I plan to! I’ve just had some really big things happen in my life recently so I’ve had to take a bit of time away. Plus this Nox chapter is kicking my ass. 😭
I’m sorry! I’ve been super busy, and life has been chaotic recently. This next chapter has been really hard for me to write for some reason so I’ve decided to just write the crew playing Dungeons and Dragons 😂 for a fun little chapter before getting back to the main story. I’m glad you’ve been enjoying it though! 
I haven’t updated in a minute so I thought I would post everybody’s lock screens!
North:
Atlas:
Nox:
Gryphon:
Gabriel:
Oleander:
Sorry it’s 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 I’m wrong. I present to you Gryphon (again) pt1 pt2
This feels better tbh, closer in age to where he should be. And I’ve 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.
You know, you can never be too careful as a woman alone in a city like this.
The night was silent.
You’re 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. You’re trying to get a photo of Nightwing, after all. You’ve 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. He’s been doing shit like this for years— 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.
“Shit—!” 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. “What the hell, dude?” 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 he’d got it, he lowered his hand for a moment, blinking up at the sky to see if everything felt fine. It did. Hoorah.
What didn’t 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. “Hey there!” 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 didn’t even have time to admire or check the photo before he grabbed it.
“Hey! That’s my camera!” You say, and for a moment it looks like you're contemplating jumping over to him!
“Yeah, and that’s my face!” He counters, pointing at the screen that he kept turned away from you. “Did you ever hear that it’s, like, illegal to take photos of people without their permission?”
“Give it back!” You snap, reaching over, but the attempt was futile.
“Give me a second,” he says, observing the photo before deleting it and handing the camera back to you. “It was a good photo, I’ll give you that, but uh… you can’t have it.”
“You’re an asshole.” 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.
“You thought I was cool enough to take a picture of.”
“That was before I actually talked to you!” You say, frustrated as you turn the device off, looking up to glare at him. “And you’re not special— I take photos of everyone.”
“That’s a lot of crimes.”
“It’s street photography!”
He shrugs, “So what are you, a journalist?” He asks, indulging in a bit of small talk with this feisty stranger before continuing on with patrol.
“I don’t think I have to explain myself to you.” You mutter.
“You don’t,” he nods. “But I’d like to know why you wanted to get an unmasked photo of the kind guy who’s been keeping the people of this city safe.”
“You weren’t being very kind when you took my camera.”
“Do you want me to die?”
“It’s just a hobby.” You mutter, turning to crawl back through your window and into your apartment.
“Trying to dox your neighborhood vigilante or the street photography?”
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 couldn’t 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, didn’t he? You wouldn’t 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 didn’t seem like that. Either you were really good at putting up an act, or you were truly just a citizen.
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, she’s getting extra treats tonight. He loosely wraps her leash against the leg of the chair, loose enough for her to walk away, and that’s 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.
“Hey, baby.” You coo quietly, freeing one ear from your headphones. “Where’s your owner, huh?”
Now that was Dick’s time to shine.
He turns around, raising his eyebrows in feigned surprise when he sees you with Haley. “Oh— I’m so sorry!” he says, causing you to look up. “I didn’t think she was planning on wandering off… This is Haley.”
You smile faintly, shaking your head as you pet Haley when she nudges your leg again. “It’s no worries, she’s a cute dog.” She chuckles, lightly turning her back to her owner.
“I’m glad she went to you and not the door.” He jokes, giving Haley a few pats, earning a quiet bark in response.
You laugh, nodding, and man, he likes that sound.
“You like photography?” He asks, motioning to the camera you had in front of you.
“Oh— oh yeah.” You nod, opening the bag that was hung from the back of your chair, presenting two more cameras in it. “I love it.”
“Clearly.” He says, chuckling. “Just as a hobby or for work?”
“It’s just something I do for fun.” You say, letting the bag close.
“You take it pretty seriously for something you do for a bit of fun.” He teases softly, looking over your shoulder to the picture they were displayed on your computer. “Is that one of yours? You know, I happen to be a wonderful self-proclaimed art critic.”
“Offering unsolicited advice?” You ask, grinning sheepishly as you move aside to show him.
“Just being friendly,” he defends, scooting his chair over to look at the photo. “Hey… this is really nice. You’re into street photography, then?” he asks, using the new lingo you had unknowingly taught him days prior.
“Yeah.” You smile bashfully, nodding. “Candid photos, stuff like that.”
“It’s impressive, really.” He says, then he offers out his hand, “I’m Dick.”
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.
Of course, Nightwing was around to stop them.
“So, I imagine this is yours?” He asks, holding up the camera that one of the two men had attempted to steal.
You don’t say anything, you just grab the device from his hand, muttering profanities under your breath as you check for any damage.
“You sure are ungrateful.” He deadpans, crossing his arms.
You look up from the camera, scowling at him as you tuck it away. “Thank you.” You say curtly, unmoving from your spot.
“So who convinced you to come out at this time?” He asks, “Blüdhaven isn’t exactly known for being a safe place at night.” He motions to the handcuffed men in the ground.
“I wanted a photo.”
“Well duh. But at this time? In this place?” He’s not rude enough to call you stupid, but damn he wants to. “Of buildings?”
“I had a vision.” You defend, crossing your arms.
“Yeah, maybe next time, execute the vision from inside your apartment.”
“Some people actually like my work the way it is— without any unwanted advice from people.”
“Oh, I can think of a guy.” Meaning himself as Dick— not Nightwing.
“I can too.” You counter, also meaning Dick.
“I bet you can.”
“Yeah, I can— that’s why I just said that.”
He glances down the street, then back at you. “Where do you live?”
You squint. “Sorry, do you usually ask traumatized robbery victims for their address, or am I just special?”
He sighs. “I’m not trying to be creepy. I’m trying to make sure you don’t get jumped again in the next five minutes.”
“I can handle myself.” You hitch your bag higher on your shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’ve sure proved that.”
“Excuse me?” You open your mouth, pause, then close it again. The wet street, the empty sidewalks, the two groaning guys handcuffed to a lamppost behind him—
“Three blocks that way, then left,” you say finally, jerking your chin down the street. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he replies. “Walk. I’ll be up there.”
You follow his gesture and see the line of fire escapes and ledges. Of course. Rooftop babysitting.
“You’re going to stalk me home?”
“‘Escort’ is the word you’re looking for,” he says.
“I’d be flattered if you weren’t such an ass.” You huff, but you start walking.
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. He’s perched on the edge of the roof across the street, outlined in blue.
“Well.” You walk up the steps to the entrance, “You have officially completed your civic duty.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Try to limit the late-night ‘visions’ for a while, alright? At least in this neighborhood.”
You hesitate, thumb resting on the handle.
“Thanks,” you say finally. It comes out curt and clipped, but hey, you said it.
He tips his head. “You’re welcome.”
You turn toward the door, then pause and glance back. “For the record,” you say, jabbing a finger at him, “if you would just let me get a decent shot of you, I wouldn’t have to wander into shitty alleys for material.”
He laughs under his breath. “Pretty sure that’s still a crime.”
“It’s art,” you insist.
“It’s stalking.”
“So is following me home,” you say. “It’s street photography. Learn the term, birdboy.”
He leans forward a little, “Get inside, camera girl.”
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
It’s a Tuesday and there’s 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.
“Don’t move,” a voice hisses behind you, and you can smell stale cigarettes and alcohol. “Empty your account. All of it.”
You’re at the ATM on the corner of 23rd and Hayes, the one you’ve used a hundred times because it’s on your route home from your soul crushing data entry job. The street is unusually empty for 9 pm, but that’s Bludhaven for you; people have finally started learning not to be out after dark.
