playfighting your bf satoru is like trying to inconvenience a mountain that won't leave your face alone.
genre: fluff
cw: established relationship, power struggle, wrestling teasing, playfulness, domesticity, kissing, biting
wc: ~2k
you had him. you definitely had him—at least, that’s what a normal distribution of weight, physics, and human biomechanics suggested.
“oh no,” satoru drawled, not even moving. “i’m being attacked. whatever shall I do?”
“you can start by losing—”
he was standing up like you weighed absolutely nothing.
your arms locked tighter around his neck from behind, your legs snaking around his waist, all your might thrown into the tackle, but satoru didn’t budge. not an inch. it was like you were trying to wrestle a marble statue that happened to be wearing something way out of most people’s price range.
“go. down.”
satoru laughed at you, that bright and unfair you-are-so-screwed chuckle slipping right out of him.
no matter. you ignored the sound, holding your ground as you put your back into the motion, digging your heels into his hips, trying anything you could muster to throw him off balance.
satoru stood up straighter, not an ounce of wobble in him.
one second you were clinging to his back like a koala with a vendetta, the next, you were fully dangling, feet far off the ground, one of his big hands casually gripping the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.
“form’s good,” he mused, bouncing you once like he was testing a new dumbbell. “little shaky on the follow-through, though. seven out of ten.”
“PUT ME DOWN—”
you thrashed. you squirmed. you tried to hook your ankle around anything to drag him down—feet only meeting the air.
“alright.” satoru lowered you, pressing you into his back, arms enveloping you in what could only be described as a reverse bear hug.
“this was NOT what i meant—”
“no?” he cooed, craning his neck with blindfold still in place, and pressed a loud, obnoxious smooch to your forearm.
“stop—”
“i’m rewarding the effort.”
“this isn’t—” a kiss on your bicep. “—a participation—” a kiss on your knuckles. “—sport!”
“it can be. you’re cute enough.”
you made a sound of pure, unfiltered rage.
satoru laughed, turning his back towards your couch and releasing you. your body dropped gently—annoyingly gently, bouncing on the cushions with a soft oof.
the furniture dipped once, and his shadow was already over you before you could scramble away, his elbows planting on either side of your head.
“y’know,” he said, voice dropping into something silky and quiet. “winner gets real kisses.”
your heart did a stupid little backflip.
“you’re not gonna win,” you lied, breathless.
he tilted his head, his lips pulling into that slow, dangerous, i-know-something-you-don’t grin.
“then stop me, baby.”
and you tried.
you bucked your hips in an incredible attempt to flip him, used your thighs to scissor his waist and reverse the position he had pinned you down into. he let you get almost there—let you think you had an opening—and then just shifted his weight with maddeningly little effort.
satoru’s weight settled on you like an iron anchor, no neutral barrier keeping you at arm's length—just the raw, menacing density of a guy who knew he was completely unshakeable.
your body was giving its heart and soul in an attempt to grapple him; his, on the other hand, had yet to register your attempt as something worth exerting himself over.
but before he could claim his victory, you did the only logical thing left in your arsenal. your teeth came down on the high collar of his t-shirt.
“ow! hey! unfair conduct! referee!” satoru squawked, flinching just enough for you to yank one hand free.
“no rules in street fighting!”
satoru grinned, his hand catching your wrist mid-air with scary speed. “oh, so we’re playing dirty now? excellent.”
you could barely process the wicked tilt of his mouth as he adjusted his grip—sliding one arm under your lower back and the other under your knees, scooping you up like a barbell made out of fury, bicep-curling your entire body into the air like a horizontal maraca. no effort, no strain, not even a slight change in his breathing.
“...three,” he counted, lowering you an inch before pumping you back above eye level. “four... mind-muscle connection...”
“SATORU—”
“not bad,” he mused, holding you at the peak of the curl as if testing your weight distribution. “you’re about... three bags of rice. four if i count the spite,”
“LET GO—”
he didn’t. you were beginning to suspect ‘training to failure’ wasn’t a concept satoru had ever personally encountered—and if asked, you were almost certain he’d define it as 'deciding when he’d had enough.'
satoru kept your entire body suspended mid-air with that single, immovable arm of his while the other pulled his phone out from his pocket.
“...just a sec.”
he flipped it around, his thumb tapping across the screen as he skimmed a notification. you hung suspended in mid-air, watching in horrified fascination as his brow furrowed with a level of concentration he hadn’t bothered to give your entire mass during his tiny, impromptu workout session.
“ah. spam email.” he slid the phone right back into his pocket, his lifting arm having not so much as trembled the entire time.
you just stared, utterly paralyzed at the cosmic audacity of a man who apparently considered you light enough to multitask around, casually managing his inbox while you were still fighting for your dignity.
satoru leaned back against the top cushion as though he'd merely paused between sets, locking eyes with your stunned expression.
“rule number one of fighting the strongest,” he chirped up, wearing that impossibly pleased and unrepentant grin. “don’t bite the equipment. it voids the warranty.”
“you’re ridiculous—!” you swung a leg over, trying to find leverage, still very much airborne, held aloft by an arm that felt like steel in human form.
“i don’t know. i kinda like it up here. fine view," he said, pulling his blindfold down past his nose. the striking glow of his eyes locked onto yours, sparkling with unveiled mischief. “can’t chomp on me from all the way up there.”
you glared down at him, but the sheer absurdity of the situation—and the way his t-shirt stretched over his shoulder where your teeth marks probably still were—cracked your composure. a snort escaped you.
“you have a mark on your shoulder.”
that made him pause for a second—barely enough to notice had you not been looking for it.
“yeah?” he tilted his head, his silvery hair falling across his brow. “are you gonna kiss it better?”
“i was thinking more along the lines of biting it again.”
the sigh that left satoru’s body was almost too entertained. he lowered you slowly, almost teasingly, letting your feet brush the floor before he let go entirely. you dropped the last inch, landing on your own two feet, ready to lunge—
and then he was behind you.
you didn’t even see him move as his arms wrapped around your waist from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. his chest barely moved behind you, exasperatingly relaxed despite the fact that you were still actively trying to escape. “missed me?”
“YOU—” you elbowed backward, but he absorbed the impact, tsking as he tightened his grip around your waist and dragging you back until you were flush against his chest.
“illegal move number two: strike to the kidney. that’s a five-minute penalty in the kiss bin.”
“there is no kiss bin!”
“there is now,” satoru hummed, resting his heavy chin right on your shoulder, his nose nuzzling into the side of your neck. “i’m the founder, president, and sole referee. your sportsmanship is atrocious today.”
you huffed, trying to pry his thick arms off your stomach, but it was like trying to unbend rebar. every frustrated tug only made the muscle beneath his shirt tighten beneath your hands. zero traces of any cursed technique—just surprisingly irritating lean muscle.
his heartbeat thudded slowly against your back in an unbothered rhythm, as if manhandling you across his own body didn’t even seem to qualify as light cardio.
“this isn’t over,” you pointed out, tilting your head back against his shoulder to glare at him.
“you were so brave,” satoru mumbled, his voice softening as he peered down full of affection. his lips met the side of your neck, a peck right over your pulse point. “a true warrior. a feral, teethy one.”
you shivered despite yourself—the traitorous little jolt that always happened when his mouth found the spot. you hoped he had missed it.
“ah,” he breathed against your skin, the word vibrating through you. “found it.”
“found—found what? there’s nothing to find—”
“your off switch.” another kiss, slower this time. “right... here.”
you elbowed him again, weaker this time. “there isn’t an off switch.”
his lips curved into a smile against your neck. “mhm, that’s why you just went all melty.”
“i did not go melty.”
“you went so melty. turned into a puddle of... of...” he paused, clearly searching for the most ridiculous possible comparison. “pudding.”
“that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
“no, wait.” he reconsidered. “custard. vanilla. crème brûlée if you're feeling fancy. i’m a crème brûlée kind of guy, honestly. the caramel on top?" he sighed dreamily. “chef's kiss.”
apparently that counted as enough justification for another smooch beneath the side of your jaw.
“i’m going to commit a crime.”
“you already did. general assault on a beautiful man.” he squeezed you tighter, almost cuddly now. “i’m just trying to reform you through physical love.”
“you’re not reforming anything—”
“true,” he said cheerfully. “i wanna make it worse. that’s the goal.”
you gave up struggling, slumping back against him with a defeated groan. “i despise you.”
“you love me.”
“hate.”
“love.”
“hate.”
“love love love—” he was peppering kisses along your shoulder now, each one punctuating the word. “—love—you—so—much—”
your resolve was crumbling. you could feel it, like sand slipping through your fingers.
“this doesn’t mean i forfeit,” you managed.
“no, of course not.” he was grinning against your skin—you could feel it. ”you’re still fighting. very formidable. extremely intimidating.”
“i am—”
“especially the part where you went completely boneless the second i kissed your neck.”
“THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN—”
you tried to twist away, but he just laughed and held you tighter, burying his face in your hair.
“your favorite thing is watching me suffer.”
“mm. top three. right behind sugar and my own reflection.”
you shook your head. “unreal.”
“yeah well, tell it to the judge,” satoru teased, easing his grip just enough to spin you around in his arms, ungraciously falling back against your couch with you on his lap.
you expected him to strike another cocky pose or drop another infuriating one-liner, but as his palms settled loosely on your waist, his expression softened.
the blindfold was resting around his neck, and those endless light blue eyes were looking down at you with so much fond that it made your chest ache in the best way possible.
”eight out of ten.” he said softly, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle against your hip.
you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest to keep up the facade. “is the referee issuing a revised statement?”
“mhm. bonus points for the biting,” he purred, looking entirely too satisfied with himself. “still went down, but at least you made it interesting.”
that smug little smirk was your final straw.
you uncrossed your arms, hands snaking upward as you pretended to adjust your posture, before your fingers hooked firmly into the black fabric of the blindfold dangling around his throat in a yank.
satoru’s head pitched forward, but he didn’t even stumble—just let himself be pulled down completely unfazed, those glowing blue eyes blinking at you in mild, amused curiosity.
“i’m trying to choke you into submission,” you informed him, holding the fabric as taut as your knuckles would allow.
“and you’re doing great, sweetface, truly,” he was all smiles, not resisting the pull at all—in fact, the tension on the blindfold was only helping close the remaining space between you, until his lips were barely an inch from yours. “except you forgot one tiny detail.”
“which is?”
“you’re directly in the kiss range.”
satoru closed the final inch.
the kiss wasn’t the victorious, smug-enough- to-power-tokyo-for-three-days-straight standard he usually went for. his lips met yours, lingering just long enough to steal whatever breath you had left.
he slid up his hands from your waist to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he pulled back just an inch, grinning down at your thoroughly dazed expression.
“ten out of ten,” he breathed against your lips, gleaming with pure satisfaction. “ref’s ruling is final.”
especially now with all the bullshit going on in Kansas, in Texas, in Iran, with Israel and Palestine, this ICE shit, this Epstein shit, it is essential to remember that evil and violence is not the natural state of humanity. this is not what humanity is like. if it was, there would be no reason to be disgusted or fight against it. most people are good and decent, and are victims of this, and by reducing it to a "carte blanche humanity is fucked anyway" you are casting aside the good, decent, loving people with rich inner lives who these cowardly fucks think are disposable
Damian Wayne, Whitewashing, Linguistics and the Use of Akhi in Fanworks
ok, listen. i say this with all the love in my heart, because i know it comes from a place of compassion, but i gotta level with you all:
please stop using akhi in your batfamily fanworks.
genuinely.
i don’t know who will actually see this or even care and i'm not even the first person to bring this up, but akhi is not a familial term of endearment.
full disclosure, i myself am nowhere near an expert in all Arabic dialects and while i do not have an extensive knowledge of all the dialectical terms for “brother” that serve the purpose you're looking for, i do know there are some out there.
however, akhi is not one of them. it’s not even an nickname. so please, please stop using it like it is.
fair warning, this will be a long post because there are a lot of layers to this issue and to understand why it's even an issue at all, you have to understand all of those layers. so stick around, i guess, if you have questions and feel like being interrupted in your daily tumblr scroll by a very specific rant (though i did try to break it up into sections so it's at least somewhat navigable).
otherwise, if you’ve gotten this far, you’ve already read my main request and hopefully taken it to heart which is what i really care about, so feel free to continue on with your day if you so please.
if you happen to be sticking around, let me first outline the linguistic issue for you:
yes, akhi does mean “my brother.” that’s really the best and most literal word-for-word translation anyone could possibly give you.
in more grammatical terms, it is the first-person possessive form of the word akh, which, you could probably guess, means “brother”. the -i suffix at the end is what denotes possession and who - in this case, the speaker - is in possession of the object.
another word you might be more familiar with is habibi, which means “my beloved”. habib is the object, the noun form of “beloved” and -i is the possessive suffix, the “my”. and that’s pretty much how the suffix is used - it essentially serves the same function as putting “my” in front of “book” or “cat” or “brother” in English. only, possession is indicated at the end of the given word rather than as a separate predicate. hence why phrases like “his akhi” are a whole mess of grammatically incorrect in both languages, because you’re basically saying “his my brother.”
it is also important to note that while akh and its various forms are sometimes used in colloquial settings when talking about one’s brother, it is a word that comes from and is used primarily in formal Arabic (Modern Standard Arabic), or fus7a. fus7a is used in a number of ways - you'll find it in the news, books, speeches, official documents, formal letters and whatnot and most importantly, in the Qur’an, from which it originates. but it's not used in everyday conversation. while the dialects share many basic similarities with formal Arabic, there are entire grammatical rules, words and conjugations in fus7a that don’t ever get used in colloquial Arabic. as such, akhi takes on several different meanings across the colloquial dialects that diverge from the literal meaning in fus7a. and even if someone is using it to speak about their actual brother, it's a pretty formal way to do so and it does not have the meaning you’re all ascribing to it. if you want an actual term of endearment, you’ll have to dig deeper.
and that's where i'll leave you to do your own research, because i’m not here to give you an Arabic lesson. that’s what WordReference and Reddit threads are for (just be on the lookout for bots).
but do yourself a favor and don’t just rely on those (and definitely do not go to Duolingo, i wouldn't trust AI with George Clooney's birthday, let alone the linguistic structure of an entire language). look up language guides and forums online. there’s actually some really good and reliable stuff out there from native speakers. fuck it, even Urban Dictionary is a better resource than wherever the first of you got the word akhi from - no, really, it actually contains several entries that define how it's used in certain contexts (none of which, you will find, include familial terms of endearment). and there are plenty of other Arab users on this site who have already talked about this and have provided detailed explanations of how it’s used in formal and dialectical Arabic. there are even entire blogs on tumblr that are dedicated to teaching Arabic. if you don't trust the internet, patronize your local library's language section (though they're unfortunately more likely to have books on just Modern Standard Arabic).
i promise you, however unapproachable internet and library databases might seem when it comes to learning languages, it is not as difficult to navigate as you think it is. the information is 100% there if you bother to look for it. and it’s free.
now, why am i making such a big deal out of this?
because if you actually gave a shit about writing Damian as explicitly and meaningfully Arab, you’d recognize that Arabic is not some accessory you can adorn your characters with however you like and hope no one notices you've put it on backwards.
Arabic is a real, living language that is used by real, living people every day.
and listen, i really don’t want to discount the good intentions so many of you have in using this word. i know that a lot of you using it aren’t intentionally using it incorrectly (or at least, i assume that’s the case), that you really just want to acknowledge what DC itself is shit at acknowledging. but i need you to understand that it is not enough. it's not enough to copy + paste from Google Translate and hope for the best.
the first and most important rules of linguistics will tell you that direct, literal translation is a discrepancy in and of itself. for example: if you put the Iliad or, idk, Proust through Google Translate, what came out would be pretty shitty and incoherent. it wouldn't entirely make sense. that’s why translation exists as a profession. to make sense of colloquialisms, grammar and diction that lack cross-language equivalents.
anyway, back to your good intentions: of course it sucks that many of DC’s writers tend to avoid meaningful engagement with the cultural backgrounds of the characters they write, particularly their characters of color.
of course it sucks that they tend fall into harmful stereotypes and tropes that could be avoided with just a little bit of intentional, respectful research. hell, they have the means to hire professional cultural and linguistic consultants if they wanted - they have absolutely no excuse.
and of course it sucks ass that many don’t treat Arab stories with care or compassion, especially considering that the very origins of the al Ghuls as DC villains are deeply rooted in the orientalist demonization of Asians and Arabs. that beyond that, they are also consistently whitewashed by both writers and fans alike. Damian and Talia in particular, when they are portrayed as morally good (and sometimes even when they’re not), tend to be drawn with lighter skin, which is a whole other level of fucked up. not to mention the majority of actors who have portrayed both Talia and Ra’s al Ghul are not Arab and, in fact, the only Arab actor to portray Ra’s al Ghul is Alexander Siddig (shoutout, by the way, to an absolute legend and cinematic treasure).
and before any of you folks crawl your way out of the woodwork to inform me that “actually, white and white-passing Arabs exist, you ignorant, uncultured heathen”, i’m just gonna cut you off at the pass here to let you know that i know. i should fucking hope i’d be aware of my own existence.
in all seriousness, though, wholistic representation of Arabs cannot center only those of us who are light skinned, white or white-passing. to do so stinks of Westerners’ tendency to fetishize, aestheticize and appropriate ethnic cultures while giving less than a rat’s ass about the people they come from, like a kind of cherry picked whitewashing, if you will. like, "it's okay to celebrate and take part in your culture, but if you do it while being dark skinned, you're either primitive and barbaric or some kind of noble savage." obviously, skin color has no bearing on the legitimacy of Arab heritage. but leaving dark skinned Arabs out of the picture erases the real and immense diversity of the Arab world. and it makes representation dependent on proximity to whiteness and palatability to white audiences, which is entirely antithetical to the whole point of representation.
yes, we need representation, too - Arabs are not a monolith. but the fact remains that dark skinned people of color are consistently underrepresented across the board - fans of color on this and other hellsites have been saying this for literal years. and if you don’t believe that’s true of DC comics, i'm sorry, but you haven’t been paying attention.
so, yeah. both the current canon and fanon, in many ways, leave a lot to be desired when it comes to representation. but that is exactly why diving headfirst into the now fandom-wide phenomenon of using akhi in your fanworks doesn’t actually do anything to counteract the harm done. frankly, because many of you have no historical, cultural or linguistic context for this and other words, it often exacerbates and replicates it.
and idk, maybe this all seems a bit over-the-top for a word that literally just means “my brother.” but because so many of you forego background research entirely and just parrot each other, the way you’re using it is harmful. because you’re completely disregarding all of that historical, cultural and linguistic context in favor of portraying what you perceive to be a more accurate Damian. which is especially damaging when many of you show no inclination or desire to examine just how enshrined racism and orientalism are in many canon and fanon portrayals of Damian or how your own headcanons might reinforce the stereotypes that fuel those portrayals.
Arabic is a heavily racialized language in the West. the choice to use it in your works as non-Arab creators is one you make in a world full of stigmatization for people, languages and cultures that do not meet standards of European whiteness. the fact that the maximum level of effort English speakers are barely required to put into including another language in their work is to open the most laughable language resource on the internet and copy + paste is indicative of the imperial system that requires the rest of the world to be multilingual while the majority of those for whom English is their first language hold fluency in only one.
multilingualism is far more common outside of Western centers of imperialism because the system in place is designed to keep it that way. and the West’s xenophobia ensures that we view it as a kind of liability, rather than the strength that it is. and on top of that, the racialization of certain languages further reinforces that xenophobia by wrapping them up in a mess of simultaneous fetishization and denigration. which is how you end up with the expectation that immigrants do the cultural, intellectual and emotional labor of bridging language barriers. in other words, writing something even as innocuous as “Damian missed his akhi” in your fanfiction because you saw someone else do it without doing any research of your own is a privilege of ignorance that native Arabic speakers do not have. i wouldn’t be surprised if more than half of you English speakers using it don’t even know how to pronounce it properly because you’ve never been forced to learn the phonetics, much less the alphabet, of a language that isn’t your own.
again, i understand where it’s coming from. i understand the impulse to expand upon what DC has given us and actually explore Damian’s cultural heritage. i understand the desire to do his Arab roots justice. i wish DC was better at the job they literally gave themselves, too. seriously, i get it.
but by not doing the research necessary to understand what you're putting in your fanworks, you’re just repeating the same irresponsible mistakes that DC’s writers make. and not only is that reductive of the Arab character you’re trying to honor, but from a viewer’s perspective, it’s indicative of a lack of creative integrity. it’s just sloppy writing. it says that you’re not actually committed to creating accurate or compassionate Arab representation with Damian. you just care about making him believably Arab to a primarily non-Arab audience. and continuing to do it even after being informed tells me you don’t actually give a fuck about Arabs or our representation because you don’t respect our language enough to learn how we actually use it.
and i hope i can trust you to know the difference between an honest mistake and willful ignorance, here. i completely understand if this is your first time learning about any of this. but again, all the information you could possibly want is available 24/7 on the very same device you’re using to write your fanfiction and create your fanart. you know, the one you’re using right now to read this post?
if you have the time to write a 100k word fanfic you have more than enough time to learn how the word akhi is actually used.
and if you did your research, you would see that there are so many actual, beautiful terms of endearment you could be using instead. Arabic has no shortage of them - there are so many i couldn’t possibly provide you with a full, comprehensive list of them all. but i will give you a tiny bit:
khayye is a Levantine term usually reserved for a close brother - i could actually see Damian calling Dick this and it means the same thing as akhi, just more affectionate. and of course, there are plenty of other terms in other dialects, but i’m not as familiar with those yet and really, you should do your own research. i also mentioned habibi before, which is a very popular term of affection and it’s often used casually even with strangers as it’s not strictly platonic or romantic, though i personally don’t believe Damian would use it towards his family, at least not frequently or without sarcasm (which is the best way to use it, imo).
and there’s also more poetic ones like 3ayouni (my eyes), hayati (my life), qalbi (my heart, though don’t get it confused with kelbi, iykyk), ruhi (my soul), najmi (my star), nouri (my light), azizi (my treasure/precious one). and hundreds of others that are dialect- and family-specific.
there is so much to work with that y’all have left virtually untouched. don’t be afraid to get creative! that’s what fanfiction is all about, right?
that said, if you do choose to use Arabic in your fan works, remember that language doesn’t exist in a vacuum. use it as a character study. use it to ask those questions DC doesn’t. like:
does Damian speak Arabic?
why does Damian speak Arabic? and what dialect(s) does he speak? because yes, there are regional and national dialects all over the place. don’t limit yourself in your research.
was Arabic the primary language he spoke back in the League? and if it was, how has living in Gotham, a predominantly English-speaking environment, changed his relationship with the language?
does he experience culture shock at all and how has that effected his experience of Gotham?
does he use it around his Gotham family? why or why not? does his Gotham family use it with him? why or why not?
does he have different terms of endearment for each of the people he cares about in his life? do they each have terms of endearment for him?
what does Talia call him? some of DC’s writers have her call him “my heart”, which i have written in romanized Arabic above. you’re welcome.
does he also speak any Chinese dialects? and what role does that play in his life and identity? you don’t have to focus on just his Arab roots. Damian’s heritage is a combination of multiple ethnic backgrounds - do better than DC and find ways to make your work reflect that. as a canonically mixed character, Damian and mixed readers like him deserve to have that respectfully represented. though, as per the main point of this post, please do some conscientious research before using any Chinese dialects.
what’s his favorite Middle Eastern dish? shoutout to that one artist i saw (whose name i can’t remember, i’m so sorry) who drew Damian and Jason sharing a pot of mjaddara, one of my personal favorite easy meals to cook when i’m missing home.
does he read any Arab poetry and who is his favorite poet? does he prefer the classic poets or the modern ones? i personally think he might enjoy Imru’ al-Qays but i’m biased because we had a cat named after him and i kinda like the idea of Damian being a fan of one of the most notoriously sappy and melodramatic romantic poets history has to offer.
has he been able to use Arabic around other Arabic-speaking folks in Gotham? and on that note, where are Gotham’s Arab populations from and what dialects do they speak?
endless avenues to explore!
or, you know, if you truly, madly, deeply do not give a single flying fuck (though if you’ve made it this far into my rant and still don't care, i'm... impressed?): how about you try this nifty thing i like to call not using Arabic in your work at all?
i can’t imagine you’re anywhere near your wits’ end if you’re using Google Translate as your linguistics consultant, but you know what takes even less effort? not using it. which is perfectly fine. you don’t have to delve deeper if you don’t want to. i’m not gonna hunt you down and force you to study Arabic grammar.
but using a language that isn’t your own, especially if English is your first and only language, comes with a responsibility to do it justice. no one is forcing you, dear English speaking fanfic writer/fanartist, to use a language you don’t speak. and i mean that quite literally. the world is already built to save you the inconvenience of having to speak other languages. so if you’re gonna go in, go all in. don’t needlessly embarrass yourself, habibi.
if doing any further research just seems a bit too daunting for you, remember that language isn’t the end-all-be-all of cultural ties. it can be a bridge, a connector, at times a vessel and often a reflection of culture. but culture is more than the language(s) tied to it. people and their relationships to their culture(s) are more than the languages they speak. it’s entirely possible to write meaningful Arab representation without using Arabic.
and let me be so, so clear: language is, for many reasons, a very important part of preserving, nurturing and restoring culture, particularly for the world’s Indigenous and diasporic communities, of which Arabs are a part. but it has also been weaponized against those very same communities by imperial and colonial powers. including a random Arabic word in your fanart or fic, the meaning of which you have only a vague understanding, is not the ultimate signifier of Damian’s Arab heritage some of you seem to think it is. and i know most of you just use it as a cute little nod to his cultural background in your headcanons, but it means nothing without the context behind it, especially the way i see it used with reckless - albeit mostly well-meaning - abandon.
honestly, it’s just really fucking annoying to see so many people constantly misuse your language and be unwilling to correct themselves. kinda feels like you’re losing your mind, sometimes. which is a bit how i feel making this post.
look, i’m not asking you to do college thesis level research on the Arabic language before you make the art you create for zero financial compensation in your own free time. that’s not what this post is about.
but i am asking many of you to examine why you want to have Damian or Talia or whoever speak Arabic in your non-Arabic fanworks in the first place. as non-Arab fans and creators, determine what preconceptions of Arabs you might hold, question why they’re there and where they come from and do your best to learn about how they might influence your portrayal of Arab characters like Damian. if you’re desperate for a jumping off point in that regard, i recommend checking out TV Tropes’s pages on the al Ghuls.
again, language doesn’t exist in a vacuum and it’s irresponsible to treat it like it does. if you want to make meaningful content of Arab characters, i encourage you to go out there and build your creative integrity by doing enough research to at least feel confident that you understand what you're putting in your fanworks.
and, lastly, if you do choose to use Arabic in your work, please use it with respect.
