?

it was a big sacrifice, after all.

but it was out of love and the need to have you all to himself, because he's the only one in the entire galaxy who knows how to appreciate you and make you feel loved.

however, as he struggled with many doubts and a self-control that was starting to shatter, you were observing.

you, his innocent baby, taking advantage of his obliviousness to check on him through the bunny plushy you gave him a while ago.

why was he so upset?

what could possibly be angering your sweet xavi?

why wouldn't he call you to make him feel better?

you should've added a microphone to the plushy, but oh well.

at least you could see him and go visit him “out of the blue,” as you were just “walking by,” right?

and that was exactly why you stood behind his door, fidgeting with your hands as you waited for him to open up.

he was surprised to see you, but also thrilled.

his gaze softened, and he guided you inside with a gentle hold on your lower back.

you looked at him, and your eyes saddened immediately.

the camera didn't quite show just how tired and agitated he was, but now you could see it.

you didn't like it.

“xavi, are you okay? you look like you haven't slept,” you leaned in. he looked up, eyes going slightly wide.

you noticed.

he didn't want you to suspect a thing, but he… he couldn't lie to you.

not when you were so adorably concerned.

“have you been sleeping at all?”

he didn't answer verbally, but when his gaze traveled to the side, you knew he hadn't.

why?

what was keeping him up all night?

was it you?

it had to be you.

otherwise…

your hands gripped the sofa you were now sitting on as your mind started racing.

“xavi, talk to me.”

but he didn't.

he just stood up, kissed your forehead, and told you he had to leave, that you'd come just when he was a little bit busy.

fuck, fuck, FUCK!

you stood up abruptly, forcing a smile as you watched him walk to the door.

your right eye was twitching, your hands were clenched.

“you can stay if you want, star. i won't take long.”

xavier needed to escape, to breathe.

he needed to be away from you and that sweetness, because he was about to make you sleep —however he could— and carry you away forever.

he, however, didn't expect you to follow him.

you had to.

where was he going with such urgency while you were with him?

who was he going to meet?

who was more important than you?

who, who, who?

xavi, modest as he was, got on the subway, and you quietly followed.

one stop, two stops, six… ten…

the subway got more and more empty, and the crowd disappeared, making it hard for you to hide.

thankfully, though, he finally got off in a part of town you had never visited before, yet he seemed familiar with it.

he walked and walked, going through alleys, tunnels, narrow streets, until he stopped by a small street with cute, little houses.

one of them had pretty blue flowers all over, naturally well taken care of, and that was the one whose door he opened.

you waited for a few minutes before peeking inside the windows.

you couldn't see much; just a house being painted and renovated inside.

no other person in sight, but you couldn't see xavier either.

the anxiety was consuming you, so you had to be reckless and enter.

with two little jumps, you managed to climb through a window and gently land inside, taking in the pretty yet empty place.

it smelled like paint, fresh lavender, and new furniture.

the basement door was open, and, like any crazy person would do, you took your shoes off and walked downstairs as quietly as a mouse to see what was going on.

at first glance, you felt like passing out.

it was a beautiful sight, yes.

but it was meant for someone to live in.

who?

the soft pillows, the cozy atmosphere, the blankets you thought had disappeared into thin air, carefully placed over a huge bed…

wait.

your blankets?

and some of the clothes he'd offered to wash when your washing machine broke down?

your shoes and socks?

and… was that your favorite book next to the bed?

oh my gosh.

oh my gosh!

this was meant to be your space!

you squealed as you rushed to the poor, unfocused xavier, who had come here to think and get his shit together after almost losing control.

his possessiveness was getting out of control, and he didn't want you to witness that.

however, he turned around far too late, as you were already tackling him onto the bed and bouncing over him, completely ecstatic.

“this is amazing, xavier! is this going to be our home? is this our bedroom? can i help you decorate the rest of the house?”

he looked up at you with wild eyes, lips parted in surprise.

your giggles echoed across the room he'd kept hidden from you, the very same one he had been preparing for months and that had kept him awake.

you finally stopped bouncing and rested on top of his body, legs swinging behind you in the air as you played with his hair.