Everyone except you, apparently, because you’re an idiot who needed cash for the laundromat.
“I have forty three dollars in checking,” you say flatly, finger hovering over the keypad. “And maybe twelve in savings. You’re really not making out well on this transaction.”
“Just do it!” 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, you’re 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. “You know, statistically, you’d make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- ”
“Shut up!”
“I’m just saying, this is really inefficient- ”
You don’t get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and there’s 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.
You’ve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. He’s all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body that’s 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 they’re extensions of his arms.
He turns to you, and even though you can’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
“You okay?” 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. “That depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.”
There’s a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.
“That’s… pretty specific.”
“I’m a pessimist. We’re detailed oriented.” You glance at the mugger, who’s groaning on the ground. “Is he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after you’re done with him?”
Now he definitely smiles. “Little of both, probably. You should get out of here. I’ll wait with him until BCPD shows up.”
“Right. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.” But you’re already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. “Thanks 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.”
“You guess?” He sounds amused now.
You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. “I mean, appreciate the help and all, but let’s be real, I’ll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. It’s practically a meteorological certainty.”
“That’s not how lightning works.”
“And yet.” You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight that’s been broken for three weeks. “Here we are.”
You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or just deeply disturbed.
Probably both.
Of course, both is good.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re hanging from a fire escape.
It’s been two weeks since the ATM incident, and you’d actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didn’t increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.
But the universe doesn’t like it when you get comfortable.
You’re 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 you’re dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.
“Help!” You scream, but it’s 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man who’s definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she “doesn’t believe in interference.”
This is exactly how you’d thought you’d die but you’d appreciate it if you weren’t right.
Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.
You’re wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.
“I’M WEARING MY NICE JEANS!” You yell into the void.
“Hold on!” A voice calls back, and you’re so startled you nearly let go.
Then he’s 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.
“We need to move,” he says, and then he’s 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 you’re steady. “You okay?”
You’re breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. “You know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being ‘technically yes, but actually no.’”
He tilts his head, and there’s something about the gesture that’s almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. “Wait. ATM girl?”
“Oh, perfect. I have a nickname now.” You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. “Yes. ATM girl. Also known as ‘that pessimist,’ ‘fire escape failure,’ and ‘person who can’t keep a tomato plant alive.’ Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.”
“You remember me.” He sounds pleased.
“You’re dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. You’re pretty memorable.” You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. “Great. There goes my security deposit.”
“You’re taking this pretty well.”
“What’s the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” 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. “So, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and you’re following the trail of chaos?”
He laughs, and it’s a good sound, warm and genuine. “Little of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?”
“Watering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but I’m nothing if not committed to lost causes.” You sigh. “I should call my landlord. He’s going to love this.”
“It’s not your fault the fire escape collapsed.”
“And yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.” You pull out your phone, then pause. “Thanks. Again. For the rescue. You’re really good at those.”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“Well, it’s a good thing.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how he’s looking at you like you’re something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. “You should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.”
“I don’t think you’re incompetent.”
“My fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.”
He’s smiling again. You’re 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.
“Get inside safely,” he says. “And maybe water your plant from the window from now on.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll keep trying. That plant and I both know it’s a doomed enterprise.”
But you’re 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.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re stuck in an elevator.
“I should have taken the stairs,” you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. “I always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, ‘You know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. What’s the worst that could happen?’”
“To be fair,” Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, “this is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.”
You turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone who’s been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.
“We’re stuck in an elevator. In a building that’s scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesn’t believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.”
“You didn’t see the notices?”
“I saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.” You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. “What are you even doing here?”
“Got a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.” He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadn’t noticed. “Found them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.”
“Of course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.”
He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. It’s unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.
“You know,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, “most people would be more worried about being stuck.”
“Oh, I’m worried. I’m just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Last month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didn’t even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.”
“The universe has it out for you.”
“The universe has it out for everyone. I’m just aware of it.” You glance at him. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?”
“I’m Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.”
“Wow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. That’s so Bludhaven.”
He laughs, and you’re starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.
“You’re funny,” he says.
“I’m fatalistic. People often confuse the two.”
“No, you’re definitely funny.” He leans forward slightly. “And you’re handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.”
“Oh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. There’s a difference.” But you’re smiling despite yourself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck?”
“I already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”
“So enough time for you to tell me why you do this.” You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. “The whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?”
“What makes you think I’m rich?”
“That suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesn’t come cheap.”
He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. “I can’t tell you my origin story while we’re stuck in an elevator. That’s terrible narrative pacing.”
“Fine. Tell me something else then.” You’re not sure why you’re pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. “Tell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.”
“Because you’re different.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Most 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.”
“That was just my anxiety talking. I babble when I’m nervous.”
“And when you’re not nervous?”
“I’m always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.”
“Fair point.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. “You act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope wearing a disguise.”
The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought you’d armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.
“That’s a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,” you manage.
“I don’t think they’re flaws.”
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 can’t take back, there’s a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.
“Fire department?” You ask hopefully.
“Fire department,” 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.
“Ma’am,” one of them says, “what were you doing in a condemned building?”
“Looking for Chairman Meow,” you say without missing a beat. “He’s still missing, by the way, if anyone’s seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.”
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 can’t 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.
You’re definitely lying to yourself.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
The fourth time you meet Nightwing, you’re not actually in danger.
You’re on your building’s roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but you’ve 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.
“You know,” a voice says from behind you, “most people would consider this suspicious behavior.”
You don’t even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.
“Most people don’t live in my apartment,” you say, not sitting up. “My 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. I’m seeking refuge.”
Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.
“All at once?” He asks.
“The universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.”
“Still not how lightning works.”
“And yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. What’s your excuse this time?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, he’s staring up at the sky with an expression you can’t quite read.
“No excuse,” he admits. “I was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Checking on ATM girl? I’m touched. Truly.” But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.”
“Eight,” he says, pointing. “That one’s really faint, but it’s there.”
You look where he’s indicating and squint. “If you say so. I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.”
“Just good training.”
“Right. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job that’s definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.”
“I never said I was a billionaire.”
“You also never said you weren’t.”
He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. “You’re very suspicious.”
“I’m very realistic. People don’t become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.” You pause. “No offense.”
“None taken. You’re not wrong.” He’s quiet for a beat. “You want to know something?”
“Is it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didn’t talk for three months out of shame.”
“Not my secret identity.” He sounds amused. “I was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.”
Your heart does a complicated somersault. “You look forward to me nearly dying? That’s kind of dark.”
“I look forward to talking to you.” He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. “You’re real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.”
“That’s just depression with better marketing.”
“It’s not, though.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. You’re watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. That’s not giving up. That’s the opposite of giving up.”
You swallow hard. “You’re doing the poetic assessment thing again.”
“Is it working?”
“I’m not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.”
But you’re not pulling away. Neither is he.
“Can I tell you something?” You hear yourself say. “And you can’t make fun of me.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” You take a breath. “I think I’m starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.”
The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. You’re about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-
“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’ve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s very inefficient crime fighting,” you whisper.
“I’m okay with that.”
He’s 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.
“Can I-”
“Not yet,” he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. “Soon. I promise. But not yet.”
“Okay.” And it is, somehow. Okay. “This is insane. You know that, right? I don’t even know your name.”
“You know me, though.” His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “You know the important parts.”
“I know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.”
“Your most interesting moments.”
“Same thing, in my life.”
He laughs, and then he’s leaning in, and you’re 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. “I have to go.”
“Of course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.”
But he’s standing, getting ready to grapple away, and you’re standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.
“Same time next week?” He asks. “Same roof?”
