"why isn't there any fic about xyz?" my love, if you want something to exist, sometimes you will have to create them yourself. you can't wait for someone else to do it for you. only you know what you want best. write that self-indulgent fic. then keep writing more for your own enjoyment.
Description: fem!reader wakes up in a room with 6 people who claim to be her bonds except she doesnât know what the fuck that means!
Word Count: 5,744
Chapter 9: Who Else Failed D.A.R.E.?
Masterlist || Previous
Nox Draven stands before the class, book satchel in hand, jaw tight, and fuming. You hadnât done anything yet, not really, but his eyes bore into yours as if you had set fire to the walls around him. If you think about it a certain way, you had. The life he had been living up until this moment was over, his new one only beginning, and there you stood in the ruins of it all. You weren't sure if that's why he hates you, but you do know for a fact thatâs what this is, hate. He had made it a personal mission to make sure you knew that, bond blocking pills clouding your judgement and all.
Coming to his lecture high was not what you had intended, and probably the worst idea you had thought up to date, but taking a pill before bed last night and another two this morning had done just that. Could you have guessed that taking two pills at once would send you into a semi catatonic state, probably. Itâs not like your bond had given you much of a choice in the matter anyways. One pill has proven time and time again to not be enough to hold it back anymore, and waking up next to Oli - legs intertwined, head snuggly on your chest, arm wrapped tightly around her - had triggered your bond out this morning. You needed extra protection, and this was the only solution available at the moment.
When you think about it, this was really the only solution you had at all. Being away from your bonds had not been an option since you showed up at the council building, bag of clothes in tow, soon to be prisoner to the Daven bond group. Dramatics aside, if you were being honest with yourself - minor issues ignored - youâd pretty much enjoyed every second spent with one of your bonds. Even if being with them has made things exponentially harder for you. And if youâd found out things about yourself that you would have much rather never known. Like the fact that you were a part of the gifted community, not some schizophrenic kid with voices whispering words of damnation. Or that someone actually lives in your head, whether you want them to or not, their origins unknown. Overall, really, what was there to complain about? Certainly not the lack of personal space, alone time, or general mistreatment from two out of six bonds. Which by your count were good odds.
Except, you really want to complain. Everything about the situation you had found yourself in calls for it. North Draven and his over-bearing personality sucks. Nox Draven in general is dreadful, his to perfect face and shity fucking personality most notably. Gryphon ignoring you nine out of ten times pisses you off. Atlas not reaching out to touch you like he does so casually with Oli hurts. Gabe being so wishie-washie on what the definition of being friends is drives you insane . And Oli. Oli not being willing to stay, for you or for any of them, crushes you in a way you canât explain. Your only friend being Sage, who isnât really your friend but Oliâs, sucks. Having to fight tooth and nail with your mind, body, and bond sucks. Not being able to trust your own memory sucks. And last but not least, the drugs pumping through your veins, dragging you down into a nasty over the top high fucking sucks.
Since the pills dissolved in your stomach over breakfast this morning, you hadnât felt like yourself. A dense fog had settled over your brain, slowing your movements, and warping time as you know it. Hours had passed in seconds, lectures starting and ending in the same breath, and your limbs have a new heft to them that you arenât used to. Every step of the day had felt insurmountable, Oliâs fingers wrapped in yours the only thing pulling you from class-to-class.
Moments of the day had gone missing, but in a different way than before. Instead of a black hole taking the memory and spitting you out the other side, a lingering somethingness sat in its place. Less like you didnât experience the time, and more like you were awake with your eyes closed. For instance, first thing this morning you had walked out of your shared dorm room, the heat of Oliâs closeness at your back and Gabe across the hall, shoulders pressed against the wall.
You remember the look on his face - a bright beaming smile, soft brown eyes, curled blond hair falling onto his forehead - as he stood away from the door waiting. His eyes skipped between Oli and you, lingering on her for a moment longer as the door closed with a gentle click. The turning of your stomach gave you pause, arms pushing his letterman jacket flush to your middle as your grip tightened for a second before the anger from last night won out. When you looked at him again, eyebrows scrunched up and lips poised for a question, you wanted to change your mind. Keep this small thing for yourself for only a day longer but you knew it was a boundary you needed to set. His grip on the fabric was rough, firm in a way he has never been with you. The ridges of his body sharp - jaw tight, shoulders square - as he pulled the jacket on. For a moment he melted - shoulders falling, lips parting, chest expanding with a breath - before he built the walls back up again. He didnât speak as he walked towards the stairs, passing Atlas on his way down.
Which is why, the weight of his jacket on your shoulders now feels weird. You know that he gave it back, have the beginnings of a memory tickling your brain, but you canât pinpoint when it happened. The scene playing out behind a thick sheet of ice, just out of reach in your drug-addled mind. Most of the day had been like this, you present for seconds at a time, then pulled back under the mind numbing currents of too much drug.
You had experienced this before - whether the time be a real moment of your life or not - at Mayfields. They had started you low on Clozapine, testing to see if the voice stopped or not. Those days were full of monitoring, a nurse or orderly coming to check on you at least once an hour. You had prayed, begged God to just make it shut up if only for a minute, but to no avail. Words bouncing back and forth inside your skull, shrill and angry. It didnât rest in your chest back then like it does now, carving out your insides for the fun of it. It was simply a pulsating pressure behind the eyes, screaming for its bonds. Pleading at first, small in the way it begged. âHelp them, help them, help them.â Like an anthem you fell asleep to each night. Once the dosage was upped it stopped for a small while, whispering every now and again.
Until one night, another patient had a fit. Her screams filled the hallways, the sound pulling all of the oxygen from the air, emotions so heavy you found yourself pressed flat against the bed. The feeling of your bond waking up was akin to when your limbs lose circulation, prickles in the nerves as they starve. Unpleasant. Uncomfortable. Terrifying. This piece of you that you so desperately wanted to cut out, growing back beneath your skin to the sound of someone else's pain. As your lungs expanded that night, every inch of your body shivering in fright, your bond screamed as it woke. âThey canât do this. Donât let them do this. Kill them. Kill them.â The next morning, your medication was upped again, and again.
The cycle rinsed and repeated, over and over and over again until finally it stopped. You donât know what the final count for your dosage was, only that by the end of it you didnât need to move. Or talk. Or eat. You were allowed to lay in your bed, or sit on the community room couch and watch the days go by. Morning, evening, night. Light, dark, light. Awake, asleep, awake. In bed, by the window, in bed. It did not matter. Nothing did. You couldnât feel the weight of the world on your shoulders anymore, because you couldn't even feel your shoulders. No more screaming at night, or at least you didnât wake to it anymore. No more thoughts in your head placed there by someone who wasnât real to you. Just blissful nothingness. No cares, no emotions, no voice. But with every good thing you had ever known came the rot.
You couldnât tell what was happening around you, your world suspended in a thick layer of sludge. Eyes unfocused and heavy, blinking just as much a chore as breathing. Your limbs moved slowly, the trek from bed to the couch almost too much for your body to handle. Slowly you felt yourself breaking down, muscles weak and useless, stomach loud and hungry. You didnât interact with the people around you, couldnât stop the visits to the white room when they began, and didnât want to exist anymore. The once blissful nothingness became a prison trapping you in your body. This feeling, not a thing you enjoy in the past or present.
Things only changed when the head doctor changed. Your medication was reduced to a manageable amount, life seeming less like a movie passing you by and more like a thing you got to be a part of. The visits to the white room stopped, and Friday night movie night was introduced. A prison it might have been, but you were content for a time. Until that woman showed up, thrusting you into a life that you could have never imagined.
âAre you fucking high right now?â You arenât sure who asks, eyes dry and stinging, the air in your lungs heavy as you exhale through your nose. You blink to clear your focus, the darkness lasting longer than you know to be normal.
You can feel them watching you before you can see them, their gazes slithering across your skin. At the front of the room he still stands, jaw tight, fuming. His blue eyes a contrast to the dark circles marring his skin. The podium now stands between him and the rest of the class, white board filled with a slideshow you never saw him put on. The lights are dimmed, another thing you didnât notice happening as you were lost to the world.
A hum leaves your throat before you can catch it, your body reacting on its own. Words forming on your tongue before you can think them through, âGot to be.â There is a pause, your head lifting from your knuckles as your arm falls forward at the elbow onto the desk. â..to be your bond.â
âIs that so?â Nox asks, a frightening timber in his voice. Normally you know not to anger him, to let his words roll off your skin unaffected by his ire. And while you are currently unaffected, any harmful words thrown at you lost to the mush that is your brain, he is not.
You hum again, head resting on your shoulder, eyes mostly closed. The sight through your eyelashes not much farther than your nose.
âPlease do tell the class how awful it is to be my-â he chokes on the word, gritting it out between clenched teeth, âbond.â
A squeeze to your hand pulls your focus for a second, stopping any response you might have had. She's there, at the tips of your fingers, hands intertwined below the table, palms sitting in her lap. Her other hand holds a pencil, notebook flat in front of her as she takes notes on Gifted History. She's not looking at you, her eyes straight ahead as if she's afraid to take them off of a threat. But Nox Draven is no threat to you, not really.
âYouâre everything they say about you.â You start, words slurred from the effort it takes to speak them. âYou and your fucking brother.â
You feel it again, a squeeze, and you squeeze right back, your other hand coming up to wipe down your face oblivious to her meaning. Sheâs so pretty like this, white hair framing her face, plum pink lips in a slight pout as she chews on the inside of the bottom one. Chest rising and falling at a normal rhythm, only catching when Nox spits words out into the classroom.
âYou donât seem to have any issue taking from the two of us.â
You turn to your other side, as a hand rests on your thigh now too. Gabe looks at you, unlike Oli, his eyebrows pinch, a small frown to his face. There is a slight shake of his head, as if pleading at you to stop.
âPatient. Prisoner. Bond. Itâs all the same. Over and over.â You donât like the look on Gabeâs face as you say that, his frown deepening. Another hum leaves your throat, this one in disagreement as you reach towards his face. He lets you, not moving away as your palm cups his cheek, thumb pressing into the corner of his mouth and upward.
âI hate you.â You look at Gabe while you say it, but your words are for Nox alone, âNot a bond of mine.â It doesn't register that Gabe might think otherwise as a sharp inhale of breath fills him. The palm that laid gently across your thigh a moment ago curls into a fist, his face hardening as the seconds go by. Oliâs hand grips you tighter now.
âDetrimental to the bond group I'd say.â There is a lightness to his voice you don't like. âWhile Fallows might be a giftless reject, at least she has a heart. Isnât that right Fallows? Because what kind of bond,â he spits, the air in the room thickening, âcan say that with a smile on their face?â
He is gone from your palm now, your gaze confused as he removes himself entirely. The chair he sits in is thrown back with a screech as he pushes away from the table, shoving notebooks into his book bag. The one in front of you is tossed in as he zips the bag closed and grabs for your bag on the ground. Once that is over his shoulder he reaches for your hands and pulls you up along with him. His movements are too quick for you, your body pitching forward and falling into him.
âWhere are you going?â Nox all but growls out.
Gabriel doesnât respond at first, shoving towards the door, people in his way be damned. âMedical,â he spits out, not waiting for you to find your footing as you stumble after him. As the pair of you pass the door frame you hear the screeching of more chairs follow.
It takes a minute for your brain to catch up as he drags you down the hallway, everything moving too fast. âYouâre angry,â you huff out, the strain of following him and the speed of walking both getting to you.
âOf course Iâm fucking angry,â he bites back not slowing his pace at all. The sound of feet slapping on the ground behind the pair of you fills the hallway.
You yank on your arm, trying to pull yourself from his grasp. His fingers tighten for a second before he releases you and comes to a stop, back in your direction. The planes of his body are tight, shoulders rising and falling in quick secession.
âWhy?â It feels stupid to ask, but you want him to look at you even if itâs in anger. Oliâs there now, shoving in between the two of you like she's protecting you from him. Or maybe him from you, as her hands reach out in his direction in a placating manor.
âWhy? I donât know bond.â He throws his head back, speaking to the ceiling.âMaybe because you just rejected me in front of the whole class with a fucking smile on your face? Maybe because I spent the whole fucking day taking care of you but you donât give a shit about me or my feelings?â Oliâs lips are moving but you canât understand what she's saying, Gabeâs words bouncing around in your head. âMaybe because even though you were saying you hate me I was just happy you were looking at me and it makes me fucking pathetic.â
Your ears ring, a pit forming in your stomach as Oliâs fingers wrap around Gabeâs. You know that this is just a miscommunication, your intentions not clear at the moment but easy to fix if you just speak to him. But you can feel it, the same feeling from last night as panic grips your insides. Ghost-like fingers worm their way past your rib cage, moving closer and closer towards your vision as you try to breathe and calm down.
Oliâs lips move as she pulls Gabe around to look at you both. His gaze never leaves hers, as his grip tightens on her hand. Itâs plain to see that you hurt him, intentionally or not. The tightness of his jaw, the squareness of his shoulders, the lack of looking at you, spoke the words you couldnât hear him saying as the ringing rises in your ears. You could fix this, not let Oli or anyone else take on the consequences of your own actions, but you can feel the ground pulling you down, dragging you back into the sludge of your drugged out brain.
You hear Atlasâ voice beside you, steady, strong, caring, âCome on Sunshine.â When you look at him, dark brown hair styled up, bright green eyes soft, tattoos poking out from the collar of his shirt, you want to swoon, and maybe you do as his hand reaches out to steady you. âWe gotta get you to medical.â He doesnât say anymore, just moves to the front of you to squat down, looking over his shoulder in waiting. You all but fall into him, arms wrapped around his neck, legs doing their best to grip around his broad middle. As he stands, he fixes your arms, pulling you closer so you can lay your head on his shoulder and moves his hands to your thighs to support your weight.
The closeness between you is something you had been craving for days now, having watched him and Oli touch and laugh together like nothing could ever be wrong. His body, hot against your chest, comforting below your cheek. The smell of him surrounding you, a sense of ease filling your bones like the sheets of your bed give you. This moment, a heaven you don't deserve.
++++++
You're not sure how long had passed since Gifted History 101, but you had found yourself in the medical unit, head significantly less cloudy, and a loud argument happening somewhere outside of your room. The words are too muffled to make out their contents, but the voice one youâd know even in your death. If you could postpone the meeting with North for eternity, you would. If you could get out of the room without him seeing you, skip tonight's meeting with Gryphon, and hide away in your dorm, safe and sound behind the sheets of your double mattress, you would. But the universe never seems to hear your pleas.
Minutes pass, giving you time to prepare yourself for his arrival. The room void of bonds in a way you had not experienced since meeting them for the first time, a silence you find you do not like. Angry with you or not, their presents brought you a gentle comfort you have never noticed until it was gone from around you. Almost like the oxygen levels in the air are lower than your use too, a small thing, not easy to pinpoint, but detrimental to your overall health. That's when you feel it, the crawling beneath your skin, the pulsating emotions highlighting your own, your bond. Itâs voice is not unlike yours, just deeper. A depth to it like thousand year old forests, fog covered and cold. âYou cannot be rid of me, nor I of you. We are forever bound, girl.â You have never liked when it speaks to you, never liked the way the pressure builds behind your eyes. It had been a long time since it had been this loud, this free. Always some layer of drug holding it back, drowning and dulling its hold on you.
âI donât want that. I donât want you to hurt them. I donât want you to hurt me anymore.â
âPain is nothing to us. We are beyond that.â
âI donât even know what that means.â Your hands come up to cover your face, back still pressed into the mattress below you as you breathe, mostly because it's the only thing you can do at the moment. Everything currently is out of hand, and you arenât really sure where to go to fix it. Do you just give up and let the universe decide whatâs next or do you keep trying to fix everything and struggle fuck your way to the end? Do you make a list of everything that needs to be fixed or repaired and work it down or do you let North Draven just decide every step of your life like he seems to want to do desperately?
The sound of the door opening makes that decision for you. âWhat in the world were you thinking?â He spits the second he can see you. âDo you have any idea what kind of mess you have created?â
âHello North. Wonderful to see you today. The weather is quite nice isnât it? I wonder if it will hold out for the game tomorrow or not. Oh yes I am very excited about it. Thank you for taking an interest in me.â You say behind your hands, still not having the guts to look at him.
âYou want pleasantries at a time like this? They think I'm poisoning you!â Northâs voice is hysteric in a way you had never heard it, which is saying something because he seems to always be at the brink of a breakdown around you. âHonestly, I thought Fallows was going to send me to an early grave but I just hadnât met you now had I?â
âThatâs not fair,â you argue, pulling your hands down to finally look at him. He is dressed as befitting a councilman of the Draven name, suit and tie, fancy dress shoes and all, but his hair is disheveled as if he had been pulling at the ends of it for sometime now. His dark brown eyes, even darker than normal, a small band of black smoke circling his wrist as he paces from side to side. âYou donât even know what's going on.â
âAnd whose fault is that?â He yells, finally taking a second to stop. âWas it not you, just last night that told me you wanted a bond? Well bonds tell each other things! They don't go home and poison themselves before showing up to a lecture! What were you thinking? What could have possibly been going through that uneducated mind of yours?â
The worse part of the argument was the bond in your chest, purring from being this close to him. Itâs emotions at war with your own. You struggle to feel any bigger than a microscopic piece of lint at his words, while your bond stretches towards him in want. The whirling wind of emotions confusing you farther.