“you know, i've seen you suffering a lot lately. you've been going in and out, in and out… you've been visiting lots of shopping websites, yet i couldn't tell what you were planning to do!”

he remained quiet, not quite understanding.

“and then i thought you were going to meet someone else, so i had to follow you… but now i get it!” you nuzzled his neck, holding him tight. “you were planning this for us! …right?”

you looked at him again, expectantly.

he didn't know how to feel.

ideally, he should've been relieved, since he wouldn't have to lie anymore nor hide his plan.

however, he didn't know if you were going to like the whole truth and the lengths he was capable of going to.

and as soon as your eyes narrowed, he spoke.

“yes. i've been… i've been planning this for months. i want you to live here with me, forever.”

your face lit up with the brightest smile.

“you want to lock me in here? and… and we will only interact with each other for the rest of our lives?”

xavier nodded, his hands now hovering over your waist in case you wanted to flee and he had to hold you in place.

however, that never happened, because you clung to him as if he had just proposed to you, your whole body almost vibrating with how thrilled and excited you were.

no more hidden cameras, no more stalking, no more worrying about him talking to other people, —which was rare— and no more being away from your perfect prince charming.

“i get to have you all to myself now…”

you whispered against his ear, a possessive tone he couldn't miss.

his azure eyes darkened right then.

no way.

were you as possessive as he was?

that thing he was trying to avoid, that little thing he tried to control, that one thing he also shared with you and didn't know how to feel about, since he'd been working himself up day and night…

he hugged you, pressing your body against his before reversing your positions until he was over you.

his weight didn't seem to bother you at all, because you looked at him with delight, your arms wrapping around his neck to keep him close.

“just you and me… as it should always be,” he whispered back, his lips finding your jawline. “you'll never get to leave. i won't let you.”

your smile turned into a mischievous grin as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

“not that i'll ever want to, xavi~” you softly said, tilting your head to grant him more access. “i'll never let you go, either. never, ever…”

he couldn't believe how easily his plan unraveled.

hadn't you followed him, would this be happening?

was it the jealousy that made you so eager to stay here with him, or were you just as obsessed as he was?

maybe the stars aligned in his favor, and now he had you right where he wanted you?

he didn't know for a fact yet, but you two would have plenty of time to catch up and discover those little details neither of you managed to… stalk yet.

after all, only an eternity would be long enough for two destined lovers to enjoy themselves.~

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

oh, poor, poor zayne.

he was fighting against himself; against everything he knew was morally correct.

logic fought against feelings, reason fought against passion, ethics fought against love.

how could he possibly tear your life apart because of his selfishness?

how could he drag you away from your inner circle, the life you're used to, the things you've fought to build, just so he could have you under his care all the time?

he wouldn't stop working, that was certain, so you would stay inside a safe place by yourself, until he came back home to you, like… like some kind of neglected pet.

and he couldn't bear it.

however, he couldn't imagine you being in danger, all by yourself, facing a world that had become so volatile, so dangerous, so unapologetic, and violent.

he couldn't lose you…

but he couldn't control you, either.

his brain and heart were in constant war, and he couldn't even focus on simple tasks anymore.

still, he found himself buying, ordering custom-made furniture, filling up cabinets with medicine, healthy foods, checking on the beautiful house he purchased every night just to assure everything was perfect.

and most of the time, he did it out of instinct, not really realizing what he was doing, and how a plan was unconsciously starting to unravel.

you knew something was going on, mostly because you spent your days visiting him and making sure he wasn't overworking himself.

you loved him to death, and you promised yourself you'd do whatever was necessary to push unnecessary stress away from your dear zaynie's life.

but making him talk was even harder than keeping up with him and his seemingly normal routine.

he wouldn't want to worry you, so he never talked about his problems out loud, especially not this one, which had to do with you.

besides, he was way too sneaky to have slip-ups, so there were no hidden rooms for you to find, no mysterious keys, no candid pictures nor a cute shrine.

nothing.

his devotion (obsession) only translated into taking care of everything for you, making it hard to figure out, or at least have a clue about what was going on.

until one night, when he was still at the hospital, and you decided to pay him a visit.

no one said a thing when you went inside his office, as you would usually do when you brought him dinner.

something was telling you that the answer was here, somewhere between his desk and his briefcase.

you wanted to help your soon-to-be boyfriend, the man you've been after for months, the man you wanted to make your husband.

and you were frantic, truly, looking everywhere you could.

his desk, his coat, even his secret cabinet, where you only found a large stash of cookies and a weird journal.