“You’re scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.”
“Call it hope wearing a disguise.”
He’s gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and you’re 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 can’t wait.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
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.)
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
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.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
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 who’s looking down at his phone and looks like he hasn’t 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 that’s 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.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Riddler's voice carries across the ballroom with theatrical flair. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of 'important,' doesn't it? After all, what's more important: champagne and canapés, or the answer to a riddle that could save your lives?"
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!”
"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.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment you’re 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.
There’s a slow, delicious ache in your thighs that’s 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.
You’d made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasn’t.
Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. “You’re still here.”
“Wasn’t sure I would be.” 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. “You always have a choice. You know that, right?”
You nod, trying not to melt into him. “You snore, by the way.”
He grins, no shame at all. “And you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.”
You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. “It’s adorable.”
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. “You know what I want?” he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.
“What’s that?”
He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, the kind you never thought you’d get from someone like him. “I want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if you’ll let me keep you here all weekend.”
Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. “You’d get sick of me by noon.”
He nips at your jaw, grinning. “Not possible. I’m insatiable.” 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. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?”
He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “I lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.”
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.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.
“Don’t you dare.”
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.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: “Good. Because you’re my favorite disaster.”
The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.
And maybe lightning didn’t 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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
"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.
"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.
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.
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.
“MINE. MINE. MY BOND. MY BOND.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
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.
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-"
"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.
"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.
"I'm sorry for... the other thing too." It's his time to turn red, the tips of his ears a deep scarlet.
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.
"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.
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.
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 doesn’t 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 man’s 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. It’s not until his eyes find yours, nostrils flaring, that you choose to look away, to Gryphon.
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 he’s thinking, not sure if he’s mad at you like North seems to be, or if it’s just a front for the older Draven. You hadn’t 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 he’s 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.
“All done,” the healer states, removing his hands from you like it burns to touch your skin, and Gryphon drops his own on the man’s 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 doesn’t 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 isn’t 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. He’s 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.
Nox still isn’t 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 he’s 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 can’t stand to see either of them. Not right now, so your eyes go to the hallway you saw Gabe disappear down, and you wait.
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 you’ve 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.
“Aw, bestie,” 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. “You didn’t have to wait for me.” 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 Oli’s 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. It’s 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.
Gabe’s hand is still at your knee, a gentle comfort you allow him, as North locks eyes with you. “How did you get hurt?” It’s 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 he’s 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.
“My bond.” 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, North’s eyes following the path of it, jaw tightening before meeting your eyes again.
“Does it do that often?” 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.
“It can’t.” 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 can’t control, his patients at the few-word answers wearing thin, apparent in the way he holds his shoulders back.
“Why. Can’t. It.” 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.
You hear Gabe speak up beside you, his voice like a safety raft in the ocean of helplessness that you have found yourself in. “Maybe we should-” One look from North shuts him up mid-sentence, and it angers you even more.
You lean forward, blocking North’s 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 can’t stop the truth bubbling up from your throat.
“I drug it. I keep it as far away from you as I can because,” the words are coming faster now, the hands on your knees no longer grounding as you can feel your body less and less. “It’s a monster. It would destroy anything in its way to you, me included.” 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 didn’t bring it to it’s bonds, the necrotic wave spreading from a hand that looks like yours but isn’t -couldn’t be- as it rips through people towards a room. You know what you see isn’t 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. It’s Gryphon's voice that brings you back, just like before.
“Bond,” he says, voice frantic, “I need you to breathe. Come on,” you find his eyes across the table, a wild look on his face as he demands your attention, “Breath with me, baby. It’s real simple, just in and out. In and out,” 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. “Just like that. Just like me. Eyes on me, bond, and breathe.” You know it’s more than the panic attack, like last time, something spooking him into action. You don’t 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. It’s 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 Gryphon’s 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.
“What was that?” North asks, eyes on you unblinking, as he surveys your body, face, and breathing.
Gryphon's words are cutting, intending to hurt him with his tone, “The reason I told you not to make her panic; it’s the trigger.” 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. “Welcome back, Sunshine.” 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, “How did you know so quickly?” 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 couldn’t 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.
“They hold themselves differently, speak differently too,” Atlas says, hand leaving your knee to push a piece of hair from your face. “She doesn’t move as confidently, like shes scared to take up the space. I noticed it Monday, but it wasn’t until Gryphon said there was someone in her head that I really started to notice. It doesn’t happen often, sometimes they are there, and she isn’t, and then is again.”
Oleander pipes up now, her voice strong as she looks at you past Atlas, “I thought it was her bond, honestly. I didn’t know she was drugging it.” You're not sure if it's the tears in your eyes or not that prompt her to keep talking, “They won't hurt me, just like I know you won't hurt me.” Her face is hard as it looks at you, hand reaching past Atlas for you to grab. You almost do, but the look on North’s 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.
“And this has happened more than just now, and on Monday I am to understand.” Oli and Atlas nod, neither taking their eyes off you, like you might change again right before their eyes. “And no one thought to tell me.” The fire is back in Oli’s eyes, her head coming around to look at North with such ire you would have flinched.
“I don’t owe you an explanation about my bond, Draven.”
“You do,” he shoots back, leaning forward in his chair as he spits the words more like Nox than you would like to admit, “when it concerns my bond, Fallows.”
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 Gabe’s thumb rubs circles into your knee. You look to him now, sure he will tell you what's going on in a way you’ll be able to understand. Sure, he can’t hide it from you if you ask him kindly.
“Gabe,” the room quiets down around you as his eyes track over your shoulder to the room beyond, “What’s going on. What are they talking about?”
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. “Sometimes, when you get stressed, you act a little differently, like you're someone else.” He starts, eyes flicking back to you. “Like earlier today, do you remember the walk to class?” You go to nod, of course you do, but stop remembering a brief moment this morning when you wondered how you hadn’t noticed you’d 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.
“We 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.” You can hear a bit of jealousy in his voice as he says it, but he keeps going. “We were talking about Darcy’s about the football game?” You nod because yes, you remember, that's how you guys had decided on the Nuclear Option. Except that you realize that you don’t 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.
“At some point, you swapped, I don’t know when, I just know that you brought Oli’s hand to your mouth and kissed it, like this,” 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, “Which I thought was weird because you’re never that forward, and you looked at her like she hung the fucking moon. Which she did, I know, but you don’t look at her like that. You look at her like…” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth for a second to think on what to say, “Like you're just enjoying the time you have left with her. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes you’re just not… you.”
The words he said, you know, you understand them without really hearing them, but you can’t seem to wrap your head around them. If what he says is true, than everytime you’ve 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 it’s easier to take them out?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s a whisper, almost like you're scared of this person hearing you, or taking over and doing whatever it wants with your body.
“We were going to. Gryphon was going to see if he could draw them out of you tomorrow in your session.”
“Like an experiment?” 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.
“No,” It’s Gryphon who speaks this time. “We just needed to be sure that they didn’t know we were on to them.”
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. “So 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?”
“You can trust me bond.”
“No,” you yell, leveling him with a look as coldly as you could manage, holding back your own tears, “I can’t.” 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 you’d learned at Mayfield, afraid that if you don’t, 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 Oli’s 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.
You don’t feel anymore or less grounded as you look at the group across from you, each of them waiting. “What did I say that made him look like that?” you say, head nodding to North, arms still holding you together. They don’t reply right away, chewing over what was less likely to send you into another fit.
“The truth of what your bond can do,” North says, fully leaning back in his chair, tired of all of this. “Sit back down so we can finish talking.”
“No.” 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.