âI cannot have this conversation with you right now.â
âYou donât have a choice.â He stands square to you now, arms across his chest, face angry. You hate the truth of it, both the words he said and the emotions your bonds stirs in your belly. You never really had a choice in anything, your whole life laid out by some invisible hand back then, and Draven hand now. You might never really have a choice again, and that genuinely sucks. Doubly so with your bond in your chest lusting over him, ignoring his harsh words because it thinks you deserve them for what youâve done to the both of them.
âYou realize,â you start, swinging your legs off the bed so you can sit up, âThat I now have a completely unmedicated bond, awake in my chest. A bond that has told me that every person in this world past, present, and future deserves to die at its hand for what our bonds have suffered? For what you have suffered? A fate that neither me nor it actually know? A bond that just moments ago told me that we are beyond pain when I asked it not to hurt me anymore? You want me to have a conversation right now while that brews in my chest?â
âYes,â his exasperation is apparent as he tosses his hands up. âI canât help you if you won't let me.â
âI never asked for your help.â
He brings a hand up now to pinch the bridge of his nose, âYou are my bond. That is what I do. That's the only reason I was put on this Earth. Let me help you.â
You can see it for a moment, accepting his help, his love because you both know that's what heâs really offering. A future where you wake up in his bed, a ghost of a kiss on your lips as he leaves for the day. Every want and need taken care of before you even have a chance to vocalize it. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close when you feel the world around you collapsing. The safety in letting him love you in the only way he knows how to. How easy it would be to just fall into that. But when you think of letting North have his way, you know there is no room for anyone else. Not really. Oleander would never have the freedoms that she needs so desperately, so there is no world where you can have them both. Atlas will always fight for what he thinks is right, and he proves every day that his future does not look the same as North Dravens. Plus you canât imagine, even for a moment, a world where you can live in proximity to Nox Draven and survive.
âMy future does not look like the one youâve built for me in your head North. I am not another problem you can fix. Please just let me do this my way.â
The pair of you stare at each other, not speaking, not moving, just holding a look. You donât have it in you to keep fighting, most of your attention holding back your bond from reaching out like it did with Gabe. From taking what it wants when it wants, because it thinks the world revolves around it. Around making it happy, everything else to the way side. Unfortunately, that is not someone you have ever been comfortable being. So you stand fast in your decision and keep holding. Northâs phone ringing breaks the stalemate as he looks at whoâs calling.
âYou stay here. I will have Gryphon come grab you and hold your meeting in your dorm.â You donât say anything, donât fight him on this too as he leaves the room not sparing you a glance.
++++++
Time runs differently when you're in your dorm, it eps and weaves to its own tune, the outside world lost to you. And when you add an extra bond into the mix, it stops time itself. Or maybe thatâs just what it's like being this close to Gryphon Shore, no drugs to numb the bond in your chest. The first thing you did when he stepped foot in your room, his scent filling every square inch, was go to your dresser draw and try to take a pill. Unfortunately, and to no one's surprise really, the container had magically disappeared. It's possible it was Oliâs doing, or Northâs you arenât really sure, but you do know that you really need to get Gryphon out of here before you and your bond make a fool of yourselves.
Gryphon steps around the room taking in the nothingness of it. He is dressed as normal, black cargo pants, combat boots, plain tee-shirt and black kevlar vest. He pulls the chair from Oliâs desk and sits, pulling the laces from his boot in an attempt to pull them off. You on the other hand stand as far from him as you can. The look of him in your space starts your bond and brain on a tangent you'd rather stop before he has access to it. His smell begging you to push him down into your bed to make sleeping tonight that much easier. Atlasâ scent still lingers on your pillow, Oliâs all over the sheets, Gabeâs jacket nicely folded atop your bed, and Gryphons would very nicely round it out. But you canât do that, and he canât touch you.
âMaybe we should reschedule,â you state in hopes that, even if it is a long shot, he will agree.
âIâm already here, bond.â You can hear what sounds like a smile as he starts working on the other boot.
âWell what if we sit on different sides of the room and just talk. That could work too.â
âAre you trying to get me to leave?â
âNo.â
âLiar.â
You sigh, before flopping down on your bed away from him. This neuro bond of yours sucks. No chance of lying, but a very high chance of being ignored out in the real world. Which if you're being honest with yourself and your bond, you're both kind of hurt. Would it really kill him to act like he does when itâs just the two of you? To act like he liked you even a little bit? It would kill you for sure, but so did the opposite.
âWhatâs going on? You don't want me here today?â It had been a big day for you all things considered. Plus you still needed to talk to Gabe and clear things up, worried to let the misunderstanding go on for too long.
âThatâs not it. My bond is just⊠a lot right now.â A lot was an understatement. Youâd finally figured out how to tune it out for the most part, which was truly impossible if they really got going. Most of the conversation since waking had been about being with your bonds, what it wanted to do to your bonds, and the mayhem it was ready to cause in the name of your bonds. Which by your count was a lot. The death of thousands isnât really what you call a fun Saturday night if you're being honest.
âYour bond has always been a lot.â
You donât want to agree with him, because doing so will not get him out of your room any quicker so you try to think of something that will. Which grows more difficult by the second as he begins on the straps to his vest.
âDo you really need to get so undressed,â you ask. Anymore clothes that come off of him lowers your will power to kick him out and you think he knows that.
âPromise to keep my pants on if that's what you're worried about.â You hadnât been, but now it's kind of all you can think about.
âWhat if, hear me out, you do take them off, and your shirt, and you just stand over there by the door the whole time for me to look at but not touch. Which I think would kill me but would make a great punishment and might make my bond end the world or something.â He laughs, a deep belly laugh as a smile fills his whole face. Who would have thought the sound of his laugh was like music. Or that you would ever have a bond this fucking hot.
He reaches down to pull the vest over his head and you can feel the breath catch in your throat. His shirt is tucked into his pants, allowing you to see every one of his outlined muscles. The arms of his shirt tight against his biceps as they flex when putting the vest on the back of the chair. Your mouth is dry, brain empty of any thoughts other than what it might feel like to sink your teeth in those big arms of his.
âWe have work to do or else I would.â You hum a response, eyes raking up and down his body as he takes steps towards you. Heâs close now, the scent of him stronger than a moment ago as you lay across your bed.
âMove over.â You almost do as told, your bond goading you on, whispering about how nice it would be to bond, to have him all to yourself. When you remember the other scents in the room.
âWait!â You yell, ripping the pillow closest to him away, and tossing it over to Oilâs bed then you move your pillow to its place, and drape Gabeâs jacket across the head board. âOkay now you can sit there.â
He looks at you a bit strangely but you shake it off using the time to scoot as close to the wall as possible, back towards the headboard giving him plenty of room to sit. Instead of following your lead, he fluffs the pillow and lays down opening his arms to you.
âMm what are you doing? I said no touching.â
âDoesnât work like that bond. Itâs this or you sit in my lap with our foreheads touching. Your pick.â You huff out a sound very similar to the word liar, and crawl into his arms. The scene is very reminiscent of when you awoke beside Atlas, except when Gryphon's arm tightens around your waist to pull you flush against him, the other finds your cheek, fingers tangling in your hair. It happens so fast you donât even have time to feel your bond fighting you. One second you're in his arms, and the next you're falling through the blackness into the vault.
Masterlist || Next
Sorry guys. Like I said Iâve been v v v busy. I rewrote this chapter like 15 times so it looks nothing like it did the first time. I hope you like it!
I plan to! Iâve just had some really big things happen in my life recently so Iâve had to take a bit of time away. Plus this Nox chapter is kicking my ass. đ
Iâm sorry! Iâve been super busy, and life has been chaotic recently. This next chapter has been really hard for me to write for some reason so Iâve decided to just write the crew playing Dungeons and Dragons đ for a fun little chapter before getting back to the main story. Iâm glad youâve been enjoying it though! ïżŒ
I havenât updated in a minute so I thought I would post everybodyâs lock screens!
North:
Atlas:
Nox:
Gryphon:
Gabriel:
Oleander:
Sorry itâs taken me so long to update! I have been working so much and have not had a single second to sit down and write, but I thought this would be fun!
Also, because nobody asked, here is my Bonds That Tie cast!
Oleander Fallows as Tanya Djerq pt1 pt2
Gabriel Ardern as Ross Lynch pt1 pt2
Atlas Bassinger as Young Jensen Ackles pt1 pt2
Gryphon Shore as Can Yaman pt1 pt2
Nox Draven as Lorenzo Zuruzolo pt1 pt2
North Draven as Francois Ardaud pt1 pt2
I will not be accepting any criticism on this because if I have to live with the fact that Gryphon does a man bun, its going to be THAT MAN with THAT MAN BUN OKAY. I also realize that Gryph and Nox are the same age. I know that I don't care. This is who I'm writing about, so if you don't wanna see these people, don't click on the links lmaoo.
I can admit when Iâm wrong. I present to you Gryphon (again) pt1 pt2
This feels better tbh, closer in age to where he should be. And Iâve always hated that his hair odd supposed to be long, and this is long enough in my opinion.
Authors note: plsplsplsplspls bear with me ok I HATE when two characters are introduced and they immediately fall in love and blah blah blah-- its not realistic. this story will be 3+ parts, I plan for dates to happen around part 2-ish... if I ever decide to continue. idk im losing hope while writing this out
You always carried around three things with you. Some form of earbud/headphone, a camera, and a journal. Those things, and a knife in your bag.Â
You know, you can never be too careful as a woman alone in a city like this.
The night was silent.Â
Youâre sitting out on your fire escape, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You were starting to give up hope, that was, until a familiar silhouette makes its way across a rooftop. The blanket over your shoulders not only kept you warm, but it helped you blend into the night and the wall of your apartment building. You feel like a bird photographer right now, all camouflaged and patiently waiting, and maybe you could consider yourself that in the moment. Youâre trying to get a photo of Nightwing, after all. Youâve been doing so for a while. Upon recently buying a high-quality lens, larger, for longer-distance shots, you decided to test it out.
It was a slow night for Dick. A few muggers, one robbery. It seems like a lot to deal with within a few hours for a normal person, but Dick was no normal person. Heâs been doing shit like this for yearsâ this was a simple night to his standards. He was just doing his rounds, getting a look at the city from a higher (high but not too high) vantage point. It was peaceful, almost, that was until something sharp poked his eye from inside his mask.
âShitâ!â He yelps, the heel of his hand pressing against his eye. He tries to blink whatever had come into contact with his damn sclera, but nothing works. âWhat the hell, dude?â As if someone intentionally poked his eye with something.
Baby blue eyes beginning to water in an attempt to get whatever was offending his eye out, he had no choice but to take his mask off. He was on the tip-top of a building, who would see? He took the domino mask off, quickly replacing it with his hand to rub at his eyes. When he thought heâd got it, he lowered his hand for a moment, blinking up at the sky to see if everything felt fine. It did. Hoorah.Â
What didnât feel fine was catching the quick flash of a camera from the corner of his vision. He looked over, scanning the area, then he spotted you. You were quick to stand up, tripping on the blanket as you turned to try to shimmy through the small opening from your window that led back inside from your fire escape.
Well, shit.
He puts the mask back on, immediately setting off after you. âHey there!â he greets, jumping and landing on your fire escape, snagging the camera from your hands. He jumps backwards to the fire escape adjacent to yours, ignoring your protests as he figures out how to work this camera.
You didnât even have time to admire or check the photo before he grabbed it.Â
âHey! Thatâs my camera!â You say, and for a moment it looks like you're contemplating jumping over to him!
âYeah, and thatâs my face!â He counters, pointing at the screen that he kept turned away from you. âDid you ever hear that itâs, like, illegal to take photos of people without their permission?â
âGive it back!â You snap, reaching over, but the attempt was futile.
âGive me a second,â he says, observing the photo before deleting it and handing the camera back to you. âIt was a good photo, Iâll give you that, but uh⊠you canât have it.â
âYouâre an asshole.â You say, grabbing the camera back, desperately going through the saved media to see if there was any chance of getting it back. News flash, there was no recently deleted album on the camera.
âYou thought I was cool enough to take a picture of.â
âThat was before I actually talked to you!â You say, frustrated as you turn the device off, looking up to glare at him. âAnd youâre not specialâ I take photos of everyone.â
âThatâs a lot of crimes.â
âItâs street photography!â
He shrugs, âSo what are you, a journalist?â He asks, indulging in a bit of small talk with this feisty stranger before continuing on with patrol.
âI donât think I have to explain myself to you.â You mutter.
âYou donât,â he nods. âBut Iâd like to know why you wanted to get an unmasked photo of the kind guy whoâs been keeping the people of this city safe.â
âYou werenât being very kind when you took my camera.â
âDo you want me to die?â
âItâs just a hobby.â You mutter, turning to crawl back through your window and into your apartment.
âTrying to dox your neighborhood vigilante or the street photography?â
You send him the nastiest look he has ever seen as you climb back inside, slamming the window shut. He hops over to your fire escape, waving in kind goodbye, only to be met with a middle finger shoved against the glass.
It's funny how often you see a face in your daily routine when you finally start recognizing them.
There you were, sat in a coffee shop, typing away on your computer with that same camera plugged into it. He just couldnât stop himself. He was taking Haley on a walk at the time, and he just happened to spot you through the window. He stepped inside, the bell chiming above him as he made his way to the front counter. He ordered his usual, just something to make it look like he had a real reason to be in here, then waited around near the front counter. He glances at you every few seconds, trying to catch what you were doing without looking like a creep.
God, he really looked like a creep, didnât he? You wouldnât recognize him, but that only seemed to make things worse. He just kept telling himself he was keeping tabs on you just in case you were working for an organization that was trying to find out and leak his identity. But you⊠you didnât seem like that. Either you were really good at putting up an act, or you were truly just a citizen.Â
He takes his drink when his name is called, taking Haley and the cup over to another table by the window. Luckily, one of the only open tables was the one right behind you. You had headphones on, and you seemed pretty into your work as you zoomed in and out of photos. He sits down in the chair that was closest to yours, making the two of you back to back. Now, if Haley can execute this, sheâs getting extra treats tonight. He loosely wraps her leash against the leg of the chair, loose enough for her to walk away, and thatâs exactly what she does. She walks right over to you, using her cute three-legged charm to gain your attention.
Feeling something brush against the side of your legs, you look down to see a small grey dog. Furrowing your eyebrows, you look around to search for the owner, who, unbeknownst to you, was sitting right behind you.
âHey, baby.â You coo quietly, freeing one ear from your headphones. âWhereâs your owner, huh?â
Now that was Dickâs time to shine.
He turns around, raising his eyebrows in feigned surprise when he sees you with Haley. âOhâ Iâm so sorry!â he says, causing you to look up. âI didnât think she was planning on wandering off⊠This is Haley.â
You smile faintly, shaking your head as you pet Haley when she nudges your leg again. âItâs no worries, sheâs a cute dog.â She chuckles, lightly turning her back to her owner.
âIâm glad she went to you and not the door.â He jokes, giving Haley a few pats, earning a quiet bark in response.
You laugh, nodding, and man, he likes that sound.Â
âYou like photography?â He asks, motioning to the camera you had in front of you.
âOhâ oh yeah.â You nod, opening the bag that was hung from the back of your chair, presenting two more cameras in it. âI love it.â
âClearly.â He says, chuckling. âJust as a hobby or for work?â
âItâs just something I do for fun.â You say, letting the bag close.Â
âYou take it pretty seriously for something you do for a bit of fun.â He teases softly, looking over your shoulder to the picture they were displayed on your computer. âIs that one of yours? You know, I happen to be a wonderful self-proclaimed art critic.â
âOffering unsolicited advice?â You ask, grinning sheepishly as you move aside to show him.Â
âJust being friendly,â he defends, scooting his chair over to look at the photo. âHey⊠this is really nice. Youâre into street photography, then?â he asks, using the new lingo you had unknowingly taught him days prior.Â
âYeah.â You smile bashfully, nodding. âCandid photos, stuff like that.â
âItâs impressive, really.â He says, then he offers out his hand, âIâm Dick.â
The night was cold, the streets were wet. And obviously, someone wanted to mug you. They saw an expensive-looking camera held in your hands and took their chance when you looked through the viewfinder to take a photo.Â
Of course, Nightwing was around to stop them.Â
âSo, I imagine this is yours?â He asks, holding up the camera that one of the two men had attempted to steal.Â
You donât say anything, you just grab the device from his hand, muttering profanities under your breath as you check for any damage.