…

bingo.

you hid under his desk in case he came back to his office earlier than expected, and you went through every page with shaky fingers, eyes traveling left and right at an incredible speed.

notes, long paragraphs, random thoughts, charts…

oh, some doodles too.

cute ones, simple ones, and then pages upon pages of doodles of you.

your face, your hands, your body.

clothed, for now.

the more you kept going, however, you stumbled upon lots of drawings… most of which depicted you in different positions.

your body was bare, of course.

your eyes went immediately wide; as big as two plates, and you wondered how he was able to draw those parts of yours you couldn't even see yourself.

still, they were all unfinished, as if he had stopped the moment he realized what he was doing.

poor zaynie, still fighting against his urges and his desires.

you could fix that.~

the time went by, and you ended up finding notes about a house, what he needed to buy, what he thought you'd like, what he needed to retrieve from your place.

his calligraphy seemed rushed; he scratched out lots of things, and you could tell he also had trembling hands; something unusual for a surgeon like himself.

was he going to take you somewhere else?

was dr. li fantasizing about kidnapping you?

a soft whimper left your mouth; you were more than intrigued now.

but, before you could find out absolutely everything you needed for your cutesy little investigation, his footsteps announced his presence, and the door closed behind him.

he sat down, long legs stretching out in front of you as you instinctively retreated under the desk.

your heart was beating fast, and it only got worse as he opened up his secret cabinet, looking for his journal.

he frowned.

he never misplaced things, let alone the darkest, most intimate possession of his.

his hand froze, panic setting in, although his composure remained intact.

where could it be?

who could have it?

he looked inside the other cabinets, and you panicked too, now flipping through the pages faster than before so you wouldn't miss a thing.

that's when you found his conflicting thoughts; the evidence of his distress and what kept him so unhinged.

as if the drawings hadn't been enough proof of his obsession, he also described how selfish he was, how he craved to have you all to himself, even if he ended up being punished for it.

he was willing to take your hatred, your screams, your attempts to escape, as long as you stayed where he needed you to.

he knew he was going insane; he knew it was unhealthy and wrong, but he couldn't help but grow restless in love.

you gently closed the journal and set it aside, your eyes glinting with something primal.

was his love for you making him lose his mind?

were you the reason this perfect shell of a man was starting to crumble?

before he could stand up, your hands traveled up his thighs, making him freeze in place.

you slowly crawled forward, until your chin rested over his right thigh, and your hands massaged his muscular skin.

he was speechless, shocked, scared.

you were delighted, looking up at him with nothing but adoration and the need to help him.

if bottling up his needs was killing him… you would help him release them.~

his breath hitched, and not only because of the intense surge of desire, but because his biggest fear was right in front of him.

touching him so deliberately.

“you should not—” he began, only to be interrupted by a soft laugh of yours.

“oh, zaynie… you've been stressing yourself out lately, haven't you?”

he shook his head, trying to regain control of the situation.

he couldn't.

“you do not understand. if you knew how far these thoughts go, you would—”

“run? scream?” you arched an eyebrow, squishing your cheek against his inner thigh. “hate you?”

his hands gripped his desk, yet he couldn't look away from you.

your name escaped from his lips; a quiet whisper, a quiet plea.

“i saw everything… i read it all, zayne,” you spoke softly, reassuringly almost. “and i'm still here at your feet, aren't i?”

you pressed a soft kiss to his thigh.

“are you afraid of becoming someone you won't recognize? are you… afraid of letting your desire consume you?”

“stop,” he ordered. you didn't listen.

“you want to keep me safe and sound under your wing, you want to love me, you want to take care of me forever… you shouldn't be afraid; you could've just asked.”

he suddenly stood up, stepping away from you.

from your voice.

from your gaze.