“It’s like my death touch.” He offers a peace treaty of sorts between you. “From the sounds of it, your bond is like mine.” If he means his is also a crazy, murderous monster bond, then yes. “But that doesn’t 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.” He’s angry again, the fight back in his eyes as he looks at you.
“I have every right. What I do with my bond to keep you safe is none of your business.” You think you might puke, your mouth filling with saliva as you swallow desperately to keep anything down.
“Sit down.”
“No.” He stands, almost like he is going to come over and make you sit back down, but he doesn’t choosing to walk away from the table for a moment, before coming back, hands gripping the back of his chair.
“Must you always act like this? Like some terrified child? We are trying to help you.” 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.
Your words are soft when you say them, landing like a blow you didn’t mean to strike, “I want to be your bond North, not your prisoner. Until you figure out how to live with that i’m going home.”
You can see the fight leave him in that moment, your words registering a little deeper than intended. He doesn’t say anything back to you, can’t, 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.
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.
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 Oli’s in the mirror.
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 doesn’t know what the fuck that means!
Word Count:4046
Chapter Seven
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 you’re 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, “Thank you, bond.” 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 can’t 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, it’s actually Sage that says something first, “Okay, you guys need to lighten up.” She states, pulling the chair out in front of you to sit. “Would either of you hurt Oli?” They both bristle at the allegation like they can’t even imagine a world where that could happen. “Exactly. 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.”
The pair look at each other, properly chastised by Sage, before Gabe pipes up, “But, you could hurt Giavana even if you can’t hurt Riley.” 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 woman’s 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 Sage’s behalf, because even if it wasn’t meant to be, that felt like a low blow and one look at Oli tells you that she feels the same.
“It’s different for a central,” Oli interjects, wanting to remove the attention of Sage, “I couldn’t hurt a single one of you even if I wanted to. My bond wouldn’t let me because you belong to me, and so does she, so maybe lay the fuck off her?” The table stays quiet after that, while your heart swells at her words. You were hers. You belonged to her just as they did. You’d never belonged with anyone before your bonds, and you think maybe the voice had been right all this time. Maybe it wasn’t so scary to want them, to want to be with them if it felt this good to be Oleander’s. One look at Sage’s 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, “As a central, it hurts to be away from your bonds, even when the human side is being stupid. I’m sure he’s struggling too and just doesn’t know what to do about it.” She nods to you, understanding that you are trying to reassure her as best you can. “Sometimes we have other things going on, and it doesn’t mean that we don’t want our bonds. There isn’t anything wrong with you.” 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 you’ve 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 don’t -can’t.
A boy who looks strangely like Sage stops you from needing to. “Damn, Fallows. I could forgive you for four hot bonds, maybe five, but six? Do you collect sexy people like Pokémon cards?” He sits beside Sage, dropping his lunch tray on the table with a bang.
“Hello, Sawyer,” Oli says, and you can hear the sarcasm in her voice, “Always a pleasure to have you here.”
“This is my brother,” Sage tells you, inclining her head towards him, “You can ignore him if you want.”
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 he’s going to become your new favorite person.
He shovels food in his mouth like he’s unsure when he’ll be fed next, his selection not at all like Gabe’s vegetables, and you wonder if Gabe is the outlier on the team.
“So we're all going to Darcy’s party Friday night, right?” He asks, mouth still full of French Fries. “Fallows, I need you in because I need Sage in, and she doesn’t go anywhere without you anymore.” 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, “I don’t know. We have to get permission from North to do anything.”
Sawyer scuffs at that, before chewing more of his food. “Easy. One of you,” he points to Oli, “give him the sad girl I won’t do anything wrong eyes,” and then he points to you, “and the other show some tit. Boom party on Friday, it's that easy.”
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, “Sawyer,” he says as a threat, “don’t talk about my bonds that way. Because my bonds really like your sister, and she seems to really like you, and I’d hate for her to experience what her life would be like without you in it.”
Almost without missing a beat, and quite literally missing the hint, Sawyer turns your way, head slightly lulled to the side, and says, “They're kinda hot when they're angry, right?”
Gabe spits out a “Benson,” as your hand comes down on Atlas’ 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 don’t want him to react. You don’t feel Atlas move, don’t 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.
“I’ll see you guys later!” 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 he’s looking down at your hand. The one that’s closer to his hip than his knee. The one that is in a very dangerous area for someone who can’t have their bond. The one that is now noticing something that you hadn’t 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 hadn’t 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 doesn’t 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. “That’s the first time you’ve chosen to touch me, Sunshine.” His voice is a whisper for only you as the words land lightly, “make sure to do it again, even if it’s only my hand next time?”
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 don’t 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 women’s bathroom, because that’s the only place you know he can’t 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 it’s 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 doesn’t say anything when she enters, just stands by supportively, until you’ve got yourself under wraps.
“Are you okay now?” 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.
“Oli, I touched his dick. In the middle of the lunch room. With Sage and Sawyer there. I think,” the embarrassment balls up in the pit of your stomach again, “I think I want to explode.”
She laughs, a deep belly laugh causing your head to rise and fall with her, “Happy first day of college!”
You think, just for a moment, that death is preferable to going back out there and seeing your bonds again.
“Well, was it at least big,” 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, “It’s fucking huge.”
She giggles, hands still on your biceps as she squeezes them. “Good. When we figure this shit out with your head,” one of her fingers comes up to poke between your eyes, “and you finally bond him, I need all the details. I just know that man can fuck.”
You choke, actually choke, on the spit in your mouth because you don’t know how to fuck, have never fucked, and if you don’t figure out this issue with your head, will never fuck.
“Plus we need to get one of their scents in our bed again or else I’m going to become a monster.” It takes you a second to come to terms with what she just said because the use of ‘our’ is still bouncing around in your head.
“What.”
“I 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?” 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 can’t at least pretend Atlas is in the same bed as you.
“I do think he’d be into handcuffs. Maybe we just do that and leave him there?” The both of you laugh, as she pulls you into a hug, and you stay like that for a moment.
“Good idea.” Her arms around you are tight, almost like she needs this contact more than you, as your chin rests on her shoulder. “Are we good to go back out there yet?” 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.
“Yes, but I can’t promise I won’t vomit if they mention it again.”
“Deal.”
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 aren’t 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-, “You didn’t 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.” 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, “Nah, I don’t eat that garbage.” You're not sure what that says about how he views you, who definitely eats that garbage, so your face falls, but you don’t lower the chip just yet. If anything, you had seen this as a peace offering, and it kind of sucks that he doesn’t want to accept it.
You can hear Atlas and Oli whispering behind you, but you can’t make out the words, so you ignore them, choosing to eat the chip and mind your own business, but Gabe’s hand on your wrist stops you. “I’ll eat it if you want me to bond.” 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.
“Have another bond,” 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 you’d 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. It’s 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 he’s 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. He’s just as beautiful now, face scrunched up in a sour look, as when he’s happy, the emotion not really mattering because he always has this sort of breathtaking beauty. You're not sure if he’s upset because he wants you as badly as you want him, or if it’s 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.
It’s 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 it’s 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 it’s not so hard to be in the same room as him, but you can’t. 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 can’t be angry at him, and he can’t be angry at you, which means you need to fix this.
It’s 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 that’s 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 you’ve ever seen North Draven react, and that would extend into how he programs yours and Oli’s phones, for sure. When you actually look at the company spot, the word “Bond” in bold stands out, like he’s afraid you're going to forget who they are. You click over to Oli’s name to be sure, and she has been delegated as “Co-Central”. If it wasn’t more funny than stupid, you might bring it up, but you're sure he won’t see the humor in it.