âYou sure are ungrateful.â He deadpans, crossing his arms.Â
You look up from the camera, scowling at him as you tuck it away. âThank you.â You say curtly, unmoving from your spot.Â
âSo who convinced you to come out at this time?â He asks, âBlĂŒdhaven isnât exactly known for being a safe place at night.â He motions to the handcuffed men in the ground.Â
âI wanted a photo.â
âWell duh. But at this time? In this place?â Heâs not rude enough to call you stupid, but damn he wants to. âOf buildings?â
âI had a vision.â You defend, crossing your arms.Â
âYeah, maybe next time, execute the vision from inside your apartment.â
âSome people actually like my work the way it isâ without any unwanted advice from people.â
âOh, I can think of a guy.â Meaning himself as Dickâ not Nightwing.Â
âI can too.â You counter, also meaning Dick.Â
âI bet you can.â
âYeah, I canâ thatâs why I just said that.â
He glances down the street, then back at you. âWhere do you live?â
You squint. âSorry, do you usually ask traumatized robbery victims for their address, or am I just special?â
He sighs. âIâm not trying to be creepy. Iâm trying to make sure you donât get jumped again in the next five minutes.â
âI can handle myself.â You hitch your bag higher on your shoulder.
âYeah,â he says. âYouâve sure proved that.â
âExcuse me?â You open your mouth, pause, then close it again. The wet street, the empty sidewalks, the two groaning guys handcuffed to a lamppost behind himâ
âThree blocks that way, then left,â you say finally, jerking your chin down the street. âHappy?â
âEcstatic,â he replies. âWalk. Iâll be up there.â
You follow his gesture and see the line of fire escapes and ledges. Of course. Rooftop babysitting.
âYouâre going to stalk me home?â
ââEscortâ is the word youâre looking for,â he says.
âIâd be flattered if you werenât such an ass.â You huff, but you start walking.Â
The puddles reflect smeared neon and the occasional passing headlights. Every so often you hear the thud of boots on metal above you, a brief flash of blue moving along the edge of your vision.
You reach your building sooner than you want to admit. You stop under the awning and look up. Heâs perched on the edge of the roof across the street, outlined in blue.Â
âWell.â You walk up the steps to the entrance, âYou have officially completed your civic duty.â
âYeah,â he says. âTry to limit the late-night âvisionsâ for a while, alright? At least in this neighborhood.â
You hesitate, thumb resting on the handle.
âThanks,â you say finally. It comes out curt and clipped, but hey, you said it.
He tips his head. âYouâre welcome.â
You turn toward the door, then pause and glance back. âFor the record,â you say, jabbing a finger at him, âif you would just let me get a decent shot of you, I wouldnât have to wander into shitty alleys for material.â
He laughs under his breath. âPretty sure thatâs still a crime.â
âItâs art,â you insist.
âItâs stalking.â
âSo is following me home,â you say. âItâs street photography. Learn the term, birdboy.â
He leans forward a little, âGet inside, camera girl.â
âThat sounds cringe.âÂ
âWhat?â
âItâs like youâre trying too hard to sound cool.â
Also, because nobody asked, here is my Bonds That Tie cast!
Oleander Fallows as Tanya Djerq pt1 pt2
Gabriel Ardern as Ross Lynch pt1 pt2
Atlas Bassinger as Young Jensen Ackles pt1 pt2
Gryphon Shore as Can Yaman pt1 pt2
Nox Draven as Lorenzo Zuruzolo pt1 pt2
North Draven as Francois Ardaud pt1 pt2
I will not be accepting any criticism on this because if I have to live with the fact that Gryphon does a man bun, its going to be THAT MAN with THAT MAN BUN OKAY. I also realize that Gryph and Nox are the same age. I know that I don't care. This is who I'm writing about, so if you don't wanna see these people, don't click on the links lmaoo.
You didn't ask, but here is a sneak peek into the Jason Todd x Reader x Dick Grayson fic I plan on writing. I am still working on my other fic, but this came to me, and I had to write it down before I forgot how I wanted to start this. If you want to be added to the Taglist when I start uploading, let me know! Anyways enjoy! (P.S I don't write smut so if it sucks im sorry! I am going to be writing some for this one. Please be nice lmao!)
Loving Jason Todd was easy, probably the easiest thing you had ever had the pleasure of doing. As long as you made sure not to tell him you loved him. As long as you did not expect him to tell you he loved you in return. As long as you never expect to meet his family or know him on the most basic of levels. As long as his actions, his silent devotion, the way he fucks you, is enough, loving him is easy.
You had met Jason at his mechanics shop, just another client for all of an hour before he had you bent over the front of someone else's classic 1978 Chevrolet Nova, skirt thrown up, panties missing, toes skimming the floor, and Jason deep inside you, one hand on your jip and the other splayed between your shoulder blades pressing you further and further into the cold hood of the car. Him, not speaking, only grunts and soft moans, the softest thing you had seen or heard from him up until this point. And when he was done, his cum splattered across your ass, his teeth indented across your shoulders - your neck - he cleaned you up. Warm cloth to soothe your bitten skin, to clean his mess, as he settles your skirt back into place, a stool dragged over for you to sit on as he forces your locked-out knees from the hood to the chair. Your mind still a fucked out bliss, forehead connecting to his hip, his hand on your shoulder stabilizing you, the other rubbing down your hair, and a laugh bubbling up from his chest.
"I do you in that bad, doll?"
You want to speak, but can't, faculties still lost on you as you hum and nod to his question, fully fucked out and aching.
Once he knows it's safe, once he knows you won't fall over on him, he leaves to grab you a water, cracking the seal in front of you, and hands it over. You take a small sip, eyes still wide and staring up at him as he towers over you in your seat. One of his fingers comes up to force the bottle back to your lips, and you comply, mostly because you're trying to psyche yourself up for round two, but also because he has this quiet, domineering power to him that makes you want to listen.
The data indicating the average person experiences 3.4 attacks annually is misleading. You- who seem to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time several times a month- represents a significant deviation from the norm and should not be counted in the dataset.
(Seriously, if there was a punch card for civilian endangerment, you'd have earned a free mug and a commemorative sticker by now)
Or; in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
10.7k words
Itâs a Tuesday and thereâs a gun pressed against your spine.
Tuesday has always been the worst day of the week in your opinion- past the motivation of Monday, too far from the relief of Friday, just existing in this pathetic middle ground of mundane awfulness. And now, apparently, Tuesday has decided to really live up to its terrible reputation.
âDonât move,â a voice hisses behind you, and you can smell stale cigarettes and alcohol. âEmpty your account. All of it.â
Youâre at the ATM on the corner of 23rd and Hayes, the one youâve used a hundred times because itâs on your route home from your soul crushing data entry job. The street is unusually empty for 9 pm, but thatâs Bludhaven for you; people have finally started learning not to be out after dark.
Everyone except you, apparently, because youâre an idiot who needed cash for the laundromat.
âI have forty three dollars in checking,â you say flatly, finger hovering over the keypad. âAnd maybe twelve in savings. Youâre really not making out well on this transaction.â
âJust do it!â The gun digs harder into your back, right between your shoulder blades.
Of course this is how you die. Not in some heroic way, not peacefully in your sleep at ninety- no, youâre going to get shot at an ATM on a Tuesday because you needed quarters. The universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to your life.
You press the button for withdrawal from checking. âYou know, statistically, youâd make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- â
âShut up!â
âIâm just saying, this is really inefficient- â
You donât get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and thereâs a crash behind you. You spin around- stupid, you should run, but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw- and watch as a blur of black and blue slams your would be mugger into the brick wall of the bodega next to the ATM.
The man crumples. The gun skitters across the pavement. And standing there, illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the harsh glow of the ATM screen, is Nightwing.
Youâve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. Heâs all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body thatâs been honed into a weapon. The blue bird across his chest seems to shimmer as he moves, and his escrima sticks hang from his hands like theyâre extensions of his arms.
He turns to you, and even though you canât see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
âYou okay?â His voice is different than you expected; younger, with an edge of genuine concern that seems almost out of place on someone who just took down an armed mugger in three seconds flat.
You blink at him. âThat depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.â
Thereâs a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.
âThatâs⊠pretty specific.â
âIâm a pessimist. Weâre detailed oriented.â You glance at the mugger, whoâs groaning on the ground. âIs he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after youâre done with him?â
Now he definitely smiles. âLittle of both, probably. You should get out of here. Iâll wait with him until BCPD shows up.â
âRight. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.â But youâre already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. âThanks for the rescue, I guess. Even though I probably would have just given him the money and filed a police report that would go nowhere.â
âYou guess?â He sounds amused now.
You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. âI mean, appreciate the help and all, but letâs be real, Iâll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. Itâs practically a meteorological certainty.â
âThatâs not how lightning works.â
âAnd yet.â You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight thatâs been broken for three weeks. âHere we are.â
You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. Youâre not sure if he thinks youâre funny or just deeply disturbed.
Probably both.
Of course, both is good.
â.Ë.đ Șàż
Youâre hanging from a fire escape.
Itâs been two weeks since the ATM incident, and youâd actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didnât increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.
But the universe doesnât like it when you get comfortable.
Youâre not even doing anything weird; you just came out here to water your singular, struggling tomato plant (which refuses to actually produce tomatoes) when the rusted bolts finally gave way. The fire escape tilted, you grabbed for the railing, and now youâre dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.
âHelp!â You scream, but itâs 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man whoâs definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she âdoesnât believe in interference.â
This is exactly how youâd thought youâd die but youâd appreciate it if you werenât right.
Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.
Youâre wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.
âIâM WEARING MY NICE JEANS!â You yell into the void.
âHold on!â A voice calls back, and youâre so startled you nearly let go.
Then heâs there, like some kind of acrobatic miracle, flipping up from the alley below and landing on the tilted fire escape with perfect balance. Nightwing grabs your wrists and hauls you up with absolutely no effort, pulling you against his chest as the fire escape groans ominously beneath you both.
âWe need to move,â he says, and then heâs grappling to the roof, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.
Your stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sudden altitude change.
He sets you down on the roof, hands lingering on your arms to make sure youâre steady. âYou okay?â
Youâre breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. âYou know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being âtechnically yes, but actually no.ââ
He tilts his head, and thereâs something about the gesture thatâs almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. âWait. ATM girl?â
âOh, perfect. I have a nickname now.â You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. âYes. ATM girl. Also known as âthat pessimist,â âfire escape failure,â and âperson who canât keep a tomato plant alive.â Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.â
âYou remember me.â He sounds pleased.
âYouâre dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. Youâre pretty memorable.â You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. âGreat. There goes my security deposit.â
âYouâre taking this pretty well.â
âWhatâs the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasnât worth the effort.â You turn back to him, and in the moonlight, you can see more details; the curve of his jaw, the way his hair sticks up slightly, the almost absurd width of his shoulders. âSo, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and youâre following the trail of chaos?â
He laughs, and itâs a good sound, warm and genuine. âLittle of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?â
âWatering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but Iâm nothing if not committed to lost causes.â You sigh. âI should call my landlord. Heâs going to love this.â
âItâs not your fault the fire escape collapsed.â
âAnd yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.â You pull out your phone, then pause. âThanks. Again. For the rescue. Youâre really good at those.â
âItâs kind of my thing.â
âWell, itâs a good thing.â You swallow, suddenly aware of how close youâre standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how heâs looking at you like youâre something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. âYou should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.â
âI donât think youâre incompetent.â
âMy fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.â
Heâs smiling again. Youâre getting used to that smile, the way it makes something warm unfold in your chest despite your best efforts to remain emotionally neutral about everything.
âGet inside safely,â he says. âAnd maybe water your plant from the window from now on.â
âBold of you to assume Iâll keep trying. That plant and I both know itâs a doomed enterprise.â
But youâre smiling too, just a little, as he grapples away into the night, all grace and controlled power.
Your landlord does, in fact, make the fire escape your problem.
Of course he does.
â.Ë.đ Șàż
Youâre stuck in an elevator.
âI should have taken the stairs,â you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. âI always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, âYou know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. Whatâs the worst that could happen?ââ
âTo be fair,â Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, âthis is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.â
You turn to look at him. Heâs leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone whoâs been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.
âWeâre stuck in an elevator. In a building thatâs scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesnât believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.â
âYou didnât see the notices?â
âI saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.â You slide down the wall until youâre sitting on the floor. âWhat are you even doing here?â
âGot a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.â He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadnât noticed. âFound them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.â
âOf course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.â
He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. Itâs unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.
âYou know,â he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, âmost people would be more worried about being stuck.â
âOh, Iâm worried. Iâm just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.â You let your head fall back against the wall. âLast month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didnât even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.â
âThe universe has it out for you.â
âThe universe has it out for everyone. Iâm just aware of it.â You glance at him. âArenât you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?â
âIâm Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.â
âWow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. Thatâs so Bludhaven.â
He laughs, and youâre starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.
âYouâre funny,â he says.
âIâm fatalistic. People often confuse the two.â
âNo, youâre definitely funny.â He leans forward slightly. âAnd youâre handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.â
âOh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. Thereâs a difference.â But youâre smiling despite yourself. âHow long do you think weâll be stuck?â
âI already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.â
âSo enough time for you to tell me why you do this.â You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. âThe whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?â
âWhat makes you think Iâm rich?â
âThat suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesnât come cheap.â
He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. âI canât tell you my origin story while weâre stuck in an elevator. Thatâs terrible narrative pacing.â
âFine. Tell me something else then.â Youâre not sure why youâre pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. âTell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.â
âBecause youâre different.â He says it simply, like itâs obvious. âMost people I rescue are either terrified or grateful or both. You were critiquing the economics of street crime while there was a gun pointed at you.â
âThat was just my anxiety talking. I babble when Iâm nervous.â
âAnd when youâre not nervous?â
âIâm always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.â
âFair point.â Heâs quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. âYou act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. Thatâs not pessimism. Thatâs hope wearing a disguise.â
The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought youâd armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.
âThatâs a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,â you manage.
âI donât think theyâre flaws.â
Before you can figure out how to respond to that, before you can unpack the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest that feels dangerously close to something you canât take back, thereâs a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.
âFire department?â You ask hopefully.
âFire department,â he confirms, standing and offering you his hand.
You take it, and his grip is strong and steady, and you let yourself hold on for maybe a second longer than necessary.
The doors pry open to reveal two firefighters who look unsurprised to see Nightwing and very surprised to see you.
âMaâam,â one of them says, âwhat were you doing in a condemned building?â
âLooking for Chairman Meow,â you say without missing a beat. âHeâs still missing, by the way, if anyoneâs seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.â
Nightwing makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough.
As the firefighters escort you out (with several safety lectures), you glance back once. Nightwing is watching you go, duffel bag in hand, and even though you canât see his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
You wave.
He waves back.
You tell yourself the flip in your stomach is just residual adrenaline.
Youâre definitely lying to yourself.
â.Ë.đ Șàż
The fourth time you meet Nightwing, youâre not actually in danger.
Youâre on your buildingâs roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but youâve developed trust issues), lying on a blanket and looking at the stars. Or trying to. Light pollution in Bludhaven means you can see maybe seven stars on a good night, and most of them are probably planes.
âYou know,â a voice says from behind you, âmost people would consider this suspicious behavior.â
You donât even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.
âMost people donât live in my apartment,â you say, not sitting up. âMy upstairs neighbor is having extremely loud makeup sex, my downstairs neighbor is learning the drums, and the person across the hall is watching what I think is the entire Fast and Furious franchise at maximum volume. Iâm seeking refuge.â
Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.
âAll at once?â He asks.
âThe universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.â
âStill not how lightning works.â
âAnd yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. Whatâs your excuse this time?â
Heâs quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, heâs staring up at the sky with an expression you canât quite read.
âNo excuse,â he admits. âI was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.â
âChecking on ATM girl? Iâm touched. Truly.â But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. âIâm fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.â
âEight,â he says, pointing. âThat oneâs really faint, but itâs there.â
You look where heâs indicating and squint. âIf you say so. Iâll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.â
âJust good training.â
âRight. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job thatâs definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.â
âI never said I was a billionaire.â
âYou also never said you werenât.â
He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. âYouâre very suspicious.â
âIâm very realistic. People donât become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.â You pause. âNo offense.â
âNone taken. Youâre not wrong.â Heâs quiet for a beat. âYou want to know something?â
âIs it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, Iâm terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didnât talk for three months out of shame.â
âNot my secret identity.â He sounds amused. âI was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.â
Your heart does a complicated somersault. âYou look forward to me nearly dying? Thatâs kind of dark.â
âI look forward to talking to you.â He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. âYouâre real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.â
âThatâs just depression with better marketing.â
âItâs not, though.â Heâs closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. âYou keep showing up. You keep trying. Youâre watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. Thatâs not giving up. Thatâs the opposite of giving up.â
You swallow hard. âYouâre doing the poetic assessment thing again.â
âIs it working?â
âIâm not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.â
But youâre not pulling away. Neither is he.
âCan I tell you something?â You hear yourself say. âAnd you canât make fun of me.â
âI would never.â
âYou absolutely would, but Iâm going to tell you anyway.â You take a breath. âI think Iâm starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.â
The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. Youâre about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-
âGood,â he says quietly. âBecause Iâve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.â
Oh.
Oh.