.
anyways here are some resources to start off with for anyone interested:
Free online dictionaries - Spanish, French, Italian, German and more. Conjugations, audio pronunciations and forums for your questions.
TV Tropes, the all-devouring pop-culture wiki, catalogs and cross-references recurrent plot devices, archetypes, and tropes in all forms of
Khallina – An open source website for teaching and studying Arab culture.
Summary:
Dick Grayson and Hal Jordan’s former protégée have been successfully hiding their relationship from the Justice League for six months.
Then a Lantern-hunting siphon locks down the Watchtower with an alien assassin inside, half the League trapped, and two men who would rather fight an intergalactic war than admit their children are seeing each other.
Author’s Note:
Written for this request
DCAMU-inspired rather than strictly canon-compliant, featuring an older Nightwing who works regularly with the Justice League and a Lantern Reader who has long since earned her own sector.
The first indication that something had gone wrong was not the alarm.
The Watchtower sounded alarms often enough that most members of the Justice League had learned to distinguish between them without interrupting whatever they were doing. The two-note pulse that signaled an unidentified vessel near the station barely made Clark look up from the report floating above the conference table. The sharp descending tone for an unauthorized teleportation made Barry stop eating but did not convince him to put down the sandwich in his hand.
The first indication that something had gone wrong was the sudden absence of green light.
One moment, you were suspended several feet above the observation deck, using your ring to rotate a projection of the damaged Lantern outposts through the center of the room. The next, the construct vanished, the platform beneath your feet disappeared, and gravity remembered that the Watchtower had artificial floors.
You dropped.
Dick caught you before you hit the deck. His arm closed around your waist with practiced accuracy, and your hands landed against his shoulders as naturally as though the two of you had rehearsed the movement. There was no startled collision, no awkward attempt to recover your balance. Dick absorbed your weight, turned with the momentum, and lowered you onto your feet without loosening his hold until he was certain your knees would support you.
For one dangerous second, neither of you remembered the room was full. His eyes searched your face.
“You okay?”
The concern in his voice was too quiet and too immediate. You stepped out of his arms. “My ring went dead.”
Across the table, Hal Jordan had become very still. Bruce had not moved at all, which was worse.
Barry finally lowered his sandwich. “Dead as in temporarily unresponsive, or dead as in the most powerful weapon in the universe just became jewelry?”
You raised your hand. The ring sat dark against your finger. There was no answering current beneath your skin, no familiar pressure at the edge of your awareness. It felt heavier without the energy running through it, as though the metal had remembered it was only metal.
“Completely unresponsive.”
Hal crossed the room in three strides and caught your wrist. He turned your hand beneath the light, checking the ring as though external damage might explain the silence. His own ring shone steadily.
“That isn’t possible.”
“You’ve said that before,” you reminded him.
“Usually right before something explodes,” Barry said.
Hal ignored him. “When did you last charge?”
Dick answered before you could. “Four hours ago.”
Silence settled over the observation deck. You closed your eyes. Dick’s expression did not change, but you could feel the moment he realized what he had said.
Hal’s head turned slowly toward him. “How do you know that?”
Dick released a breath through his nose. “She mentioned it.”
“I did not,” you said.
There were times when lying to Hal was useful. There were other times when the lie was already dead and continuing to defend it only gave him something to dismantle.
Dick looked at you. You looked back. That silent exchange lasted perhaps half a second. It was still enough for Bruce’s attention to sharpen.
Hal released your wrist. “Why does Nightwing know your recharge schedule?”
“Because I pay attention,” Dick said.
“That did not answer the question.”
“It answered the question exactly.”
“Then I dislike the answer.”
The alarm began before Hal could ask anything else. This one was not subtle. Red light flooded the observation deck as the Watchtower’s emergency systems engaged, and a mechanical voice announced a stationwide lockdown. The viewing panels shuttered over the curved windows. The doors sealed simultaneously, cutting off the corridor beyond.
Clark abandoned the report. “Watchtower, identify the threat.”
There was no response. Bruce was already at the nearest terminal. His hands moved across the controls, but the display remained blank except for a single pulsing line of alien characters.
Victor stepped beside him and pressed one hand to the console. Silver circuitry spread from his fingertips across the dark screen. He jerked back immediately.
“Something’s in the system.”
“Malware?” Barry asked.
“Not exactly.”
Victor stared at his hand. The circuitry across his palm flickered an unhealthy violet before returning to blue.
“It reacted to me.”
Hal lifted his ring. A grid of green light swept across the room. “No biological signatures apart from ours.”
“The Watchtower has been compromised,” Bruce said. “The attacker may not be biological.”
A violent shudder moved through the station. The lights dimmed. Somewhere beyond the sealed door, metal screamed.
Your ring remained dark as Dick shifted closer to you, not enough for anyone unfamiliar with him to notice. You felt the heat of his shoulder near yours and resisted the instinct to lean into it. Six months of careful entrances, separate departures, and deleted messages, and Dick had given everything away because you fell three feet.
You should have been annoyed. Instead, a small, foolish part of you wanted to smile.
The Watchtower shook again. A seam of violet light appeared along the far wall. Bruce turned from the terminal. “Move.”
The wall ruptured.
Dick caught your arm and pulled you behind the conference table as shards of metal tore through the observation deck. Clark moved in front of the group, taking the worst of the debris against his body. Diana crossed her bracers, deflecting a concentrated beam that burned a black line through the ceiling.
Something stepped through the breach. It was humanoid only in the broadest sense. Long limbs folded from a narrow armored body, each joint bending in one direction too many. Its face was hidden behind a smooth silver plate. Violet circuitry moved beneath translucent sections of its armor like blood beneath skin.
Hal fired first. The construct struck the creature squarely in the chest and dispersed without leaving a mark.
The violet circuitry brightened. Hal’s ring flickered. “No,” he said.
The creature lifted one hand. Every screen in the room flashed with the same alien text.
Your ring burned suddenly against your finger, not with energy but with heat. You tore it off before it could sear the skin and caught it in your other hand.
Hal staggered as his construct collapsed. The creature was feeding on Lantern energy.
“Jordan, cut your ring output,” Bruce ordered.
“I noticed.”
The creature crossed the room with impossible speed.
Dick vaulted the table. One escrima stick left his hand, spinning end over end before it struck the side of the creature’s head. The impact did not injure it, but it altered its path long enough for Diana to meet it with her shield. The collision drove her backward.
Clark seized the creature from behind and carried it through the ruptured wall. Metal buckled as they vanished into the adjoining corridor.
Victor slammed his hand into the terminal again. “I can open the doors, but the system keeps rebuilding the lock.”
“How long?” Bruce asked.
“Longer if you keep talking to me.”
Barry vanished in a streak of red, circling the perimeter of the room. “No secondary exits. Shutters are reinforced. Air system is still running, which feels like good news.”
“It means the attacker wants us alive,” you said.
Dick landed beside you. “Any idea what it is?”
You watched the violet current still moving across the damaged wall. “Kharidian siphon technology.”
Hal’s attention snapped toward you. “That was destroyed.”
“The Corps destroyed the known prototypes.”
“That is not the same thing,” Bruce said.
Hal scowled. “Thank you, Batman.”
“You’re welcome.”
A burst of violet light filled the corridor. Clark flew backward through the wall and struck the floor hard enough to dent it. The creature followed, moving without hurry now that it understood the strength of everyone in the room.
Diana met it again. This time, when her sword cut across its shoulder, the armor opened. There was nothing beneath it but light.
The creature caught Diana by the throat and threw her across the observation deck.
Dick moved before she landed. He slid beneath a sweeping arm, drove one escrima stick into the open seam at the creature’s shoulder, and discharged the weapon.
Blue electricity crawled through violet circuitry. The creature convulsed.
“Again,” you shouted.
Dick struck the same point with his second stick. The damaged armor cracked further.
The creature turned toward Dick, and you had never hated the absence of your ring more as it reached for him. You caught a broken section of the conference table and swung it with both hands. The metal edge struck the opening Diana had made. Violet energy burst outward, throwing you and Dick in opposite directions.
Your shoulder hit the floor first. Pain tore down your arm. You rolled onto your back and saw the creature looming above you.
Then Hal was there. He formed a shield despite the way his ring flickered under the siphon’s pull. The creature’s hand crashed into the construct, driving Hal to one knee.
“Move!” he shouted.
You pushed yourself upright as the construct fractured. Dick appeared behind the creature and looped a cable around its throat. He planted both boots against its back and pulled, using his weight to drag its head away from Hal as the shield collapsed.
Bruce threw an explosive charge, and Dick released the cable and flipped clear a moment before it detonated inside the damaged shoulder joint. The blast tore one arm from the creature’s body. It made no sound. It only turned its silver face toward Bruce.
“Victor,” Bruce said.
“Working.”
“Work faster.”
“I’m going to install a mute function in your cowl.”
The Watchtower shuddered so violently that the artificial gravity failed. Everyone lifted from the floor.
The creature adapted instantly. Its remaining hand opened into hooked blades, which it drove into the ceiling. Dick had nothing to anchor himself with. He drifted toward the breach, momentum carrying him toward the corridor where exposed wiring spat violet sparks.
You kicked away from the table.
Without the ring, there was no controlled flight, only direction and force. You caught Dick around the middle as you passed him. He twisted in your grip, fired a grappling line toward the opposite wall, and caught both of you before you reached the breach.
The line went taut. Your injured shoulder screamed. Dick’s arm locked around you.
“Let go with that hand,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
You looked down. Blood had soaked through the shoulder of your uniform where a piece of metal had cut across it. You had not noticed the warmth spreading down your arm.
Hal had.
Even while bracing himself between the floor and ceiling with a green construct that looked increasingly unstable, he found enough breath to say, “Why is his hand under your shirt?”
Dick’s hand was not under your shirt. It was beneath the torn edge of your uniform, pressed over the wound to slow the bleeding.
“This is not the time,” you said.
“It is never going to be the time.”
Bruce caught the edge of the table with one hand. “Jordan.”
“What?”
“Priorities.”
“Your son’s hand is on my kid.”
You nearly lost your grip on Dick.
“I’m not your kid.”
“You were fifteen when I met you.”
“And I am not fifteen now.”
Dick adjusted his hold. “Also, not his son.”
Bruce looked at him, and Dick grimaced. “This is going great.” Above them, the creature pulled itself along the ceiling toward Hal.
Clark launched himself from the floor and drove both feet into its chest. With no gravity, the impact sent them spinning through the room. Diana caught the creature’s remaining arm in her lasso. Barry anchored the opposite end around a support beam.
“Victor,” Clark called.
The doors opened. Every unsecured object in the observation deck flew into the corridor as emergency decompression alarms joined the stationwide warning. The breach in the adjoining section had reached the outer hull.
Victor sealed the corridor again before the air could fully escape.
Gravity returned without warning. You and Dick dropped together. He turned beneath you, taking the impact against his back. The grappling line recoiled as soon as you hit the floor.
“Dick.”
“I’m good.”
“That sounded painful.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Hal stared at you both from the other side of the room. Dick’s arm was around your waist, your hand was spread across his chest, and his other hand remained pressed against your bleeding shoulder. There was no plausible version of professional concern left.
The creature slammed Clark into the floor.
Bruce threw another charge into its exposed chest cavity. “Containment bay three.”
Victor understood immediately. The doors behind the creature opened. Barry moved in a red blur, striking it from every direction too quickly for its sensors to follow. Diana used the lasso to pull its legs from beneath it. Clark seized the damaged torso and drove it backward through the open doorway.
Victor sealed the bay.
A violet hand struck the small observation panel from the other side. The reinforced glass cracked.
“That will not hold,” Diana said.
“It doesn’t have to,” Bruce replied. “The containment bay has an independent launch mechanism.”
Victor’s eye brightened. “You want to eject it.”
“It entered the station by accessing our systems. Remove it from the station.”
“I like this plan,” Barry said.
Victor merged with the terminal. The lights flickered across the observation deck, alternating between red and violet as the creature fought him for control.
Your ring pulsed once in your palm. The faintest green light appeared around its edge before violet static swallowed it again.
“It’s still drawing power,” you said.
Hal looked toward the containment bay. “From both rings.”
“The siphon is using the Watchtower as an amplifier. Launching the bay won’t stop it unless we separate the connection first.”
“How?”
You studied the circuit patterns moving across the sealed door. The technology was familiar in the way a scar was familiar. You had spent three months dismantling a Kharidian network after they tried to drain an inhabited planet’s electromagnetic field. Their systems did not distinguish well between energy sources once they had established a link. They consumed whatever they could reach and converted it into the same violet current.
“We overload it.”
Hal’s mouth tightened. “Absolutely not.”
Bruce looked between the rings. “Explain.”
“The siphon has adapted to Lantern energy. If Hal and I feed it everything at once, the system will exceed its conversion threshold.”
“And both rings shut down completely,” Hal said.
“Until we can reach Oa.”
“If the overload doesn’t kill you.”
Dick went still beneath your hand.
“It won’t.”
“You do not know that.”
“I know the technology.”
“You’ve seen a siphon after it consumed one ring, not two.”
You pushed yourself to your feet. Dick rose with you, his hand moving from your waist to your elbow when your injured arm trembled.
Hal noticed that too. His expression darkened.
“Stop touching her.”
Dick stared at him. “She’s hurt.”
“I can see that.”
“Then you should understand why I’m helping.”
“I understand more than you think.”
“Do you?”
“Dick,” you said.
“No, I’d actually love to hear this.”
The station shook again. Another crack spread across the containment bay window.
Bruce stepped between them without appearing to move. “You can discuss this after we survive.”
Hal pointed at Dick. “This conversation is not over.”
“I assumed that when you started it during an alien attack.”
The corner of Clark’s mouth twitched until Bruce noticed and Clark quickly looked away.
You slipped the ring back onto your finger. The metal was still hot, but the faint current had returned. Somewhere beyond the walls, the siphon was trying to force its way deeper into the station’s primary power systems.
Dick caught your hand. He did not care who saw this time.
“What are the odds?” he asked.
You looked at his fingers closed around yours.
The first time you met Dick Grayson, you had been nineteen, newly assigned to an Earth-based investigation and furious that the Justice League had sent someone without powers to supervise you.
He had smiled when you told him exactly what you thought of the arrangement.
Then he had disarmed three smugglers before your ring finished identifying the weapons in their hands.
You had spent four years pretending that the warmth low in your stomach whenever he stood too close was professional respect. Dick had spent most of those years finding reasons to stand closer.
Six months ago, he had kissed you on the roof of a Blüdhaven apartment building after a mission that should have killed both of you. Neither of you had mentioned Hal or Bruce until the following morning.
The secrecy had seemed sensible at first. Then it became fun.
Now Dick’s thumb moved over your knuckles, and there was no humor in his face.
“The odds,” he repeated.
“Good enough.”
“That isn’t a number.”
“You don’t like numbers when they’re honest.”
“I like them better than evasive Lantern bullshit.”
Hal inhaled sharply. “Watch your—”
“Hal.”
You did not raise your voice. You did not need to.
He stopped.
Dick lowered his forehead briefly toward yours, close enough that only you heard him.
“Come back to me.”
You squeezed his hand. “Always do.”
The containment glass broke, and Victor shouted a warning as the creature forced its remaining arm through the opening. Violet circuitry spread along the door and into the surrounding walls.
You and Hal raised your rings. Green light filled the observation deck.
For one breath, your ring felt alive again. Energy flooded your body, fierce and familiar, answering the shape of your will. Beside you, Hal built a construct around the containment bay: overlapping bands of green energy designed not to restrain the creature but to give it more power than it could process.
You joined him.
Your construct threaded through his, reinforcing every connection. The creature absorbed both streams immediately. Violet light swelled beneath its armor.
The pull struck you like a hook beneath the ribs, buckling your knees. Dick caught you from behind, one arm locked around your waist while the other braced your injured shoulder without touching the wound.
“Stay with me, baby.”
You forced more power through the ring. The creature expanded. Cracks spread across its armor as the violet circuitry brightened toward white.
Hal grunted beside you. His ring sparked.
“Now, Victor!”
The containment bay released. The outer wall separated from the station, carrying the creature into space. For a moment, the severed bay hung beyond the shuttered windows, visible only through the security feed that Victor had forced onto the damaged terminal.
The creature reached toward the Watchtower. The siphon link stretched between the station and the drifting bay, a twisting line of violet light.
You closed your fist.
Every remaining trace of power in your ring discharged at once. Hal did the same.
The feed turned white. Your ring went dark. So did everything else.
The Watchtower lost power completely.
In the sudden absence of artificial gravity, Dick’s arms tightened around you.
You heard Hal curse somewhere to your left.
Then the emergency systems restarted. Dim blue lighting replaced the red alarms, and the gravity returned at half strength. Everyone settled toward the floor as Victor restored essential functions one system at a time.
The security feed came back last, revealing that the containment bay was gone. Only a fading cloud of violet energy remained beyond the station.
Your legs gave out. Dick lowered you before you could fall. He knelt on the deck and pulled you back against his chest, his hand covering yours where the dead ring rested against your thigh. “Hey.”
You opened your eyes. His face was too pale.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“You like that about me.”
“I like other things more.”
Hal stood over the two of you. He looked exhausted, furious and frightened enough that the anger barely disguised it. His ring was as dark as yours. A thin burn circled the finger where the siphon had drawn power through the metal.
His gaze dropped to Dick’s arms around you. Dick met his stare, and nobody spoke until Bruce said, “Medical bay.”
The argument was postponed for eleven minutes.
That was how long it took to move from the observation deck to the nearest functional medical station, confirm that the creature had not left any secondary programs in the Watchtower’s systems, and convince Hal that having his ring examined did not constitute surrender.
You sat on the edge of an examination bed while a medical scanner passed over your shoulder. Your uniform had been cut away from the wound. The gash was long but shallow, requiring a sealant strip rather than stitches.
Dick stood between your knees, holding a compress against the injury while the automated unit prepared the sealant.
There were six other chairs in the room. He had not considered using one.
“You’re pressing too hard,” you said.
“You said that when I was barely touching it.”
“I was hoping you would become discouraged.”
“You know me better than that.”
You did, and that was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone else.
Hal occupied the opposite side of the room while Victor examined both rings beneath a suspended field. Bruce stood beside him, reviewing station diagnostics on a portable screen.
Neither of them was pretending not to listen.
Clark had left to inspect the exterior damage. Diana was coordinating repairs. Barry had announced that the tension in the medical bay was more dangerous than the assassin and escaped before anyone could assign him work.
The automated unit chimed, and Dick removed the compress, leaving his fingertips stained with your blood. Hal’s eyes fixed on them, making you nearly sigh. Dick noticed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing face.”
“You know my recharge schedule and my nothing face. Very impressive.”
His mouth curved. “I also know you keep emergency chocolate in the upper-left cabinet of your apartment and that you pretend not to like reality television.”
“I do not watch reality television.”
“You complained for twenty minutes when they eliminated your favorite contestant.”
“The judging was inconsistent.”
“Of course.”
Hal stepped away from Victor. “You have the access code to her apartment?”
The medical unit applied the sealant strip. You barely felt it.
Dick looked toward Hal. “Yes.”
“Why?”
You answered before he could. “Because we’re dating.”
The room became silent enough to hear the hum of the scanner. Dick’s eyebrows rose slightly. He had expected more preamble.
You were tired, injured, temporarily stranded without a functioning ring, and no longer interested in behaving as though loving him required an apology.
Hal stared at you. Bruce looked at Dick. Victor became deeply interested in the suspended rings.
“For how long?” Hal asked.
“Six months.”
“Six months.”
“Yes.”
“You have been seeing Batman’s son for six months.”
Dick glanced at Bruce. “This feels like a bad time to revisit the terminology.”
Bruce ignored him. “When?”
Dick turned back. “When what?”
“When did this begin?”
“Six months ago,” Hal said. “She just told us.”
“I am asking for the circumstances.”
“You want the date?”
“The location.”
Dick’s expression changed, and you recognized the exact moment he decided that honesty would be funnier.
“Roof of my apartment building.”
Hal looked at you again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
There was enough hurt beneath the question to drain the amusement from the room as you reached for the edge of the examination bed.
“Because you react like this when Dick holds pressure on a wound.”
“He had his hand under your uniform.”
“I was bleeding.”
“I know why his hand was there.”
“Do you?”
Hal folded his arms. The dark ring on his hand made him look strangely incomplete. You had known him without a uniform, without confidence, and once without memory, but you had rarely seen him without the constant green light accompanying his gestures.
“You think I object because he’s a Bat,” he said.
“I think you object because he’s Bruce’s.”
“I object because he is exactly charming enough to convince people he’s less dangerous than he is.”
Dick nodded thoughtfully. “That was almost flattering.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I heard charming.”
“You would.”
Bruce lowered the diagnostic screen. “Jordan is correct.”
Dick looked at him. “About me being dangerous or charming?”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
You held out your uninjured hand. Dick gave you his without hesitation. His fingers settled between yours, blood cleaned away but his skin still warm.
Hal watched the movement. “It wasn’t supposed to stay secret this long,” you said.
Dick leaned his hip against the examination bed. “We were going to tell you.”
“When?” Bruce asked.
Dick considered it. “Eventually.”
“That is not a date.”
“We hadn’t selected one.”
“Because every time we considered telling you,” you said, “you and Hal were already arguing about something.”
“We do not argue that often,” Bruce said.
Hal turned toward him. “Last week, you called my patrol strategy reckless.”
“It was reckless.”
“It saved the eastern seaboard.”
“It endangered the eastern seaboard first.”
“You see the problem,” Dick said.
Bruce’s attention returned to him. “You concealed an operational conflict.”
Your temper sharpened. “Our relationship has never interfered with a mission.”
“You caught her instead of assessing the attacker,” Hal said.
“She was falling.”
“Three feet.”
“She didn’t have her ring.”
“She can survive a three-foot drop.”
Dick’s hand tightened around yours. “I know.”
The words were quiet. Hal stopped. Dick’s expression had lost its amusement again.
“I know what she can survive. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stand there and watch her hit the floor when I can catch her.”
You looked down at your joined hands.
For years, people had praised Lanterns for surviving. The Corps trained its recruits to function through vacuum exposure, radiation, torture, and isolation. Hal had taught you how to build a shield around a collapsing star before he taught you how to ask for help.
Dick had never been impressed by what you could endure. He cared about what you should not have to endure.
Hal saw something in your face, and his shoulders lowered by a fraction, although Bruce was less easily moved.
“You knew her ring was recently charged,” he said.
Dick nodded.
“You know where she stores personal items.”
“Yes.”
“You have access to her residence.”
“Yes.”
“Does she have access to yours?”
Dick glanced at you. “She has a key.”
“Two,” you corrected. “You gave me the spare to the loft.”
Bruce looked at Dick.
“The building key and apartment key are separate.”
“You also gave her access to the cave.”
“I did not.”
“You gave me your emergency code,” you said.
Dick closed his eyes. “Thanks.”
Hal’s head snapped toward Bruce. “She has access to the Batcave?”
Bruce’s stare turned glacial. “Apparently.”
“In fairness,” you said, “I haven’t used it.”