As you type out the message to Gabe, you don’t really pay attention to where you're going, full attention on what you want to tell him. It’s 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 don’t mind the Sage buffer as much as the bond buffer, because you know she doesn’t 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, “I’m sorry. I just need more time to get used to everything and make sure that the Resistance isn’t using me to hurt you. This is all still very new to me.” 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.
“I’m not trying to push. I’m sorry if I seemed upset earlier, I’m still figuring this out too.” 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. It’s 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. “Friends?” 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.
“Friends,” you whisper back. His face lights up at the sound of it, knowing it’s the first time you’ve 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 you’re out of Mayfield or wherever the hell you really were.
His knee doesn’t 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. “What?” 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, “Friends can tell friends how pretty they are right?” You smile, but shake your head at him anyway knowing that this will probably be your reality for the next little while. You’d expect this from Atlas, him never stopping his flirting, but not Gabe.
“Friends Gabriel,” 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 it’s 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, “Friendzoned.”
He shakes his head still looking at you over his arm and smiles, “I can wait.” 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 Gryphon’s 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
********
Taglist:
@starswholistenanddreamsanswered
@thecuratoroofsaza
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!
Parings: Oleander Fallows X fem!Reader X Gryphon Shore X Gabriel Ardern X Atlas Bassinger X North Draven X Nox Draven
Warnings: cussing, abandonment, mental health, angst and eventually fluff
Description: fem!reader wakes up in a room with 6 people who claim to be her bonds except she doesn’t know what the fuck that means!
Word Count: 3564
Chapter Six
Master List || Previous
Panic is not exactly the feeling you are experiencing. The emotion running like a current under your skin is nothing like the ice-cold you usually feel in your veins. You know panic. You know the feeling of it building in your chest, taking up so much room that your lungs cannot expand. You know the feeling of your skin growing damp as you sweat, only for chills to ransack your body. You know what it's like for your fingers to go numb, to feel your chest tighten and tighten only to grow hollow, to grow numb. You know panic, and this isn't panic.
You know you should be petrified, should feel the horror of this in the marrow of your bones, but you don't. Not like you can tell Oleander does, her face pale, eyes wide, and avoiding your own. You don't feel it like Gabe, the tightness in his jaw as he oh so casually places himself between you and Oleander, like at any moment you could jump up and attack her. You don't feel it like Atlas, his eyes on you like he is trying to see through you to the other person. Like, he just realized that maybe the version of you he wants is the other one. The one who can speak freely, wants him freely. This better version of you that is not you at all.
You feel it like North. The shoulders, that just a moment ago, were pulled tight like he holds the weight of the world on them, fall, a deep breath pulling them up and back down again. You feel it in the way he looks at you, resignation in his features, like this was always going to happen. You were always going to be a bomb.
You know the emotion now, have always known it really. Always carried this emotion cold and heavy in your heart since you were old enough to realize other children had families and you had the nuns.
You feel it like the smile on Nox's face as he points a crooked finger in your direction, lips moving but no sound coming out. He looks joyful and cruel and beautiful as the venom drips from his tongue like a viper, apparent in the way it makes Oleander fall in on herself.
You feel it in the way she flinches away from your outstretched hand, the comfort she had brought to you, taken from you in a second. The loss of it all.
You can feel it now, in the emptiness of your chest. The wrongness of them not being there is an ache so integral to who you are, you don't know what you would do without it. The space for each of them throbbing in time with your heart as you can feel it breaking. You know that you have lost them before even having them. All because of someone else. Someone in your head. You want to be angry, want to scream and cry and slam doors like you had seen Gabe do on your first day here, but you don't. You just sit in your chair and wait, because this would always be your ending. Whether it happens now or in ten years, someone has hand-picked this for you.
You don't look to Gryphon, can't look at him now that the room has decided you are the enemy, so you look at Nox. There is something calming about the smug look on his face, like he knew he was right about you from the beginning. He continues to spit words in your direction that you cannot hear in the slightest, a vein bulging in his neck and forehead. One of his words you recognize, mostly because you knew it was coming. Spy. Was that really all you were to him? A spy sent to ruin them all? You suppose he is correct even if you don't feel like one.
You are more of an unwilling informant. Spy just seems so... intentional, and you are anything but. If anyone had been pulling information from your head about this bond group, they would be surprised to find out that Oleander craves holding hands for comfort like a little kid with their parent. Or that Gabe gets extremely jealous of the others in the bond group, including his centrals, maybe more so because his centrals get along so well. Or that Atlas can be extremely gentle while holding someone with his whole body, even if he's so close he can't pull a full breath in. Or the way the Gryphon's lips feel on your lips, soft but demanding. Hesitant until he just goes for it. That they all take your breath away, each and every one of them, for different reasons. How could any of that information be helpful to the Resistance?
Nox must say something extremely dastardly because Atlas swings his head towards him and starts yelling himself. His face has gone red from the effort of it, fist clenched in on themselves, spittle flying from his lips. From the corner of your eye, you see Gryphon's hands come up in a placating motion, and you wonder what he's saying. Wonder if he is telling them every sordid thought in your head. Telling them that you are a danger. You cannot be trusted. You are their enemy even if you don't remember being one, or even want to be. You can't look at Gryphon. Can't see him look at you like the others, not after he knows how much you want them all. Not after he's seen everything you had to show him. He has to know you would never hurt them, would never betray them if you had a choice.
You can see him looking at you now, white eyes glowing in your direction, and it makes sense. Your hearing had been taken from you, maybe in an attempt to protect you from the vitriol in the room, or to protect them from you; you couldn't be sure, but it is a kindness nonetheless. You don't need to hear Nox to know that he hates you or that he thinks you are nothing. You don't need to hear any of them say anything; their body language does the heavy lifting for them. Before, you had the benefit of the doubt on your side, but now? Now their doubt was justified.
North's motions catch your eye, his hand rubbing down his face, his neck, and stopping at the collar of his shirt to unbutton the first button. He looks every bit the tired councilman you had assumed he was, the current issue exacerbating that if anything. You hadn't thought he looked old before, not really, except in this moment, the lines of his face creasing more than usual. His lips move as he speaks, eyes locked on Gryphon, his expression hardening into what you would normally think of when you think of North Draven. When his gaze moves to you, it's assessing. His eyes stare into yours for a moment, as you stare back, before moving on. He looks to your lips, not in the way Gryphon had, but maybe because Gryphon had just been there, pressing himself against you in a show of want, that you couldn't trust in at the moment. Not because of anything that Gryphon had done, but if you do trust in it, and you're wrong, it would crush you. The kind of soul-crushing that you don't come back from, and you can't afford that at the moment.
North looks to your shoulders, at how you have them pushed back, chest out, holding yourself as still as you can. If you can make yourself look strong, you can be strong. He looks to your hands, clinching the bottom of your shirt as they lay in your lap, where they had been since Oli had rejected your hand. He looks at your feet, flat on the floor, knees pressed together in an attempt to hold yourself upright. When he speaks this time, he speaks to you, eyes dragging up your body back to your own. You want to know what he has to say, even if the words kill you, so you swallow the lump in your throat and look to Gryphon.
Gryphon's eyes are already on yours, mouth set in a thin line as he does his own assessing. You look terrified, your sure, eyes wide, chest rising and falling quickly, but it almost seems like you can feel him in your head, reassuring you that it's going to be okay by the one look between you. When his eyes go from white voids to his striking green, you can't breathe, can't look away from him. He looks at you just the same as he had while spelunking through your thoughts, and you almost crumble with relief. Maybe you hadn't lost everything, at least not yet.