âThatâs very inefficient crime fighting,â you whisper.
âIâm okay with that.â
Heâs so close now. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the slight curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Your hand moves without permission, reaching up to trace the edge of his mask.
âCan I-â
âNot yet,â he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. âSoon. I promise. But not yet.â
âOkay.â And it is, somehow. Okay. âThis is insane. You know that, right? I donât even know your name.â
âYou know me, though.â His thumb traces circles on your wrist. âYou know the important parts.â
âI know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.â
âYour most interesting moments.â
âSame thing, in my life.â
He laughs, and then heâs leaning in, and youâre leaning in, and-
An alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. Police sirens. Something that sounds like gunshots.
He pulls back with a sigh that sounds genuinely regretful. âI have to go.â
âOf course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.â
But heâs standing, getting ready to grapple away, and youâre standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.
âSame time next week?â He asks. âSame roof?â
âYouâre scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.â
âCall it hope wearing a disguise.â
Heâs gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and youâre left standing there with your hand pressed to your cheek where he touched you, smiling like an idiot at the seven- no, eight- stars.
This is dangerous, you think.
This is terrifying.
This is exactly the kind of thing that will definitely end in disaster.
You canât wait.
â.Ë.đ Șàż
You're getting mugged again.
"I told you," you say to Nightwing as he drops from the fire escape above, landing between you and the two men who'd cornered you outside the 24-hour bodega. "I told you lightning strikes twice in Bludhaven. It's been exactly three months."
One of the muggers makes a run for it immediately. The other one pulls out a knife, which seems optimistic given that Nightwing was in the news for taking down an entire robbery crew last week with what you're pretty sure was just a pair of escrima sticks and audacity.
"You were counting?" Nightwing asks, disarming the guy with a move so fast you barely see it. The knife clatters into a storm drain. The mugger wisely chooses to follow his friend's lead and runs.
"I have a very specific relationship with probability and disaster." You hold up the energy drink you'd been buying. "I was just getting caffeine for my night shift. Is that too much to ask? One energy drink without a felony?"
He turns to you, and even though it's been three months of scheduled roof meetings (and several unscheduled disaster interventions), your stomach still does that stupid flip when he looks at you.
"You okay?" He asks, like always.
"Physically fine. Emotionally processing the fact that you either have a tracker on me or the universe is actively coordinating our meet-cutes through crime." You pause. "Wait. You don't have a tracker on me, right?"
"No tracker. I was two blocks away when I heard yelling."
"My yelling specifically, or just general Bludhaven yelling? Because there's a lot of ambient yelling in this city."
He steps closer, does that thing where he checks you over for injuries even though you've told him you're fine. His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching. "Your yelling has a specific quality."
"Is it the desperation? The resignation? The underlying notes of 'I knew this would happen'?"
"It's distinctive." His lips twitch. "You want me to walk you home?"
"Nightwing, it's three blocks. Surely there's actual crime happening somewhere that needs your attention more than my tragic walk of shame back to my apartment."
"Humor me."
So you do, because you're weak and he's looking at you like that, and honestly, your Tuesday (of course it's a fucking Tuesday) is already so absurd that adding a vigilante escort service barely registers.
You walk in silence for half a block before he speaks. "How's the tomato plant?"
"Dying. Finally gave up last week. I'm weirdly proud of it for lasting eight months though. That's longer than most of my relationships."
"You're in a relationship with your tomato plant?"
"Was. It's complicated. We wanted different things. It wanted proper drainage and sunlight. I wanted it to not be a metaphor for my inability to nurture living things."
He's laughing now, that warm sound you've become maybe slightly addicted to over the past few months. Your roof meetings have become the highlight of your week, even though you're both pretending they're casual. Even though you're both pretending that the almost-kiss from that first night didn't fundamentally alter something in the space between you.
"I got a new plant," you admit. "A cactus. The guy at the store said it was indestructible."
"How long has it been?"
"Four days."
"And?"
"It's looking suspicious. I think it's plotting something."
You've reached your building. The one with the formerly broken fire escape, the drum learning neighbor, and the upstairs couple who have apparently decided that their relationship drama is a communal experience.
You should go inside. He should go stop crime. This is where the night should end.
"So," you say instead, because you're bad at good decisions. "Thursday. Roof. Same time?"
"Wouldn't miss it." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, closer than necessary, and the streetlight is flickering (because of course it is), and something in his posture has shifted.
"What?" You ask.
"Nothing. Just..." He reaches up, almost touches your face, then drops his hand. "Be careful. Please."
"Careful? You do remember who you're talking to, right? I'm the fire escape girl. The elevator disaster. The woman who gets mugged on a schedule."
"Exactly." And there's something in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch. "So be careful. Because I..." He stops, shakes his head. "Thursday. Don't be late."
He's gone before you can ask what he was going to say, grappling up into the darkness, and you're left standing there wondering if it's possible to have your heart broken by someone whose real name you don't even know.
(It is. You're pretty sure it is.)
â.Ë.đ Șàż
Thursday arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.
You're on the roof at 10 pm sharp, because apparently you're the kind of person who's punctual for secret meetings with a masked vigilante now. The blanket is spread out. You've brought snacks this time- chips, because you're not fancy, and two cans of the fancy lemonade from the bodega that doesn't get robbed as frequently.
He's late.
By 10:15, you're starting to worry, which is a new and uncomfortable feeling. Usually you're worried about yourself and your own impending disasters. Worrying about someone else requires emotional bandwidth you're not sure you have.
By 10:30, you're pacing.
By 10:45, you're googling "Bludhaven crime news" on your phone, which is probably exactly what you shouldn't be doing but your anxiety brain has never been good at following directions.
At 11:07, he lands on the roof, and you're on your feet immediately.
"You're late," you say, and it comes out more scared than annoyed. "You're never late."
"I know. I'm sorry. There was a thin- " He stops, and even in the darkness you can see something's wrong. He's favoring his left side. There's a tear in his suit near his ribs.
"You're hurt." It's not a question.
"It's nothing. Just- "
"Sit down." You're already moving toward him, hands hovering uselessly because you have no idea what to do with an injured vigilante but you need to do something. "Sit down right now or I swear I'll- I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be annoying."
He sits, probably more from surprise than actual obedience. You kneel beside him, trying to assess the damage through the suit.
"It's really not that bad," he says, but his voice is tight with pain. "I've had worse."
"That's not as comforting as you think it is." Your hands are shaking. When did your hands start shaking? "What do I do? Do you have a first aid kit? Do you need a hospital? Should I call Batman?"
"Please don't call Batman."
"I don't even know how to call Batman. That was an empty threat." You're rambling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help you. I barely know how to help myself. I once put a band-aid on upside down- "
"Hey." His hand catches yours, stops the flailing. "Breathe."
You breathe. It doesn't help.
"I have supplies in my belt," he says calmly. "Just need to... patch it up. It's honestly not serious."
"You have a hole in your suit. There's blood. That seems serious."
"I've had worse nights." But he's pulling out a first aid kit that's somehow compact enough to fit in his utility belt, wincing as he moves.
You take it from him before he can argue. "Let me. Please. I need- " Your voice cracks. "I need to help. I need to do something."
He looks at you for a long moment, and then nods.
His suit has some kind of panel near the injury that peels back, revealing a gash along his ribs that makes your stomach turn. It's not as deep as you feared, but it's definitely more than "nothing."
"Knife?" You ask, focusing on the injury instead of the implications, instead of the fact that this man you've been slowly falling for risks his life every single night.
"Broken glass, actually. Went through a window."
"Consensually or...?"
"The window was very against it."
You laugh, because the alternative is crying, and you carefully clean the wound with the supplies from his kit. He doesn't flinch, which is somehow more concerning than if he had.
"You do this a lot," you say quietly. It's not a question.
"More than I'd like."
"And you just... patch yourself up and go back out the next night."
"Usually."
You're applying butterfly bandages now, careful and methodical, trying not to think about how this could have been worse. How it could always be worse.
"Why?" The word comes out smaller than you intended. "Why do you do this?"
He's quiet while you finish bandaging, and you think maybe he won't answer. Then: "Someone has to."
"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."
"You're getting good at reading me."
"You're getting easier to read." You sit back, surveying your work. It's not pretty, but it'll hold. "Or maybe I'm just paying more attention than I should be."
"Is that what you think? That you're paying too much attention?"
You look up at him, and even with the mask, even in the darkness, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.
"I don't know what I think anymore," you admit. "Three months ago, I was just a person who got mugged sometimes and had a dying tomato plant. Now I'm the person who waits on roofs and worries when you're late and apparently knows how to do field dressing for vigilante injuries. I don't know how that happened."
"I do." His hand comes up, cups your face like he did that first night. "You kept showing up."
"You literally scheduled the meetings."
"You could have said no."
"Could I have?" Your voice is barely a whisper now. "Because I don't think I could have. I don't think I can. And that's terrifying."
"Why terrifying?"
"Because you're- " You gesture at him, at the suit, at the fresh bandage on his ribs. "This. All of this. You jump off buildings and fight criminals and apparently go through windows. You're not safe. This isn't safe. And I'm- I'm a person who expects the worst because the worst usually happens, but somehow you've become the exception and I don't know what to do with that."
His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "What if I told you I'm terrified too?"
"You? You're Nightwing. You're not afraid of anything."
"I'm afraid of you not being here next Thursday." The words are quiet, honest, devastating. "I'm afraid of you deciding this is too complicated. Too dangerous. Too- "
You kiss him.
It's not graceful. You basically just lean forward and press your mouth to his, cutting off his words, and for a second he's too surprised to respond. Then his hand slides into your hair and he's kissing you back, and oh, this is-
This is nice.
You break apart after a moment that feels both infinite and far too short. You're breathing hard, and he is too, and you're still close enough to count his heartbeats.
"That was..." he starts.
"Impulsive? Stupid? A terrible idea given the circumstances?"
"I was going to say worth waiting for."
You laugh, and it comes out shaky. "You're bleeding through your bandage and I just kissed you. This is the most Bludhaven romance ever."
"Is that what this is? A romance?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
He leans his forehead against yours, careful of the mask. "I want it to be."
"Even though I'm a disaster?"
"Because you're a disaster. My favorite disaster." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I need to tell you something. Soon. About... everything. Who I am. But not tonight. Not when I'm- "
"Bleeding and probably concussed?"
"I'm not concussed."
"You went through a window. You're at least mildly concussed."
"Fair point." He's smiling though, even through the pain. " I'll tell you everything. Soon. I promise."
"Everything?"
"Everything you want to know."
You should be scared. This is the part where your pessimistic brain should kick in, should start listing all the ways this will inevitably end badly. But looking at him now, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious instead of just another disaster in motion...
"Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll see you next Thursday. But if you're late again, I'm implementing a three strike policy."
"What happens after three strikes?"
"I'll have to actually learn your name through investigative journalism. It'll be very embarrassing for both of us."
He laughs, then winces. "You should go. Get some sleep. I'll watch you get inside safely."
"You'll watch me walk down one flight of stairs?"
"Humor me."
So you do, gathering your blanket and your unopened snacks, and when you reach the roof door you look back. He's still sitting there, hand pressed to his ribs, watching you with that impossible attention.
"Be careful," you call back. "Please."
"You first."
"That's statistically unlikely, but I'll try."
You're smiling as you head down the stairs, heart racing, lips still tingling, completely terrified and completely sure all at once.
This is definitely going to end in disaster.
But maybe- just maybe- it'll be the good kind.
â.Ë.đ Șàż
Nightwing hands you an envelope.
You're on your usual rooftop, and he drops down from seemingly nowhere, landing in that cat like crouch that should be illegal in terms of sheer attractiveness. You've been seeing each other- if you can call these rooftop rendezvous "seeing each other"- for almost four months now, and your heart still does that stupid flutter thing every time he appears.
"I have something for you," he says, and there's a nervous energy to him that's new.
"If it's another apology for having to leave mid-kiss last week because of a police scanner, I'm going to start charging you per interruption."
"It's not that." He sits next to you and pulls out a cream colored envelope, expensive looking, with your name written on it in actual calligraphy. "I want you to come to something."
You take the envelope like it might explode. "Is this a ransom note? A summons? A very formal breakup letter?"
"Just open it."
You do, and your brain immediately short-circuits.
You are cordially invited to the Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala...
"This is- " You look up at him, then back at the invitation. "This is a joke, right? This is fake. You printed this at like, a FedEx or something."
"It's real."
"Nightwing. This is a Wayne gala. As in Bruce Wayne. As in billionaire Bruce Wayne. As in- " You wave the invitation. "There's no way this is real. These things are invite only for like, celebrities and politicians and people who own multiple yachts."
"I know."
"So this is definitely fake."
He takes off one of his gloves and reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "It's real. I want you there. I want..." He pauses, and you can see him gathering courage. "I want you to meet me. The real me. Not just the mask."
Your heart is doing dangerous things. "You're going to be there? At a Wayne gala?"
"Yeah."
"As yourself. Your real self."
"Yeah."
"And you're either Bruce Wayne's secret son, or you're about to tell me you're Batman, or- " You stop. "Oh my god, are you Batman? Is that why you said you only have six things in your utility belt? Is it a budget thing or a 'I'm actually just a vigilante with a day job' thing?"
He's laughing now, soft and genuine. "I'm not Batman. But yes, I'll be there. And I want you there too. If you want to come."
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"This is going to be a disaster."
"Maybe."
"I don't have anything to wear to a Wayne gala. I can't exactly show up in my 'I Survived Bludhaven' tshirt and jeggings."
"You'll figure something out." He squeezes your hand. "Please? I know it's scary, and I know this is all backwards and weird, but- "
"Okay."
He stops. "Okay?"
"Okay. I'll come." You look at the invitation again, at the embossed Wayne logo, at the date that's only three days away. "I'm going to regret this. This is going to end terribly. But okay."
He kisses you then, deep and relieved and tasting like promises that you're terrified to believe in.
"Saturday night," he says against your lips. "Wayne Manor. Seven pm."
"I'll be the one having a panic attack in the corner."
"I'll find you."
After he leaves, you sit on the roof for another hour, holding the invitation and trying to convince yourself it's real.
It's probably fake, you think.
This is definitely a prank.
There's no way this ends well.
Saturday arrives with all the inevitability of a dental appointment.
You've spent the last three days having a sustained, low level panic attack. You went to every thrift store in Bludhaven and finally found a dress that doesn't look like it was donated after someone's divorce in 1987. It's black, because you're not ambitious enough for color, and it fits reasonably well if you don't breathe too deeply. It cost $27, which is $20 more than you've ever spent on a single item of clothing.
You've paired it with shoes you already owned (black flats with a scuff on the toe that you colored in with Sharpie) and a small purse you borrowed from your coworker who asked exactly zero questions, bless her.
You look in the mirror and see exactly what you are: a person in a discount dress pretending to be someone who belongs at a Wayne gala.
"This is fine," you tell your reflection. "This is totally fine. The invitation is probably fake anyway, and you'll get turned away at the door, and you can go home and eat ice cream and never think about this again."
The invitation sits on your counter, looking aggressively real.
You grab it, grab your purse, and head out before you can talk yourself out of it.
Wayne Manor is exactly as intimidating as you imagined, which is to say: very.
The uber driver drops you off at the end of a long driveway that probably costs more than your entire apartment building. There are actual literal limousines pulling up to the entrance. You can see people in gowns that cost more than your yearly salary stepping out with the kind of casual grace that comes from never having worried about rent.
"This is fine," you mutter, walking up the driveway because there's no way you're asking to be driven up like you belong here. "This is totally fine. The bouncer will definitely kick you out and then you can go home."
But when you reach the entrance, holding out your invitation like a shield, the man in the tuxedo just smiles and says, "Welcome, miss. Enjoy your evening."
And then you're inside.
Wayne Manor is obscene. There's no other word for it. The foyer alone is bigger than your apartment, with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than a small country's GDP. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes are everywhere, holding champagne glasses and laughing with the kind of ease that comes from never having checked their bank account before buying groceries.
You are immediately, viscerally aware of every single flaw in your discount dress.
The woman next to you is wearing something that shimmers like starlight and probably has a designer name you can't pronounce. Her jewelry is real. Her hair is professionally styled. She smells like expensive perfume.
You smell like the lavender body spray you got on sale at Target.
"This was a mistake," you whisper to yourself. "This was absolutely a mistake."
You're about to turn around and leave, invitation be damned, Nightwing be damned, your own curiosity be damned, when a waiter appears with a tray of champagne.
"Would you care for a drink, miss?"
You take one because it's free and you're definitely going to need alcohol to get through whatever fresh humiliation this evening has planned.
The champagne is good. Annoyingly good. Even the alcohol here is fancier than you.
You drift through the crowd like a ghost, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to draw attention to your discount dress and your Sharpie-ed shoes. You find a corner near an elaborate flower arrangement (are those orchids? those are definitely orchids. you killed one once) and try to blend into the wallpaper.