“That is not helping,” Dick murmured.
Victor detached himself from the rings and set them carefully onto the tray. “They’re intact.”
Everyone turned toward him as Victor continued, “The siphon burned out the active charge and damaged the internal conduits, but the rings should function once repaired and connected to a central battery.”
“How long?” Hal asked.
“Not something I can do here. You’ll need Oa.”
Hal exhaled. “Communications?”
“The station’s long-range systems are still offline.”
Bruce consulted the diagnostics. “The teleporters are damaged. Docking controls are inoperative.”
“So we’re stuck,” Dick said.
“For several hours,” Victor replied. “Possibly longer.”
Hal looked at your hand in Dick’s again.
“No.”
You stared at him. “No what?”
“No being alone together.”
Dick blinked.
You laughed before you could stop yourself. The sound pulled at your injured shoulder, but it was worth the pain for the offense on Hal’s face.
“You cannot be serious.”
“You concealed this for six months.”
“Because of exactly this reaction.”
“You have demonstrated that my reaction was necessary.”
Bruce returned his attention to the portable screen. “Their relationship has no bearing on the station repairs.”
Hal looked at him in disbelief. “You’re allowing this?”
“They are adults.”
Bruce considered that. “Reasonable.”
Hal stared at him. “Whose side are you on?”
“There are no sides.”
“You developed contingencies for me before you learned my middle name.”
“I still don’t know your middle name.”
“That is not the point.”
Dick leaned closer to you. “Would this be a bad time to mention I keep clothes at your apartment?”
Hal’s head turned sharply. “Grayson.”
Dick smiled at him. “Jordan.”
“You are not helping yourself.”
“I stopped trying ten minutes ago.”
Bruce turned back to the screen before anyone could determine whether the slight movement at the corner of his mouth was amusement.
The Watchtower required seven hours to restore basic docking systems.
The first two were spent repairing the breached observation deck and confirming the siphon had not transmitted its location to anyone else. The next three were occupied by an increasingly hostile attempt to rebuild the station’s communications network.
The final two involved Hal following you and Dick through every corridor with the determination of a man who had spent years patrolling entire sectors of space and had finally discovered a threat he could not punch.
You tried to be patient. For the first forty minutes.
“What does he call you?” Hal asked.
You looked over your shoulder. “What?”
“He used a nickname earlier.”
Dick became extremely interested in the relay.
“You are not getting a list of nicknames,” you said.
“That implies there is a list.”
Hal looked between you. “This has been happening for six months?”
“Longer,” Dick said.
You turned toward him as Hal froze. “Longer?”
“The dating has been six months.” Dick picked up the relay again. “The rest of this has been happening for years.”
You felt heat climb your throat. There were some aspects of your relationship that had never been spoken aloud in front of anyone else. The years of wanting each other were one of them, largely because Dick refused to call it pining and preferred to describe the four years before your first kiss as an extended tactical assessment.
Hal’s expression shifted. “You had feelings for her before you started dating.”
Dick looked at you, the amusement fading from his face and leaving something warmer. “Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“Hal,” you warned.
Dick answered anyway.
“Since she threatened to throw me off the Watchtower.”
“I did not threaten you.”
“You said the next time I touched your controls, I’d be taking the fast route to Earth.”
“You rerouted my patrol assignment.”
“You were overworking.”
“You did not know me well enough to decide that.”
“I knew you hadn’t slept in thirty hours.”
Hal looked at you. “You hadn’t?”
“That is not the relevant part.”
“It is to me.”
Dick’s voice softened. “She slept.”
You remembered waking in one of the Watchtower’s private quarters, your boots off, a blanket pulled over you, and Dick asleep in the chair beside the door. He had claimed he remained because the security system was malfunctioning.
You had believed him for almost ten minutes.
Hal studied Dick with new attention. It did not resemble approval. It was, however, less openly murderous.
“How long?” he asked again.
Dick returned to the damaged relay. “Four years.”
The answer settled inside you. You had known. Of course you had known. You knew the shape of Dick’s desire as intimately as you knew his body now. You knew the way his gaze lingered before he learned you wanted it to, the way every joke became gentler when he aimed it at you, the way he found reasons to contact your sector even when your assigned route was nowhere near Earth.
Knowing was different from hearing him admit it.
“You waited four years?” Hal asked.
“She’s intimidating.”
You threw a piece of insulation at him. He caught it without looking.
Hal’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Nightwing.”
“Very observant.”
“You fight assassins.”
“Yes.”
“You have gone into combat against Darkseid.”
“Didn’t enjoy it.”
“But asking her on a date was too dangerous.”
Dick finally looked at you. “You weren’t ready.”
The room quieted because you had not been. The Corps had given you responsibility before it taught you how to stop trying to earn your place. You had spent years measuring your worth through completed missions and sectors kept safe, convincing yourself that intimacy was merely another vulnerability hostile forces could exploit.
Dick had understood without forcing you to explain. He had waited until your hand lingered in his after a rescue. He had waited until you began visiting Blüdhaven without inventing a League-related excuse. He had waited until you kissed him first.
Hal knew enough of your history to understand what Dick meant. He looked away.
The stationwide communication system activated with a violent burst of static.
Victor’s voice followed. “Docking bay controls are online. Also, I can hear all of you, and Batman wants you on the command deck.”
Dick touched his comm. “How long have you been able to hear us?”
A pause.
“Long enough.”
“Delete the recording,” you said.
“What recording?”
“Victor.”
“I’m offended.”
“Delete it.”
“Already sent it to Flash.”
Hal strode toward the door. “I am going to dismantle him.”
Dick offered you his hand. You took it. Hal looked back. Neither of you released the other.
The command deck had survived with less damage than the observation level, although several consoles still displayed lines of alien text beneath Victor’s replacement interface. Bruce stood at the central terminal beside Clark and Diana. Barry occupied a chair several stations away, staring determinedly at a blank screen while failing to conceal his grin.
You pointed at him. “Delete it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Dick glanced at you. “That’s my line.”
“You don’t own it.”
“I use it the most.”
Bruce interrupted before Barry could contribute. “A Lantern vessel responded to the emergency beacon. It will arrive within twenty minutes.”
Hal’s relief was visible despite his attempt to suppress it. “Good.”
“They will transport both of you to Oa.”
You nodded. “Once the rings are repaired, I’ll return to my sector.”
Dick’s hand shifted around yours. The movement was small, but both you and Hal noticed it.
Bruce tapped the central display. A map of the damaged Lantern outposts appeared.
“The assassin’s navigation system retained three coordinates before it was destroyed. One corresponds to the outpost attacks. The others are outside mapped Corps territory.”
You stepped closer. “Kharidian space.”
“The Kharidian network is supposed to be gone,” Diana said.
“It was fragmented, not eliminated.” You studied the coordinates. “Someone rebuilt the siphon program using surviving technology.”
“And sent it to the Watchtower because you were here,” Dick said.
Hal’s expression hardened. “It tracked her.”
“The projection she was displaying included data from the attacked outposts,” Bruce said. “The program may have transmitted through the files.”
You felt a cold pressure settle beneath your ribs. “I brought it aboard.”
“You didn’t know,” Dick said.
“That doesn’t change what happened.”
“It changes the part where you blame yourself.”
Hal and Bruce looked at him simultaneously.
Dick sighed. “Could both of you stop doing that?”
“Doing what?” Hal asked.
“Looking at me like I’m trespassing every time I know something about her.”
Bruce’s gaze shifted toward you. “Does he often correct you?”
“He tries.”
“Does she listen?” Hal asked.
Dick laughed. You elbowed him. He caught your wrist before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
The entire command deck witnessed it: Barry made a strangled noise, Clark briefly closed his eyes, and Diana smiled.
Hal pointed at Dick. “No.”
Bruce said nothing, and the silence carried more weight than Hal’s objection. Dick looked toward him. “You have something to add?”
Bruce’s attention rested on your joined hands before moving to Dick’s face. “No.”
The Lantern vessel arrived eighteen minutes later.
Two members of the Honor Guard boarded the damaged station, inspected your ring, and confirmed Victor’s assessment. The conduits required a direct connection to the central battery. Hal’s ring was in slightly better condition, which he found personally offensive.
Dick walked with you to the docking bay. Hal walked three paces behind.
The corridor lighting had returned to normal, but portions of the walls remained open where damaged panels had been removed. Repair drones passed overhead. Somewhere beneath the deck, heavy machinery worked to restore the primary life-support systems.
You slowed near the docking hatch. Dick stopped with you.
The Honor Guard continued toward the waiting vessel, giving you more privacy than Hal intended to.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you said.
“That’s optimistic.”
“You dislike optimism now?”
“I dislike Oa’s sense of urgency.”
“You’ve never been to Oa.”
“I’ve dealt with enough bureaucracies to understand the universal principles.”
You smiled. “I’ll contact you once the ring is functional.”
“On our usual channel?”
“Unless you’d prefer Hal to listen.”
Behind you, Hal said, “I can still hear you.”
Dick did not look away from you. “Our usual channel.”
Your uninjured hand moved to his chest. The blue insignia beneath your palm was scratched from the fight. A tear in the material exposed a bruise forming along his ribs.
“You should have that looked at.”
“It’s fine.”
“You hit the floor hard enough to dent it.”
“The floor was already damaged.”
“Dick.”
His hand covered yours.
“I’ll get checked.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
You searched his face. He was lying.
“Bruce,” you called.
Dick’s expression changed. “Don’t.”
Bruce emerged from the adjoining corridor with Clark beside him.
You kept your eyes on Dick. “He has bruised ribs and took the full impact when we fell.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“That is not a medical clearance.”
Bruce approached. “Medical bay.”
Dick exhaled. “I already went.”
“For her injury.”
“I was examined by proximity.”
“That is not how medicine works,” Clark said.
Dick looked at him. “I liked you better when you were quiet.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed Dick before he could continue arguing. His hand slid around the back of your neck, deepening the kiss for one brief, hungry moment before the docking bay reminded both of you that there were witnesses.
When you drew back, his eyes had darkened.
“Tomorrow,” you murmured.
“Tomorrow.”
Hal made an impatient sound.
You kissed Dick once more because of it.
Then you followed the Honor Guard onto the vessel.
The last thing you saw before the hatch closed was Bruce directing Dick toward the medical bay while Hal attempted to decide which of them required closer supervision.
Oa restored your ring in six hours.
The work itself required twenty minutes. The remaining time was spent submitting reports to the Guardians, answering questions from the Corps’ science division, and refusing three separate requests that you surrender the ring for extended study.
You had been awake for forty-three hours by the time you returned to Earth.
The ring carried you through the atmosphere toward Blüdhaven, its energy once again settled beneath your skin. The familiar connection should have eased the restlessness that had followed you from the Watchtower.
Instead, the closer you came to Dick’s apartment, the more difficult it became to ignore how badly you wanted to see him.
You could have contacted him, but you didn’t.
You landed silently on the roof of his building.
The city spread around you in wet neon and reflected headlights. Rain had passed recently, leaving the rooftop slick and the air cold enough to bite through the thin places in your uniform.
The door to the stairwell opened. Dick stepped onto the roof wearing black sweatpants and nothing else.
Your ring translated the startled rhythm of his heartbeat before you dismissed the scan.
His torso was marked with bruises. Dark purple spread across his ribs and shoulder, with a smaller line near his hip where the harness had caught him during the gravity failure. You stared at the damage.
Dick followed your gaze. “It looks worse than it is.”
“You were supposed to get checked.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Bruised ribs. Nothing broken.”
“That is not nothing.”
“I learned from Batman.”
You crossed the distance between you and caught his face between your hands. He smiled just before you kissed him. Dick’s arms closed around your waist and lifted you against him. Your ring flared instinctively, creating a thin green shield beneath his feet when he slipped on the wet rooftop. He laughed against your mouth, and the sound broke something open inside you.
You kissed him harder. His hand slid into your hair, angling your head while his mouth moved over yours with six months of familiarity and one night of restrained fear. You felt his relief in the way he held you, too tight around your waist despite the bruises along his ribs.
You drew back enough to breathe.
“You’re hurting yourself.”
“Worth it.”
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“Dick.”
“You were gone too long.”
“I told you Oa was slow.”
“You said you’d be back tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow.”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“Still tomorrow.”
His mouth found the side of your neck. You tilted your head before you could pretend otherwise. He kissed the sensitive place beneath your ear, then dragged his mouth lower until his teeth grazed your pulse.
Your fingers tightened against his shoulders.
His grin softened as his gaze moved over your face, the humor fading. “You’re really okay?”
You understood what he was asking. The medical scan had been clean. The ring had been repaired. Your shoulder no longer hurt beneath the healed fabric of your uniform. None of that answered the question.
You rested your palm against his cheek. “I’m okay.”
Dick closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, the fear was still there, but quieter.
“I hated watching your ring go dark.”
“I hated watching that thing reach for you.”
“I had it handled.”
“You were drifting toward an exposed hull.”
“Strategic repositioning.”
“You are impossible.”
“You like that about me.”
You kissed him again. He carried you toward the stairwell without setting you down. The door swung open before he reached it, held by a green construct you created over his shoulder.
“Show-off.”
“You climbed the stairs with bruised ribs.”
“The elevator is slow.”
“You could have waited inside.”
“I knew you were coming.”
“You did not.”
“I hoped.”
The honesty quieted you.
Dick carried you down one flight and through the door into his loft. The apartment was dim except for the city light entering through the windows. An abandoned mug sat on the coffee table beside two tablets, one of them displaying a League incident report. Your spare uniform was folded over the back of the couch where you had left it three weeks earlier.
Your boots touched the floor, but Dick did not release you. His forehead rested against yours.
“You could stay here while your sector has temporary coverage.”
“You mean tonight?”
“I mean longer.”
Your breath caught as Dick’s thumb moved along your cheek. “You already have a key. Half your things are here. You complain about my kitchen and reorganize my medical supplies whenever you visit.”
His hand dropped to your waist. “I’m saying you don’t have to keep pretending this is temporary.”
You stared at him. The relationship had never felt temporary. It existed between missions and beyond them, woven through his patrol schedule and your sector rotations. You knew which nights he woke from dreams he would not describe. He knew when silence meant you needed company and when it meant you needed space. You had built something serious while refusing to name its shape.
Perhaps hiding from Hal and Bruce had given you an excuse not to.
“You want me to move in?”
“I want you here.” Dick’s mouth curved faintly. “The logistics can be negotiated.”
“My sector is several thousand light-years away.”
“You commute fast.”
“I can’t store a power battery in your closet.”
“We’ll move the shoes.”
“You have more shoes than I do.”
“That is not relevant.”
“It becomes relevant when they occupy an entire wall.”
“We’ll build another wall.”
You laughed, and Dick’s expression softened with relief. “Yes.”
He went still. “Yes?”
“Yes. I want this too.”
His kiss nearly drove you backward into the door. You caught his waist, careful of his ribs, while he cupped the back of your head and kissed you until every remaining thought of Oa and damaged rings dissolved beneath the pressure of his mouth.
The green light around your uniform flickered. Dick pulled back. “I like where this is going.”
“You like anything involving that uniform disappearing.”
“I like the uniform.”
“You complain about it constantly.”
“It has no convenient zippers.”
“It is created by the ring.”
“My point exactly.”
You dismissed the uniform. Green light swept over your body, replacing the armored fabric with the clothing you had worn beneath it: a thin black tank top and underwear designed to remain comfortable during long patrols.
Dick looked down, his hands tightening on your waist. “I love alien technology.”
“You said that about the shower last month.”
“I contain multitudes.”
You slid your hands over his bare chest, carefully tracing the spaces between the bruises. His stomach tightened beneath your fingertips.
“You should be resting.”
“I was.”
“You were reading reports.”
“I was in bed.”
“With a tablet.”
“Technically resting.”
You pressed your mouth to the bruise near his collarbone. His breath caught. The mark darkened the skin above his heart. You kissed its edge, then moved lower, following the spread of purple across his ribs without pressing enough to hurt.
Dick’s fingers entered your hair.
“You’re trying to distract me from making you rest.”
“Is it working?”
“No.”
You kissed the center of his chest.
“Liar.”
“Terrible one.”
His hand tightened gently at the back of your neck.
You lowered yourself to your knees. Dick stared down at you. The humor left his face with startling speed. “Baby.”
The nickname made warmth gather low in your stomach. Hal had heard it once in the chaos aboard the Watchtower, but here, inside the apartment that was becoming yours as well, it belonged only to the two of you.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants.
“You caught me when my ring failed.”
“I’d catch you anyway.”
“I know.”
You pulled the fabric down. His cock was already hard, springing free against his stomach. Dick inhaled when your hand wrapped around him, his head tipping back as you stroked slowly from base to tip. He was warm and heavy in your palm. A bead of precum gathered at the head, and you spread it with your thumb before leaning forward.
The first touch of your tongue made his hips jerk. You smiled against him.
“Careful,” you murmured. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“You’re cruel.”
“You like that about me.”
“Starting to reconsider.”
You took him into your mouth. Dick’s hand flexed in your hair, not forcing, only holding as you drew him deeper. His breath broke above you. You hollowed your cheeks and worked your tongue along the underside of his cock, listening to every quiet sound he failed to suppress.
He had been restrained since the rooftop, careful with your shoulder and his ribs, speaking around the fear that still lingered after the Watchtower.
You wanted that control gone. You took him deeper until the head pressed against the back of your throat.
“Fuck.”
His hips moved instinctively. You swallowed around him.
Dick’s free hand caught the edge of the table beside him. His knuckles whitened as you pulled back, letting your lips drag slowly along the length of his cock.
He looked down at you. His eyes were dark and unfocused, the blue nearly swallowed by black.
“You have any idea what you do to me?”
You licked the tip. “Four years, apparently.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You waited.”
“You were worth waiting for.”
The tenderness in his voice struck harder than desire.
You took him into your mouth again before he could see too much in your face.
Dick groaned. His hand guided your rhythm now, fingers tangled in your hair while you worked him with your mouth and hand together. Saliva gathered at the base of his cock. You felt his thighs tense beneath your palms, his breathing becoming rougher with every stroke of your tongue.
Then his hand pulled you away. You frowned up at him. “Why?”
“Because I’m not finishing like this.”
“You seemed close.”
“I was.”
“That was generally the intention.”
Dick caught your chin and drew you to your feet. He kissed you with no concern for the taste of himself on your mouth. His tongue swept between your lips, one hand sliding down your back to cup your ass through your underwear.
“You came home after nearly dying,” he murmured against you, “agreed to move in with me, and immediately got on your knees.”
“You are welcome.”
“I haven’t thanked you yet.”
Before you could ask what he meant, his arm moved beneath your thighs.
You caught his shoulders before he could lift you. “Your ribs.”
“Ring,” Dick said.
You stared at him until he glanced pointedly toward your hand.
“You want me to carry myself.”
“I was thinking of it as assistance.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
Dick smiled. “You love me.”
The words came so easily that neither of you reacted at first. Then Dick’s expression changed as he realized what he had said. He had told you he loved you through his actions so often that the admission should not have felt new, but he had never said it directly.
His arms remained around you.
“I do,” he continued, quieter now. There was no joke waiting behind the admission and no charm to soften its vulnerability. “I love you.”
You touched his face. “I love you too.”
His answering smile was small and almost disbelieving.
Then your ring lifted both of you from the floor. Dick laughed as the construct carried you through the loft and toward the bedroom. He kept his arms around you despite no longer supporting your weight, kissing every part of your face he could reach until you dismissed the construct above the mattress.
You landed together. Dick rolled carefully, avoiding his injured side as he settled over you. The city light painted his shoulders in pale lines. You traced one of them before pulling his mouth back to yours.
His hand slid beneath your tank top. He cupped your breast, thumb moving over your nipple until it tightened beneath his touch. You arched into him. Dick pulled the shirt over your head and lowered his mouth to the newly exposed skin.
His lips closed around one nipple. The first slow pull sent heat down your stomach.
You tangled your fingers in his hair while he moved between your breasts, licking and sucking until your breathing became uneven. His hand traced the line of your ribs, gentler where bruises would have formed if the uniform had not absorbed the worst of the impacts.
“You sure you’re not hurt anywhere else?” he asked.
“You intend to inspect everything?”
“Thoroughly.”
“That sounds inefficient.”
“I have time.”
His mouth moved down your stomach. You lifted your hips as he hooked his fingers into your underwear. Dick dragged the fabric down your legs and tossed it toward the chair without looking.
He settled between your thighs. The sight of him there made your stomach tighten. His hair was already disordered from your hands. The bruises along his side remained visible, incongruous with the hunger in his expression.
Dick pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee and then another higher, taking his time as his mouth traveled along your inner thigh while his hands held your legs open, thumbs stroking your skin whenever your muscles tensed beneath them.
“Dick.”
“Patience.”
“I crossed several thousand light-years.”
“Then a few minutes won’t hurt.”
“You objected when Oa said that.”
“Oa wasn’t about to put its mouth on you.”
You laughed, and Dick used the distraction to lick through your folds.
The sound broke into a gasp. His tongue moved slowly from your entrance to your clit. He circled it once, watching your reaction, then repeated the movement with more pressure.
Your thighs tightened around his shoulders when Dick hummed against you, the vibration lifting your hips from the mattress.
He pressed one hand across your lower stomach and held you down while his mouth worked over you. His tongue alternated between slow, deliberate strokes and tighter circles that left you unable to settle into any rhythm.
You had missed this.
Not merely sex, although the ache building inside you had become difficult to separate from everything else. You had missed the privacy of his bedroom, the familiar scrape of his sheets against your skin, the way Dick touched you as though pleasure deserved his full concentration.
His fingers traced your entrance. You spread your legs wider.
“Please.”
Dick lifted his head, his mouth shining. “What do you need, baby?”
“You know.”
“I want to hear you.”
You glared at him. His fingers pressed lightly against you without entering.
“Dick.”
“Use your words.”
“I need your fingers.”
His smile was devastating. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
He pushed one finger inside you. Your head fell back against the pillow.
Dick watched your face as he began to move, curling his finger until he found the place that made your stomach tense. He added a second finger and lowered his mouth to your clit again.
The combination stole the breath from your lungs. You caught the sheets in one hand. The other reached for Dick, fingers closing around his hair while he pumped his fingers into you with a steady rhythm.
“More.”
He sucked your clit into his mouth. You cried out.
Green light flared across the ceiling, and Dick glanced upward without stopping. “Show-off.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
His fingers moved faster. The pressure built too quickly. You tried to hold it back, wanting more time beneath his mouth, but Dick knew every sign of your approaching orgasm. He pressed his fingertips harder against the sensitive place inside you and flattened his tongue over your clit.
Your body tightened. The ring projected a burst of green light through the room as you came.
Dick worked you through it, his mouth gentling only when your thighs began to tremble around him. He withdrew his fingers slowly and kissed the inside of your leg while you struggled to breathe.
“You nearly made a construct,” he said.
You covered your face with one hand. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
Dick moved up the bed. You reached for him before he could settle beside you, pulling him over you until his weight pressed you into the mattress. He braced himself on his forearms to protect his ribs.
His cock slid against your wet entrance. Both of you stilled.
You hooked one leg around his waist. “Dick.”
He kissed you as the head of his cock pressed inside. Your body stretched around him slowly. Dick’s forehead dropped to yours, breath uneven as he pushed deeper one careful inch at a time.
You held his shoulders. He filled you completely and stopped. The stretch bordered on overwhelming after weeks apart, but the discomfort softened quickly beneath the pleasure of having him inside you again. You moved your hips experimentally.
Dick made a strained sound. “Don’t.”
“You stopped.”
“I’m trying not to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“You say that every time.”
“You ask every time.”
“I’m going to keep asking.”
You touched his cheek. “I know.”
Dick withdrew nearly to the tip and thrust back inside. Your mouth opened against his.
He began slowly, each movement controlled despite the tension across his shoulders. His cock dragged against every sensitive place his fingers had already awakened. You tightened your legs around him, pulling him deeper.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“Harder.”
His eyes searched yours. You lifted your hips to meet him. “I’m not injured.”
“Your shoulder.”
“Is healed.”
“My ribs.”
“Are your problem.”
He laughed breathlessly. “Compassionate.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
You pinched his side. Dick caught your wrist and pinned it beside your head.
His next thrust drove you into the mattress. The change in pace tore a cry from you.
“There,” you gasped.
“I know.”
He did. Dick adjusted the angle and fucked you harder, his hips striking yours with enough force to shake the bed. The restraint disappeared from his movements. His hand remained around your wrist while the other gripped your thigh and drew it higher against his side.
You felt every inch of him.
The room filled with the wet sound of his cock moving inside you, the uneven rhythm of your breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress beneath you.
Dick lowered his mouth to your throat. “You scared me,” he said against your skin, the confession emerging between rough, breathless thrusts.
“I know.”
“Couldn’t get to you.”
“You did.”
“Your ring went dark.”
“I’m here.”
His teeth caught gently against your pulse.
You turned your face toward him. “Dick.”
He lifted his head.
“I came back.”