"We are going to have to reassess how we handle things dealing with you in the future, as you are a data breach," North says, his voice filling the room. Behind him, Nox throws up his hands.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," He shouts, "This has never been protocol for Resistance scum. We lock them up and kill them!" You wish you could say the vehemence in his voice surprises you, but you can't. You'd known from the first day that Nox Draven would always pray for your downfall, deserved of not, and despite your best efforts, you had given him reason.
"She is my bond," Is all Gryphon says in reply, like that is enough to end the conversation entirely. Nox, for his part, is seething; the menace coming off him in waves is frighting. You never thought a man in a sweater vest would terrify you so much, but here you are.
"That doesn't change the fact that she is a spy!" Some of the black smoke of his nightmares curls up the white of his cuff, showing that he is slowly losing his composure. The rest of the bond group gives him space, the room feeling smaller as his anger settles over it.
"If you would listen to me," Gryphon grumbles, his irritation also coming through, "I said there's another person in her head. I did not say that I could feel the information going anywhere. I don't believe that they have a backdoor in there to move any information out. I want to have sessions like today where I can deconstruct some of her memories. A lot of them are fake, but some of them have just been altered to look different. I think with enough time, I can figure out what's going on and maybe we can use it to our advantage."
"You just had your tongue down her throat!" Nox shoots back, "You're letting the bond make you biased. You're all letting them manipulate you." You can understand where Nox is coming from with this. You don't know if situations were reversed if you would be able to remain unbiased. If any one of these people were evil, murdering monsters, would you be able to step in and stop them? Could you put your growing feelings for them aside and do the right thing?
A sour look fills Gryphon's face before he spits back at Nox, aggravation finally winning out on his face, "I could fuck her and still be more unbiased than you. I could bond her right the fuck now and still do what's best for this bond group, because she isn't my only bond, Nox. She isn't your only bond."
Nox's reaction is immediate, the color draining from his face in an instant. One of his nightmares bursts from his chest as his face fills with hatred, but also betrayal, "They are not my bonds." His words are like a physical blow to you, and when you look at Oli, you can tell it hit her, too. The nightmare, for its part, stands between Nox and the rest of the room, making sure everyone keeps their distance as his hands shake at his sides. The thought to also comfort him would be strong if you didn't feel physically ill from his rejection. Every bone in your body, sleeping bond or otherwise, screams for your bonds, wants to be close to them, breathe the same air as them. How was it that Nox isn't affected by this unrelenting pull, and can actively push away from Oli and you? Like it's easy, like you mean nothing to him.
Nobody stops Nox as he walks from the room and disappears down the hallway, his nightmare holding its ground until Nox rounds the corner and then follows behind him. You never want to see him like that again, almost preferring the spite over his shaky hands and terror. No one in the room speaks for a moment, letting whatever that was with Nox fade with his footsteps.
North looks over your face one more time before his voice fills the room, "Can you promise that you won't hurt Oleander? That the reason you were sent here isn't to kill my," he corrects himself, "Our central." You're shocked for a moment, the idea never having crossed your mind before. How important were these bonds of yours that someone might send an assassin into their mix to kill their central? You know the shock shows on your face at the question because the inhale of breath you have is the only noise in the room, everyone looking to you, waiting for your answer.
You look at Gryphon to see if he thinks this is a stupid question, like you do, but he just waits for you to answer. He still stands arms' length away from you, and you think to grab him, to beg him to believe you that you would never hurt Oleander, but decide against it. Your words are quiet when you say them, and stare at Gryphon as you do, "I would never."
"Have you ever thought about hurting any of us?" You pretend it's Gryphon asking, pretend it's just the two of you in your head again.
"I could never purposely hurt any of you." Your voice is still low, not used to talking loudly, much less to a room full of people. "I would never try to hurt you.”
"Not even Nox?" North asks, and it shocks you for a moment. Turning your head to look at him, you see that he needs this answer, maybe more than any of them. It's obvious he wouldn't want you to hurt his central, but he needs to know you won't hurt his brother just as much.
Your hands shake as you look at him. He wants to know if you could hurt Nox. The Nox who just ripped your heart out and stomped on it. The Nox who never has a kind word for you, for Oleander. The Nox who needs to cut deeper than a knife ever could. Could you hurt him? Do you want to? North notes your hesitation, but doesn't look away.
"Could you hurt Nox?" The question comes from over your shoulder this time, Gryphon's voice begging you to answer.
Finally, you shake your head, eyes closed as you picture his snarling face," No," you whisper, "I couldn't hurt Nox.”
"Okay," North says, his voice causing you to open your eyes back up. He isn't looking at you, his eyes and words directed at Gryphon, "Have your sessions and then the three of us do a debrief. If this can be the key we need to finally take down the Resistance, then we use it. Even if she's a Trojan horse."
When you find yourself in bed later that night, lights off, breathing softly, bone tired from the day, you can't sleep. North had informed you that he had pulled some extra strings and you would be moving forward with your classes in the morning instead. Which was great because you don't think you could spend the day alone in your room, or with any one of your bonds at the moment. Being in the same room as Oli is difficult enough; the chasm between you is vast. You aren't sure how to fix it or what part of today caused it.
When you roll to your side to look across the room, Oli does the same, turning towards you. "Can't sleep?" She asks. It seems innocent enough, but there is an awkwardness to it that was never there before. You pull the blanket tighter around you now and take a breath.
You can smell Atlas' scent on the blanket when you bring it towards your face, and it makes you feel even worse. "No."
"Me either." You aren't sure why she wants to talk now, having hadn't had anything to say in the hours leading up to now. Had pulled away from you in the office and sat on the other side of North's car on the ride back to the dorms. Hadn't even so much as looked at you until now.
"I'm sorry," you both say at the same time, stopping the other from going forward.
"Why are you sorry?" You ask, face scrunched up in confusion, the light from between the blinds lighting the room enough for both of you to see. You understand why you're sorry. You ruined this, ruined everything for everyone since you arrived, but Oli has nothing to be sorry for. All she had done was what anyone else in her situation would do: stay away from the enemy.
"I'm actually sorry for a few things," she admits, a small laugh pushing past her lips. "I'm sorry because I," she hesitated now, eyes closed and taking a deep breath, "I guess I'm jealous of how close you were with Atlas and Gryphon today. I can't do that, and seeing you do that really rubbed it in, even when I tried not to let it. And I took that out on you in the office, and on the ride home. So I'm sorry." You hadn't been expecting that, as she had been nothing but kind to you when the Atlas situation was happening.
You chew on your response for a second, thinking back to what Gryphon had said today, "Is it because you want to leave again?" Her hand is clutching her blanket now, pulling it up and under her cheek to match your own, and she nods.
"I have to leave," she corrects for you, "and being so close to them just makes it harder. And I know that it's not fair to be mad at you for doing what I can't. I mean, I'm happy you'll be here for them when I leave again, even if I have a hard time showing it sometimes."
You had already made up your mind to keep your distance from them until you had figured out what was going on in your head anyway, but if anything, this had solidified it. "I won't do it anymore," you state, looking at her. "It's too hard to be with them when I know I could hurt them even if I don't want to."
You're both quiet for a minute, just staring at each other across the room. Before Oli speaks up again, "But you want them." You nod, of course, you want them, she had to know that. The pull for them had to be just as strong for her as it is for you.
"But so do you." She nods back, lips moving from side to side like she's chewing on them. It's easy for you to make up your mind on this, the words leaving you still quiet but more sure this time. "My sheets smell like Atlas." You can see it hit her like a blow to the stomach, but that wasn't your intention. Your next words are rushed, louder than they need to be, "If you want to come over and-" You're unsure now, your eyes looking over her face to see if she's going to reject this too, "sleep in them. With me." She is looking at you now, much different than before, almost shocked. She doesn't say anything, doesn't nod to you that she is going to come over, just stares before she slowly pulls back her blanket like she's giving you time to change your mind, to not share this part of your bonds with her.