This is fine. You'll stay for twenty minutes, drink your fancy champagne, and then leave. Nightwing was probably joking anyway. Or maybe he forgot. Or maybe-
"Excuse me," a voice says, and you turn to find a woman in a red dress that probably costs more than your car would if you had a car. "Are you here alone?"
"Um." You clutch your champagne. "Yes?"
"Oh, how lovely! I'm Caroline Whitmore. My husband is on the board of the Wayne Foundation." She gestures vaguely at a man across the room who's wearing a tux that fits him like a second skin. "Is this your first Wayne gala?"
"Is it that obvious?"
She laughs, but it's not unkind. "A little. You have that 'deer in headlights' look. Don't worry, everyone feels that way their first time. The Waynes can be a bit... overwhelming."
"That's one word for it," you mutter into your champagne.
"The trick is to just enjoy the free food and avoid Bruce Wayne's new girlfriend. She's dreadful." Caroline leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he just dates models because he doesn't know how to have a real conversation."
You're saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The crowd shifts, and you can feel the energy in the room change, the way everyone's attention suddenly focuses on one point.
"Oh, there they are," Caroline says. "The Wayne family. They always make an entrance."
You shouldn't look. You should stay in your corner with your champagne and your discount dress and your existential dread.
But of course you look.
Bruce Wayne enters first looking exactly like the billionaire playboy philanthropist he's famous for being. Tall, handsome in a way that's almost aggressive, wearing a tux that probably costs more than your entire life.
Behind him is a younger man who looks uncomfortable in his suit, dark haired and scowling. Then another man, broader, with a white streak in his hair and an expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Another younger man whoâs looking down at his phone and looks like he hasnât slept since the day he was born.
And then-
And then-
Your champagne glass slips from your hand.
It hits the marble floor with a crash that echoes through the sudden silence, and everyone- every single person in the room- turns to look at you.
But you're not looking at them.
You're looking at the man who just walked in behind Bruce Wayne. Dark hair that sticks up in a way that's immediately, devastatingly familiar. A smile that you've seen in moonlight and shadows, now displayed under the crystal chandelier. A suit that's perfectly tailored to a body you've traced with your hands on rooftop meetings.
He's looking right at you.
And you know.
You know.
"Oh my god," you whisper. "Dick Grayson."
Because of course Nightwing is Dick Grayson. Of course he's Bruce Wayne's ward, the former circus performer turned billionaire's son, the golden boy of Gotham society.
Of course you've been making out with someone who's probably worth more than the entire city of Bludhaven.
Caroline is saying something about the broken glass, and a waiter is rushing over, but you can't hear any of it because Dick Grayson-Nightwing- is walking toward you.
The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.
He stops in front of you, and up close, without the mask, you can see his eyes. Blue. Bright blue. The same eyes that have looked at you with concern and humor and heat.
"Hi," he says, and his voice is the same, exactly the same. "You made it."
"I- " Your brain is offline. Completely offline. "You're Dick Grayson."
"Yeah."
"The Dick Grayson. The- the son of Bruce Wayne. The- "
"Technically adopted son, but yeah."
"I've been kissing Dick Grayson on my roof."
He grins. "You have been."
"I told you that you were probably rich and you lied."
"I said I never said I was a billionaire," he points out. "Technically true. Bruce is the billionaire. I just have access to his credit cards."
"That's-you-" You look around at the crowd that's definitely, absolutely watching this entire interaction. At the broken champagne glass at your feet. At your discount dress next to his designer tux. "I'm going to pass out."
"Please don't." He takes your hand, the same way he has on the roof, his thumb finding that spot on your wrist that always makes you shiver. "Come on. Let's get you some air."
"I broke a glass. There's-I should clean that up. I should- "
"The staff will handle it." He's already guiding you through the crowd, past the staring faces and the whispered comments. Past Bruce Wayne, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Past the scowling boy and the man with the white streak and the teen thatâs no longer looking at his phone but looking at you in curiosity.
He leads you out to a balcony that overlooks the grounds, and the cool night air hits your face like a slap.
"Okay," he says, turning to face you. "You can yell now."
"I can't yell. I'm at a Wayne gala. There are probably rules about yelling."
"There are definitely rules about yelling, but I'm giving you permission to break them."
You stare at him. At Dick Grayson. At Nightwing. At the man you've been falling for without knowing he's literally famous, literally rich, literally everything you're not.
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress," you say finally.
He blinks. "Okay?"
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress from a thrift store, and my shoes have Sharpie on them, and I colored in the scuff mark this morning because I don't own fancy shoes. Everyone in there is wearing clothes that cost more than my rent, and I'm- I'm- "
"Beautiful," he says simply. "You're beautiful."
"I'm a disaster."
"You're my favorite disaster."
And despite everything- despite the humiliation and the broken glass and the fact that you're definitely the poorest person at this gala- you laugh.
"This is insane," you say. "This is actually insane. I've been dating- are we dating? I don't even know if we're dating- I've been something with Dick Grayson and I didn't even know it."
"We're dating," he confirms. "Definitely dating. I'm not in the habit of having regularly scheduled rooftop makeout sessions with people I'm not dating."
"Your life is so weird."
"Says the woman who critiques muggers while they're actively mugging her."
You're about to respond, about to say something about how at least your weird is normal weird, not billionaire vigilante weird, when there's a commotion from inside.
Not the normal gala commotion. Something else.
Something wrong.
Dick's entire posture changes, his body going taut in a way you recognize from when he's in the suit.
"Stay here," he says.
"Yeah, that's not ominous at all."
But he's already moving back toward the ballroom, and you follow because of course you do, because the universe has never let you make smart decisions.
The scene inside is chaos.
The lights are flickering. People are screaming. And standing in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by henchmen in matching green suits, is a man with a purple suit, a cane, and a smile that makes your skin crawl.
The Riddler.
Because of course. Of course this gala is being crashed by a Batman rogue. Of course this is happening.
You're frozen in the doorway. Dick is next to you, and you can see him calculating, planning, probably figuring out how to get to wherever he keeps his Nightwing suit stashed.
"Here's the riddle," the Riddler continues, twirling his cane. "What has hands but cannot clap, a face but cannot smile, and tells you when it's time to die?"
The crowd is silent, terrified.
And you-
You can't help yourself.
"A clock," you say.
It's not loud. It's barely more than a mutter.
But in the terrified silence, it carries.
The Riddler's head snaps toward you. "What was that?"
"I said it's a clock." Your voice is stronger now, because apparently when faced with mortal peril, your anxiety manifests as mouthy confidence. "The answer is a clock. It has hands, it has a face, and depending on your philosophical relationship with mortality, it tells you when you're going to die. Although technically, that's more metaphorical than- "
The Riddler stops in front of you, studying you with unsettling intensity. "You're not afraid."
"Oh, I'm terrified. I'm just also really annoyed because I was about to have a whole crisis about dating someone out of my league, and now you're here with your- " You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Your whole situation, and I have to deal with that instead."
There's a beat of absolute silence.
Then Dick makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.
"You're dating someone?" The Riddler looks delighted. "How wonderful! And who might this lucky person be?"
"That's really none of your business, but thanks for the interest in my personal life. Very invested for a supervillain." You pause, and your brain- your traitorous, anxiety ridden brain- decides this is the perfect time to keep talking. "Actually, you know what? Can I ask you something?"
Dick's hand tightens on your arm. "Please don't- "
"Why are you even doing this?" You gesture at the terrified crowd, the henchmen, the whole hostage situation. "The crime thing. You're clearly intelligent. Like, really intelligent. Your riddles are actually good, which is more than I can say for most people's riddles. Why aren't you running an escape room empire or something?"
The Riddler stops. Blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Escape rooms!" You're on a roll now, your anxiety manifesting as what can only be described as aggressive career counseling. "Think about it! You could corner the entire market! You're already creating elaborate puzzles and death traps; just make them non lethal and charge people seventy five dollars a head to try to solve them. People LOVE that stuff. You'd be rich in like, six months. Plus, you'd get to feel superior to everyone who can't solve your puzzles, which seems like a big thing for you- no offense- and it would be completely legal!"
The entire ballroom is silent. Even the henchmen look confused.
The Riddler is staring at you like you've just spoken in an alien language.
"You- " He stops. Starts again. "You think I should open an escape room?"
"Not an escape room. Multiple escape rooms. A franchise. 'Nygma's Enigmas' or something. Trademark it. Get investors. Go on Shark Tank. You could be a millionaire legitimately, and you'd get to watch people fail at your puzzles all day, every day, and they'd literally be PAYING you for the privilege. It's the perfect business model for someone with your specific skillset and psychological needs!"
"I- " The Riddler looks genuinely taken aback. "I have never- "
"And think about the branding opportunities! Merchandise! Puzzle books! A YouTube channel where you explain how people failed! You could be internet famous! Do you know how much money internet famous people make? A LOT. More than you're probably getting from- " You gesture at the current hostage situation. "Whatever this is supposed to accomplish."
"She has a point," one of the henchmen mutters.
The Riddler spins to glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"
"I'm just saying, boss, the last three jobs haven't really paid that well- "
"SILENCE!"
"Plus, the Bat keeps catching us," another henchman adds. "An escape room business would have way better job security- "
"Are my henchmen seriously discussing CAREER CHANGES in the middle of a HEIST?"
"It's not a bad idea," a third henchman says thoughtfully. "My cousin runs an escape room in Metropolis. He cleared six figures last year."
"Yeah, and he doesn't get punched by Batman," the first henchman points out.
"EXACTLY," you say, pointing at them. "See? Your employees understand basic risk benefit analysis! You could offer them actual benefits! Health insurance! A 401k! Paid time off!"
Dick has given up trying to stop you. You can feel him shaking next to you, and you're pretty sure it's silent laughter.
Bruce Wayne is pinching the bridge of his nose in the background.
The Riddler looks like he's having an existential crisis. "But- but the CHALLENGE! The battle of wits with Batman! The thrill of outwitting the law!"
"You can still have that! Just make one of your escape rooms Batman themed! Make it really hard! Charge extra! He might even show up to try it, and then you get to watch him struggle with your puzzles in a legal, controlled environment! It's a win-win!"
"Batman themed," the Riddler repeats slowly.
"With like, gargoyles and batarangs and stuff. Make it super dramatic. People will eat that up. Gotham loves Batman. Merchandising nightmare, but that's what lawyers are for."
There's a long, long pause.
"That's..." The Riddler trails off. "That's actually not a terrible idea."
"RIGHT?!"
"I could create the most challenging escape rooms in the world. People would come from everywhere to test themselves against my intellect- "
"And PAY you for it!"
"And I could rate them. Publicly. On their failures- "
"Make a leaderboard! With shame tiers!"
"A SHAME LEADERBOARD." The Riddler looks genuinely excited now. "That's brilliant! That's- " He stops. Looks around at the terrified gala attendees. At his henchmen, who are all nodding enthusiastically. At you, in your twenty seven dollar dress, having just accidentally talked a supervillain into considering legitimate employment.
"This is..." He shakes his head. "This is the strangest hostage situation I've ever been in."
"Is it still a hostage situation if we're having a productive career counseling session?" You ask.
"I don't know! I've never had this happen before!"
"Well, there's a first time for everything. So, are you going to let everyone go, or..."
That's when the lights go out.
There's the familiar sounds of a Batfamily in action the thwip of grappling hooks, the thunk of escrima sticks, the crack of martial arts, and what sounds like a tiny angry Robin yelling something about "incompetent fools."
When the lights come back on, the Riddler and his henchmen are zip tied on the floor. Batman is glowering. Nightwing is clearly trying not to laugh behind his mask. Robin looks deeply offended by the entire situation.
"Did she just- " Robin starts.
"Give the Riddler career advice? Yes," Batman says flatly.
"Is that... allowed?"
"I don't think there's a protocol for this, Robin."
The Riddler, zip tied and defeated, looks up at you from the floor. "You know, in another life, I think we could have been friends."
"In another life, you could be a legitimate businessman," you counter. "It's not too late! Think about the escape rooms! Think about the shame leaderboard! If Martha Stewart can make bank after prison, so can you!â
"I AM thinking about it!" He actually sounds enthusiastic. "The possibilities are- "
"Okay, that's enough," Batman interrupts, gesturing for the GCPD. "Take him in."
As they're hauling the Riddler away, he calls back: "If I do this- if I actually do this- I'm naming you as a consultant!"
"I don't want credit for this!" You yell back.
"Too late! You're getting a percentage!"
"A percentage of WHAT?!"
"MY ESCAPE ROOM EMPIRE!"
And then he's gone, still yelling about business plans and shame leaderboards, and you're left standing in a ballroom full of Gotham's elite, having just accidentally become a business partner with a supervillain.
Dick appears at your elbow, back in his regular tux, no mask. He's grinning so wide it looks painful.
"Did you just- "
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You just convinced the Riddler to consider a legitimate career- "
"I was dissociating. My mouth just does things when I'm nervous!"
"That was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed."
Bruce Wayne materializes on your other side. He looks at you for a long moment.
"If he actually does open an escape room franchise," Bruce says seriously, "and it keeps him out of crime, I'm writing you a recommendation letter for whatever you want."
"I don't- I can't- " You look between them. "This is insane. This whole night is insane. I came here in a thrift store dress and now I'm a business consultant for a supervillain?!"
"Twenty seven dollar dress," Dick corrects, still grinning.
"NOT THE POINT."
Caroline Whitmore appears with champagne. "Same time next year?" She asks cheerfully.
You take the champagne and down it in one go.
"Sure," you say faintly. "Why not. What else could possibly happen?"
The universe, as always, is listening.
â.Ë.đ Șàż
You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment youâre convinced the entire Wayne gala was a stress induced fever dream. The ceiling above you is definitely not the water stained plaster of your apartment: this one is smooth, painted a gentle gray, and if you squint you can see tiny glow in the dark stars scattered in one corner.
Thereâs a slow, delicious ache in your thighs thatâs definitely not from stress.
You shift, and the sheet slithers over bare skin, warm and expensive, and the motion pulls your attention to the weight at your waist; an arm, long and golden and dusted with soft brown hair, wraps you close.
Oh.
You twist, carefully and there he is: Dick Grayson, hair rumpled, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth parted with the kind of sleep heavy softness that makes you want to press your face to his shoulder and never move again.
Last night comes back in flashes: his mouth on yours as the adrenaline bled out in the back seat of the car, his hands clumsy and urgent as he unlocked the door to his apartment, laughter tangled with kisses, a trail of your thrifted dress and his designer tux winding through the hall.
Youâd made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasnât.
Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.
âHey,â he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. âYouâre still here.â
âWasnât sure I would be.â You mean to say it with a laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost vulnerable.
His thumb brushes over your bare hip, slow and affectionate. âYou always have a choice. You know that, right?â
You nod, trying not to melt into him. âYou snore, by the way.â
He grins, no shame at all. âAnd you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.â
You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. âItâs adorable.â
You let yourself settle against him, the two of you tucked into the soft tangle of his sheets, sun leaking in around the blackout curtains.
Dick rolls you gently onto your back, hovering over you, hair falling into his eyes. âYou know what I want?â he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.
âWhatâs that?â
He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss thatâs slow, sweet, the kind you never thought youâd get from someone like him. âI want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if youâll let me keep you here all weekend.â
Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. âYouâd get sick of me by noon.â
He nips at your jaw, grinning. âNot possible. Iâm insatiable.â He punctuates it with another kiss, this one lingering, his hand sliding over your waist, palm broad and steady.
You can feel him, hard and wanting against your thigh. The temptation to tease is irresistible. âDidnât you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?â
He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. âI lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.â
Your hands slide into his hair as he kisses down your body, worshipful, reverent. His lips find your breast, tongue circling, and his hand drifts lower, cupping your thigh, thumb stroking lazily at your skin. The ache between your legs turns electric, all soft warmth and want.
âTell me if you want me to stop,â he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.
âDonât you dare.â
He laughs quiet, and so, so happy and then his mouth is on you, slow and patient, mapping every inch. When he finally presses inside, the stretch is familiar and perfect, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him close, moving together in the drowsy gold of morning.
He presses his forehead to yours, both of you grinning like idiots.
âIâm not going anywhere,â you whisper.
He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: âGood. Because youâre my favorite disaster.â
The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.
And maybe lightning didnât strike to destroy you for once: maybe it struck to set you alight.
Paring: Oleander Fallows X fem!Reader X Gryphon Shore X Gabriel Ardern X Atlas Bassinger X North Draven X Nox Draven
Warnings: Cussing, Abandonment, Trauma, Mental Health, Soul Mates, Angst and Fluff, Cannon Divergence
Description: fem!reader wakes up in a room with 6 people who claiming to be her bonds except she doesn't know what the fuck that means!
Word Count: 8203
Chapter Eight: Sawyer's Nuclear Option: Good, Bad, Or Just Plain Dumb?