Something fierce and vulnerable moved through his expression. Then he kissed you as though he could press the truth into both of you.
His thrusts became faster. The head of his cock struck the place inside you that made your legs shake. You tightened around him, already too sensitive from his mouth.
Dick felt it. “Close?”
You nodded.
His hand released your wrist and slid between your bodies. His fingers found your clit. The first firm circle made you cry out his name.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me feel you.”
Your ring brightened. Green light flowed over the bedframe, forming thoughtless shapes that vanished before becoming complete. Dick watched the constructs flicker across the walls.
“You’re losing control.”
“You’re distracting.”
“Good.”
He fucked you through the rising pressure, fingers moving in time with every thrust. Your body tightened around him. The pleasure sharpened until it became almost unbearable.
“Dick.”
“I’ve got you.”
You came around his cock, your back arching beneath him. The ring filled the room with green, and for one vivid second a flock of glowing birds swept across the ceiling before dissolving into sparks.
Dick groaned as your walls clenched around him. His rhythm broke.
“Where?” he asked.
“Inside.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He thrust twice more, deep and uneven, then pressed fully into you as he came. You felt the warmth of him spill inside, his body trembling above yours while he buried his face against your neck.
For several moments, neither of you moved. Dick’s breathing gradually slowed. Your hand drifted through his hair. The green light faded until only the ring itself glowed against the sheets.
Dick lifted his head.
“Birds?”
You closed your eyes. “Do not.”
“You made birds.”
“I was distracted.”
“They looked like robins.”
“I will throw you out the window.”
“Robin-shaped constructs. You’re obsessed with me.”
“You waited four years.”
“Worth it.”
He kissed you softly. When he shifted, you felt his cock move inside you and tightened instinctively around him.
Dick stopped. His eyes darkened again. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did not.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
You smiled.
He remained inside you as he rolled carefully onto his uninjured side, taking you with him. You settled against his chest with one leg draped over his hip.
“We should clean up,” he said.
“In a minute.”
“You hate sleeping like this.”
“I didn’t say I was sleeping.”
Dick’s hand moved slowly down your back. “Stay like this for a minute?”
“You should be resting.”
“I am resting.”
“You have bruised ribs.”
“And you’re being very careful with them.”
You kissed the bruise beneath his collarbone. His fingers traced slow circles over your hip.
“Hal and Bruce are coming tomorrow,” you said.
Dick groaned. “Of course they are.”
You settled back against him.
Your ring gave a soft pulse. A message appeared inside your thoughts.
Jordan: STATUS.
You sighed.
Dick felt it. “What?”
“Hal.”
“Already?”
“He wants a status update.”
Dick’s mouth curved.
“Tell him you’re in bed.”
“He will come here tonight.”
“Tell him you’re asleep.”
“He’ll know I’m lying.”
Dick considered the problem. Then he reached for your ring hand and brought it between you.
“Can he receive images?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Dick.”
“Nothing explicit.”
“That qualification is not reassuring.”
He settled more fully against the pillows and closed his eyes.
“Send him proof I’m resting.”
“You are not resting.”
“I’m horizontal.”
“You are still inside me.”
“He doesn’t need that part.”
Your face heated. Dick laughed quietly. The movement made his cock shift, and both of you inhaled.
You sent Hal a deliberately narrow image of Dick lying against the pillow with his eyes closed, one bruised shoulder visible at the edge of the frame.
Three seconds passed.
Jordan: WHY ARE YOU IN HIS BED?!?!
You turned the message so Dick could see it through the ring. He smiled.
“Tell him logistics.”
“I hate both of you.”
“You love one of us.”
You sent the reply.
You: Batman identified a logistical requirement.
The ring remained silent for almost a full minute. Then another message appeared.
Jordan: I AM GOING TO KILL HIM.
Dick kissed your forehead.
“See? He’s not even mad at me anymore.”
Bruce and Hal arrived at ten the following morning.
Dick was awake before the knock. You knew because his arm tightened around your waist beneath the blankets, though he kept his eyes closed as though denying consciousness might make them disappear.
“Grayson,” Hal called.
“No,” Dick answered without opening his eyes.
Bruce’s voice came from the living room. “Your secondary window lock is inadequate.”
Dick’s eyes opened.
The bedroom door followed a moment later, and your shield formed across the doorway before Hal could enter.
“You’re naked.”
Dick pulled the blanket higher over both of you. “What gave it away?”
Bruce stood behind Hal, already dressed for the day and entirely unsurprised by the construct blocking the entrance. His gaze moved from your face to Dick’s, then to the unfamiliar clothing scattered across the floor.
“Your uniform is functional,” he said.
You glanced toward the chair where it had landed.
“Yes.”
“The ring?”
“Fully repaired.”
Hal pushed against the shield. It did not move.
“You stayed here all night.”
You stared at him. “I am an adult.”
“That is becoming a very repetitive defense.”
“It remains accurate.”
Bruce stepped closer to examine the construct blocking the doorway. His attention shifted briefly toward your discarded uniform and the ring glowing on your hand.
“If this is going to become her primary residence on Earth, you will require a secure battery chamber,” he said.
Hal stopped pushing against the shield. The room went quiet. You looked at Dick. Dick looked back. Neither of you had told them.
Hal slowly turned toward Bruce. “Why would she need a battery chamber here?”
Bruce regarded him in silence.
Hal’s gaze snapped back to you. “You agreed to move in with him?”
Dick pulled you closer beneath the blanket. “We’re still discussing the logistics.”
“You cannot move in here.”
“I maintain a residence on Oa and quarters in my sector,” you said.
“Then you have enough homes.”
“That is not how homes work.”
“The existing structure cannot safely contain a power battery discharge,” Bruce continued.
Dick’s mouth curved. “Are you offering to renovate?”
“I am identifying a vulnerability.”
“Which you intend to correct,” you said.
Bruce’s silence was answer enough.
Hal stared at him. “Stop encouraging this.”
“A Lantern battery stored in Blüdhaven requires adequate security.”
“It does not require storage in Blüdhaven.”
“I think it does,” Dick said.
Hal looked at him. Dick looked back, unbothered. Then Hal’s gaze dropped briefly toward the shape of your bodies beneath the covers. His expression changed. “Is he—”
“Do not finish that question,” you said.
Bruce turned away. Dick buried his face against your shoulder, laughing silently.
Hal pointed at the bed. “This is exactly why I said no to being alone together.”
“You do understand that your opinion did not become legally binding,” you said.
Hal turned on Bruce. “He is provoking me.”
“He does that.”
“You’re his father.”
“Not according to him.”
Dick looked over the edge of the blanket. “You really held onto that.”
Bruce ignored him.
Hal released his construct. “I want to speak with her alone.”
“No,” Dick said.
The answer came too quickly. The humor left the room.
Hal’s expression hardened. “I was not asking you.”
“I know.”
You placed a hand against Dick’s chest, and he looked at you. “I’ll be fine.”
His jaw tightened. You understood the fear beneath it. Yesterday, he had watched your power disappear. He had watched Hal challenge your choices as though your relationship were something requiring defense.
You kissed his shoulder. “Give me a minute. I’ll talk to him.”
Dick searched your face before nodding. He pulled on the sweatpants beside the bed, then stepped through the shield to join Bruce. Hal retreated into the living area while the two of them stopped at the kitchen counter across the loft.
You dismissed the barrier only after pulling on Dick’s discarded shirt and a pair of shorts.
Hal looked at the shirt when you emerged from the bedroom.
You walked past him toward the windows. He followed you to the far end of the loft, where the windows overlooked the narrow streets below. Bruce and Dick remained in the kitchen, examining the wall where a battery chamber could theoretically be installed.
Hal folded his arms. You waited.
He looked older without the bravado he had worn on the Watchtower. The repaired ring glowed steadily on his hand, but exhaustion remained in the lines around his eyes.
Hal asked about the things that mattered: whether Dick respected your work, understood that the Corps could call you away without warning, and accepted that duty sometimes had to come first. The answers seemed to ease something in him, although the final question took him longer to ask.
“Are you happy?”
You looked toward Dick again. He had finished arguing with Bruce and now stood with one hip against the counter, pretending not to watch you and Hal from across the loft.
“Yes,” you said. “I am.”
Hal exhaled. “All right.”
You blinked. “All right?”
“I didn’t say I approve.”
“You said all right.”
“I said I understand.”
“That sounds dangerously close to approval.”
“Don’t tell him.”
Dick called from the kitchen, “I heard that.”
Hal raised his voice. “No, you didn’t.”
Dick smiled.
Bruce closed the medical cabinet. “The wall behind the storage unit can support a reinforced chamber.”
Hal stared at him. “You’ve been planning renovations while I was having an emotional conversation?”
“I assessed the structure.”
“You encourage him.”
“He does not require encouragement.”
“That may be the first intelligent thing you’ve said.”
Dick started across the loft toward you, but Hal stepped into his path before he could reach you. Dick stopped, and you gave Hal a pointed look.
He remained there for one stubborn second before moving aside.
Dick came to stand beside you. His hand found the small of your back beneath the hem of his shirt.
Hal watched it happen. His eye twitched, but he didn’t object.
Bruce opened the apartment door.
“I’ll send the specifications.”
“For the battery chamber?” Dick asked.
“For the window locks.”
“You broke through them.”
“They were inadequate.”
“You are the threat model.”
Bruce looked at you. “The cave access code will be updated.”
Dick frowned. “Why?”
“She should have a personal code rather than yours.”
You stared at Bruce as Hal made an outraged sound and Bruce left without another word. Dick slowly looked toward you.
“That was definitely a blessing.”
Hal followed Bruce into the hallway. “It was not a blessing.”
“You didn’t threaten me once,” Dick called.
Hal turned back. A green fist appeared beside his shoulder.
Dick shut the door. The construct struck the other side hard enough to rattle the frame.
You looked at him, and Dick grinned. “You’re going to make this difficult.”
“He was starting to like me. I panicked.”
“You provoked a Green Lantern while half-dressed and injured.”
“Bruised,” he corrected.
You caught his face between your hands. The grin softened.
“What?” he asked.
“You told me you loved me.”
His arms slid around your waist. “I did.”
“You asked me to move in.”
“You said yes.”
“Bruce is building a battery chamber in your apartment.”
“Our apartment.”
Warmth spread through you.
“Our apartment,” you repeated.
Dick laughed softly and kissed you.
There was no alarm, no failing gravity and no one watching from the other side of a conference table. Only his mouth against yours, his hands beneath the shirt you had stolen and the steady green light of your repaired ring.
Your ring gave a soft pulse.
Jordan: I CAN STILL HEAR GRAYSON LAUGHING FROM THE HALLWAY.
You smiled against Dick’s mouth.
“What?” he murmured.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing face.”
You dismissed the message and pulled him closer.
This time, when he caught you, there was no one left to ask why.
synopsis: A civillian loving a vigilante always ends in a deficit. Trapped in the crossfire of an old vendetta, you are forced to pay the price for Jason's double life. But as you shrink away from the bloody armor of Red Hood, the mask slips, revealing a guilt ridden face face of the man who promised nothing bad would ever happen to you
The first thing that returned to you was the taste. The bitter, synthetic chemical, coating the back of your throat and making your tongue feel thick and heavy.
When you finally managed to drag your eyelids open, the familiar comfort of your apartment was gone. There was no lingering scent of the vanilla candle, or the soft hum of the refrigerator, or the reassuring rustle of Jason's leather jacket draped over the couch. Instead, the air was thick with the stench of the heavy industrial grease and old flaking rust.
You tried moving your hands to rub the burning sensation from your eyes, but your arms wouldn't budge. Sharp pain flared in your wrists. You were sitting on a cold, damp rusted metal chair, your arms pinned roughly behind. You can feel the thick, industrial zip-ties dug directly into your skin, cutting off the circulation until your fingers felt numb.
The space around you was massive. An abandoned warehouse swallowed by dark shadows. The only light in the entire building came from a single, harsh halogen spotlight positioned directly above your head. It beamed down with blinding intensity, trapping you inside a circle of light while the rest of the world remained pitch black.
You tried to take a deep breath to call out, to scream for help, to ask for Jason, but your lungs felt heavy, still reeling from whatever had been on that cloth in your kitchen.
"Oh, would you look at that," A voice rasped from the darkness just beyond the harsh ring of light. It was a high and theatrical sound that made the hairs on your arms stand up instantly. "The audience is awake! And right on time for opening night."
Slow footsteps clicked against the cold concrete, getting closer to where you were tied up. Your heart violently hammered against your ribs, a frantic thudding that echoed in your ears as a figure stepped into the light. He was exactly as the news broadcast had described him. He wore a tailor-made purple suit, a garish green silk tie, and a flower pinned to his lapel. His face, however, is what made your breath get stuck in your throat. His skin was painted a bleached white, contrasted by bruised circles around his manic eyes and a jagged red grin carved so wide across his face it looked like an open wound.
The Joker.
In his right hand, he swung a heavy, full-sized iron crowbar. The metal rang out with a sickening clang each time the tip tapped against the concrete floor.
"You know, Jaybird must think you're soft," The Joker spoke, his voice dropping into a whisper as he leaned down. The sharp scent of cheap hair dye and chemical cosmetics filled your senses. He reached out, tapping the cold, jagged tip of the crowbar right beneath your chin, forcing your head up until you were staring directly into the madness of his eyes. "He really thought keeping you tucked away in Crime alley would hide you. But I love a good sequel, don't you? I think you're going to break beautifully."
You pulled away from the metal tool, your teeth chattering from sheer terror and the cold spreading through the warehouse. Your mind was racing, desperate and completely confused. Why was the joker here? Why did he care about Jason? Jason was just a civilian. He worked odd jobs. None of what's happening made sense.
"He'll find you," You choked out, your voice sounding small against the vastness of the empty room. "Jason will call the police. The Bat… Batman will find you."
The joker froze for a fraction of a second, the manic grin vanished, replaced by a terrifyingly vacant expression. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. It was a ridiculously loud sound that echoed off the walls of the warehouse, bouncing back at you until you could almost feel your ears ring.
"The police? The Batman?!" He sprung around his heel, swinging the crowbar through the air like a conductor's baton. "Oh, that's priceless! She doesn't know! Oh, the little bird kept his prettier feathers completely hidden! She thinks he's just a regular citizen!"
He leaned down into your face, his grin stretching so wide it looked ready to tear around the corners.
"Oh, my dear, your precious Jason isn't going to call the cops. He is the cop, the judge and the executioner around here! He'll tear this city apart because he thinks he's a big, scary crime lord now! He thinks he has something to lose. But the look on his face when he realizes he's just a few minutes too late… again? Oh that's comedy gold!"
Your head spun. Crime lord? Big and scary? None of it made sense. You thought of Jason holding a worn copy of his favorite book, his thumb gently brushing your hair out of your face, his soft voice as he told you not to worry about him. It didn't track. It couldn't be.
"But a story needs structure," The Joker murmured, his face suddenly dropping into a chillingly, serious expression. He dragged the heavy crowbar across the concrete. "And Jaybird forgot his roots. He forgot where he came from. He forgot the feeling of the iron. So, I think it's only fair that you help him remember. If you lived what he lived… Well, then you two will have something to talk about over tea, won't you?
Then, he raised the crowbar, but you didn't look away. You couldn't.
The first blow didn't hit your face - The Joker was careful enough for that, he wanted Jason to still be able to recognize you. But it shattered your left shoulder. A sickening crack echoed through the space, followed immediately by a blinding explosion of agony that tore a horrified scream from your throat. The chair tilted, crashing sideways onto the floor, pinning your broken shoulder beneath your weight.
"One!" The Joker shouted gleefully, standing over you. "A bit sloppy on the delivery, but excellent vocal projection from the audience!"
You lay on the freezing concrete that's pressing against your cheek, sobbing, as you felt everything spinning. Every breath you took felt like inhaling smoke. Your shoulder was on fire, a slow, painful burning that made it impossible to move. Through the haze of pain, you heard him dragging the iron again. You braced yourself, closing your eyes, accepting that you're about to experience the same wave of grinding agony a second time, waiting for the impact that would end it all.
But the blows didn't come. Instead, a heavy, mechanical hum groaned through the darkness, interrupting what might've been your last moment.
"Oh, look at that!" We're ahead of schedule!" The Joker clapped his hands. "Time for the intermission!"
His rough, gloved hands grabbed the frame of your chair, dragging you across the concrete. You groaned, the painful sensation in your shoulder flaring until your vision went entirely dark for a few seconds. When they cleared, you weren't under the spotlight anymore.
You were looking at a massive, vertical glass tank, about eight feet tall, filled to the brim with murky harbor water. A metal grate hung open at the top, connected to a heavy pulley system.
The boy wonder always had a flare for the dramatic," The Joker sighed dramatically, gesturing to the tank. "Last time, he went out in a blaze of glory, literally! A beautiful, roaring fire. Boom! But for you, my dear? Let's see how his little anchor handles the deep end. From fire to water... oh, I just love a good theme!"
Before you could understand what he was talking about, before you could even scream, the henchmen lifted the chair - and you with it, slicing the zip-ties on your legs just enough to shove you vertically into the glass cage. The metal grate shut over your head and a padlock clicked into place.
Water rushed over your face, but your instincts took over. You tried to kick frantically against the bottom of the tank, but the movement sent a jolting spike of agony through your shattered shoulder. You couldn't swim since your wrists were still tied behind you, you could only flail, your head breaking the surface for a fraction of a second to gasp a mouthful of air before sinking back down.
Everything looked blurry through the thick glass. You could see the Joker standing there, holding a stopwatch, his painted red smile stretched into a silent caricature of amusement.
Jason, your mind screamed into the water, a desperate, silent plea. Jason, please.
The gunfire started instantly. The joker's men didn't even have time to yell a warning before a series of deafening, rapid fire cracks echoed off the metal doors. Bodies hit the floor one after the other, but your eyes couldn't focus through the thick glass of the tank.
Your lungs were completely flat. The freezing harbor water was suffocating you as your body slowly gave up the fight. Your head drifted downward, your hair floating around your face, and your hands were uselessly pinned behind your back by the metal frame of the chair.
Through the murky, gray depth, you saw a massive silhouette cut through the remaining guards, but as he reached the foot of the platform, Joker stepped directly into his path, the iron crowbar was raised high, his face held an expression of pure manic glee.
"Jaybird! You're just in time for the final curtain!"
An armored hand intercepted the iron bar mid-swing, wrenching the tool out of the Joker's grip, he threw it across the room and slammed the clown violently into a steel pillar. Red Hood's massive hand crushed his windpipe, pinning him off the floor.
"I will paint this room with your blood." His voice growled, so full of rage.
The Joker choked out a rattling laugh, pointing a trembling, white-gloved hand toward the glass cage behind them. "Then.. she… drowns…"
Red Hood froze, looking back through the glass. Your movement had stopped completely. Your body was floating, and your eyes were closed. If he stayed to finish what he's doing, you would die. If he left to break the glass, the devil would run.
It wasn't a choice. It was never a choice.
He struck the thick glass once, and a second time, and a third time. With a deafening roar, the front of the tank shattered into a million pieces. The Red Hood didn't care about the flying shards. He threw himself forward, his massive frame sliding across the wet concrete, catching your limp body before you could slam into the hard ground.
He immediately tore the industrial zip-ties from your wrists with a single, desperate pull. And as your system felt the sudden absence of pressure, and the freezing air slamming into your face, a cough tore through your chest. You rolled onto your side, vomiting cold water, your lungs burning like fire as they begged for more oxygen.
However, the moment you tried to shift your weight, a spike of pain shot from your left shoulder straight through your body. You curled into a tight ball on the wet floor as you let out a weak, choked whimper.
"I've got you," A voice buzzed over you.
You forced your eyes open, blinking away the tears mixed with the dirty water. Standing over you wasn't Jason. It was a terrifying figure dressed in tactical gear, his suit splattered with fresh blood, wearing the unmistakable crimson mask.
The Red Hood.
A wave of pure panic crashed over your brain. Your mind, entirely fractured by the assault you had just survived, didn't recognize Red hood as a savior. It saw another predator. It saw the butcher of Crime alley.
As those large, blood-stained hands reached down to pull you against his chest, every instinct in your body screamed for you to run.
"No! No, stay away…" You cried, dragging your body backwards across the concrete, completely ignoring the screaming agony in your shoulder. You were hyperventilating , you couldn't breathe. All you could see was the blood on his chest, and that blank red mask.
He stopped, his frame went completely rigid.
For a moment, the only sound in the empty warehouse was your shallow wheezing. The helmet tilted downward, staring at your trembling, scared form. You were shrinking away from him the exact same way people shrank away from the monsters of Gotham.
Slowly, he raised his hands to the base of his jaw, and with a pressurized hiss, he lifted the crimson helmet off his head leaving it to clatter to the floor. Beneath it was a pale face. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead. His eyes were wide, filled with a heartbreaking mixture of guilt and terror.
It was Jason.
"Sweetheart," He whispered, his real voice cracking. It was the soft voice from the library. The voice that argued over Jane Austen. "It's me. It's just me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You stared at him, your breath trembling, still catching in your throat, your brain trying to reconcile the two realities. The gentle man who loved you was the bloody butcher of Crime alley. He had kept you completely in the dark while he had a double life? and now your shoulder was broken, your lungs were burning, and the illusion of your quiet, safe life shattered completely into pieces.
synopsis: For six months, you were Jason's anchor to a normal life. But in a city of vigilantes, loving Jason Todd is a luxury a civilian cannot afford. The monster who stole Jason's first life, who condemend him to aliving nightmare, has returned to steal his second. And this time, you were the punchline.
warnings/tags: library meet-cute, soft Jason Todd, domestic fluff, emotional whiplash, fluff to angst, kidnapping, chloroform / chemical drugging, mention of past torture (Jason's canon trauma), cliffhanger ending.
The Gotham public library's north wing smelled permanently of damp brick and the cheap copper pennies left in the wishing well out front. It was the only place in Crime alley where humidity didn't feel like a personal insult, which was why you spent your Thursday afternoons there, wedged between the oversized art folios and a radiator that clanked like a dying engine.
You certainly didn't expect the man with the white streak in his hair to be there. Or for his knuckles to look so bruised you're almost convinced he had broken several jaws, or for those hands to be holding a library-bound copy of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park.
"He's an insufferable, self-righteous bore," you muttered, not quite realizing you'd spoken aloud until the spine of the book creaked all of a sudden.
The man lowered the book just enough for his sharp intense blue gaze to lock onto yours. "Pardon?"
"Edmund Bertram," You said, gesturing vaguely with your pen. "He spends three-quarters of the novel insisting he knows what's morally best for everyone around him while falling headfirst for someone who repeatedly proves she doesn't share his values. Then he spends so long chasing Mary Crawford that he nearly overlooks the person who's understood him all along. He's Austen's most frustrating hero."
"He's not a saint," the man said, finally looking up. His eyes were startlingly blue, too intense for a place that smelled this much like old paper. "He's a man trying to become one in a house where everyone else mistakes status for character. Fanny's the only person who sees the difference from the beginning. Edmund's just stubborn enough to believe Mary Crawford might."
"He tries to dictate her conscience," You shot back. "He's a hypocrite."
"He's a man trying to find a moral compass in a house full of people who think money replaces a soul." He growled, his voice low enough to make the shelves seem quieter. "Mary isn't evil. She's charming enough that he convinces himself her values will eventually match the woman he wants her to be. That's the tragedy. He keeps believing in the version of her that never actually existed."
You stared at him, unbelieving. "You make him sound tragic."
"He is."
"He's still insufferable."
One corner of his mouth twitched. "Those aren't mutually exclusive.” The silence stretched between you. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, "Besides, you don't have to like someone to understand why they became who they are." He just gave you a boring look that suggested he found your entire existence slightly inconvenient, tucked the book under his massive arm, and walked out without another word.
You hated him instantly. You thought he was arrogant and entirely wrong about nineteenth-century literature.
You also suspected,with no small amount of annoyance, that he would be back next Thursday.
The second time it happened, it was over Persuasion.
He was sitting at your table. He didn't ask, he just dropped a heavy duffel bag on the floor and pulled out a notebook that looked like he owned it for years.
"Captain Wentworth is a coward." You said, setting down your coffee with a click.
He didn't even look up from his notes. "Wentworth spent eight years believing the woman he loved chose everyone else's opinion over him. He has every right to be angry."
"He wrote her a letter because he couldn't face her!"
"He wrote her a letter because he'd spent years convincing himself he'd stopped loving her," the man barked, finally looking up. "Then he heard her say one sentence and realized he'd been lying to himself the whole time. What exactly was he supposed to say after that?" The anger in his eyes was defensive, a thick wall he threw up because the book hit something raw inside him. "You think it's easy coming back from the sea to find the person who gave up on you still sitting in the same room, looking like nothing changed?"
You blinked, the heat of the argument dying in your throat as you caught the small, white scar crossing his right eyebrow. "I... no. I suppose it isn't."