You scoot back against the wall, leaving enough room for her in the bed, and pull the blanket out from under you so she can climb in. When her head hits the pillow, it's as if she melts. You're on your side, knees bent, both hands under your cheek now as you look at her. She is on her side also, knees slightly bent, but her face is in the pillow; fingers gripping it tightly, pulling it into her more. Her shoulders are rising and falling quickly, and you hear it now, her sobs as she lies there breathing in the scent of one of her bonds. "Thank you," she chokes out after a long time, her breathing calming down enough that you think she might be done crying.
Both of you lie like that for a while before you fall asleep, the two scents of your bonds surrounding you now.
Master List || Next
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Everyone, thank Meghan. She has been holding me a gun point for these chapters.
Description: fem!reader wakes up in a room with 6 people who claim to be her bonds except she doesn’t know what the fuck that means!
Word Count: 3271
Chapter Five
Master List || Previous
You and Gryphon stand in a marble room, walls and floor a pristine white. A large metal vault door stands at the opposite wall, adorned with no keypad, just a simple metal wheel in the middle, the words “A Side” carved above it. Gryphon, for his part, looks normal in his black cargo pants and matching black jacket, thigh holster tightly in place, making his ass more defined, neck gator down revealing his sharp jaw, plum pink lips, and-
“When I said I could hear every thought once we got in here, I did mean it.” You can feel your face heat at his words, wanting to move away from him, but knowing it’s useless, as both of you are currently in your head. Oli had been right; this does feel like an invasion of privacy. No one should have free rein of anyone else’s head like this.
“I know,” he says, looking at you now, eyes searching yours, “that’s why we’re both here. I don't usually make myself corporal when I do this, but I wanted you to have control. If you want to leave, we leave.”
You nod at him, understanding dawning on you that maybe he doesn’t want to be doing this, the blotches in your memories forcing his hand just as much as yours. You want answers; you know the others do too. So, if you have to delve into the depths of your psyche, you will, even if it frightens you to do so. Especially if it frightens you to do so. In this moment, you miss Oli, her warm hand holding you together, leading you through this new world you’ve found yourself in.
“She’s still holding it,” he says, turning his body more towards yours, “you just can’t feel it in here. The physical here isn’t real; it's just the emotions and smells. That’s how we tie down our memories.”
Your body feels real to you, feels normal, you think as you scrunch your toes in your shoes. You wonder for a second if Gryphon feels real, too, and as soon as you do, his face lights up. His eyes look at you full of humor, while he begins to smile, the first you’ve ever seen from him. “You can touch me.”
Your stomach bottoms out, throat tightening up as you look at him now. “This isn’t fair,” you finally say, “we are literally in my mind. I don’t think anything I say or think should be held against me.” Maybe him. Definitely him.
“Fuck bond, you gotta stop thinking things like this, or we’re going to get nothing done.”
Bond. He has never called you that before, only ever said it in regards to Oli that one time that you can remember. You like the sound of it coming from his lips, like an invitation. Like he’s asking something of you. When you look back to Gryphon, he’s smoldering, eyes on your lips, hands clinched to his sides, and then he takes a step towards you, and then another. Your breath catches, and you throw your hands out before you can think better of it, just needing a physical barrier between the two of you.
“Wait, wait, wait!” You yell, voice high and shrill. Your palms are flat against his chest, his heart beating below them in quick succession. He does feel as real as Atlas had when you woke up beside him, chest hard, radiating heat into your skin.
“Wait, you woke up beside Atlas?” He asks, momentarily confused. You nod, pulling your hands back slightly, almost scared to startle him like a wild animal.
“And I don’t remember how we got there for the most part. One second, I’m having a panic attack, and the next second I’m waking up to Oli and Gabe in the doorway.”
“Show me,” he demands, not backing up or giving you your space back, just standing arms' length away. You almost wish he wasn’t, wanting the comfort you get from holding one of your bonds, but you have a sneaky suspicion that even just holding his hand will turn you into a person you don’t need to be right now.
The smile that had made its way to his face earlier is back, and you don’t think it will disappear anytime soon. “How?” You ask, ready to just get this over with.
Gryphon motions to the door now, hand coming out to the side. “It’s an easier transition if you open your vault. If I do it sometimes, it can be messy.” You nod, remembering Oli’s use of the word “mush.”
It’s now that you notice, as both of you walk across the room, that your footsteps make no sound at all. It’s as if the two of you don’t have any impact on your surroundings, like you're not really there, and you suppose that’s true. When you place your hands on the metal wheel to turn it, there isn’t any resistance, the wheel spins quickly, and the door opens as if it were any simple wooden door. The room beyond is dark, not like there are no lights on, more like there is nothingness past the threshold. You look back at Gryphon now, unsure of what to do next, and he motions for you to keep going. Instead of walking through the door before him, you hold out your hand. This is probably a bad idea because just being in the same room as him right now with his tight pants and smug as fuck face does something to you, but you need the comfort, and Oli, your rock, is not here to give it to you.
The smug look -if anything- grows, as he takes your hand and pulls you into him. His breath tickles your skin as you're almost nose to nose now, his eyes looking into yours, palms on your waist, chest pressed together. “No matter how many times you give me ‘fuck me’ eyes, I won’t do it unless you ask. So don’t be so hesitant to take what you want from me, bond, it’s all yours to have.” If you could die in your own brain, you would have. Your body feels as if it’s going to implode, knees weak as Gryphon holds you upright.
“What happens in my head has to stay in my head, Gryphon,” you say, voice shaky, “I’m still figuring all of this out, so please don’t make it harder for me.” You realize now that you're begging for more time. You want them, of course, you want them, but not like this. Not broken and scared of what bomb will drop next. Not terrified of the bond in your chest. Not until you understand what’s going on. Not until you're sure you won’t hurt them, can’t hurt them.
He ignores your words, eyes closed as he ghosts his lips over yours, “Promise me you won't leave like Oli did, like Oli wants to.” You don’t know what you're agreeing to, chest tight as you can feel the vibrations of his words on your lips, the two of you breathing the same Oxygen. “I need to hear you say it, bond.”
“I promise,” his heart is racing, or maybe it’s your own, you can’t tell anymore with how close you are.
“Promise what bond?”
“I promise I won’t leave.” You can feel it, like a weight dropping from his shoulders, as the truth of your words fills the space around you. You hadn’t noticed it, the way he held himself before, like he had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. He almost falls into you now, no longer holding himself back, but you both hear it at the same time.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry. I make you uncomfortable, don’t I, Sunshine?” A voice rings out from the room beyond, one that you’d know anywhere, those words carving a chasm through your chest, again. You want to pull away, to go to Atlas and tell him that he did nothing wrong, but fear locks your legs. If you leave Gryphon right now, would he look at you like Atlas had? Like Gabe had?
“It’s okay,” Gryphon says, not moving away just yet, still holding you as close to his body as he can. “He’s not really here.” You know that, of course you know that, but you can hear him, and he keeps saying that line that breaks your heart more and more each time.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry. I make you uncomfortable, don’t I, Sunshine?”
“We’re going to see Gryphon. And you're going to keep your fucking hands to yourself, unless you want to make her hate you even more.” It’s Gabe’s voice now, cutting, because you don’t hate him at all. You could never hate him.
“Please, Gryphon. Make it stop.” His grip on your waist tightens for a second before he pulls back, his face the practiced control it always is.
“We’re going to figure this out,” he says, lacing his fingers through ours and bringing his lips to the back of your entwined hand. “And then I want you, bond.”