Master List || Previous
North Draven is not a man you can manipulate, you know this, Oli knows this, but you're out of options. Oli doesn't think that she can just ask him to go to a party after curfew in a lower-gifted neighborhood, because let's face it, North Draven is also a snob, and you still can't even talk to the man without the thought of vomiting. Which brings you both to option two, Sawyer's Nuclear Option.Â
Sage had done a good job with your outfit and makeup, the colors complementing your skin tone well, when she stopped by after class. Her choice in tops suited you, a nice white shirt with a low neckline, and you had to give it to her, you looked hot. If you were to ask any of your other bonds for something at the moment, you knew that they would say yes, regardless of what you might be asking. The Draven Brothers are a different story, a very thick wall between them and their centrals, stopping almost any progress from moving forward. You weren't sure that this was going to breach the wall, but that's where option three comes in: you make Gabe beg.
"This isn't going to work," Oli says, finger wiping at the excess lipstick on her lips, "This will probably just piss him off even more, and then curfew is going to be way earlier." You nod because you're sure she's right, but it's too late to back out now. Atlas and Gabe had promised to give you time to get ready, and that time is steadily running out. She sighs, her shoulders coming up and dropping back down again before she looks at you. Her own borrowed shirt low on her chest, hugging her frame tightly, her hair cascading down her back. She looks like every dream you have ever had, wrapped up into one. You're not sure if you could ever tell her no.
"It probably won't work," you agree, "but I'm sure he will at least say yes to the football game, and Gabe is going to back our request." You hadn't been around North enough to know how he would react, but you needed to try something. The idea of going to a real college party excited you too much to turn down the chance, plus this would be the first time you got to get out of the dorms for something more than just class and bond dinners. You wanted to at least pretend you were free to do as you wished with your spare time, and starting next Monday, all of that time will be going to studying and memory spelunking with Gryphon. This felt like your one chance to be a real college student.Â
A knock sounds at the door, and Oli heads over to it, throwing her hair over her shoulder on the way. "Here goes nothing," she says, hand gripping the doorknob.Â
When Atlas sees her, it's like there are no thoughts in his head, only actions. His smile on his face disappears as he looks from her eyes to her chest, the lack of coverage clicking into place. His movements are quick, like he had done them a hundred times before, body moving forward into her space, hands finding her hips, lips coming down to meet hers. There is no hesitation, no need to ask, he knows what he wants and takes it. He walks her backwards into the room in seconds, her body melting into his, desperate for his touch. You're not sure if she means to, her hands coming up to his chest, pulling him in more, as close as he can get, and he groans into the kiss. You realize now that maybe this was a bad idea and not just a useless one.Â
You find yourself unsure who you are more jealous of, Oli or Atlas, before remembering that they are both off limits. At least until you know more. At least until they are safe from you. When they part, you know you should look away, at least pretend you hadn't been staring at them like you want to be in between their pushed together bodies, but you don't, can't. If everything was normal, if your bond group was normal, you would be right there with them, enjoying the feel of their lips on yours, their hands in your hair, on your skin, but you weren't normal. Your bond group isn't normal, and you can't have them. Oli can't have them, and everything is fucked.Â
"God, Sweetness, give me a warning next time," Atlas whispers against her lips, their breath mingling, faces flush. Oli looks at him, a pain that you can feel mirrored in your own chest flashing across her face as she pulls back from him, placing space where there once was none. He looks over at you now, the want still plain as day on his face, and your own. One of his hands reached out towards your cheek, and you don't move, can't move because you want him. You want him to touch you, kiss you, just like he did Oli, the image seared into your brain in a way you aren't sure is normal. But the look in his eyes changes, and he stops, pulling his fingers back into his hand before wiping down his mouth. "You both look hot as fuck, and I want to kill Sawyer just a little less for suggesting it."
You'd smile at him if you could, your eyes still on where his hand rests on Oli's waist, and you want to be able to reach out to him. To pull him to you like Oli had, even just for a moment. The aching in your chest is back, slowly numbing your limbs as you look at the pair. This sucks. Not knowing sucks. Not having sucks. Not being able to move forward with anyone because you can't trust yourself sucks. The bond pulling at your limbs sucks, and you try to make a note that you'll have to take your meds later in the day on bond dinner nights, so this doesn't happen again. So it doesn't wake up enough to make you feel even worse, want even more than you already do.Â
The sound of the door opening draws your attention, and you see Gabe, face flush, pupils blown as he moves towards you, jacket pulling from his shoulders. He wraps it around you, holding it closed around your breast, face inches from yours in a way you can't stand at the moment. He's too close, too unstable in his own emotions for you to deal with. His bond reaches towards yours as he struggles to form the words to say, his lips moving, eyes bouncing between yours. "This was not the plan," he groans out, fist still tight around the collar of the jacket. "We were just supposed to ask him. You can't," his voice cracks, and he takes a second to breathe, eyes closed. "You can't go to dinner dressed like this. He will kill me." He comes even closer now, forehead falling to yours, his eyes still closed.Â
Your bond hums in your chest, the contact it's been craving finally being fulfilled, his scent wrapped around you like a blanket. It's a type of content you have never felt, your bond happy in your chest for the first time in your life, softly pressing into his, like this is the way it was always supposed to be. You feel the warmth of it in your heart, the place your bond keeps empty for each of them pulsing under your skin. You know you need to pull back, to ruin this moment, but you can't, his lips to close, breathe warm against your skin. You know you need to end this; his bond is stroking yours, loosening all the tightly bundled muscles in your body, making you melt into him, but you can't. He's like a black hole, pulling you into his orbit until you're lost in him, his breathing, his heartbeat, his needs.Â
"I need you to at least wear a jacket, bond, please." He's begging now, the whine very obvious in his voice as his hand pulls you slightly closer, noses touching. His bond ghost over your fingertips, and up your arm, rubbing a circle into your collar bone before continuing its path up your neck and down your jaw. You can feel it across your lips, a teasing sensation that you have to fight against to not fall into him completely.Â
"Friends," you gasp out, breath shaky as you stare at his lips, "don't tell other friends what to wear." You hadn't noticed it until now, your fingers hooked into his belt loops, pulling him impossibly closer at the waist, a soft sigh coming from him. His hand, that was clenched into the jacket, releases as he trails it up your neck, his other coming to join it, fingers tangled into the hair at the base of your skull. Your pulse hammering below his palm, your neck stretching up to reach his lips, his breath fanning over your face, shaky on the uptake.Â
You can hear your name being said, hear his name, but your bond is filtering it out, quieting everything that isn't the soft sounds coming from Gabe's lips. Your eyes close as you just let the sensation take you, let it pull you closer into him until you can almost feel his lips on yours, can almost taste him. "Bond," he groans, hands running down your neck and over your shoulders, settling on your biceps. "I need you," a gasp leaves his lips as your fingers find a bit of his skin under his shirt, "I need you to pull your bond back." It's the pain in his voice that does it to you, your eyes opening and blinking up at him. His face is red, highlighted by the lightness of his hair, a vein in his neck standing out as he bites at his lip. "Bond, please." You feel it now, its light touches over his lips, down his neck, his chest, the front of his thighs, caressing, teasing, testing limits it has no business testing. He's panting, struggling for any type of composure in front of you, and you think you might die. Not just from the embarrassment, but the struggle it takes to pull your bond from his skin, the fight brings tears to your eyes.Â
It thrashes, pulling at every loose thread you have inside you to gain traction, to stay right where it is, burning on the way back inside you. Clawing your insides until it's forced back into the pocket you keep it in, the numbness spreading at the missing contact when he pulls his own bond back. Its voice screams, ringing throughout your head as your fingers curl against the hard planes of his skin.Â
âMINE. MINE. MY BOND. MY BOND.â
You can't hear anything, can't feel anything save for the tears streaking down your skin as you settle your bond deeper into your chest, so far down it feels like you're drowning in your own misery. Your body has visceral reactions to this; nerves feel like fire beneath your skin, cells exploding from the force of holding it down until it calms. When you open your eyes, fist still shaky against his stomach, Gabe takes one look at your face before pulling you flush against him, face buried in his chest, hands tangled in your hair.
"I don't know what happened, but don't do that again." It doesn't sound like a reprimand, only because his voice shakes, arms tight around you in a crushing embrace. When you pull your face from his chest to look at Atlas and Oli, both their faces are white, Oli's hand in his, gripping it until her knuckles turn white from the effort.Â
She pulls forward, hand coming up to rub under your eye, your body still pressed firmly into Gabe's. "Let's go get you cleaned up." Both their scents elope your senses, ruffling your bond, and you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing hard to press it down again. When you open them, you can feel the tears trying not to fall, a rosy tint to the room now. You know your makeup must be a mess, all the hard work from Sage down the drain, as you try to disentangle yourself from Gabe's arms. His hold is steady, like he's trying to hold all your pieces together, whatever he saw frightening him, his pulse under your ear rapid. You try again, pulling back from him slowly, and he lets you this time, arms falling to his sides. He doesn't say anything, just looks over your face, swallowing hard, and then to Oli beside you.Â
Her hand is extended to you, but you don't take it, not yet, choosing to walk over to your nightstand and grab your pill bottle. You can't bring yourself to care about taking one in front of them, swallowing it down dry, before placing the bottle back in your drawer. If being this close to Gabe was enough to fully wake it up, watching Nox touch another woman in front of you might get you both killed. Better to not risk it, and drug the bond into oblivion. Your hands shake a little as you grip the edge of the nightstand for stability, the pill slowly sliding down your throat, into your stomach. You can feel its numbing properties after a minute of standing there, waiting for it to take effect.Â
Your bond isn't happy, a last-ditch effort to take hold of you again failing, your insides like water in its grip. When you're sure it's down for the count, you turn back to your bonds with what you hope is a reassuring smile on your face. "It's okay now." You say, mostly to yourself, hoping they believe you more than you believe yourself. "It won't happen again." You'll be more careful now, make sure to take two pills a day until you can control it. Until it listens to you, or until you have to leave so they can be safe. Whatever you have to do to keep them all safe, you will, even if it kills you.Â
Oli approaches you slowly, like you might spook at the contact, and slides her hand in yours, tugging you towards the door. When it opens, you notice two helmets on the ground, discarded in a hurry, both on their sides, visor half opened. You turn back to Gabe, a question on your lips, but you see him, head in his hands as he rubs at his face. Atlas clasps him on the back, the sound following you out into the hall, "Let's get you cleaned up too." There's a bit of humor in his voice that doesn't reach his face, as the door starts to close behind the two of you. You can hear Gabe groan as Atlas asks, "Do you have a change of pants?"
The eyes on the two of your isnt new, the past couple of days allowing you to get used to it, but the nicknames are. "The giftless and the freak," you hear a few times on the way through the halls. Oli ignores them, so you follow her example and just walk, one foot in front of the other, until the bathroom comes into view. It's strange, the way Oli maneuvers you around the room, keeping your back to the mirror as she grabs a rag to wet. You lean against the counter as she runs the water, chewing at her lip as she thinks of what to say. "Is your bond always like that?" She asks, rubbing at the skin below your eye, cleaning any left over make up from your skin. You press your lips together, a frown forming on your face as you shake your head. You feel the tears prick at your eyes again as you blink them away, enough crying done already.Â
She hums at your response, wetting the rag again under the warm water, and starts wiping at the other side. "Sometimes," she starts, eyes scanning back and forth between yours before continuing, "It doesn't feel like you have one." You nod again, not sure what to say to her, not able to speak through the lump in your throat. "Is that because of the pills?" She finally asks, making her way down your jaw and cleaning the tears streaks there. You lift your chin, eyes finding the ceiling as you nod, not able to look at her anymore, not sure what the truth is going to do to your relationship. "That you got from the resistance?" You're not sure how you feel about that, never having connected the dots that the drugs were given to you by the Resistance for a purpose unknown to you.Â
"They help me," you finally say, voice quiet, "Without them it gets too loud. It tries to take too much." You don't think that you can explain better, not without the tears coming back in full force.Â
"And the blood?" She asks, which confuses you because you don't know what she's talking about. "Do you usually cry blood?" She pauses her ministrations at your collarbones, waiting for an answer that you can't give her. When you look at her now, face scrunched up in confusion, you don't know what to say because you have never cried blood in your life, but the look on her face is serious, worry etched deeply in the corner of her eyes. You turn from her to look in the mirror, at the mess that you are, capillaries in your eyes burst, bloody tear streaks down between your breast missing your white shirt by centimeters. No wonder they had all looked at you like that, terrified of you, for you. The pain that you had been in when fighting your bond back made more sense as you stared at the aftermath.
"Does your bond hurt you like this?" You ask because it's the only thing to ask, but she shakes her head in the mirror.Â
"Not like this."
You close your eyes, breathing deeply. You don't know what this says about your relationship with your bond, about its willingness to hurt you when it doesn't get its way. If it could hurt you, what's stopping it from hurting them? When you turn back to Oli, you know the answer. The warm rag is back on your skin as she finishes cleaning you with a gentleness you weren't sure she possessed. Her hand, not gripping the rag, comes up and pushes a bit of hair from your face, fingertips soft on your forehead as she stares into your eyes. "Don't scare us like that again." She's not asking, not leaving any room for a debate as she pulls back and levels you with a hard look.Â
The bond could never hurt them as it hurts you, you know that. It hurts you because you keep it from them. It hurts you in their name like you hurt it in their name. You hurt it to keep them safe. Today was just a retaliation. As long as you don't give it a chance to do this again, everything will work out. You just need to be ready before the pills run out, which means you have less than a month, probably only half now that you need to take two a day. You can figure this out, Gryphon can figure this out. He has to.Â
When you meet back up with Atlas and Gabe, both of them standing in front of Atlas' car waiting, it's easy to see the two matching wet spots on Gabe's clothes. A smile over takes Oli's face, as an equally sinister one fills Atlas, her mouth already moving before Gabe could stop her, "Did you c-"Â
"Shut up."
"But she didn't even- "
"Shut up, Oli."
Her hands raise in defeat as she laughs out loud, walking past him to the front seat. It's the first time you've seen them interact like this, almost like friends, some of the tension between them gone, and it makes you happy. Atlas follows her in, laughing as well, before the door closes, blocking them both out. Gabe stays put, waiting for you as you approach the car. When you're close enough, he brings his hand up to your cheek, rubbing a thumb under your eye as Oli had. "There will be a healer at the Manor when we get there to heal this." He says it like it's nothing, just another fact of life, and not the damage your bond had done to you.Â
"I'm sorry for ruining your shirt," you say, the words coming out in a rush because you don't know what else to say. He shakes his head at you, a small smile on his lips.