If he was surprised by your compliance, he didn't show. He simply cleared his throat, his broad shoulders dropping a bit. "Jason," he muttered, reaching out a hand that was twice the size of yours, the knuckles dark with old bruising, probably the same ones you saw the first time you met him.
That was the day the war turned into a treaty. Thursdays became an unwritten rule. You learned that Jason read with the intensity of a man trying to diffuse a bomb. He studied sentences like clues, looking for some hidden logic to a world that clearly hadn't given him any. You learned he liked his coffee black with no sugar, that he always sat with his back to the wall, and that he held a strangely beautiful, poetic mind hidden beneath the layers of Crime alley leather.
The transition from the library to the diner across the street was seamless.
It happened on a rainy day Thursday when the library's radiator finally gave out, forcing the staff to close the north wing for emergency construction. Jason hadn't asked if you wanted to go, he had simply muttered "Coffee's terrible across the street, but it's dry."
It wasn't officially a date. You told yourself that three times as you watched the neon sign of the diner buzz against the fog. But sitting in an old vinyl booth, you realized the silence between you had shifted, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind that allowed you to look for the magical spark every time his blue eyes met yours over the rim of the ceramic mug. You felt it in the electric jolt that traveled up your arm whenever your fingers accidentally brushed while passing a book back and forth.
You stared at each other, coffee mugs and books forgotten. The air smelled of leather soaked rain and burnt hazelnut, a mix that made your head spin just enough to make you brave, to have the courage to do what your mind was telling you.
You slowly leaned forward, sliding your hand across the table to his side. Jason didn't flinch, but you caught the exact moment his shoulders shifted beneath his wet leather jacket as he cut down the remaining distance separating you, to nothing. He leaned in, his massive frame completely blocking out the rest of the noisy diner until his face was merely inches from yours.
His eyes drifted down, his intense gaze locked onto your lips for a second. Your breath hitched as his large, bruised hand slid across the table. His knuckles brushing against your wrist, his touch was incredibly gentle that it made your pulse spike beneath his skin.
You leaned into his touch, head tilting instinctively as you felt his hot breath on your lips the closer you got to him. It was all too much, even the scent of his black coffee against your skin made your heart beat in a disparate rhythm against your ribs as you waited for the heavy impact of his mouth against yours-
The violent sound of a stray brick shattering through the diner's side window from a street fight down the block tore through the air like a gunshot.
The soft, gentle man that was about to kiss you vanished, getting replaced by the hyper vigilant protector of Crime alley. His grip mocked securely onto the collar of your jacket, effortlessly pulling you out of the booth and down, protecting you from any harm.
'Stay down.' He hissed as his eyes scanned the foggy sidewalk through the hole in the broken glass.
You sat frozen, your heart beating so fast it could come right out of your body. You looked up at Jason, watching his eyes track the danger outside. He didn't look like the gentle man who had just been holding your face, the man who had almost kissed you; he looked completely different. He was entirely focused on the street while your lips still tingled from how close he had been.
You really did hate him. Because as you sat on the floor watching him protect you, you realized you were hopelessly, completely in love with him. And it terrified you.
The transition from the diner to his place, his safehouse, happened on a night where the rain was coming down so hard the streets looked like lakes.
He had held an umbrella over you the entire walk to his home, his own left shoulder soaking wet by the time you reached the door. And when you tried to point it out, he'dd just looked down at you, his thumb brushing a drop of water from your cheek with a gentleness that didn't belong to a man his size.
"Don't worry about me, sweetheart," he whispered. "It's only some water."
Six months later, you were living in the space between his ribs. You were a civilian, living a small life that involved checking expiration dates on milk, paying electric bills and working a shift at the local pharmacy.
Jason was something else. You didn't ask about the numerous guns in the duffel bags, or why every apology he never spoke arrived folded into the way he tucked the blankets around you before dawn. You didn't ask why he sometimes smelled like burnt rubber when he crawled into bed at four in the morning.
You just loved him. You loved the way his large body grew completely still when you rested your head on his chest, as if he were afraid that breathing too hard might disturb you. You loved the way he memorised your routine, how he'd leave a fresh box of your favorite tea on the counter before he disappeared for thirty-six hours, or how he'd double-lock the deadbolts from the outside with a small click.
"You're too soft for this city." He'd told you one night, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair. He was shaking slightly; the aftermath of some hidden violence he wouldn't name. And you hoped that one day, when he's ready, he'd answer all your unasked questions.
"I have you." You whispered, pressing a kiss to his head that lasted long enough that he let out a sigh of relaxation. "You won't let anything bad happen to me."
All he'd done in response was tighten his grip until it almost hurt, holding you like a man drowning, using your warm body as his only anchor.
Usually, when you came home from a late shift, the small space smelled like the scented candle you used the night before, or the coffee that was left forgotten on the counter, or the faint, metallic scent of Janson's leather jacket.
However, tonight, the apartment smelled like nothing. That was the first mistake.
Tonight, the door was unlatched. It didn't look broken. It was just swinging open by three inches, which was weird because Jason always made sure to lock the door whenever he left.
"Jason?" You called out, your voice dropping into the quiet space like a stone into a well.
No response.
You pushed the door open. Everything in the living room was exactly as you left it; the copy of Frankenstein still sitting on the coffee table with your bookmark on page ninety-four. Only the kitchen was different.
The counter had been completely clean, only a single object sat at the center.
It was a small, plastic flower; a forget-me-not, painted a neon green, that was tied to a rusted iron crowbar with a piece of dirty twine.
Your breath caught in your throat, and a sudden cold terror seized your chest before you could ever understand why. With a trembling hand, you picked up the small card tucked beneath the iron tool.
Written in a smeared, purple ink, the handwriting was large and entirely erratic:
Playing the hero again, Jaybird? You couldn't even save yourself! I’ve got your little thing now. I wonder how many hits she can take before she breaks just like you did? Let's see if she has a better bounce! Time for our favorite family game! HA HA HA —J
The window behind you shattered. Before you could scream, before you could even drop the card, a heavy, chemical-soaked cloth was shoved against your face. And the last thing you felt was the cold, hard floor rising to meet you, while a low, high-pitched laugh echoed through the empty kitchen.
summary: Jason is running out of time. Desperate to break the curse that's killing him, he kidnaps the woman responsible for it, only to discover she's far more stubborn, and far less guilty, than he expected.
content: fantasy, angst, curses, slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers, violence, blood, kidnapping, harassment, probably inaccuracies about pirates and pirate life, allusions to sexual harassment, reader is very educated and bold to the point of stupidity, Jason is amused but doesn't want to show it, if i missed any lmk
words: 10.330
Jason always hated the way Tortuga smelled.
The stench of rum, fish, waste and death invaded his senses, making it impossible to ignore. Most of all he hated how he added to it. The splatters of blood on his knuckles was fresh. Bile rushed up his throat at the reminder.
The crack of his neck echoed in the empty bedchamber as he stared at the man sprawled at his feet, illuminated by the soft glow provided by the oil lamp. The only other sounds were the quiet snores of the whore, naked and asleep, and the shallow, ragged breaths of the man lying at his mercy.
He rolled his shoulders as he squatted to the floor, yanking the man by the collar. “Is your tongue feeling loose yet?” Jason tilted his head, green eyes cold. Uncaring.
The man wheezed, blood splattering from his mouth, staining his chin that ugly shade of red. Blue and purple bruises bloomed under his skin. Jason watched as he struggled but did no motion to help him, or lessen his pain in any way.
He stared at him trying not to think about the person he had become. He couldn't bare to.
Once upon a time he would have felt bad for this. For beating a man to an inch of his life. For nearly condemning an otherwise innocent man to a fate he had already suffered from.
But not anymore. Not him. Not when he was this close to tasting the end. Not when the secrets the man held could be his salvation.
Jason watched as the man's lips moved, trying to form words but was unable to, as he fell in and out of consciousness.
He rolled his eyes at the sight before him. Pathetic.
He pulled the man up from the collar, immediately dragging him back to the land of the living.
“Speak,” he demanded, ignoring the sharp sting on his fingers and the pain shooting up his spine. His fist instinctively tightened its grip, grounding him.
“Go- The Gov-” the man slurred, a stray tear trickling from the corner of his eye, mixing with the blood and soot on his face. “The Governor's wife.” he rasped, hand slowly raising, clasping over Jason's.
His eyes glinted at the answer, a small smirk gracing his face, “Wasn’t that hard, aye?” he says immediately letting go of him.
He wiped his hands on the man’s shirt —not that it did him any good, it looked filthier than his hands had ever been— and stomped to the door, the cacophony invaded his ears when he opened it.
Jason stilled for a moment, as his hand touched the hat he had left on the door handle. The thought of calling someone to treat the poor bastard choking on his own blood crossed his mind if only for a second. It disappeared just as quickly.
He was a pirate, not a nurse. Besides, that whore would wake up soon enough, and he liked to think she’d be gracious enough to take care of him.
He quickly left the room, placing his hat back on his head, calling his crew to make for the ship, descending the stairs two at a time.
There was no time to waste—not when the curse still clung to his bones like rot. Not when he knew how to put an end to it.
You hissed as the needle pricked your finger, drawing it immediately to your mouth sucking on the blood. Just as quickly you pulled it away, manners engraved too deep into your bones to allow yourself such an indecency. You stared at it instead, watching as the blood trickled down your finger before it stopped.
You recall your late mother saying how you’ve always seemed to recover faster than other people. Your father called it a gift from God. You never paid it any mind.
“Perhaps, if you held it like a needle, milady, and not like a dagger, it wouldn’t see fit to bite you.” the velvety voice of Margaret Reed, one of your ladies and long time friend, interrupts your thoughts, forcing you back to reality.
You raise your gaze to lay eyes on her. To anyone else she would have seemed uninterested as she sat on the settee, hand moving with precision as she embroidered yet another flower on a piece of cloth that would be forgotten as soon as she was finished with it. But to those that knew her, the glint in her eye was unmistakable, and what would have otherwise been a reprimand, was teasing words between friends.
"At least the needle possesses spirit,” you exhale as you pick up the needle again, slowly pulling on the thread, “Unlike those spineless dandies you keep calling 'prospects'." you say, your lip tugging into a smile.
“Milady!” she gasps scandalized at your words, hands falling on her lap, as she tried desperately to hide the amusement she felt.
You giggle at her reaction. You always thought it was curious how you ended up being so close to her. Sure, you run in the same social circle, but other than that you were nothing alike.
Where she was the perfect example of a high society woman, always poised and refined, you were trying everything to get away from the role fate had assigned you. You knew how to embroider—although badly— and how to play the piano and lute. You learned how to horseback ride from a very young age, and if anyone were to ask you about science, you would most likely know the answer.
You had received the education fitting to someone of your status. The problem lied with the other things you learned along the way.
Like which door creaks the least at night. Or the shift change of the guards, when your father was fast asleep –although that last one wasn't anything remarkable, everyone in the estate knew by the small earthquakes that followed.
You had also learned how to deter suitors, much to you father's disdain.
Turns out men don't enjoy being told they're lacking in intelligence, regardless of how easy some made it.
“Oh, calm yourself Margaret. There is no one here but the two of us.” you brush her off, “Besides, not a word I’ve spoken is false.” you close your eyes, awfully sure of your words.
You saw her take a deep breath in from the corner of your eye, “True or not, milady, it is your duty to behave like a proper lady—and secure a good match.” she says pointedly.
You scoff at her words, there she goes again. You discard the cloth, rolling your eyes, “And I am to do so by hemming handkerchiefs for men that think embroidery is the height of my ambitions?” you say, words sharp, “It’s pointless, wouldn’t you think?” you stand up, straightening out the blue dress your maid, Anne, had picked out for you this morning.
“The point is being a good wife.”
You offer her a tight lipped smile, as you carefully walk towards the library you had installed in your room, “As you shall be soon, I daresay.” you smirk, staring as her face turns into all different shades of red from the corner of your eye.
"And, besides,” you continue, seeing she was too flustered to even talk, “of what use is needlepoint, when men govern a colony with half a brain and no manners?" your fingers scan the covers of the well loved books in your collection.
Her gasp filled the room, “Mind your tongue!" she exclaims, "Heaven forbid your father heard you.”
“He should recover, no doubt.” you say, tone dismissive.
Your father had survived much worse than your words.
“You’ll set the world alight someday” she exhales resignedly, “if the men don’t throw water on you first.”
“Oh, I do hope they try! I’ve always wanted to see a powdered wig catch fire.” you giggle as you walk back to the settee, falling back onto it. Margaret shakes her head in disapproval.
“Milday, you must—” she begins to say, but the knock on the door interrupts her. You both turn towards it, seeing the bright red head of a young servant girl peeking through the crack.
“Pardon the interruption milady, Lord Smythe requests the presence of Lady Margaret.” she says, looking at the floor, too new and scared to look at either of you in the eye.
Margaret snaps towards you, her eyes bright at the sound of her betrothed's name, silently asking for permission to go. As if you would ever keep her from running to him.
Lord Smythe had asked her hand in marriage not too long ago, whilst they were on a walk in her fathers estate. And Margaret seemed ecstatic to begin her new life as a wife, and eventually, a mother. You didn’t understand her, but were happy for your friend nonetheless.
“Run along Margaret, I promise nothing will be set ablaze in your absence” you say giggling, as she hurriedly stands up and heads to the door, saying a rushed thank you and goodbye, before the door closes behind her.
Once you were officially alone you exhaled at the silence that surrounded you, the soft waves crashing against the rocks, hardly audible.
You stared at the closed door, wondering how it would feel to be excited to get married like Margaret was. How it would feel for your eyes to light up at the mention of someone's name. To be excited at the thought of seeing someone.
But all the ‘prospects’, as Margaret liked to call the men your father presented you to, were bland, to put it simply. And, besides, you weren’t keen on giving up your freedom. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Better a spinster, than a wife.
Despite your wishes, you also knew you didn’t have a choice. Not really.
You were the daughter of the Governor, every day of your life has been leading up to the moment of your wedding, to whoever that might be.
Your feelings didn’t matter half as much as your status, if even at all.
You tear your gaze away from the intricately carved door, as you stand up heading towards the balcony.
The salt air was a welcome sensation on your skin, your eyes locked on the horizon. You watched as the sun slowly descended to the sea, painting the sky in hues of orange and yellow.
You close your eyes, leaning against the rail. You let the sounds of the sea and the birds fill your ears, completely ridding your mind of all unwanted thoughts as you start wondering how life would be if your fate wasn't your own.
You exhale, smiling at the chance of being free. To do what? You don't know yet. But it’ll be exciting. And new. And maybe a little terrifying. But it’ll be your own.
You smile as you open your eyes, staring at the beautiful picture that had been created before you, completely missing the hooded figure staring up at your balcony ominously.
Waiting.
Jason knew that it wasn’t very ‘piratey’ of him to sneak into the estate in the dead of the night, and while he’s sure his crew would love to ransack the place and then go get drunk, he couldn’t have anyone following his trail.
The reward was too high for the risk.
He looks around, grimacing at the sight of bust statues of men whose names he couldn’t bother to remember, littered around the hall, lifeless and judgemental, much like the guests in the countless balls his father used to host. His stomach turned at the deja vu, the governor's estate being much too similar to the one he used to call home once upon a time.
The memories crashed into his mind, like the waves against the bow of his ship, angry and unforgiving.
He remembers the way people danced, created something akin to an illusion, leaving him mesmerized by it. Leaving him wanting, wishing to be like them.
He can almost see, his older brother amongst the dancers, some high society girl in his arms, blissfully twirling around, oblivious to how her partner seemed more interested in the sea, than her.
He can almost feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder, as he looked over the party.
Jason shakes his head, being pulled back into the present by the chilly air entering through the window he left open, shoving the memories back to where they belonged, locked away and buried beneath years of grime and saltwater. All that happened in another lifetime. He’s a different man now, nothing like the boy donning silk and jewels.
Thankfully, after this was over with, he wouldn’t have to think about any of that ever again.
Slipping in the shadows was second nature to him at this point, disappearing between the paintings decorating the walls, leaving no trace of his presence behind.
His footsteps were muffled by the velvet carpet, as he sneaked around the estate, looking for the room he found out to be yours earlier that day.
He’d be quick. Get in. Muffle you while you were asleep. Get out.
Child’s play for the man the entire Royal Navy was searching but could never find.
Jason's eyes shine in the dark once your door slips into view, a smile slowly creeping up his face.
He walks towards the ornately decorated door, reaching for the handle. He could almost taste freedom on his togue.
But the sound of footsteps, make him stop in his tracks, resembling the statues along the hall.
They are quick as they echo, bouncing against the walls.
Jason curses as he dives behind the curtains, hidden from the sight of whoever is walking the estates hall at this hour.
"Miss Anne, see to it that the young mistress is prepared in good time for Lord Whittemore's arrival” a deep voice ordered.
Lord Whittemore? Jason hadn’t heard that name in years, but he did remember the man. He was prissy, and what his crew, him included, would call a molly. Always dressed to the nines and always looking at young women, despite the fact was already greying under that God awful wig of his.
He grimaces in disgust at the implication of his arrival.
"And might I trust you to ensure that she properly conducts herself? None of her usual antics." the man continues, not allowing the woman to answer first, "I should hate for the Governor to be met with any measure of embarrassment.”
“Yes, my Lord.” a much younger female voice answers. She sounds timid. Like she’s scared to say anything else.
Jason holds his breath as he listens closely to the footsteps growing quieter, as the pair of them leave to torment some other poor soul he assumes.
This wasn’t part of the plan. If he takes you now, everyone will know by the morning. Every ship in the area will be searching for you.
But if he doesn’t, you’ll be basically sold off, and he’ll have to make both a new plan and bypass whatever security that prick Whittemore will have protecting you. And God forbid the old man gets you pregnant before he’s able to get to you.
So he might as well get it over with now and spare you in the process. Not that you would care. He's seen his fair share of breakdowns over failed courtships. You'd probably be mad if you didn't get to marry that geezer.
Jason takes a deep breath as he quietly leaves the safety of the curtains, his calloused hand grabbing the door handle. Your room comes into view soon after.
You are sitting at the canape, holding a book in your hands, the warm light of the candle by your side illuminates your figure.
He holds his breath as you stop yourself from turning the page, his hand immediately reaching for his sword, ready for you to start screaming. You stare at nothing as you listen in closely to his movements. But it only seems to last a moment before you continue reading.
Jason cannot see what the book is about, but it must be interesting enough for you to not pay him any mind.
He takes a moment to stare at you, as he slowly unsheathes his sword, creeping behind you.
He couldn’t quite understand how you could be the solution to all his problems, or how you were the cause of them in the first place. You didn't look any different from other daughters of aristocratic families. He can’t imagine you’d act any different either.
He didn’t mind that at all. Hell, it made his job easier.
He’d lock you in a cell, get you to the Pit and break his curse. Simple as that.
Yet, he found himself stilling as he stood above you, breath ragged. Sword in hand. Ready to strike.
You hummed a tune as you turned the page of your book, eyes scanning the page.
“Miss Anne?” you called, not raising your gaze, “Might you be so kind as to see that the bed is properly prepared?” your voice was soft, thinking you were talking to your maid.
Jason watched you for a second longer, reveling at your obliviousness. Then, the hilt of his sword struck the back of your head, a sickening thud echoing in the room. You fell limp right into his arms.
He almost felt bad.
Almost.
You don’t think you’ve had a headache quite like this before. Your whole head was throbbing, like a thousand little hammers were pounding away in your skull. And the ringing in your ears only made it worse.
You groan as you try to open your eyes, a hand immediately shooting up your face, as if that could help in any way.
You blink, trying to focus, your hands barely visible as the dizziness hits you again, the second wave stronger than the first.
“Miss Anne?” you call out, sitting up slowly, managing to feel the hard surface beneath you. You must have fallen to the floor while you were sleeping, “Would you be kind enough to fetch me something for the pain?”
You wait for her soft voice, her usual flurry of movement as she scurries to help. But nothing comes. Just silence.
“Anne?” you call out again, ignoring how your head couldn’t stop spinning. Silence still.
You slowly move your head away from the light, ready to call out to her again, but another voice, unfamiliar and rough, cuts through the silence.
“I’m no maid lassie,” it calls and you feel your blood run cold. Why is there a man in your quarters? “And this ain’t your fancy estate.”
Your hands scramble trying to find something to grab, but you only find wood and dust surrounding you.
You force your eyes open, the adrenaline rushing through your veins, wiping the pain away, sharpening your vision. You take a frantic look around, scanning your surroundings.
It’s dark. Darker than it should be, the only sliver of light spilling from a tiny window high above you. The floor is rough beneath your fingertips, eroded and stained with blotches you’d rather not think the origin of.
Your gaze darts to the far end of the room and that’s when you see it.
Bars. Thick, rusted iron bars.
“Who are you?” you demand, the man sat on the other side, hidden by the shadows. You see him lean against the wall, his clothes covered in grime, his boots caked with mud. His face is not visible behind the layers of darkness.
A low chuckle echoes in the room, “Not important,” he says, fingers tapping on his leg, “What matters is who you are.”
You scramble to stand up, immediately noticing the room shifting from side to side as you lose your footing.
Ship. You were on a ship. Which only means-
“I demand to be let go at once!” you yell, grabbing at the bars, all your loathing and clawing desperation directed at your captor.
But yet again, he laughs.
“You’re aint in a position to bark orders lass.” he says and you watch him like a hawk as he steps into the light.
You didn’t know what you expected from the assumed pirate that had captured you for no apparent reason, but a boy, barely older than you, donning a smirk, wasn’t it.
He was taller than you, he probably was taller than most people, strands of white hair falling over the red head scarf he had tied around his forehead, the rest of his hair hidden by a hat. His green eyes looking down at you in derogation.
You knew you couldn’t fight him, you didn't know how. And you definitely couldn’t outrun him, not when you’re behind bars. So all is left bargaining.
“What is it that you want? Gold? A pardon? I can arrange that for you!” you rush to get out before he can harm you.
“It ain’t gold I seek lass.” he steps closer, his face clearer now, green eyes contrasting the filth on his skin, “I need something else entirely…” he says, and you feel the back of his fingers against your cheek.
Your stomach turns at the sensation and the smile on his face, disgusted at what might happen to you. Before you know it, you open your mouth and bite down at his hand, dirt filling your mouth.
Jason yelps, pulling his hand away, his gaze hardened as he looks down at you,
“Wench!” he calls out and then starts laughing maniacally.
He couldn’t wrap his head around what just happened. You, dainty, aristocratic, talking with manners he had forgotten existed, bit his hand. He stared at you, eyes wide with surprise, as you seemingly mastered all your courage to look at him, a scowl decorating your face.
Funny.
“You’re bold, I’ll give you that.” he said, smirking.
His reaction only fills you with more rage, “Release me! Or I will see that you and your entire crew swing from the gallows!” you yell, shaking the bars that confided you. But it only seemed to encourage him.
“Ballsy!” he says, “I like that in a woman.” he smiles at you, but only gets back a disgusted look on your part.
If Jason said he didn’t find this amusing he’d be lying.
He steps closer, hands raised with the intention of leaning against the bars, but you don’t seem to notice that, recoiling at the proximity.
“Don't touch me, pirate!” you exclaim.
This got tiring too soon for his liking. A shame if you'd ask him, he hadn't had a good laugh in a while.
He rolls his eyes, arm sticking through the bars, grabbing your jaw before you can even react.
“I’ll make you a deal, savvy?” he spits, dragging your head closer, “You’ll tell me how to break the curse, I’ll make sure you get fed tonight.”
You stare straight into his eyes, gulping down the fear that seemed to cloud your head, like the mist clouded the port in the early hours of the morning. But you don’t let it show, glaring at him, keeping eye contact.
“Tongue not feeling loose yet?” he asks, expecting you to fold.
But you don’t. Instead, he feels the warm stick of your spit on his cheek, slowly trickling down.
Jason turns his head away, trying with every fiber of his being to keep his composure. To not break the door of the cell and beat you to an inch of your life. Instead, he raises his free hand wiping his face.
You hear him chuckle as he lets go of your head aggressively, making you lose balance for a moment.
He stays still. You see him take a deep breath and turn around, heading towards the door.
You feel like crying at the sight, more than ready to allow yourself to break down finally. But then he stops and your breath is caught up to your throat again.
“Let’s see how feisty you are when pride is all you’ve got left, milady.” he says, and before you know it, he’s out of the door.
You huff, falling as your knees give out. Your head is still spinning by the pirate's taunts.
You would have never thought that your life you would dissolve into this. Stuck, trapped, in a cage of a pirate ship.
You let out a shaky breath, staring at the door, waiting, dreading, of someone coming in. You try to get it under control. But every breath becomes shakier than the last, and the weight in your chest only seems to be getting heavier.
You slowly reach up, your hand trembling as you search through your hair, gaze locked on the door. You breathe out in relief when you grab one of the countless pins your maids had used to keep the strands in place, making sure your head looked more like a painting than hair.
You pull it out in a rush, immediately pulling it apart, fingers working quick.