“how could you possibly say that? it is unhealthy, it would be… it would be dehumanizing.”

you quickly followed, your arms wrapping around him from behind.

“because… i want that as well, zaynie.”

you caught him off guard, clearly, as his breath hitched and he abruptly turned to face you.

“do not… do not say that if you— if you do not mean it.”

there it was; his mask slipping away.

his tone was almost hopeful, pathetically so, though you found it absolutely endearing.

“i mean it,” you approached again, hands finding his strong chest. “i want to stay with you.”

his brain had lost the minute you were under his desk; however, he was still unsure, balancing between madness and everything he had learned about being a gentleman.

“you deserve freedom, to make your own choices, to be around those who love you—”

“i deserve peace. and i only feel peaceful when i'm with you, my love.”

oh, the term of endearment made him almost stumble back.

his hands found your waist despite himself.

that was it; he was one sentence away from falling into an abyss he would never escape from.

“once i let myself go, i will not be able to stop,” he warned, and, as if anticipating your answer, he stepped closer, forehead pressing against yours.

“don't ever stop, zayne… take me with you, wherever that is.”

his lips curled into the faintest of smiles, and finally, after a long back and forth and a fight he was always meant to lose, he kissed you.

not as he would when he didn't want to scare you away.

it was raw, desperate, primal, with his hands gripping you so tightly you were forced to cling to him.

the only person who could either control him or destroy him completely, gave him the freedom he needed.

was logic better than love itself?

was being morally correct better than protecting the love of his life?

was being sane better than kissing you breathless?

absolutely not, that was for sure.

nothing else could possibly matter when his heart was finally at peace, and his brain had no other choice but to fill itself with... beautiful scenarios of your incoming new life, the amount of love he'll surely give you, and the dangers he so much feared, now disappearing under his clinical eye and constant care.

war was over for good.~

Even reader's own best friends know they aren't invincible. If any of them has to go away with no contact with reader longer than three days, they will come back wearing a name tag or something similar and gesture aggressively to it.

Reader's friend #1, back from a week-long academic camp: *gives the sign to other friends*

Friends #2 to #5, moving their arms and heads into the letters of friend #1's name and shouting cheerleader-style: J! A! N! E! J-A-N-E JANE!!!

Reader, mortified: Oh my god sorry I have the memory of a goldfish?? 😭 We chatted nightly the whole week, I still remember your name!!!

Friend #1: 😐 I have to stay vigilant. One time you forgot my name mid-conversation with me

Reader, now offended: And one time we were traveling together you forgot my existence at the subway card reader!!!

Friend #1: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Reader: (⁠ノ⁠ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ⁠)⁠ノ⁠彡⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

The thing is, though, reader's memory in general is not equal to a goldfish. Honestly, they're pretty good at remembering stuff. It's just like this post.

In reader's case, obviously, the forget everything part is about people's names and faces.

In relation to this, do you know the family full of black-haired blue-eyed boys who, in spite of the lack of blood relation (sans the youngest who is ironically the only one not with blue eyes or white skin) look very similar to the patriarch?

That's right: The Wayne's, a.k.a the Batfamily.

A.k.a difficulty level: HELL when it comes to differentiating between names and faces.

So here's reader, the neglected child in the fam. The one whom the Batfam treats like air, or like a pet they're indifferent about–smiling politely and making small talk with reader when they're not busy and happen to encounter each other, at best just as politely excusing themselves but not infrequently outright snapping at reader when they're busy. More importantly, the one whom the Batfam never hangs out with, and therefore also the one who keeps forgetting their names.

Reader, passing by Dick: *nods casually* 'Sup, Nick.

Dick: Oh haha, very funny, Reader. You know my name

Reader: ?

Dick:

Reader:

Dick: You... Do know my name... Don't you?

Reader, remembering Jason-whose-name-they-also-have-forgotten calling Dick 'Dickolas': Isn't... Isn't it Nick? Like Nicholas?

Dick: ...