"Don't be, I just need to bleach it." But you're not so sure, the blotches of blood not coming out from his attempt at washing it. You have other things you want to apologize for, but you're not sure how to, the heat building up your throat.Â
"I'm sorry for... the other thing too." It's his time to turn red, the tips of his ears a deep scarlet.Â
He doesn't say anything for a minute, his hand leaving your cheek to scratch at the back of his neck, his gaze leaving yours. Past him, you can see Oli in the car, pointing down before bringing her palms towards each other, about three inches of space between them, only to expand that out to about a foot. Mouth agape, you flick your eyes over to Atlas, a bewildered expression on his face, before he bursts out laughing again. Both of them start to make even more obscene gestures at Gabe's expense as you try to ignore them, choosing to focus back on Gabe, the sound of their laughter audible. Â
"I shouldn't have put you in my jacket. I didn't think you'd be so" he hesitates, swallowing slowly, "hot in my clothes, and I wasn't ready for your bond to do... all that. I'll do better next time. It's... a shifter thing," he says as a way of explanation, still not looking at you. "Anyways, we should get going. North is waiting for you, us I mean. He's waiting for us." You nod, choosing to move past him towards the back seat, shooting a look at Oli and Atlas, sending them into a new fit of giggles.Â
The ride to the manor is mostly silent. Oli starts to say something about what happened, but Gabe shoots her down with a quick, "Shut up, Oli," sending both her and Atlas into a fit every time. You don't find it nearly as funny as both of them, but they seem to be bonding over the mutual discomfort Gabe and you feel over the situation, so you mostly leave them alone. If she gets to have this moment with one of her bonds, you are inclined to let her, even if it is at your expense.Â
You expected a much colder welcome to the Manor than normal, maybe shouting or ultimatums, but when the group of you arrived at dinner, late and with Gabe trying to rush through the room, North doesnât say anything. He just looks at Gabe assessingly, taking in his wet shirt and pants, the growing red up his throat, and waves him off. He motions over the healer, silence his close friend as he and Gryphon stand over the manâs shoulders imposingly. You're not sure if the united terrifying front is for you, or the healer currently quaking in his boots, hands on your cheeks, performing a healing, but you choose to ignore it. Instead, you look at North, at his perfectly put-together hair, piercing blue eyes, and muscular arms crossed over his suited chest. You watch the way his chest rises and falls, his jaw clenches and unclenches as he chews on his thoughts. You watch how his eyes scan your face, your neck, your chest, looking for more injuries and finding none. Itâs not until his eyes find yours, nostrils flaring, that you choose to look away, to Gryphon.Â
He has the mask he reserves for strangers on, cold, distant, aloof, nothing like the face he shows you in your head. His eyes are already on yours, sometimes flicking down to the hands on your cheeks, a tightness to his face as he does so. You're not sure what heâs thinking, not sure if heâs mad at you like North seems to be, or if itâs just a front for the older Draven. You hadnât talked to him since Monday when he kissed you, even though each morning and night you send him a text to open and close the day. Even though you see him on campus, keeping his distance from Oli and you. You think maybe heâs keeping it professional, doing his job without the distraction of his bonds stopping him, and it makes you feel better, makes the decisions he chooses a little easier to swallow.Â
âAll done,â the healer states, removing his hands from you like it burns to touch your skin, and Gryphon drops his own on the manâs shoulders with a bang, leading him from the room. That leaves you with North, with his eyes that are full of too many questions, his body language demanding too many answers. You can see it now for sure, with how tight he grabs his own arm, how angry he is, but he doesnât explode, not yet at least. One of his arms comes to the side, palm facing up, as he motions to the table, your normal chair already occupied by Atlas. You look at North, at the way he still isnât saying anything, just quietly seething. You take the chair, let him push you in, even if he does it too fast, too angry, and place your hands in your lap. Heâs quick to fix your plate, knuckles still white as he grips the edge tightly, filling it full of salad, before placing a bowl of stew in front of you. He moves on to Oli, doing the same, frustration still in every line of his body as he takes his seat at the head.Â
Nox still isnât here, and you're thankful, unsure if you could deal with his antics and whatever bomb North has brewing beneath his skin. A servant comes in, filling the cups, Oli and you get something that looks like water, as the rest are filled with a red substance, and you wonder why Gabe gets wine when heâs definitely the same age as you. You wonder who made the decision, but you know it was North, his controlling nature present down to the most minute details. When Gryphon gets back, he fixes his own plate and waits -no one is eating save for Oli- the sound of her fork scraping as she moves salad around. You wonder why they wait, your eyes sliding to North as he stares at you, face a grim line, nostrils still flaring. You look to Gryphon for a moment, his eyes softer than before, and you decide that you canât stand to see either of them. Not right now, so your eyes go to the hallway you saw Gabe disappear down, and you wait.Â
When Gabriel appears, his blond hair is wet, lying flat on his head in a very unguarded way, his t-shirt has been changed out for a black one, light grey jogging pants stretched over his legs, and you forget to breathe. His closeness from earlier is still etched in your mind as your eyes carve a path down his body. You can feel your lip pull between your teeth as you look at him, thinking about his warmth, breath fanning against your face, skin hot under your touch, and you look away, eyes landing back on Gryphon. His mouth is fighting a smile as he looks at you, at the face youâve made at him at least 15 times in your head by now. He knows what it means, can assume the thoughts running through your head as easily as reading them. Your eyes move to North, as his tracks between you and Gabriel, you and Gryphon, finding a closeness between you that he does not share. His face sours as you look back to Gabe. His bright smile is back as he rounds the table and places a hand on your shoulder in a reassuring squeeze.Â
âAw, bestie,â the word falls from his mouth like a slap, your face scrunching up in confusion as you look over at him as he makes his plate. âYou didnât have to wait for me.â But you did want the comfort that being between two of your bonds brings you to eat. You ignore him now, ignore the way he scoots his chair closer to yours, hand coming down on your knee with a squeeze, as you shovel salad into your mouth. You can hear the sounds of dinner beginning around you now, forks scraping plates, slurping of stew filling the room, and the soft sounds of moans coming from Oliâs direction. No one outright looks at her, but the room around her pauses, forks stuck in midair as she takes another spoonful, a sound of content deep in her throat as she munches on the food, oblivious in the way she commands it. Oblivious in the way the world stops for her. It takes a few seconds, but everyone gets back to it, spoonful after spoonful. Itâs not until dessert is being served that North finally chooses to say something, clearing his throat and drawing the attention of the room to him.
Gabeâs hand is still at your knee, a gentle comfort you allow him, as North locks eyes with you. âHow did you get hurt?â Itâs a loaded question, one he already knows the answer to; he just wants to hear it from you. For what reason you're not sure, to show you that heâs in charge, maybe, to show you that you have to answer to him. You pull your shoulders back, push your chest forward, the jacket on your shoulders doing nothing to hide your breasts. Throat tight as what feels like a physical block squeezes your words past your lips, eyes hard on his face.Â
âMy bond.â Its not as confident as you would have liked for it to come out, quiet but seething with the rage you feel for the question. Atlas brings his hand to your other knee, Northâs eyes following the path of it, jaw tightening before meeting your eyes again.Â
âDoes it do that often?â The answer is no, but you know that feels like a lie. It does not hurt you like this; it had never actually caused you pain before, but that was due to the steady and unending supply of drugs the resistance had apparently been pumping you full of. That had been before them, before the one thing the monster in your chest had begged for every night.Â
âIt canât.â You can feel it on your face, the hate you feel for him in this moment. He has never let you work at your own pace, never made sure you are comfortable enough to tell him the truths he wants to hear. He just takes and demands with a smug look on his face that you can't stand. You try to remind yourself that this man is your bond, that he was made for you, a piece of your soul made to fit beside you forever. That he is like Atlas and Gabe, and Gryphon and Oli. That despite his attitude, he is genetically predisposed to love you, and you to love him. Another of the missing pieces carved out of your chest by some god a long time ago. You try to see it, try to understand that this will pass, that you will love him, but he looks at you, angry for things you canât control, his patients at the few-word answers wearing thin, apparent in the way he holds his shoulders back.Â
âWhy. Canât. It.â His words are clipped as he leans forward in his chair, hands gripping the armrests. You feel the threads that hold him together snapping as moments of silence pass by, no answer from you. You find your eyes on Gryphon, hoping that he will step in and save you from your second most volatile bond, but he sits there, waiting for you answer. He knows the truth, saw the memory, felt your fear like it was his own, but still he waits.Â
You hear Gabe speak up beside you, his voice like a safety raft in the ocean of helplessness that you have found yourself in. âMaybe we should-â One look from North shuts him up mid-sentence, and it angers you even more.Â
You lean forward, blocking Northâs view of Gabe with your body as if it could protect him from North's ire. You want to scream at him, make him feel as useless as you do, as unable to protect his bonds as you do, but you canât stop the truth bubbling up from your throat.
âI drug it. I keep it as far away from you as I can because,â the words are coming faster now, the hands on your knees no longer grounding as you can feel your body less and less. âItâs a monster. It would destroy anything in its way to you, me included.â You can hear it like you used to, the memory of its voice a ghost in your head: the images that come along with its words like a blade across your skin, the details it used to describe the mayhem it would inflict on the world if you didnât bring it to itâs bonds, the necrotic wave spreading from a hand that looks like yours but isnât -couldnât be- as it rips through people towards a room. You know what you see isnât real; the memory is just as fake as all the others planted by the Resistance, except this one crafted by your bond. A bond you can't trust, can't let close to these people you want to love so desperately. Not until you can be trusted, not until it can be trusted. Itâs Gryphon's voice that brings you back, just like before.Â
âBond,â he says, voice frantic, âI need you to breathe. Come on,â you find his eyes across the table, a wild look on his face as he demands your attention, âBreath with me, baby. Itâs real simple, just in and out. In and out,â You would feel embarrassed if you could, your body tingling in the way it always does before you pass out, you fear mixed with the panic you feel coursing through your veins, leaving no room for any other emotion. âJust like that. Just like me. Eyes on me, bond, and breathe.â You know itâs more than the panic attack, like last time, something spooking him into action. You donât know what it is, what you missed in the time between North and now, and you almost can't bring yourself to care because finally, he is speaking to you. Itâs him in the way you know him, in the way you need him to be. Not the quiet version of him, not the professional, but your bond that needs you just as badly as you need him.
You're not sure what anyone else in the room is doing, eyes locked on Gryphonâs as he makes a show of breathing deeply for you, modeling the intended reaction so your brain doesn't need to connect the dots for you. You start to feel them again, the hands on your knees from your other bonds, squeezing into your skin as your fingers untangle from the cloth napkin in your lap. You start to hear them again, not just Gryphon, but the rest of the table.
âWhat was that?â North asks, eyes on you unblinking, as he surveys your body, face, and breathing.Â
Gryphon's words are cutting, intending to hurt him with his tone, âThe reason I told you not to make her panic; itâs the trigger.â You can feel your face scrunch up, the confusion you're feeling etched into every crease as you look around the room.
When you look at Atlas, he is sad, his face unguarded as he looks at you, recognition flashing across his face for a brief moment. âWelcome back, Sunshine.â You're unsure what he means, feet still firmly planted where they were moments earlier, not having left. You start to realize that you are missing something, some vital piece of information that everyone in the room has besides you.
North speaks again, his eyes still on you, but the question is directed to Atlas, âHow did you know so quickly?â He actually looks freaked out, like whatever it was truly rattled him to his core. You notice that he looks different from just a moment ago, his tie and suit jacket pulled off, sitting on the table beside him, his hair rustled like he had run his hand through it multiple times, but that couldnât be right. You had just been looking at him, the picture of quiet, put-together rage at the head of the table. Not this slightly disheveled mess of a man.Â
âThey hold themselves differently, speak differently too,â Atlas says, hand leaving your knee to push a piece of hair from your face. âShe doesnât move as confidently, like shes scared to take up the space. I noticed it Monday, but it wasnât until Gryphon said there was someone in her head that I really started to notice. It doesnât happen often, sometimes they are there, and she isnât, and then is again.â
Oleander pipes up now, her voice strong as she looks at you past Atlas, âI thought it was her bond, honestly. I didnât know she was drugging it.â You're not sure if it's the tears in your eyes or not that prompt her to keep talking, âThey won't hurt me, just like I know you won't hurt me.â Her face is hard as it looks at you, hand reaching past Atlas for you to grab. You almost do, but the look on Northâs face stops you. Whatever had just happened had shaken him enough that the councilman was gone, replaced by this tired version of him, unbuttoning his cuffs and topmost shirt button.
âAnd this has happened more than just now, and on Monday I am to understand.â Oli and Atlas nod, neither taking their eyes off you, like you might change again right before their eyes. âAnd no one thought to tell me.â The fire is back in Oliâs eyes, her head coming around to look at North with such ire you would have flinched.Â
âI donât owe you an explanation about my bond, Draven.âÂ
âYou do,â he shoots back, leaning forward in his chair as he spits the words more like Nox than you would like to admit, âwhen it concerns my bond, Fallows.âÂ
You swallow back the bile in your throat, unsure of what is going on around you. Unsure if you're understanding everything correctly. You can feel Gryphon at the front of your mind, a feeling of reassurance being pressed through to you in a way you aren't used to, as Gabeâs thumb rubs circles into your knee. You look to him now, sure he will tell you what's going on in a way youâll be able to understand. Sure, he canât hide it from you if you ask him kindly.Â
âGabe,â the room quiets down around you as his eyes track over your shoulder to the room beyond, âWhatâs going on. What are they talking about?â Â
He hesitates, the calming circles he had been rubbing into your knee cease, as he tries to find the words to say, tries to pluck them from the air. âSometimes, when you get stressed, you act a little differently, like you're someone else.â He starts, eyes flicking back to you. âLike earlier today, do you remember the walk to class?â You go to nod, of course you do, but stop remembering a brief moment this morning when you wondered how you hadnât noticed youâd arrived in the lunch room, the walk feeling shorter than normal. You look down at his hand on your knee, trying to find the right words to say before you just shake your head.Â
âWe were all walking to class like normal, Atlas and I on the outside of you and Oli, remember? You guys were holding hands like always.â You can hear a bit of jealousy in his voice as he says it, but he keeps going. âWe were talking about Darcyâs about the football game?â You nod because yes, you remember, that's how you guys had decided on the Nuclear Option. Except that you realize that you donât remember the conversation much after that. You turn your body more towards him, hands in your lap as you lean into him, his words unfamiliar. He notices and uses this as an opportunity to grab hold of both your hands, leaning into you more, the moment just for the two of you now.Â
âAt some point, you swapped, I donât know when, I just know that you brought Oliâs hand to your mouth and kissed it, like this,â he said, using this as an opportunity to kiss you, eyes boring into yours with so much love it makes your chest ache. When his lips leave your skin, he continues the retelling, his words slightly rushed, âWhich I thought was weird because youâre never that forward, and you looked at her like she hung the fucking moon. Which she did, I know, but you donât look at her like that. You look at her likeâŠâ He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth for a second to think on what to say, âLike you're just enjoying the time you have left with her. It doesnât happen often, but sometimes youâre just not⊠you.âÂ
The words he said, you know, you understand them without really hearing them, but you canât seem to wrap your head around them. If what he says is true, than everytime youâve had a memory laps it could have really been this other person taking over and doing what? Kissing your bonds? Relaying information to the Resistance about their day-to-day so itâs easier to take them out?Â
âWhy didnât you tell me?â Itâs a whisper, almost like you're scared of this person hearing you, or taking over and doing whatever it wants with your body.
âWe were going to. Gryphon was going to see if he could draw them out of you tomorrow in your session.â
âLike an experiment?â You spit, pulling your hands from his, the betrayal of this all hitting a little too close. You're unsure why it triggers you so much, a trickle of a memory pushing in on you that you can't seem to grasp hold of.Â
âNo,â Itâs Gryphon who speaks this time. âWe just needed to be sure that they didnât know we were on to them.âÂ
You're pushing yourself away from the table now, pulling away from all of your bonds as best you can, as you stand, arms coming up to hold yourself together as you start to pace. âSo what, your plan was to trick me? Make me feel safe with you and then send me into a panic attack? Make me think that I could trust you?â
âYou can trust me bond.â
âNo,â you yell, leveling him with a look as coldly as you could manage, holding back your own tears, âI canât.â You stay like that for a moment, eyes locked in a standoff, Gryphon still seated at the table, and you standing against the outer wall. You try them now, some of the grounding techniques youâd learned at Mayfield, afraid that if you donât, you won't be you anymore. You can see your bonds, staring at you, waiting to see your next move. You can see the carpet, taking up much of the dining room in the way that rich people love. You see the wall clock, its hands ticking down the seconds until you can make up your mind about what to do next. You can see the stairs from here, the ones that Gabe took early for a shower. You can see the chandelier above the table, a waste of money in your opinion. You can touch the jacket that Gabe had given you, the letterman cold on the outside. You can touch the floor, the tip of your shoe rubbing into it. You can touch a painting on the wall, its frame the off-gold color that flakes after so many years. You can touch a house plant, one of those big ones that takes up a lot of space for no reason. You can hear the staff down the hall, the sound of the cleaning dishes loud. You can hear the clock ticking. You can hear Oliâs foot bouncing under the table. You can smell the stew. You can smell the candles as they burn on the table. You can taste the bile in your throat.Â
You donât feel anymore or less grounded as you look at the group across from you, each of them waiting. âWhat did I say that made him look like that?â you say, head nodding to North, arms still holding you together. They donât reply right away, chewing over what was less likely to send you into another fit.
âThe truth of what your bond can do,â North says, fully leaning back in his chair, tired of all of this. âSit back down so we can finish talking.â
âNo.â He bristles a little, ready to fight you on this like he has been on everything else, but decides not to, at least not right now.Â
âItâs like my death touch.â He offers a peace treaty of sorts between you. âFrom the sounds of it, your bond is like mine.â If he means his is also a crazy, murderous monster bond, then yes. âBut that doesnât mean you can keep it from us. Even if you're scared of it, or there is someone else in charge of your body sometimes, you have no right.â Heâs angry again, the fight back in his eyes as he looks at you.
âI have every right. What I do with my bond to keep you safe is none of your business.â You think you might puke, your mouth filling with saliva as you swallow desperately to keep anything down.Â
âSit down.â
âNo.â He stands, almost like he is going to come over and make you sit back down, but he doesnât choosing to walk away from the table for a moment, before coming back, hands gripping the back of his chair.Â
âMust you always act like this? Like some terrified child? We are trying to help you.â You can feel the day taking its toll on you, a bone-deep weariness falling on your shoulders as you look at North, nostrils flaring, eyes hard, knuckles white. You can feel it in the way your eyes droop, your shoulders start to sag, and your arms fall to your sides. You can feel it in the way that breathing is hard, a boulder settling on your chest. You could scream back at him, keep going around in circles with this man until you're both done, but you don't have the will anymore. Not for this at least.Â
Your words are soft when you say them, landing like a blow you didnât mean to strike, âI want to be your bond North, not your prisoner. Until you figure out how to live with that iâm going home.âÂ
You can see the fight leave him in that moment, your words registering a little deeper than intended. He doesnât say anything back to you, canât, as his eyes search your face, for a lie perhaps. Whatever it is, he doesn't find it, choosing to walk off down the hall that Gabe had earlier.Â
When you're almost back to your dorm, the bulk of the day falling from your shoulders the further you get from Draven Manor, when you receive a text.Â
North: You can go to the football game and party after curfew only if you agree to my terms. You are to be accompanied by one of your bonds at all times, and a Tac Team will be present at both. I expect you to spend the night at the manor following the party and go to an event with me on Saturday. Do you agree?
You think about telling him to go fuck himself, that after everything today youd rather rot in your dorm than spend a single second with him, but you stop yourself, eyes catching Oliâs in the mirror.Â
You: Thank you.