He couldn’t keep you in here. You wouldn’t allow it.
You kneel before the lock, the wood creaking beneath your knees, breath held tight in your chest.
You have to work fast. It’ll be dark soon.
Every time the ship rocked, you found yourself trying to keep the pin from falling out your hand. Trying to keep your composure despite all the failed attempts to pick the lock.
The smell of saltwater and mold clings to your lungs, much like the corset on your undergarments.
“Blasted thing!” you curse under your breath, grabbing the pin again, jamming it into the lock.
Picking locks isn’t a skill you possess, and if you were being honest, it wasn’t a skill you’d thought you’d ever have to use.
You had tried, however, to pick the lock of your fathers study more than once, wanting to be in his presence whenever you felt lonely.
But this wasn’t your fathers study. This was the brig of a pirate ship, and behind the door wasn’t his warm embrace, but criminals that would kill you without a second thought.
Your eyebrows furrow, as you slightly bite on your tongue in concentration, moving the pin carefully, trying to hear the mechanism.
And then you do. A soft click rings in your ears, your eyes widening at the sound.
Your fingers immediately start moving slower, with more intention behind them, twisting the pin in your hands carefully. One more twist and you're out.
But the floorboards above you creak. Your blood runs cold. There’s a voice.
Someone is coming.
You can clearly hear the footsteps growing nearer to you, the voice louder. Your hands are moving in panic, trying to get it to open before whoever it is opens the door.
You stare at the lock obsessively, as if it would cower under your gaze, give up and open at last.
And then you feel it. The light resistance.
You turn your head towards the door, terrified as you hear the handle move. And with a swift motion, you twist the pin, the characteristic sound of it opening overtaking your senses.
You feel the tears streaming down your face in relief as you scramble to the other side of the cell, leaving the cell door closed.
You hide your face in your skirts, as the person descends the stairs into the room.
You listen as the heavy steps move closer, their sound overpowered by the ringing of your ears.
And suddenly, it stops.
You raise your head when you feel something hitting your feet.
Before you, you see a piece of stale bread, the shadow of your captor surrounding you.
You turn your head, shocked, staring at him, as he starts heading out without saying a word.
“Thank you.” you say, grabbing it, but he only grunts before slamming the door behind him.
You sit there, slowly eating the bread he threw at you, piece by piece. By no means was it good, but your hunger overpowered whatever tastes you had grown up with and the fear of the possibility that he would try to poison you.
You sit there, ignoring the numbing pain clawing up your body, waiting for the ship to fall silent, along with its crew.
You’re sure you’ll find at least 3 people on deck, but three people is better than 50, and you need the chances to be in your favour if you are to escape this wretched ship.
You stay, still as a statue, listening closely until the footsteps cease sounding above you.
The only thing you can hear are the waves crashing against the barrel of the ship.
You tumble on your skirts, as you rush to stand up, falling on your feet as you get to the door.
Your hands immediately reach for the cell door, pulling it wide open.
You feel hot as the adrenaline rushes through your veins, sweat trickling down your face. Your eyes sting with tears you won't allow to escape.
You tiptoe up the stairs, hand trembling as your hand touches the handle, cringing at the creaking sound. Hoping, no one is standing guard.
You breathe a sigh of relief when you find the corridor empty.
The air outside the room wasn’t much different than within it, if only for the characteristic pungent of alcohol added to it. You ignore the bile that rushes up your throat, lightly stepping outside.
You walk slowly, a hand constantly brushing against the weathered wood, splinters pricking your fingers, as you try to keep balance within the shifting ship.
You pass by the hammocks the crew slept on, thankful their drunken snores muffled your hurried steps.
It only takes you a minute before you find the trap door leading to the deck, the cold air of the night kissing your face. You smile at the sight of it, reaching up to open it, more than ready to-
“What d’ye figure the Cap’n wants with ‘er?” a gritty voice above you catches your attention, as you immediately shoot to the side, scared he’ll come down and catch you.
You hold your breath, listening in, hoping they'll what you are here for.
“How in blazes should I know?” you hear a second voice answer, sounding much younger than the first, “Gold, mayhap.”
“Aye…” the first man sighs, “or maybe he’s longin’ for a woman’s touch.” he laughs, a wet rattling sound that makes your skin crawl.
You’re going to throw up, the sharp feeling of your corset digging into your ribs becomes more noticeable.
“ ‘thought the Cap’n were a molly.” the voice sounds farther away this time, shocked at the apparent intentions of his captain.
“Shut yer gob! He’s wedded to the sea, he is.” you hear the younger one curse as he stumbles, after being slapped probably.
You wonder if they’ll fight.
You hoped they would. Maybe then they’d be too distracted to notice you fleeing.
“Aye, that’s what they say.” the voice fades, your breath still stuck in your throat, scared that even the slightest sound will make them come back.
You can hear the chatter in the distance still, but it's too far to decipher what they’re talking about.
Taking a deep breath in, you step under the trapdoor again, staring up at it. You slowly lay both your hands on it, sweat clinging on your palms as you push it lightly, smiling as you see it give away to pressure.
You peek your head outside, just enough to scan your surroundings.
Clear.
You grit your teeth in anticipation as you push it further up, sliding quietly on deck.
The cold air sticks against your nerve riddled skin, relief flowing through your body.
You could finally breathe easy again.
For a moment you stare up to the night sky, letting the sound of the sea overtake your senses. You would have loved to see the stars this clear again but under different circumstances. Sit under them, draw and study them, until the sun returns to the sky, letting light touch everything within the horizon. You immediately find the North Star. Familiarity floods you. As long as it is in the sky, you'll make it out of here.
A particularly strong gust of wind wakes you up, as if it is reminding you that you weren’t safe, that you needed to leave this place.
You rush, hiding behind the nearest mast, safe from wandering eyes. You search for a boat you could escape with.
You grin widely when you catch a glimpse of it.
Without a second thought you run towards it. Your eyes dart across, looking at all the intricate knots that kept it in place. Your hands immediately reach towards them.
You don’t know how to lower it peacefully, opting for just letting it fall to the water. Then, you could jump in, climb up and row away before anyone can see you.
Your brain buzzed with the feeling of your imminent freedom.
One of the knots gives away. The boat tilts. You grin.
One more knot. One more knot and you’ll be free.
One more knot and—
You scream when someone picks you up, throwing you over their shoulder. You feel the rough fabric of his shirt against your face as you’re hauled away, the scent of salt and leather mixed with something darker.
You were so close to freedom. So close.
First thing you notice is the red head scarf, tears pooling in your eyes at the realization of who had caught you.
“Let me go!” you start squirming immediately and he tightens his hold on you. You hit and punch his back, as digs his fingers in your flesh in annoyance.
“You think you’re real smart don’t ya?” he says, as you continue screaming and kicking your feet.
You can barely hear the laughing of whatever crew is awake in the background as he brings you to a room you can't recognise.
“Why me?” you yell at him, your fists hitting his back, “What is it you want?” you yelp as he throws you.
You expect the pain that follows being thrown to the floor like a sandbag, but it never comes. You open your eyes slightly, seeing that you have been thrown on a bed, and instead of a cell you see a polished room.
“You really have no clue-” he laughs.
You watch him rush to the middle of the room where a desk is laid, as he throws the things on it around in search of something.
Your eyes immediately dart around, in search for the door, vision blurry with tears.
From the corner of your eye, you see him stomping towards you, dread filling you at the sight of a knife in his hand. “What are you-” You immediately scoot backwards, trying to put as much distance as possible between you.
“Wh- What is happening?” you ask as you see him pulling up his sleeve.
You start yelling and writhing when he reaches for your arm. But you weren’t quick enough to pull away, his rough and calloused hands grabbing your wrist.
You bite your lip, refusing to let the tears of pain fall, but your whole body trembles with the force of it. Every inch of your skin burns where the blade touches, and the noise of the knife cutting through flesh feels like a jagged echo in your head.
He is precise as he cuts through your warm flesh, throwing the knife away once he’s done.
“Look.” he says, noticing your head tilted away from the injury he inflicted on you, “Look!” he screams this time, shaking you.
You tentatively turn your gaze on it, your whole body trembling. Your pained expression is quickly replaced by a shocked one.
The cut on your arm had slowly started to close, the blood ceasing to flow. The skin knitting itself closed before your eyes.
You raise your gaze to look at the man before you, but he isn’t looking at you.
The pained expression on his face is directed at his own arm. Teeth visibly gritting, jaw clenched.
You slowly look at his hand this time, restlessness cursing through you at the sight.
At the same place where he had cut your arm, blood flowed on his. Skin ripping apart, flesh slashed open.
The surrounding area turned that rotten shade of black, a putrid scent filling your nostrils.
Where your own wound closed up, a whole new appeared on him, the knife nowhere in sight.
“This is what you have to do with this!” he says, throwing your hand away, groaning, like it pained him to even stand, “It’s between your life and mine, sweetheart,” he glares at you and you feel shivers rising up your spine at his words, eyes never leaving his. “And I choose mine.”
You spend the better part of the night sitting by the bed, staring at your feet, wondering how long it would take for someone to find you if you just jumped off deck. Maybe you should wait for another ship to appear before you do so. At least then you’ll have a vague idea of how much time it'll take for you to swim close enough to be seen and rescued.
But what if that’s days from now? What if a worse fate awaits you there. The situation at hand isn’t a good one by any means, but at least no one has tried to take advantage of you.
Yet.
You close your eyes letting your head hit the wooden wall of the cabin.
“This is what you have to do with this!” he says, throwing your hand away.
You open them as quickly as you had closed them, the memory of his hand spontaneously bleeding crossing your mind every time you did so.
You let a breath leave your lungs looking around the cabin trying to occupy yourself with anything else.
There were books on the table in front of you. Lots of them. And you could see some photographs stuck on the gaps. You turn your head up, a chandelier with little shells hanging from it. You look down, your dress. You reach and pick up the hem. You run your fingers over the black and brown spots, spoiling the light blue fabric. Any other day, you'd be annoyed at the state of it. You’d drop whatever you were doing and immediately go change. But today? Today you just stared at it unbothered.
No use crying over spilt milk.
You let the hem back on the floor, redirecting your gaze at the porthole, looking through it. Not that there was much to see. The North star was still shining bright and unchanged.
You don't know how many hours have passed since you got locked in the cabin, but by the darkness outside it mustn't have been nearly as long as it felt. The thought of it is comforting in a way. There's still a chance this is all a bad dream and that you’ll wake up soon.
You startle awake from your position on the floor at the loud bang that echoes through the cabin as the door slams open.
You snap your eyes at the sound, watching as the man you had learned was the captain walks in.
He looks… different under the morning sun. Younger. Softer almost.
Whatever you noticed as he walked in, immediately disappeared as he laid eyes on you, his features hardening, posture straightened in a way you’re all too familiar with.
His boots echoed, despite the room being filled with all kinds of things from top to bottom.
He crosses the room standing right in front of you as he extends his hand. Only then you notice the plate he was holding.
“Eat.” he says, averting his gaze from you. Your eyes dart between him and the plate before you scoff.
“You’re mad if you think I’m touching that.” you turn your head away from his offering.
You feel him tense up, annoyance radiating off of him, “Too rough for that silver-plated tongue of yours?” he spits out. Heat crawled up your neck.
“No, I simply have no desire to blacken it with poison.”
“If I wanted to kill ya, I would have done so already, lass.”
You roll your eyes, turning to look at him, eyes hard trained on him, “Why have you not done so?”
He opens his mouth but the answer dies on his tongue. His jaw clenches as he turns around. “That is of no concern to you.” he says as he throws the plate on the table and storms out of the room, the familiar jingle of keys following the shut door.
You fall back as the sound of silence envelopes you.
You feel the corner of your lip twitch upwards as you try to suppress a smile.
Seems like you’ve won this time. Pity you're still locked in there.
The satisfaction doesn't last for long as you remember the fact. You're still being held captive in the middle of the sea after all. Any positive emotion dims in comparison to the situation in hand.
The fact that the captain seems to have some paranormal score to settle with you doesn't help either. What's that about anyway?
It can't be true, that much you know. You've never seen this man before and you've never been out of town. He’s just a heathen after the gold your father will be paying to get you back.
Yeah. That sounds about right.
As for what you saw, or think you saw, it was simply your mind playing tricks on you. You have been abducted after all, and you have been scared and anxious. Yeah. It was a trick of your mind. Or the light. Or anything really. What matters is that it wasn’t real.
Regardless of tricks and magic you're still stuck on this stupid ship, sitting on the stupid bed.
That won't do. You jump off the bed, immediately losing your footing as you struggle to stand up. You haven’t been on board a ship ever. And you’ll never set afoot off land if you’ll have anything to do with it.
You hold onto the desk as you look around for anything that could possibly help you. It was a mess. Not surprising, though it made your search significantly harder. A feather was left next to a small glass bottle of ink, small black blots decorating the map it laid upon.
You take a closer look at the map. It looked a lot like maps you've seen hanging in your fathers office. Only this one was a mess. The noon observation of what you assume was yesterday's measurement is wrong. You scoff, aren't pirates supposed to be good at navigating living in a ship and all?
You look further down, a small inscription is written in the corner. It is in what seems to be Arabic. You exhale annoyed at this, your head cocking at the side. You had always thought learning the language would prove handy. Your governess disagreed.
You move past this quickly. You raise your head, eyes skipping over the plate that was filled with what looked like porridge, instead they land on gold.
Books.
Relief floods through you as you scramble to get closer. If anything could help you out of this, it would be those.
The books were typical. Collections of maps. Astronomy. Atlas Maritimus. History. Spencer. Shakespear. Navigation.
Shakespear? Interesting. You lean closer, straining your eyes. Much Ado About Nothing.
An amused breath escapes you picking up the copy, flipping through it. Your eye catches something as you do so. Ink seems to decorate some of the pages. You stop at the next one you notice.
A laugh escapes you as you read the line he had underlined. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?”
You blink. Surely not. You quickly turn the page.
“I love you with so much of my heart, none is left to protest.” you read, “Well, I’ll be damned!” you exclaim, a smile threatening to break out on your face.
You stare at it. The man who surely had killed people before annotated Shakespeare.
You close the book, your cheeks tingling upwards at this newfound information.
You look back at the porridge he had left you, the thought of eating momentarily crossing your mind before you look away again. You won't be falling for such cheap tricks.
Your stomach, however, would. A whine escapes your lips as you look at the plate from the corner of your eye, stomach growling.
…It’s just porridge. How could he possibly have tampered with porridge?
You shake your head not willing to spend time or energy thinking of all the different ways one could. Instead you decide that possibly poisoned food is better than no food at all and sit down, reaching for the plate. Besides, he seems to think that he needs you. He wouldn’t poison you. You think.
Despite that you take a spoonful into your mouth and immediately regret it, your stomach tightening. Why does it taste like fish?
You can feel your stomach churning for all the wrong reasons this time. You go to stand up, find something to spit it out before your body decides the same. But you don't manage to.
The door slams open and you accidentally swallow the atrocity insulting your taste buds, hand flying to your mouth in disgust.
The captain stills at the door at the sight of you sitting behind his desk, his eyes traveling from you to the plate.
“You’re eating.” he notes, his eyebrows shifting before he catches his expression.
You lower your head before he catches the horror written all over your face, “I am.” you say, the words catching at your throat, the taste not subsiding one bit. His gaze lingers for a moment before his usual demeanor shifts back into place.
You look at him through your eyelashes as he closes the door behind him, “Here I thought I was trying to poison you” he says with a smirk dangling from his lips.
You clear your throat. “You said it yourself.” you move the porridge around, trying to control your face. “If that were your intent, you would have done it by now” he hums in acknowledgement leaning on the wall. “Or you’re just doing a remarkably poor job at it.”
His eyes crinkle lightly as his cheekbones rise. A small smile appears slowly and this time he doesn’t hide it.
Wonderful. You felt like the porridge is going to take you out and he found something amusing. He either deliberately messed with the food or the salt from years at sea had finally gotten into his brain and thought this was a proper meal. You don’t know which is worse.
The captain draws closer to you, looking at the map you dug out the mess he had left, “Ya wanna tell me why yer at my desk lassie?” he asks, any sort of amusement he might have felt long gone. You look up at him from your seat, an eyebrow raising up.
“Your map is mistaken.” you say refusing to let yourself be intimidated. Especially now that you know how he spends his free time.
“It ain’t”
“It is.”
“And ya know that, how?” he scoffs, a hand placed on the desk, as he leans over you. You can see it in his eyes clear as day that he doesn't trust you. Why would he afterall? You may as well be trying to derail his course and whatever plan he had.
But you were not. The map was wrong.
“Because your navigator seems to think that we are twenty-eight degrees north.”
“And?”
“And we are not.” you sit up straighter, pushing the plate as far away from you as possible.
“And how can ya tell?”
“Polaris.”
“What about it?” He stands straight again, crossing his arms, looking down at you.
“It’s too south.” you bite back. You are not going to give him the satisfaction of backing down, however foolish that was. If you'd let him live in obliviousness, you might have escaped easier. But it's too late now.
You hear him smack his teeth. looking at the ceiling, “Get up.” he says, grabbing the map.
It was your turn to scoff and cross your arms over your chest, "You're mad if you think- Let go of me!” you exclaim when he grabs your wrist, yanking it away. But he's quicker grabbing at your arm.
Your breath catches as he brings you close enough to his face for you to see the glint of madness in his eyes.
“Listen lass, I ain't got time for games.” he spits out, “Ya either come with or I drag you, your choice.” he says. Your eyes widen as something flashes behind his eyes for the briefest moment before it disappears as it had never been there. You blink in disbelief.
You gulp down the fear that was stricken into you, “I’ll walk.” you say simply and he lets go of you.
“Smart.” He turns around and heads towards the door with long strides. You follow behind him, holding your arm where he had grabbed you in pain. You looked up at his back as he towered over you even from a distance. What the hell was that?
The salt in the air is the first thing you notice the moment you set foot on deck. You inhale in relief, the stuffy room you had been locked into seemed claustrophobic after having been in fresh air.
You raise your hand over your eyes, ignoring the stares you've been getting from his crew as you tailed after their captain.
“Flynt!” he calls out as he climbs up the stairs to the wheel.
“Aye Capt’n!” you strain your eyes against the sun looking at the man that had answered. He looked sickly to say the least. His hair was thinning, and he was littered from head to toes with open wounds. You have heard about this affliction before. You take a step back not recalling whether or not it's contagious.
“The lass says we're at the wrong place.”
The man, Flynt, turns and looks at you standing behind the captain in contempt, “We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.” he spits out still not taking his eyes off of you. Shivers rise on your back at this.
The captain looks down at you before you speak up, “We’re too far south.” you stand straighter.
“And how do ya know?”
“Polaris.” you answer him despite the toothless smirk he throws your way. You feel the porridge inkling to come out. At this point you’ve gathered an audience.
“And ya think you know better?” he cackles, the rest of the crew following him. You cringe at the cacophony, stepping forwards, standing right next to the captain that hadn't said a word still, holding out your hand.
“May I borrow your quadrant?” you ask. You might have been held hostage on a pirate ship and dirtier than the stable boys back at your estate had ever been, but you're still a woman of your standing and you won't let a bunch of no-good heathens change that.
He scoffed, throwing the tool at you dismissively. You manage to catch it before it falls to the ground and breaks into pieces. You clear your throat as you bring it close to your eye and point it to the sky, carefully using it.
“Thirty-one degrees.” you say offering it to the man gently, but he grabs at it and looks at your measurement dismissively.
He grumbles something you couldn't quite understand as he copies your movements. After a moment he brings it down and looks at the measurement, his shoulders slumping.
“Thirty-one…” he grumbles, throwing an annoyed glance at you, not daring to say another word. The rest of the crew follows his silence.
You look up at the captain who seemed more annoyed than mad, “Correct it.” he says shoving the map into the man's hands before storming off.
You follow behind him trying to escape the unwanted stares.
“Back to your posts!” you jump as he yells and everyone scrambles off.
The silence that follows the both of you on the way back to the cabin was deafening. He opens the door for you to enter the room first and out of habit you do so, "That's not a very bright crew you’ve gathered.” you say against your better judgement.
“Shut your mouth and eat your fish porridge.” he says and slams the door shut the moment you are inside, locking you into the cabin once more.
You stare at the door eyes wide. So he did give you that porridge on purpose.
You stomp around the cabin annoyed. You thought that after helping him he might have let you out of this suffocating cabin. Instead he just locked you in once again. He might as well have let you rot at this point.
The rest of the day you had managed to entertain yourself. You snooped through his stuff, which is not very ladylike, but he's a pirate so does it really matter?. You read some of his books. You analysed maps. Then you started staring out the porthole, looking at the sky, looking at the sea, then looking at the sky again.
That was during the day. But now? The sun had set a while ago and the oil had run out, leaving you surrounded by darkness.
You were starting to contemplate if death is a good solution to boredom.
It could be. Then you’d be off this stupid ship and you would have pissed off the captain. Two birds with one stone.
Your thoughts are halted by the sound of the door opening. You still at the sound.
Finally he’s back. He might have taken pity on you and brought some oil with him.
You turn quickly towards the door expecting to see his tall frame, “Don’t you know its improp-” but instead you’re met with a far lankier figure. One you recognise from earlier that day, on the deck. Flynt.
“What happened lass?” he spits as he draws closer, “Cats got your tongue?”
You take a step back as he moves, hands searching for anything that could be helpful, but you find nothing.
“Get away from me!” you exclaim looking towards him, straining your eyes to see. But the room is dark and the moon shine doesn’t do much to help you out. One thing is clear however. The knife he seems to be holding. “I’ll scream!”
He cackles at your words, the disgusting sound reverberating through your skull, “Don’t worry, you’ll be doing that pretty soon sweetheart.” you feel like throwing up.
Your back hits the wall soon after. Having left nowhere to go, you stare at him, hands trembling.
“What?” he asks, now so close to you that you can feel the heat emitting from his body in waves, “You were pretty mouthy earlier, what happened?”
You take in a ragged breath when you feel the point of the knife pressing on your chest, “You’re scared?” he says, dragging it lower, as you try your best to not let the tears fall.
“You should be.” you feel your skirts being dragged up, and soon enough the cold metal is pressed against your thigh.
You ball your hands up as you choke back a sob, feeling the warm blood trickle down your leg.
“Still not talking?” he taunts you as you turn your head away from him, “It’s alright.” he laughs and pulls the knife away from your leg, “I’ll make you talk.”
You close your eyes awaiting for the impact. But nothing comes.
Instead you hear heavy footsteps and something being dragged against the floor.
Your eyes shoot open watching as the captain dragged the navigator out of the room.
Suddenly you feel the air return into your lungs. You fall on your knees, a hand clasping at your chest as you struggle to control your breathing.
He wanted to kill you. He would have killed you.
You almost died. You almost died. You almost died. You almost die-
“I said she’s not to be touched!” the booming voice of the captain pulls you out of your stupor. You snap your head towards the door.
You raise your arm grabbing at the nearest point, forcing yourself up, bracing yourself for the pain to shoot up from your leg.
But nothing comes. With shaking hands you pull the skirts up, fingers tracing where he had maimed you. Smooth. Not even a scar. No…
Your eyes widen in realisation, an involuntary gasp escaping your lips.
You rush outside the room and onto the deck staring at the two men. The captain and Flynt seemed to be fighting.
And surely enough, the captain seemed to have a limp.
You feel your throat swell up. He was telling the truth.
You yelp as you see the smaller man lunge towards the captain. His eyes immediately snap towards you as he hears the sound.
Next thing you see, the navigator is pushing the knife he had threatened you with into the captain's abdomen. His maniacal laughter following the attack.
Jason turned his attention back at him, looking between the crewmate and the knife, eyes hardening.
Without saying a word, he lifts his sword up and cuts the navigator's neck open.
You stared in shock as he stopped laughing, taking several steps back, a hand raising to hold his neck.
Flynt chokes as blood splutters from his mouth. He is looking at the captain, his captain, as the younger man swings his sword, slicing through his abdomen, whilst holding his own wound.
They both fall on their knees, blood pooling around them. Only one of them is groaning and the other one falls to the front and soon enough stops moving.
You watch in horror, nauseated by the scene you lean over emptying your stomach's contents on the deck.
You cough at the acidic taste as you raise your head, eyes immediately landing on the captain, who is breathing heavily looking at the night sky.
And then it hit you. He saved you. He saved you. And now he looks like he’s on death's door.
“Why would you do this!” you scramble over him, fully disregarding the newly dead body laying between you two.
“Dont ‘ya remember lass? I need you.” he says as your eyes searched frantically over him, trying to assess the damage done.
“And that's more important than your life?” you ask as he lifts his torso, trying to get up, “Don’t move!” you say but he pays you no mind. You huff as you push your hair out of your face, and bring your arms around him, trying to lift him. Soon enough you realise that you’ve overestimated your strength. He doesn’t seem to mind however, using you as a crutch as the two of you walk into a nearby room.