His eyes are like fires on you, heating your skin, making you clench your thighs together for some type of relief. The way he looks at you now, hair falling forward, head slightly tilted, his lips on your skin, makes it easy to see him elsewhere on your body. His hands gripping nothing but thigh, tongue licking and sucking-
“Bond,” he growls it now, pulling you from your head, in your head.
“I’m sorry!” You screech, covering your eyes with your free hand. “Stop looking at me like that! It’s hardly my fault! It’s supposed to be safe in my brain to have fantasies about you!”
You can hear him blow out a breath before pulling you off in another direction, “We need to go now, because I really don’t want the first time I fuck you to be in your head.” You like the sound of that. Of getting out of here and having him to yourself. And then having him with Oli. Of having Oli to yourself and then with Gryphon again.
“Bond, I need you to stop, or we’re going to do just that.”
“Fuck! Puppies, puppies, puppies with their stupid little noses and floppy little ears. And cats! They have fur, and they purr a lot. Did you know that they can give you little brain parasites? Oh, did you know that rats don’t carry rabies?” You ramble on, still covering your eyes as he leads you forward, not trusting yourself to look at him.
“You're going to have to look, bond, we’re in the vault now.” You don’t want to because you know you're going to see his face, and he’s either going to have his own pair of “fuck me eyes” or that sexy as fuck smug look on his face, and it’s his fault you're even thinking dirty thoughts, so he should have to take responsibility for them.
“Go back to think about puppies and open your eyes.” You sigh, shoulders falling, and drop your hand with them.
You were right, he does have that sexy smug look on his face. You kinda want to punch it off. Gryphon’s lips part slightly, as if he was going to say something, and then he shakes his head, deciding better of it.
The room around the two of you is different from the last. An old-timey projector sits in the middle of the room, a couch beside it for viewing purposes, and the walls have this thick black foam on them all except for the one in front of the projector. On the screen before you is Atlas, on his knees by the edge of the bed, eyes sad like earlier today.
“We should start at the beginning,” Gryphon says, pulling you around to the front of the couch and sitting down. When you go to sit beside him, he yanks you into his lap and wraps his arms around your waist, holding you to him. You go to complain, even though you find comfort in his arms, but he whispers, “If you won’t let me do it out there, let me have it in here, bond, please.” So you do, because he does bring you comfort, but also because he asked nicely.
The memory starts over, but you aren’t really watching it, your body melting into Gryphon. His chest is hard against your back, thighs solid beneath you, the pads of his fingers have found your skin, pressing into it, his thumb drawing circles on your hip. But when you squirm a little to push your body into his more, you don’t feel anything else, like he’s not affected by you at all.
He huffs out a laugh at your thought, “This body isn’t real, bond, but the one back in North’s Office is. If you have any real concerns about how you affect me,” his lips find the nook below your ear, where your jaw hinges, placing a soft kiss there, “just ask anyone in the room when we get back.”
You try not to think about anything, say anything, after that, so he can work, giving your memories his full attention. He can see how hesitant you are, can feel the emotions as they pass through the room, can hear your thoughts as you have them, while the memory is playing. He heard your thoughts on Atlas being protective and had seen yours and Oli’s reactions to it. He watched as you took your pill, how your bond went numb in your chest, how comfortable it made you, all while his hand tightened on your waist. He felt how right it felt for your head to belong to you and only you, that is, until your panic attack, your voice and face moving on their own when it all went black. The two of you watch the rest of your memories from your time with them all, and just before, when the woman said it was time. You couldn’t remember her face, the picture on the screen like a blurry thumbprint where a face should be.
When you start on your other memories, something feels off. The lighting is different in these, more clinical, which makes sense to a point, but you don’t remember Mayfield looking like this. Where there were thoughts and emotions coming through the other memories, the new memories, there are none for these. It’s like the two of you are watching a movie with no soundtrack. The scenes are there, progressing on to the next ones, but there is no life to them. You think for a moment that maybe it’s because you were depressed, your life not feeling right until you’d met the others.
“No, this has nothing to do with you. You remember how I said memories need something to tie them?” You nod to him now, leaning forward in his lap to get closer to the screen, “There is nothing to tie these to. No emotions, no thoughts or feelings. It’s like they were planted here.”
His words stop you, chest clinching, as you turn to look at him. His eyes are on yours, holding you there until you have the courage to ask your question. “Why would someone do that?”
You don’t think you want the answer, don’t think you can hear it, and be okay. “To hide something from you.” He doesn’t give you much, his hands holding you softly now, like you could break at any minute.
“But who would do that, Gryphon. Why would anyone do that to me?”
His eyes go back to the screen for a second, a nurse saying something unimportant as the lighting changes in the room, but you keep looking at Gryphon. Both because you want answers and because you're scared that if you look away from him, he’ll have been a fake memory too.
“The Resistance has been known to brainwash people for the cause.”
“So I’m a spy?” You ask, bile rising in your throat, the need to flee growing stronger as time progresses.
“You're my bond. We’ll figure everything else out later, okay?” You can see the plea in his eyes, the need for you to agree that this is enough. That being his bond is enough, and everything else is just background, but what if you hurt him? What if you're already hurting him just by being here? Will leaving keep him safe, keep them all safe? Were you being tracked? Did the Resistance already know that they were your bonds? Were you just some kind of ticking time bomb ready to explode?
“Y/N!” Gryphon says now, hands coming up to grip your cheeks, “you need to calm down.” But you can’t really see him, the panic taking hold, blurring your vision and sucking the air from your lungs. “Look at me, okay? Breathe with me, I need you to breathe with me.” You can still hear him, hear the growing panic in his voice, can feel the large breaths he takes for you to mimic, so you try. You breathe with him, listen to his voice as he walks you through it, a smooth, “in out, in out” as you breathe together. When your vision comes back, you see the state of the room, the black foam peeling from the walls, the projector toppled over, and Gryphon, wide eyed staring past you. His hands are still holding your cheeks, faces a lot closer than where they started, but his head is tilted to the side a bit, staring.
You finally turn to look at what he is, and there is a new vault door, the words “B Side” inscribed above it. “That door,” Gryphon starts, “showed up when you started to panic. Your thoughts were so loud I almost didn’t notice it.” he hesitates for a second, eyes never leaving the vault, “We should get back.”
“What?” You question, thrown off by the whole thing. “Gryphon, what’s going on?” Finally, he looks at you, eyes searching your face for any harm before pulling you down to him, his forehead on yours, nose touching nose.
“Close your eyes, bond.” He whispers, so you do, because you trust him, because you want answers, and he only ever gives them when you obey.
The world shifts, and you know you're back to the real world by the sounds in the room, feet pacing to your left, a scuff to your right. But you don’t open your eyes yet, because you can feel him there, exactly where you left him, forehead touching yours, nose to nose, his breath mingling with your own. His lips are soft when they touch ours, drowning out the sounds of the room. He is gentle, his hands on your cheeks pulling you into him more, and then he’s leaving. You follow after him, needing the contact to breathe, wanting to stay in this moment forever. You can feel his breath on your skin still, could move forward just a little bit more, and catch his lips again. And when you open your eyes, he’s already looking in yours, “That was so you don’t question if I want you again.” His voice is a whisper just for the two of you, and you hold it close, fold it up, and place it in the gaping wound in your chest where he belongs.
Gryphon turns from you now to look at the room, his hands still on your face, your eyes still on him, and says, “There’s someone else living in her head.”
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I've been able to pump out chapters recently, but I think the next one is going to take me a minute. I will be busy for the next few days, but I promise I'll update as soon as I can!
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