Master List || Next
Tag List: @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @thecuratorofsaza
Description: fem!reader wakes up in a room with 6 people who claim to be her bonds except she doesnât know what the fuck that means!
Word Count:4046
Chapter Seven: Is That A Phone In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?
Master List || Previous
As you sit at the lunch table during your first day of classes, you realize why Oleander loves Sage so much. She is kind and genuine, and treats you like you always belonged in their little group. She speaks to you and Atlas, like you have always been here, includes you in her jokes with Oli, and tells you things like youâre best pals. Plus, the side eye she gives Gabe and Atlas when they sit down between Oli and you, again, earns her extra points. She had watched it happen just as you had all day; you gripping the back of a seat ready to sit down beside Oli, only for Gabe or Atlas to take the seat themselves. They would look at you, all innocent, none of that betrayal from yesterday on either of their faces, and say, âThank you, bond.â Their eyes are on your mouth as they speak to you before coming back up to your own. You were being manipulated for sure, you know that, but it is hard to be mad at them when they look at you like they still want you. You had wondered if maybe Gryphon told them that you would do almost anything if called bond, but you genuinely canât bring yourself to believe he would betray your trust in that way. So this was all them, working against you to what? Keep Oli away from you? To keep her safe?
You wanted to argue with them, wanted to remind them that Gryphon had cleared you, that they had left her in the same room as you, same bed as you all night, and nothing bad had happened. But, itâs actually Sage that says something first, âOkay, you guys need to lighten up.â She states, pulling the chair out in front of you to sit. âWould either of you hurt Oli?â They both bristle at the allegation like they canât even imagine a world where that could happen. âExactly. So stop acting like she's got a bomb strapped to her chest. Oli doesn't need you two men deep protecting her from her own bond.â
The pair look at each other, properly chastised by Sage, before Gabe pipes up, âBut, you could hurt Giavana even if you canât hurt Riley.â His sentence hangs in the air for a second, everyone quiet as Sage looks over her shoulder at a couple behind her. The man has his hand on the womanâs waist as she sits in his lap, laughing at something he has said. They look happy together, which makes Sage look sad in turn. You realize that this must be her bond group, and a touchy subject for her, as she sits with you and not them. You feel indignation, like a rock, grow in your chest on Sageâs behalf, because even if it wasnât meant to be, that felt like a low blow and one look at Oli tells you that she feels the same.
âItâs different for a central,â Oli interjects, wanting to remove the attention of Sage, âI couldnât hurt a single one of you even if I wanted to. My bond wouldnât let me because you belong to me, and so does she, so maybe lay the fuck off her?â The table stays quiet after that, while your heart swells at her words. You were hers. You belonged to her just as they did. Youâd never belonged with anyone before your bonds, and you think maybe the voice had been right all this time. Maybe it wasnât so scary to want them, to want to be with them if it felt this good to be Oleanderâs. One look at Sageâs face however, tells you otherwise, her grief as apparent as her need to breathe. It reminds you that allowing another person to have this kind of power over you is dangerous.
Here the four of you are, rubbing your bond in her face, intentional or not, and it makes you feel awful. You lean forward, chest pressed against the table to whisper to Sage, âAs a central, it hurts to be away from your bonds, even when the human side is being stupid. Iâm sure heâs struggling too and just doesnât know what to do about it.â She nods to you, understanding that you are trying to reassure her as best you can. âSometimes we have other things going on, and it doesnât mean that we donât want our bonds. There isnât anything wrong with you.â You reach your hand across to place it on top of hers for a quick squeeze, and then drop it back in your lap.
You know that the table heard you, that Atlas and Gabe heard you, and maybe you said it for them, too. Maybe, even if you still have a hard time talking with them, you want them to understand that youâve got things going on outside of this bond group, and you need space. Like what you told Gryphon, regardless of if he respects that while in your head or not. You want to look at your bonds now, so they know you meant it, but you donât -canât.
âHello, Sawyer,â Oli says, and you can hear the sarcasm in her voice, âAlways a pleasure to have you here.â
âThis is my brother,â Sage tells you, inclining her head towards him, âYou can ignore him if you want.â
The tension at the table dissipates in an instant, Sawyer changing the air with his presence alone. He wears the same letterman jacket as the rest of the football team, with this sort of cocky air about him. You're not sure if you're going to hate him, or if heâs going to become your new favorite person.
He shovels food in his mouth like heâs unsure when heâll be fed next, his selection not at all like Gabeâs vegetables, and you wonder if Gabe is the outlier on the team.
âSo we're all going to Darcyâs party Friday night, right?â He asks, mouth still full of French Fries. âFallows, I need you in because I need Sage in, and she doesnât go anywhere without you anymore.â He points a fry between the two of them before putting it in his mouth.
Oli looks around the tables, her eyes falling on you, âI donât know. We have to get permission from North to do anything.â
Sawyer scuffs at that, before chewing more of his food. âEasy. One of you,â he points to Oli, âgive him the sad girl I wonât do anything wrong eyes,â and then he points to you, âand the other show some tit. Boom party on Friday, it's that easy.â
Both Gabe and Atlas tense beside you at his words, hands clenched both above and below the table. Atlas is the one to actually speak up, teeth pressed together in an attempt to keep his composure, âSawyer,â he says as a threat, âdonât talk about my bonds that way. Because my bonds really like your sister, and she seems to really like you, and Iâd hate for her to experience what her life would be like without you in it.â
Almost without missing a beat, and quite literally missing the hint, Sawyer turns your way, head slightly lulled to the side, and says, âThey're kinda hot when they're angry, right?â
Gabe spits out a âBenson,â as your hand comes down on Atlasâ thigh almost on instinct. It feels like you're holding him in place, even if he is stronger than you, the motion showing that you donât want him to react. You donât feel Atlas move, donât hear him say anything else, as the look on Sawyer's face changes. His eyes flick between the two of you, and you can feel him gearing up to say something as Sage grabs him by the arm and forces him up.
âIâll see you guys later!â she says, pulling him along with her, leaving both their trays on the table. You can hear Sawyer's complaints, but the two move farther away from your group.
When you finally turn to Atlas, the tips of his ears are red, his mouth is fighting a smile, and heâs looking down at your hand. The one thatâs closer to his hip than his knee. The one that is in a very dangerous area for someone who canât have their bond. The one that is now noticing something that you hadnât noticed before as it grows beneath it. The squeak you make is almost comical, your hand flying up to your chest as you cradle it with your other. You hadnât meant to, but that hardly matters now.
As you look at Atlas, ready to apologize, throat seizing up, you can see the thoughts filtering through his head as he decides what to say. You can hear it now, his words mimicking the ones Gryphon had said, telling you that you're welcome to touch him, but he doesnât say like that at all.
He tilts his head to the side and leans down into your eyesight as you try to look away from him. âThatâs the first time youâve chosen to touch me, Sunshine.â His voice is a whisper for only you as the words land lightly, âmake sure to do it again, even if itâs only my hand next time?â
You can feel your skin burning as you look past him to Oli, both embarrassed and confused by his switch-up. Her own lips are fighting a smile, and you donât even want to risk looking at Gabe. Regardless of whether it feels like the adult thing to do right now, you stand and storm off in the direction of the womenâs bathroom, because thatâs the only place you know he canât follow you.
As you make your way through the tables, you can hear them behind you. The sound of someone trying to follow you, and Oli stopping them, telling them you need space and that she will take care of you. You're not sure if you want her following either, the embarrassment still bearing down on you causing you physical pain, but you also know itâs the first time today they have trusted you enough to be alone with her.
When you make it to the bathroom, you head straight for the sink. The water is cool as you splash your face with it in hopes of calming your nerves. Oli doesnât say anything when she enters, just stands by supportively, until youâve got yourself under wraps.
âAre you okay now?â She asks, coming up beside you and placing her hands on your biceps, rubbing up and down in a soothing motion. You almost groan as your forehead falls to her collarbone.
âOli, I touched his dick. In the middle of the lunch room. With Sage and Sawyer there. I think,â the embarrassment balls up in the pit of your stomach again, âI think I want to explode.â
She laughs, a deep belly laugh causing your head to rise and fall with her, âHappy first day of college!â
You think, just for a moment, that death is preferable to going back out there and seeing your bonds again.
âWell, was it at least big,â she asks, leaning back a little to look down at you.
You lift your head, looking up at her through your eye lashes in the most deadpan expression you can, âItâs fucking huge.â
She giggles, hands still on your biceps as she squeezes them. âGood. When we figure this shit out with your head,â one of her fingers comes up to poke between your eyes, âand you finally bond him, I need all the details. I just know that man can fuck.â
You choke, actually choke, on the spit in your mouth because you donât know how to fuck, have never fucked, and if you donât figure out this issue with your head, will never fuck.
âPlus we need to get one of their scents in our bed again or else Iâm going to become a monster.â It takes you a second to come to terms with what she just said because the use of âourâ is still bouncing around in your head.
âWhat.â
âI think we just need to parent trap them. We could lock them in our room and tell them they have to roll around in the sheets to be let out or is that too weird?â You giggle at the absurdity of the question, because yes it is too weird, but you get what she means. You will also be the worst version of yourself when you canât at least pretend Atlas is in the same bed as you.
âI do think heâd be into handcuffs. Maybe we just do that and leave him there?â The both of you laugh, as she pulls you into a hug, and you stay like that for a moment.
âGood idea.â Her arms around you are tight, almost like she needs this contact more than you, as your chin rests on her shoulder. âAre we good to go back out there yet?â You hug her, just a bit tighter, and bury your nose in her neck to take a deep, calming breath before nodding and moving away.
âYes, but I canât promise I wonât vomit if they mention it again.â
âDeal.â
When the two of you make it back to the lunch table, the rest of the trays have been cleared, and a bags of chips sit in your spot. The chips arenât your favorite, but you forgive them because there is no way they could know that information yet. Atlas and Gabe have moved away from each other, leaving a two-seat gap between them, and they both stare at Oli and you advancing towards the chairs.
Gabe scratches the back of his neck when you sit down beside him -unsure if you can ever sit beside Atlas again-, âYou didnât get to finish lunch, so I thought you might still be hungry. Nox will be a bitch about it if you eat in his class, but we have a good 10-minute walk over there.â There is a small smile on your face -that fights to become a big one- as you look over at him. They really seem to like to show that they care by feeding you, so you take a page out of their book.
When you open the bag and take out a chip to eat, Gabe seems proud of himself, a smile firmly planted on his face as you munch. You pull out another and offer it to him, eyebrows raised, and he just shakes his head, âNah, I donât eat that garbage.â You're not sure what that says about how he views you, who definitely eats that garbage, so your face falls, but you donât lower the chip just yet. If anything, you had seen this as a peace offering, and it kind of sucks that he doesnât want to accept it.
You can hear Atlas and Oli whispering behind you, but you canât make out the words, so you ignore them, choosing to eat the chip and mind your own business, but Gabeâs hand on your wrist stops you. âIâll eat it if you want me to bond.â He leans forward, coming into your space as his lips wrap around the chip, catching your fingers slightly. He watches your reaction as he chews and swallows, the action followed by your eyes before they go back to his lips, inches from your fingers, from your face.
âHave another bond,â he says, using that word again, not moving away, but also not moving closer. His scent is the only thing you smell, surrounding you and making it hard to think, as your eyes bounce between his own and his lips. Because they were gentle on your fingers, and you want to know if he kisses like that. If they are really as soft as they look. His hand is still on your wrist, thumb caressing your pulse point as it jumps under his ministrations. The bond in your chest rumbles, fighting against whatever in the drugs puts it to sleep, its emotions filling your head for a moment, yearning for him so desperately you almost give in, almost fall forward into him, the spectacle youâd be, be damned. The longer you're around your bonds, the less the drugs seem to work; something in them not enough to hold back the monster beneath your skin. Itâs this thought that releases you from the moment.
His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and you turn away, pulling your wrist with you, you falling like water from his grasp. You can tell heâs upset, as you see him pull back, his shoulders rolling forward to protect himself, his face falling from the carefree smirk that was just on it. Heâs just as beautiful now, face scrunched up in a sour look, as when heâs happy, the emotion not really mattering because he always has this sort of breathtaking beauty. You're not sure if heâs upset because he wants you as badly as you want him, or if itâs because he thinks he deserves you for doing a kind deed. The thought brings bile to your throat, and the taste of the chips on your tongue putrefies.
Itâs easier to be angry at him, to make assumptions about his motives, to put distance between you, than it is to want him so desperately. But itâs hard to do that when his scent is still in your nose, his presence like a live wire beneath your skin. Everything about him calls to you, to protect and be kind and to love. You want to be angry at him, want to force this distance between you so itâs not so hard to be in the same room as him, but you canât. And the thought of him being angry at you is worse, like someone taking stones and pressing them into your chest until they crush in on themselves. Grinding them into nothingness, your chest red and angry from it. You canât be angry at him, and he canât be angry at you, which means you need to fix this.
Itâs not until you're on your way to Gifted 101 that you reach into your pocket and pull up his contact name, Gabriel Ardern. As a passing thought, you wonder if thatâs how North programs everyone into his own phone, first and last name, and it almost makes you laugh. Of course he would. Being serious in all things is the only way youâve ever seen North Draven react, and that would extend into how he programs yours and Oliâs phones, for sure. When you actually look at the company spot, the word âBondâ in bold stands out, like heâs afraid you're going to forget who they are. You click over to Oliâs name to be sure, and she has been delegated as âCo-Centralâ. If it wasnât more funny than stupid, you might bring it up, but you're sure he wonât see the humor in it.
As you type out the message to Gabe, you donât really pay attention to where you're going, full attention on what you want to tell him. Itâs not until you finish crafting it that you realize Gabe had been running interference around you so you could walk and text in peace. It whittles out that hollow space in your chest even more, because even though he is upset with you, he still makes sure to do little things that show he cares. When the message goes through, you can see his lock screen is a picture of Oli laughing, and you wonder when he took it, her face open and happy. It had to have been some time before you got here, and complicated their dynamics even more than before.
When the group of you files into class, you see Sage already sitting in a row of seats, two empty on either side of her. Atlas and Oli take the two on her left, and you and Gabe take the two on her right, positioning Sage between Oleander and yourself. You donât mind the Sage buffer as much as the bond buffer, because you know she doesnât do it out of concern. When you place your things in front of you, you see Gabe typing away before your own phone buzzes.
When you open your messages you skim over your own text again, âIâm sorry. I just need more time to get used to everything and make sure that the Resistance isnât using me to hurt you. This is all still very new to me.â The thought of saying it out loud had occurred to you, but the cons of admitting you're probably a Resistance spy in a lunch room full of Anti-Resistance gifted outweighed the pros.
âIâm not trying to push. Iâm sorry if I seemed upset earlier, Iâm still figuring this out too.â You stare at your phone for a minute, trying to come up with something to say because you do think he deserves some grace as long as you get some in return. You begin typing, only to erase it, the words lost on you. Itâs not until you feel his knee knock into yours that you look over at him, notebook laid between his outstretched arms, him leaning forward in his seat, mouth obscured by his shoulder muscles as he looks at you from behind them. âFriends?â He mouths to you lifting his head slightly, and you nod. Being friends with him over whatever it is you currently have going on should make things much easier to deal with.
âFriends,â you whisper back. His face lights up at the sound of it, knowing itâs the first time youâve chosen to speak to him not out of necessity. Today has been full of a lot of firsts for you unfortunately, and you're sure tomorrow will be full of even more now that youâre out of Mayfield or wherever the hell you really were.
His knee doesnât move from yours again, a small comfort the both of you allow in the moment, as he keeps staring at you over his arm. You cross your arms and lay your head down on them to look back at him. âWhat?â You mouth, the room still full of chatter as Nox has yet to arrive.
He leans in now so you can hear his whisper, elbow touching yours, âFriends can tell friends how pretty they are right?â You smile, but shake your head at him anyway knowing that this will probably be your reality for the next little while. Youâd expect this from Atlas, him never stopping his flirting, but not Gabe.
âFriends Gabriel,â there is humor in your whisper so you know he will ignore you, but this was a start, a boundary that you can put in the sand. When itâs time to erase it, the two of you will have built a base for your relationship in friendship.
Sage giggles to you left and points to Gabe, humor in her voice as she says, âFriendzoned.â
He shakes his head still looking at you over his arm and smiles, âI can wait.â You know he means it in the same way you know that the contact with him brings you peace. You can feel it in every bone of your body, not needing a gift like Gryphonâs to hear the truth in his words. You know that this is a turning point for your relationship, him finally seeing you as someone who is worth waiting for, someone worth understanding. And it might be small, but this gives you hope, builds a fire in your chest next to the hole not having your bonds created. It might be dumb, but you finally feel excited for what comes next. So you sit beside Gabe, a smile on your face, and just enjoy it.
Master List || Next
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Ahh, this chapter was actually extremely hard for me to write, which is one of the reasons it took me so long. I have actually been for the past two weeks, and I am finally getting over that. Let me know what you think!
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