“Have you no fear of death?” you ask, sweat trickling down your temple as you help him sit on a chair.
“I woulda if I could die.” he laughs, followed by a pained cough.
You inhale in annoyance as you throw cabinets open looking for a bowl and water. “Would you stop speaking in riddles?” you ball your hands up, eyes lighting up when you find what you’ve been looking for.
“Am not.” he groans and you tread towards him, falling on your knees, “Let's be honest, no human could survive that.” Your head snaps up at him, eyebrows furrowing.
Silence falls upon you at his words. He’s right of course. Not that you’d ever tell him that. He just got stabbed. He had an open hole in his abdomen, one that was slowly closing before your eyes. He should be dead by any means.
Instead he is laughing and antagonizing you.
You give him a strained nod as you empty the water into the bowl. You don't dare speak, your mind running a million thoughts per minute.
He was telling the truth. About his… condition. Strange as it was, you’ve seen it in action twice now. It’s the unmistakable truth.
You look down at your lap as you rip a piece of your dress off, immediately dipping it in water.
“You were telling the truth.”
“Told ya.” you raised your head again. You see the captain looking down at you, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You looked away, focusing instead on dapping the blood that stained his skin clean.
“That shouldn’t be possible.”
“Aye,” he hissed at the contact and your hand trembled at the sound. But you were quick to regain composure and continue as you were.
“Thank you.” you mumble, not baring to hear the sound of his flesh getting stitched back together.
“For what?” he asks, looking at you still.
“For saving me.” you mumble ignoring his stare. You don’t want to know what human expression he might have right now, preferring to visualise him as the angry pirate that abducted you.
He laughs at your words, “I was saving myself lassie, don’t take it personally.” he moves around, throwing his head back. You hear him inhale as he does so. You look at the blackened tissue that paints his abdomen. You don’t want to imagine how painful this must be for him.
“Well, you still did,” you swallow, “I’ll repay you.”
“I don’t need no gold.”
“I know.” you raise your head, lips furrowed, “I’ll help you break this curse of yours.” you’re met with an expression that you could only describe as shock.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared. The smirk returned a second later, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, “You’ll regret that,”
You exhale, keeping your eyes on the blood stained cloth, “I know.”
After a very long wait, it's here! Unfortunately is was getting waaaay too long so i broke it in half
i just saw a post where the reader apparently does krav maga. it really bothered me, bcs how ignorant can one be, yk? i went to look at the comments and the author was getting called out, saying that it was propaganda and all that, to which the author said it actually wasn’t for that purpose. but in one comment, the author says they kept getting hate for mentioning krav maga….
getting called out ≠ getting hate. just because someone is calling u out for mentioning a HUGE piece of israeli propaganda doesn’t mean ur being bullied on the internet. take this chance to educate yourself on how krav maga pushes the israeli agenda to the general public to make the apartheid state more like able, instead of turning yourself into a victim.
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x dick grayson, healer! reader, reader gets hurt, self-sacrificial healing, severe injury, fall injury, temporary paralysis/loss of mobility, blood, medical trauma, pain transfer, guilt, panic, near-death fear, angst with comfort
masterlist
word count 8.2k
Dick Grayson knew how to fall. Better than anyone, maybe.
There was an art to it. A language. A thousand tiny choices made in the narrow breath between losing the line and hitting the ground. Turn the shoulder. Tuck the chin. Roll through the impact. Trust the body. Trust the air. Trust the hands that had taught you how to fly before you were old enough to know that gravity was not mercy, only law.
Dick knew falling. He knew the split-second sweetness of empty space. The rush of wind against his face. The world turning around him in ribbons of light and shadow. He knew how to make falling look like flying, because that was what the Graysons did.
They fell beautifully.
Until they didn’t.
That was the first lesson.
The second was that someone always had to catch what was left.
Dick had built a life out of becoming that someone. He caught teammates before they hit concrete. Caught civilians before buildings collapsed. Caught the Titans when they spiralled, caught Bruce when he vanished too far inside the Bat, caught Jason’s anger when nobody else could hold it without bleeding, caught Tim’s exhaustion before it became a body bag, caught Damian’s sharp edges and pretended they did not cut.
He smiled. He joked. He opened his arms and made himself the net. It was easier that way.
People trusted nets. People did not ask if nets were tired.
You did, though.
That was one of the first things that unsettled him about you.
You always asked.
“Shoulder?” you said, appearing beside him before he had even fully made it through the medbay doors.
Dick looked down at the red line slicing through his suit, just under the joint. “Hello to you too.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is it the shoulder?”
“It is deeply rude that you know that from ten feet away.”
“It’s my entire thing.”
“Your entire thing is being bossy and magical.”
“My entire thing is healing idiots who think flirting counts as a treatment plan.”
He gasped and pressed his uninjured hand to his chest. “You think I’m flirting?”
“I think you’re bleeding on my floor.”
“That’s not a no.”
You gave him a look.
Dick smiled.
It was easy with you.
That was the problem. Most things with you felt easy, even when they weren’t. Even in the aftermath of horror, with sirens in the distance and smoke still clinging to everyone’s suits, you had a way of lowering the temperature in a room. You came in with steady hands, soft eyes, and a voice like warm water over bruised skin.
You were the Titans’ miracle.
Not that you liked being called that. Gar had tried once, dramatically, from a medbay cot after you healed three cracked ribs and a bruised spleen.
“My angel,” he had declared, one hand thrown over his forehead. “My saviour. My divine little first-aid kit.”
You had thrown a roll of gauze at his head.
Vic had laughed for a full minute.
Kory had kissed your cheek in gratitude.
Raven had watched you with that quiet, knowing look of hers.
Dick had watched too. He watched more than he should have.
He watched the way your face tightened for half a second after you healed someone. The way you always turned slightly away before taking a breath. The way you flexed your fingers like you were shaking off static. The way you insisted on cleaning up alone afterwards.
At first, he thought healing took energy. That made sense. Every power had a cost. Every body had limits.
You told them yours was fatigue.
Dick believed you.
Not because he was careless.
Because he wanted to. Because after years of watching good people stay hurt, there was something dangerously addictive about watching wounds vanish under your hands.
When Raven came back from a mission with psychic backlash clawing through her mind, and you pressed your fingers to her temples until her breathing evened out, Dick did not ask why you spent the next hour sitting alone in the dark.
When Gar twisted his knee badly enough that the sound made everyone in the room wince, and you healed him before the panic really hit, Dick did not ask why you limped afterwards.
When Kory took a blast meant for a child, and her skin split gold-bright across her ribs, Dick did not ask why your own hand shook as you helped her sit up.
He noticed. But noticing was not knowing.
That was what he told himself later. Over and over. Like repetition could turn guilt into absolution.
He noticed. He just didn’t know.
Not yet.
The night everything changed began with rain.
Blüdhaven rain was different from Gotham rain. Gotham rain fell like a verdict. Cold, black, heavy with memory. Blüdhaven rain came down silver beneath neon signs, slicking the streets until every alley looked like it had been painted in oil. It turned rooftops treacherous, fire escapes slippery, windows into mirrors.
Dick loved it anyway.
It was his city. Bruised, stubborn, trying. A little ugly in the right light. A little beautiful in the wrong one.
The Titans had come because the call was too big for one vigilante and too strange for local police. A new metahuman trafficking ring had gotten its hands on alien tech and old magic, which was never a combination that suggested anyone involved had made good life choices.
By midnight, the docks were burning. By twelve-thirty, three warehouses had partially collapsed. By one, the sky above Blüdhaven was full of drones shaped like metal wasps, each one armed with sonic emitters strong enough to rupture glass and destabilise inner ears.
“Tell me again why crime can’t be normal,” Gar shouted over comms.
Dick flipped over a drone, brought both escrima sticks down, and sent it sparking into the rain-slick rooftop. “You want normal crime?”
“I want crime that doesn’t make my teeth vibrate.”
“You have teeth right now?” Vic asked.
“I have emotional teeth.”
“That tracks,” you said over comms.
Dick smiled despite himself. Your voice always did that to him. Cut through the noise. Found him.
“You’re supposed to be behind the barricade,” he said, ducking under a burst of sonic fire.
“I am behind the barricade.”
“You’re too calm.”
“I’m very calm behind the barricade.”
Raven’s voice came in, flat as ever. “They are not behind the barricade.”
Dick exhaled sharply. “Of course they’re not.”
“I’m near the barricade,” you corrected.
Kory flew overhead, a streak of orange through the storm. “Friend healer, there are many injured civilians near the west warehouse.”
“I see them.”
Dick’s attention snapped toward the west side of the docks.
Through the rain, he saw you moving below.
Not at the barricade. Not near the barricade. Running straight toward the worst of the damage, because apparently, self-preservation was not included in the miracle package.
“Absolutely not,” Dick said.
“You sound like Bruce.”
“That was cruel and unnecessary.”
“You’ll live.”
“Not if you keep sprinting into active combat zones.”
“Then stop watching me and stop the drones.”
A drone screamed toward you.
Dick moved before thought could catch up. He launched himself from the rooftop, grapple line firing, body arcing low through rain and smoke. The drone’s emitter pulsed once. Pain stabbed through his ears. His vision blurred.
He released the line. Dropped. Twisted.
His boot connected with the drone hard enough to crack the metal shell. It spun away and exploded against the side of a warehouse in a shower of blue sparks.
Dick landed in front of you, one knee down, rain streaming off his hair.
You stared at him.
He looked up with his best smile. “Hi.”
Your eyes narrowed. “That was incredibly dramatic.”
“I’m a performer.”
“That was incredibly stupid.”
“I’m also Batman-adjacent.”
“Unfortunately accurate.”
Behind you, a civilian groaned.
Your expression shifted instantly.
There was the healer.
The softness vanished into focus. You moved past Dick and dropped beside a woman pinned beneath a collapsed beam. Her leg was crushed at an angle that made Dick’s stomach turn. Her breathing came in panicked sobs.
“Hey,” you said gently, all teasing gone. “Look at me. Not the leg. Me.”
The woman grabbed your wrist with shaking fingers. “I can’t—I can’t feel—”
“I know. I’ve got you.”
Dick watched you place both hands over the injury.
He watched your shoulders rise as you inhaled.
Then the woman gasped.
The beam shifted. Dick lifted it enough for Vic to pull her free.
Her leg was whole. Bruised, but whole.
She started crying.
You smiled at her.
Then, very subtly, your left knee buckled.
Dick caught it.
Not much. Just one hand at your elbow, enough to steady you.
You went stiff beneath his touch.
“You okay?” he asked.
You smiled too quickly. “Fine.”
There it was. That word.
Dick hated it when Bruce used it. Hated it when Jason spat it through bloodied teeth. Hated it when Tim said it without looking up from a laptop.
He hated it most from you.
Because you made it sound kind.
Another drone shrieked overhead before he could say anything.
The docks trembled.
Raven’s voice cut through comms. “Nightwing, the central warehouse is rigged. There are people inside.”
“How many?”
“Too many.”
Dick looked up. The central warehouse stood at the edge of the pier, half its roof torn open, old brick walls glowing with intermittent blasts of alien-blue light. Through the broken windows, he saw movement.
Civilians. Hostages.
The structure groaned. Then the upper floor exploded outward.
Kory shouted. Dick ran.
You called his name.
He ignored you.
He heard you following anyway.
Of course he did.
Inside, the warehouse was chaos.
Smoke. Screaming. Sprinklers raining dirty water from cracked pipes. Drones buzzing between support beams like insects. Civilians huddled behind shipping containers while armed traffickers tried to retreat through a back exit.
Nightwing moved through them like a blade wrapped in blue light.
Strike. Dodge. Flip. Disarm. Smile, because fear spread faster when people saw the hero afraid.
“Exit to the south!” he shouted. “Go! Go now!”
Kory blew a hole through a side wall for evacuation. Vic ripped open jammed doors. Raven shielded a group of children from falling debris. Gar, currently a gorilla, blocked a collapsing beam with both massive hands and yelled, “I would like everyone to appreciate my core strength!”
You were everywhere you should not be. Healing a burned firefighter. Pressing a hand to a child’s forehead. Closing the wound across a police officer’s side. Calm, quick, relentless.
Too relentless.
Dick saw your face pale. He saw the way you pressed one hand briefly to your ribs after healing the officer.
Something in him tightened.
Then the floor screamed.
Not cracked.
Screamed.
The alien tech at the centre of the warehouse pulsed, drawing power from the old magical sigils carved beneath the concrete. The combination sent a shockwave through the building.
Every support beam lit blue.
Raven’s shield shattered. Kory slammed into a wall. Gar lost his grip.
The ceiling began to come down.
Dick saw it happen in pieces.
A family trapped near the upper catwalk. A little boy separated from his mother. The metal walkway beneath them twisting loose.
No time for the grapple. No time for a plan.
Just the fall.
Dick launched himself upward, using a stack of containers as steps. His boots hit metal. His body moved on instinct, rainwater and smoke and adrenaline turning the world sharp.
He grabbed the boy first and tossed him toward Kory, trusting her to catch him.
She did. Of course she did.
The mother screamed as the catwalk tilted.
Dick caught her wrist.
For half a second, they hung there over open air.
“Don’t look down,” he told her.
She looked down.
They always looked down.
A support cable snapped. The catwalk dropped. Dick twisted, threw the woman upward with everything he had, and felt Vic’s metal hand close around her coat.
Then the world gave way beneath him.
Falling was supposed to be familiar.
This was not.
The sonic emitters went off all at once.
His inner ear shattered into static. The building spun wrong. His grapple fired but missed the broken beam by inches. His fingers closed on nothing. His shoulder clipped metal hard enough to tear a shout from his throat.
Then he hit a lower catwalk.
Pain cracked across his back.
He bounced. Fell again.
He tried to turn. Tried to tuck.
Couldn’t.
There were too many angles. Too much debris. Too much noise.
The ground rushed up.
For the first time in years, Dick Grayson did not know how to fall.
He hit concrete.
And everything stopped.
At first, there was no pain.
That was how Dick knew it was bad. Pain was information. Pain told you what was damaged and how much time you had before the body started making executive decisions without you.
No pain meant the body had gone quiet. No pain meant the damage had passed language.
He stared up at the broken ceiling. Rain fell through the hole in the roof, silver and soft against his face.
Someone was screaming his name. Maybe several someones.
Dick tried to move.
Nothing happened.
Not his legs. Not his right hand. His chest moved, barely. Breath scraping in shallow and wrong.
Ah. That was bad.
A shadow fell over him.
You.
Your face appeared above his, wet with rain, streaked with soot, eyes wide with a terror that did not belong on you.
“Dick,” you said.
He tried to smile. He wasn’t sure if it worked.
“Hey,” he breathed.
It came out broken.
Your hands hovered over him, trembling.
That scared him more than the fall. You never trembled.
“Don’t move,” you said.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Your face twisted.
Bad joke. Wrong moment. Classic Grayson.
He tried to lift his hand to touch your face.
Nothing.
Your eyes flicked down.
You saw.
He saw you see.
“Talk to me,” you said.
“Can’t feel…”
He stopped.
Your lips parted.
He did not want to finish the sentence.
He had spent his life moving. Flying. Running rooftops. Dancing along edges so narrow most people could not stand on them without shaking. His body was not just a tool. It was memory. Family. Language. A living echo of the Flying Graysons.
He could not feel half of it.
“Dick,” you whispered.
The building groaned around you. Distantly, Kory shouted for you both. Vic cursed. Raven’s power surged dark and bright somewhere behind the smoke.
You cupped Dick’s face. Your hands were warm despite the rain.
“I’m here,” you said.
He believed you. That was the danger.
“Don’t,” he managed.
Your expression shifted.
He was not Bruce. He had not figured it out fully. Not yet. But something old and instinctive in him understood the shape of sacrifice when it leaned too close.
You had looked pale after healing people. You had limped after fixing Gar’s knee. You had hidden your hand after Damian broke his wrist on a mission with the Supersons. You had smiled through it all.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
You shook your head. “You’re dying.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t.”
Your eyes filled. “Dick—”
“Please.”
That word hurt more than the fall. Please was not a word Nightwing used often in the field. Please belonged to civilians, to scared children, to moments too human for masks.
Your face broke. Only for a second.
Then you leaned down and pressed your forehead to his.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
His heart lurched.
“No,” he said, or tried to.
Your hands slid beneath his shoulders.
And then the pain came.
Not his.
Yours.
He knew because it came with your scream. It tore through the warehouse, raw and animal and absolute.
Dick’s body snapped back into itself. Sensation flooded his legs. His fingers. His lungs. Pain, yes, but normal pain. Bruises. Strains. Things he knew how to name.
His spine straightened. His ribs expanded. His right hand clenched.
He gasped and rolled onto his side, coughing through smoke.
For one impossible second, relief hit him.
Then he saw you.
You were on the concrete beside him, twisted at the same angle he had been. Your back arched unnaturally. Blood spread beneath you. One of your legs lay still, too still. Your hand curled against the ground, fingers shaking like they were trying to remember how to move.
Your mouth opened. No sound came out.
Dick’s world narrowed.
“No,” he said.
It did not sound like him.
He crawled to you, hands skidding in water and blood.
“No, no, no.”
Your eyes found his.
You looked relieved. Relieved. Like seeing him move was worth what had happened to you.
Something terrible opened inside him.
“Why would you do that?” he choked.
Your lips moved.
He leaned closer.
“Caught you,” you whispered.
Dick broke.
Not loudly. Not at first. The sound that left him was small. Fractured. A child’s sound buried under a man’s voice.
He gathered you into his arms with shaking hands, trying not to jostle your spine, trying not to touch anywhere wrong, trying not to look at the blood, the angle of your body, the proof.
The proof.
He had fallen. You had become the fall.
“Kory!” he screamed.
The name tore through his throat.
Orange light flashed.
Kory landed beside him hard enough to crack concrete. Her eyes went wide when she saw you.
“Oh, beloved healer,” she breathed.
Dick looked up at her, wild. “We need medevac.”
Vic’s voice came through comms, tight with horror. “Already calling it.”
Raven appeared from the smoke, her hood torn, shadows curling violently around her.
She looked at you. Then at Dick.
Her expression went white.
Not pale.
White. Like she had felt something nobody else could.
“She took it,” Raven whispered.
Dick stared at her. “What?”
Raven’s voice shook. “The injury. She took it from you.”
The warehouse seemed to tilt.
No. No, he knew that. He had seen it. He had felt his body become whole as yours broke.
But hearing it made it real in a way his mind had been refusing to allow.
Gar, shifted back into human form, stumbled toward them. “What do you mean took it?”
Raven swallowed. “Their power doesn’t erase wounds.”
Dick looked down at you.
Your eyes were half-closed now.
No.
No.
No.
“It transfers them,” Raven said.
No one spoke. Even the burning warehouse seemed to go quiet.
Dick pressed his fingers to your throat.
Pulse there.
Fast. Weak. Too weak.
“Stay with me,” he said, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. Come on, look at me.”
Your eyelids fluttered.
He smiled because he did not know how to do anything else with terror.
“There you are,” he whispered. “Stay with me, okay? I’ve got you.”
Your lips twitched faintly.
“Net,” you breathed.
“What?”
“You’re… always the net.”
Dick’s vision blurred.
“Yeah,” he said, voice breaking. “Yeah, baby. I’m the net. So you don’t get to fall through. You hear me?”
Your eyes closed.
Dick’s smile vanished. “No. No, no. Open your eyes. Open your eyes.”
Kory knelt beside him and placed one glowing hand carefully against your shoulder, not healing, not touching the wound, just there.
“Dick,” she said softly.
He shook his head. “They’re not dying.”
“No,” Kory agreed, though her voice trembled. “They are not.”
Dick looked down at you in his arms.
He had caught you.
Too late.
But he had caught you.
And he would not let go.
Titan Tower’s medbay had seen bad nights.
This was worse.
The room was full of people trying not to fall apart loudly.
Kory stood by the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her glow dimmed to a low, anxious pulse beneath her skin. Gar sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. Vic kept running diagnostics, jaw clenched, his human eye red. Raven stood in the corner with her hood up, shadows tucked close around her like grief with teeth.
Dick sat beside your bed and held your hand.
He had been told to leave twice.
He had not.
The first time, a nurse tried gentle concern.
The second time, Donna tried command voice.
Neither worked.
Finally, Raven had looked at everyone and said, “Let him stay.”
So he stayed.
You lay still beneath white sheets and too many wires, your body strapped carefully to prevent movement. Spinal stabilizers ran along your back. An oxygen line curved beneath your nose. Your face looked wrong without expression. Too empty. Too quiet.
Dick kept staring at your mouth. Waiting for it to quirk. Waiting for you to make a joke about his bedside manner. Waiting for you to open your eyes and call him dramatic.
His suit was still on. Torn, wet, stained with your blood and his own, though technically the blood was all yours now in the ways that mattered. Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders.
Probably Kory. Maybe Donna.
He did not remember.
He remembered your scream. He remembered your body twisting. He remembered Raven saying, It transfers them.
His hand tightened around yours. Your fingers did not move.
“Dick.”
Donna’s voice came from the doorway.
He did not look up.
“How long?” he asked.
She was quiet for a second. “The doctors don’t know.”
He nodded once.
Meaningless.
His gaze stayed on your face.
Donna came closer. “They said the injury may not behave like a normal spinal trauma. Their body processes transferred wounds differently.”
“May,” Dick repeated.
“Yes.”
“May not.”
“Yes.”
He laughed once. It was ugly.
Donna’s hand settled on his shoulder.
That almost undid him.
Dick bowed his head over your hand.
“I should have known,” he said.
Donna did not answer.
He hated her for that. Loved her for it too.
“I noticed things,” he continued, voice low. “After they healed people. I noticed.”
“Dick.”
“I noticed and I let it go.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.”
Donna squeezed his shoulder. “That is Bruce talking.”
His head snapped up.
She looked at him steadily.
“You are allowed to be hurt without making guilt useful,” she said.
Dick stared at her.
Then he looked back at you.
“Useful is all I’ve got right now.”
Donna’s expression softened.
Behind them, Gar made a broken sound.
“I let them heal me last week,” he said.
Everyone looked at him.
He stared at the floor. “My knee. It was nothing. Like, yeah, it hurt, but it wasn’t—” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t worth that.”
Raven closed her eyes. Kory turned away sharply.
Vic’s metal hand curled into a fist. “They healed my neural interface after Psimon fried half my systems.”
“They helped me after Trigon,” Raven said quietly.
Silence fell.
Not empty.
Crowded.
Every person in the room was remembering.
Every hand you had held. Every wound you had closed. Every time you had smiled afterward and said you were tired.
Only tired.
Dick felt sick.
Not because you had lied.
Because all of them had been relieved enough to believe you.
The door opened again.
Clark Kent stepped in, rain-dark hair mussed, glasses absent, Superman suit visible beneath a jacket he had clearly thrown on in a hurry.
He looked around the room once. Then at you.
His face changed.
“Oh,” he said softly.
That was all.
Just oh.
Dick wanted to stand. Wanted to say something. Wanted to be Nightwing, team leader, eldest brother, person who knew how to make everyone breathe again.
He couldn’t.
Clark came to the other side of your bed.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he said.
Dick nodded.
Clark’s eyes lowered to your still hand in Dick’s grip.
“They healed me yesterday,” Clark said.
Dick’s breath caught.
“Kryptonite burn,” Clark continued quietly. “They looked pale afterwards. Bruce noticed. He told them to rest.”
A horrible laugh escaped Dick. “Of course he did.”
Clark looked at him with infinite gentleness. “Bruce didn’t know either.”
Dick shut his eyes.
He could imagine Bruce finding out. The silence. The rage. The way he would turn terror into protocols and guilt into surveillance. The way he would blame himself first, hardest, longest.
Dick had learned from the best. Unfortunately.
“Can you hear anything?” Dick asked.
Clark’s face tightened.
Heartbeats. That was what Dick meant.
Clark nodded. “Their heart is steady for now.”
For now.
The phrase lodged under Dick’s ribs.
He looked down at you.
“Good,” he said, like the word had weight, like saying it could make it true. “That’s good.”
Clark stayed for a while.
So did everyone else.
One by one, though, they drifted out. Not far. Never far. Titans did not abandon their own. They lingered in hallways, in waiting rooms, in corners with vending machine coffee and red-rimmed eyes.
Eventually, only Dick remained.
He was good at vigils. He hated that too.
Hours passed in monitor beeps and the low hum of machines.
Your hand was warm in his.
That became his whole world.
Warm meant alive. Warm meant here. Warm meant not yet.
Near dawn, your fingers twitched.
Dick nearly came out of his chair.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward. “Hey, I’m here.”
Your eyelids fluttered.
He forgot how to breathe.
Then your eyes opened. Unfocused at first. Cloudy with pain and medication.
Then they found him.
You smiled. Barely.
It devastated him.
“Hi, pretty bird,” you rasped.
Dick made a sound between a laugh and a sob.
“You’re not allowed to be charming right now,” he said.
Your brow furrowed faintly. “M’dying?”
“No.”