Reader: *absconds*

Jason: Hey, kiddo. Heard you misremembered Goldie's name

Reader, having already forgotten Dick's name again but unfortunately still remembers the Incident™ clearly: Haha, yeah (눈‸눈)

Jason: Heh, good for you. Dickiebird does need to be taken down a peg or two sometimes

Reader, getting premonition, now trying to recall Jason's name: U-huh. Sure

Jason: Yeah, like he's the golden boy and all, sure, but it's not as if everybody needs to know or remember him, right? And-

Reader, getting premonition harder, trying to recall Jason's name more frantically: What was it... Was it something ending with 'son'...? Oh, wasn't there the Grayson–wait that can't be a first name... Huh, didn't one of them once call him something ending with 'ay' instead? Or was it somebody else? Nah, the figure back then looked like his. Hmm May, Day, Kay... Gay? Oh–

Jason: -anyway! You remember my name, don't you?

Reader, premonition confirmed: *confidently nods* Of course, Gaylord

Jason:

Reader:

Jason, grabbing reader's shoulders: How the fuck did you get that name out of mine

Reader: 🫥

Tim, barging into reader's room: Reader, we need to ta–aaAAAA!!!

Reader, having completely forgotten Tim's face: HELP!!! PERVERT!!! THERE'S A PERVERT IN MY ROOM!!!

Tim: I'M YOUR BROTHER! STOP SCREAMING! AND MORE IMPORTANTLY STOP SPRAYING ME WITH BUG SPRAY!!!

Reader, tucking the bug spray can under their blanket: Oh, why didn't you say so

Tim: 🙂💢

Tim: Okay, never mind that. We need to talk about your constantly forgetting people's names. This is a serious matter, people will think you're being impolite by forgetting them–

Reader: Didn't you 'forget' to prepare a table for that couple you disliked at the last gala?

Tim, without hesitating a beat: No, damn, you misremembered that too? Anyway here, I made you this easy-to-remember PowerPoint for you to know–

Reader, knowing full well Tim lied: 😒 Yeah yeah, sure, I'll take a look when I have the time. Thanks bro

Tim, pausing: ...look at the PowerPoint

Reader, spitefully: I will. Later. When I have the time. Bye, dude

Tim: Look at it now. Look at my page. Look at my name!!!

Reader: LATER, MAN!!!

That night at dinner.

Reader: Thanks for the PowerPoint again!

Tim, gripping the water glass stem: Yeah...?

Reader: Yeah, it was so useful to remember everyone's names and faces

Tim, gripping harder: Right...?

Reader: That's right! So thank you for that...

✨William✨

Tim shatters the glass in his hand. Reader has no regret.

Damian, victim to being the youngest child in the family and having had Bruce call everyone's names including the pets' before finally getting to his, wielding a katana: My name is Damian Al-Ghul Wayne. Carve it into your soul lest I carve it into your flesh

Reader, unfazed: No use carving your name on me, I'd still forget it was supposed to be yours. Write it on your forehead or something instead

Damian: I'm your brother! You're not supposed to forget my name!! I've always remembered yours ever since I learnt about you!!!

Reader, watching Damian look hurt before running away, suddenly feeling bad: Aw, man–

Reader: *looks at Bruce, outwardly polite but inwardly indifferent*

Bruce: *looks at reader, outwardly indifferent but inwardly disturbed*

Reader, having counted to ten: Sooo, is there something you want to talk to me about? Because if not I still have homework and stuff to do–

Bruce: Reader

Reader: ?

Bruce, pained: It has come to my attention... You often forget your brothers' names?

Reader, accidentally slipping: Not just theirs. I regularly forget everyone's names

Bruce: ...even mine?

Reader:

Bruce:

Reader: Uhh, look here. It's–it's not that I mean to be mean, you know? I forget my own friends' names, I forget everyone's. And, really, it's–

Reader: ...I shouldn't even be addressing you by name, you know

Bruce: ...ah

Reader: *absconds before Bruce realizes that reader hasn't called him any variation of dad for years*

Alfred: Young Mx–

Reader, vaguely recalling Alfred's (sur)name as Super British: Hi, London! Bye, London!

Alfred: .

This doesn't have to be yandere Batfam, of course, but if it does? Naturally, it warrants the Batfam keeping reader at home for them to constantly interact with. This way they'll never forget the names of their own family members, right, reader?