“Then I’m allowed.”
His mouth trembled.
You blinked slowly, gaze shifting around the room. “Tower?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone okay?”
There it was. First question.
Not, Am I okay? Not, What happened?
Everyone.
Dick had never loved and hated anything more.
He leaned closer.
“No,” he said.
Your eyes came back to him.
“They’re not okay. I’m not okay. You scared the hell out of us.”
Your expression shifted with slow understanding.
Then memory returned.
He watched it happen.
The warehouse. The fall. The choice.
Your eyes filled. “Dick—”
“No.” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. “No, don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t make it easier. Please don’t make it easier.”
You went quiet.
He pressed your hand to his forehead.
His shoulders shook once. Only once.
“I watched you become the fall,” he whispered.
Your breath hitched.
“You were—” He stopped, unable to finish. “You were on the ground. Like me. Because of me.”
“Not because of you.”
“You took my injury.”
“Yes.”
The honesty punched the air out of him.
No deflection. No lie. No, I’m fine.
Just yes.
Dick lifted his head. His eyes burned.
“How long?”
Your gaze slid away.
His stomach dropped. “How long have you been doing that?”
You were quiet.
Too quiet.
Dick understood before you answered.
“All of it?” he asked.
Your mouth trembled.
“Most of it,” you whispered.
Dick stood so fast the chair slammed backward.
You flinched.
He froze immediately.
Regret flashed through him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” He pushed both hands through his hair and turned away, pacing once before spinning back to you. “It’s not okay. None of this is okay.”
Your face had gone pale.
He forced himself to lower his voice. “You took Gar’s knee.”
There was something old in them then. Older than your face. Older than your smile.
“I heal faster than most people.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“That sounds like something Bruce would say.”
A weak breath of laughter escaped you.
Dick did not smile.
The laugh died.
“I didn’t want you to know,” you said.
“No kidding.”
“Dick.”
His name in your voice hurt.
He came back to the chair slowly and sat down because standing made him want to run through walls.
You turned your head toward him.
The movement was tiny. It still cost you. He saw the pain ripple over your face.
“Don’t,” he said quickly.
You stilled.
He hated this. He hated all of it. The bed. The machines. Your body trapped under injury. His body whole because yours wasn’t.
“I need to know why,” he said.
“You know why.”
“No.” His voice came out sharper than intended. “No, I really don’t.”
Your eyes searched his face.
He let you see it. All of it. The fear. The anger. The betrayal. The love he had been carrying like a secret too fragile to name.
You looked away first.
“I didn’t want anyone to choose pain,” you said.
Dick stared at you.
“Everyone I work with is the same,” you continued. “The League. The Titans. The Outlaws. All of you. If I told you what healing costs me, you’d refuse unless you were unconscious or dying. Maybe even then.”
“Yes,” Dick said. “Because we’re not monsters.”
“You’re martyrs.”
He went still.
You looked back at him. Softly, exhaustedly furious.
“You are,” you said. “Every single one of you. You’d let yourselves bleed out if it meant I didn’t have to feel it. You’d call that noble. I call it stupid.”
Dick let out a stunned laugh. “You cannot be serious right now.”
“I am extremely serious.”
“You are lying in a medbay because you took a broken spine from me.”
“And I’d do it again.”
The room went silent.
Dick’s face crumpled before he could stop it.
You saw. Of course you saw.
Regret passed over your features.
“Dick—”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, don’t say that.”
“I can’t lie to you anymore.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to almost die for me and then tell me you’d do it again.”
“I love you.”
Dick stopped. Everything stopped.
The monitors kept beeping. Somewhere outside, someone walked down the hall. Rain tapped lightly against the Tower windows.
But inside Dick, every moving part went still.
You looked terrified now.
Not of death.
Of him. Of what he would do with the truth.
Your eyes glistened.
“I love you,” you said again, voice breaking. “And I know that’s not an excuse. I know it doesn’t make lying okay. I know it doesn’t make taking the choice away okay. But it’s the reason.”
Dick could not move. He had imagined hearing those words from you more times than he would ever admit. Usually in softer places. A kitchen at two in the morning. His apartment. A rooftop under a kinder sky. Your hand in his, your smile warm enough to make the world feel less like a thing that constantly needed saving.
Not here. Not with your spine braced. Not with your blood still dried under his fingernails.
“You can’t say that,” he whispered.
Your face went blank.
Dick realised what it sounded like and reached for you immediately.
“No. No, that’s not—” He sat on the edge of the chair, one hand hovering near yours. “That’s not what I mean.”
You looked at his hand.
He waited.
This time, he waited.
After a moment, you moved your fingers weakly toward him.
Permission.
Dick took your hand like it was made of light.
“You can’t say you love me like that,” he said, voice shaking. “Like it means your life is automatically worth less than mine.”
Your eyes filled again. “I don’t think that.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” he said, gentler now. “Because I know that trick. I invented that trick. I perfected that trick. I have a whole family of emotionally repressed vigilantes who could give a TED Talk on that trick.”
A watery laugh escaped you.
Dick’s thumb moved over your knuckles.
“I know what it looks like when someone calls self-destruction devotion,” he said.
Your smile faded.
He swallowed hard. “I know because I do it all the time.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you whispered, “Yeah.”
He laughed once, and this time it was almost real. “Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“Still rude.”
Your fingers twitched against his palm.
He lowered his head until his forehead rested against your hand.
“I love you too,” he whispered.
Your breath caught.
He held onto you tighter.
“I love you,” he said again, because now that the words were out, he could not bear to let them stand alone. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it. And I am so angry at you that I can barely breathe.”
You made a small sound.
He lifted his head.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I only wanted you alive.”
His face twisted.
“I know,” he said.
That was the worst part. He knew.
There was no cruelty in what you had done. No malice. No carelessness.
Only love. Misdirected. Secretive. Devastating love. The kind that looked too much like his own.
Dick leaned forward and pressed his lips to your knuckles.
Your eyes closed.
He stayed there.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“We have to tell everyone.”
Your eyes opened. Fear flickered.
“They already know some of it,” he continued. “Raven felt it. She told us what happened.”
You looked toward the door.
Dick followed your gaze.
Through the small window, shadows moved in the hallway.
The Titans.
Waiting. Hurting. Loving you.
Your mouth trembled. “They’re going to hate me.”
Dick shook his head immediately. “No.”
“They should.”
“No.”
“I lied to them.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And they’re going to be upset. They’re going to be scared. Gar is probably going to cry on you, so prepare emotionally for dampness.”
Despite everything, your lips twitched.
“Vic is going to pretend he’s fine and then build you seventeen medical devices,” Dick continued. “Raven is going to stare into your soul until you confess every symptom you’ve ever hidden. Kory might actually lift a car.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“She might. For emphasis.”
Your smile faded, but some of the terror went with it.
“And you?” you asked.
Dick breathed in.
“I’m going to stay mad for a while,” he admitted.
You nodded.
“But I’m also going to stay.”
Your face cracked open.
He leaned closer.
“I’m not leaving because this is hard,” he said. “I’m not leaving because you scared me. I’m not leaving because you made a bad choice trying to save me.”
Your eyes searched his.
“I need you to promise me something,” he said.
“Dick…”
“No secret healing. Not with us. Not anymore.”
Your jaw tightened. “Emergency circumstances—”
“We’ll define them.”
“You sound like Batman.”
“I know. I’m devastated too.”
A weak laugh.
His heart nearly buckled under the sound.
“I mean it,” he said. “You have to tell people what they’re agreeing to.”
You looked down. “I know.”
“And you have to let us take care of you afterwards.”
“That’s harder.”
“I know.”
“I’m bad at it.”
“Baby, you are catastrophically bad at it.”
You huffed.
He smiled faintly, then sobered. “But we’re going to practice.”
“We?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed your hand. “We.”
Your eyes glistened.
“Okay,” you whispered.
It was not enough.
But it was a beginning.
Dick could work with beginnings.
He was a circus kid. A vigilante. A Robin. A Nightwing. A man who had lost the ground and learned to trust the air anyway.
Beginnings were just another kind of leap.
The Titans entered one at a time. Gar cried first, obviously. He tried very hard not to, which made it worse. He stood beside your bed with his arms crossed, lower lip trembling, eyes too bright.
“I’m mad at you,” he said.
Your face softened. “I know.”
“I’m, like, really mad.”
“I know.”
“And sad. And mad. And also really glad you’re not dead, which is making the mad part complicated.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It is.” His voice cracked. “You took my knee.”
Your eyes lowered.
Gar wiped his face with his sleeve. “It was just my knee.”
“Gar…”
“No, it was. It hurt, yeah, but I would’ve been fine. It wasn’t worth you hurting.”
You looked at Dick. He said nothing.
This was yours to answer.
You swallowed.
“At the time,” you said carefully, “it felt worth it to me.”
Gar looked stricken.
“I know that doesn’t make it okay,” you added quickly. “I know I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
Gar sniffled. Then he leaned down very carefully and hugged the top of your head.
Dick almost told him to be careful.
He did not.
You closed your eyes.
Gar whispered, “You’re not allowed to die. I already decided.”
“Okay,” you whispered back.
“Cool.”
Then he backed away, crying harder.
Vic came next.
He did not cry. He brought a tablet.
“I’ve got three ideas,” he said, voice too controlled, “for a biofeedback system that can warn before a transfer exceeds safe neurological load.”
“I would’ve let you help,” he said quietly. “Sometimes. Maybe. But I would’ve wanted to know when helping me hurt you.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I know,” you whispered.
Vic nodded once.
Then he set the tablet on your bedside table like an offering.
Raven came after him.
She stood beside your bed, silent and pale, shadows moving slowly around her wrists.
You looked nervous.
Raven looked at you for a long time.
Then she said, “You took more than injuries.”
Your face went still.
Dick’s attention sharpened.
Raven’s eyes did not leave yours. “Emotional pain too. Psychic pain. Fear. Grief.”
You swallowed.
“Sometimes,” you said.
Dick felt like the floor had dropped again.
Of course. Of course there was more.
Raven’s expression tightened. “Mine?”
You closed your eyes. The silence answered.
Raven inhaled sharply.
Dick started to reach for her, but she lifted one hand.
You opened your eyes. “Only when it was too much. Only when I thought—”
“That I couldn’t survive it?” Raven asked.
You flinched.
Raven looked away.
For a moment, she was very young.
Then she stepped closer and placed two fingers lightly against your hand.
“I understand why,” Raven said. Your tears spilled over. “But do not do it again without asking me.”
“I won’t,” you whispered.
Raven nodded.
Then, after a pause, she added, “You are loved for more than your usefulness.”
You broke then. Quietly. Completely.
Dick stood, but Raven was already there, leaning carefully over you, touching your forehead with hers.
Not a hug. Not exactly.
Something quieter. Something sacred.
Kory came last.
She tried to be gentle.
Kory’s gentleness had always been a force of nature trying to fit through a doorway.
Her eyes shone bright green as she took your hand.
“My beloved friend,” she said, voice trembling, “you have carried pain alone when you had an army.”
You gave a wet laugh. “When you say it like that, it sounds very stupid.”
“It was,” Kory said.
Everyone blinked.
Kory’s chin lifted. “It was brave. It was loving. It was also stupid.”
Gar made a tiny sound. “She said the thing.”
Kory ignored him.
She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“You will not do this alone again,” she said.
You nodded, crying too hard to speak.
Dick watched them surround you.
Not crowding. Not demanding.
Just there. A net, woven from people who loved you enough to be angry.
For the first time since the warehouse, something inside him loosened.
Not healed. Not yet.
But held.
Recovery was slow. Not as slow as normal spinal trauma, because your body was strange and stubborn and apparently determined to give medical science a migraine.
But not fast either.
Feeling returned in fragments. Left foot. Right toes. Thighs. Hips. Pain followed each return like lightning learning your name.
You hated it.
Dick loved every sign because it meant you were still there, still fighting, still coming back.
He also hated it because every gasp from you felt like punishment.
He spent most days at your bedside.
At first, he tried to make himself useful. He brought food. Adjusted pillows. Read medical updates. Ran interference when too many worried heroes wanted to visit. Smuggled in snacks Alfred absolutely did not approve of but definitely knew about because Alfred knew everything and permitted crimes selectively.
Then you caught him reorganising the medbay supply cabinet at three in the morning.
“Dick.”
He froze with a roll of bandages in each hand.
You stared at him from the bed, unimpressed. “What are you doing?”
“Inventory.”
“This is not your medbay.”
“Organisation helps.”
“You alphabetised antiseptic.”
“Antiseptic deserves respect.”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“I was asleep until you started stress-cleaning gauze.”
He looked down at the bandages. Then back at you.
“You were in pain.”
Your expression softened.
He hated how easily you saw through him.
“I’m often in pain right now,” you said gently.
His hands tightened.
“Don’t do that,” you said.
“Do what?”
“Make my pain your failure.”
He laughed once, humourless. “Kind of hard not to, considering.”
“Dick.”
He looked away.
You sighed. “Come here.”
He put the bandages down and came to your bedside.
You patted the edge of the mattress.
He gave you a look. “Absolutely not.”
“Sit.”
“I could hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“I’m not risking your spine because you want cuddles.”
“I do want cuddles.”
His expression flickered.
You smiled faintly. “That one got you.”
“Cruel.”
“Effective.”
He compromised by dragging the chair close enough that his knees touched the bed. You reached for him, and he gave you his hand.
It had become familiar now. His hand in yours. Your pulse under his fingers. Your life, stubborn and warm.
“You’re doing the thing,” you said.
“What thing?”
“The smile.”
Dick blinked. “I’m not smiling.”
“The inside smile. The fake one. The one that says, ‘I’m fine, don’t look too closely, I’m very handsome and emotionally functional.’”
He stared at you. “You think I’m handsome?”
“You heard the rest.”
“I prioritised.”
Your mouth twitched.
Dick’s smile came easier this time. Realer.
Then it faded.
“I don’t know how to stop seeing it,” he admitted.
Your thumb moved weakly against his hand.
“The fall?” you asked.
He nodded.
Your face gentled.
“When I close my eyes,” he said, voice low, “I see you on the floor.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” He leaned forward. “I’m not telling you so you apologise. I’m telling you because we said no more hiding.”
You absorbed that.
Then nodded slowly.
“Okay,” you whispered. “No more hiding.”
His throat tightened.
You looked down at your joined hands.
“I still feel it sometimes,” you said.
Dick went still.
“The fall,” you clarified. “Not the full injury anymore. But echoes. Like my body remembers impact that wasn’t mine.”
Dick could not speak.
You continued, because apparently both of you had chosen emotional destruction as a bonding activity.
“I don’t regret saving you.” He closed his eyes. “But I’m starting to understand that not regretting it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”
His eyes opened.
You looked at him, open and tired and honest. “I’m sorry for that part.”
Dick breathed in carefully.
Then out.
“I don’t regret being alive,” he said.
Your lips parted.
“I need you to know that. I don’t regret it. I don’t wish you hadn’t saved me if the alternative was dying in that warehouse.”
Your eyes filled.
“But I hate that you paid for it alone,” he continued. “I hate that I didn’t get to say yes. I hate that you thought love meant making yourself the place pain goes to disappear.”
You nodded, tears spilling silently.
“I’m learning,” you whispered.
He kissed your hand. “Me too.”
You studied him. “What are you learning?”
Dick huffed softly. “That apparently I have control issues.”
Your brows rose.
“I know. Shocking. Alert the media.”
“Front-page news.”
“And,” he continued, “that being the net all the time is not actually the same as being loved.”
Your expression changed.
He swallowed. “I think I liked being needed because it felt safer than being wanted.”
You went very still.
Dick looked down at your hand.
“If people need you, you have a job. A role. Something to do. Something to offer. You can earn your place over and over.” His mouth twisted. “But being wanted? Just because you’re you? That’s terrifying.”
Your voice was soft. “Yeah.”
He looked up. Your eyes were wet.
“I know,” you said.
And there it was.
The mirror. Two people who had made themselves useful enough to avoid asking if they were loved.
Dick smiled sadly. “We’re a pair, huh?”
“A disastrous one.”
“Hot.”
You laughed. This time, it did not sound broken.
Dick felt the laugh settle into his chest like sunrise.
He leaned closer, giving you time to refuse.
You did not.
His lips touched yours softly. Carefully.
There was nothing dramatic about it. No collapsing warehouse. No blue fire. No scream. Just his hand in yours, your mouth warm beneath his, and the quiet, astonishing fact that you were both still alive.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“Was that okay?” he asked.
Your eyes opened slowly. “You’re asking after?”
“I panicked.”
“Adorable.”
“I can do better.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
You tugged weakly at his hand. “Again.”
This time, he laughed before kissing you.
The first time you stood again, everyone cried.
Gar denied it. He was lying.
Vic recorded the whole thing and claimed it was for medical documentation. Also lying.
Kory hovered with both hands out like she intended to catch you, the bed, Dick, and possibly the entire Tower if necessary. Raven stood nearby, pretending calm while her shadows formed nervous little curls at her feet.
Dick stood in front of you.
Not behind. Not beside.
In front, hands open.
A net. But not the only one.
“You’ve got this,” he said.
You glared at him. “If I fall, I’m haunting you.”
“Reasonable.”
“As a poltergeist.”
“Mean, but fair.”
“I’ll move all your cereal into different boxes.”
Gar gasped. “That’s evil.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Dick’s grin trembled.
You saw. Your expression softened.
“Hey,” you said quietly. He focused on you. “I’m here.”
He nodded.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”
You took one step. Your knees shook.
Dick did not grab you. It took everything in him. Every instinct screamed. Every memory of your body broken on concrete rose up sharp and hungry.
But he did not grab you. He let you choose the step. Let you own the balance. Let you move.
You took another.
Then another.
Then your strength failed.
Dick caught you.
So did Kory.
So did Vic.
Raven’s shadows braced your legs.
Gar cheered and cried openly this time.
You ended up laughing against Dick’s chest while everyone crowded in, careful and loud and ridiculous.
The pain had gone somewhere. The fear had too.
Not away. Never fully away.
But spread out. Held by more hands.
That was the secret none of you had known at first.
Pain did not become lighter because one person carried all of it.
It became survivable when everyone carried a piece.
Later, after the others left and you were back in bed, exhausted but smiling, Dick sat beside you and traced idle circles over your palm.
“You caught me,” you said.
He looked up.
“In the warehouse,” you continued. “After.”
His face sobered. “I was too late.”
“No.” You squeezed his hand. “You caught me.”
Dick swallowed hard.
“You caught me too,” he said.
Your smile faded into something tender. “I broke all your rules when I did.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m trying not to romanticise that.”
“Good.”
“But I did catch you.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “You did.”
You looked at him in the soft medbay light. “Now what?”
Dick leaned back in his chair, still holding your hand. “Now we learn how to do the next part without almost dying.”
“Sounds improbable.”
“We can try.”
“Are there snacks?”
“Definitely.”
“Then I’m in.”
He laughed.
There it was again. That bright thing. That impossible thing.
Joy, growing stubbornly in the aftermath.
Dick Grayson still knew how to fall. He always would. But now, when he looked at you, when he felt your fingers threaded through his, when he remembered the warehouse and the scream and the terrible miracle of being saved, he understood something he had spent his whole life avoiding.
Catching someone did not mean never falling. Being loved did not mean never hitting the ground.
Sometimes love was the hand reaching down afterwards. Sometimes it was the person who stayed through recovery. Sometimes it was telling the truth when the lie would be easier. Sometimes it was a whole team gathered around a bed, furious and crying and refusing to let one person become the only place pain could live.
And sometimes, impossibly, it was you.
Alive. Healing. Learning. Smiling at him like the world was still worth saving.
Dick lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.
“I love you,” he said.
Your eyes softened. “I love you too, pretty bird.”
His heart stumbled. “Still not over that nickname.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
You smiled wider.
Outside the Tower windows, Blüdhaven glittered beneath the rain.
summary : when you’re husband gets put on time out after a nasty mission, you suddenly find yourself seeing him in ways you haven’t seen before. CW : suggestive, reader is a freak, breast play ᵎᵎ
masterlist ノ DC masterlist ੭﹕﹒
Bruce Wayne had been benched for three weeks.
A nasty hit to the ribs during a patrol gone wrong had Alfred putting his foot down: no suit, no rooftop jumping, no “I’m fine” excuses. The great Batman was stuck at home, healing, and slowly going insane from boredom.
You, on the other hand, were enjoying every second of it.
The first few days he was sulking in sweatpants and an old college hoodie, grumbling about “rusting” and “losing edge.” By week two, the stubble on his jaw had grown into a proper beard, and you were shamelessly obsessed with running your fingers through it.
But the real surprise came when the body hair started growing back.
Bruce had always been meticulous about shaving everything that the suit touched. Chest, arms, legs — smooth as marble. You’d never seen him any other way. So when he came out of the shower one morning in nothing but low-slung sweatpants, towel around his neck, you nearly dropped your coffee.
There it was.
A soft, dark trail of hair across his chest, thickening between his pecs and fading down toward his abs. Not overwhelming, just… natural. Real.
You stared. Openly.
Bruce noticed. Of course he did.
He raised an eyebrow, drying his hair with the towel. “What?”
You set the coffee down carefully. “You… have hair.”
He glanced down at himself, almost self-conscious for the first time in years. “It grows back when I stop shaving. The suit chafes otherwise.” He rubbed a hand over his chest, looking vaguely embarrassed. “It’s been a while since I let it. I can shave it if—”
“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Don’t. It’s… nice.”
Bruce paused, then a slow, amused smirk tugged at his lips. “Nice?”
You crossed the kitchen, unable to stop yourself. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers threading through the soft hair there. It was thicker than you expected, warm from the shower, and felt ridiculously good under your palms.
“Really nice,” you murmured, voice a little breathless. You leaned in and pressed a kiss right over his sternum, then another, then another, working your way across his chest like you were discovering new territory.
Bruce’s breath hitched. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides through your robe. “You’re… very enthusiastic about this.”
“I’ve never seen you like this,” you admitted, kissing lower, right over his heart. “It’s… hot. You look like a real person. My husband. Not the polished billionaire or the statue in a suit.”
He let out a low, surprised laugh, but it turned into a soft groan when your lips brushed one of his nipples. His fingers tightened on your waist.
“Careful,” he warned, voice rougher now. “You keep doing that and I’m going to forget I’m supposed to be resting.”
You looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe I don’t want you to rest.”
Bruce’s eyes darkened. He cupped your face with one hand, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You’re going to be the death of me, Mrs. Wayne.”
“Good death,” you whispered, rising onto your toes to kiss him properly.
The kiss started sweet but quickly turned heated. Bruce pulled you closer, one hand sliding into your hair, the other slipping under your robe to rest warm against your bare back. He kissed you like he’d been starving for it — deep, slow, full of all the love and want he usually kept so carefully controlled.
When you broke apart, both breathing harder, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I love you,” he said softly. “Even when you’re ogling me like I’m a science experiment.”
You laughed, pressing another kiss to his chest, right over the soft hair there. “I love you too. Especially when you’re all… natural like this.”
He groaned, half-embarrassed, half-pleased. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But I’m your ridiculous,” you corrected, kissing lower, lips brushing over his abs. “And I’m keeping you exactly like this for as long as you’re benched.”
Bruce’s hands tightened on your waist. “You’re going to kill me before I’m cleared for duty.”
You looked up at him with a wicked little smile. “Worth it.”
He pulled you back up for another deep kiss, hands roaming your body with that perfect mix of reverence and hunger. The robe slipped off one shoulder. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, then higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.
You shivered, pressing closer, feeling the warmth of his chest hair against your skin. It was softer than you expected, and the way it brushed your nipples when you moved made you gasp softly.
Bruce noticed. Of course he did.
He smiled against your lips. “You really like this, don’t you?”
“Shut up,” you mumbled, kissing him again to hide your blush.
He chuckled, low and warm, and lifted you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. His mouth moved to your neck, then lower, kissing and nipping gently across your collarbone. One hand slipped inside your robe, palming your breast, thumb circling your nipple until you arched into him with a soft moan.
“Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin. “My beautiful wife.”
You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close as he worshipped you with slow, deliberate kisses. The world outside the penthouse didn’t exist. There were no missions, no galas, no Batsuit waiting in the cave.
Just Bruce. Just you.
Just the two of you, tangled together in the morning light, rediscovering each other in the quiet weeks of his recovery.
When he finally pulled back, lips swollen and eyes dark with want, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I love you,” he said again, voice rough but sincere. “More than the suit. More than the money. More than anything.”
You smiled, cupping his face. “I love you too. Hairy chest and all.”
He laughed — bright, genuine, the kind of laugh that made your heart feel too big for your chest.
“Brat,” he murmured fondly, kissing you once more.
The coffee went cold on the counter. The city kept moving far below.
But in the warm glow of your kitchen, Bruce Wayne held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
And for once, the detective didn’t need to solve anything, and he already had everything he needed.
a/n : this is unbearably self indulgent because I like body hair. Just wait till I start writing about biceps 😊
